We are too late.
Erin’s throat closed.
But the sibyl touched his pale face, and color bloomed there, spreading from her fingertips, promising at least hope for the boy.
Arella lifted his head from the stone, cradling his neck, exposing a bright silver shard that pierced his pale throat, blood seeping from the wound. Her other hand cast a corner of the net free. It looked as if it had already been ripped loose. Her arm slipped within and gently eased the boy’s thin body out.
But the darkness was not about to let its prey escape so easily. As she gathered him up and stood, darkness coalesced into black claws that drove themselves deep into her light, ripping and shredding.
Arella gasped, falling to a knee.
The back of her dress tore, revealing black scratches across her shoulders.
Erin reached to help, but her arms fell, and she knew that there was nothing she could do.
Arella struggled back to her feet, lifting the boy in her arms. Her golden light was dimmer now, eaten away at the edges into a tattered lace. She hunched against the storm, as it grew ever fiercer about her. The cloud closed tighter, trying to stifle her glow, ripping at her like a shredding ice storm.
Arella took a halting step, then another.
She seemed to concentrate the last of her glow around the boy, leaving herself defenseless against the onslaught.
She took yet another step—then finally fell out of the darkness, onto her knees, cradling the boy in her lap. Her dress was rags, her skin mottled with black pocks and dark scratches, her black hair gone a ghostly white.
Erin rushed forward as the woman toppled to her side. She grabbed Tommy by the armpits and hauled his limp form farther away from the darkness.
Jordan scooped up Arella and did the same.
“We need to get them out of here,” Erin said. “As far from this foul place as possible.”
By now, the fighting had ended in the room.
Any remaining strigoi seemed to have fled along with Iscariot’s retreat.
Rhun and Bernard joined her, but the countess pushed between them, coming swiftly to the boy’s side.
“His heart,” Elizabeth said, her eyes truly scared. “It weakens.”
Rhun nodded, as if hearing the same.
“He cannot heal with this still in him,” Elizabeth warned.
Before anyone could urge caution, the countess grasped the shard, pulled it from the boy’s neck, and hurled it across the room. Blood continued to flow from Tommy’s wound.
“Why isn’t he healing?” Erin asked.
They turned toward the discarded blade.
From a tunnel near its resting place, a figure appeared, melting out of the darkness.
Iscariot glared at them with a cold fury.
He then gazed at the drape of Arella on the ground and quickly recovered the shard from the floor. Distracted by grief, Iscariot cut himself on the blade. It sliced into his finger, which spilled golden drops of light instead of blood.
With a cry of shock, he fell back.
Jordan fired at him, sparking rounds off the stone.
Rhun rushed forward, sweeping across the room with the speed only a Sanguinist could muster, his karambit flashing silver in the torchlight.
Then Iscariot was grabbed and thrown back into the tunnel.
And another came out to confront Rhun in his stead.
8:06 A.M.
Rhun drew to a sudden stop, frozen by shock and disbelief. He stared at the monk, at the familiar brown robe, tied with a rosary, his spectacled countenance looking forever boyish.
“Brother Leopold?”
Back from the dead.
Leopold lifted a sword, his face set and severe.
Rhun gaped at him. His mind tried to explain Leopold’s actions, the fact that he still lived. A thousand explanations flitted through Rhun’s head, but he knew each one to be false. He must face the harsh truth.
Here stood the Sanguinist traitor, the one who had been in league with Iscariot all along.
How many deaths lay at the feet of this one, someone he called friend?
Faces and names flashed through Rhun’s silent heart. All those he had mourned. Others he barely knew. He pictured the train engineer and his coworker.
But one name, more than any, ignited the fury inside him.
“Nadia died because of you.”
Leopold had the good graces to look pained, but he still found justification. “All wars have casualties. Better than you and I, she knew this and accepted it.”
Rhun could not stomach such platitudes. “When did you begin to betray the order? How long have you been a traitor?”
