Innocent Blood by James Rollins, Rebecca Cantrell Page B
Authors: James Rollins, Rebecca Cantrell
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marked them. She allowed them this belief. Deception might yet save her, as it had so often in the past. She drew them onward, toward her own choice of battleground.
Her destination was far. Fearing they might attack before she reached it, she quickened her steps, but only a little, for she did not want them to know that she had sensed their presence.
She needed an open area. Trapped in these narrow alleys, it was too easy for the pack to fall upon her, to overwhelm her.
At last, her boots drew her toward the Pantheon at the Piazza della Rotonda. The square was the closest patch of free ground. The gray light of the pearling sun lightened the shadows on the Pantheon’s rounded dome. The open eye of the oculum on top waited for the new day, blind in the dark.
Not like her. Not like them.
The Pantheon was once the home of many gods, but it was now a Catholic Church dedicated to only one . She avoided that sanctuary. The holy ground inside would weaken her—likewise those that hunted her—but after being reborn to this new strength, she refused to forsake it.
Instead, she kept to the open square in front.
On one side, a row of empty booths waited for daylight to transform them into a bustling Christmas marketplace. Their festive golden lights had been turned off, and large white canvas umbrellas dusted with frost protected empty tables. Elsewhere, restaurants stood lightless and shuttered, their diners long abed.
Behind her, shadows shifted at the edges of the square.
Knowing her time ran short, she hurried to the fountain in the center of the square. She rested her palms on the basin’s gray stone. Near at hand, a carved stone fish spat water into the pool below. In the center rose a slim obelisk. Its red granite had been quarried under the merciless Egyptian sun only to be dragged here by conquerors. Hieroglyphs had been cut in its four sides and reached to its conical tip: moons, birds, a sitting man. The language was old gibberish, as meaningless to her as the modern world. But the images, carved by long dead stonemasons, might yet save her this night.
Her gaze rose to the very top, to where the Church had mounted a cross to claim the power of these ancient gods.
Behind her came the squeak of leather, the scrape of cloth against cloth, the soft fall of hair from a turned head.
At last, the pack closed in.
Before any of them could reach her, she vaulted over the side of the basin and onto the obelisk, clinging like a cat. Her strong fingers found purchase in those ancient carvings: a palm, a moon, a feather, a falcon. She clambered upward, but as the pedestal grew thinner, the climbing grew harder. Fear pushed her to the very top.
Perched there, she braced herself against the searing pain and grabbed the cross with one hand. She spared a quick glance downward.
Shadows boiled up the obelisk like ants, befouling every inch of granite. Their clothes were tatters, their limbs skeletal, their hair matted and grimed. One beast tumbled back into the fountain with a splash, but others poured into the space it left.
Turning away, she glanced at the nearest house across the plaza and gathered her strength around her like a cloak.
Then leaped.
7:18 A.M.
Far below St. Peter’s Basilica, Rhun crawled on all fours down a dark tunnel, his head hanging so low his nose sometimes brushed the stone floor.
Still, he whispered prayers of thanks.
Erin was safe.
The urgency that had shattered him out of his agonizing prison had faded. Sheer will alone now drove him to lift each bloody hand, to drag each raw knee. Foot by foot, he crossed along the passageway, seeking light.
Taking a moment to rest, he leaned his shoulder against the stone wall. He touched his throat, remembering the wound, now healed. Elisabeta had taken so much of his blood. She had purposefully left him helpless but alive.
To suffer.
Agony had become her new art. He pictured the faces of the many young girls who died in her experiments. This dark
Her destination was far. Fearing they might attack before she reached it, she quickened her steps, but only a little, for she did not want them to know that she had sensed their presence.
She needed an open area. Trapped in these narrow alleys, it was too easy for the pack to fall upon her, to overwhelm her.
At last, her boots drew her toward the Pantheon at the Piazza della Rotonda. The square was the closest patch of free ground. The gray light of the pearling sun lightened the shadows on the Pantheon’s rounded dome. The open eye of the oculum on top waited for the new day, blind in the dark.
Not like her. Not like them.
The Pantheon was once the home of many gods, but it was now a Catholic Church dedicated to only one . She avoided that sanctuary. The holy ground inside would weaken her—likewise those that hunted her—but after being reborn to this new strength, she refused to forsake it.
Instead, she kept to the open square in front.
On one side, a row of empty booths waited for daylight to transform them into a bustling Christmas marketplace. Their festive golden lights had been turned off, and large white canvas umbrellas dusted with frost protected empty tables. Elsewhere, restaurants stood lightless and shuttered, their diners long abed.
Behind her, shadows shifted at the edges of the square.
Knowing her time ran short, she hurried to the fountain in the center of the square. She rested her palms on the basin’s gray stone. Near at hand, a carved stone fish spat water into the pool below. In the center rose a slim obelisk. Its red granite had been quarried under the merciless Egyptian sun only to be dragged here by conquerors. Hieroglyphs had been cut in its four sides and reached to its conical tip: moons, birds, a sitting man. The language was old gibberish, as meaningless to her as the modern world. But the images, carved by long dead stonemasons, might yet save her this night.
Her gaze rose to the very top, to where the Church had mounted a cross to claim the power of these ancient gods.
Behind her came the squeak of leather, the scrape of cloth against cloth, the soft fall of hair from a turned head.
At last, the pack closed in.
Before any of them could reach her, she vaulted over the side of the basin and onto the obelisk, clinging like a cat. Her strong fingers found purchase in those ancient carvings: a palm, a moon, a feather, a falcon. She clambered upward, but as the pedestal grew thinner, the climbing grew harder. Fear pushed her to the very top.
Perched there, she braced herself against the searing pain and grabbed the cross with one hand. She spared a quick glance downward.
Shadows boiled up the obelisk like ants, befouling every inch of granite. Their clothes were tatters, their limbs skeletal, their hair matted and grimed. One beast tumbled back into the fountain with a splash, but others poured into the space it left.
Turning away, she glanced at the nearest house across the plaza and gathered her strength around her like a cloak.
Then leaped.
7:18 A.M.
Far below St. Peter’s Basilica, Rhun crawled on all fours down a dark tunnel, his head hanging so low his nose sometimes brushed the stone floor.
Still, he whispered prayers of thanks.
Erin was safe.
The urgency that had shattered him out of his agonizing prison had faded. Sheer will alone now drove him to lift each bloody hand, to drag each raw knee. Foot by foot, he crossed along the passageway, seeking light.
Taking a moment to rest, he leaned his shoulder against the stone wall. He touched his throat, remembering the wound, now healed. Elisabeta had taken so much of his blood. She had purposefully left him helpless but alive.
To suffer.
Agony had become her new art. He pictured the faces of the many young girls who died in her experiments. This dark
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