Innocent Blood(84)

Judas Iscariot.

He had removed his overcoat and wore a modern cashmere suit, well tailored. On the small table between them rested a glass box, holding his collection of moths, save three that flitted about the cabin. She knew they remained loose as a reminder of the price of any disobedience, as if she had not been paying that price for centuries.

The plane accelerated across the snowy black field. She clasped her hands in her lap, letting her cloak fall over them so that Iscariot could not see her nervousness. She tried not to imagine this metal contraption flinging itself into the air and hurling itself hundreds of miles across land and sea.

Nature never intended such a thing.

Next to her, the boy reclined his seat, clearly indifferent to the airplane and how it functioned. Several spots of crimson stained his gray sweats, weeping from the hundreds of cracks in his thawed skin. The scent of his blood filled the cabin, but oddly it held no temptation for her.

Was the blood of angels different from all others?

He brushed brown hair out of his eyes. He was older than she had first thought, perhaps fourteen. The anguish in his face reminded her of her son, Paul, whenever he was hurt. Sadness welled up in her at the memory, knowing her son was now dead, along with all her children. She wondered what had happened to her son.

Did he have a long life? Was he happy? Did he marry and father children?

She wished that she might know these simple facts. Bitterness rose in her throat. Rhun stole that from her with a single careless act. She had lost her daughters, her son, everyone whom she had loved.

The boy shifted in his seat with a small groan. Like her, he had also lost everything. Rhun had told her how his parents had died in front of him, poisoned by a horrible gas.

She gently touched his shoulder. “Are you in much pain?”

Incredulous eyes met hers.

Of course he was in pain.

A cut above one brow had clotted and dried. Already he was healing. She touched her throat, still throbbing from the wound Nadia had given her. She was also healing, but it would take more blood.

As if reading her thoughts, Iscariot flicked her a quick glance. “Refreshments will be served in a moment, my dear.”

Beyond their cabin, the engines rose in pitch, and the plane took a smooth jump into the sky. She held her breath, as if that would help hold the plane aloft. The craft rose higher. Her stomach fell and settled. The feeling reminded her of jumping her beloved mare across fences.

Finally, their course settled into a smooth glide, like a hawk through the air.

She slowly released her breath.

Iscariot lifted an arm, and the blond bear of a man who had accompanied them from the maze lumbered into the back of the plane.

“Please, Henrik, bring drinks for our guests. Perhaps something warm after all the ice and cold.”

The man bowed his head and departed.

Her attention returned to the window, captivated by the lights growing smaller and smaller below. They flew higher than any bird. Exhilaration flared through her.

Henrik returned a few minutes later.

“Hot chocolate,” he said, bending to place a steaming mug into the boy’s hands.

He then lifted a small bowl toward her. The heady fragrance of warm blood wafted to her. She noted the white tape at the crook of the brute’s thick arm, stained with a drop of blood. It seemed there was little that his servants would not do for their master. Her opinion of Iscariot grew.

She accepted the bowl and drained its warm contents in a single draught. Heat and bliss spread outward from her belly, into her arms, her legs, the ends of her fingertips. The lingering ache in her neck faded. She now throbbed with strength and delight.

How could the Sanguinists refuse such pleasure?

Rejuvenated, she turned her attention to her young companion. She remembered the conversation aboard the train. “I understand your name is Thomas Bolar.”

“Tommy,” he answered softly, offering something more intimate.

She offered the same. “Then you may call me Elizabeth.”

His gaze focused a bit more strongly on her. In turn, she studied him. He might be a valuable ally. The Church wanted him, and if he was truly the First Angel, he might have powers that she yet failed to comprehend.

“You should drink,” she said, nodding to the mug in his hands. “It will warm you.”

Still looking at her, he lifted the cup and sipped gently, wincing a bit from the heat.

“Good,” she said and turned to Henrik. “Fetch clean towels, hot water.”

The blond man seemed taken aback at her tone. He glanced at his master.

“Bring her what she wants,” Iscariot ordered.

She savored this small victory, and moments later, Henrik returned with a basin and a pile of white towels. She soaked the first towel and held it toward Tommy.