of leather-bound volumes lining one side. He breathed in the familiar smells of old parchment, leather, and beeswax. This room had not changed in a century.
Bernard rose to meet him. He wore full cardinal attire, the crimson cloth shining in the candlelight. He greeted Rhun with a warm embrace, not flinching from the stench of grimwolf blood. A Sanguinist himself, Bernard had fought many battles in the past and did not shy away from the vulgar aftermath of combat.
Bernard led him to a chair and drew it back for him. “Sit, Rhun.”
Not protesting, he settled to the seat, truly feeling his wounds for the first time.
Bernard returned to his own chair and slid a golden chalice of consecrated wine across the desktop. “You have suffered much these past few hours. Drink and we will talk.”
Rhun reached for the cup’s stem. The scent of wine drifted up: bitter, with a hint of oak. He craved it, but he hesitated to drink it. He did not want the pain of penance to distract him during this conversation. But his wounds also throbbed, reminding him that they, too, could distract him.
Resigned, he took the cup and drained it—then bowed his head so that Bernard would not see his expression, and waited. Would another vision of Elisabeta haunt him again tonight, reminding him of his sin? But that was not to be—for he had committed a greater sin, one that damned him for eternity.
Rhun’s knees pressed against cold, damp earth as he prayed at the gravestone of his younger sister. A moonless night cloaked him in darkness, blacker than the sober seminary robe he wore. Even the stars of Heaven hid behind clouds.
Would no light ever shine again in his heart?
He stared at the dates carved into the gravestone.
Less than a month before childbirth, death had claimed his sister and her infant son. Without the absolution of baptism, the infant could not be buried with his mother. She lay here on consecrated ground; her child could not.
Rhun would visit his tiny unmarked grave later.
Every night since her burial, he had left the quiet of the monastery after everyone slept and had come to pray for her, for her child, and to allay the sorrow in his own heart.
Soft footsteps sounded behind him.
Still on his knees, he turned.
A shadow-cloaked figure stepped close. Rhun could not make out its features in the darkness, but the stranger was not a priest.
“The pious one,” the newcomer whispered, his accent foreign, the voice unfamiliar.
Rhun’s heart quickened; his fingers sought his cross, but he forced his hands to remain clasped, tightening his fingers.
What did he have to fear from this stranger who showed no threat?
Rhun bowed his head respectfully to the man. “You are in the Lord’s cemetery late, my friend.”
“I come to pay my respects to the dead,” he answered, and waved long pale fingers toward the grave. “As do you.”
Icy wind blew through the field of stone crosses and carved angels, rustling the last leaves of autumn and bringing with it the odor of death and decay.
“Then I leave you to your peace,” Rhun said, turning back to his sister’s resting place.
Oddly, the man knelt next to Rhun. He wore fine breeches and a studded leather tunic. Mud besmirched costly boots. In spite of his coarse accent, his finery betrayed his origin as a nobleman.
Growing irritated, Rhun turned to him, noting the long dark hair that fell back from a pale brow. The stranger’s full lips curved up in amusement, although Rhun could not fathom why.
Enough … it is late.
Rhun gathered his rough-spun robes together to stand.
Before he could rise, the man wrapped an arm around his shoulder and pulled him to the wet ground, as if he were taking a lover. Rhun opened his mouth to yell, but the stranger pressed one cold hand on his face. Rhun tried to push the man away, but the other caught both of his wrists in one hand and held them as easily as if he were a small child.
Rhun struggled against him, but the man held him fast, leaning down. He used his rough cheek to tilt Rhun’s head to the side, exposing his neck.
Rhun suddenly understood, his heart galloping. He had heard legends of such monsters, but he had never believed them.
Until now.
Sharp fangs punctured his throat, taking away his innocence, leaving only pain. He screamed, but no sound escaped him. Slowly, the pain turned into something else, something darker: bliss.
Rhun’s blood pulsed out of him and into the stranger’s hungry mouth, those cold lips growing warmer with his hot blood.
He continued to struggle, but weakly now—for, in truth, he did not want the man to stop. His hand rose on its own and pulled that face tighter to his throat. He knew it was sinful to give in to such bliss, but he no longer cared. Sin had no meaning; only the aching desire for the probe of tongue into wound, the gnaw of sharp teeth into tender flesh, mattered now.
There was no room in him for holiness, only an ecstasy that promised release.
The man drew back at last.
Rhun lay there, spent, dying.
Strong fingers stroked his hair. “It is not yet time to sleep, pious one.”
A sliced wrist was pressed against Rhun’s opened lips. Hot silken blood burst on his tongue, filled his mouth. He swallowed, drew in more. A deep moan rose in his throat, drowned itself in the blood.
Soon his entire existence glowed with one word, one wish.
More …
Then that precious font was ripped from him, leaving an unfathomable well of hunger inside him, demanding to be filled with blood—any blood.
Above him, the stranger was struggling with four priests.
A blade flashed silver in the moonlight.
“No,” Rhun screamed.
Rough hands pulled him to his feet and dragged him stumbling back to the silent monastery, where the gift of eternity soon became his curse.
Rhun shed his penance with a shudder. Even now, he missed that man who had killed him, who destroyed his old life. In quiet moments, he still longed for that first taste of his blood. It was a sin he had repented many times, but it never went away.
Across the desk, Bernard watched him, his face as full of sorrow as it had been the night that Rhun was brought before him, covered in blood, weeping and trying to escape the monks and flee into the night. Bernard had saved him then, shown him how he could serve God in his new form, kept him from ever feeding on innocent human blood.
Rhun shook his head to clear it of the past.
He faced Bernard, both friend and mentor, remembering the events at Masada and in the desert. Here was the man who had set much of it in motion, a man who kept too many secrets.
“You have gone too far,” Rhun said hoarsely, still feeling his torn throat, the wash of hot blood from the stranger’s wrist.
“Have I?” The Cardinal ran a robust hand through his white hair. “How so?”
Rhun knew the man was testing him. He gripped his pectoral cross, using the pain to control his anger. “You
