He made it in just three steps.
The grenade coughed behind him, a giant, barking wheeze that blew a dusty fireball across his back. His head clipped the edge of a wall as he fell to the floor.
Dazed, vision swimming, he flopped over to his back.
Feet pounded down the steps toward him.
He lay flat, unmoving.
The air tasted of sand and smoke—then a breeze suffused the passageway. A sweet, clean waft of desert air.
“I’ve got him.” The soldier hooked Rhun under the armpits and dragged him across the sand-strewn floor.
The woman ran ahead. “Look! The force of the grenade blast rolled the stone two feet to the side. Why didn’t I think of that? They’d sealed this place just like Christ’s tomb.”
“… rolled a stone unto the door of the sepulcher,” he mumbled, fading in and out.
Of course she recognized what he’d done.
He felt himself dragged past the blackened stone and out into the open air. He looked up. The stars were bright, razor-sharp, eternal. Those stars had watched Masada being built, and now they bore witness to its destruction.
A great crescendo of grating stone and booming rock sounded as the mountain collapsed, utterly.
Then at long last, silence.
Still, Erin and Jordan continued to haul the priest far out into the desert, not taking any chances. But finally they stopped.
A warm hand squeezed Rhun’s shoulder. He caught a glimpse of amber eyes. “Thank you, Father, for saving our lives.”
Such simple words. Words he rarely heard. As a soldier of God, he often went for days without speaking to another soul. That earlier ache—as he watched the pair embrace on the stairs—returned, only slicing deeper now, almost too painful to bear. He stared into those eyes.
Would I feel this way if she weren’t so lovely?
As darkness drowned him, she leaned closer. “Father Korza, what book were you looking for here?”
She and the soldier had fought, killed, and had friends die because of the book. Had they not earned an answer? For that reason alone, he told her.
“It is the Gospel. Written in the blood of its maker.”
Behind her, stars framed her face. “What do you mean? Are you talking about some lost apocryphal text?”
He heard the hunger in her voice, the desire for knowledge, but she did not seem to understand. He turned his heavy head to meet her eyes directly. She had to see his sincerity.
“It is the Gospel,” he repeated as darkness took away the world. “Written by Christ’s own hand. In his own blood.”
PART II
Jesus did many other miraculous signs in the presence of his disciples, which are not recorded in this book.
—John 20:30
13
October 26, 6:48 P.M., IST
Airborne over Masada, Israel
The Eurocopter spiraled over the smoking caldera that was Masada. The pilot fought thermals rising from the desert as the dark sands slowly released the sun’s heat. The blades churned the rock dust, engines whining as they sucked the fouled air.
The helicopter suddenly bumped and banked hard left, coming close to throwing Bathory out the open bay door. She held tight to a railing and stared below. A fire still raged atop the blasted summit. She could feel the heat on her face, as if she were staring into the sun. She closed her eyes, and for a moment imagined a youthful summer day at her country estate along the Drava River in her rural Hungary, sitting in the garden, watching her younger brother, Istvan, play, chasing butterflies with his tiny net.
A groan drew her attention back into the cabin, the interruption piquing her irritation. She turned to the young corporal lying on the floor, whose pale face and pinprick pupils spoke of his deep shock.
Tarek knelt on his shoulders while his brother, Rafik, carved into the man’s chest with the point of a dagger, idly, as if bored. Afterward, he absently licked the blade, as if wetting the tip of a pen, ready to continue his writing.
“Don’t,” she warned.
Tarek glanced hard at her, one corner of his lip curling in anger, showing teeth. Rafik lowered his dagger. His ferret eyes darted between his brother and Bathory, his face lighting with the delight of what might happen.
“I have one last question for him,” she said, staring Tarek down.
She met the animal’s gaze. To her, that was all Tarek and Rafik were—animals.
Tarek finally backed down and waved his brother away.
She took Rafik’s place. She placed a palm on the soldier’s cheek. He looked so much like Istvan. It was why she forbade them from marring his face. He stared up at her, piteous, nearly blind with pain, barely in this world.
“I made you a promise,” she said, leaning close as if to kiss his lips. “One last question and you’ll be free.”
His eyes met hers.
“Erin Granger, the archaeologist.”
She let that name sink through his stupor. He’d already talked, spilling forth most everything he knew as they escaped the crumbling, fiery summit of Masada. She would have left him there to die with his brothers-in-arm, but she needed to squeeze everything she could out of this man, no matter the cruelty. She had learned long ago the practicality of cruelty.
“You said Dr. Granger worked with some students.”
She remembered the woman she’d viewed via the ROV’s camera. The archaeologist had been waving her cell phone, clearly attempting to reach the outside world. But for what? Had she been taking pictures? Discovered some clue?
Likely not, but before Bathory left the region, she must be absolutely certain.
The corporal’s pupils fixed to her, agonized, knowing what she intended.
“Where are they?” she asked. “Where was Dr. Granger’s dig?”
A tear flowed, touching her palm where it rested against his cheek.
For a moment—just a fleeting breath—she hoped he wouldn’t say.
