Innocent Blood(33)

“Never fear, breakfast will be served in a moment.” Leopold lifted the tray. “But first, Christian mentioned that you were both desperately in need of a jolt of caffeine after your long journey.”

“If you define jolt as a full pot of coffee, you are correct.” Jordan smiled. “It’s good to see you again, Leopold.”

“Likewise.”

The monk bustled over and filled their china cups with a steaming dark roast blend. The train had begun to slowly move, the timbre of the engines stoking higher.

Christian appeared again and took the seat opposite Erin, staring pointedly at the steaming cup in her hands.

Familiar with his routine, she handed him the white china cup. He brought it to his nose, closed his eyes, and sniffed deeply at the curl of steam. An expression of contentment crossed his face.

“Thank you,” he said and handed the cup back to her.

As a young Sanguinist, he wasn’t as far removed from simple human pleasures, like coffee. She liked that.

“Any news?” Jordan asked him. “Like where we’re going?”

“I was told that once we’re outside of Rome, we’ll learn more. Meantime, I say we savor the calm.”

“As in, before the storm?” Erin asked.

Christian chuckled. “Most probably.”

Jordan seemed content enough with that answer. During the trip here, he and Christian had become fast friends, unusually so considering Jordan’s distaste and distrust for the Sanguinists after Rhun had bitten her.

As the line of cars inched away from the station, the train headed toward a set of steel doors that blocked the tracks a few hundred yards ahead, set into the massive walls that surrounded the Holy City. The gateway sported rivets and thick doornails and looked as if it were meant to guard a medieval castle.

A train whistle sounded, and the doors rumbled ponderously apart, sliding into the brick wall. This gate marked the border between Vatican City and Rome.

Passing beneath that archway under a head of steam, the train picked up speed and headed out into Rome. The train pulled through the city, like any ordinary train—only theirs had a mere three cars: the galley in front, the dining car in the middle, and a third compartment in back. The last car looked similar to the others from the outside, but its curtains had been drawn, and a solid metal door separated that car from hers.

As she looked at that door now, she tried to ignore the tightening dread in her stomach.

What was back there?

“Ah,” Brother Leopold exclaimed, drawing her attention. “As promised . . . breakfast.”

From the galley, a new figure emerged, as familiar as Leopold, if not as welcome.

Father Ambrose—aide to Cardinal Bernard—stepped from the galley car with a tray of omelets, brioche, butter, and jam. The priest’s round face looked even redder than usual, damp with sweat or perhaps from the steam of the galley kitchen. He didn’t look happy with his role as waiter.

“Good morning, Father Ambrose,” Erin said. “It’s wonderful to see you again.”

She did her best to make that sound genuine.

Ambrose didn’t even bother. “Dr. Granger, Sergeant Stone,” he said perfunctorily, inclining his head fractionally toward each of them.

The priest unloaded the food and returned to the galley car.

Clearly, he wasn’t interested in conversation.

She wondered if his presence indicated that Cardinal Bernard was already on board. She glanced again to that steel door leading to the neighboring compartment.

Next to her, Jordan simply tore into his omelet, as if he might not see food again for days—which, considering their past experiences with the Sanguinists, could be true.

Following his example, she spread jam onto a slice of brioche.

Christian watched all the while, looking envious.

By the time their plates were empty, the train had threaded out of Rome and appeared to be heading south of the city.

Jordan’s hand again found hers under the table. She stroked her fingertips along his palm, liking the smile it provoked. As much as the thought of a relationship scared her, for him she was ready to take the risk.

But a certain awkwardness remained between them. No matter how hard she tried not to, her thoughts often returned to the moment when Rhun had bitten her. No mortal man had ever made her feel like that. But the act had meant nothing, a mere necessity. She wondered if that bone-deep bliss was a trick of the strigoi to disable their victims, to turn them weak and helpless.

Her fingers inadvertently found themselves touching the scars on her neck.

She wanted to ask someone about it. But who? Certainly not Jordan. She considered asking Christian, to inquire what it had been like for him when he was first bitten. Back at the diner in San Francisco, he had seemed to sense her thoughts, but she had balked at discussing such an erotic experience with any man, especially a priest.