He denied it — and that kept him weak.
“How would you torture me now, Bernard?” She slurred the words through a mouthful of blood, using the intimacy of his name.
He fumbled his free hand to his pectoral cross, but she blocked him, covering the silver with her own palm, keeping him from touching it, denying him the comfort of holy pain. His fingers closed on her hand, squeezing, as if he thought that her hand was his cross, his salvation.
“I will tell you what you need to know,” she whispered, speaking aloud his innermost desire. “I will help you save your church.”
His fingers tightened, coming close to breaking the small bones of her hand.
“It will be simple for you,” she urged. “You have committed blood sins before, and I know that your sins are much darker than anyone suspects. You have committed many sins in His name, have you not?”
His face told her that he had.
“Then do this now,” she said. “And your act will give you the power to protect your church, your order. Would you have your world fall, to lose all because you were too frightened to act? Because you placed your own fear of the rules above your holy mission?”
She drew the tip of her tongue along her lips again, freshly coating them, knowing how bright her blood must look against her pale skin, how the sight and smell of it must sing to him.
Without knowing that he did so, he licked his own lips.
“How can saving His world with the tools that He has given you be a sin?” she questioned him. “You are stronger than the rules, Bernard. I know this… and down deep, you know this, too.”
She drew in a slow breath, never taking her eyes from his. Her words had sunk in, playing on his doubt, stoking his hubris.
He trembled before her — wanting her answers, wanting her blood, wanting her.
He might be a Sanguinist now, but he had been a strigoi before, and a man before that. He had devoured flesh, tasted pleasure. Those urges were ingrained in every fiber of his being, always.
Her heart raced, and her cheek throbbed with heat from his blow. She had always loved pain, needed it like she would later need blood. She closed her eyes and let the pain beat through her — from her cheek, from her torn wrist.
It was bliss.
When she opened her eyes, he still held her hand pressed against the cross by his heart. His eyes traveled from her blood-bright lips to the pulse in her throat, to the tops of her shoulders, so white against the silken slip. She shifted to the side to let her torn dress fall from her shoulders. Now the candlelight fell on her breasts, so easily visible through her silk underdress.
He stared at her for several long heartbeats.
She leaned forward with infinite slowness — then rose up on her tiptoes and lightly, barely skimming the surface, she brushed her lips against his. For one long breath she stood so, letting him feel her warmth, draw in the scent of her ripe blood.
“If it is not His will, then why am I here?” she whispered. “Only you can be strong enough to get the answer from me. Only you have the power to save your world.”
Then she parted his cold lips with hers and slipped her tongue between, bringing with it the taste of blood.
He moaned, opening his mouth to her.
She felt fangs there now, growing as she deepened their kiss.
With their lips still sealed together, he turned and slammed her against the wall, crushing his body against hers. Old tiles broke loose beneath her, the glass edges cutting through her thin silk slip and slicing into her skin. Blood ran warm down her back and pattered to the stone floor.
She pulled her mouth away from his, offering her neck instead.
Without hesitation, he bit her.
She gasped at the pain.
He immediately drew in a great draught of her blood, taking with it her warmth. She shivered as her limbs grew colder. Icy pain shot through her heart. This was not the rapturous joining that she had experienced with Rhun.
This was animal need.
A painful hunger that left no room for love or tenderness.
He might kill her and leave her with nothing, but she had to take that chance, trusting that knowledge was as important as blood to the man that clutched to her.
He will not let me die with the secrets I hold.
But having freed the beast inside of the man, would that hold true?
Her body slumped toward the floor. As her heart weakened, doubt filled those empty spaces — and fear.
Then an eternal darkness took away the world.
11
Rhun strode briskly across the polished floor of St. Mark’s Basilica. He had landed in Venice a quarter of an hour ago. From a message left for him, he had learned that Bernard and the others had taken Elisabeta here. Only when he arrived, he found the door to the church unlocked, and no one seemed to be here.
Had they already proceeded to the Sanguinist chapel below?
He stared across the nave toward the north transept of the basilica. As he recalled, a stairwell on that side led down to a subterranean crypt and the secret gateway to the Sanguinists’ spaces. He headed toward it, but then movement drew his attention to the south transept. Out of the darkness, the flow of shadows rushed toward him, moving with preternatural speed.
Rhun tensed, crouching, unsure who this party was, wary after the recent attacks.
Surely no strigoi would dare attack on such holy ground.
A voice called to him as the shadows moved farther into the light, revealing themselves to be a clutch of Sanguinists: two men and a woman.
“Rhun!” He recognized Sophia’s burnished features.
The small woman hurried to his side, drawing the others with her. “You’ve come just in time.”
He read the anxiety in her eyes. “What’s wrong?”
“Come with us,” she said and headed toward the north transept. “There’s trouble at the Sanguinist gate.”
“Tell me,” he said, checking the karambit sheathed at his wrist as he accompanied her, matching her swift speed.
She told him about what had transpired below, how Bernard had taken Elisabeta through the gate and locked it behind him.
“Christian is already down there, but it will take three of us to open the door again.” She motioned to the two priests behind her. “I came up to fetch more help, but it has taken me too long to find them. And Erin fears the worst.”
Upon reaching the stairwell, Rhun took the lead. He trusted Erin’s judgment. If she was worried, there must be good reason. Halfway down the stairs, he heard two heartbeats echoing up from the lower crypt.
Erin and Jordan.
He could easily discern between them, as readily as their voices. Erin’s quick heartbeat told him of her fear. He reached the crypt and saw Christian pounding on the far wall, calling Bernard’s name.
He knew what had so excited the young Sanguinist.
Past the gate, he detected another heartbeat, one muffled by the stone, but still audible to his sharp senses, the sound amplified by the acoustics of the long crypt.
Elisabeta.
Her heart faltered, growing weaker with each beat.
She was dying.
Christian turned, hearing them approach. “Hurry!”
Rhun needed no such urging. He flew across the crypt. Erin stepped forth to meet him, but he slid past her without a word. There was no time.