James Rollins - Blood Infernal

She gasped at the pain.

He immediately drew in a great draught of her blood, taking with it her warmth. She shivered as her limbs grew colder. Icy pain shot through her heart. This was not the rapturous joining that she had experienced with Rhun.

This was animal need.

A painful hunger that left no room for love or tenderness.

He might kill her and leave her with nothing, but she had to take that chance, trusting that knowledge was as important as blood to the man that clutched to her.

He will not let me die with the secrets I hold .

But having freed the beast inside of the man, would that hold true?

Her body slumped toward the floor. As her heart weakened, doubt filled those empty spaces — and fear.

Then an eternal darkness took away the world.

Rhun strode briskly across the polished floor of St. Mark’s Basilica. He had landed in Venice a quarter of an hour ago. From a message left for him, he had learned that Bernard and the others had taken Elisabeta here. Only when he arrived, he found the door to the church unlocked, and no one seemed to be here.

Had they already proceeded to the Sanguinist chapel below?

He stared across the nave toward the north transept of the basilica. As he recalled, a stairwell on that side led down to a subterranean crypt and the secret gateway to the Sanguinists’ spaces. He headed toward it, but then movement drew his attention to the south transept. Out of the darkness, the flow of shadows rushed toward him, moving with preternatural speed.

Rhun tensed, crouching, unsure who this party was, wary after the recent attacks.

Surely no strigoi would dare attack on such holy ground .

A voice called to him as the shadows moved farther into the light, revealing themselves to be a clutch of Sanguinists: two men and a woman.

“Rhun!” He recognized Sophia’s burnished features.

The small woman hurried to his side, drawing the others with her. “You’ve come just in time.”

He read the anxiety in her eyes. “What’s wrong?”

“Come with us,” she said and headed toward the north transept. “There’s trouble at the Sanguinist gate.”

“Tell me,” he said, checking the karambit sheathed at his wrist as he accompanied her, matching her swift speed.

She told him about what had transpired below, how Bernard had taken Elisabeta through the gate and locked it behind him.

“Christian is already down there, but it will take three of us to open the door again.” She motioned to the two priests behind her. “I came up to fetch more help, but it has taken me too long to find them. And Erin fears the worst.”

Upon reaching the stairwell, Rhun took the lead. He trusted Erin’s judgment. If she was worried, there must be good reason. Halfway down the stairs, he heard two heartbeats echoing up from the lower crypt.

Erin and Jordan.

He could easily discern between them, as readily as their voices. Erin’s quick heartbeat told him of her fear. He reached the crypt and saw Christian pounding on the far wall, calling Bernard’s name.

He knew what had so excited the young Sanguinist.

Past the gate, he detected another heartbeat, one muffled by the stone, but still audible to his sharp senses, the sound amplified by the acoustics of the long crypt.

Elisabeta .

Her heart faltered, growing weaker with each beat.

She was dying.

Christian turned, hearing them approach. “Hurry!”

Rhun needed no such urging. He flew across the crypt. Erin stepped forth to meet him, but he slid past her without a word. There was no time.

He pulled his blade from its sleeve and pricked his palm, dripping blood onto the stone chalice held by the statue of Lazarus. Sophia and Christian flanked him, quickly adding their blood to his.

Together they chanted, “For this is the Chalice of our blood. Of the new and everlasting Testament.”

The outline of the door appeared in the stone.

“ Mysterium fidei ,” they intoned in chorus.

Slowly — too slowly — the door cracked open. The ripe smell of blood billowed out immediately, thick and heady, redolent with danger.

As soon as the way was open enough, Rhun slipped in sideways and ran, following that scent of blood toward its source.

He reached the threshold to the main chapel — in time to hear Elisabeta’s heart stop. He took in the impossible sight. In the sacred room, under the glow of the silver mosaics, Elisabeta lay on her back, her limbs limp and lifeless.

But she was not alone.

Bernard knelt beside her, chained by the wrist to her, his mouth bloody. He turned toward Rhun with anguish etched in his face. Tears ran down the cardinal’s cheeks, parting through the crimson stain of his sin.

Rhun ignored that pain and ran to Elisabeta’s side, skidding to his knees, lifting her in his arms, cradling her. He pulled her body as far from Bernard as he could with the two of them shackled together.

He wanted to rage against this sin, to let fury burn away the grief that overwhelmed him. Someday he would make Bernard pay, but not this day.

This day was only for her.

Christian was the first to reach his side. He touched Rhun on the shoulder in sympathy then dropped to a knee and fiddled with the shackles. The metal bands dropped from her slim wrist and clattered to the floor.

Now that she was freed from her murderer, Rhun gathered up her cold body and stood, needing to put distance between her and Bernard.

Sophia marched her two Sanguinist companions to the cardinal’s distraught form. They drew him roughly to his feet. From their low murmurs, they could not believe that the cardinal could have done such a thing.

But he had — he had killed her.

“Rhun…” Erin stood with Jordan, leaning on his arm, holding on to him, to that life inside him that burned so brightly.

He could not face that and turned away, taking Elisabeta toward the altar, wanting her to be surrounded by holiness. He made a promise that she would always remain in such grace from here. He swore to find where her children were buried and rest her near them.

She had earned it.

Long ago, he had stolen her from her rightful place, but now he would do his best to restore what he could. It was all that he could do for her.

Rich silvery light bathed her pale skin, her long lashes, and her black curls. Even in death she was the most beautiful woman he had ever seen. He kept his gaze away from the savage wound on her throat, the blood that ran down her shoulders and soaked into her fine silk nightdress.

Upon reaching the altar, he could not put her down on that cold bed. When he released her, she would truly be gone from him. Instead, he crumpled to the floor next to the altar, pulling down the white altar cloth to wrap her naked limbs.

With the edge of the blessed cloth, he wiped blood from her chin, her full lips, her cheeks. A bruise covered the side of her face. Bernard must have struck her.

You will pay for that, too .

He leaned closer to her. “I’m sorry,” he whispered. He had spoken those words many times to her — too many times.

How often I have wronged you…

His tears fell on her cold, white face.

He stroked her cheek, gently over the bruise as if she could still feel it. He touched her soft eyelids, wishing that she could simply step back from death, that she could open them again.

And then she did.

She stirred in his arms, awakening like a flower, petals softly opening to a new day. Initially, she began to pull away, then she recognized him and went quiet.

“Rhun…” she said faintly.