James Rollins - Blood Infernal

“Can’t you hear it?” he asked, trying to get them to listen.

A sharper voice cut through the melody, ringing between the individual notes. “Erin Granger, take the stone! Cover it from the light before he’s lost to it forever!”

He recognized the voice of the hermit.

Then moments later, the radiance dimmed, muffling that eternal song. The world found its substance, weight, and shadows. He saw a woman wrapping the gem in white linen, dousing its fire. Her eyes looked upon him with fear and worry.

Another carried a bag to her, and she stuffed the treasure into it. The sound of the zipper closing was loud in the quiet church.

Jordan’s arms lifted toward the woman, toward the pack. He ached to take the stone from its hiding place, to bare it to the sunlight, to hear its song to the end.

The woman took another step back. “Did any of you hear singing ?” she asked.

A chorus of denial answered her.

Slowly, more of the world grew solid around him. But if he strained, he could still hear a faint whisper of that song from the pack, even an echo from his own pocket. That echo was a darker emerald, full of verdant life, and the promise of root and leaf, flower and stem.

“Jordan,” a sweet voice said at his ear. “Can you hear me?”

Yes .

“Jordan, answer me. Please.” Then softer as she turned away. “What’s wrong with him?”

“He is unbalanced.” The hermit again .

“What does that mean?”

“He was touched by angelic blood. While it protects him and heals him, it also consumes more of his humanity each time it saves him. You can see a map of this war written on his skin. If the angelic force prevails, he will be lost to you forever.”

A hand touched his forehead, as icy as snowmelt against his hot skin.

“How can we help him?” Her name is… Erin .

“Do not let him forget his own humanity.”

“What exactly does that mean? What do we do?”

He heard a change in that faint song, drawing his attention away. It was a whisper of minor chords, a darker thread woven through the song, inserting deeper notes of warning.

He forced his lips to move. “Someone’s coming.”

Silence followed, letting him listen more closely.

“Impossible,” the hermit started again. “I have guards posted all around. In the shadows of the forest, in the dark tunnels. They would have warned me. You are safe.”

The black notes beat louder in his head.

The lion growled, its white fur bristling with warning.

Jordan stood, strode to a wall, and grabbed a long-handled weapon.

“Put down the hoe,” the hermit said. “There is no need for violence.”

Jordan turned to face the deep shadows at the rear of the church.

Too late.

He is here .

Legion stepped into the dark tunnel from the shadowy bower of the old forest. Others led him, those he found lurking in the woods, those of a corrupted nature who had thought to find peace on this mountaintop. Instead, they ended with Legion’s palm resting upon their cheek, where he branded them, claimed them. He took in their memories, their knowledge of the lair of the hermit, learning the secret ways into that mountain.

Earlier in the day, after gaining knowledge of this place through the eyes and ears of Father Gregory, Legion had left Prague, his still-weak body carried by those who bore his mark. A trio of branded Sanguinists had secured a vessel, a helicopter with windows shaded against the sun so he could be whisked over lands bright with the new day.

They had landed on the far side of the mountain from where the enemy’s helicopter sat. From there, this old forest protected him from the sun’s touch. As he had climbed, he had basked in the scent of the rich loam, the mold of decaying wood, the sweetness of leaf and bark. His eyes drank in the dark emerald of the canopy, the soft petals of flowers. His ears heard every rustle, chirp, and scurry of life, reminding him of the paradise this world could be, if untouched by the molestation of man.

I will return this to a true garden , he had thought. I will reap and weed and burn until it is paradise once again.

In that forest, he had discovered the hermit’s guardians — both beast and strigoi —those loyal to a man who promised a path to serenity. It only took a touch to free them from such conceit, to make them his own, so no alarm would be raised.

Legion entered their tunnels now, amused that the enemy had sought such a refuge, surrounding themselves with the corrupted, those who could so easily be turned against them. He continued into the mountain, spreading with every touch, a storm growing within the dark heart of this mountain.

With every step deeper into the hermit’s lair, his eyes multiplied, his voice expanded. His enslaved called others to him. They came to him, like moths to his cold flame, swelling his ranks further.

He followed his forces ever deeper — until he heard familiar heartbeats.

The Woman’s frantic flutter, the Warrior’s thunderous beat.

Here was the pair who came so close to destroying his vessel.

Fury fired through him as he lifted an arm.

Go , he commanded.

His storm raged through the tunnels, preparing to break upon those below. He knew the others had already obtained the second stone. Its fiery song had echoed up to him as he fell toward it. Knowing that the stone had been found, he no longer needed any of these others, not even the Knight.

Legion cast out his final order, filling his desire into his army’s silent hearts.

Kill them all .

With the cub at his side, Rhun snatched a scythe from among the garden tools.

Sophia grabbed a wood axe in one hand, a hammer in the other.

Elizabeth raised a shovel.

Rhun turned, just as figures boiled out of a tunnel at the rear of the church, falling upon those strigoi and blasphemare gathered there, like a wave crashing on rocks.

If not for Jordan’s warning moments ago, they would have been unprepared, ambushed before they could react.

One of the attackers broke through the fighting, flying through the air toward Erin. She was down on one knee, pulling up the backpack holding the stone and gospel, protecting them both.

Rhun swept to her side, swinging high with the scythe, cleaving through the leg of the beast and knocking its body away. The strigoi crashed to the floor, black blood pouring from its severed limb. Still, it struggled to come at them, clawing and kicking, a furious scream ripping from its throat, exposing a black handprint branded on its pale cheek.

The mark of Legion .

Then Jordan appeared, moving as swiftly as a striking hawk. He swung down with his hoe and split the creature’s skull.

Rhun pulled Erin to her feet, as Jordan spun away, breaking his weapon over the back of a blasphemare panther. Then he twisted around to stab the splintered end through the animal’s eye. Before Rhun could even react, Jordan turned and ripped the scythe from his hand.

Rhun did not protest, retreating instead with Erin, knowing he had to keep her and what she carried safe.

Sophia and Elizabeth guarded his sides, while Jordan took the fight to the enemy as more beasts and strigoi flooded into the back of the church. Their numbers were overwhelming. It was a fight they could not win.

Then light burst brighter behind Rhun’s back, accompanied by a great roaring.

“To me!” Hugh shouted.

Rhun glanced back to see Hugh drag the second of the church’s double doors open, revealing the thunderous cascade of water beyond the threshold. Rhun also noted how shadowy that light appeared. While a few minutes of the day remained, Hugh’s church faced east. With the sun setting to the west , the shoulder of the mountain shadowed the threshold. The light was too meager to offer true protection.