Nate turned away, stepped over to the table, and dumped his cell phone beside the laptop. “What’s the use? I tried calling them over and over. Still busy. Even tried the local police. Can’t get any word on where Dr. Granger was taken.”
Amy pointed to the ongoing report on the screen. “What if she was flown to Masada? Reports are saying aftershocks brought the whole mountain down.”
“Quit thinking the worst. Dr. Granger could be anywhere. You’d think if the professor had time to send us those weird pics, she could’ve at least texted us, told us where she was.”
“Maybe she wasn’t allowed to. That Israeli soldier had her on a short leash. But from that photo of the open sarcophagus, it definitely looked like she was exploring some ransacked tomb.”
In the darkness, Bathory smiled, picturing the archaeologist desperately waving her cell phone. So she had been transmitting photos, something she had considered important, possibly some clue to the whereabouts of the book.
In the dark, Bathory stroked the bandage on her arm, reminding herself that Hunor had died in pursuit of the secret that those pictures might reveal. Cold anger sharpened her senses, focused her mind, drove back the deep ache in her blood.
“I’m going back to my tent,” Nate said. “Going to try to take a nap for a couple hours, then I’ll see if I can reach anyone after all this quake hubbub dies down. You should, too. Something tells me it’s going to be a long night.”
“I don’t want to be alone.” Amy looked up from her computer at him. “First Heinrich, now no word from the professor … I’ll never sleep.”
Bathory heard the invitation behind her words, but Nate seemed oblivious to it. A pity. It would have made it much easier to steal the laptops and their phones if they were both gone. Such a loss would not be uncommon at this remote camp, dismissed as simple theft.
Instead, she sized the pair up. Nate was tall, well built, handsome enough. She could see why Amy liked having him near.
She herself understood the comfort of a warm male beside you, sharing your bed, picturing poor Farid. Her fingers slipped to her belt and pulled out the Arab’s dagger, stolen after she killed him. Even in this small way, Farid was still useful to her.
She stepped back, considering the best way to flush the pair out—or at least separate them. She glanced around the campsite, heard the distant nickering of horses, and smiled.
A quick whisper in Magor’s ear, and the wolf loped silently toward the stables.
8:34 P.M.
Racked by guilt, Nate paced the tent.
I shouldn’t have let Dr. Granger go off alone.
He owed the professor. She had given him a chance when no one else had. Two years ago, he had been a hard sell as a grad student. At Texas A&M, he’d been raising a younger sister while holding down two jobs. The workload had trashed his GPA, but Dr. Granger took a chance on him. The professor had even helped get his kid sister a full scholarship to Rice, freeing him to travel.
And what did he do to repay her?
He let her step into a helicopter full of armed men all by herself.
As he reached the open flap of the tent, a chorus of frightened whinnies erupted from the stables, echoing eerily across the dark ruins.
He stepped out into the night. Moonlight shone on ancient stone seats and the rectangular trench where his friend Heinrich had received the blow that had killed him.
A cold wind blew sand into his eyes.
Nate blinked away tears. “What’s wrong with the horses?”
“I don’t care,” Amy said, still seated at the laptop. “I hope it’s something awful. Especially for that white one.”
“The stallion was just frightened. It was an accident.” Still he couldn’t blame her for being mad at the horse. Heinrich was dead, just like that. Wrong place, wrong time. It could just as easily have been him.
The neighing grew more shrill.
“I’m going to see,” he said. “Could be a jackal.”
Panic tinged Amy’s voice. “Don’t leave me here by myself.”
He crammed his cowboy hat on his head and rummaged through a wooden crate near the door for Dr. Granger’s pistol. She used it for shooting snakes.
“Let the stable people take care of the horses,” Amy pressed. “You shouldn’t go out there in the dark.”
“I’ll be fine,” he said. “And you’re perfectly safe here.”
Glad to be doing something besides stewing, he headed out of the tent and across the sand. But the night felt different now. Gooseflesh rose up on his arms that had nothing to do with cold.
