Innocent Blood(65)

Leopold did not have to touch it to know to whom it belonged.

It was as familiar as his own palm.

It was his rosary, lost when he fell from the train.

He closed his eyes.

Look how far I have fallen, my Lord . . .

He remembered Bernard so bowed by sorrow, so stricken by grief.

Over me . . . a traitor.

He closed the lid and stumbled out of the chapel, out of the castle.

Only then did he weep.





PART III





He casts forth his ice like morsels;



Who can stand before his cold?



—Psalms 147:17





25





December 19, 8:04 P.M. CET

Stockholm, Sweden



The world had become encrusted in ice.

Huddled against the implacable cold of the Swedish winter night, Erin shivered in her jacket as she strode down a street in central Stockholm. Her coat’s armored leather might protect her from bites and slashes, but it did little against the frigid wind that cut through every opening afforded it. Every breath felt like she was inhaling frost. Even underfoot, the chill of the ice-glazed cobblestones seemed to seep through the soles of her boots.

She had only learned of their destination once the chartered jet was airborne, sweeping north from Rome. The flight to Sweden took about three hours, landing them in this land of snow and ice. They were now headed to a rendezvous in the city with Grigori Rasputin, to negotiate for the release of Tommy Bolar, possibly the First Angel of prophecy.

She was surprised Rasputin had agreed to meet in Stockholm, not St. Petersburg. Bernard must have pushed hard, drawing the Russian monk as far as possible from his home territory, into something that passed as neutral ground.

Still, to Erin, it didn’t feel far enough.

Christian led the way. In this continuing pageant of subterfuge, the youngest Sanguinist was the only one who had been informed of the meeting place in the city, drawing the group quickly across central Stockholm. Austere buildings lined the way. The simple Scandinavian facades were a relief after the ornamented Italianate structures of Rome. Warm light spilled into the night from most windows, reflecting off new snow that had drifted up on both sides of the street.

Erin’s breath formed white clouds in the air, as did Jordan’s.

If the Sanguinists breathed, there was no sign.

She noted Jordan suddenly sniffing at the air, like a dog on a scent. Then she smelled it, too: gingerbread and honey, roasted chestnuts, and the burnt smell of sugar-glazed almonds.

At the end of the street, a large square beckoned, aglow with lights.

It was a Christmas market.

Christian led the way toward that haven of warmth and cheer. She and Jordan kept to his heels, trailed by Rhun and Bathory, the two again discreetly handcuffed together.

Nadia trailed behind, her attention focused on the straight back of the countess.

With every step and glance, Rhun radiated cold fury. For the entire flight, he had sat seething over Nadia’s attack on Bathory. Erin could understand the logic and necessity of the woman’s confinement. No one trusted the countess, fearful that she might say something to a border agent, or attack someone, or even go on a rampage aboard the jet, which from the sounds of the battle prior to taking off from Rome proved not an unjust concern.

Like Rhun, Erin still balked at the act of slicing the woman’s throat.

Bathory had been nearly killed for their convenience. Erin had donated her own blood to restore the countess to health after the plane had landed, but she knew that did not undo the damage. She saw it in the countess’s eyes. Nadia had cut through more than just the woman’s throat, but also any trust the woman had for them.

To Erin, it was also a harsh reminder of the lengths to which the Sanguinists were willing to go to achieve their goals. She knew securing the First Angel was important to stop a holy war, but she wasn’t so sure that the ends justified the means. Especially in this case. There could have been a less brutal way to secure Bathory, another means to earning her grudging cooperation, but the Sanguinists didn’t seem to look for it.

Still, this deed could not be undone.

They had to move forward.

Stepping into the warmth and merriment of the Christmas market, her icy mood thawed, along with some of the cold as she passed by open braziers that glowed with roasting chestnuts and almonds.

Farther to the left, a giant pine lit with golden balls stretched snow-dusted green branches toward the night sky. Out of the darkness overhead, feathery snowflakes danced to the ground. To the right, a round jolly Santa waved from inside a booth selling Christmas candies, one hand stroking his long white beard.

Jordan seemed to note little of it. His eyes plainly appraised the square, checking the tall buildings and the crowds bustling along in their warm winter clothes. He eyeballed each shop front as if a sniper could be hiding behind it.