Innocent Blood(88)

Rhun could not deny her words, but none of it settled the fundamental concern raised by Christian. Rhun faced them all. “So do we risk thwarting the will of God by rescuing Tommy from the hands of Iscariot?”

“Damn straight.” Jordan raised his chin, ready to fight for the boy. “My former commander drilled a quote into all of us soldiers. All that is necessary for the triumph of evil is that good men do nothing.”

Erin looked as resolute. “Jordan is right. It’s about free will. Tommy Bolar chose to save that dove and was blessed for that kind act. We must allow the boy to choose his own future, not to have it stripped from him by Iscariot.”

Rhun had expected nothing less from the pair and took strength from them. “Christ walked willingly onto the cross,” he agreed. “We will give this boy Tommy the same freedom to decide his fate.”



11:58 P.M.

As the plane hit a rough patch of turbulence, Christian sent them back to their seats. The bouncing and rocking echoed Erin’s own unease, keeping her further unsettled. While buckling into the seat, she knew she should get some sleep, but she also knew any effort toward that goal would be wasted.

Jordan seemed less troubled, yawning with a pop of his jaws, his training as a soldier serving him. It seemed he could sleep under the roughest of circumstances.

As he reclined his seat, squirming his large frame into a better position, Erin stared out the window at the stretch of darkness over the midnight sea. Her mind spun on the mystery that was Tommy Bolar, on the stretch of history surrounding Judas Iscariot. Finally, needing a distraction, she reached into her coat pocket and pulled out the oilcloth-covered object she had recovered from the snow of the ice maze.

Rhun stirred across from her, his gaze sharpening at what was in her hands. “That belongs to the countess. She found it frozen in the wall of the maze. She must have dropped it during the commotion.”

Erin pinched her brows, remembering finding her sister’s baby quilt similarly encased in ice, planted by the Russian monk to distract and cause pain. The sight of that stained cloth had struck her deeply and personally.

Yet, still I abandoned it.

She rubbed a thumb across the oilcloth. Bathory had clearly dug her prize out. Was that the right choice in the maze? Erin had chosen to follow the dictates of necessity, rather than emotion. Yet Bathory won by crashing through the ice to reveal a shortcut. Had Grigori been testing their hearts?

Is that why I failed?

Even now a pang of regret rang through her. She should have retrieved the quilt, so it could be taken back to California and buried in her sister’s grave where it belonged.

She considered the object in her hands, wondering what it held, if it had the same emotional punch for Bathory as the quilt did for her. Needing to know, she struggled to work the knot loose, her fingers slipping each time the plane bounced.

Finally, the cord loosened a fraction. She slowly worked the rest of the knot free and teased back a corner of the cloth. It looked like linen that had been treated with beeswax to make it waterproof.

“Whatever is in here,” she mumbled, “must have been important to Bathory.”

Rhun held out his hand. “Then perhaps it is private. And we should honor that.”

Erin stayed her hand, remembering how disturbed she had been by the thought of Rasputin violating her sister’s grave to obtain the quilt.

Am I performing a similar violation now?

Jordan stirred next to her, plainly awake. “Something in there may offer us a clue to that bastard’s interest in the countess. It might save her life. It might save ours.”

Erin raised her eyebrows at Rhun.

The priest lowered his hand to his lap, conceding the point.

While the plane pitched up and down, Erin unfolded the thick cloth with deliberate movements. She uncovered a book, bound in leather, marred by age spots. She ran a finger gently across a shield embossed on the cover.





It was a heraldic symbol of a dragon wrapped around with three horizontal teeth.

“It is the Bathory family crest,” Rhun said. “The teeth allude to a dragon allegedly slain by the warrior Vitus, the founder of the Bathory line.”

Even more curious now, she gently parted the cover to reveal paper darkened to a brownish cream. A clear feminine script flowed across the page, written in iron gall ink. There was also a beautifully inscribed drawing of a plant: leaves, stems, even a detailed notation of its root system.

Erin’s heart quickened.

It must be her personal journal.

“What’s it say?” Jordan asked, sitting straighter and leaning over.

“It’s Latin.” She puzzled over the first sentence, getting used to the handwriting. “It describes an alder plant, listing various properties of its parts. Including remedies and the manner in which to prepare them.”