Erin turned worriedly to the door.
“So he’s trapped in there with her,” Jordan muttered.
Christian clarified. “We can get inside, but not with the blood of only two of us.” He motioned to Sophia. “To override the cardinal’s command, it would take a full trio of Sanguinists. The power of three can open the door at any time.”
Sophia’s eyebrows drew down in worry. “Perhaps it is best if I fetch a third. Just in case.”
“Do that,” Erin said.
And hurry.
Sophia rushed across the crypt and melted into the darkness of the stairwell.
Erin met Jordan’s eyes and saw her own worries reflected there.
This is going to end badly.
Elizabeth fought against panic. With the door sealed, the darkness was so thick that it felt as if it had substance, as if it could crawl down her throat and smother her. But she forced herself to stay calm, knowing Bernard must hear the pounding of her heartbeat. She stiffened her back, refusing to give him the satisfaction.
She focused on the fiery pain of the shackle on her wrist. Warm blood dribbled from her torn skin and trickled into her palm. The cardinal must sense that, too.
Good.
She rubbed her hands together, smearing them both.
“Come,” Bernard said hoarsely.
He tugged on her cuffs and pulled her deeper into this cold lair of the Sanguinists. She shivered against that chill. He half-dragged her through the darkness for what seemed like forever, but was likely only minutes.
Then they stopped again, and a match flared, bringing with it the smell of sulfur. Light illuminated Bernard’s pale, set face. He touched the match to a golden beeswax candle set in a wall sconce. He moved along to another, lighting that taper, too.
Soon, a warm, flickering light illuminated the room.
She looked up to a domed ceiling shining with a silver mosaic. Just as the glass tiles in the basilica above had been fashioned of gold leaf, these were made with silver. They covered every surface.
The room glowed with their splendor.
The mosaic depicted a familiar Sanguinist motif: the raising of Lazarus. He sat upright in a brown coffin, white as death, a streak of crimson dripping from one corner of his mouth. Facing him stood a gilded Christ, the only golden figure in the mosaic. Finely detailed tiles showed Christ’s luminous brown eyes, curly black hair, and a sad smile. Majesty radiated from his simple form, awing those who had gathered to witness this miracle. And it wasn’t just humans. Light angels watched the scene from above, while dark angels waited below, and Lazarus sat forever caught between them.
The Sanguinists’ Risen One.
How much simpler her life would be if Lazarus had never accepted Christ’s challenge.
She turned her face from the ceiling, her eyes falling on the room’s only other adornment. In the middle of the chamber rose a white-clad altar. Atop it rested a silver chalice. The touch of silver burned strigoi and Sanguinists alike. To drink from a silver chalice was to intensify a Sanguinist’s pain, to increase their penance when they consumed their holy wine.
A sneer rose to her lips.
How could these fools follow a God who demanded such endless suffering?
Bernard confronted her. “You will tell me what I need to know. Here. In this room.”
She kept her tone cold, her words simple. “First pay my price.”
“You know that I cannot do so. It would be a grievous sin.”
“But it’s been done before.” She touched her throat, remembering teeth ripping into that tender flesh. “By your Chosen One, by Rhun Korza.”
Bernard glanced away, his voice dropping. “He was young, new to the fold. He fell in a moment of lust and pride. I am not so foolish. The rules are clear. We must never—”
She stopped him. “Never? Since when has that word ever been a part of your vocabulary, Cardinal? You have broken many of your order’s rules. Going back centuries. Do you think I do not know this?”
“It is not for you to judge,” he said, heat entering his words. “Only God can do that.”
“Then surely He shall judge me as well.” By now, her bare feet ached from the cold, but she stood her ground. “Surely it must be His will that I am here at this time, the only one who holds this knowledge. A truth that you can receive if you only pay this price.”
A flicker of uncertainty crossed Bernard’s face.
She took advantage of it and pressed him harder. “If your God is all-knowing and all-powerful, why has He placed me in front of you as the sole repository of the knowledge you seek? Perhaps what I ask of you is His will?”
She instantly knew she had taken a step too far — she read it in the hardening of his features.
“You, a fallen woman, dare to interpret His will?” He scowled at her, his words consigning her to the level of a woman who sold her body for money.
How dare you!
She slapped his supercilious face, leaving a smear of her own blood on his skin. “I am not a fallen woman. I am Countess Bathory de Ecsed, of royal blood that dates back centuries. And I will not be insulted by such slander. Especially by you.”
His response was lightning fast. His fist struck her a hard blow in turn. She fell back a step, her face throbbing. She quickly collected herself, drawing her back stiffly. She tasted blood in her mouth.
Excellent.
“I can do anything to you in here,” he said in a dark tone.
She licked her lips, wetting them with her own blood. She knew he must already smell the fresh blood drying on his cheek. She noted how his nose lifted slightly, revealing the animal within him, the monster lurking behind that mask.
She had to break that beast free of its shackles.
“What can you do to me?” she challenged him. “You are too weak to ever persuade me to help you.”
“Do not mistake my composure for weakness,” he warned. “I remember the Inquisition, when pain in service to the church was raised to an art form. I can inflict agony on you such as you have never experienced.”
She smiled at his anger. “You can teach me nothing of pain, priest. For one hundred years it was forbidden to speak my name in my own country because of the acts I committed. I have given and received more pain than you could ever imagine… and received more pleasure. These things are entwined in ways that you will never understand.”
She stepped closer, forcing him to withdraw, but the handcuffs kept him from moving too far.
“Pain does not frighten me,” she continued, exhaling the hot scent of her blood toward him.
“It… it should frighten you.”
She wanted him to continue talking, knowing to speak required breath. And with each breath, he drew her scent more deeply into him.
“Hurt me,” she warned, “and see which of us enjoys it more.”
He retreated from her until his back was pressed hard against the silver mosaics that covered the walls. But the handcuffs drew her along with him, ever at his side.
She bit deeper into her bruised cheek, while tilting her head low. She parted her mouth, letting fresh blood run past her lips. She then drew her head back, exposing her neck in a languorous stretch, allowing the candlelight to glisten against that red ribbon as it ran down and pooled into the hollow of her throat.
She felt his eyes follow that warm trail, to the promise it held. Its rich warmth called to the beast buried in every drop of his own damned blood.
She knew how the scent bloomed within the room in ways that she could no longer sense. How the smell could fill one’s nostrils, even one’s mouth. Long ago, she had felt what he felt now. She knew its immense power. She had learned to embrace it, and in doing so it made her strong.