James Rollins - Innocent Blood

As it lunged, Rhun kept firm in the sand and thrust out his arm, ramming his karambit between the pointed teeth and deep into the creature’s mouth. With all the force that he could muster, he drove his blade up through the roof and into its brain — then yanked his hand out.

The beast collapsed, black blood frothing from its mouth to stain the sand. Its front paws scratched at its jaws, whimpering from the pain.

Pity rose in Rhun at the sight of one of God’s creatures turned into such a suffering monstrosity. Finally, that crimson glow dulled to a sightless brown, as the beast was freed of its curse.

Rhun had no time to rejoice in its release.

A heavy force bore him to the sand from behind, slamming his face into the jackal’s dark blood. Claws raked his back, shredding through his armor and skin, a long claw catching on his rib.

Rhun screamed — as a lion roared in triumph atop him.

Panicked, Tommy floundered in the flooded cavern. He clutched both hands over his mouth. Unable to stop himself, he convulsed a lung full of water into his body, setting his chest on fire. His arms and legs kicked out blindly, striking the sides of the cavern as his body fought to expel that fire, to cough, to gag. But there was nothing to replace it but more water.

He fought until he could fight no more and hung motionless.

Drowned.

But he was the boy who could not die.

His lungs ached, but they no longer struggled to force out the water. He opened his eyes again and stared around him, wanting to cry.

Knowing now he would not die, he searched the cavern.

The woman must have drawn him down here for some reason.

He remembered her pointing him to the cave.

Why?

The source of the cavern’s light rose from an upwelling of glass in the room’s center, like a miniature volcano. It was so bright that he had to shield his eyes against it. Still, he spotted something silver at its heart.

He leaned deeper into that glow, able now to make out a foot or two of thin silver sticking out of the block, topped by a wider, shielded hilt. He noted the grip was indented, for fingers to clutch it firmly.

His right hand reached to do just that — then he remembered the story above, of Archangel Michael’s sword. He looked closer and could even make out the long notch along one side, where a shard had been chipped from it.

His other hand rose to his neck, remembering that pain.

He reached a single finger and touched the round knob at the hilt’s end. As his skin brushed the metal, power fired through him, like touching a raw electric wire — only it left him feeling stronger . He felt like he could shatter mountains with his fists.

He studied the blade. Most of its length looked buried in the sandy glass.

Like King Arthur’s Excalibur.

Tommy knew what was expected of him. An angel had carried this sword, and it was up to the First Angel to free it, to return it to the sun, to be used against the darkness above.

But he withdrew his hand.

He didn’t want to touch it.

What did he care about the world above? He had been kidnapped, tortured, and kidnapped again — only to be finally sacrificed on an altar.

He suddenly realized the sword could end that misery.

It can free me.

The blade could deal a wound far greater than the stab to his neck. He could bring both wrists to its edge, drag them swiftly down, cutting deep.

He could die.

I could see Mom and Dad again.

His mother’s face rose up in his mind, as he remembered how she would tuck her short curly hair behind her ears, how her brown eyes almost glowed with concern whenever he was hurt. A look he saw often while battling his cancer. He also recalled how she would sing him lullabies in the hospital, even when he was probably too old for them, how she would make him laugh, even when he knew that she wanted to cry.

She loved me.

And his father no less. His love was more practical: trying to cram as much life into those few last years. Tommy got to drive a Mustang convertible, learned to shoot pool, and when he was too weak, his father would sit cross-legged next to him on the couch and help him slay zombies in Resident Evil . And sometimes they had talked, really talked. Because they both knew there would come a time when they couldn’t anymore.

He knew one other certainty.

I was supposed to die first.

That was the deal. He was sick; they were well. He would die, and they would live. He accepted that deal, made rough peace with it — until the stupid dove had ruined everything.

He stared at the sword and made a decision.

They could fight this war without him.

He reached for the sword, ready to cut a bloody path back to his parents’ arms. He hovered his hand over the hilt’s grip, preparing himself. Once ready, he snatched hard to the silver handle.

A jolt rang through him. Below him, the blade glowed brighter and brighter, ramping up to a supernova. He squeezed his eyes shut, fearing the brilliance would blind him. The light pierced his lids and filled his skull.

Then it slowly faded again.

He opened one eye, then the other.

Between his legs, the glass had melted away. In his hands a giant sword glowed a dull orange. Its weight held him anchored to the sandy bottom.

He brought his thumb to its edge. It sliced deeply before he even knew he’d made contact. Blood spilled upward in a red cloud. He followed that trail, knowing how easy it would be to draw that edge over his wrist.

A sting at best… then it would be over .

He moved the blade toward his wrist.

Who would miss me here?

He turned his eyes from that impossibly sharp edge to the roof above him, picturing the hot desert. He remembered cold fingers lifting his chin, touching his throat, making sure he was safe.

Elizabeth.

She would miss him. She would be angry.

He pictured the others: Erin, Jordan, even the dark priest Rhun. They had risked everything to bring him to this desert, to save his life. And right now, they might be dying.

Dying for me.

Out of bullets, Erin snatched up Agmundr’s longsword. She needed both hands to lift it. She swung from her hips, bringing her arms and the blade into the air, slicing the space between her and the nearest strigoi .

The monster laughed, took a step back, and charged toward Christian, ignoring her.

She searched for someone to attack.

None of the strigoi or the blasphemare would come near her, obeying Iscariot’s order that she not be killed. His troops kept their distance until he came down to claim her.

Maybe that’s my better weapon.

A howl of a lion swung her around. Yards away, Rhun struggled, pinned under one of the shadowy blasphemare lions. Jordan rushed to his aid, swinging his pistol like a club.

She dropped the heavy sword and ran toward them both.

Jordan got batted away like a horsefly, claws ripping clean through his leather jacket, almost tearing off a sleeve. He landed on his back. But the distraction allowed Rhun to roll free, losing a large swath of skin.

The lion lunged at its escaping prey.

And Erin did the stupidest thing in her life.

She jumped between Rhun and the lion, spreading her arms and hollering, throwing out her chest like a showboating prizefighter.

The lion dropped low, hissing, haunches high, tail swatting angrily.

“Can’t attack me, can you?” she challenged it.

It curled black lips and snarled, backing away, especially as Christian slid to her side to back her up.