In one bound, Bernard returned to the cart. He lifted the cage free and dragged it up the stairs to the door, its iron bottom screeching, scoring long black lines in the stone steps. The wall of Sanguinists opened to receive him, then closed behind him.
He rocked the cage upright atop the polished marble tiles. His sword smote through the lock’s hasp in a single blow. Standing back, he swung open the rusty cage door. The creak drowned out the heartbeats, the breathing.
The creature stepped forth, free for the first time in many months. Long arms felt the air, as if seeking long familiar bars.
Bernard could scarcely tell that this thing had once been human—its skin paled to the hue of the dead, golden hair grown long and tangled down its back, and limbs as thin as a spider’s.
Terrified, the crowd retreated from the sight of the beast, pressing against the far walls, crushing others in their fear and panic. The delicate scent of blood and fear billowed from them.
Bernard raised his sword and waited for the creature to face him. The creature must not escape into the streets. Its work was here. It must bring evil and blasphemy to this sacred site. It must destroy any holiness that might remain. Only then could the space be consecrated again for Bernard’s God.
As if the beast heard his thoughts, it raised its wrinkled face toward Bernard. Twin eyes shone milky white. Long it had been kept from the sun, and old it had been when it was turned.
A baby whimpered from the room ahead.
Such a beast could not resist that temptation.
With a flash of skeletal limbs, it twisted away and lunged for its prey.
Bernard lowered his sword, no longer needing it to hold the monster at bay. The promise of blood and pain would imprison it within these walls for the time being.
He forced his feet forward, following behind the murderous beast. As he crossed under the dome, he blocked his ears from the screams and prayers. He turned his sight from the torn flesh, from the bodies he stepped over. He refused to respond to the blight of blood hanging in the air.
Still, the monster inside him, freshly stoked with a few drops of crimson, could not be entirely ignored. It longed to join this other, to feed, to lose itself in simple need.
To be sated, truly sated, for the first time in years.
Bernard stepped faster across the room, fearful of losing control, of succumbing to that desire—until he reached the stairs on the far side.
There the silence stopped him.
Behind him, all heartbeats had ceased. The stillness imprisoned him and he stood, unable to move, guilt ringing through him.
Then an unnatural scream echoed off the dome, as the Sanguinists killed the beast at last, its purpose fulfilled.
God, forgive me. . .
Freed from that silence, he ran down the steps and through winding passageways far underneath the mosque. His path drew him deeper into the bowels of the city. The thick stink of the slaughter chased him, a wraith in the shadows.
Then finally a new scent.
Water.
Dropping to his hands and knees, he crawled into a tight tunnel and discovered firelight flickering ahead. It drew him forward like a moth. At the tunnel’s end, a cavern opened, tall enough to stand up in.
He clambered out and to his feet. A torch made of rushes hung on one wall, casting a flickering glow across a pool of black water. Generations of soot tarnished the high ceiling.
He began to step forward, when a woman rose from behind a boulder. Shiny ebony tresses spilled to the shoulders of her simple white shift, and her dark umber skin gleamed smooth and perfect. A shard of metal, the length of her palm, dangled from a thin gold chain hung around her slender neck. It fell to rest between well-formed br**sts that pushed against a sheer linen bodice.
He had long been a priest, but his body reacted to her beauty. With great effort, he forced his gaze to meet hers. Her bright eyes appraised his.
“Who are you?” he asked. He heard no heartbeat from her, but he also knew innately she wasn’t like the caged beast, nor even like himself. Even from this distance, he felt the heat coming from her body. “Are you the Mistress of the Well?”
It was a name he had found written upon an ancient piece of papyrus, along with a map to what lay below.
She ignored his questions. “You are not ready for what you seek,” she simply said. Her words were Latin, but her accent sounded ancient, older even than his.
“I seek only knowledge,” he countered.
“Knowledge?” That single word sounded as mournful as a dirge. “Here you will find only disappointment.”
Still, she must have recognized his determination. She stepped aside and beckoned him to the pool with one dusky hand, her fingers long and graceful. A thin band of gold encircled her upper arm.
He stepped past her, his shoulder nearly brushing hers. The fragrance of lotus blossoms danced on the warm air that surrounded her.
“Leave behind your clothing,” she ordered. “You must go into the water as naked as you once came from it.”
At the water’s edge, he fumbled with his robe, struggling against the shameful thoughts that crowded his mind.
She refused to look away. “You have brought much death to this holy place, priest of the cross.”
“It will be purified,” he said, seeking to appease her. “Consecrated to the one God.”
“Only one?” Sorrow wakened in those deep eyes. “You are so certain?”
“I am.”
She shrugged. The small gesture shed her thin shift from her shoulders. It whispered to the rough stone floor. Torchlight revealed a body of such perfection that he forgot his vows and stared baldly, his eyes lingering on the curve of her full br**sts, on her belly, on the long muscular line of her thighs.
She turned and dove into the dark water, barely causing a ripple.
Alone now, he hurriedly unbuckled his belt, yanked off his bloody boots, and tore off his robe. Once naked, he sprang to follow, diving deep. Icy water washed away the blood on his skin, and baptized him into innocence.
He blew the air from his lungs, for he had no need of it as a Sanguinist. He sank quickly, swimming after her. Far below him, bare limbs shone white for a flash—then she flitted to the side, quick as a fish, and vanished.
He kicked deeper, but she had disappeared. He touched his cross and prayed for guidance. Should he search for her or continue his mission?
The answer was a simple one.
He turned and swam onward, through twisting passages, following the map in his head, one learned from those ancient scraps of papyrus, toward the secret hidden deep beneath Jerusalem.
He moved as swiftly as he dared, into utter darkness, through complex passageways. A mortal man would have died many times over. One hand brushed rock, counting passages. Twice, he reached dead ends and had to backtrack. He fought panic, telling himself that he had misread the map, promising himself that the place he searched for existed.