He glanced over at them, looking infuriatingly calm. “It’s almost time,” he said before Rhun could ask. “Will you be with Elizabeth when she takes the wine?”
“I cannot,” Rhun said, his voice dropping even lower. “I cannot.”
“Are you not allowed to be there?” Jordan asked.
His guilty silence was answer enough.
Erin touched Rhun’s arm. “You must be there.”
“She will live or die regardless of my presence, and I cannot watch if… if…”
He sagged beside her.
“She’s frightened, Rhun,” Erin said. “No matter how she tries to hide it. There’s a chance that these could be her last moments on earth, and you’re the only one left in the world who truly loves her. You can’t leave her alone.”
“Maybe you are right. If I had let her live out her life as God intended, she would not be suffering this fate now. Perhaps it is my duty—”
Erin squeezed his arm. It felt like clutching a marble statue, but there was a wounded heart somewhere deep inside. “Don’t go out of a sense of duty,” she urged. “Go because you love her.”
Rhun bowed his head, but he still looked undecided. He turned and started on another circuit of the nave. She let him go alone this time, knowing he needed to ponder her words, to make up his mind.
She blew out a breath and sat next to Jordan again. “If we were in this position, would you let me drink the wine alone?”
He lifted her chin with a finger to face him. “I’d break your ass out of here before it got to that.”
She grinned back at him, enjoying this moment, but it didn’t last.
Christian appeared from the entrance of the basilica and crossed down the aisle toward them. He carried a flat box that smelled like meat, cheese, and tomatoes. His other hand held two brown bottles.
“Pizza and beer,” Jordan said. “You’re a dream come true.”
“Remember that when calculating my tip.” Christian handed him the box.
Rhun returned to them, suspecting Christian came with more than just a late dinner.
The young Sanguinist nodded to Rhun. “It’s time. But you don’t have to be present. I understand how painful that might be.”
“I shall go.” He gave Erin a long look. “Thank you for reminding me why, Erin.”
She bowed her head, acknowledging his words, wishing she could go with him, to be there for him if the countess didn’t survive.
Rhun turned away and headed off to face what was to come, to share it with Elizabeth.
Their two fates forever entwined.
Elizabeth stood again in the silver chapel where she had died and been born again. Someone had cleaned her blood from the floor and walls. The room smelled of incense and stone and lemons. Fresh beeswax candles had been lit on the altar.
It was as if nothing had ever happened.
She stared up at the bright mosaic of Lazarus overhead. He had done what she would soon attempt, and he had survived. But he had loved Christ.
She did not.
She ran her palm over her black garments, the uniform of a lowly nun. A silver rosary had been tied around her waist, and a pectoral cross hung from her neck. Both objects burned even through the thick cloth. She felt like she had donned a costume, one she might wear to a ball.
But that wasn’t her only masquerade.
Keeping still so that no one would know how she truly felt, Elizabeth reveled at the strength inside. The cardinal had fed deeply on her and had offered little of his own blood in return, not enough to sustain her. Even worse, her sensible shoes stood on holy ground, a place that should have weakened her even further.
But she felt strong — stronger, perhaps, than she ever had.
Something has changed in the world.
Eight Sanguinists shared the chapel with her, watching her, judging her. But she only noted one. Rhun had come to participate in this rite, standing next to her. She was surprised how deeply this gesture struck her.
He stepped closer, his words a faint whisper. “Do you have faith, Elisabeta? Faith enough to survive this.”
Elizabeth looked up into Rhun’s concerned eyes. For centuries, he wanted nothing more than for her to battle the evil inside her, to devote herself to a joyless existence serving a church she had never trusted. She wanted to comfort him, to reassure him, but she would not lie to him, not when this might be their last moment together.
The Sanguinists behind him chanted a prayer. If she tried to escape, they would kill her — and if she died, then Tommy would die along with her. Down this burning path lay the only chance to save the boy’s life and her own.
“I do have faith,” she told Rhun, which was the truth. It just wasn’t the faith he wanted her to possess. She had faith in herself, in her ability to survive this and save Tommy.
“If you don’t believe,” Rhun warned, “if you don’t believe Christ can save your damned soul, you will die with the first sip of His blood. It has ever been so.”
Has it?
Rasputin had been excommunicated from the Church, yet she had seen with her own eyes that he still lived outside of the realm of the Church. Likewise, the German monk, Brother Leopold, had betrayed the Church for fifty years, yet he had drunk the wine countless times and never been burned.
Was it the monk’s belief in his purpose, in the one he served, that had sustained him?
She hoped it was so. For her sake, and for Tommy’s. She had to trust that there were other pathways to the salvation offered by that holy blood. While her heart was not pure, surely helping Tommy was a noble enough goal.
But if I am wrong…
She reached to Rhun’s bare wrist, touching it with a finger. “I want you to give me the wine. No one else.”
If I’m to die, let it be by the hands of someone who loves me.
Rhun swallowed, fear darkening his face, but he didn’t refuse her. “Your heart must be pure,” he warned. “You must come to Him with openness and love. Can you do that?”
“We will see,” she said, shying from his question.
Satisfied but reluctant, Rhun gestured to the silver chalice resting on the altar. The sharp smell of wine rose from it, cutting through the incense. It was difficult to fathom that such a simple substance, a fermentation of grapes, could hold the secret of life. Or that it might destroy her newfound immortal power and her along with it.
Rhun stood before the altar, facing her. “First, you must publicly repent your sins, all of your sins. Then you may partake of His holy Blood.”
With no other choice, she listed sin after sin, seeing how each one fell onto Rhun’s shoulders, how he took the blame for her acts onto himself. He bore it in front of her, and she recognized pain and regret in his eyes. In spite of everything, she would have spared him that if she could.
By the time she had finished, her throat was hoarse. Many hours had passed. Her strigoi body sensed that daylight was not far away.
“That is all?” Rhun asked.
“Is it not enough?”
He turned, picked up the silver chalice from the altar, and held it above his head. He chanted prayers necessary to transform the wine into the blood of Christ.
All the while, Elizabeth searched her conscience. Did she feel fear that these were her last moments? That she might soon be burned to ash and scattered across the clean floor? She came to only one conclusion.
Whatever must come would come.
She knelt before Rhun.
He bent down and brought the chalice to her lips.
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