He bowed his head. He had served the Order of the Sanguines for nearly a thousand years. Few Sanguinists of his age remained. In all that time, he had never been tempted to retreat to the Sanctuary, to become one of the Cloistered Ones. That was not a path for him or his ambitions.
I belong among the ranks of the Church, serving the order to my fullest capacity.
He lifted his cuffed hands high enough to touch his pectoral cross with his thumbs. The pain was familiar, comforting. It reminded him that he was not done serving.
He must focus on that — rather than how he had been laid low by the likes of Elizabeth Bathory. Fury flashed through him, but he schooled himself, accepting his faults. The countess had recognized the depth of his pride, used the fires of his ambition against him. Her words rang in his head.
Only you have the power to save your world.
She had tempted him — not just with blood, but with her precious knowledge. Stored in her brain were secrets that he had desired as much as he had wanted her blood. He had been too eager to pay her price. She had known what music to play.
And I was but her instrument.
But no longer.
The others did not understand the depth of evil that the countess carried in her black heart, but Bernard did. He had no doubt the wine would consume her, but if it did not, he must be ready.
He knew one way to control her if she survived. She cared for the boy, Tommy.
Control the child, and you control the mother.
He shifted enough to retrieve his cell phone from his pocket. His captors had stripped him of his weapons, but they had left him with this. He dialed a number in the dark. Even in times such as this, there were those who were loyal to him.
“Ciao?” said a voice on the other end.
Bernard quickly explained his needs.
“It will be done,” his conspirator said, closing the connection.
Bernard took cold comfort that his plan for the countess would not fail.
This time, I will turn her into an instrument of my purpose.
No matter the cost.
Elizabeth knelt with the chalice poised at her lips, teetering on the brink between salvation and extinction. Above her head, the mosaic of Lazarus stared back down at her, along with Christ, but she found herself looking at those gathered to witness that event. They were Lazarus’s family, his sisters, Martha and Mary of Bethany. The small glass tiles captured their looks of terror, not joy.
Did they fear their brother would not survive the act of drinking Christ’s blood?
Her gaze drifted to another who matched their fear, who held the chalice to her lips. Reflected candlelight shone on Rhun’s tense face, turning his pale skin to silver. She had never seen him look so terrified, save the moment when she had first kissed him in front of the fireplace at her castle, the moment that had set the events in motion that led them both here.
Rhun’s dark eyes stared into hers. This was the moment for a poetic farewell, but she could think of nothing to say to him, especially in front of the gathered Sanguinists.
She focused on Rhun, letting everything else go.
“Ege’sze’ge’re,” she whispered over the brim of the cup. It was a common Hungarian toast: To your health.
Rhun’s eyes softened with the hint of a smile.
“Ege’sze’ge’re,” he repeated with a small nod.
She tilted her head, and he tipped the cup.
A spill of wine poured over her tongue.
It is done…
As she swallowed, the liquid burnt a fiery trail down her throat. It felt as if she had sipped molten rock. Tears sprang to her eyes. Her back arched in agony, thrusting her breasts against the rough-spun cloth of her nun’s habit. Her arms jerked wide. Fire flowed through her body into her limbs, out to her fingertips. Every vein in her body ran with flame. It was an agony that she had never known.
With that pain, the wine’s holiness spread inside her, draining her strigoi strength. It fought against the darkness in her blood. But the holiness did not win. The evil was not completely burned away. It still pulsed within her, like a banked fire.
She finally gasped out a breath, casting out some of the fire.
She suspected what might come next, bracing herself against it. From Rhun’s account, every time she drank the wine she would be forced to relive her worst sins. He called this experience penance. Its purpose was to remind each Sanguinist that they were fallible and that only His incredible grace could carry them through their sins.
And I have so much to atone for.
As the fire receded inside her, she bowed forward across her knees, covering her tear-stained face with her hands. But it was not to blot out any terrible memories.
It was to hide her relief.
She had survived their test — and she saw no scenes of past depredations. Her mind felt as clear as it ever had been. It seemed she needed no penance.
Perhaps because I have no regrets.
She smiled into her palms.
Were the Sanguinists the architects of their own penance and their own pain?
Rhun’s hand dropped onto her shoulder as if to comfort her. She let it stay, unsure how long penance normally lasted. She kept her hands in front of her face and waited.
Finally, Rhun’s fingers tightened on her shoulder.
Taking this as a sign, she raised her head, careful to keep her expression tragic.
Rhun beamed down at her as he helped her to her feet. “The good in you was triumphant, Elisabeta. Thank the Lord for His eternal mercy.”
She leaned on him, notably weaker from the holiness, stripped of the strangely expanded strigoi strength. She clutched Rhun’s hand, while gazing across the faces gathered here, most remained stoic, but a few could not hide their surprise.
She continued to play the role expected of her. She looked into Rhun’s eyes. “Now that I’m reborn, I cannot break my promise to you, to everyone. I will tell you what I know, something that could help you on your quest. Let this be my first act of contrition.”
Rhun hugged more tightly to her, thanking her and perhaps wanting to reassure himself that she was indeed still alive.
“Then let us go,” he said.
He led her past the others. They touched her shoulders as she walked among them, welcoming her to their ranks. However, one witness could not keep the shock from her face. She was the last to acknowledge Elizabeth.
Sister Abigail gave a small bow of her head.
“I am humbled to have joined you, Sister,” Elizabeth said.
The old nun marshaled her features into something resembling welcome. “It is a difficult path that you walk now, Sister Elizabeth. I pray that you will find the strength within yourself to keep to it.”
Elizabeth fixed the somber expression on her face. “As do I, Sister.”
She headed out of the chapel, bottling the laughter ringing inside her.
Who knew escape would be this easy?
14
The Blood Countess survived…
Still coming to grips with this, Erin stared at Elizabeth’s back as the former countess led them across the depths of St. Mark’s Basilica. She was dressed in a simple nun’s habit, accepted now as one of the Sanguinists. Still not believing this sudden change, Erin studied her. Despite the humble clothes she wore, Elizabeth still strode with the haughtiness of royalty, her shoulders thrown back, her neck stiff.