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death.
    Still not knowing what to do with it, she turned her thoughts back to Nate. Back in Rome, she had saved Nate’s life, and now she would do what she could to save his career, no matter how angry that made him. Hopefully Nate would be more resigned to her request by the time she got to the stable. Either way, she would send him an e-mail later this evening with her list of names. They were solid archaeologists, and her recommendation would carry weight with them.
    Nate would be all right.
    And the farther he got away from her, the better off he would be.
    Resigned and resolved, she patted Blackjack’s neck. “Let’s get you some oats and a good rubdown. How’d you like that?”
    Blackjack’s ear flicked back. He suddenly tensed under her.
    Without thinking, she tightened her knees.
    Blackjack snorted and danced sideways, rolling his eyes.
    Something had him spooked.
    Erin took in the open grasslands with one quick sweep. To her right stretched a shadowy stand of live oaks, their branches hung with clouds of silvery mistletoe. Anything could be hidden inside there.
    From the tree line, she heard crack!, as the snap of a twig cut across the quiet evening.
    She drew her pistol from the ankle holster and clicked off the safety, searching the live oaks for a target. But it was too dark to see anything. With her heart thundering in her ears, she cast a glance toward the distant stables.
    Nate was probably there by now.
    Blackjack suddenly reared, almost tossing her from the saddle. She leaned low over his neck as he tore away toward the stables. She didn’t try to slow or stop him.
    Fear tightened her vision, while she struggled to search in all directions. She tasted blood on her tongue as she bit her lip.
    Then the smell of wine filled her nostrils.
    No , no , no . . .
    She fought to keep from slipping away, sensing another attack coming on. Panic tightened her grip on Blackjack’s reins. If she lost control now, she’d pitch to the ground.
    Then came a worse terror.
    A low growl rumbled out of the night, rolling across the hills toward her. The guttural cry rose from no natural throat, but something horrid—
    —and close.

5
    December 19, 2:02 A.M. CET
    Crypts below Vatican City
     
    Rhun lurched up and away. His head smashed against smooth stone. The blow opened a wound on his temple and knocked him back into the scalding bath of wine with a splash. He had awakened like this many times, trapped inside a stone sarcophagus, his body half submerged in wine—wine that had been blessed and consecrated into Christ’s blood.
    His cursed flesh burned in that holiness, floating in a sea of red pain. Part of him wanted to fight it, but another part of him knew that he had earned it. He had sinned centuries ago, and now he had found his true penance.
    But how much time had passed?
    Hours, days, years?
    The pain refused to abate. He had sinned much, so he must be punished much. Then he could rest. His body craved rest—an end to pain, an end to sin.
    Still, as he felt himself slipping away, he fought against it, sensing he must not surrender. He had a duty.
    But to what?
    He forced his eyes to stay open, to face a blackness even his preternatural vision could not pierce. Agony continued to rack his weakened body, but he beat it back with faith.
    He reached a hand for the heavy silver cross he always wore on his breast—and found only wet cloth. He remembered. Someone had stolen his crucifix, his rosary, all the proofs of his faith. But he did not need them to reach the heavens. He breathed another prayer into the silence and pondered his fate.
    Where am I? When . . .
    He had a weight of years behind him, more than humans could fathom.
    Lifetimes of sin and service.
    The memories plagued him as he hung within that burning sea. He drifted into and out of them.
    . . . a horse cart stuck in the mud. He shoved bark under the wooden wheels while his sister laughed at him , her long braids flying from side to