James Rollins: Innocent Blood

Simple enough.

It was untrue. And unfortunately, he was a bad liar, and his CO suspected that he hadn’t revealed everything that had happened in Masada or after his rescue.

Jordan had already been taken off active duty and assigned psychiatric counseling. Someone was watching him all the time, waiting to see if he would crack up. What he wanted most was to simply get back out in the field and do his job. As a member of the Joint Expeditionary Forensic Facility in Afghanistan, he’d worked and investigated military crime scenes. He was good at it, and he wanted to do it again.

Anything to keep busy, to keep moving.

Instead, he stood at attention beside yet another coffin, the cold from the marble floor seeping into his toes. Sanderson’s sister shivered next to him. He wished he could give her his uniform jacket.

He listened to the military chaplain’s somber tones more than his words. The priest had only twenty minutes to get through the ceremony. Arlington had many funerals every day, and they set a strict schedule.

He soon found himself outside of the chapel and at the gravesite. He had done this march so many times that his feet found their way to this grave without much thought. Sanderson’s casket rested on snow-dusted brown earth beside a draped hole.

A cold wind blew across the snow, curling flakes on the surface into tendrils, like cirrus clouds, the kind of high clouds so common in the desert where Sanderson had died. Jordan waited through the rest of the ceremony, listened to the three-rifle volley, the bugler playing “Taps,” and watched the chaplain give the folded flag to Sanderson’s mother.

Jordan had endured the same scene for each of his lost teammates.

It hadn’t gotten any easier.

At the end, Jordan shook Sanderson’s mother’s hand. It felt cold and frail, and he worried that he might break it. “I am deeply sorry for your loss. Corporal Sanderson was a fine soldier, and a good man.”

“He liked you.” His mother offered him a sad smile. “He said you were smart and brave.”

Jordan worked his frozen face to match that smile. “That’s good to hear, ma’am. He was smart and brave himself.”

She blinked back tears and turned away. He moved to take a step after her, although he didn’t know what he would say, but before he could, the chaplain laid a hand on his shoulder.

“I believe we have business to discuss, Sergeant.”

Turning, Jordan examined the young chaplain. The man wore dress blues just like Jordan’s uniform, except that he had crosses sewn onto the lapels of his jacket. Looking closer now, Jordan saw his skin was too white, even for winter, his brown hair a trifle too long, his posture not quite military. As the chaplain stared back at him, his green eyes didn’t blink.

The short hairs rose on the back of Jordan’s neck.

The chill of the chaplain’s hand seeped through his glove. It wasn’t like a hand that had been out too long on a cold day. It was like a hand that hadn’t been warm for years.

Jordan had met many of his ilk before. What stood before him was an undead predator, a vampiric creature called a strigoi . But for this one to be out in daylight, he must be a Sanguinist — a strigoi who had taken a vow to stop drinking human blood, to serve the Catholic Church and sustain himself only on Christ’s blood — or more exactly, on wine consecrated by holy sacrament into His blood.

Such an oath made this creature less dangerous.

But not much.

“I’m not so sure that we have any business left,” Jordan said.

He shifted away from the chaplain and squared off, ready to fight if need be. He had seen Sanguinists battle. No doubt this slight chaplain could take him out, but that didn’t mean Jordan would go down easy.

Captain Stanley moved between them and cleared his throat. “It’s been cleared all the way up to the top, Sergeant Stone.”

“What has, sir?”

“He will explain everything,” the captain answered, gesturing to the chaplain. “Go with him.”

“And if I refuse?” Jordan held his breath, hoping for a good answer.

“It’s an order, Sergeant.” He gave Jordan a level glare. “It’s being handled way above my pay grade.”

Jordan suppressed a groan. “I’m sorry, sir.”

Captain Stanley quirked one tiny corner of his mouth, equivalent to a belly laugh from a jollier man. “That I believe, Sergeant.”

Jordan saluted, wondering if it was for the last time, and followed the chaplain to a black limousine parked at the curb. It seemed the Sanguinists had barreled into his life again, ready to kick apart the rubble of his career with their immortal feet.

The chaplain held open the door for him, and Jordan climbed in. The interior smelled like leather and brandy and expensive cigars. It wasn’t what one expected from a priest’s vehicle.

Jordan slid across the seat. The glass partition had been rolled up, and all he saw of the driver was the back of a thick neck, short blond hair, and a uniform cap.

The chaplain lifted his pant legs to preserve the crease before sliding in. With one hand, he closed the door with a dignified thump, trapping Jordan inside with him.

“Please turn up the heat for our guest,” the chaplain called to the driver. Then he unbuttoned the jacket of his dress blue uniform and leaned back.

“I believe my CO said that you would explain everything.” Jordan folded his arms. “Go ahead.”

“That’s a tall order.” The young chaplain poured a brandy. He brought the glass to his nose and inhaled. With a sigh, he lowered the glass and offered it toward Jordan. “It’s quite a fine vintage.”

“Then you drink it.”

The chaplain swirled the brandy in the glass, his eyes following the brown liquid. “I think you know that I can’t, as much as I’d like to.”

“About that explanation?” he pressed.

The chaplain raised a hand, and the car slid into motion. “Sorry about all this cloak-and-dagger business. Or perhaps robe-and-cross might be the more apt term?”

He smiled wistfully as he sniffed again at the brandy.

Jordan frowned at the guy’s mannerisms. He certainly seemed less stuffy and formal than the other Sanguinists he had met.

The chaplain took off his white glove and held out his hand. “Name’s Christian.”

Jordan ignored the invitation.

Realizing this, the chaplain lifted his hand and ran his fingers through his thick hair. “Yes, I appreciate the irony. A Sanguinist named Christian . It’s like my mother planned it.”

The man snorted.

Jordan wasn’t quite sure what to make of this Sanguinist.

“I think we almost met back in Ettal Abbey,” the chaplain said. “But Rhun picked Nadia and Emmanuel to fill out the rest of his trio back in Germany.”

Jordan pictured Nadia’s dark features and Emmanuel’s darker attitude.

Christian shook his head. “Hardly a surprise, I suppose.”

“Why’s that?”

The other raised an eyebrow. “I believe I’m not sackcloth and ashes enough for Father Rhun Korza.”

Jordan fought down a grin. “I can see how that would bug him.”

Christian set the brandy in a tray near the door and leaned forward, his green eyes serious. “Actually Father Korza is the reason I’m here.”

“He sent you?”

Somehow Jordan couldn’t picture that. He doubted Rhun wanted anything more to do with Jordan. They hadn’t parted on the best of terms.

“Not exactly.” Christian rested skinny elbows on his knees. “Cardinal Bernard is trying to keep it quiet, but Rhun has disappeared without a word.”

Figures… the guy was hardly the forthcoming sort.

“Has he contacted you since you left Rome in October?” Christian asked.