Innocent Blood(104)
The cardinal placed his silver cross atop Christian’s forehead, as if ready to administer last rites. After a moment, Bernard lifted the cross, revealing a seared mark matching its shape on the younger Sanguinist’s skin.
“He lives,” Bernard declared.
Rhun explained, the relief palpable in his voice. “If we die in service to the Church, we are cleansed. Blessed silver would not burn us.”
Erin held Christian’s hand.
“But he requires medical attention,” Rhun warned, eyeing Jordan as he gunned the engine. “His life may still be forfeit.”
Jordan aimed for the oil platform. “Then let’s go pay our neighbors a visit.”
39
December 20, 6:02 A.M. CET
Mediterranean Sea
As the boat fled toward the lights of the oil platform, Rhun studied Christian’s pale face. He was young, relatively new to the cloth, making him brash and irreverent, but Rhun could not fault his faith and his bravery. He clenched a fist of frustration, refusing to lose another companion so soon after Nadia’s death.
Bernard poured little sips of wine from his leather flask through Christian’s slack lips, but most spilled down his hollow cheeks. He was still too weak to swallow.
“What if I gave him some of my blood?” Erin asked. “Like we did with the countess. Wouldn’t that help revive him?”
“We will consider that only as a last resort,” Bernard mumbled.
Erin looked little satisfied with that answer.
Rhun whispered to her. “The taste of blood for one as young as he risks freeing the beast inside him. We dare not risk it, especially here where we have so little means to control him. Let us see what we find at the oil platform.”
“What we will find will surely be more enemies,” Bernard added and pointed to the flask hidden and tied to Rhun’s upper thigh. “We ourselves should drink, restore our strength to its fullest.”
Rhun knew Bernard was correct, but he hated taking penance in front of others, knowing it often left him weeping and confused. He did not wish to display such weakness.
Still, he knew he must.
As Rhun freed his holy flask, Bernard upended his own and drank deeply, unabashedly. Bernard seemed at peace with his sins. He did his penance and was always calm moments afterward.
Rhun prayed for the same today as he lifted the flask to his lips and drank fully.
The cemetery loomed around Rhun as he lay on his back atop his sister’s grave. The beast straddled him, their limbs entangled like lovers. The monster’s blood filled his mouth.
Rhun had come to his sister’s grave this night to mourn her passing, only to be waylaid by this beast, a monster wearing fine breeches and a studded leather tunic. Fangs had torn into Rhun’s throat, draining his blood into this other’s hungry mouth. But instead of dying, his attacker had offered Rhun a wrist, sliced open, pouring with the beast’s black blood.
He had resisted—until cold, silken blood burst to fire on his tongue.
Bliss welled through him, and with it, hunger.
He now drank fully from that crimson font, knowing it was a sin, knowing that the pleasure that pulsed through every limb in his body would damn him for all eternity. And still he could not stop. He longed to stay locked in this man’s embrace forever, drowned in ecstasy with every fiery swallow.
Then his head cracked painfully against his sister’s headstone. He watched the beast yanked off him. Rhun moaned, reaching again for him, wanting more of his blood.
Four priests pulled the monster from Rhun’s aching body. Their silver pectoral crosses glinted in the cold moonlight.
“Run!” shouted the beast, attempting to warn him.
But how could he ever abandon such a font of bliss and blood?
His arms remained up, stretching to the other.
A blade flashed silver across the beast’s throat. Dark blood exploded from the wound, staining his fine white shirt, soiling his leather tunic.
“No!” Rhun struggled to rise.
The four priests dropped the man’s body to the ground. Rhun heard it hit the scattered leaves, knew without knowing how that the man was gone forever. Tears rose in his eyes at the loss of such ecstasy.
The priests sat Rhun up and wrenched his arms behind his back. Rhun fought with the ferocity of a cornered lynx, but they imprisoned him with an implacable strength for which he was no match.
He twisted, his sharp teeth seeking their necks.
His body ached for blood, any blood.
They carried him through the night without a word. But for all their silence, Rhun heard more than he ever had before in his life. He listened to each leaf crumble under their boots, the soft hush of owl wings overhead, the scurry of a mouse into its hole. Rhun’s mind strained to fathom it. He could even hear the tiny beasts’ heartbeats: the mouse’s swift and frightened, the owl’s slower and determined.