Innocent Blood(58)

Tommy quietly leaned out from the crane to stare down at the screen. He couldn’t make anything out, but he guessed it was the photo of the gospel that Rasputin had demanded to see.

The phone pealed again.

Rasputin answered it, on his knees, plainly unable to keep the delight from his voice. “Da?”

A long pause followed while the monk listened.

“Very satisfactory,” he said, touching his cross with a thick finger. “But, Cardinal Bernard, we could always meet in St. Petersburg for the exchange? I would love to give you a demonstration of Russian hospitality. Father Korza enjoyed it very much when he visited me last time.”

Tommy jolted, almost falling off his perch.

He had forgotten the priest’s name, but he recognized it upon hearing it now.

Korza.

Before he could ponder this new mystery, Rasputin bared his teeth, exposing his sharp fangs. “So then, neutral ground,” he said with a chuckle. “How about Stockholm?”

Rasputin listened for a stretch, then said his good-byes and hung up the phone. The monk climbed back to his feet and stared out at the ice for a long time.

Tommy was afraid to move, so he watched and waited.

The monk tilted his head and looked up at Tommy, his smile colder than the ice surrounding the ship. Rasputin must have known Tommy had been there the entire time. He suspected the monk might have purposefully switched to English, to make sure Tommy understood the gist of the conversation.

But why?

Rasputin wagged a finger at him. “Be careful up there. You may be an angel, but you haven’t got your wings yet. I’ll have to see about getting you a pair before we leave.”

Harsh laughter echoed across the deck.

What did he mean by that?

Tommy suddenly sensed he was in much more danger than a moment ago. He prayed for someone to rescue him, picturing the face of Father Korza.

But was that priest good or bad?





22





December 19, 1:51 P.M. CET

Castel Gandolfo, Italy



Lost in blood and fire, Rhun pulled his lips from Elisabeta’s mouth and brought them to her throat. His tongue slid along veins that had once throbbed with her heartbeats.

She groaned under him. “Yes, yes, my love . . .”

His fangs grew, ready to pierce her tender flesh and drink what she offered.

Her alabaster throat beckoned.

At last, he would be joined with her. Her blood would flow in his veins, as his had flowed through hers. He dropped his eager lips to her welcoming throat.

He opened his mouth, baring hard teeth to soft flesh.

Before he could bite down, hands suddenly grabbed him. He was yanked off Elisabeta and slammed against the stone wall. He snarled and fought, but his captor hung on like a wolf to an elk.

He heard two clicks.

Then another pair of hands joined the first.

As crimson fire slowly dimmed from his vision, he saw Elisabeta handcuffed to the bed, fighting to get free. The burn of silver blistered her delicate wrists, marring what he had just healed, just kissed.

Nadia and Christian held him pinioned to the wall. At full strength, he might have been able to break free, but he was still weak. Their words penetrated his fog, revealing themselves to be prayers, reminding him who he was.

Spent, he sagged in their grasps.

“Rhun.” Nadia’s grip did not loosen. “Pray with us.”

Obeying the command in her voice, he moved his lips, forced out words. His bloodlust slowly waned, but comfort did not return in its place, only emptiness, leaving him weary, consumed.

The two Sanguinists bore him from the cell, and Nadia locked the door.

Carried a few cells down, Christian laid him atop a bed there.

Am I a prisoner now, too?

“Heal thyself.” Nadia pressed a flask of wine into his palm.

She and Christian closed and locked the cell door.

He lay on his back on the musty pallet. The mildewed scent of old straw and stone dust filled the room. He longed to return to Elisabeta’s cell, to lose himself in the scent of blood. With both hands, he gripped his pectoral cross and let the silver sear his palms, but it failed to center his mind.

He knew what he must do.

He reached to the flask, opened it, and drained its entire contents in one long swallow. The fire of Christ’s blood would leave no room for doubt. The holiness blazed down his throat and exploded inside him, hollowing him out, burning away even the emptiness from a moment ago.

Clutching his cross again, he closed his eyes and waited for his penance to wash over him. The price of Christ’s blessing was to relive one’s worst sins.

But what would the consecrated blood show him now?

What could be strong enough to match the sin in his soul?

With the moon high, Rhun crossed himself and stepped across the tavern’s threshold. It was the only gathering place in a small hamlet known for the quality of its honey. As he entered, the stench of mead mingled with the iron smell of spilled blood.