Just spooked by Amy, he told himself.
Still, he tightened his grip on the pistol and strode faster—until a shadow rushed by on his right.
He stopped and whirled.
Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of something large sweeping past. He didn’t get a good look at it, couldn’t tell what it was, only that it was bigger than any jackal he’d ever seen, the size of a yearling calf, but moving fast and smooth like a predator. It vanished so quickly he wasn’t sure he saw anything.
He looked back at the well-lit tent. It seemed far away now, a single lamp in the darkness.
Behind him, a horse screamed.
8:36 P.M.
Under the cover of the stallion’s cry, Bathory poked the tip of Farid’s dagger through the tent’s fabric and dragged the blade down. Its finely honed edge sliced through the taut material with barely a whisper.
All the while she kept an eye on Amy, who remained seated at the laptop, her focus fully on the tent’s door, her back to the new door opening up behind her.
Bathory pushed sideways through the sliced fabric, slipping silently into the tent. Once inside, she stood behind the frightened young woman, who remained oblivious to her presence. One earbud was still seated in Amy’s ear, the other dangled loosely. Bathory heard the tiny buzz of the CNN report playing on the laptop’s screen.
She was struck by how unconsciously most people moved through their lives, unmindful of the true nature of the world around them, safely ensconced in their cocoon of modernity, where news came 24/7, filtered and diluted, where jolts of caffeine were needed to nudge them blearily through their ordinary lives.
But that was not living.
Deep in her heart, Magor’s hunt stirred inside her, a distant haze of blood, adrenaline, and predatory glee.
That was the true face of the world.
That was living.
Bathory stepped forward, and with a single savage slash under the woman’s chin, she snuffed out that feeble flicker of the young woman’s wasted life. She tipped the body off the camp stool before the spray of blood doused the laptop.
Amy twitched on the floor, too stunned to know she was dead. She managed to squirm a few feet toward the tent’s door before finally slumping in defeat, crimson pooling under her.
Bathory worked quickly. She closed the laptop, slipped it into her backpack, along with the pair of cell phones on the table.
To the side, the tent flap twitched.
She turned to see Nate stepping inside. He took in the scene with a glance, his pistol jerking up to point at her. “What the hell … ?”
Bathory straightened, smiling warmly.
But she was not greeting the young man.
Behind Nate’s shoulder, shadows shifted to reveal a pair of red eyes, shining with bloodlust.
The night’s hunt was not yet over.
She cast her will to her bond mate, a desire summarized by one word.
Fetch.
19
October 26, 8:37 P.M., IST
Desert beyond Masada, Israel
Jordan scanned the sand and rocks one more time, seeking a place to hide, but there was no true cover, especially from the air.
Overhead, the chopper closed in, its blades cutting through the night. He studied it, recognizing the sleek silver nose and smooth lines. He’d only seen pictures of the EC145 online, advertised as the most luxurious helicopter that
eight million dollars could buy. It was basically a Mercedes-Benz with rotors.
Whoever was backing Korza had money.
The priest moved to the side to meet the helicopter.
If Jordan remembered correctly, the aircraft could seat up to eight, including a pilot and a copilot. So he faced a potential of eight opponents with no defensible ground. Recognizing that hard truth, he holstered his pistol. He couldn’t fight and win, so he’d have to hope Korza wasn’t lying and they wouldn’t be harmed.
He turned to Erin. “Can you stand?” he asked quietly. He wanted her on her feet in case they had to move fast.
“I can try.”
When she stood, she winced and shifted her weight to her right leg. A wet patch of blood darkened the left leg of her pants.
“What happened?” he asked, kicking himself for failing to note her injury earlier.
She glanced down, looking as surprised as he was. “The wolf. Scratched me. It’s nothing.”
“Let me see.”
She raised an eyebrow. “I’m not about to take my pants off here.”