“I have always served a higher purpose. Before I took my Sanguinist vows, before I drank my first cup of Christ’s blood, I was already set on this path by the Damnatus. To help bring Christ back to the earth.”
Rhun frowned. How could that be? Why was Leopold not burned like other strigoi who sought to deceive the order by swearing false oaths?
Rhun found his answer in the shine of devotion in the other’s eyes.
Leopold had not sworn falsely when he took his vows. With all his heart, he had believed he was serving Christ.
“We mourned you,” Rhun said. “We buried your rosary with full honor in the Sanctuary, as if you had fallen in service to Him.”
“I do serve Him,” Leopold said firmly. “If I did not, why does consecrated wine still bless me even now?”
Rhun faltered. Was Leopold’s devotion that absolute?
“You must see the truth of my words,” Leopold pleaded. “You can join us. He will welcome you.”
Astonishment filled Rhun. “You wish me to leave the Church and join this betrayer of Christ? A man who joins forces with the strigoi?”
“Have you not done the same with the strigoi?” Leopold motioned to Elizabeth. “The heart must follow what it knows is right.”
Rhun was stunned—which was what Leopold in all his cunning had wanted.
He lunged at Rhun, swiftly, savagely, leading with his sword.
Rhun pivoted at the last moment, his instincts reacting faster than his mind. Leopold’s sword sliced his side, through his armor, cutting to his ribs. Reacting as heedlessly, Rhun slashed out with his karambit.
Leopold stumbled back and dropped his sword. He clutched his throat, blood pouring through his fingers. He fell to his knees, knocking his glasses askew. Still, his eyes remained on Rhun—shining not with anger, nor with sorrow, only devotion.
46
December 20, 8:09 A.M. CET
Cumae, Italy
With a hand at her throat and tears in her eyes, Erin watched Leopold’s body slump to the ground. She remembered a gentler man, the studious crinkle to his eyes, his wry self-deprecating humor. She pictured waking in the tunnels below Rome, sure she was dead, only to find him gripping her hand, using his medical skills to revive her.
The man had saved her life.
Yet his secrets had killed so many.
Suddenly the ground gave a violent quake, as if a fist had slammed into the floor beneath their feet. The black cloud around the altar writhed and churned, shredding and whipping. The gnash of rock and rumble of falling boulders echoed from all the tunnels.
“Time to move, people!” Jordan yelled.
Erin helped Elizabeth with Tommy as they fled for the bridge. Rhun led the way, while Bernard and Jordan followed with Arella slung between them. The ground continued to tremble. Ahead, a crack skittered across the arch of rock spanning the river, which splashed higher from its stone banks.
“Hurry!” Erin cried out.
They sprinted. Elizabeth quickly outdistanced her, even while burdened with the boy. She swept over the bridge, passing even Rhun who raced now at her heels. They joined the handful of Sanguinists guarding the tunnels back to the surface, meeting Christian there.
Erin ran, hitting the steamy wall of sulfurous heat, scorching after the chill of the cavern. She feared the slipperiness of the rock,
but she did not slow—especially as a chunk of the bridge fell away, splashing into the boil below. More cracks skittered underfoot.
Suddenly a large quake sent her sprawling. At her fingertips, the span ahead of her fell away. She measured the impossible gap as a roil of steam and water blasted up from below.
Then Rhun came winging through it like a dark crow. He landed next to her, scooped her to her feet, then into his arms, and leaped headlong over the gap. He crashed with her on the far side, taking the impact on his shoulder and rolling her to safety.
Jordan . . .
Bernard came leaping over with the sibyl in his arms. Jordan sailed next to them. Both men landed on their feet—though Jordan had to skip several steps to keep his balance.
Behind them, the entire span cracked into pieces and crumbled into the river.
Heat and steam parched Erin’s skin and burned her lungs.
“Keep going!” Bernard commanded.
As a group, they raced back through the maze. Nagging fears chased her ever upward. She felt the continuing trembles underfoot. She pictured the darkness churning below. Why wasn’t it stopping?
Were they too late?
