James Rollins - Innocent Blood

“It is the greatest curse.”

She turned and stalked away, heading for the open desert.

Tommy chased after her. “Wait! Don’t leave me!”

The boy’s lonely and plaintive cry stopped her, but she did not turn to face Rhun again. Tommy ran up to her and hugged her from behind. She pulled him forward and drew him closer, her shoulders quaking as she cried, her chin on his head.

Bernard touched Rhun’s shoulder. “How could you have squandered such a gift on her?”

“It was not squandered .”

Anger blew through him. How could Bernard be such a fool? Did he not understand that the greatest sins are those that we commit ourselves, not those that are committed upon us?

The countess kept her back toward him.

She would come to understand and forgive him.

She must.

Erin closed the book and stepped away from the others. Jordan moved to follow her, but she asked for a moment of privacy. She stared up at the stars, at the rising moon as she strode across the crater, to the only place where there were no bodies, away from the chaos of emotions behind her.

She needed a moment of peace.

She reached the open well.

The holiness here, likely born from the sword preserved below, had kept the fighting away from this spot. She glanced back to the carnage, to both beasts and strigoi .

Their group had paid a terrible price, but they had come through it.

Just not all of them.

Her eyes fell upon poor Agmundr, picturing his huge grin.

Thank you for protecting us.

She remembered Nadia on the snow, even Leopold on the floor of the cave. They had met their ends far from the lands of their birth and those who had loved them.

Just like Amy.

She knelt by the edge of the spring and peered into the clear water. Stars reflected there, a wash of the Milky Way shining brightly back at her, reminding her of both the smallness and majesty of life. The stars above were eternal. She listened to the swish of sands across the surrounding dunes, whispering as it had for millennia past.

This spot had long been a peaceful, holy place.

Erin surveyed the panels that told the story of Christ’s first miracle and what followed. It was a reminder that anyone could make an error, take a misstep. Like Christ, she had not known the deadly consequences of her actions in Masada, how the events would bring death and ripples across time.

She looked back at Bernard as an uncharitable thought crossed her mind. So much bloodshed could have been spared if the cardinal had not kept so many secrets. If she had known the importance of the deadly information that she had shared with Amy, Erin might have been more cautious. Instead, the secrets that the Sanguinists had kept from her had cost Amy her life and the lives of others.

She focused on the book in her hand. While she would accept the mantle of the Woman of Learning, she would no longer allow truths to be kept from her. The Vatican authorities must throw open their libraries and reveal all their secrets, or she would no longer work with them.

The book was now bound to her, and she would use it to break down all doors.

She owed that to Amy.

She reached to her pocket and slipped out the marble of amber. She held it up to the moonlight, revealing the delicate feather inside. The amber had trapped it as surely as her memories held Amy: forever preserved, never free to float away.

While she would never forget her student, perhaps she could let something go.

She tilted her palm forward until the amber slid down to her fingertips. Then it tumbled off them and fell into the spring. She leaned forward and watched the marble break the reflection of stars and vanish into that eternity.

Now part of Amy would always be here in Egypt, at rest in one of the holiest places on Earth, near ancient secrets that might never be discovered.

Erin stared into that well, making a promise.

Never again.

No more innocent blood would be spilled to preserve the secrets of the Sanguinists. It was time for the truth to shine.

She gripped the book and stood.

Ready to change the world.

Buried far below St. Peter’s Basilica, the Sanguinists gathered in the cavernous vault of their order, their holy of holiest places, simply named the Sanctuary. They came in their greatest numbers every year to celebrate a midnight Mass in honor of the birth of Christ.

Rhun stood at the edge of the congregation. Others of his order filled the space, unmoving, in silent vigil. Not a breath nor a heartbeat nor even the rustle of a robe disturbed the utter peace. He drank in the quiet, as he knew the others around him did, too. The world above had grown ever louder across the centuries, but here he found the calm peace that his battered spirit so longed for.

Above him, the roof soared, its smooth and simple lines drawing his eyes up toward Heaven. The cold stone had been hewn smooth by thousands of hands in the early years of the Church. It contained none of the adornments of regular churches. This space spoke to the simplicity of a Sanguinist’s faith — hard stone and simple torches were enough to lead the damned creatures to Him. Although he was deep beneath the streets of Rome, he felt closer to Him in his glory here than anywhere else.

This Christmas Mass was also known as the Mass of the Angels. Never had it felt more appropriate to Rhun than on this holiest of nights so soon after he had walked with angels.

The smoky fragrance of incense drew his gaze from the roof to the center of the room. There, he found the holiest of priests walking with slow grace through their congregation. The head of the Order of the Sanguines wore simple black robes tied with a rough cord. He eschewed the costumes of cardinals and bishops and the pope — preferring to clothe himself as a simple and humble priest.

Yet, he was so much more.

He was the Risen One.

Lazarus.

Without him, they would be condemned to live out their existences as foul beasts, murdering innocent and guilty alike until they met their deaths at the end of a sword or a ray of sunlight. The Risen One had found another road for them to tread, a path of holiness and service and meaning.

Rhun knew now that it was no sin to be a Sanguinist.

He had made the right decision in the desert. His existence now served God, and that had been his truest wish since his earliest days. He had strayed from that path when he corrupted Elisabeta, but he had been given a chance to wash that sin clean. Now he could serve Christ again without a shadow on his conscience.

Lazarus passed by him.

Rhun stared at his long fingers, knowing they had touched Christ. Those shadowed eyes had stared at Him. That stern face had spoken to Him, laughed with Him.

Two other Sanguinists flanked Lazarus.

A man and a woman.

They were said to be even older than the Risen One, but their names were never spoken. In fact, the ancient pair was seldom seen, not even among the Cloistered Ones, the order’s elders who spent their time in eternal prayers and meditation. Rhun had once longed to join the Cloistered, but he had been drawn back into the world of the living instead.

The man carried an ancient cross, its wood turned from brown to gray with the passing of the centuries. The woman swung a silver censer of incense. Delicate smoke wafted into the room, filling Rhun’s nostrils with frankincense and myrrh. The holy scent surrounded him, settling on his robe and his hair and his skin.

A chant began, and Rhun’s voice rose in harmony with the other Sanguinists. Their beautiful chorus resonated through the vast chamber, hitting subtle notes beyond normal hearing. In the Sanctuary, gathered here with his order in the long darkness, he did not need to hide his otherness and could truly sing.