The Blood Gospel

by Rebecca Cantrell James Rollins

  She stared at the design on his chest. That’s how close he’d gotten to death. He went through and came out the other side, like the Sanguinists.

  He grinned and traced down one of the lines. “These patterns are sometimes called lightning flowers. They’re caused by the rupture of small capillaries under the skin due to the passage of electric current following the discharge of a lightning strike. I got hit here.” He touched the center of the branching on his chest. “The pattern spread outward. It was bright red for a while, but it faded and left a little scar.”

  “But then?”

  “I had the original pattern tattooed to remind me that this life is a bonus.” He laughed. “Drove my parents crazy.”

  She lifted a finger, wanting to examine the design, to touch it—like she did all things she found incredible, then realized what she was about to do and stopped, leaving her finger hovering over the black mark on his chest.

  He reached up and drew her hand closer. “It’s raised up a bit where the original scar was.”

  She wanted to resist but couldn’t. As her fingertip touched his skin, a jolt shook her, as if some of the lightning’s energy were still trapped in his scar—but she knew it was something more than electrical discharge.

  He must have felt it, too. His skin tightened where she made contact, the thick muscle hardening underneath her finger. His breath drew in deeper.

  He still held her hand. She looked up into those blue eyes, those lips—the upper lip with a divot at the top like a bow.

  His eyes darkened, and he leaned down toward her, as if wanting to assert that he was alive now.

  She held her breath and let him, wanting the same after the long day of horrors.

  His kiss started gentle and featherlight, lips barely brushing hers.

  Heat flashed through her, as electric as it was warm.

  She rose up on her toes and deepened the kiss, needing to explore it further, to explore him further. She wrapped her hands around his bare shoulders and pulled him closer, wanting more of him, more connection, more warmth. She dissolved into the kiss, letting it fill her and blot out the horrible events in the tomb.

  Then she flashed on the pale ring of skin around his tanned finger.

  It was a kind of tattoo that marked him as readily as the lightning scar.

  He was a married man.

  She leaned back, bumping into the washstand. “I’m sorry.”

  His voice was hoarse. “I’m not.”

  She turned her head away, angry at herself, at him. She needed to catch her breath and get her head on straight. “I think we need to step back from this.”

  Jordan took a careful step backward. “Far enough?”

  That wasn’t exactly what she meant, but it would do. “Maybe another step.”

  Jordan gave her a quick, embarrassed smile, then retreated another step and sat down on the bed.

  She sat on the other end, her arms crossed over her chest, needing to change the subject. Her voice came out too high. “How’s your other shoulder?”

  He had hurt it while being yanked through the hole as they escaped the collapsing tomb.

  Jordan swiveled his arm around and winced. “Hurts, but I don’t think it’s serious. Less serious than being pancaked in the mountain.”

  “Being pancaked in the mountain might have been easier.”

  “Who says the easy path is the right one?”

  She blushed, still feeling the heat, the pressure, of his kiss. She looked down at her hands. She spoke after the silence stretched for too long, glancing toward the door. “What do you think they want with us?”

  He followed her gaze. “Don’t know. Maybe to debrief us. Swear us to secrecy. Maybe give us a million dollars.”

  “Why a million dollars?”

  He shrugged. “Why not? I’m just saying … let’s be optimistic.”

  She looked at the dirty toes of her sneakers. That was hard to do, to be optimistic, especially with Jordan sitting half naked next to her. The heat of his bare skin reached across the distance between them. How long had it been since she’d been in a room with a naked man? Let alone one who looked as good as Jordan, or who could kiss half as well?

  Silence again stretched out between them. Jordan’s gaze went far away; likely he was thinking of his wife, of the brief betrayal of this moment.

  She searched for another topic of conversation. “Do you still have your first-aid kit?” she blurted out too loudly, startling him out of his reverie, causing him to flinch.

  “Sorry,” he mumbled. “Guess I’m still a bit on edge.”

  “I don’t bite.”

  “Everybody else does here,” he said with a grin.

  She smiled back, feeling the tension break between them.

  He dug his first-aid kit out of the pocket of his discarded pants, still on the bed. “Let’s start with your leg.”

  “I’d better do it.”

  Right now she’d rather bleed to death than let him mess with her thigh. Once he got started there, who knew where it would lead?

  “Maybe you’d better get dressed while I deal with this cut?” she suggested.

  He smiled sheepishly and handed her the kit. She turned her back to him as he pulled on clean black pants. She kept her eyes focused on her leg. The wolf scratch wasn’t as bad as it seemed in the desert. She washed her wound carefully, then slathered it with antibacterial ointment and taped on a gauze bandage.

  Jordan stood uncomfortably close, but at least he was wearing pants now. “That dressing looks pretty good. Do you have any medical training?”

  “In a manner of speaking. I grew up in a compound where outsiders were forbidden from touching us—not even to take care of us when we were sick.”

