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  Jordan rubbed his stomach and flashed her that crooked grin of his, immediately drawing a large amount of the tension from her bones. He stood there in dress pants and a white shirt, unbuttoned at the collar with the sleeves rolled up, displaying his muscular tanned arms.

  She leaped to him and hugged him hard. He felt warm and good and natural, and she loved how easy it was to fall into his arms again.

  She spoke into his chest. “I can’t believe it’s you.”

  “In the flesh . . . though after that kick of yours, maybe a tad more sore.”

  She leaned back to take him in. A day’s worth of stubble shadowed his square chin, his blue eyes smiled at her, and his hair had grown out longer. She threaded her fingers through that thick wheat-blond hair and pulled him down into a kiss.

  She wanted nothing more than to lengthen it, to linger in his arms, maybe show him the empty hay loft upstairs, but she stepped back, drawn away by a larger concern.

  “Blackjack,” she said. “My horse. We have to get him inside. Something’s out there in the hills.”

  She turned to the door—as a horse’s scream erupted, ripping through the night and quickly cutting off. Before anyone could move, a heavy object thudded against the neighboring wall. They fled deeper into the stables, to where the other horses were boarded in stalls. She looked toward the door.

  No, please, no . . .

  She pictured her large gelding, with his trusting eyes and soft nose, the way he pranced when happy, and his gentle neighs that greeted her whenever she entered the barn.

  Jordan readied his black Heckler & Koch MP7, a mean-looking machine pistol.

  She lifted her small Glock 19, recognizing a problem. “I need something bigger.”

  Jordan handed his flashlight to Nate and reached to his belt. He pulled out his Colt 1911 and passed it to her, the same gun he had loaned to her often in the past. She wrapped her fingers around the grip and felt safer.

  She turned to give her Glock to Nate, to offer him some protection—when a stranger appeared, stepping out of the deeper shadows behind him and startling her. The man wore a formal dark blue uniform, with two gold crosses embroidered on his lapels.

  A chaplain?

  “I hate to interrupt your happy reunion,” the stranger said. “But it’s time we thought about leaving here. I searched for other exits, but the main door remains the wisest path.”

  “This is Christian,” Jordan introduced. “Friend of Rhun’s, if you get my drift.”

  In other words, Sanguinist.

  Nate’s voice trembled. “The professor’s car is parked about fifty yards away. Could we make it that far?”

  As answer, an unnatural screeching pierced the night.

  From the stalls all around, the horses stamped and shouldered into their gates, whinnying their growing terror. Even they knew escape was the only hope.

  “What’s waiting for us out there?” Jordan asked, his weapon fixed on the door.

  “From its smell and hisses, I believe it’s a cougar,” Christian said. “Albeit a tainted one.”

  Tainted?

  Erin went colder. “You’re talking about a blasphemare.”

  The chaplain bowed his head in acknowledgment.

  Blasphemare were beasts that had been corrupted by the blood of a strigoi, poisoned into monstrous incarnations of their natural forms, with hides so tough that Sanguinists made armor out of their skins.

  Nate sucked in a quick breath. She touched him with one hand and felt him shiver. She didn’t blame him. A blasphemare wolf had once savaged him badly.

  She had to get Nate out of here.

  A ripping, splintering sound erupted to their left. Nate swung the flashlight toward the noise. Four hooked claws shredded through the thick redwood wall. Panicked, Nate fired the Glock at it.

  The claws vanished, followed by another yowl, sounding angrier.

  “I think you pissed it off,” Jordan said.

  “Sorry,” Nate said.

  “No worries. If you hadn’t fired, I would’ve.”

  The cat bowled into the same wall, shaking the rafters, as if trying to break inside.

  “Time to go,” Christian said and pointed to the door ahead. “I’ll exit first, try to draw it off, and you follow in a count of ten. Make straight for Erin’s Land Rover and get moving.”

  “What about you?” Jordan asked.

  “If I’m lucky, pick me up. If not, leave me.”

