A door slammed closed down the corridor.
Another tourist returning to bed.
As it was spring, the convent’s guest quarters were full, which was a good thing. With so many beating hearts in this wing, Abigail would find it difficult to pick out the rhythm of Elizabeth’s among so many. Those extra heartbeats might be enough to allow her to escape.
And I must escape.
She reviewed her plan in her head: remove the boat key from the window, creep down the carpeted corridor carrying her shoes, unbar the iron gate at the side of the convent, and circle the house to Berndt’s boat. From there, she would cast off the lines, let the current drift her some distance before starting the craft’s engine, and be on her way to freedom.
Her plans after that were troublesomely vague.
Before she fell among the Sanguinists last winter, she had buried a great stash of money and gold outside of Rome, a treasure she had gathered from the bodies and homes of those she had preyed upon after waking up in this era after centuries of sleep in a sarcophagus full of holy wine.
Rhun had trapped her in that stone coffin as surely as he had her imprisoned here.
One hand rose to touch her room’s wall, determined to let nothing stop her from reaching Tommy before it was too late for the boy. Once free, she would find a strigoi and persuade it to turn her — then she would bring that same gift to Tommy’s bedside.
Then you will live… and be forever at my side.
Her ears pricked up at the sound of footsteps in the corridor. A large party approached, too many to be a family of tourists.
Had the nuns somehow grown wise to her plans?
She sat up in bed as hard knuckles rapped firmly on her door.
“Countess,” a male voice called out with an Italian accent.
She immediately recognized the barely veiled authority in that voice. It set her jaw to aching. Cardinal Bernard.
“Are you awake?” he asked through the stout door.
She toyed with the idea of pretending to be asleep, but she didn’t see the point — and she was curious about this unexpected visit.
“I am,” she whispered, knowing he would hear it with his acute senses.
She rose to receive them. Her skirts rustled against the cold tile floor as she unlatched the door. As usual, the cardinal was bedecked in scarlet, a vanity that amused her. Bernard must always let everyone know of his elevated status.
Behind his shoulder, Abigail scowled at her. She ignored the nun and nodded to Bernard’s other companions, most she knew welclass="underline" Erin Granger, Jordan Stone, and a young Sanguinist named Christian. She noted someone conspicuously absent from this entourage.
Rhun was not part of their ranks.
Was he too ashamed to show himself?
Anger flared through her, but she merely pressed her lips more tightly together. She dared not show agitation. “It is late for a visit.”
“My apologies for disturbing you at such an unseemly hour, Countess.” The cardinal spoke with an oily diplomatic smoothness. “We have a matter that we wish to discuss with you.”
She kept her face passive, knowing that whatever had brought this group to her door must be something urgent. She also sensed her chances of escaping this night were vanishing.
“I would be happy to talk to you in the morning,” she said. “I was preparing myself to retire.”
Sister Abigail reached across and hauled Elizabeth bodily into the corridor, not bothering to hide her unnatural strength. “They mean now.”
Jordan placed a restraining hand on the nun’s arm. “I think we can do this without any roughness.”
“And this is a matter of some discretion,” Bernard said, waving Abigail off.
A muscle twitched under the nun’s eye. “As you wish. I have other matters to attend to, so I will leave Lady Elizabeth in your charge.”
Abigail released Elizabeth, turned on her heel, and stalked off.
Elizabeth enjoyed watching her leave.
“Would you like to talk in my bedchamber?” She gestured back at her cell, allowing a vein of irritation to show. “Though it is quite cramped.”
Bernard stepped closer, while glancing down the corridor. “We’ll be taking you to our chapels below St. Mark’s Basilica, where we might speak in private.”
“I see,” she said.
The cardinal reached to her arm, as if to escort her by the hand, but instead, he dropped a cold metal shackle around her wrist and fastened the other end to his own.
“Shackles?” she asked. “One of your strength cannot control a small, helpless mortal woman such as me?”
Jordan grinned. “Mortal or not, I’m guessing there’s nothing helpless about you.”
“Perhaps you are right.” She tilted her head and smiled at him.
He was a handsome man — a strong jaw, a square face, and a hint of wheat-colored stubble across his chin and cheeks. A heat emanated from him, an internal fire that she might enjoy warming herself beside.
Erin took his hand, asserting ownership of her man. Some things did not change with the passage of centuries.
“Lead me to my fate, Sergeant Stone,” Elizabeth said.
As a group, they paraded through the convent and out the main gates. She caught sight of Berndt’s boat and felt a twinge of irritation, but she allowed it to fade away.
While she wouldn’t be taking her boat ride to freedom this night, perhaps a more interesting opportunity had arisen.
Erin trailed behind the Sanguinists as they wended through the alleys and over the small arched bridges of Venice. She held Jordan’s hand, his palm hot in her own. She tried to push back her fears about him. No matter how feverish he felt, he looked healthy, ready to take on an army.
Once they were alone, she would pry out more details about what had happened in that cavern, and why he seemed to be pulling away from her lately. She suspected the source of these changes came from the angelic essence that Tommy had imbued into him when he had saved Jordan’s life. Still, while her mind pondered this possibility, her heart went immediately to more mundane places.
What if he simply doesn’t love me anymore?
As if he guessed her thoughts, Jordan squeezed her hand. “Ever been to Venice?” he asked softly.
“I’ve only read about it. But it’s like I always pictured it.”
Glad for the distraction, she glanced around. The alleys of this island city were so narrow that only two could walk abreast in some places. Small storefronts displayed antique books, pens fashioned from glass, leather masks, silk and velvet scarves. Venice had always been a trading center. Hundreds of years ago, these same shop windows had dazzled other pedestrians with their wares. Hopefully, they would do the same a hundred years from now.
She inhaled deeply, smelling the sea off the canals, the scent of garlic and tomatoes from some nearby restaurant. Closer at hand, the houses were façades painted in shades of ocher and yellow and faded blues, their window glass rippled by the passing centuries.
It was easy to imagine that she’d stepped into a time machine and arrived a hundred years earlier or even a thousand. She’d been raised on a rural compound by parents whose everyday life was more primitive than the people who lived in this city centuries ago. Her father’s faith had caused him to repudiate the modern world, and she sometimes worried that her profession, her curiosity about history, kept her out of sync with time as well.
Am I my father’s child after all?