But he did. His lips moved. She leaned an ear to hear the single word.
Caesarea.
She straightened, already beginning to plan in her head. Rafik stared intently at her, desire ripe in his eyes. He liked pretty things. His fingers tightened on his dagger.
She ignored him and stroked hair back from the corporal’s white forehead.
So like Istvan …
She leaned down, kissed his cheek, and slipped her own blade across his throat. Dark blood spurted. A small gasp brushed her ear.
When she straightened, she found his eyes already dull.
Free at last.
“None will touch his body,” she warned the others as she stood.
Rafik and Tarek stared at her, not comprehending such a waste.
Ignoring them, she took a seat and leaned her head back. She did not need to explain herself to the likes of them. With her back against the rear cargo hold, she sensed a stirring back there, a heavy shifting. She reached up and placed a palm on the bulkhead.
Calm yourself, she thought, casting out her will, bathed in reassurance. Everything is fine.
He settled, but she still felt his agitation, mirroring her own. He must have sensed the distress in her heart a moment ago.
Or maybe it was because his twin was missing.
She stared out the window, down at the desert.
The twin had been sent out to hunt.
She had to be sure.
Sanguinists were hard to kill.
14
October 26, 7:11 P.M., IST
Desert beyond Masada, Israel
Deep in thought, Erin cradled the head of the unconscious priest in her lap. Starlight twinkled above, a sickle moon scraped at the horizon, and a soft evening breeze whispered sand down the faces of dunes.
She studied the man’s face, his head resting on her knees.
Is it possible?
The priest claimed that Christ had written a Gospel. Surely he must have been raving. He had a goose egg on the right side of his head, near th
e temple.
She touched his icy brow. “Jordan!”
The soldier stood a few steps away, scanning the desert, standing guard against any pursuers—or maybe he needed time to think, too. Or mourn.
He turned to her.
“I think he’s going into shock,” she said. “He’s gone so cold and pale.”
Jordan came and crouched next to her. Unlike the priest, warmth radiated from his body.
“Guy was already pale,” he said. “Probably lives in a library and works out at night.”
She took in Jordan’s appearance. Even covered in soot and grime, he was an attractive man. She tried not to remember how safe she had felt in his arms back in the tunnel, how natural it was to fold against him, how the musky smell of him had enveloped her as warmly as his body. She could not forget the soft kiss atop her head. She had pretended not to notice, while secretly wanting more. But that moment, born of desperation and the fear of certain death, was over.
The priest’s head moved in her lap. She looked down at him again.
Jordan reached out and gently parted the bloody shreds of his shirt, examining the wounds beneath. The white of the priest’s well-muscled chest looked like marble against Jordan’s tanned skin. A silver pectoral cross, about the size of her palm, hung from a black silk cord and rested over the priest’s heart atop a scrap of shirt that had not been shredded.
Inscribed on the cross were the words Munire digneris me.
She translated the beginning of the prayer: Deign to fortify me.
“Guy took a beating,” Jordan diagnosed.
With his skin bared, the severity of his wounds became clear. Lacerations crisscrossed his flesh, gently weeping.
“How much blood did he lose?” she asked.
“Not too much. Most of his wounds look superficial.”
She winced.
“Painful,” he admitted. “But not life-threatening.”
Still, a shiver shook through her—but not from worry. It was already much colder as the desert quickly lost its heat.
Jordan dug a small first-aid kit from his pocket and went to work on the priest’s head. She smelled alcohol as he pulled out a wipe.
He raised a bigger health concern regarding the priest. “I’m more worried about that knock he took when the grenade exploded. He could have a concussion or a fractured skull.”
Jordan stripped off his camouflage jacket and spread it over the priest’s limp body. “He seemed pretty coherent a minute ago when you two were talking. Still, we need to get him some real medical care soon.”
Erin stared down at Father Korza.
Rhun, she reminded herself.
His first name suited him better. It was softer, and hinted at darker mysteries. Atop the shreds of his shirt he wore a Roman clerical collar of white linen, not the plastic worn by most modern priests.
Now that he was unconscious, his face had relaxed from its stern planes. His lips were fuller than she’d first thought, his chiseled features more pronounced. Dark umber hair hung in wavy locks over his brow, down to his round collar. She smoothed them off his face.
Worry burned brighter at the icy feel of his skin.
Would he wake up? Or die like Heinrich?
Jordan coughed. She drew her hand back. Rhun was a priest, and she should not be playing with his hair.
“What about your radio?” she said, rubbing her palms together. She had lost her cell phone. It was now entombed somewhere inside that mountain. Jordan had been fiddling with his handset earlier. “Any luck reaching someone?”
“No.” Jordan’s face tightened with concern. “Its case got cracked. With time, I might get it working.”
Goose bumps ran down Jordan’s bare arms from the cold. Still, he tucked his coat more securely around Rhun.
“What’s the plan, then?” she asked.
He flashed a quick grin. “I thought you made the plans.”
“I thought I was supposed to ask how high and then jump. Weren’t those your orders?”