Were the gates of Hell still opening?
8:15 A.M.
Rhun rushed alongside Elisabeta as she carried Tommy in her arms, the prophesied First Angel. He remembered her calling out to him as he first entered the cold cavern.
Save the boy!
He knew from the anguish in her voice that it had not been prophecy that had fueled her need to protect the boy. She cradled Tommy against her chest, her mouth set in a worried line. The boy’s heartbeat stumbled along, weak but determined, matching Elisabeta’s expression. Rhun watched her every step, ready to catch her if she faltered. Blood seeped from a thousand cuts, but she seemed to draw from a well of strength far deeper than just that of a strigoi.
It was that of a mother resolved to save her child at any cost.
Erin and Jordan followed them, trailed by the cardinal, who carried the dark-skinned woman. He remembered the golden light spilling from her, remembering Bernard’s belief that she was an angel. Still, she clearly knew Iscariot and had some relationship with him. But why would an angel seek out the Betrayer of Christ?
Why would anyone?
Rhun stared down at the blood staining his sleeve.
Leopold’s blood.
So much remained unknown.
Finally, they reached the tunnel’s end and escaped through the nest of boulders to the beach. The sky remained black, hiding the sun. He glanced to Elisabeta. For now she remained safe from this hidden day. But she fell to her knees with the boy in the sand. The risen sun still plainly taxed her, sapping even her great strength.
Rhun searched the sky. The smoke had spread to the horizon. Whatever Iscariot had set in motion, taking the First Angel from the temple had not stopped it.
Looking equally worried, Bernard joined them and lowered the woman to the sand. She did not open her eyes, but one arm moved feebly, brushing at her face as if to remove cobwebs.
She still lived.
Elisabeta gently placed the boy near her, resting his head on the sand, examining the wound on his throat. It continued to seep blood, though perhaps slightly less. But was that because he was healing or simply running out of life?
Elisabeta held his hand. Rhun had no doubt that she would kill anyone who tried to harm the boy. He remembered her fierce protectiveness of her own children, even while she murdered the children of others. Her loyalties were inexplicable to him.
Wind stirred her cloak and a shaft of filtered daylight fell upon her cheek. Rhun rushed toward her, but her skin did not burn. Evidently, there was enough foul ash shrouding the air to allow strigoi to walk under this dread sky.
He pictured the ash cloud circling the world, waking horrors long slumbering in crypts, graves, and other sunless places.
Elisabeta sensed this change, too, lifting her face to the gray sky. Even overcast with ash, it was the first daylight sky she had looked upon with her naked eyes in centuries. She examined it for a long moment before returning her attention to the wounded boy in the sand.
Bernard stepped to Tommy’s other side. He shed his suit jacket and unbuttoned his bloodstained white shirt, revealing his hidden armor. He unzipped a waterproof compartment over his heart and pulled free a simple leather-bound book.
Rhun gaped at what he held.
It was the Blood Gospel.
8:21 A.M.
Spotting the Gospel in Bernard’s hands, Erin knelt by the boy’s head. She sensed the centuries of prophecy weighing down upon his pale brow. Ash settled into his hair, still boyishly soft. More flakes landed on his cheeks and lips. She reached and wiped them away, leaving an iron-rust smudge across his skin.
He did not move under her touch, his breathing shallow and too slow.
Christian joined her.
“What’s wrong with him?” Erin asked. “In Stockholm, he recovered much more quickly. Why isn’t Tommy healing now?”
“I don’t know,” Bathory whispered softly, glancing at her, grief shining in her eyes, catching Erin by surprise at its depth. “But I heard Iscariot say that blade he used could slay angels. Even now, I hear his young heart continuing to fade. It must be something about that knife.”
The countess stroked hair back from the boy’s forehead.
Bernard dropped to a knee. “Let me put the Gospel in Tommy’s hands,” he said. “Perhaps its grace will save him.”
Bathory scowled at him. “You place your hope in another holy book, priest? Has the other served us so well?”