He freed his dagger from its ankle sheath. “I can cut your pant leg just above the wound. It’ll ruin your pants, but not your dignity.”
He smiled.
She returned the smile as she sat back down on the boulder. “That sounds like a better plan.”
Jordan sliced through the seams with his dagger, careful to keep the blade away from the soft skin underneath. He tore the fabric, then threaded the pant leg down over her sneaker. It was an intimate gesture. He focused on getting it off without hurting her, and keeping his hands from lingering on her bare leg, which looked fantastic in the moonlight. Not that he noticed.
He turned his attention to her injury. The wound ran down her thigh—not deep but long. He stared suspiciously at it and called over to Korza, yelling to be heard as the helicopter reached them.
“Padre! Erin got scratched by that grimwolf. Anything we need to know about that kind of wound?”
The priest glanced at Erin’s bare leg, then back out at the desert, clearly uncomfortable. It was the most priestlike thing Jordan had seen him do in a while. “Clean it properly, and you need have no concerns.”
Erin wiped at her thigh with the scrap of her pant leg.
Before he had time to dig out his first-aid kit, the sleek helicopter landed. Rotor wash pushed sheets of sand in their faces. Jordan cupped his hand over the wound on Erin’s leg to protect it.
Crouched at her side, he stared back over his shoulder.
Three figures, all dressed in black, jumped out of the chopper’s cabin, exiting before the skids had even settled to the ground. Hoods obscured their faces, and they moved impossibly fast, like Korza did in battle. Jordan wanted to run, but he forced himself to stand still when they swept up and surrounded them.
The trio conversed with Korza, whispering in a language that sounded like Latin. Jordan noted the Roman collars of the priesthood.
More Sanguinists.
Erin stood up, and Jordan stood by her.
One of the priests came forward. Cold hands slid across Jordan’s body, taking away his guns. The man didn’t notice Jordan’s knife, or he didn’t care. Either way, Jordan felt grateful that he left it.
Another figure retreated a few paces into the desert with Korza.
The third crossed to the grimwolf’s body. He splashed liquid across the dead bulk, as if baptizing the beast in death. But it was not holy water. A match flared, got tossed, and the body ignited in a huge swirl of flames.
The smell of charred fur smoked out across the dark sands.
The first priest stayed to guard Jordan and Erin. Not that she seemed capable of putting up much of a fight. The spunk seemed to have drained right out of her. Her shoulders sagged, and she swayed on her good leg. Jordan moved toward her, but the guard raised a palm in warning. Jordan ignored the silent command and slid an arm around Erin.
Out in the desert, Korza and his companion argued fiercely, likely about the fate of the two surviving humans. Jordan kept a close watch on that outcome. Would they abandon Erin and him here in the middle of nowhere, or worse yet, send them to the same fiery end as the grimwolf?
Whatever their specific words, Korza seemed to win the argument.
Jordan didn’t know if that was good or bad.
As if sensing Jordan’s attention, Korza turned and locked gazes with him. He pointed to the helicopter and gestured for him and Erin to board.
Jordan still didn’t know if that was good or bad. He knew the skill with which military black-ops teams could make a man disappear. Were he and Erin about to suffer the same fate?
He ran over various scenarios in his head and figured their best chance of surviving lay in getting into that helicopter. He’d fight if he had to, but this battle wasn’t one he could win.
Yet.
He helped Erin limp toward the open cabin door, the two ducking under the swirling blades.
He waited for the others to board, gave one last look toward the open desert, and weighed the option of running. But Erin had only one good leg.
Korza remained at his shoulder, as if silently reminding him of the impossibility of escape. He had retrieved Jordan’s jacket from the sand and handed it to him. That simple gesture went a long way toward making Jordan feel less anxious.
“After you,” the priest said politely.
Jordan draped his coat around Erin’s shoulders and helped her into the chopper. She paused, crouched in the hatch.
