“He’ll be with those boys,” she pressed. “Near that choir.”
Bathory arched a skeptical eyebrow, but Rhun nodded. He knew Rasputin better than any of them. Rhun’s gaze met hers, acknowledging her insight into the monk’s psyche.
Jordan gripped her hand again. “Let’s go watch the show.”
8:38 P.M.
Jordan kept tightly to Erin’s side as the group threaded through the thinning crowds toward the stage. His stomach ached at the smell of roasting chestnuts and mulled wine. It had been too long since he and Erin had any food. The Sanguinists often forgot that their human companions had to occasionally eat.
Once this was over, he planned on finding the largest and hottest bowl of soup in Stockholm. Or maybe two. One to eat and one to stick his numb feet into.
He glanced around at the civilians strolling the marketplace, carrying steaming cups, tied-up packages, or oily bags of chestnuts. What would happen to them if Rasputin attacked with his strigoi flock? He tried to imagine the collateral damage. It would not be good.
In fact, this entire setup stank. They had no weapons. And unreliable allies. He stared over at the countess, who strode with her hood tossed back, oblivious to the cold, her back pulled straight by her haughty, superior attitude.
If push came to shove, he didn’t know which side she would pick. Then he corrected himself. He did know.
She would pick her own side.
During the flight here, he’d had a quick conversation with Christian, holing up with the guy in the jet’s cockpit. Jordan had exacted a promise from Christian: that if things went to hell here, Christian would whisk Erin away as quickly as possible. Jordan wasn’t risking her life any more than he had to. He would not lose her.
He glanced over at Erin’s intent face. She would be mad if she knew of these plans. But he would rather have her angry at him—than gone.
Nearing the stage, Jordan passed a sign shaped like an outstretched arm. Its wooden finger pointed to a section of the market behind the choir.
Words on the sign were written in both Swedish and English, indicating the presence of an ice maze. It seemed the Swedes were definitely capitalizing on the cold.
Jordan passed the sign and approached the choir stage. Two rows of young boys wore white robes, their hands tucked into their sleeves, their noses red with cold. As they sang, he examined their earnest young faces, pale with winter. His eyes stopped on the last boy in the front row, a songbook grasped in his young hands, half obscuring his face.
This kid stuck out from the others. He looked to be thirteen or fourteen, a year or two older than the others. But that wasn’t what struck Jordan as odd.
Jordan touched Christian’s arm.
“The one on the end,” he whispered. “That kid isn’t wearing gloves.”
The boy sang with the others, harmonizing well, clearly experienced with singing in a choir—just maybe not this one. His nearest neighbor leaned away from him, as if he didn’t know him.
Jordan pictured Rasputin’s stronghold in St. Petersburg—the Church of the Savior on Spilled Blood—where he conducted his own dark masses, had his own choir.
Jordan studied the singer’s half-hidden features. Dark brown hair framed a face as white as his immaculate robe. There was no rosiness to those cheeks at all.
The young boy noticed his attention and finally lowered his choir book. That was when Jordan recognized him. He was the boy from the video: Alexei Romanov.
Jordan suppressed an urge to grab Erin and haul ass out of there. He examined the other kids in the choir with a keener eye. They seemed cold, tired, and human. Nobody in the neighboring crowd stood out either.
He would see how this played out before reacting.
A small girl approached their group, wearing a blue hat with a white pom-pom. She fiddled with a stringed puppet. It was the child whom Erin had bought a gift for earlier. Jordan noted the girl also wasn’t wearing any gloves or mittens.
Christian followed his gaze to her bare fingers. He seemed to listen for a moment with his head slightly cocked, then nodded.
No heartbeat.
So she was another of Rasputin’s strigoi kids, her innocent face hiding a creature twice as old as Jordan and twice as deadly.
Nadia and Rhun grew stiffer to either side, ready for a fight. The countess simply held one graceful hand to a scarf that covered her damaged throat; her other remained handcuffed to Rhun. She sized up the square in a leisurely way, as if looking for advantages instead of enemies.
As the singing ended, the choirmaster gave a speech in Swedish, wrapping things up, signaling the end of the festival for this night. More of the crowd dispersed toward the streets. A young mother picked up a white-robed boy from the stage, bundled him up in a winter coat, and gave him a thermos full of a steaming beverage.