Innocent Blood(7)
Serial Killer Loose in Rome
Gruesome Murderer Savages Young Women
Police Stunned by Brutality
Candlelight reflected off the bejeweled globe next to his desk. He turned the ancient sphere slowly, longing to be anywhere but here. He glanced at his antique books, his scrolls, his sword on the wall from the time of the Crusades—items he had collected during his centuries of service to the Church.
I have served long, but have I served well?
The smell of newspaper ink pulled his attention back to the pages. The details disturbed him further. Each woman had her throat sliced open, and her body drained of blood. They were all beautiful and young, with black hair and blue eyes. They came from every station in life, but they had all died in the oldest quarters of Rome, in the darkest hours between sunset and sunrise.
Twenty in all, according to the newspapers.
But Bernard had managed to conceal many more deaths. It amounted to a victim claimed nearly every day since the end of October.
He could not escape the timing.
The end of October.
The deaths had started just after the battle waged in the crypts below St. Peter’s Basilica, a fight for possession of the Blood Gospel. The Sanguinists had won that battle against the Belial, a joint force of humans and strigoi, led by an unknown leader who continued to plague his order.
Shortly after that battle, Father Rhun Korza had vanished.
Where was he? What had he done?
Bernard shied away from that thought.
He eyed the pile of newspapers. Had a rogue strigoi escaped that battle and hunted the streets of Rome, preying on these young girls? There had been so many beasts in the tunnels. One could have slipped through their net.
A part of him prayed that was true.
He dared not consider the alternative. That fear kept him waiting, indecisive, as more innocent girls died.
A hand tapped on the door. “Cardinal?”
He recognized the voice and the sluggish heartbeat that belonged to it.
“Come in, Father Ambrose.”
The human priest opened the wooden door with one hand, his other clasped in a loose fist. “I am sorry to disturb you.”
The assistant did not sound sorry. In fact, his voice rang with ill-disguised glee. While Ambrose clearly loved him and served the cardinal’s office diligently, there remained a petty streak in the man that found perverse enjoyment in the misfortunes of others.
Bernard stifled a sigh. “Yes?”
Ambrose entered the office. His plump body leaned forward like a hound on a scent. He glanced around the candlelit room, probably making certain that Bernard was alone. How Ambrose loved his secrets. But then again, maybe that was why the man so loved Bernard. After so many centuries, his own veins ran as much with secrets as with black blood.
Finally satisfied, his assistant bowed his head in deference. “Our people found this at the site of the most recent murder.”
Ambrose stepped to his desk and held out his arm. Slowly, he turned his hand over and uncurled his fingers.
In his palm rested a knife. Its curved blade resembled a tiger’s claw. The sharp hook bore a hole in one end, where a warrior could thread a finger through, allowing its wielder to whip the blade into a thousand deadly cuts. It was an ancient weapon called a karambit, one that traced its roots back centuries. And from the patina that burnished its surface, this particular blade was ancient—but this was no museum piece. It was plainly battle scarred and well used.
Bernard took it from Ambrose’s hand. The heat against his fingertips confirmed his worst fear. The blade was plated with silver, the weapon of a Sanguinist.
He pictured the faces of the murdered girls, of their throats sliced from ear to ear.
He closed his fingers over the burning silver.
Of all the holy order, only one Sanguinist carried such a weapon, the man who had vanished as the murders began.
Rhun Korza.
4
December 18, 4:32 P.M. PST
Santa Clara County, California
Astride her favorite horse, Erin cantered across meadows turned golden brown by the dry California winter. Responding to the slightest shift of her weight, the black gelding lengthened his stride.
Attaboy, Blackjack.
She kept her horse boarded at a set of stables outside of Palo Alto. She rode him whenever she got a chance, knowing he needed the exercise, but mostly for the pure joy of flying over fields atop the muscular steed. Blackjack hadn’t been ridden in a few days and was bouncy with energy.
She glanced back over a shoulder. Nate rode not far behind her, atop a gray named Gunsmoke. Growing up in Texas, he was a skilled rider himself and was clearly testing the mare.
She simply let Blackjack run out his high spirits, trying to concentrate on the wind across her face, the heady smell of horse, the easy connection between herself and her mount. She had loved riding ever since she was a little girl. It helped her think. Today she wondered about her visions, trying to figure out what to do about them. She knew they weren’t just PTSD. They meant something more.