thought again upon that visit to the castle. He should have followed his instinct and fled forever, never to return to her side.
Then, as now, he had buried himself in the dark quiet of the Church. The bright scents in his life dissolved into nothing more than stone dust, the sweat of men, and traces of frankincense, spicy with an undertone of the conifer from which it had bled.
But nothing green and alive.
During those long-ago nights, he had performed his priestly duties. But during the days, he gazed into the Virgin Mary’s clear eyes as she wept for her son, and he thought only of Elisabeta. He slept only when he had to, because when he slept he dreamed that he had not failed her, that he held her warm body against his and comforted her. He kissed her tears, and sunshine returned to her smile, a smile meant for him.
In his long years of priesthood, his faith had never wavered. But, then, it did.
He had put aside thoughts of her and prayed until the stone rubbed his knees raw. He had fasted until his bones ached. Only he and one other Sanguinist in all the centuries had not tasted human blood, had never taken a human life. He had thought his faith stronger than his flesh and his feelings.
And he had thought that he conquered them.
His hubris still ate at him.
His pride had caused his downfall, and hers.
Why had the wine shown him this part of his penance tonight?
A heartbeat thrummed through his thoughts, pulling him back to the candlelit chapel.
A human, here? Such trespass was forbidden.
He raised his head from the stones. A woman sat with her back to him, her head bowed over her knees. The angle of her head called to him. The nape of her neck smelled familiar.
Erin.
The name drifted through the fog of memories and time.
Erin Granger.
The Woman of Learning.
Rage burned inside him. Another innocent had been forced into his path. Better that he kill her now, simply and quickly, than abandon her to a crueler fate. He stood as crimson tinged his vision. He fought against the lust with prayer.
Then another faint, familiar heartbeat reached his ears, thick and irregular.
Ambrose.
The priest had locked Erin in with Rhun, either to shame him, or perhaps with the hope that Rhun’s penance might cause him to lose control, as it almost had.
He crossed the room so swiftly that Erin flinched and held her hands up in a placating gesture.
“I’m sorry, Rhun. I didn’t mean to—”
“I know.”
He reached past her and shoved the door open with the force that only a Sanguinist could muster, taking satisfaction at the sound of Ambrose’s heavy body thudding into the wall.
Then he heard the man’s rushed and frightened footsteps retreating up the stairs.
He returned to Erin and helped her to her feet, smelling the lavender off her hair, the slight muskiness of her fading fear. The beat of her heart settled, her breathing softened. He held her hand a moment too long, feeling her warmth and not wanting to let go of it.
She was alive.
Even if it cost the world, he would make sure that this never changed.
26
Tommy rested his forehead against the window of his hospital room, slowly rapping his knuckles against its thick glass, listening to the dull thud. By now, he had convinced himself that this place was a military hospital or maybe even a prison.
He pulled his IV pole closer, wondering if he could use it like a battering ram to break his way free.
But then what?
If he managed to break the window and jumped, would he die? A television show he watched a couple of years ago said that any fall above thirty feet was probably not survivable. He was higher than that.
He toyed with the leads attached to his IV port. The medical staff measured everything about him—his heart rate, his oxygen saturation levels, and other random stuff. The Hebrew labels were gibberish to him. His father could read Hebrew and had tried to teach him, but Tommy had only learned enough to get through his bar mitzvah.
Reminded of his father, he pictured the blackish-orange gas rolling over his parents.
If he hadn’t told them the gas was safe, they might still be alive. He knew now the gas was toxic, just not to him.
Tommy looked out the window again. It was a long drop to the desert. Far below, the boulders’ shadows looked like spilled ink against the brighter sand. It was a bitter landscape, but from this height, it looked peaceful.
A rustle jerked his attention back into the room.
A kid was standing right next to him. He looked about Tommy’s age, but he wore a gray three-piece suit. He sniffed the air like a dog, his nose moving closer to Tommy with each sniff. His black eyes glittered.
“Can I help you?” Tommy asked, stepping away.
This earned him a smile—one so cold that he shivered.
Suddenly terrified, Tommy tapped his call button repeatedly, sending out an SOS of panic. He shrank back against the window as his heart rate spiked, triggering the monitors to beep wildly.
The boy winked.
Tommy was struck by the oddity of the action.
Who
The kid’s right hand moved so fast that Tommy didn’t even see a blur until it stopped by the angle of his jaw. A sharp pain cut across his neck.
Tommy brought both hands up to feel. Blood ran through his fingers. It pumped from his throat, soaked his hospital gown, dripped on the floor.
The boy lowered his arm and watched, cocking his head slightly.
Tommy pressed his hands against his throat, trying to cut off the flood, strangling himself in the attempt. But blood continued to pour through his fingers.
He screamed, earning only a warm gurgle as hot pain chased up his throat.
Knowing he needed help, Tommy yanked off his EKG leads. Behind him, the monitor flatlined, setting an alarm to wailing.
Immediately, two soldiers charged into the room, machine guns up and ready.
He saw their shocked expressions—then the boy winked again.
The kid lifted a chair, moving blindingly fast, and smashed it through the thick window. Without stopping, he shoved Tommy out into the night.
Free at last.
Cold air brushed across his body as he fell. Warm blood pumped from his neck.
