Rhun tightened his arms around her. He could not lose her twice in one night. If necessary, he would fight.
Perhaps sensing the tension was coming to a head, Erin stepped between Rhun and the others. “Can we not make an exception for her? Let her keep her current form. The Church was willing to work with her as a strigoi before, when we sought out the First Angel. She was allowed to live as a strigoi in exchange for her help back then. Are these current circumstances any different?”
Silence hung within the room.
Bernard finally broke it with the truth. “We lied to her before. If she had survived as a strigoi after the First Angel was recovered, she was to be killed.”
Erin gasped. “Is that true?”
“I was to end her cursed life by my own hand,” Bernard said.
Rhun stared at his mentor, the man who had raised him in this new life. He had trusted Bernard for hundreds of years. Now he felt the world shifting beneath him. Nothing was as it seemed. No one was who they said they were.
Except for Elisabeta.
She had never pretended to be anything other than what she was, even when she was a monster.
“So your promises are meaningless, Cardinal,” said Elisabeta. “Then I see no reason to adhere to my oaths. I will tell you nothing.”
“Then you will die now,” Bernard said.
She stared at the cardinal, the two ever at war. “Put the question to me then,” she said. “Offer me what you Sanguinists must offer any strigoi in their custody.”
No one spoke.
She rested her head again, looking up at Rhun, her eyes aglow with sadness but purpose. “Put the question to me, Rhun.”
“I will not. You have nothing to answer for.”
“Oh, but I do, my love. In the end, we all do.” She reached up and touched his cheek with a trembling hand. A ghost of a smile showed on her tired lips. “I am ready.”
Bernard interrupted. “You will be burnt to ash if you touch the wine. Tell us what you know first and perhaps God will forgive you.”
She ignored him, keeping her gaze upon Rhun.
He read her determination. With cold lips, he asked her, “Do you, Bathory de Ecsed, forsake your damned existence and accept Christ’s offer to serve the Church, to drink only His blood, His holy wine… for now and forever?”
Her gaze never faltered, even as his tears fell upon her face.
“I do.”
12
Erin stared up at the vast cupola in the center of St. Mark’s Basilica, raising her face to that golden shine as if it were the risen sun. It was nearing midnight, but here the darkness of the night held no sway.
Earlier, down in the smaller silver chapel, she had watched the others lead the countess away into the darker recesses of the Sanguinist level. Erin worried what they might do to her, but Sophia had been adamant that this was a sacred rite of their order, one Erin couldn’t observe. All she knew was that Elizabeth would be washed and dressed in a nun’s habit before she underwent the ritual of transformation, which apparently involved prayers, repentance, and drinking transubstantiated wine.
Erin would have liked to witness that event, but she wasn’t the only one shut out.
One Sanguinist had not been permitted to go with the others.
At least not yet.
She turned to find Rhun pacing the length and breadth of the vast basilica, stirring the candles in his wake as he passed from one shadow to another. He clasped his rosary with one hand, never letting go. His lips moved in constant prayer. She had never seen him so agitated.
Jordan, in contrast, sat sprawled on a nearby pew. His machine pistol lay within easy reach. She crossed and scooted in next to him, settling her backpack beside her.
“I think Rhun’s going to wear ruts in the marble,” Jordan said.
“The woman he loves might die tonight,” she said. “He’s earned the right to pace.”
Jordan sighed. “She’s not really that great of a catch. I’ve lost count of the times she’s hammered him.”
“That doesn’t mean he wants to watch her die.” She took Jordan’s hand, dropping her voice, knowing that Rhun could likely hear them, even from across the nave. “I wish there was something we could do.”
“For who? Rhun or Elizabeth? Remember, she asked to be turned into a strigoi. Something tells me she calculated the angles before she agreed to convert. I say we let the chips fall where they may.”
Erin leaned against Jordan’s side, noticing again his burning heat. He shifted away from her. It was a slight movement, but unmistakable.
“Jordan?” she started, ready to confront her own fears. “What happened to you in Cumae?”
“I already told you.”
“Not about the attack. You’re still burning up… and… and you seem different.”
That word barely described what she felt.
Jordan sounded faraway. “I don’t know what’s happening. All I know — and this is going to sound strange — but I feel like what has changed in me is leading me down a good path, a path I must follow.”
“What path?” Erin swallowed.
And can I come with you?
Before he could answer, Rhun appeared at the end of their pew. “Could I trouble you for the time, Jordan?”
Jordan took his hand from hers to check his wristwatch. “Half past eleven.”
Rhun held his pectoral cross, staring toward the stairwell in the north transept that led below, plainly distraught. The ceremony was to begin at midnight.
Erin stood up, drawn by his anguish. She wasn’t going to get anything more concrete out of Jordan. Maybe he didn’t know more than he had already told her, or maybe he just didn’t want to tell her. Either way, she wasn’t doing any good sitting here.
She joined Rhun. “Jordan’s right, you know.”
Rhun turned his face toward her. “About what?”
“Elizabeth is an intelligent woman. She wouldn’t agree to convert unless she thought that she stood a good chance of surviving the transformation.”
Rhun sighed. “She thinks that the process is complex, that it leaves room for doubt and error, but it does not. I’ve attended many of these ceremonies in the past. I’ve seen many… succumb when they drink the wine. She cannot trick her way through it.”
He set off again to pace, but Erin kept to his side.
“Maybe she’s changed,” she offered, not truly believing it but knowing Rhun wanted to.
“It is her only hope.”
“She’s stronger than you give her credit for.”
“I pray you are right, because I—” Rhun’s voice broke, and he swallowed before speaking. “I cannot bear to watch her die again.”
Erin reached over and took his cold hand. His fingertips were red, blistered from the silver of his rosary beads. He stopped and looked into her eyes. The suffering in those dark eyes was hard to face, but she didn’t look away.
He leaned toward her, and she instinctively took him in her arms. For the space of a breath, he relaxed against her and let her hold his cold, hard form. Over his shoulder, she saw Jordan watching them. Knowing how he felt about Rhun, she expected him to be jealous, but he stared past her, clearly lost in his own world, a world where she seemed to be losing her place.
Rhun broke free of their embrace, touching her shoulder gently. The simple gesture conveyed his gratitude to her. Even in his anguish, he was more aware of her than Jordan.
They returned down the nave silently until they reached Jordan.