Innocent Blood(114)

“Climb on top,” he was told. “On your back. Your head at the lower end of the slab.”

Tommy crossed to the black stone, every cell in his body screaming for him to run, but he mounted the rock and twisted around to lie on his back, his neck coming to rest in a hollow at the base of the altar—and he knew it was an altar.

Below his head, a large black crack steamed with sulfur, more foul than even the river. His lungs crinkled up against it. Hot tears spilled from his cheeks. He turned his head enough to find Elizabeth.

He knew she did not understand. He had watched his mother and father die in his arms, their blood boiling from their eyes—while he lived, cured of his cancer. He could not let another die in agony in his place again. Not even to save the world.

She stared back at him, a single tear rolling from her angry eyes.

She also did not know the goodness inside her. He recognized she was a monster as surely as those that pinned her, but somewhere deep inside, something brighter still existed. Even if she didn’t see it yet.

Iscariot knelt next to him and dragged a rope net over his body, weighted at the edges with heavy stones. He fastened the four corners to iron rings driven into the floor. Once done, Tommy could no longer move, and only his head remained free.

Tilted with his legs high, blood rushed down, flushing his face even hotter.

Iscariot placed a cool palm on his cheek. “Be at peace. It is a good thing you do. Your worthy sacrifice will herald Christ’s return.”

Tommy tried to shrug. “I’m Jewish. So why do I care? Just get it over with.”

He wanted to sound brave, defiant, but his words came out a strained whisper. A flash caught his eyes as the silver shard, stolen from the woman, was lifted high. Torchlight glimmered along its sharp edge. Everything else in the room disappeared except for that small blade.

Iscariot leaned to his ear. “This may hurt and—”

He stabbed the shard into Tommy’s neck before he could even brace for it. Though that was likely the goal, to spare him pain.

It failed.

Tommy screamed as fire lanced into him, radiating throughout his entire body. Blood welled down his throat, washing as hotly as fiery magma. He writhed and bucked under the netting, fierce enough to break one corner free. He twisted his head to see his blood flowing across the stone, over its edge, and dripping into the black crack below.

He wailed from a pain that refused to subside.

His vision closed around him, darkness filling the edges. He wanted that oblivion, to escape this pyre of agony. Under his back, he felt the stone tremble. The rock ground and cracked.

Distantly, Iscariot extolled in a booming voice, “The gate is opening! Just as foretold!”

The bound woman responded, her very voice beating back the edge of his pain. “There is yet time to show mercy. You can end this!”

“It is too late. By the time all his blood is cast below, no one can end it.”

Tommy felt himself sinking into darkness—only to realize that darkness was rising to take him. A black mist roiled from the crack below, enveloping him in its dark embrace, swirling around him like a living thing. With every drop of his blood, more blackness surged upward and flowed into the world.

He stared toward the source, watching the crack below him split wider. He flashed to the chamber in Masada, to another crack splitting the earth, to other smoke rising from below.

No . . . not again . . .

Then the ground shook—same as before—jolting with great quakes, strong enough to break mountains. The boiling river surged up from its banks in a great font, splashing high and crashing back down again. During all this, a massive rumbling grew louder and louder, filling the world and bursting outward.

Tommy let it wash over him—until there was only silence and darkness.

And he was gone.





43





December 20, 7:15 A.M. CET

Mediterranean Sea



As Erin crossed the main salon, her stomach suddenly churned, as if she were getting seasick. She weaved on her feet, her hand slapping atop a display case to keep her balance. She turned back to Jordan as he closed the door to the private office, making sure no stray butterfly or bee sailed out with them.

His gaze met hers as the entire platform began to ominously tremble, like a herd of elephants were rampaging across the deck.

“Earthquake!” Jordan yelled, rushing toward her.

Erin turned to see Rhun and Bernard helping Christian to stand. The cardinal must have managed to revive the young Sanguinist with the freshly consecrated wine, at least enough to get him up on his feet.

A huge jolt bumped under her, tossing her a foot in the air. She landed on one knee as Jordan skidded beside her. Books fell from the shelves. Fiery sparks blew through the grate of the cast-iron hearth.