Her heart sped under his palms. Fear? Or did something else drive it?
Tears coursed down her cheeks.
“Rhun,” she whispered, “I’ve waited so long for you.”
He traced the impossibly soft redness of her lips with one fingertip. She shivered under his touch.
He longed to press his lips against hers, to feel the warmth of her mouth. To taste her. But it was forbidden. He was a priest. Chaste. He must stop this at once. He drew his hands a finger’s width away from her and toward the silver cross that lay over his cassock.
She cast her eyes on the cross and let out a quiet moan of disappointment.
Rhun froze, fighting the warmth of her skin, the scent of snowmelt in her hair, the pulse of her heart in her lips, the salt smell of her tears. He had never been so terrified in his mortal and immortal life.
She leaned forward and kissed him, her lips light as the touch of a butterfly.
And Rhun was lost.
She tasted of grief and blood and passion. He was no longer a priest or a monster. He was simply a man. A man as he had never been before.
He pulled his head back and stared into her shadowed eyes, dark with passion. She pulled off her cap and black hair tumbled free around her shoulders.
“Yes, Rhun,” she said. “Yes.”
He kissed the inside of her wrist. Her heart pounded strong against his lips. He unfastened her sleeve and kissed the crook of her elbow. His tongue tasted her skin.
She buried her hands in his hair and pulled him closer. He chased her pulse up her bare neck. As she swooned in his embrace, he tightened his arms around her back. Her mouth found his again.
God and vows fled. He needed to feel her skin against his. His hands fumbled with the lacings of her dress. She pushed him away and undid them herself, her mouth never leaving his.
Her dress fell heavy to the stone floor, and she stepped out of it, closer to the fire. Orange flames shone through her linen chemise. He released her long enough to tear the garment in half.
And she stood naked in his arms. Skin soft and warm. Her heart racing under his palms.
Her hands flew across the impossibly long row of buttons on his cassock. Thirty-three, to symbolize the thirty-three years of the earthly life of Christ. The cassock fell to the floor atop her dress. His silver cross burned against his chest, but he no longer cared.
He swept Elisabeta up in his arms, crushing her against him. She gasped when the cross touched her bare breast. He reached up and broke the chain. The cross clattered to the stone next to his robes. He should care, he should gather up its holiness and hold it against his body, hold it between them like a wall.
Instead, he chose her.
Her lips found his again, and her mouth opened under his. Nothing separated them now. They were two bodies craving only union.
She called out his name.
Rhun answered with hers.
He lowered her to the fire-warmed floor. She arched under him, long velvet throat curving toward his mouth.
Rhun lost himself in her scent, her warmth, her heart. No man could experience what he felt; no Sanguinist could withstand it. Never had he felt so content, so strong. This bliss was why men left the priesthood. This bond was deeper than his feelings for God.
He joined with her. He never wanted to be separate again.
Red consumed him. Then it consumed her. He pulsed in a sea of seething red.
When the red cleared, both their souls were destroyed.
44
October 27, 8:02 A.M., CET
Harmsfeld, Germany
A few feet away from Erin, Nadia knelt next to Rhun, whispering in Latin while he wept. Whatever happened when they drank consecrated wine, it was more unpleasant than being shot six times in the chest. She ached for Rhun, trapped in such a state for eternity, consigned to an unimaginable Hell for the sin of being attacked by a wild strigoi.
Erin walked back to the broken church doors and stared out at the early morning. Jordan joined her, leaned next to her. How did he stay so warm? She was freezing. First they had both been dunked in that snowmelt lake, and now they stood in an unheated church.
Once Rhun quieted, she heard Nadia gasp as she also consumed a draft of consecrated wine, but she did not weep as Rhun had done.
For a long moment silence filled the church.
“He is awake,” Nadia finally called out, returned again to her calm, even state. “With luck, he will be fit to travel before nightfall. But he will be weakened for the next few days. Christ’s blood does not heal us as quickly as human blood would.”
“Why is the wine not as difficult for you to drink as it is for Rhun?” Erin glanced over at the priest, lying on his side, facing away from them, covered with the altar cloth.
Nadia stared over at him, too. “I did not have so far to fall.”
8:22 A.M.
Jordan looked around the small room of the inn that Nadia had rented for him and Erin in Harmsfeld. The quaint residence stood across the town square from the church.
Nadia shared a room with Rhun, right next door, but Jordan still surveyed the room as if he were preparing for a coming siege. The hotel door was made of stout oak. A check of the window revealed a trellis below their second-story room. A difficult entry point. He did a quick assessment of the bathroom. The window there was too small to admit anyone. The rest of the space was typical of European accommodations: white tiles, a utilitarian shower, sink, toilet, and bidet.
When he returned to the main room, Erin hadn’t moved from her spot on the bed, perched at the edge of a plump duvet. The space contained a double bed, two nightstands with lamps, and an odd metal contraption he thought might be used for cleaning boots.
Erin looked paler than he’d ever seen her. Dark circles shadowed her eyes; dirt smudged her face.
“Do you want the first shower?” he asked.
“‘Shower,’” she said, standing and stretching. “Best word in the English language right now.”
Jordan watched her leave, closing the door. He thought that the best two words in the English language right now might be shower together, but he knew better than to say so. Instead, he sat on the other side of the bed and opened the room-service menu.
He selected three breakfasts with coffee and tea because he had no idea what Erin ate or drank. He picked up the phone and dialed, but before anyone answered, Erin turned on the water for the shower. Jordan pictured her stepping over the tile threshold, her hair loose and falling halfway down her bare back, water tracing its way down the curves of her—
“Darf ich Ihnen behilflich sein?” said the voice on the other end of the phone.
Jordan turned his back to the bathroom door and ordered breakfast in German.
While he waited, he spread their coats to dry over the radiator, trying not to think about Erin in the shower, face upturned to the water and steam rising around her.
He had to find something else to do. He sat on the bed and cleaned his weapons, one at a time, keeping the
