Of course, that would be the Damnatus’s main concern. He plainly worried that if Leopold had survived, then others might have, too, like the prophesied trio. Leopold did not expect an apology from him for being caught in that same trap—as much as he might believe he deserved one. Both knew their path was a righteous one. No matter Leopold’s feelings, he must work together with the Damnatus, even if the man had almost killed him to achieve that goal.
Knowing this, Leopold explained all he had learned. “From what I have been able to determine, only the cardinal survived. A maid spotted a body brought here from the wreckage. There may be more.”
“Return to the castle and check that body,” the Damnatus ordered. “Confirm the others are dead. Bring me proof.”
Leopold should have thought of that himself, but to enter the residence would put him at great risk of discovery. Still, he made the Damnatus a promise. “It will be done.”
Minutes later, Leopold found himself at the secret gate that led into the Sanguinists’ subterranean wing of the castle. He prayed that none guarded this door. Once there, he sliced the tender flesh of his palm and dripped a few precious drops of blood into the old stone cup. He whispered the necessary prayers, then slipped through the entrance as it opened.
He paused at the threshold and stretched out his senses: listening for heartbeats, smelling for the presence of others, straining to see into each dark corner.
Once satisfied that he was alone, Leopold worked his way toward the Sanguinist Chapel. Any of the bodies recovered from the explosion would have been brought down there. He remembered listening to the funeral.
Fearing others of his order might still be about, he slipped out his short blade and tightened his hand on it. He had killed many men and strigoi in his long life, but he had never killed another Sanguinist. He girded himself against that possibility.
He continued silently down the final tunnel, breathing in the familiar underground smells of damp earth, rat droppings, and a hint of incense from the recent Mass. As he neared the entrance to the chapel, his steps slowed.
Quiet prayers drifted to him, stopping him.
He recognized the lone mourner’s voice.
Cardinal Bernard.
Leopold crept to the closed door and peered through its tiny window. Beyond a row of pews, a white altar cloth covered a stone table, lit with beeswax candles at both ends. A golden chalice stood in the middle, brimming with wine.
The flickering firelight reflected off the stained-glass windows built into the stone walls to either side—and off an ebony coffin that rested before the altar.
He noted the simple silver cross affixed to the top.
It was a Sanguinist’s coffin.
He knew the body inside must soon be shipped to Rome and entombed in the Sanctuary below St. Peter’s, the one place on Earth secure enough to keep their secrets.
But one person was not yet ready to say good-bye.
Bernard knelt in front of the coffin, his white head bowed, murmuring prayers. He seemed somehow smaller, fallen from his high station as cardinal into profound and personal sorrow.
Confronted here by the physical proof of his deeds, grief cut through Leopold. A warrior of the Church lay dead, and it might as well have been by his hand. While such a death in service to the Church brought a Sanguinist his final peace, Leopold found no comfort from that thought.
Bernard’s scarlet vestments wrinkled as he leaned forward and placed a hand on the side of the coffin. “Farewell, my son.”
Leopold pictured his fellow Sanguinists aboard the train. From the cardinal’s final words of good-bye, it must be either Rhun or Christian in that coffin.
Bernard stood and left the chapel, his shoulders bowed with grief.
Leopold retreated to a side room, stacked full of wine casks. He waited until the sound of the cardinal’s footfalls had long since faded before returning to the empty chapel and entering.
He moved toward the coffin, his legs leaden with grief and guilt. He knew that the Damnatus would want it to be Rhun in that coffin, the prophesied Knight of Christ. The fate of the others could not be certain, but Leopold suspected there must not have been enough of their blasted remains to be carried here.
Reaching the coffin, he ran a palm across the cold smooth surface and whispered a prayer of atonement. Once done, he held his breath, lifted the lid, and looked inside, bracing himself.
It was empty.
Shocked, Leopold searched the chapel, looking for a trap, but found none.
Returning his attention to the coffin, he saw it was not entirely empty.
A single rosary lay curled with great care on the bottom, the beads well worn, the small silver cross dull from the decades of a thumb rubbing it in prayer. He pictured Bernard recovering this rosary from the cold mud of the winter fields, all that was left of the Sanguinist who had once carried it.