Still, the countess did not resist as Bernard drew the boy’s hands to his chest. Even she knew any hope was better than none at all.
Bernard reverentially placed the book into his hands. As leather touched skin, the cover glowed golden for a brief breath, then went dark.
Tommy’s eyelids fluttered open. “Mom . . . ?”
The countess leaned over him, a tear falling to the boy’s cheek. “It’s Elizabeth, my brave boy,” she said. “We are free.”
“Open the book, son,” Bernard urged. “And save the world.”
Prophecy echoed through Erin.
The trio of prophecy must bring the book to the First Angel for his blessing . . .
She stared from Rhun, to Jordan, to Bathory.
Tommy struggled to sit, to fulfill his role, too.
Bathory helped him up, letting his thin back lean against her side, treating him ever so gently.
Tommy settled the book in his lap and opened it to the first page. He leaned down weakly, struggling to read the ancient words in Greek found there.
“What does it say?” he asked hoarsely.
Erin recited the words for him. “A great War of the Heavens looms. For the forces of goodness to prevail, a Weapon must be forged of this Gospel written in my own blood. The trio of prophecy must bring the book to the First Angel for his blessing. Only thus may they secure salvation for the world.”
As they watched, waiting, ash fell on the opened pages.
Nothing else transpired.
Tommy looked up at the roiling sky, then out to the choppy leaden sea. “What else am I supposed to do?” he asked, sounding so lost and forlorn.
“You are the First Angel,” Rhun said softly. “You are destined to bless this book.”
Tommy blinked ash away from his long lashes, looking doubtfully at him. He turned to the one person he plainly trusted most.
To Bathory.
The countess wiped blood from his throat, revealing the wound was still present. Worry filled her voice, grasping for any hope. “It may be so.”
“I’m not an angel.” Tommy scowled. “There’s no such thing as angels.”
Bathory grinned at him, showing the barest points of sharp teeth. “If there are monsters in the world, why not angels?”
Tommy sighed, his eyes rolling a bit—not from disdain but growing weakness. He was clearly fading ag
ain.
Bathory touched a palm to his cheek. “Whether you believe or not, what harm is it to abide their wishes, to bless this accursed book?”
Bernard gripped his shoulder. “Please, try.”
Tommy gave a defeated shake of his head and lifted a palm over the open pages of the Gospel. His hand trembled with even this small effort. “I bless . . . this book.”
Again they waited as ash fell, and the ground still trembled.
No miracle presented itself. No golden light, no new words.
Uneasiness rose in Erin.
They had missed something—but what?
Jordan frowned. “Maybe he needs to say some special prayer.”
Christian surveyed the blasted landscape. “Or maybe it’s this cursed place.”
Bernard stiffened and grasped Christian’s arm in thanks. “Of course! The Blood Gospel could only be transfigured above the holy bones of Peter in St. Peter’s Basilica. We must take the boy to Rome. Only there must the book be blessed!”
Tommy suddenly slumped against the countess, his brief strength blowing out like a spent candle. A drop of blood rolled from his wound, still unhealed.
“He will never make it to Rome,” Bathory said. “I can barely sense his heartbeat.”
Rhun glanced at Erin, confirming this.
A small sigh drew Erin’s attention past her shoulder, to where Arella lay in the sand. The woman had rolled to her side, but now fell again to her back, but not before her eyes glowed at Erin, full of the same sadness seen in the drawing, the same sorrow as she had looked upon Iscariot.
Erin understood that message, the one not heeded by Judas.
You are wrong.
As if the sibyl knew she was understood, her eyes finally closed, and her body went slack.
Worried, Erin shifted next to her and took her hand, finding it warm. She noted damp sand covering her fingertips. A glance to her side—where Arella had been leaning—revealed a symbol drawn in the sand.
It was a torch—hastily drawn, shaded with the ash, depicting a bundle of rushes, bound and set aflame.
Behind her, Bernard said, “We can bandage the boy here, put pressure on his wound en route. He will . . . he must survive the flight to Rome.”
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