Innocent Blood(14)
Tonight she chose soft blue pants, a silk shirt that matched her silver eyes, and a pair of thin leather boots. She ran a comb through her thick black hair. She had cropped it to her shoulders, matching the style of a woman whom she had killed under a bridge.
How very different she looked now. What would Anna, Katalin, and Paul say if they saw her? Her own children would not recognize her.
Still, she reminded herself, I am Countess Elisabeta de Ecsed.
Her eyes narrowed.
No.
“Elizabeth . . .” she whispered to her reflection, reminding herself that this was a new time and, to survive it, she must abide by its ways. So she would take on this more modern name, wear it like she wore her new hair and clothing. It was who she would become. She had played many roles since she had been betrothed to Ferenc at age eleven—an impulsive girl, a lonely wife, a scholar of languages, a skilled healer, a devoted mother—more roles than she could count. This was but another one.
She turned slightly to judge her new self in the mirror. With short hair and wearing pants, she looked like a man. But she was no man, and she no longer envied men their strength and power.
She had her own.
She walked to the balcony windows and drew back the soft curtains. She gazed at the blaze of glorious man-made lights of the new Rome. The strangeness still terrified her, but she had mastered it enough to eat, to rest, to learn.
She took strength in one feature of the city, the one rhythm that survived unchanged across the centuries. She closed her eyes and listened to a thousand heartbeats, ticking like a thousand clocks, letting her know, in the end, that the march of time mattered little.
She knew what time it was, what time it always was for a predator such as she.
She pushed open the balcony doors upon the night.
It was time to hunt.
6
December 18, 5:34 P.M. PST
Santa Clara County, California
As twilight swept over the hills and meadows, Erin thundered down the last of the trail toward the stables. With no urging, Blackjack galloped at full speed into the yard.
She kept one hand on the reins and the other on her pistol. As her gelding skidded and stuttered to a stop in the dusty yard, she twisted in her saddle. She pointed her weapon toward the black hills.
While racing here, she had failed to spot the creature that had spooked her horse, but she had heard it. Sounds of branches cracking, of brush being trampled, had chased them out of the hills. She couldn’t shake the feeling that the shadowy hunter was playing with them, waiting for full night to attack.
She wasn’t about to give it that chance.
She trotted Blackjack past her old Land Rover, only to discover a new car—a black Lincoln town car—on its far side, parked a distance away. She passed closer to it on the way to the stables, spotting a familiar symbol on its door: two crossed keys and a triple crown.
The papal seal.
The fear inside her stoked higher.
What is someone from the Vatican doing here?
She searched and saw no one and urged Blackjack forward toward the stables. Once at the sliding doors of the barn, she reined in the horse. Coughing from the dust, she slid from the saddle and kept hold of both Blackjack’s lead and her pistol. Seeking answers as well as shelter, she hurried to the doors and reached for the handle.
Before her fingers could touch it, the door slid open on its own. A hand burst out, grabbed her wrist in an iron grip, and hauled her across the threshold. Startled, she lost her grip on Blackjack’s lead, fighting just to keep her footing.
Her attacker pulled her into the darkness of the stable, and the door slammed closed behind her, leaving her horse on the outside. Gaining her feet, she twisted to the side and kicked hard, her boot striking something soft.
“Ow. Take it easy, Erin.”
She immediately recognized the voice, though it made no sense. “Jordan?”
Hands released her.
A flashlight clicked, and a white glow illuminated Jordan’s face. Past the sergeant’s shoulder, she spotted Nate, safe but looking pale, his eyes too wide.
Jordan rubbed his stomach and flashed her that crooked grin of his, immediately drawing a large amount of the tension from her bones. He stood there in dress pants and a white shirt, unbuttoned at the collar with the sleeves rolled up, displaying his muscular tanned arms.
She leaped to him and hugged him hard. He felt warm and good and natural, and she loved how easy it was to fall into his arms again.
She spoke into his chest. “I can’t believe it’s you.”
“In the flesh . . . though after that kick of yours, maybe a tad more sore.”
She leaned back to take him in. A day’s worth of stubble shadowed his square chin, his blue eyes smiled at her, and his hair had grown out longer. She threaded her fingers through that thick wheat-blond hair and pulled him down into a kiss.