The inside of the helicopter’s cabin was as opulent as he expected. Soothing blue light fell on polished dark wood. The smell of expensive leather filled his nostrils. Smooth lines shouted luxury. It was far from the utilitarian crafts he usually flew in. He wished he were in one of them now.
“There are only two open seats left,” she said.
Jordan peeked around and saw she was right. “So, Korza, which one of us is riding in cargo?”
“I apologize. They had expected to retrieve only me, and perhaps the boy. It will be tight quarters, but the flight is not long.”
Erin glanced back, looking to Jordan for guidance.
“We can double-buckle,” Jordan said, and pointed to one of the large luxurious seats in back.
She nodded, squeezed past the others’ knees, and took the seat, scooting over to make room for him.
He followed her and pulled the harness out to its farthest length before he squeezed next to her. “My mom had a lot of kids,” he explained, snapping them in together. “She used to buckle two of us in with the same seat belt. Didn’t yours?”
Her voice was dull with shock. “My mother wasn’t allowed to drive a car. None of the women were.”
He remembered her earlier statement. I saw the Church used as a tool of the powerful against the weak. For now, he filed that all away to ask about later.
Korza climbed in last. The priest was smaller than Jordan, and it would have been less snug if he’d buckled Erin in with Korza, but Jordan sure as hell wasn’t going to let that happen.
The priest took the last open seat, directly across from theirs. Hidden within a hooded cassock, Korza’s neighbor leaned to whisper in his ear. Jordan didn’t understand the words, but he could tell the speaker was a woman. That surprised him. Was she human? Or did the Church recruit female strigoi to the fold of the Sanguinists?
After that, no one spoke.
The others sat still as statues, which Jordan found more disturbing than if they had been racing at double speed.
As the helicopter roared and rose from the desert in a flurry of sand, he tried to think about anything besides Erin’s warm body tucked against his. At first, she had struggled to keep as much space between them as possible, but she soon gave up on that, trapped together by the harness. As the helicopter droned onward through the night, she eventually relaxed into sleep, too exhausted to resist.
Her head came to rest against his shoulder, and he shifted to the side so that it
wouldn’t fall forward. It had been far too long since a beautiful woman had fallen asleep on him. Her blond hair had escaped its rubber band and spilled to her shoulders. This close, he noted the lighter strands woven through the richer honey, likely bleached white by her time digging under the sun.
He wanted to trace a finger along one of those strands, as if following a thread in a larger tapestry, trying to understand the warp and weft that made up this woman at his side. Erin had been through a lot in the past few hours. He intended to get her out of this mess and home safely. He had to. He’d failed everyone else under his command.
Better shut down that alley.
Instead, he turned his attention to the wound on her tanned thigh. Though it was not deep, the puckered edges were a nasty red and dusted with sand. Moving slowly so as not to wake her, he pulled out his tiny first-aid kit.
Freeing an antiseptic wipe, he gently cleaned the wound, keeping his touch soft, moving slowly. Still, she moaned in her sleep.
Every Sanguinist looked in her direction.
With a chill, Jordan moved his free hand toward his dagger and rested his palm there.
“Do not fear us,” Korza whispered, his face hidden again inside his hood. “You are quite safe.”
Jordan didn’t bother to answer.
And he didn’t move his hand.
9:02 P.M.
Erin’s head jolted forward, snapping her awake. Deafened by the roar of the helicopter, she found herself looking into an amazing pair of eyes, light blue with a darker ring around the edge of the iris. The eyes smiled at her. She smiled back before she realized that they belonged to Jordan.
She had fallen asleep on his shoulder and woken up smiling at him.
A married man.
In a helicopter full of priests.
With her face burning, she straightened in her seat and shifted in the harness to create an inch of space between them. She could almost hear her mother’s disappointed sigh and feel the back of her father’s hand.
She turned to the window, the only safe place to look while her cheeks lost their embarrassed blush. Beyond the window, the lights of a city blazed ahead, drowning out the stars. A golden dome shone brightly amid the urban sprawl.
The Blood Gospel Page 15