Erin’s heart squeezed to a faster beat, in sympathy with their pain, especially that of those who seemed no more than children.
Rhun stared at a young girl, who in life had been no more than ten or eleven, step away, her lips blistering, each breath a steaming gasp of agony and ecstasy. She crossed back to her pew and knelt with her head bowed in supplication.
Here was Grigori’s greatest evil, his willingness to convert the young. Such an act stole their souls and cut them off from receiving Christ’s love for all eternity.
Grigori’s voice cut through Rhun’s musings. “And now, Rhun. You, too, must accept my Communion.”
He remained seated, refusing to take such darkness into his body. “I will not.”
Grigori snapped his fingers, and Rhun’s party was suddenly surrounded by a group of Rasputin’s disciples, fouling his nostrils with the odors of wine and burnt flesh.
“That is my price, Rhun.” Grigori’s words boomed through the church. “Accept my hospitality. Drink of the sacred wine. Only then will I listen.”
“If I refuse?”
“My children will not go hungry.”
The disciples moved closer.
Erin’s heart raced. Jordan’s hands formed fists.
Grigori smiled paternally. “But your companions will fight, won’t they? It will be no easy death. The man is a soldier, is he not? Dare I say, he is a warrior?”
Rhun flinched.
“And the woman,” Grigori continued. “A true beauty, but with hands callused from work in the field, and also, I suspect, from holding a pen. I believe that she is most learned.”
Rhun glared across the dark congregation toward Grigori at the altar.
“Yes, my friend.” Grigori laughed his familiar mad laugh. “I know that you are here seeking the Gospel. Only prophecy would send you to my doorstep. And perhaps I will even help you—but not without a price.”
Grigori cupped the tainted chalice in his palms and raised it.
“Come, Rhun, drink. Drink to save your companions’ souls.”
With no choice, Rhun stood. On stiff legs, he walked between the pews, mounted the hard stone stairs, and opened his mouth.
He braced himself against the pain.
Grigori came forward, lifted his chalice high, poured from that height.
Bloodred wine struck and filled Rhun’s mouth, his throat.
To his surprise, this black sacrament did not burn. Instead, a welcoming warmth coursed through his body. Strength and healing surged within him, quickening even his still heart to beat—something it had not done in many centuries. With that quiver of muscle in his chest, he knew what was mixed in that wine, but still he did not turn his face away from the flowing chalice.
It filled him, quieting that endless hunger inside him. He felt the wounds that had been opened in the bunker pull closed. But best of all, he was enveloped in a deep contentment.
He moaned at the rapture of it.
Grigori stepped back, taking his chalice with him.
Rhun struggled to form words as the world around him wavered. “You did not—”
“I am not so holy as you,” Grigori explained, looming over him as Rhun slumped to the marble floor. “Not since my excommunication from your beloved Church. So, yes, any wine that I give my followers must be fortified. With human blood.”
Rhun’s eyes rolled back, taking away the world and leaving only his eternal penance.
At Elisabeta’s throat, Rhun swallowed blood. In all his long years as a young Sanguinist, he had never tasted its rich iron against his tongue, save that first night when he became cursed, feeding on tainted strigoi blood.
Panic at the blasphemy gave him strength to swim against that bloodred tide, to pull his vision clear. The beating of his own heart, quickened by her surge of blood through him, slowed … slowed … and stopped.
Elisabeta lay under him, her soft body golden in the firelight. Dark hair spilled over her creamy shoulders, across the stone floor.
Silence now filled the room. But that could not be.
Always he heard the steady beat of her heart.
He whispered her name, but this time she did not answer.
Her head fell to the side, exposing the bloody wound on her throat. Rhun’s hand rose to his mouth. For the first time in many years, he touched fangs.
He had done this. He had taken her life. In his blind lust, he had lost himself, believing himself strong enough—special enough, as Bernard always claimed—to break the edict placed upon those of his order, to maintain chastity lest they free the beast inside them all.
In the end, he had proven to be as weak as any.
He stared down at Elisabeta’s still form.
Pride had killed her as surely as his teeth.
He gathered her cooling body into his lap. Her skin was paler than it had been in life, long lashes soot black against white cheeks. Her once-red lips had faded to pink, like a baby’s hand.
Rhun rocked and wept for her. He had broken every commandment. He had loosed the creature buried within him, and it had devoured his beloved. He thought of her vibrant smile, the mischief in her eyes, her skill as a healer. The lives she would have saved now withering as surely as hers had.
And the sad future of her motherless children.
He had done this.
Under the fire’s hissing a faint thump sounded. A long breath later, another.
She lived! … But not for long.
Perhaps only long enough to save her. He had failed her so many times and in so many ways, but he must try.
The act was forbidden. It defiled his most basic oaths. Already he had defiled his priestly vows, at a terrible cost. The cost would be even greater if he also broke the vows of a Sanguinist.
The penalty for him would be death.
The cost for her would be her soul.
The first law: Sanguinists may not create strigoi. But she would not be strigoi. She would join him. She would serve the Church as he did, at his side. As Sanguinists, they would share eternity. He would not fall again.
Fainter, her heart throbbed.
He had little time. Almost none. He slashed his wrist with his silver knife. The hissing and burning were stronger, now that he was no longer holy. His blood, now mixed with hers, welled out. He held his wrist over her mouth. Drops splattered onto bloodless lips. Gently he parted those lips with his own.
Please, my love, he begged.
Drink.
Join me.
Rhun woke to hunger on the cold marble, the points of his fangs sharp on his tongue.
Grigori’s cursed wine had been spiked with human blood. Rhun fought against that treachery. But his body, even now, demanded more, insisted upon release.