First 2 chapters of Rise of the Bloodline novel

1

Constantine delved into the top draw of the battered reading desk until he found the old Bible, its red leather faded and worn. He took it in his trembling hands, blood smearing on its cover from the wounds which had appeared in his wrists during the night.
He sat at the desk and closed his eyes, the chair creaking beneath him as he prayed. Snow fell beyond the window before him, gently brushing against the glass as pale light spilled into the room and his whispered words gathered about him, his misty breath hanging in the air, filled with reverence and a wish for guidance. The warm blood spread down his wrists and he heard the faint sound of drops beginning to fall to the deeply grained oak.
Opening his brown eyes, Constantine looked down at the drops of deep crimson which glistened dully on the wood as they congealed in the cold.
'What is happening to me?' he said, dark eyes turning to the carving of Jesus upon the cross which hung on the wall above his bed, which was a basic cot with blue covers stained and worn, binding holding one of the legs in place.
The wind picked up and rattled the window in its frame momentarily. A shiver ran down his spine. Constantine stared at the depiction of the crucifixion for a moment longer and then turned his gaze back to the Bible in his hands. He set it down on the desk and then studied his wrists, rolling up the sleeves of his blue, woollen shirt, blood staining the cuffs. He didn't believe the wounds were self-inflicted, could think of nothing which could have caused such deep holes.
He shook his head as the pain throbbed and his hands shook. Pushing the chair back, its feet scraping on the dusty floorboards, he stood and looked around the single room of the tiny woodland cottage.
Stepping over to the bed, Constantine tore strips from his bed cover and then sat on the edge of the cot as the wind rose again. He slowly wound the makeshift bandages around the mysterious wounds as feelings of numbing coldness began to overcome the fear and pain he'd felt upon waking to find the holes in his wrists.
He tied the ends of the bandages and then swung his legs up onto the bed and lay down. Staring at the ceiling and its cracked, pale paint, he felt the throbbing of the wounds, like a constant, nagging thought at the back of his mind which he was unable to escape. He was thankful the pain wasn't greater considering the extent of the injuries, something which added to their enigma.
Constantine shivered and rolled onto his side, took hold of the grimy bed cover and pulled it about his thin frame as best he could. He curled into a foetal position and listened as the wind rattled the window again as if it wished to gain entry, sure that he could hear the faint brushing of flakes on the pane.

2

'He will be coming soon,' hissed the man in the dark cloak as he knelt before the simple alter. Smoke snaked from numerous sticks of incense and the flames of candles danced like lost souls in drafts that circulated in the catacomb. The rough stone walls glistened with moisture as the others gathered in the small subterranean room looked from one to the other, shadows alive on their faces as the flames continued to flicker.
The man kneeling before them opened his sunken eyes and stared at the parchment before him, its age hinted at by browning corners as it sat entombed in a glass case, a black candle placed to either side, the flames of which shone brighter than any others in the room. 'The prophecy will be fulfilled.'
'Will we be able to control him?' asked a large man to the right, pale blue shirt beneath his dark suit tight about his stomach.
The man at the alter rose, his head almost touching the roof as he straightened to his full height of well over six feet. He turned to face the select few who were there with him, his face emaciated, thin, bloodless lips pulled back over white teeth. 'We must kill him.'
The flames of the candles flickered violently and then suddenly went still as if frozen in time, the world holding its breath.
The people gathered before the man slowly nodded their agreement and the flames danced once more.
'Isn't there any way we can approach him first and try to harness his power?' asked the portly man.
The shadowy figure shook his bald head, a few thin, pale strands of hair hanging about his ears like wisps of smoke. The tightness of his skin over high cheekbones was exaggerated by the candlelight. 'We cannot risk him attaining his true power. He must be killed as soon as he shows himself to us.'
'How?' asked a young man with a long, pale face, his blue eyes piercing as he stood in the centre of the group wearing a black biker jacket and jeans.
'By any means necessary. It is of no matter how he dies, so long as he does so. We must not let the bloodline rise.'
'And when it is done?' asked the young man.
'And when it is done we will rise in the bloodline's stead and the clouds will gather as darkness spreads over the land, the last of the Holy Offspring rotting in the grave.'
The young man nodded, the corners of his mouth turned into a thin smile. 'Our time will have come.'
The skeletal man fixed him with a hard stare. 'First we must find him before anyone else discovers who he really is. Listen and watch for any sign of him walking among us.'
'What if the descendents find him first?'
His sunken eyes turned to the portly man, black and glittering within the deep shadows of their sockets. 'Then they will suffer his fate.'