James Rollins - Innocent Blood

He glanced at her. “Didn’t know lion taming was on your résumé.”

She smiled, letting her guard down too soon.

The lion launched itself, expertly hitting Christian, while raking her shoulder with its claw as it passed, knocking her aside.

Erin fell to her knees and grabbed her wound. Hot blood seeped through her fingers and ran down her arm and chest. She realized the error of her ways. Iscariot said she couldn’t be killed —but he said nothing about maiming her.

To the side Rhun and Christian battled the lion.

Jordan called her name.

The world had slowed down.

She collapsed sideways into the sand. Its grittiness under her cheek comforted her. She was in the desert. She loved the desert.

Jordan ran toward Erin and skidded on his knees to her side. He knew he was too late to help her. Blood poured out of her shoulder and soaked the golden sand.

Erin raised her head.

Her caramel eyes met his — then looked past him.

Wonder filled her face, inexplicable from all the blood, howls, and screams in the air. She raised a bloody hand and pointed over his shoulder.

Jordan turned to see what she meant.

What the—?

Out of the mouth of the well, a single curl of orange flame rose from the darkness below. It twisted like a tight whirlwind, perfectly straight to the dark sky.

Jordan couldn’t take his eyes off it.

Even the battle slowed, as a wary, fearful calm spread outward.

Eyes and faces turned toward it.

When the flame sprouted as long as his arm, a hand came into view below it, as if pushing the fire upward. The spit of fire continued to rise. The strange torchbearer was dragged up from below with it, lifted free of the well, and gently lowered to its edge.

Tommy.

As his feet touched ground, the fire snuffed out to reveal a silver sword held aloft, a few licks of flame still traced it, dancing brilliantly along its length.

The boy’s eyes met Jordan’s.

Fire danced there, too.

“I think this belongs to you!” Tommy yelled, half boy, half something dreadful.

The kid — if he was still a kid —twisted back his arm and flung the sword high. It spun end over end. Jordan wanted to duck, but instead his left arm rose on its own. The hilt landed perfectly in his palm, as if it was always meant to be there. The low burn in his tattoo flared to flaming life. Through a rip in his jacket and shirt, he saw the curled tracery of his old lightning scar blaze with an inner fire.

Strength flowed into his body.

Jordan danced the sword around him in a pattern of fire and steel, as if casting some arcane spell. He had never wielded a sword in his life.

A lion roared, turning to go after Erin again.

Jordan thought, and he was there, blocking it.

He slashed the sword across the lion’s paw, as it swiped at him in irritation.

As soon as the blade pierced its skin, the creature roared in agony. Flame followed the line where the sword had cut it — then swept up the leg and over its body. Maddened by pain, the lion leaped back and fled through the dark army, forging a flaming path through them, igniting everything in its wake.

Jordan checked out the sword.

It was one hell of a weapon.

Or make that heaven of a weapon.

Jordan spun in a circle, catching a strigoi on the arm, another on the thigh. Both howled as flames spread from their wounds. He swept outward, moving on legs that defied bone and muscle.

As swift as any strigoi , any Sanguinist.

Creature after creature fell before his blade.

Then he headed deeper — after his true enemy.

Iscariot.

Judas watched the Warrior of Man stalk across the field of battle. Beasts fled from his path, scattering out into the desert. Those few that stayed were hunted by the others. He saw the countess grab the boy; the angelic glow in the child’s eyes faded after relinquishing the sword to its bearer on Earth. The boy hugged hard to the ancient creature.

Judas felt no fear.

It had come to this moment.

He had spent centuries trying to find a purpose in his long life, centuries again to bring the world to this brink of damnation, where he could die.

And now the time was upon him.

The soldier would kill him, but only if he put up a fight. He was not a man to strike down an unarmed opponent. So Judas bent and picked up a discarded blade, an ancient chipped scimitar.

His last bodyguard tried to join him, lifting an assault rifle. The man’s partner, Henrik, had died in the cavern back in Cumae, but this one had lived, escaping with him.

“Go,” Iscariot ordered.

“My place is always at your side.”

“Forgive me.” Judas swung the sword and decapitated the man. He stepped away from the body. No one would interfere with his destiny.

The Warrior of Man’s eyes widened in surprise, but he didn’t slow down.

Others closed behind him, including Dr. Granger, holding a sopping rag to her shoulder.

“Stay back, Erin,” Jordan called. “This is my fight.”

The woman looked as if she wanted to argue, but she didn’t.

Judas lifted his bloody sword into a guard position. “How often must I kill you, Sergeant Stone?”

“I could ask you the same question.”

His sword shone white-hot in his hands, sparking with spats of fire.

Judas shivered in anticipation.

The soldier circled him, suspicion plain in his face, as if he suspected some trick.

You must play your role, Warrior. Do not disappoint me.

To ensure that, Judas lunged for him, and the man parried. He was unnaturally quick. Knowing this, Judas fought harder, no longer needing to feign incompetence. He had been trained under many different sword masters over the centuries.

He attacked again and again, enjoying the true challenge, his last. It was fitting to find a worthy opponent. But that was not his destiny. He allowed his guard to drop, as if by accident.

Jordan struck.

The blade pierced Judas’s side.

The same place where a Roman soldier had stabbed Christ on the cross.

Judas offered a quick plea of gratitude before he fell to his knees. Bright red blood poured from his wound. It soaked through his shirt. He dropped his sword.

Jordan stood before him. “We’re even.”

“No,” Judas said, reached to his leg. “I am forever in your debt.”

He fell to his side, then rolled to his back. Gray sky filled his vision. He had done that. The world surrounded by ash and blood. The sun was minutes from setting. Nothing could stop what he had started.

My death heralds my success.

He took it as a sign, his reward for opening the gates of Hell and bringing about the final Day of Judgment.

The burning pain in his side was unlike anything he had ever experienced, but he drank it in. He would soon be at peace. He welcomed it. He let his eyes drift closed.

Then a shadow fell over him, bringing with it the smell of lotus blossoms.

Arella.

He opened his eyes and looked upon her beauty, another reward for fulfilling his destiny.

Her warm hands took his. “My love.”

“It came to be just as you foretold,” he said.

As she leaned over him, her tears fell onto his face. He savored each warm drop.

“Oh, my love,” she said, “I curse the vision that brought you to this.”

He sought her dark eyes. “This was Christ’s will, not yours.”

“This was your will,” she insisted. “You could have walked a different path.”

He touched her wet cheek. “I always walked a different path. But I am grateful for the years that we walked that path together.”