James Rollins - Blood Infernal

The Warrior should already be dead. Legion remembered possessing the strigoi who had attacked the man: the thrust of the blade into this one’s soft belly, the heavy pour of hot blood against his cold hands.

But the Warrior’s heart still beat.

Closer now, Legion recognized a foreign note to its rhythm, as if the trumpeting of a great horn echoed behind those stolid beats.

It was a mystery, but one that would have to wait.

The others had reached their destination, hurrying during this last stretch under the merciless sun.

I have no more time .

The others rushed into a building, one smelling of oil, as much of this world does now. A bladed machine rested on the roof. Leopold knew this device.

… a helicopter, for flying like a bumble bee…

A trickle of awe filled Legion at the mastery of these mortals over their limited world. Man had conquered much in the centuries that Legion had been imprisoned.

Even the skies.

Knowing this, Legion struggled with how he could continue his hunt. The helicopter would soon fly into the sun of a new day, bearing away the trio. He must know where they were headed.

Already those blades had begun to turn.

From the building below, a smaller group of Sanguinists exited. It was the escort who had guarded the trio’s passage through the city, preparing to return to their holy roosts. Most headed back from whence they had come, back toward the basilica, but one figure split away, heading another direction.

Her path took her along a canal, whose closest bank still lay in deep shadows.

He quickly circled through other patches of darkness to trail her.

As he ran, he listened to the city, to its shouts and laughter, the growl of its engines, the hammering of its construction. He heard little of the natural world here. No birdsong, no brush of wind through leaves. Mankind had taken over this island — as they had much of this modern world — and tamed it for their uses, destroying the wild gardens, killing the creatures that lived in harmony there.

While God might tolerate such ruin to his creation, I will not .

To that end, he closed in on the swish of cloth as his target continued along the canal, oblivious to the hunter behind her.

He pulled her name from Leopold and spoke it aloud.

“Sister Abigail…”

The Sanguinist turned toward him. Her hair was as gray as stone, pulled away from a fretful face. She was plainly irritated, and her anger made her react too slowly. As horror widened her eyes, reflecting back his dark countenance, he was upon her.

He lunged out and touched her cheek, branding his mark into her flesh.

She immediately sagged against him. He caught her, embraced her. As he held her, he flipped through her memories like a book.

… walking the wet streets of London holding a hand above her head. Mother…

… standing before a simple white gravestone. Father…

… joyful people dancing in the streets. The Great War has ended, but so many lost. So many wild fields bombed into stripes of death…

… giant stones falling from the sky. Bombs. Another war, greater even than the last. Weapons that can annihilate everything that man was given…

… a man with eyes the color of thunderclouds and cold skin. He takes her blood and offers his in return…

… a battlefield of mud. Brown eyes, slanted at the corners. Bombs falling, destroying good and evil alike. Another war, Korea, and she hunts with the man with the storm-cloud eyes…

… a choice given by a woman wearing a cross. Repent or die. Wine burning against her lips…

Legion took in the nun’s life, breathing it all in, but her past held little interest. He pushed aside those memories and searched for fresher ones.

… The face of a woman appears. She has curls of black, eyes of silver gray. She is beautiful, and the cold form of Abigail hates her…

Legion extracted her name.

Countess Elizabeth Bathory .

She was of no use to Legion. Losing patience, he concentrated instead on a single purpose, focusing it into the woman he embraced.

Where are they going?

Abigail’s lips moved, already close to his ear. “They head to Prague.”

Legion shivered at that name, a place tied to his own history, where he had been first imprisoned. It seemed as much as he hunted the trio, they were closing in on his past.

He drew his intention into a single word.

Why?

Quiet words reached his ear. “They search for the journals of John Dee.”

This time, his own memories overwhelmed him.

… The man with a beard as white as milk and clever dark eyes…

… those eyes smile at me on the other side of the green flame. He is my jailer…

… I burn with pain and hatred…

He shoved Abigail away from him, holding her at arm’s length, his mark emblazoned on her cheek. He now knew where he must go.

To Prague.

He already had slaves nearby and would gather them toward that old city, but he intended to go there himself. Abigail could travel in the daylight, and she could help him do the same.

In that city, he would avenge his past, protect his future … and destroy the hopes of all mankind .

Seated at the back of the helicopter, Elizabeth held on to her safety harness with both hands. Rivers, trees, and towns had passed under their tiny aircraft with dizzying speed. Her window showed a toy world, and she was the child who looked down upon it, ready to play.

Within her blood, burning wine pushed against the dark strength. Still, she felt whole again, right for the first time in months.

This is who I am, who I am supposed to be .

Perhaps she could even forgive Rhun for all that he had cost her, because he had showed her the way here, led her to this moment.

Throughout the flight from Venice, Rhun cast long looks at her, as if he expected her to disappear. Across the cabin, Erin and Jordan had drifted off to sleep quickly, while Sophia and Christian sat together in the cockpit, piloting their craft along never-ending rivers of air.

This was an amazing time to be alive.

And I will drink it all in .

She searched the lands rolling ahead, knowing they would soon be in Prague. She wondered if she would recognize it or if it would be foreign to her, as so much of Rome had been. In truth, she did not care. She would learn and adapt, flow through the changes to come for all eternity.

But not alone.

She pictured Tommy’s small face. In the past, he had taught her much about these modern times. In turn, she would teach him the wonders of the night, of the pleasures of blood, of the march of years that would never touch them again.

She smiled.

Who needs the sun with a future so bright?

The radio crackled in the headphones she wore. Christian’s voice woke the others, stirring Rhun straighter. “We’re coming into Prague.”

Rhun noted the smile still on her face and matched it with one of his own. “You look well.”

“I am well… so very well.”

Rhun’s dark eyes were happy and kind. It would pain him when she abandoned the order. She was surprised to discover how much that thought bothered her.

She turned her eyes back to the window. Their helicopter skated over modern structures of glass and ugly buildings, but farther ahead, she recognized an older section of the city with red tile roofs and twisted narrow streets.