Innocent Blood(140)

To either side, the walls of the well felt like beach glass, still rough, but too smooth to be rock. He pictured that explosion etched above, of a battle between Lucifer and Michael. That same blast must have gone deep under the earth, sealing off that pool where Christ had stood and melting everything around it to glass.

He wanted to disbelieve that story, too, except for two things.

One, the water grew ever warmer the deeper he dove.

Two, beneath him, lighting his way, a golden glow beckoned, outlining the woman’s sleek legs.

He chased after her until his lungs were bursting, his ears stinging from the pressure.

Down, down he went.

Finally, he reached the bottom, desperate for air.

She pointed to a side cavern that opened a few yards off. With his lungs burning, he ducked through the short passageway, pushing off the smooth walls and kicking off the bottom. The source of the light came from there, drawing him like a moth to a flame.

But it wasn’t a flame he sought.

Air.

He had dived with his father off the Catalina coast, into sea caves that pocked that island, remembering ducking through rock to find a cave sloshing with water below and a pocket of air above.

He prayed the same would be found here, some secret cave where he could hang out with this woman until the battle ended, and it was safe.

Safe . . .

How long had it been since he had felt safe?

His lungs screamed as he scrabbled the last distance, worming through the entrance to the cave. His vision began to close down, squeezing narrower, dancing with sparks. He knew he didn’t have enough air even to make it back to the surface. He was committed now. His father had once said that the most important thing in life was finding the right path and committing to it.

Somehow, Dad, I don’t think this is what you meant.

Panic lent his arms and legs extra strength. He popped into the small cavern, lined by gold glass and littered with loose sand below. Knowing there must be air above—why else drag him down here?—he pushed hard off the bottom.

He shot up—and his head crashed against the ceiling.

He pawed the roof, searching for even a bubble, some tiny breath of air.

There was none.



4:35 P.M.

Strigoi and blasphemare poured down the sides of the crater like a foul wave.

Jordan gripped his gun tightly, trying to ignore the dark giant barreling toward them, in the lead, flanked by the pair of shadow-maned lions.

Erin aimed at one of the beasts.

Jordan swung to a different target, knowing his weapon would do little against what was surging over the crater’s rim. He had to trust the Sanguinists to handle that first wave.

Instead, he aimed to the side, near the edge of the sandy bowl. He waited for the dark army to reach there—then fired.

The spatter of hot round pierced the fuel tank of their helicopter.

The explosion ripped the craft apart in a fiery blast, sending the rotors cutting a swath through the strigoi and slamming into the far crater wall. The sudden blast and resulting damage shattered the initial charge, sending blasphemare loping away, hissing and howling at the smoking wreckage. Several strigoi struggled in the sand with severed limbs. Others were clearly dead.

Rhun glanced approvingly toward him.

Jordan used the stunned moment to swing his weapon toward Iscariot, who remained at the crater’s edge. He steadied and aimed for the guy’s center mass, not trusting a head shot from this distance, especially as limited as Jordan was on ammunition. He dared not waste a single round.

He squeezed the trigger, intending to drop the guy again, if only for a short time. Temporarily leaderless, maybe the army could be routed.

But as he fired, the huge bulk of a jackal swerved in front of Iscariot, taking the rounds across its shoulders, saving the bastard. Black blood flowed from the beast’s side, but it didn’t look bothered as it stalked back and forth, keeping its master protected.

Iscariot retreated down the rim’s far side, further sheltering himself.

Coward.

Closer at hand, the dark giant recovered quickly, lunging forward again to close the distance, rallying those nearest to him. He snarled, showing long fangs.

Agmundr met the challenge, bounding in front of him.

Giant against giant.

It was no contest.

Fueled by holiness, Agmundr swung his longsword so fast it sang through the air. He cleaved the strigoi’s head clean off its shoulders, the snarl still fixed to that skull as it flew away.

Jordan strafed the horde charging to the left.

Wingu and Christian leaped to the right.

Rhun and Bernard guarded their rear.

Elizabeth kept near the well’s edge, neither threatening nor helping, simply guarding Tommy’s retreat to who knew where.

Erin fired behind Jordan’s shoulder, popping a lion clean through the eye, sending it rolling to Agmundr’s feet, where a whirl of his huge blade caught the beast in the throat.