James Rollins - Innocent Blood

Instead, she kept to the open square in front.

On one side, a row of empty booths waited for daylight to transform them into a bustling Christmas marketplace. Their festive golden lights had been turned off, and large white canvas umbrellas dusted with frost protected empty tables. Elsewhere, restaurants stood lightless and shuttered, their diners long abed.

Behind her, shadows shifted at the edges of the square.

Knowing her time ran short, she hurried to the fountain in the center of the square. She rested her palms on the basin’s gray stone. Near at hand, a carved stone fish spat water into the pool below. In the center rose a slim obelisk. Its red granite had been quarried under the merciless Egyptian sun only to be dragged here by conquerors. Hieroglyphs had been cut in its four sides and reached to its conical tip: moons, birds, a sitting man. The language was old gibberish, as meaningless to her as the modern world. But the images, carved by long dead stonemasons, might yet save her this night.

Her gaze rose to the very top, to where the Church had mounted a cross to claim the power of these ancient gods.

Behind her came the squeak of leather, the scrape of cloth against cloth, the soft fall of hair from a turned head.

At last, the pack closed in.

Before any of them could reach her, she vaulted over the side of the basin and onto the obelisk, clinging like a cat. Her strong fingers found purchase in those ancient carvings: a palm, a moon, a feather, a falcon. She clambered upward, but as the pedestal grew thinner, the climbing grew harder. Fear pushed her to the very top.

Perched there, she braced herself against the searing pain and grabbed the cross with one hand. She spared a quick glance downward.

Shadows boiled up the obelisk like ants, befouling every inch of granite. Their clothes were tatters, their limbs skeletal, their hair matted and grimed. One beast tumbled back into the fountain with a splash, but others poured into the space it left.

Turning away, she glanced at the nearest house across the plaza and gathered her strength around her like a cloak.

Then leaped.

Far below St. Peter’s Basilica, Rhun crawled on all fours down a dark tunnel, his head hanging so low his nose sometimes brushed the stone floor.

Still, he whispered prayers of thanks.

Erin was safe.

The urgency that had shattered him out of his agonizing prison had faded. Sheer will alone now drove him to lift each bloody hand, to drag each raw knee. Foot by foot, he crossed along the passageway, seeking light.

Taking a moment to rest, he leaned his shoulder against the stone wall. He touched his throat, remembering the wound, now healed. Elisabeta had taken so much of his blood. She had purposefully left him helpless but alive.

To suffer.

Agony had become her new art. He pictured the faces of the many young girls who died in her experiments. This dark incarnation of his bright Elisabeta had learned to sculpt pain as others did marble. All those horrible deaths remained on his conscience.

How many more deaths must he add to that toll as she ran wild in the streets of Rome?

While entombed, he caught whispers of her delight, of the elation of her feeding. She had drained him, carried his blood inside her, binding them.

He knew she had crafted that connection on purpose.

She had wanted to drag him along on her hunts, forcing him to witness her depravations and murder. Thankfully, as she fed, washing new blood over old, that bond weakened, allowing only the strongest of her emotions to still reach him.

As if stoked by these thoughts, Rhun felt the edges of his vision narrow, fraught with panicked fear — not his own, but another’s. As weak as that bond was, he could have resisted her pull, but such a fight would risk further sapping his already-drained reserves.

So he let himself be taken away.

Both to conserve his strength and for another purpose.

Where are you, Elisabeta?

He intended to use this fraying bond to find her, to stop this rampage once he found the light again. For now, he fell willingly into that shared darkness.

A tide of black beasts rose toward him. White fangs flashed out of that darkness, ravenous, ready to feed. He leaped away, sailing through the air.

The sky brightened to the east, promising a new day.

He must be locked away before that happened, shuttered against the blazing sun.

He landed on a roof. Terra-cotta tiles broke under his boots, his hands. Pieces skittered over the edge to shatter on the gray stone of the square below.

He ran across the roof, sure-footed. Behind him, one of the hunters attempted the jump, failed, and hit the ground with a sickening thud.

Others tried.

Many fell, but a few made it across.

He had reached the far side of the roof — and vaulted to the next. Cool night air washed across his cheeks. If he forgot his pursuers, he could appreciate the beauty here, running across the top of Rome.

But he could not forget them, and so he ran onward.

Ever west.

His goal climbed high into the blushing sky.

Rhun returned to his own skin, slumped in the tunnel. He rose on hands and knees, knowing this was not enough. Tapping into the last dregs of his waning strength, he shoved to his feet. With one palm on the wall, he shambled forward.

He must warn the others.

Elisabeta was leading a pack of strigoi straight to Vatican City.

She held nothing back as she fled across the rooftops, heading west, fleeing the rising sun to the east and chased by a furious horde. The surprise of her climbing the obelisk had gained her precious seconds.

If they caught her, she was dead.

She vaulted from rooftop to rooftop, breaking tiles, bending rain gutters. She had never run like this in her natural or supernatural life. It seemed those centuries trapped in the sarcophagus had made her stronger and faster.

Exhilaration washed through her, holding her fear in check.

She spread her arms to the side like wings, loving the caress of the wind from her passage. If she lived, she must do this every night. She sensed she was older than those who pursued her, faster — certainly not enough to outdistance them forever, but perhaps long enough to reach her destination.

She hurdled onto the next roof, landed hard. A flock of pigeons startled and rose around her. Feathers surrounded her like a cloud, blinded her. Momentarily distracted, her boot caught in the crack between a row of tiles. She had to halt to pull it loose, tearing the leather.

A glance behind revealed her lead was gone.

The pack was upon her, at her heels now.

She fled away, pain lancing up from her ankle. The leg would not take her weight. She cursed its weakness, jumping more than running now, pushing off with the good leg, landing on the bad, punishing it for failing her.

To the east, the sky was the same light gray as the pigeons’ wings.

If strigoi did not strike her down, the sun would.

She hurled herself forward. She would not lie down and let those who followed claim her. Such beasts were not fit to end her life.

She focused on her goal ahead.

A few streets separated her from the walls of Vatican City.

The Sanguinists would never let such a pack of strigoi enter their holy city. They would cut them down like weeds. She ran toward that same death with one hope in her silent heart.

She bore the secret of where Rhun lay hidden.

But would that be enough to turn their swords from her neck?

She did not know.