Free Innocent Blood by James Rollins, Rebecca Cantrell Page B

swept through him. That face had been called many names over the centuries, worn many identities. But after two millennia he had returned to the one his mother had given him.
    Judas Iscariot.
    Though that name had become synonymous with betrayal, he had come full circle from denial to accepting that truth—especially after discovering the path to his own redemption. Centuries ago, he had finally discovered why Christ had cursed him with immortality.
    So he could do what he must do in the coming days.
    Shouldering this responsibility, he leaned his forehead against the cool glass. Once he had a manager who was so terrified of falling that he could not stand within six feet of the window.
    Judas had no such fear of falling. He had fallen to what should have been his death many times.
    He gazed through the glass to the city below, its glittering streets known for its decadence since before the time of Christ. Rome had always been ablaze at night, although white-hot electricity had long replaced the warm yellow fire of torches and candles.
    If his plan worked, all those lights would finally go dark.
    Glitter and fire were characteristics that modern people thought belonged to them, but man had brightened the world with his will long ago, too. Sometimes for advancement and sometimes triviality.
    Standing there, he remembered the sparkling balls he had attended, centuries of them, all the partygoers certain that they had reached the peak of glamour. With his looks and wealth, he had never lacked for invitations, nor for female companionship, but those companions had often demanded more than he had to give.
    He had watched too many lovers age and die, dimming any hope of lasting love.
    In the end, it had never been worth the price.
    Except once.
    He had attended a ball in medieval Venice where a woman had caught his eternal heart and showed him that love was worth any price. He stared down at the colored lights of the city until they blurred together and carried him into memory.
    Judas paused at the edge of the Venetian ballroom, letting the colors swirl in front of him. Crimson reds, deepest golds, indigos that matched the evening sea, blacks that ate the light, and the pearly radiance of bare shoulders. Nowhere did the women dress as brightly, and display as much skin, as in Venice.
    The ballroom looked much as it had one hundred years before. The only changes were the three new oil paintings hung on its stately walls. The paintings depicted stern or jolly members of this Venetian family, each dressed in stylish finery of their day. All were now long dead. At his right hand was a painting of Giuseppe, gone thirty years , his face frozen at forty by the oils and talent of a long dead painter. Giuseppe’s brown eyes, ready always for fun, belied the stern brow and stolid posturing. Judas had known him well, or as well as it was possible to know someone in ten years.
    That is all Judas allowed himself to stay in any one city. After that, people might wonder why he did not age. A man who did not wrinkle and die would be called a witch or worse. So he traveled north to south , east to west , in circles that widened as the edges of civilization spread. In some cities he played the recluse, in others the artist, in still others the gadabout. He tried on roles like cloaks. And wearied of each one.
    His stylish black leather boots crossed the wooden floor with practiced ease. He knew each creaky board, each almost imperceptible cove. A masked servant appeared with a tray laden with wineglasses. Judas took one, remembering the strength of his long-ago host’s cellar. He sipped, let the flavors caress his tongue—thankfully Giuseppe’s cellars had not gone into decline with his death. Judas emptied the glass and took another.
    In his other hand, hidden behind his back, his fingers clutched tightly around a narrow black object.
    He had come here for a purpose larger than this ball.
    He had come to mourn.
    He slipped between masked dancers