  It was rare for her to share this part of her life with anyone. Shame surrounded her past, shame for being so gullible, for not fighting back sooner. A therapist once told her that was a common emotion for survivors of chronic abuse, and she would probably never fully escape it. So far, the therapist had been right.

  Still, bits of her history had somehow spilled out to Jordan.

  “That’s nuts,” he said.

  She hid a small grin. “That’s a succinct way of summarizing it. But it made sense at the time, as isolated as we were kept.”

  “I grew up in Iowa in a cornfield. With a passel of brothers and sisters, we were all about scrapes, skinned knees, the occasional broken bone.”

  A twinge in her left arm reminded her that she’d suffered the latter, too. But she doubted that Jordan’s brothers’ and sisters’ breaks were inflicted on purpose, as lessons. She kept silent. She didn’t know Jordan nearly well enough to talk about that.

  To the side, Jordan dried off his chest.

  She fixed her eyes on the old wooden door, the stone floor, anything but him.

  He finally picked up a clean shirt and tugged into it. “How did you get out of that place?”

  She busied herself packing up the first-aid kit. “After they tried to force me into an arranged marriage when I was seventeen, I stole a horse and rode into town. I never went back.”

  “So you lost contact with your family?” Jordan lowered his eyebrows sympathetically, in the way that only someone with a normal loving family would.

  “I did. Mother’s dead now. Father, too. No siblings. So, I’m all there is.”

  She didn’t know how to end the conversation and was afraid she would suddenly start babbling about her father and her sister, who had died when she was only two days old—and then who knew what else she’d spill?

  She stood and crossed to the door. Maybe waiting in her room was a better idea.

  Jordan followed, touched her shoulder. “I’m sorry. I don’t mean to pry.”

  A voice—Rhun’s—called from the hallway, its tone urgent with worry. “Sergeant, Erin is not in—”

  The door opened on its own, and Rhun stopped short, staring inside, surprise etched on his face.

  Jordan spoke from behi
nd Erin. “Doesn’t anyone knock around here?”

  Rhun quickly collected himself but remained in the hallway. The ruined garments from the desert still hung off his body in tatters, but he had washed most of the blood from his skin. His dark eyes traveled from one to the other, and his spine drew even straighter than usual, which Erin hadn’t thought possible.

  Her cheeks burned. At least the priest hadn’t come in a few minutes earlier.

  Jordan buttoned his shirt. “Sorry, padre, but Erin and I decided to stick together after all.”

  “You are both here. That is all that matters.” Rhun turned on his heel, indicating they should follow, the stiffness never leaving his spine. “The Cardinal awaits his audience with you.”

  10:10 P.M.

  Jordan felt disapproval rising off the priest’s body in waves. He finished buttoning his shirt and tucked it in while following Erin out into the hall. She walked along with her eyes on the floor.

  Korza maintained an icy silence as he led them down the passageway and up a winding staircase. Ambrose met them at the hallway at the top, greeting them with a disapproving look—or maybe that was merely his regular expression. Jordan remembered his mother’s oft-repeated admonishment: Keep making that face and it will stick.

  “While the Cardinal keeps his audiences informal,” Father Ambrose said, singling Jordan out with his eyes, “do not misinterpret that for permission to be casual with His Eminence.”

  “Got it.” Jordan tossed the guy a left-handed salute.

  A trace of a crooked smile crossed Korza’s lips.

  Ambrose scowled, led them to a large door, and pushed it open.

  Jordan followed Rhun, sheltering Erin behind him, not knowing what to expect.

  A fresh breeze blew in his face, catching him by surprise. After a day spent mostly underground, it felt good to be outside again. He took a deep gulp of air, like a swimmer surfacing after a dive.

  Ahead, a lush rooftop garden, illuminated by oil lamps made of clay, spread wide, inviting the eye to linger, the feet to stroll. Jordan accepted the invitation and wandered out, leading Erin.

  Potted olive trees lined the parapets all around, leaves rustling in the wind.

  Erin bent to inhale the spicy fragrance of a night-blooming flower. Grains of golden pollen dusted the stone tiles below.

  Jordan watched her for as long as he could without getting caught. But other passions also drove him. His stomach growled as he stared over at a hand-carved wooden table, laid out with bread, grapes, pomegranates, and cheese. He really wanted a burger and a beer, but he would take what he could get.

  Erin joined him, looking like a kid on Christmas morning. “This setting—from the lamps, to the plants, to the table—could have come straight out of the Bible.”

  Except for the electric streetlights in the distance.

  At the far side of the terrace, a figure in crimson stood out against the canopy of green, his white hair in dramatic contrast with the dark sky. That had to be Cardinal Bernard.

  Father Ambrose herded them away from the laden table and toward the waiting man—if he was a man. At this point, everything and everyone, in Jordan’s eyes, was suspect.

