Innocent Blood(66)

She knew he was right to be on guard. Reminded that Rasputin lurked somewhere nearby, the simple magic of the Christmas market quickly evaporated. Per the Russian monk’s demands, their party had left their weapons inside the jet. But could they trust Rasputin to do the same? Oddly, he was known to be a man of his word—though he could twist those words in the most unexpected ways, so great care had to be taken with each syllable he uttered.

Passing alongside a stand selling wooden toys, Erin bumped against a girl wearing a blue knit cap with a white pom-pom. In her small hands, the child had been examining a marionette of an elf riding a deer. The puppet fell into the snow, tangling its strings. The proprietor of the shop did not look happy.

To avoid a scene, Erin handed him a ten-euro note, offering to pay. The transaction was made swiftly in the cold. The child offered a shy smile, grabbed her prize, and ran off.

While this was done, Jordan stood by a booth selling steaming sausages. Other links were looped over dowels near the ceiling. If there was any doubt as to what the sausages were made of, it was dispelled by the stuffed reindeer head hanging behind the apple-cheeked proprietor.

Erin joined the others, ready to apologize for the delay.

But Christian had stopped and searched around. “This is as far as I know where to go,” he said. “I was told to get us from the airport to this Christmas market.”

They all turned to study the spread of the festival.

The countess touched the healed wound on her neck. “A life-or-death mission, and yet you all know so little?”

Erin agreed with her, sick of so many secrets. She felt the weight of the amber stone in her pocket. She had transferred Amy’s keepsake from her old clothes to the new, carrying this burden with her, reminded that secrets could kill.

She eyed everything in the square warily. A woman pushed a baby carriage, the front covered by a plaid blanket. Next to her, a four-year-old with sticky cheeks held a lollipop in his fuzzy mitten. Beyond them, a gaggle of young girls giggled next to a stand that sold gingerbread hearts, while two boys puzzled over the inscriptions written on the hearts with white frosting.

A chorus of voices rose in song, echoing across the market, coming from a children’s choir singing “Silent Night” in Swedish. The melancholy notes of that Christmas favorite echoed her mood.

She craned her neck, searching for any sign of Rasputin. He could be anywhere or nowhere. She would not put it past that mad monk to not show up, to leave them hanging here in the cold.

Jordan rubbed his arms, plainly not liking them all standing out here in the open, or maybe he was merely cold. “We should make a circuit of the market,” he suggested. “If Rasputin wants to find us, he will. This is clearly his game, and we’ll have to wait for him to make the first move.”

Christian nodded and headed out again.

Jordan slipped his gloved hand into hers. While he seemed to walk casually after the young Sanguinist, she felt the tension in his grip, knew from the set of his shoulders that he was anything but relaxed.

Together, they passed other stands selling pottery, knitted goods, and candy beyond counting. Bright colors and glowing yellow lights shone all around, but it became clear that the market was beginning to close down. More people headed out into the surrounding streets than were coming in.

There continued to be no sign of Rasputin or any of his strigoi followers.

Stopping by a stand that sold sweaters knitted from local wool, Erin considered buying one if they had to wait much longer. Behind her, the children’s choir started again, their strong innocent voices filling the air.

She glanced to the stage at the end of the market alley.

She listened as a rendition of “Little Drummer Boy” began. Again it was in Swedish, but the melody was unmistakable, telling the story of a poor child offering up the only gift he could to the Christ child: a drum solo.

She smiled, remembering how enraptured she was as a girl, allowed to watch an animated version of this story, a rare treat in the hard religious compound where she had been raised.

Her eyes were drawn to the singers, noting they were all boys, like the subject of the Christmas carol. Then she suddenly stiffened, staring at all those innocent faces.

“That’s where Rasputin will be,” she said.

She knew the monk’s penchant for children. His interest was not sexual, though it was still predatory in its own way. She pictured all those children of Leningrad whom the monk had found starving or near death during the siege of World War II. He had turned them into strigoi to keep them from dying.

Rasputin had once been a Sanguinist, but he had been excommunicated and banished for such crimes. In turn, he had set up a perverted version of their order in St. Petersburg, becoming its de facto pope, mixing human blood and consecrated wine to sustain his flock, mostly children.