  Before anyone could argue, Christian covered the distance to the door in a breath. He grabbed a handle and shoved open the front doors. In front of him stretched an expanse of dust and grass. In the distance stood her beat-up Land Rover and the shiny Lincoln town car. Both looked much farther away than when she had ridden up on Blackjack a moment ago.

  Christian stepped into the night, illuminated by a lamp over the door. A flash of silver showed that he’d drawn a blade, then he vanished to the left.

  Jordan kept his gun up, plainly starting a countdown in his head.

  Erin turned away, remembering Blackjack. She hurried along the line of six stalls and began releasing the catches, swinging the doors open. She wouldn’t leave the horses trapped in here to die as Blackjack had. They deserved a chance to run.

  Already frightened, the horses thundered out of the stalls and swept between Jordan and Nate. Gunsmoke followed last. Nate ran his fingers along the mare’s sweating flanks as the horse raced by, as if longing to accompany her. Reaching the door, the horses fled out into the night.

  “That’s a ten count,” Jordan said and waved his free arm toward the open door.

  The three of them rushed forward, following the dust-stirred trail of the horses out into the yard. Jordan kept to their left, pointing his gun in the direction Christian had vanished.

  As Erin sprinted with Nate toward the Land Rover, motion drew her attention back to the stable. From around the far corner, Christian came tumbling back into the yard, landing in a crouch.

  From that same corner, a monstrous beast stalked into view.

  Erin gaped at the sight.

  Nate tripped, crashing down to one knee.

  The cougar padded into the yard, its tail lashing back and forth. It stretched nine feet, well over three hundred pounds of muscle, claws, and teeth. Tall, tufted ears swiveled, taking in every sound. Red-gold eyes shone in the darkness. But the most striking feature was its ghostly gray pelt, like a shred of fog made flesh.

  “Go,” Jordan urged, seeing her slow to help Nate. “I got him.”

  But who has you?

  She stayed with them, keeping her Colt high.

  Across the yard, the beast snarled at Christian, revealing long fangs—then lunged. But it was a feint. It jumped past the Sanguinist chaplain and headed straight for them.

  By now, Jordan had Nate back on his feet, but the two men would never get out of the way in time. Standing her ground in front of them, she squeezed off a shot. The bullet struck the animal on the forehead, but it merely shook its head and kept coming.

  She kept firing as it barreled toward her.

  She couldn’t run, not until Nate was safe.

  She squeezed the trigger over and over again—until finally the Colt’s slide locked back. Out of bullets.

  The cat bunched its back legs and bounded across the last of the distance.

  Vatican City

  Rhun’s muscles stiffened with terror.

  She’s in danger . . .

  He pictured wisps of blond hair and amber eyes. The scent of lavender filled his nostrils. Pain kept her name from him, leaving him only need and desire.

  Must reach her . . .

  As panic thrummed through his body, he thrashed over onto his stomach in the burning wine, fighting through the agony, trying to think, to hold one thought in his head.

  He could not let her die.

  He pushed himself onto his hands and knees and braced his back against the stone lid of the sarcophagus. Gathering his faith, his strength, and his fear,
he pushed against the marble slab.

  Stone grated on stone as the lid shifted. A mere finger’s breadth, but it moved.

  He gritted his teeth and pushed again, straining, tearing his robe. The silver inlaid into the marble slab above branded his exposed back. He smelled his skin burning, felt his blood flowing.

  Still, he strained with every last fiber of muscle, bone, and will.

  His existence became one agonizing note of desire.

  To save her.

  Santa Clara County, California

  Jordan bowled into Erin, sweeping her legs out from under her.

  As she crashed onto her back, the blasphemare cat sailed over them both. A back paw slammed near Jordan’s head, knocking up dust. The cougar spun around, hissing a scream of thwarted desire.

  Still on the ground, Jordan rolled to a shoulder and pointed his Heckler & Koch machine pistol and fired on full automatic. He blazed a trail along its flank as it turned, stripping tufts of fur, drawing some blood, but not much.

  He emptied his entire forty-round box magazine in less than three seconds.

  And only succeeded in pissing off the cat.

