James Rollins - Blood Infernal

She stopped him. “Never? Since when has that word ever been a part of your vocabulary, Cardinal? You have broken many of your order’s rules. Going back centuries. Do you think I do not know this?”

“It is not for you to judge,” he said, heat entering his words. “Only God can do that.”

“Then surely He shall judge me as well.” By now, her bare feet ached from the cold, but she stood her ground. “Surely it must be His will that I am here at this time, the only one who holds this knowledge. A truth that you can receive if you only pay this price.”

A flicker of uncertainty crossed Bernard’s face.

She took advantage of it and pressed him harder. “If your God is all-knowing and all-powerful, why has He placed me in front of you as the sole repository of the knowledge you seek? Perhaps what I ask of you is His will?”

She instantly knew she had taken a step too far — she read it in the hardening of his features.

“You, a fallen woman, dare to interpret His will?” He scowled at her, his words consigning her to the level of a woman who sold her body for money.

How dare you!

She slapped his supercilious face, leaving a smear of her own blood on his skin. “I am not a fallen woman. I am Countess Bathory de Ecsed, of royal blood that dates back centuries. And I will not be insulted by such slander. Especially by you.”

His response was lightning fast. His fist struck her a hard blow in turn. She fell back a step, her face throbbing. She quickly collected herself, drawing her back stiffly. She tasted blood in her mouth.

Excellent .

“I can do anything to you in here,” he said in a dark tone.

She licked her lips, wetting them with her own blood. She knew he must already smell the fresh blood drying on his cheek. She noted how his nose lifted slightly, revealing the animal within him, the monster lurking behind that mask.

She had to break that beast free of its shackles.

“What can you do to me?” she challenged him. “You are too weak to ever persuade me to help you.”

“Do not mistake my composure for weakness,” he warned. “I remember the Inquisition, when pain in service to the church was raised to an art form. I can inflict agony on you such as you have never experienced.”

She smiled at his anger. “You can teach me nothing of pain , priest. For one hundred years it was forbidden to speak my name in my own country because of the acts I committed. I have given and received more pain than you could ever imagine… and received more pleasure . These things are entwined in ways that you will never understand.”

She stepped closer, forcing him to withdraw, but the handcuffs kept him from moving too far.

“Pain does not frighten me,” she continued, exhaling the hot scent of her blood toward him.

“It… it should frighten you.”

She wanted him to continue talking, knowing to speak required breath. And with each breath, he drew her scent more deeply into him.

“Hurt me,” she warned, “and see which of us enjoys it more.”

He retreated from her until his back was pressed hard against the silver mosaics that covered the walls. But the handcuffs drew her along with him, ever at his side.

She bit deeper into her bruised cheek, while tilting her head low. She parted her mouth, letting fresh blood run past her lips. She then drew her head back, exposing her neck in a languorous stretch, allowing the candlelight to glisten against that red ribbon as it ran down and pooled into the hollow of her throat.

She felt his eyes follow that warm trail, to the promise it held. Its rich warmth called to the beast buried in every drop of his own damned blood.

She knew how the scent bloomed within the room in ways that she could no longer sense. How the smell could fill one’s nostrils, even one’s mouth. Long ago, she had felt what he felt now. She knew its immense power. She had learned to embrace it, and in doing so it made her strong.

He denied it — and that kept him weak.

“How would you torture me now, Bernard?” She slurred the words through a mouthful of blood, using the intimacy of his name.

He fumbled his free hand to his pectoral cross, but she blocked him, covering the silver with her own palm, keeping him from touching it, denying him the comfort of holy pain. His fingers closed on her hand, squeezing, as if he thought that her hand was his cross, his salvation.

“I will tell you what you need to know,” she whispered, speaking aloud his innermost desire. “I will help you save your church.”

His fingers tightened, coming close to breaking the small bones of her hand.

“It will be simple for you,” she urged. “You have committed blood sins before, and I know that your sins are much darker than anyone suspects. You have committed many sins in His name, have you not?”

His face told her that he had.

“Then do this now,” she said. “And your act will give you the power to protect your church, your order. Would you have your world fall, to lose all because you were too frightened to act? Because you placed your own fear of the rules above your holy mission?”

She drew the tip of her tongue along her lips again, freshly coating them, knowing how bright her blood must look against her pale skin, how the sight and smell of it must sing to him.

Without knowing that he did so, he licked his own lips.

“How can saving His world with the tools that He has given you be a sin?” she questioned him. “You are stronger than the rules, Bernard. I know this… and down deep, you know this, too.”

She drew in a slow breath, never taking her eyes from his. Her words had sunk in, playing on his doubt, stoking his hubris.

He trembled before her — wanting her answers, wanting her blood, wanting her .

He might be a Sanguinist now, but he had been a strigoi before, and a man before that. He had devoured flesh, tasted pleasure. Those urges were ingrained in every fiber of his being, always.

Her heart raced, and her cheek throbbed with heat from his blow. She had always loved pain, needed it like she would later need blood. She closed her eyes and let the pain beat through her — from her cheek, from her torn wrist.

It was bliss.

When she opened her eyes, he still held her hand pressed against the cross by his heart. His eyes traveled from her blood-bright lips to the pulse in her throat, to the tops of her shoulders, so white against the silken slip. She shifted to the side to let her torn dress fall from her shoulders. Now the candlelight fell on her breasts, so easily visible through her silk underdress.

He stared at her for several long heartbeats.

She leaned forward with infinite slowness — then rose up on her tiptoes and lightly, barely skimming the surface, she brushed her lips against his. For one long breath she stood so, letting him feel her warmth, draw in the scent of her ripe blood.

“If it is not His will, then why am I here?” she whispered. “Only you can be strong enough to get the answer from me. Only you have the power to save your world.”

Then she parted his cold lips with hers and slipped her tongue between, bringing with it the taste of blood.

He moaned, opening his mouth to her.

She felt fangs there now, growing as she deepened their kiss.

With their lips still sealed together, he turned and slammed her against the wall, crushing his body against hers. Old tiles broke loose beneath her, the glass edges cutting through her thin silk slip and slicing into her skin. Blood ran warm down her back and pattered to the stone floor.

She pulled her mouth away from his, offering her neck instead.

Without hesitation, he bit her.