This Christmas Mass was also known as the Mass of the Angels. Never had it felt more appropriate to Rhun than on this holiest of nights so soon after he had walked with angels.
The smoky fragrance of incense drew his gaze from the roof to the center of the room. There, he found the holiest of priests walking with slow grace through their congregation. The head of the Order of the Sanguines wore simple black robes tied with a rough cord. He eschewed the costumes of cardinals and bishops and the pope—preferring to clothe himself as a simple and humble priest.
Yet, he was so much more.
He was the Risen One.
Lazarus.
Without him, they would be condemned to live out their existences as foul beasts, murdering innocent and guilty alike until they met their deaths at the end of a sword or a ray of sunlight. The Risen One had found another road for them to tread, a path of holiness and service and meaning.
Rhun knew now that it was no sin to be a Sanguinist.
He had made the right decision in the desert. His existence now served God, and that had been his truest wish since his earliest days. He had strayed from that path when he corrupted Elisabeta, but he had been given a chance to wash that sin clean. Now he could serve Christ again without a shadow on his conscience.
Lazarus passed by him.
Rhun stared at his long fingers, knowing they had touched Christ. Those shadowed eyes had stared at Him. That stern face had spoken to Him, laughed with Him.
Two other Sanguinists flanked Lazarus.
A man and a woman.
They were said to be even older than the Risen One, but their names were never spoken. In fact, the ancient pair was seldom seen, not even among the Cloistered Ones, the order’s elders who spent their time in eternal prayers and meditation. Rhun had once longed to join the Cloistered, but he had been drawn back into the world of the living instead.
The man carried an ancient cross, its wood turned from brown to gray with the passing of the centuries. The woman swung a silver censer of incense. Delicate smoke wafted into the room, filling Rhun’s nostrils with frankincense and myrrh. The holy scent surrounded him, settling on his robe and his hair and his skin.
A chant began, and Rhun’s voice rose in harmony with the other Sanguinists. Their beautiful chorus resonated through the vast chamber, hitting subtle notes beyond normal hearing. In the Sanctuary, gathered here with his order in the long darkness, he did not need to hide his otherness and could truly sing.
Lazarus stopped in front of the ancient stone altar and raised his pale hand to form the sign of the cross. “In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti.”
“Amen,” answered the congregation.
The familiar routine carried Rhun away. He neither thought nor prayed. He simply existed in each moment, letting the chain of them draw him ever forward. He belonged here with his brothers and sisters of the cloth. This was the pious life that he had wanted when he was a mortal man, and the life that he had chosen as an immortal one.
And so they came to the Eucharist.
Lazarus spoke the words in Latin. “The Blood of our Lord Jesus Christ, which was shed for thee, preserve thy body and soul unto everlasting life. Drink this in remembrance that Christ’s Blood was shed for thee, and be thankful.”
He held the ancient chalice high that they might all look upon the source of their salvation.
Rhun answered with the others and lined up to receive Holy Communion .
When he stood in front of the Risen One, Lazarus met his eyes, and a faint smile chased across his face. “For you, my brother.”
Rhun tilted his head back, and Lazarus poured in the wine.
Rhun savored the silkiness as it flowed down his throat, spreading through his limbs. Tonight it did not burn. On this holiest of nights, even for one such as he, there was no penance.
Only His love.
2:17 P.M.
Rome, Italy
Tommy flipped through the channels on Elizabeth’s tiny television. Every single one showed a Christmas celebration in Italian. It had been like that all day—nothing to watch. He sighed and clicked it off.
Elizabeth sat stiff-backed on the sofa next to him. He had never seen her slouch, and she wouldn’t let him lounge either.
Both feet on the floor at all times, he had been sternly lectured.
“Had you expected different programming?” she asked.
“Not expecting. Hoping.”
Besides, he was Jewish and didn’t celebrate this holiday, but he’d missed Hanukkah, too. The only acknowledgment of the season to reach him came from a most unexpected place, a Christmas card sent to him by Grigori Rasputin. Somehow the Russian had discovered that he was staying at this apartment in Vatican City.
Elizabeth had scowled upon finding the card taped to the apartment door.
Written on the front of the envelope was Merry Christmas, my angel!