  The cougar faced them, crouched low, claws dug deep into the hard clay. It growled, hissing like a steam engine.

  Jordan repositioned his empty weapon, ready to go caveman and use it as a club.

  Then in a flash of blue, a small shape landed atop the creature’s head. A silver knife slashed through its ear. Dark blood oozed out. The cat yowled, rolling, twisting its head, trying to reach Christian.

  But the Sanguinist was fast, sliding off the rear of the cat, dodging the tail.

  “Get to the Rover!” Christian yelled, ducking as a hind paw kicked at him and slashed the air with razor claws.

  Jordan hauled Erin to her feet and sprinted toward the Land Rover.

  Ahead, Nate had already reached the SUV and pulled open both the driver’s door and the rear door—then climbed into the backseat.

  Good man.

  Jordan raced alongside Erin. Once they reached the Rover, he dove into the driver’s seat at the same time she lunged into the back to join Nate. Both doors slammed in unison.

  Erin reached over the seat back and slapped cold keys into his open, waiting palm.

  He grinned savagely. They made a good team—now to make sure that team stayed alive. He keyed the ignition, gunned the engine, and sped in reverse, fishtailing to the side.

  As he swung around, his headlamps found the cougar. Its ghost-gray pelt glowed in the light. The cat turned toward the car like a churning storm cloud, squinting its red-gold eyes against the glare.

  Christian stood a few paces behind it.

  The cougar growled and bounded toward the Land Rover, drawn by the sound and motion.

  Typical cat . . .

  Jordan sped away in reverse, trying to keep the light in the cat’s eyes.

  Momentarily free, Christian sprinted for his black sedan.

  The cat gained on them, running full tilt. Jordan feared the beast could easily outrun them on these country roads. Proving this, the beast leaped and crashed its front half onto the hood. Claws tore through the metal. A heavy paw batted at the windshield. Cracks splintered across the glass.

  Another blow like that, and it would be in the front seat.

  Then a car horn blasted loudly, incessantly.

  Howling at the sudden noise, the cougar bounded off the hood like a startled tabby. It landed, twisting to face the new challenge, its ears flattened in fury.

  Past the beast’s bulk, Jordan spotted Christian. The Sanguinist crouched inside the back of his town car. He leaned over the front seat, an arm stretched to the steering wheel, and laid into the car horn, pressing it over and over again.

  All the sedan’s windows were down.

  What are you doing?

  The cat bounded toward the noise.

  Jordan braked hard and shoved the car out of reverse and back into drive. He sped after the cougar, chasing its tail. He knew he couldn’t reach the car before the beast did, but he intended to be there to help Christian.

  The cougar slammed into the flank of the town car, knocking it aside a full foot, denting it deeply. Christian was bowled across the backseat. The blare of the horn immediately died away, leaving only the growling hiss of the monstrous cat.

  The cougar spotted its prey inside and forced its head and shoulders through the window, going after the priest.

  Jordan floored the gas, intending to ram the beast from behind if necessary.

  Get out of there, buddy!

  The cat squirmed and kicked its hindquarters, pulling its full length through the back window and into the car. It was a tight squeeze, but the beast was determined.

  Then on the other side, Christian squirted out of the far window.

  “There!” Erin yelled, spotting him, too.

  Jordan turned and skidded the Rover past the rear bumper of the sedan.

  Christian stumbled away from the town car, pointing the key fob back at the car. He pressed a button—and all the windows rolled up, and the car beeped twice.

  Jordan stifled a laugh at Christian’s sheer audacity.

  He’d locked the cougar in the car.

  The cat snarled and furiously flung itself about inside, rocking the sedan.

  Jordan pulled up next to Christian. “Need a lift?”

  Christian opened the front passenger door and climbed inside. “Drive. And fast. I don’t know how long my trap will hold it.”

  Jordan understood. He gunned the engine, raced the Land Rover out of the stable yard, and ricocheted along the dirt road toward the highway. He needed to put as much distance as possible between them and that angry cat.

