Rhun ignored the cardinal, spying the one final figure in this grim theater.
To the right, Elisabeta lay on the floor, in a pool of black blood, but little of it seemed to be her own. She struggled beneath a half dozen strigoi. Others were dead around her. A handful of moths lay twitching on the cold stone, their wings frosted brittle by the cold.
Her eyes found his, full of terror—but not for her own life.
“Save the boy!”
7:52 A.M.
Jordan drew closer to Erin, taking swift inventory.
In that moment of stunned incapacitation, a flurry of strigoi rushed from the closest tunnels to either side. Bernard took those on the left; Rhun charged to the right.
Jordan pushed Erin forward, out of those pincers.
He aimed for the only other direct threat in the room.
He had his machine pistol up and rushed the gray-suited figure. As Iscariot turned, Jordan skipped any witty repartee. He fired three fast bursts into the man’s chest, clustered on his heart.
Iscariot collapsed backward onto the floor, bright red blood soaking through his jacket and white shirt, spreading across the stone.
“Owed you that, bastard,” he mumbled, rubbing his own chest.
Still, he kept his weapon trained on the man. Iscariot was immortal, would likely heal, but how long would it take? It had taken the boy some time to recuperate. He hoped for the same here, but he kept watch. A trail of crimson blood ran across the black rock as if aiming for that black swirl.
The blood froze before reaching it.
Erin stepped in that direction, plainly wanting to help the boy.
He stopped her with a hand on her arm. “Hold on.”
She glanced at him. “Do you think it’s poisonous?”
“I think it’s something way beyond that,” he said. “Let me go first.”
As he moved closer, he felt the ever-present burn in his shoulder go cooler. With every step, his legs turned leaden. It was as if whatever force roiled up from below could stanch that fire inside him—and take all his strength with it. His chest suddenly ached, drawing his fingers to where he had been shot. He looked down, expecting blood.
“Jordan?”
“I can’t . . .”
He fell to his knees.
7:53 A.M.
Rhun heard the gunshots, watched Iscariot fall, incapacitated for now. Behind him, Bernard fought before the mouth of a tunnel, keeping strigoi bottled on that side. Rhun leaped over those holding Elisabeta captive. While in the air, he reached down and ripped two of her assailants off her, tossing them forward into the pack coming at him.
He crushed moths under his heels as he landed, the creations strangely weakened by the inimical cold.
Then he barreled into the pack, his blade flashing.
Strigoi fell, blood pouring over rock.
Claws ripped and teeth gnashed at him, but he fought on and drove the pack back to the tunnels. Finally, they seemed to lose their will and fled into the darkness.
Taking advantage of the lull, he swung around. Elisabeta fought her four remaining captors, whirling like a trapped lioness, weeping from a hundred cuts, as did her assailants.
For the moment, it was a stalemate.
He leaped forward to break it.
45
December 20, 7:54 A.M. CET
Cumae, Italy
Erin pulled Jordan back from the cold pyre of black smoke. He regained his strength enough to stand, but he still rubbed his chest. Was he exerting himself too much after his recent ordeal? She was relieved to feel his clammy hand grow warmer in hers.
A voice rose from beyond the cloud. “You can go no nearer.”
It came from the woman chained to the wall. She wore a simple white dress and leather sandals, looking like she had stepped off an ancient Greek urn.
Erin circled the black cloud enough to see her face better. Unmistakably, it was the woman from the drawing, from Iscariot’s oil painting, and likely the woman Bernard saw in Jerusalem. She was tied to an iron ring mounted in the stone, seemingly as much a prisoner as the boy.
But what was she?
Her musings were interrupted as Rhun hurled a strigoi high into the air, sending it flying across the fog above the altar. Hitting that cloud, a scream ripped from the beast’s throat. The body immediately froze in a posture of agony. For a moment, Erin thought she saw smoky darkness explode from its lips and nostrils, swirling to join the blackness above Tommy. She remembered Elizabeth’s drawings in her macabre research journal, how she had described the same smoky essence connected to the strigoi.
Then the body struck the far wall and shattered like a china plate.
Aghast, Erin took a full step back.
How were they ever going to save the boy? Was the boy even alive?
As if reading her fears, the woman spoke. “I can reach him.”
Erin stared at her.
She lifted her bound arms. “Free me.”