James Rollins - Innocent Blood

“It does.” The monk’s eyes darted from side to side. It must trouble him to be close to something that could put an end to his immortal life.

Judas envied him his fear. Cursed by Christ with immortality, he would have sacrificed much to have the choice to die.

“Then why did you not tell me that the trio is now bonded by blood?”

Judas slid careful fingers under his creation. It shook itself to life in his palm, powered by his own blood. The whirring of tiny gears vibrated, barely audible under the fountain. The wings rose up and came together on its back, then extended out straight.

The monk trembled.

“Such a beautiful creature of the night, the simple moth,” Judas said.

The automaton flapped its wings and lifted from the bed of his palm. It slowly circled his desk, its wings catching every mote of light and casting it back with every beat.

Leopold followed its path, plainly wanting to flee but knowing better.

Judas lifted his hand, and the moth came again to light atop Judas’s outstretched fingertip. Its metal legs brushed light as spider silk against his skin.

“So very delicate, yet of immense power.”

The monk’s eyes fixed on the bright wings, his voice trembling. “I’m sorry. I did not think it mattered that Rhun had fed upon the archaeologist. I… I thought that she was not the true Woman of Learning.”

“Yet, her blood flows in Rhun Korza’s veins and — thanks to your ill-advised blood transfusion — the blood of Sergeant Stone now flows in hers. Do you not find such happenstance strange? Perhaps even significant?”

Obeying his will, the moth rose again from Judas’s finger and flitted around the office. It danced across the currents of air just as Judas had once danced around the ballrooms of the world.

The monk swallowed his terror.

“Perhaps,” Judas said. “Perhaps this archaeologist is the Woman of Learning after all.”

“I am sorry—”

The moth descended out of the air and settled to the monk’s left shoulder, its tiny legs clinging to the rough cloth of his robe.

“I tried to kill her tonight.” Judas toyed with the tiny gears on his desk. “With a blasphemare cat. Do you imagine that such a simple woman could elude such a beast?”

“I do not know how.”

“Nor do I.”

With the slightest provocation, the moth would stab the monk with its sharp proboscis, releasing a single drop of blood, killing him instantly.

“Yet she survived,” Judas said. “And she is now reunited with the Warrior, but not yet the Knight. Do you know why they are not reunited with Father Rhun Korza?”

“No.” The monk dropped his eyes to his rosary. If he died now, in sin instead of in holy battle, his soul would be damned for all eternity. He must be thinking about that.

Judas gave him an extra moment to dwell on it, then explained. “Because Rhun Korza is missing.”

“Missing?” For the first time, the monk looked surprised.

“A few days after Korza fed on her, he disappeared from the view of the Church. And all others.” The moth’s wings shivered in the air currents. “Now bodies litter the streets of Rome, as a monster dares to prey along the edge of the Holy City itself. It is not a strigoi under my control or under theirs. They fear it might be their precious Rhun Korza, returned to a feral state.”

Brother Leopold met his eyes. “What would you have me do? Kill him?”

“As if you could. No, my dear brother, that task goes to another. Your task is to watch and report. And never again keep any detail to yourself.” He lifted his hand, and the moth took flight from the monk’s shoulder and returned to its creator’s outstretched palm. “If you fail me, you fail Christ.”

Brother Leopold stared upon him, his eyes looking both relieved and exultant. “I will not falter again.”

At least the restaurant is empty.

Erin heaved a sigh of relief as she sat down with Christian and Jordan at a small battle-scarred booth in the Haight-Ashbury district. They had dumped Nate off at his campus apartment at Stanford, then whisked away into the anonymity of San Francisco, taking a circuitous path to the small diner.

She picked up the menu — not that she was hungry, just needing something to do with her hands. The weight of her Glock was again in her ankle holster. She carried Jordan’s Colt in the deep pocket of her winter jacket. Their combined weight helped ground her.

She studied the ramshackle eatery, with its black-and-white paintings of skulls and flowers. The only nods to Christmas were ragged plastic poinsettias gracing each table.

Jordan took her right hand in his left. Even in the harsh, unflattering light, he looked good. A smudge of dust ran across one cheek. She reached out with her napkin and wiped it away, her fingers lingering there.

His eyes darkened, and he gave her a suggestive smile.

Across the booth, Christian cleared his throat.

Jordan straightened but kept hold of her hand. “Nice place you picked out,” he said, craning to look around at the tie-dyed rainbows that decorated the back wall. “So were you a Deadhead in a past life or just stuck in the sixties?”

Hiding a smile behind her menu, Erin saw the fare was all vegan.

Jordan’s going to love that.

“This place is far nicer now than it was in the sixties,” Christian said, revealing a hint of his own past, of a prior life in the city. “Back then, you could barely breathe from the fog of pot smoke and patchouli in here. But one thing that hasn’t changed is the establishment’s contempt for authority. I’m willing to bet my life that there aren’t any surveillance cameras in this building or electronic monitoring devices. The fewer prying eyes, the better.”

Erin appreciated the Sanguinist’s level of paranoia, especially after the attack.

“Are you truly that worried about a mole in your order?” Jordan asked.

“Someone knew Erin would be alone at that ranch. For now, it’s best we fly under the radar. At least until we reach Rome.”

“That sounds fine to me,” Erin said. “What did you mean when you said I’m the only one who can find Rhun?”

During the ride to the restaurant, Christian had refused to talk. Even now, he glanced once around the room, then leaned forward. “I have heard from Sergeant Stone that Rhun fed on you during the battle below St. Peter’s. Is that true?”

She let go of Jordan’s hand, studying the napkin in her lap so that he couldn’t see her expression when she thought of the intimacy that she had shared with Rhun. She flashed to those sharp teeth sinking into her flesh, balancing between pain and bliss as his lips burned her skin, his tongue probing the wounds wider to drink more deeply.

“He did,” she mumbled. “But he had to. There was no other way to catch the grimwolf and Bathory Darabont. Without our actions, the Blood Gospel would have been lost.”

Jordan slipped his arm around her shoulders, and she shrugged it off. Surprise flashed across his eyes. She didn’t want to hurt him, but she didn’t want anyone touching her right now.

“I am not here to judge Rhun,” Christian said. “The situation was extraordinary. You don’t need to explain it to me. I’m more interested in what’s happened to you after that.”

“What do you mean?”

“Have you had visions? Feelings that you cannot explain?”

She closed her eyes. Relief flooded through her. So there might be an explanation for her blackouts.

I’m not going crazy after all.

Christian must have noticed her reaction. “You have had visions. Thank God.”