James Rollins - Innocent Blood

But plainly Rhun had not killed her.

What have you done, my son? What sin have you committed yet again in the name of love?

As horror faded, another realization took root, one full of promise.

By Rhun sparing her, the Bathory line was not dead — as Bernard had despaired these past months. He pondered what that implied.

Could this be a sign from God?

Had God’s will acted through Rhun to preserve the countess for this new task?

For the first time since the Blood Gospel had delivered its message and cast doubt on Dr. Erin Granger’s role as the Woman of Learning, hope surged through Bernard.

Countess Bathory might yet save them all.

Bernard stared at her beautiful face in wonder, still disbelieving this miracle, this sudden turn of good fortune. He gripped her hair tighter, refusing to lose this one hope.

She could not be allowed to escape.

Rhun appeared at his side, listing a bit on his feet, plainly succumbing to his weakened state again. Even this brief battle had quickly stanched whatever fire the blood had stoked inside him.

Still…

“Restrain him,” Bernard ordered the others, fearing what Rhun might do. At this moment, he did not know his friend’s heart. Would he kill her, save her, or try to run off with her in shame?

I do not know.

All he knew for sure was that he had to protect this wicked woman with every force he could marshal.

He needed her.

The world needed her.

The countess must have read that certainty in his eyes. Her perfect lips curved into a smile, both cunning and mean.

God help us, if I’m wrong.

Erin shared the backseat of the red Fiat with Jordan. Christian sat up front with the driver. The Sanguinist had his head out the open window, speaking to a Swiss guard in a midnight-blue uniform and cap. The young man carried an assault rifle over one shoulder, guarding St. Anne’s Gate, one of the side entrances into Vatican City.

Normally the guards here weren’t overtly armed.

So why the heightened security?

The guard nodded, stepped back, and waved their car through.

Christian whispered to the driver, and they set off into the Holy City, passing under the verdigris-green iron archway. Once they were moving again, Christian had returned his phone to his ear, where it had been glued ever since their chartered plane had landed at Rome’s smaller Ciampino Airport. Their driver had been waiting for them in this nondescript Fiat and whisked them in minutes to the gates of Vatican City.

Jordan held Erin’s hand in the backseat, staring out as the car slipped past the Vatican bank and post office and circled behind the bulk of St. Peter’s Basilica.

She studied the ancient buildings, imagining the secrets hidden behind their bright stucco facades. As an archaeologist, she uncovered truth layer by layer, but her discovery of the existence of strigoi and Sanguinists had taught her that history had layers even deeper than any she had thought existed.

But one question remained foremost in her mind.

Jordan expressed it. “Where is Christian taking us?”

She was just as curious. She had thought they would be heading straight to the papal apartments to meet with Cardinal Bernard in his offices, but instead their car headed farther out into the grounds behind the basilica.

Erin leaned forward, interrupting Christian on the phone. She was too tired to be polite and irritated by all the subterfuge they’d followed to come here.

“Where are we going?” she asked, touching the Sanguinist’s shoulder.

“We’re almost there.”

“Almost where?” she pressed.

Christian pointed his phone ahead.

Erin ducked lower to study their approach toward a building of white Italian marble with a red-tiled roof. A set of train tracks behind it revealed the structure’s purpose.

It was Stazione Vaticano, the one-and-only train station on the Vatican railway line. It had been built during the reign of Pope Pius XI in the early 1930s. Today it was mostly used to import freight, though the last few popes had taken occasional ceremonial trips from here aboard a special papal train.

Erin saw that same train parked on those tracks now.

Three forest-green cars were lined up behind a black old-fashioned engine that puffed out steam. At another time, she would have been thrilled at the sight, but right now she had but one overriding concern: the fate of Rhun. During the trip here, no other visions had come, and she feared what that meant for Rhun.

The Fiat drove straight to the platform and stopped. Christian popped out his door, drawing Jordan and Erin with him. With his phone back at his ear, Christian led them up the platform. The Sanguinist had changed out of his tattered dress uniform and into a priest’s shirt and black jeans. The outfit suited him better.

Upon reaching the train, he lowered his phone and pointed to the middle car with a mischievous grin. “All aboard!”

Erin glanced back toward the dome of the basilica. “I don’t understand. Are we leaving already? What about Rhun?”

The slender Sanguinist shrugged. “At this point, I know as much as you do. The cardinal asked that I bring you both here and board the train. It’s scheduled to be under way as soon as we are on board.”

Jordan put his warm palm against her lower back. She leaned back into it, glad for the touch of the familiar, the understandable. “What else did you expect from Bernard?” he said. “If you look up need to know in the dictionary, you’d find his smiling face there. The guy likes his secrets.”

And secrets got people killed.

Erin fingered the small marble of amber in the pocket of her jeans, picturing Amy’s hesitant smile under a desert sun.

“For now,” Jordan said, “we might as well do what the cardinal asks. We can always come back if we don’t like what he tells us.”

She nodded. Jordan could always be counted on to point to the most practical way forward. She kissed his cheek, his stubble rough under her lips, adding another soft kiss to his lips.

Christian stepped to the door and pulled it open. “To avoid undue attention, the Vatican put out a cover story that the train is being shifted to a maintenance yard outside Rome. But the sooner we’re moving, the happier I’ll be.”

With little other choice, Erin climbed the metal steps, followed by Jordan. She stepped into a sumptuous dining car. Golden velvet curtains had been tied back next to each window, and the compartment practically glowed in the morning sunshine — from the buttery yellow ceiling to the rich oak joinery. The air smelled of lemon polish and old wood.

Jordan whistled. “Looks like the pope knows how to travel. The only thing that would make this picture better would be a steaming pot of coffee on one of those tables.”

“I second that,” Erin said.

“Have a seat,” Christian said, passing by them and waving to a table that had been set. “I’ll see about making your wishes come true.”

As he headed toward the car in front, Erin found a spot bathed in sunlight and sat, enjoying the warmth after the rush across the cold city. She stroked the white linen tablecloth with one finger. Two places were set with silver flatware and fine china decorated with the papal seal.

Jordan smoothed his dress blue uniform, doing his best to look presentable as he sat next to her. Still, she caught the hard glint to his eyes as he peered out the windows, constantly on the watch for any danger, though trying not to show it.