James Rollins - Innocent Blood

She crept forward and spotted a shadowy figure stepping around a far corner toward her. In one raised hand, he carried a candle in a holder, revealing the brown robes of a monk.

Failing to see her, he continued forward, oblivious of the danger.

Once close enough, she sprang forward and bore his warm body to the floor. Before the man could even gasp, her teeth found his luscious throat. Blood surged through her in wave after wave, strengthening her even more. She reveled in bliss, as she had every time since the first. She wanted to laugh amid this joy.

Rhun would have her trade this power for scalding wine, for a life of servitude to his Church.

Never.

Spent, she released the human shell, her curious fingers lingering on the fabric of the robes. It did not feel like linen. She detected a slipperiness to it, like silk, but not like silk.

A trickle of unease wormed through her.

The candle had snuffed when the man fell, but the ember at the wick’s tip glowed dull red. She blew on it, brightening its color to a feeble orange.

Under the dim light, she patted down the cooling body, repulsed again by the slippery feel of the fabric. She discovered a silver pectoral cross but abandoned its searing touch.

She reached down his legs and pulled a shoe from one lifeless foot, sensing strangeness here, too. She held it near the light. The top was leather, scuffed and unremarkable, but the sole was made of a thick spongy substance. She had never seen its like. She pinched the material between her thumb and forefinger. It gave, then sprang back, like a young tree.

She sat back on her haunches, thinking. Such a peculiar substance had not existed when Rhun had tricked her into the coffin of wine, but now it must be commonplace enough for a lowly monk to wear.

She suddenly felt like screaming, sensing the breadth of the gulf that separated her from her past. She knew she had not slumbered for days, weeks, nor even months.

But years, decades, perhaps centuries.

She accepted this brutal truth, knowing one other.

She must take extra care in this strange new world.

And she had. Moving from the shoe, she picked up a white ball with a red star on it from the tabletop. Its surface felt like human skin, but smoother. It repulsed her, but she forced herself to hold it, to toss it in the air and catch it again.

Upon leaving the catacombs, she had been so frightened.

But soon others became frightened of her.

She had crept through the tunnels, expecting more monks. But she had encountered none as she followed the whisper of distant heartbeats ever higher.

Eventually she reached a thick wooden door and broke through it with ease — and stepped into unfettered air. It caressed her body, dried the wine on her dress, and carried with it the familiar smells of humans, of perfumes, of stone, of river. But also odors she had never scented before — acrid stinks she imagined only existed in an alchemist’s workshop. The stench drove her against the door, almost back across the threshold and into the shelter of the dark tunnels.

The foreignness terrified her.

But a countess never cowers, never shows fear.

She straightened her back and stepped forward as a lady must, her hands folded in front of her, her eyes and ears alert to danger.

As she moved away from the door, she immediately recognized the columns to either side, the massive dome rising to the left, even the obelisk in the plaza ahead. The Egyptian spire had been erected in the piazza the same year that her daughter Anna was born.

She relaxed upon seeing all this, knowing where she was.

St. Peter’s Square.

Sardonic amusement warmed her.

Rhun had hidden her under the Holy City.

She kept to the edge of the piazza. Tall poles illuminated the square with a harsh, unnatural flame. The light hurt her eyes, so she shied away from it, staying near the colonnade that framed the plaza.

A couple strolled past her.

Ill at ease, she slipped behind a marble column. The woman wore breeches, like a man. Her short hair brushed the top of her shoulders, and her partner held her hand as they talked together.

She had never seen a woman so tall.

Hidden by the column, she studied other figures shifting out on the square. All brightly dressed, bundled in thick coats that looked finely made. Out on a neighboring street, strange wagons glided along, led by unnatural beams of light, pulled by no beasts.

Shivering, she leaned against the column. This new world threatened to overwhelm her, to freeze her in place. She hung her head and forced herself to breathe. She must shut it all out and find one simple task… and perform that task.

The reek of wine struck her nose. She touched her sodden garment. It would not do. She looked again out at the plaza, at the women in such strange garb. To escape from here, she must become a wolf in sheep’s clothing, for if they guessed what she was, her death would follow.

No matter how many years had passed, that certainty had not changed.

Her nails dug deep into her palms. She did not want to leave the familiar. She sensed that whatever lay beyond the plaza would be even more foreign to her than what lay inside.

But she must go.

A countess never shirked from her duty.

And her duty was to survive.

Sensing she had hours before dawn, she lowered herself into the shadows of the colonnade. She sat not breathing, not moving, as motionless as a statue, listening to chaotic human heartbeats, the words from many tongues, the frequent laughter.

These people were so very different from the men and women of her time.

Taller, louder, stronger, and well fed.

The women fascinated her the most. They wore men’s clothing: pants and shirts. They walked unafraid. They spoke sharply to men without reprimand and acted as if they were their equals — not in the calculated way she had been forced to use in her time, but with an easy manner, as if this was commonplace and accepted.

This era held promise.

A young mother approached carelessly with a small child in tow. The woman hunched in a burgundy-colored woolen coat and wore riding boots, although by the smell of them they had never been near a horse.

Small for a woman of this time, she was close to Elisabeta’s own size.

The child dropped a white ball with a red star on it, and it rolled into the shadows, stopping a handsbreadth from Elisabeta’s tattered shoes. The ball smelled like the bottom of the priest’s shoes. The child refused to go after the plaything, as if sensing the beast hiding in the shadows.

Her mother coaxed her in queer-sounding Italian, waving toward the forest of columns. Still, the little girl shook her head.

Elisabeta ran her tongue across her sharp teeth, willing the mother to come in after the toy. She could take the woman’s life, steal her finery, and be gone before the motherless child could cry for help.

From the shadows, she savored the child’s terrified heartbeats, listening as the mother’s tones grew more impatient.

She waited for the proper moment in this strange time.

Then sprang.

Elisabeta lowered the ball to the table, sighing, losing interest in her trophies.

Standing, she crossed over to the vast wardrobes in the bedroom, stuffed with silks, velvets, furs, all stolen from her victims these many weeks. Each night, she preened before the perfect silver mirrors and selected a new set of clothes to wear. Some of the garments were almost familiar, others as outlandish as a minstrel’s garb.