“Sister Elizabeth should assist the trio on their quest,” Sophia said, as she stepped out the darkness. “No one else in the Church has her knowledge. Risks must be taken if we hope to succeed.”
Elisabeta bowed her head. “Thank you, Sister Sophia.”
“You have taken the wine. If God trusts you, we can do no less.” Sophia nodded to Christian. “But the concerns raised a moment ago are real ones, so I will travel with you. To help you to be alert to temptation.”
“I would welcome your expertise in such matters,” Elisabeta said.
Rhun suspected Sophia was joining them, not as a tutor, but as a bodyguard — to keep an eye on Elisabeta. And maybe that was wise. Either way, the matter was settled.
Christian turned away. “I’ll prepare a flight schedule. Barring any problems, we should be in Prague by noon.”
As they prepared to follow, Rhun watched Jordan pocket the two halves of the green stone, reminding him what had been released into this world. If Elisabeta’s fears were true, a demon had been set free.
But what manner of beast was it?
15
How much longer must I wait…?
Legion remained hidden under the shadow of an archway. From the darkness, he studied the columned façade of the great church on the far side of the sunlit square. Bright midday sun reflected off its golden surfaces and burned his eyes, but he stayed in place.
I have waited long, and I can wait longer still.
As he kept vigil, rooted inside Leopold, he searched out other eyes, those whom he had enslaved with the touch of his hand. Through those distant branches, those other eyes, he saw a hundred other views, from places that were yet in darkness:
… a torn throat of a young girl, pouring crimson over black tar streets…
… the wet terrified eyes of a man in a metal box anticipating his death at the sharp teeth of a beast of the night…
… another stalks a dark wood, circling a couple entangled together and oblivious to all but their own lusts…
At any moment, he could do more than just see. He could pull his awareness fully into one of those slaves, taking possession of its limbs and body. But he remained where he was, planted firmly in this vessel, his foothold in his world. He searched yet again through the memories cast out by that small flame flickering in the enormity of his darkness.
Leopold had recognized the sanctified stronghold across the square.
And now I know it, too.
St. Mark’s Basilica.
Legion had come here from Rome, brought by a trembling Sanguinist priest who listened behind the door of one called Cardinal Bernard. From those ears, he had learned that the trio of prophecy would gather here. Though he wanted to know what transpired within those holy walls, he dared not trespass himself.
Not only was that ground sacred, but the day’s fierce sun threatened to burn him to ash. He had brought nothing with which to cloak himself. Even in the shadows, the sunlight tingled against his skin. The sun would soon chase him into a nearby house or perhaps deep below the sea that fed the canals.
I can rest under the cool green water during the heat of the day.
The temptation called to him, to experience that beauty: the sparkle of flitting fish, the dance of emerald veils of seaweed. He wanted to revel within it, to be part of it.
But not yet.
Instead, he must linger in this city of foul canals, a patchwork of human depravity and holiness. The trio he hunted had sought sanctuary here. And despite Leopold’s attempts to hide knowledge of them, Legion had slowly gleaned more.
Two of the trio were, of course, mortal.
The Warrior and the Woman.
But the third — the Knight named Rhun Korza — had arrived later than the others. He was a Sanguinist, like Leopold, which meant he was corruptible. Legion was capable of touching that darkness inside the Knight with his own shadows.
Marking him, binding him to my will.
Sadly, it was something he could not do with the Warrior or the Woman, who held no such darkness inside, but Legion only needed the Knight.
Korza would be his way into the trio, his way to destroy the prophecy from within.
A heavy door slammed across the square, drawing his attention.
A troop of silent-hearted Sanguinists poured out of that holiness and into the open square. Legion searched their faces, breathing deeply of the smoke cast out by Leopold’s flame. Leopold knew many of them by name and habit.
But his gaze fixed to one in the center, standing with the Warrior and the Woman.
Rhun Korza.
Once he bows to me, we will purge his world, returning it to a paradise.
But his prey stayed ever in the light, frustratingly so. With no other recourse, Legion followed them along the narrow streets of Venice, keeping to the shadows. Through passing doors, he heard the heartbeats of those going about their dreary human lives — but one heart drew his attention more fully.
The Warrior should already be dead. Legion remembered possessing the strigoi who had attacked the man: the thrust of the blade into this one’s soft belly, the heavy pour of hot blood against his cold hands.
But the Warrior’s heart still beat.
Closer now, Legion recognized a foreign note to its rhythm, as if the trumpeting of a great horn echoed behind those stolid beats.
It was a mystery, but one that would have to wait.
The others had reached their destination, hurrying during this last stretch under the merciless sun.
I have no more time.
The others rushed into a building, one smelling of oil, as much of this world does now. A bladed machine rested on the roof. Leopold knew this device.
… a helicopter, for flying like a bumble bee…
A trickle of awe filled Legion at the mastery of these mortals over their limited world. Man had conquered much in the centuries that Legion had been imprisoned.
Even the skies.
Knowing this, Legion struggled with how he could continue his hunt. The helicopter would soon fly into the sun of a new day, bearing away the trio. He must know where they were headed.
Already those blades had begun to turn.
From the building below, a smaller group of Sanguinists exited. It was the escort who had guarded the trio’s passage through the city, preparing to return to their holy roosts. Most headed back from whence they had come, back toward the basilica, but one figure split away, heading another direction.
Her path took her along a canal, whose closest bank still lay in deep shadows.
He quickly circled through other patches of darkness to trail her.
As he ran, he listened to the city, to its shouts and laughter, the growl of its engines, the hammering of its construction. He heard little of the natural world here. No birdsong, no brush of wind through leaves. Mankind had taken over this island — as they had much of this modern world — and tamed it for their uses, destroying the wild gardens, killing the creatures that lived in harmony there.
While God might tolerate such ruin to his creation, I will not.
To that end, he closed in on the swish of cloth as his target continued along the canal, oblivious to the hunter behind her.
He pulled her name from Leopold and spoke it aloud.
“Sister Abigail…”
The Sanguinist turned toward him. Her hair was as gray as stone, pulled away from a fretful face. She was plainly irritated, and her anger made her react too slowly. As horror widened her eyes, reflecting back his dark countenance, he was upon her.