  Christian pulled a cell phone out of his pocket and barked orders in Latin.

  “What’s he saying?” Jordan asked Erin.

  “Calling for backup,” she said. “For someone to dispatch that cougar.”

  Christian finished his call, then glanced back at the stable. “I hope the beast doesn’t have enough space inside that car to get up a good enough swing to break through the safety glass.”

  Erin cleared her throat. “But why was it even here? Why was it after me?”

  Jordan glanced over to Christian.

  “My apologies,” Christian said, looking crestfallen. “But I believe someone must have caught wind that Jordan and I were seeking your help. Word might have reached the wrong ears. As you know, the order has suspicions that there are Belial traitors hidden among our fold. I fear I might not have been careful enough.”

  The Belial . . .

  She pictured that force of strigoi and humans, united under a mysterious leader. Even the tight ranks of the Sanguinist order were not impervious to that group’s reach and infiltration.

  “It might not be you,” Erin said, reaching forward and squeezing his shoulder. “Cardinal Bernard called for me earlier today, too. Maybe he let something slip. But either way, let’s table this until we get Nate somewhere safe.”

  “Don’t I get a say in this?” Nate sounded aggrieved.

  “You do not,” Christian answered. “My orders are clear and specific. I am to take Erin and Jordan back to Rome. That’s it.”

  Jordan wondered if that was true, or if he was just trying to take the pressure off Erin.

  “Why Rome?” Erin asked.

  Christian swung to face her. “It seems, in all this tumult, we’ve forgotten to tell you. Father Rhun Korza has gone missing. He vanished shortly after that bloody battle in Rome.”

  Glancing in the rearview mirror, Jordan noted the concern in Erin’s eyes, the way a hand rose to her throat. She still had scars there from where Rhun had bitten her, fed on her. But from her worried expression, she plainly cared deeply for the Sanguinist priest.

  “What does that have to do with me?” she asked.

  Christian smiled at her. “Because you, Dr. Granger, are the only one who can find him.”

  Jordan didn’t care about th
e disappearance of Rhun Korza. As far as he was concerned, the guy could stay lost. Instead, there remained only one mystery he wanted solved.

  Who sent that damned cat?

  7

  December 19, 4:34 A.M. CET

  Rome, Italy

  With a pair of antique watchmaker’s tweezers in hand, the leader of the Belial hunched over the workspace on his desk. He pinched a magnifying loupe to one eye. With exquisite care, he carefully wound a tiny brass spring inside the heart of a thumbnail-size mechanism.

  The spring tightened and caught.

  He smiled his satisfaction and closed the two halves of the mechanism, forming what appeared to be the metal sculpture of an insect, with six jointed legs and an eyeless head. The latter was spiked with a needle-sharp silver proboscis and crowned by the gentle sweep of a pair of feathery brass antennae.

  Blessed with steady hands, he shifted to another corner of his workspace and tweezed up the disarticulated forewing of a moth from a bed of white silk. He lifted the iridescent petal toward the glow of his halogen work light. The moth’s scales shone silvery green, barely hiding the delicate lace of its internal structure, marking the handsome pattern of Actias luna, the luna moth. With a total wingspan of four inches, it was one of the world’s largest moths.

  With patient and clever motions, he fitted the fragile wing into tiny clips lining the brass-and-silver thorax of his mechanical creation. He repeated the same with the other forewing and two more hind wings. The mechanism inside the thorax held hundreds of gears, wheels, and springs, waiting to beat life back into these beautiful organic wings.

  Once finished, his eyes lingered on each piece. He loved the precision of his creations, the way each cog caught another, meshed into a larger design. For years he had made clocks, needing to see time measured on a device as it was not measured on his own body. He had since moved his interest and skill toward the creation of these tiny automatons—half machine and half living creatures—bound for eternity to his bidding.

  Normally he found peace in such intricate work, settling into easy concentration. But this night, that perfect calm escaped him. Even the soft tinkling of a neighboring fountain failed to soothe him. His centuries-old plan—as intricate and delicate as any of his mechanisms—was at risk.