He looked back at the collapsed mountain, and a shadow passed across his face. “Those under my orders didn’t fare so well.”
She kept her voice low. “I don’t see what you could have done differently.”
“Maybe if this one,” he said, jerking a thumb toward the unconscious priest, “had told us what we were dealing with, we might have stood a better chance.”
“He came down to warn us.”
Jordan grimaced. “He came down to find that book. He had plenty of time to warn us before we went down, or to warn the men topside that those monsters were coming. But he didn’t.”
She found herself defending the priest, since the man couldn’t do it himself. “Still, he did fight to get us out of there. And he got us into that sarcophagus during the explosion.”
“Maybe he just needed our help to get the hell out of there.”
“Maybe.” She gestured across the wide expanse of sand. “But what do we do next?”
His face was stony. “For now, I think it’s best if he’s not moved. It’s about all we can do for him: keep him warm and quiet. After that explosion, rescue teams must be coming here from all directions. We should stay put. They’ll find us soon enough.”
He moved aside the coat and felt across Rhun’s body.
“What are you doing?”
“Looking for identification. I want to know who this guy really is. He’s certainly no ordinary priest.”
Erin felt bad at mugging the priest while he was unconscious, but she had to admit that she was just as curious.
Jordan didn’t discover any driver’s license or passport, but he did draw Rhun’s knife from a wrist sheath. He also discovered a leather water flask buttoned in a thigh pocket.
He unscrewed the cap and took a swig.
Thirsty, too, Erin held out her hand, wanting a drink.
Jordan twisted up his face and sniffed at the opening of the flask. “That’s not water.”
She frowned.
“It’s wine.”
Wine?
She took the flask and sipped. He was right.
“This guy gets stranger and stranger,” Jordan said. “I mean look at this.”
He lifted Rhun’s knife, the curved blade shaped like a crescent. It shone silver in the moonlight.
And maybe it was silver, like the bolts that had nailed the girl to the wall.
“The weapon’s called a karambit,” Jordan said.
He hooked a finger in a ring at the base of the hilt and demonstrated with fast flicks of his wrist how the weapon could be deployed in several different positions.
She looked away, flashing back to the battle, blood flying from that blade.
“Strange weapon for a priest,” he said.
To her, it was the least strange part of the night.
But Jordan wasn’t done. “Not only because most holy men don’t normally carry knives, but because of its origin. The weapon is from Indonesia. The style goes back more than eight hundred years. The ancient Sudanese copied the blade’s shape from the claws of a tiger.”
She looked at Rhun, remembering his skill.
Like his name, the weapon fit him.
“But here’s the oddest detail.” He held the knife where she could see it. “From the patina, I’d say this blade is at least a hundred years old.”
They both stared at the priest.
“Maybe far older.” Jordan’s voice dropped to a conspiratorial whisper. “What if he’s one of them?”
“One of whom?”
He raised one blond eyebrow.
She understood what he was implying. “A strigoi?”
“You saw how he lifted that crypt’s lid?” His voice held a challenge.
She accepted it. “He could’ve been riding a surge of adrenaline. Like women lifting cars off babies. I don’t know, but I rode from Caesarea with him. In broad daylight. You met him on Masada’s summit while the sun was still up.”
“Maybe these strigoi can g
o out in sunlight. Hell, we don’t know anything about them.” Fury and loss marked his face. “All I know for sure is that I don’t trust him. If Korza had warned us in time, more than three of us would be standing here.”
She put a hand on Jordan’s warm forearm, but he shrugged it off and stood.
She stared down at the man in her lap, remembering his last revelation.
It is the Gospel. Written by Christ’s own hand. In his own blood.
If this was true, what did it imply?
Questions burned through her: What revelations could be hidden within the pages of this lost Gospel? Why did the strigoi want it so badly? And more important, why did the Church hide it here?
Jordan must have read her train of thought.
“And that book,” he said. “The one that got so many good men killed. I’m pretty sure there are only four Gospels in the Bible. Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John.”
Erin shook her head, happy to return to a subject she knew something about. “Actually, there are many more Gospels. The Dead Sea Scrolls alone contain bits of a dozen different ones. From various sources. From Mary, Thomas, Peter, even Judas. Only four made it into the Bible. But none of those hint at Christ writing His own book.”
“Then maybe the Church purged them. Wiped away any references.” He set his chin. “We now know how good the Church is at keeping secrets.”
It made a certain sense.
With no references, no hints of its existence, no one would search for it.
She glanced up at Jordan, surprised again at his sharpness, even when he was overwhelmed by emotion.
“Which makes me wonder,” he continued. “If I was the Church and I had an ancient document written by Jesus Christ, I’d be waving that thing around for all to see. So why did Saint Peter bury it here? What was he hiding?”
Besides the existence of strigoi? She didn’t bother voicing that question. It was only one among so many.
Jordan turned to the priest. He held the blade threateningly. “There’s one person who has the answers.”
Rhun jerked, sitting straight up. His eyes took in them both.
Had he overheard them?
The Blood Gospel Page 12