Blood Infernal: The Order of the Sanguines Series (46 page)

Terror bubbled up inside him.

Legion stared upward, finding the face of the hermit shining down at him.

Don’t
, he willed to the man.

But Legion’s fingers only clasped leather, not skin. The hermit’s will was still his own. And using that will, the man uncurled his fingers and let go.

Together, they plummeted into the darkness below.

7:10
P
.
M
.

“Keep going!” Rhun shouted to the others.

A moment ago, he had heard a muffled explosion, a great grinding of stone and splintering woods. He did not know what that meant, only that his group was still hunted, pursued by a howling, slathering mix of
strigoi
and
blasphemare
.

Rhun kept beside Erin. Ahead, the gorilla lumbered with Jordan over one shoulder, moving quickly down the side of the mountain, barreling through bushes, shouldering aside saplings like twigs. His bulk broke a path through the dense forest before them, like a boulder rolling downhill.

Sophia had borrowed Jordan’s weapon and strafed behind them as they fled. Silver rounds ripped through pine needles and shredded leaves from trees. Elizabeth haunted their path to his left, lashing out with a sword and knife. To the right, the cub protected their flank, moving like a ghost.

Still, they were losing ground quickly.

The enemy threatened to crash over them at any moment.

Sophia appeared next to Rhun, throwing her smoking weapon across her back.

“Out of ammunition.” Fear shone in her face. “We’ll never make it. We’ll have to—”

A booming shout cut her off. “EVERYBODY DOWN!”

Rhun obeyed, recognizing the voice. He threw Erin into a thick pile of leaf litter and piled on top of her. The others dropped low. Even the cub slid to Rhun’s side and mimicked him. A white tail slashed angrily through the leaves.

Only the gorilla continued its course, pounding down the slope.

In the beast’s wake, Christian stepped into view several yards down slope. He crouched low, balancing the butt of two machine guns on his thighs—and opened fire.

The silvery barrage tore apart the forest, raining bits of wood and leaves over them. The chattering roar deafened Rhun. Even when it finally ended, his ears still rang with the noise.

“Go!” Christian yelled, tossing the spent weapons aside. “That’ll only buy us a little time! Make for the helicopter!”

They gained their feet and paws and ran even faster.

Finally, they burst out of the forest into the open meadow. The helicopter rumbled ahead of them, the engines already warmed and ready, the rotors slowly spinning.

By now, the sun had fully set.

They needed to be off this mountain.

The gorilla waited for them by the aircraft, leaning on one thick arm, huffing loudly, plainly exhausted. They joined the beast. Sophia and Christian helped lift Jordan into the back cabin. Erin clambered up with him, hovering over him.

Rhun stepped to the gorilla and placed a palm on his massive shoulder. “Thank you.”

A part of him had still questioned the work of Hugh, believing the redemption for such cursed creatures to be impossible.

No longer
.

The gorilla nudged Rhun in the chest, as if it understood.

Then it turned and headed back toward the forest, its gaze raised toward that distant waterfall, intending to return, to protect the man who had offered the great beast not only a home—but also his heart.

Rhun looked to that mountain as he climbed into the helicopter.

May the Lord keep you safe
.

7:22
P
.
M
.

Legion lay broken across a nest of broken timber and shattered chunks of the church floor. The jumble of debris had caught on a craggy ledge along one wall of the cavernous pit, building into this precarious perch. He had crashed here, not by luck, but by sheer strength of will. He had spotted the buildup as he fell and hurled his body toward it, hoping it would hold him.

And not just him.

He had never let go of the hermit’s boot as he plummeted. The man’s body lay sprawled beside his own, even more broken. His adversary’s neck was twisted at a wrong angle; his blood seeped through the stones and trickled into the river far below.

But faint life still remained.

Perhaps enough
.

Legion carefully rolled to his side, grinding bones.

I will know what you know
.

He reached to the man’s pale cheek as brown eyes stared back at him, weak but defiant still. Legion ignored that gaze and placed his palm upon his victim. With a touch, he sensed how feeble the flame remained inside the hermit, barely a flicker.

Was it enough?

Concern grew in Legion as he pulled his hand away. As he feared, his palm had left no mark. The hermit was too close to death to hold his brand. Legion tried again, but his darkness could find nothing substantial enough to claim.

The hermit closed his eyes, a smile playing across the old priest’s lips, believing he had bested Legion.

You are wrong
.

Legion crawled higher. While he might not be able to claim the man as a demon, there were other paths to knowledge.

My vessel is still a
strigoi.

He bared those fangs. As if sensing the predator at his throat, the man’s eyes reopened, showing fear as understanding came too late.

Legion sank his teeth deep into that cold flesh. He drank fully of that fading font, building a blood bond between the two of them, between predator and prey, between
strigoi
and victim. With each drop, Legion drew more of the man’s life into him, sopping up the last of the man’s strength, willing him to share all that he knew as they became one.

Even as that knowledge was gained, Legion continued to feed, draining his victim in great draughts until there was nothing left. Only then did he sprawl back and cast his will to those who still survived, calling for rope to haul him up, for more blood to heal him.

He smiled into the darkness.

He had learned something from the hermit, something not shared with the others. Whether this was done purposefully or from simple disregard, he did not know.

Still, he would use that knowledge against his enemy.

But first I must be free . . . and reach the valley ahead of them
.

