66
October 29, 6:15 A.M., CET
The sanctuary below St. Peter’s Basilica, Italy
Rhun ran through the darkness with unearthly speed, a hammer clenched in his hand. It had been many centuries since his feet had walked these pitch-dark tunnels, but the way opened before him as if his body had always known that it would return here.
He descended deeper than the temple of the Cloistered Ones, deeper than most dared venture. Here he had hidden his greatest secret. He had lied to Bernard; he had broken his vows; he had done penance for it, but never enough.
And now his sin was the only thing that might save them.
He stopped before a featureless wall, ran one hand across it, felt no seam. He had covered it well, four hundred years before.
Rhun raised the hammer above his head and struck the wall. Stone shuddered under the blow. It gave. A mere hairsbreadth, but it gave.
He struck again and again. Bricks crumbled until a small opening appeared. Barely large enough to admit him. That was all he needed.
He climbed through the rough stone, not caring how it scratched his skin. He had to reach the dark room beyond.
Once there, he lit a candle he had brought along with him. The scent of honey and beeswax unfolded in the chamber, driving back the odors of stone, decay, and staleness.
The pale yellow flame reflected off the polished surface of a black marble coffin.
He worked the lid off and lowered it to the rough stone floor of the cell.
The smell of sacramental wine bloomed free. The wet black surface drank the light.
Before he drew out the contents, Rhun cupped his hand and drank of the wine. He would need every ounce of holy fortification for the task ahead. But before the strength, as always, came the penance.
Rhun walked to Rome. Weeks of trekking day and night through cold dark mountain passes had shredded his shoes and then his feet. When he could walk no farther, he sought sanctuary in remote mountain churches, drinking a mouthful of wine before driving himself out into the wild again.
Bernard met him in Rome and took him deep under St. Peter’s Basilica, where only the eldest of their kind dared to go. There Rhun did his penance. He fasted. He prayed. He mortified himself. None of his actions lightened the stain of his sin.
A decade later, Bernard sent him out into the world of men again, this time on a new mission to Cachtice Castle, a final penance to rid the world of what his sin created.
Armed men around him kept their swords drawn. Fear shone in their faces, beat through their racing hearts. They were right to be afraid.
The Palatine and Counts led, casting nervous glances back at their men, as if they feared that their men could not save them. They could not. But Rhun could. He prayed that he would not have to. That the stories were false. That his corrupted love had not caused this.
But he had also heard other stories … of macabre experiments in the dead of night, hinting that there remained some dark purpose to her atrocities, some semblance of her intelligence, of her healing arts, turned to foul intention. That scared him most of all—that some part of her true nature still existed within that monster, degraded now to evil ends.
As they reached the entrance to the castle, men shifted, quick breaths forming clouds in cold air.
The Palatine knocked on a stout oak door built to withstand battering rams. For a moment Rhun prayed that no one would answer, and they would be forced to lay siege to the castle, but Anna opened it. Her birthmark still stained her face, but she was otherwise unrecognizable. Gaunt as a skeleton and covered in scars, she wore only a stained chemise against the biting cold.
The Palatine forced the door open wide. Darkness cloaked the interior, but Rhun smelled what they would find there. Deep underneath that, he also caught the odor of rotten chamomile.
Count Zrini fumbled to light a torch, the burning pitch smell a sharp note in the bouquet of death.
The Palatine took the torch and stepped into the castle. Torchlight fell on a young girl lying stone-cold on the floor. Bruises marred her white flesh. Frozen blood coated her wrists, her neck, the inside of her thighs.
The Palatine crossed himself.
Behind them, a soldier retched into the snow. Rhun took off his cassock and covered the body. But the Church did not have enough cassocks to hide his shame. He had killed this girl as surely as if he had opened her throat himself.
A few steps farther in, two girls huddled under a filthy wooden table. The blond one was barely clinging to life. Her heartbeats fading. He knelt in front of her and administered Last Rites.
“Thank you, Father.” The dark-haired girl’s voice rasped from a damaged throat.
He lowered his eyes in shame. The deaths here weighed on his conscience, as did all those whom Elisabeta had killed. The love of a Sanguinist brought only death and suffering.
A soldier picked up the still-living girl and carried her to the barren fireplace. He gave her his coat and lit a fire, his eyes focused on his task. Rhun closed her friend’s eyes for the last time. Both so young, barely out of girlhood.
A scream cut through the castle. The Palatine cocked his head, as if to locate the sound. Rhun knew where it came from. Elisabeta’s private chambers.
He stood and led.
One of the men at arms followed close on his heels. The Palatine seemed to have lost his taste for leadership and trailed near the back. Elisabeta had once called him cousin. The Palatine had chosen the other noblemen because of their ties to her. Each was married to one of her daughters. She would be taken in the presence of nobility, as her stature required.
Rhun pushed open Elisabeta’s bedroom door. Inside, a child sobbed in a black corner. Another girl stood in a spiked cage suspended high in the air. Elisabeta stood, naked under it. Two servants swung it from side to side, slamming the girl’s soft body against the cage’s sharpened spikes. Crimson dripped on Elisabeta’s white skin.
Horrified, Rhun fought back tears. He had brought them to this.
The men at arms rushed to apprehend the servants and stop the cage from swinging.
Now the Palatine stepped forward again. “Lady Widow Nadasy, I arrest you in the name of the king.”
“You shall pay dearly for this intrusion.” Elisabeta made no attempt to cover her nakedness. Dark hair swung across her white back as she turned to face the men.
Her face set when she recognized them. “So.” A smile hardened her lips. “You have come to die.”
Rhun stepped between her and the men. She could kill them all, but not him. He drew a knife from his sleeve.
“Please,” he said. “Don’t make me do this.”
She stumbled back. “What more would you take from me, Rhun?”
He flinched, then held the knife out where she could see it.
Her lovely silver eyes lingered on the blade. “That is all you have to pierce me with, priest?”
He moved closer. The warm blood smell rising off her skin intoxicated him. He fought his desires.
“Careful, darling,” she whispered. “I have seen that look on your face before.”