March 19, 8:04
P
.
M
.
CET

Lasserre, France

Erin held Jordan’s slack hand as their helicopter landed hard in a cow field on the outskirts of the French village of Lasserre. Moments ago, their aircraft had hurtled out of the mountains and into the foothills, sweeping over this darkened hamlet, a quaint settlement of stone homes, stretches of vineyards, and small farms.

Once on the ground, Christian popped from behind the helicopter’s stick and went around to unfold a stretcher from a cargo hold. Sophia and Elizabeth helped get Jordan’s body off the backseat and onto the padded board outside. Erin followed them, trying not to stare at the amount of blood soaked into the aircraft’s seat and pooled on the leather.

Jordan, don’t die on me
.

On the flight, Erin and Elizabeth had used a first-aid kit to clean and bandage the largest of the wounds. The countess had moved deftly, apparently experienced with treating battle wounds. But they ran out of supplies before they could finish covering his wounds. Afterward, Erin had wrapped his body with a red emergency blanket, but she checked beneath it periodically, quickly realizing even the smaller cuts weren’t healing this time. Jordan was dying.

Terrified, she climbed out and joined the others. She searched around, noting a small homestead beyond a fencerow. All its windows blazed with light.

Why did we land here?

“Jordan needs a hospital,” Erin demanded, expressing her confusion and frustration. “A team of doctors.”

“This’ll have to do.” Christian hauled up one end of the stretcher. “Nearest hospital is too far.”

Sophia took the other end, while Rhun secured the lion in his crate in the helicopter. Christian didn’t wait and headed toward the house. Erin had to run to keep alongside Jordan in the stretcher.

“Then where are we taking him?” she asked.

“A retired doctor lives here,” Christian called back to her. “A friend to the order. He’s expecting us.”

As they neared the front door, a grizzled old man opened it for them and gestured them inside. He wore brown corduroy pants and a blue plaid shirt. He had a shock of thick white hair and whisky-brown eyes under shaggy eyebrows. His lined face was grave when he looked at Jordan.

The doctor barked at them in French.

The Sanguinists hurried the stretcher through a rustic hall and into a back kitchen. Erin kept pace behind them.

In the kitchen, a cast-iron stove took up one corner of the room. Heat radiated from its surface, and a pot of water steamed on the stovetop. A stack of folded rough-spun towels sat on a chair, and on top of them rested a cracked leather medical bag. It looked like a movie prop and not something that could help them.

The Sanguinist lifted Jordan from the stretcher and onto the kitchen table.

Seeing Jordan under these brighter lights, Erin felt faint. The crimson lines had spread much farther by now, stretching across his chest, up his neck, and onto his face. Angry-looking curlicues looped over his chin and up to his lips. The lines stood out in stark contrast to his ashen face.

But at least, the smaller cuts
did
appear to be finally healing.

Then the doctor peeled back a patch of bloody gauze, and Erin’s stomach clenched. A deep slash extended from Jordan’s right shoulder to his left hip. It still gaped open, revealing bone and bloody muscle.

The doctor’s gnarled hands moved quickly as he washed Jordan’s chest with one of the towels, handing it to Erin when he was finished. She held the warm, bloody cloth in her hands, not sure what to do until Sophia took it away.

“Will he be all right?” Erin asked.

“He’s lost a lot of blood,” the doctor answered in English. “But I’m more concerned about the big wound there. It’s not bleeding much, but it’s not clotted either. It’s as if the blood vessels have closed down.”

“What can you do to help him?” Erin hated the note of hysteria in her voice. She took a deep breath to drive it down, needing to stay calm, for Jordan.

“I’m going to stitch up the arteries and close the wound. But he’s burning with fever. I don’t understand why. With this much hemorrhaging, his temperature should be plummeting. I’ll have to get it down.”

“No,” Erin and Rhun said at the same time.

“The fever is not caused by any disease,” Rhun explained.

“It’s something beyond physiology,” Erin added, trying to find the words to explain the inexplicable. “Something in his blood, something capable of helping him heal.”

At least, I hope so.

The doctor shrugged. “I don’t understand—and I’m not sure I want to—but I’ll treat him like a normal patient and see if he comes round. I can’t do anything else.”

As the doctor worked, Erin pulled the remaining chair next to the table and took Jordan’s hand. It burned in her palm. She ran her fingers through his short blond hair, his scalp soaked now with fever sweat.

Christian joined the doctor. “Let me help, Hugo. You know my skill.”

“I would welcome it,” the doctor said. “Fetch the instruments out of that pot of boiling water.”

Erin wanted to help, too, but she knew her place, holding tight to Jordan’s hand. Physically, the doctor was doing all he could, but she knew Jordan’s wounds went deeper than that. She traced her finger along the whorled line on the back of his hand, both hating that mark and praying for the power that ran through it to save the man she loved. She knew that same power could consume him completely, steal him from her as readily as death, but was that a bad thing for Jordan? He might be transcending his humanity and becoming wholly angelic. His transformation had never seemed to bother him like it bothered her. How could she weigh her selfish desires to keep him against his chance to become an angel?

The warning from Hugh de Payens echoed through her:
Do not let him forget his own humanity
.

But what did that mean?

9:21
P
.
M
.

Jordan drifted within an emerald fog, lost to himself, lost to everything but a faint whisper of melody. It sang softly to him, promising peace, drawing him ever deeper into its sweet embrace.

But the smallest sliver of him remained, a single note against that mighty chorus. It coalesced into a hard knot of resistance, around a single word.

No
.

Around that word, memories aggregated, like a pearl forming around a grain of sand.