  Reminded of that, he looked beyond the parapet of the garden, trying to get his bearings, to figure out where they were. He spotted the giant golden cupola of a neighboring structure, what Erin had called the Dome of the Rock. She must have a pretty good idea of where they were being kept.

  Father Ambrose’s voice drew his attention back to the Cardinal. “May I present to you Dr. Granger and Sergeant Stone?”

  The Cardinal held out his hand. The man wore a red skullcap, red leather gloves, and a cassock, like Rhun’s, but his was red.

  Jordan saw no ring to kiss—not that he would have—so he extended his arm. But the Cardinal took Erin’s hand first, grasping her fingers between both of his palms. “Dr. Granger. It is an honor.”

  “Thank you, Your Eminence.”

  “‘Cardinal Bernard’ will be fine, thank you.” His deep voice held a kindly tone. “We are not so formal here.”

  He shook Jordan’s hand next. “Sergeant Stone, thank you for your services in returning Father Korza to us in one piece.”

  “I think we need to thank Father Korza as much as the other way around, Cardinal Bernard.”

  Jordan’s stomach growled, again.

  The Cardinal moved toward the table. “Forgive the distractedness of an old man. You need a good meal.”

  He led them back to the table and seated them. Only Jordan and Erin had plates.

  “That will be all, Father Ambrose,” Bernard said quietly.

  The younger priest seemed surprised by his dismissal, but he bowed and left.

  Jordan would not miss him. Instead, he happily tucked into the food. Erin helped herself to a healthy portion of cheese and bread. Bernard and Korza consumed nothing.

  “While you eat, may I tell you a story?” The Cardinal raised bushy white eyebrows questioningly.

  “Please,” Erin answered.

  “Since the beginning of recorded history, humans have feared the dark.” He picked up a grape and toyed with it. “As long as anyone can remember, strigoi have walked among us, filling our nights with terror and blood.”

  Jordan swallowed the bite of bread and cheese, his throat suddenly dry. He didn’t need a reminder of the danger posed by the strigoi.

  The Cardinal continued: “The founders of the Church knew of their existence. It was not hidden in those days as it is now. The Church created a devoted sect to keep their numbers in check, not only because of the ferocity of their attacks, but also because when a human makes the transformation to strigoi, it destroys his soul.”

  Korza’s dark eyes were unreadable. What must it be like to be a priest without a soul?

  “How do you know that?” Erin asked.

  The Cardinal smiled in a way that reminded Jordan of his kindly grandfather. “There are ways, perhaps too esoteric for this table, that it was determined.”

  “Maybe if you use little words,” Jordan said.

  Erin folded her arms. “I think you should try us.”

  “I meant no disrespect, only that we are pressed for time. I believe it is more important that I make certain you know that which is essential to the current situation, but I can explain about the soul of a strigoi after.”

  Erin’s brown eyes looked skeptical. Jordan loved how she stood right up to the Cardinal. Not much seemed to intimidate her.

  “The Sanguinists are an order of priests who draw their strength from the blood of Christ.” The Cardinal touched his cross. “They are immortal in nature, but are often killed in holy battle. If killed in such a manner, their souls are restored to them.”

  Jordan’s eyes were drawn again to Korza. So his fate was to battle evil until it destroyed him, however long that took. An eternal tour of duty.

  The Cardinal’s gaze settled fully upon Erin. “Many of the strigoi massacres are recorded falsely by history.”

  Erin’s brow crinkled—then her eyes widened. “Herod’s massacre,” she said. “My dig site. It wasn’t about Herod destroying a future King of the Jews, was it?”

  “Most perceptive. Herod did not kill those babies. The strigoi killed them.”

  “But they weren’t just feeding on the blood of those children. I found gnaw marks on the bones. It was a savage attack, as if done purposefully.”

  The Cardinal put his gloved hand atop Erin’s. “I am sorry to say that is the truth. Strigoi sought to kill the Christ child because they knew that He would help to destroy them. As indeed it came to pass: for it was the miracle of His blood that led to the founding of the Sanguinists and started their battle against the strigoi.”

  “Sounds like the Sanguinists got a bum deal out of it all.” Jordan ate a handful of grapes.

  “Not at all. While it is not an easy path that we tread, our work serves humanity and opens our only path to salvation.” Cardinal Bernard rolled the grape betw
een his fingers. “For centuries, we kept the number of strigoi in balance, but in the last few decades, strigoi and some humans have formed an alliance called the Belial.”

  Erin pulled her arms in close, clearly recognizing that name. “Belial. The leader of the Sons of Darkness. An old legend.”

  Jordan stopped eating. “Great.”

  “We have never known why they formed.” The Cardinal looked over their heads at the night sky. “But perhaps after today, we do.”

  Korza’s eyebrows drew down. “We don’t know that for certain. Even now. Don’t let Bernard’s love of the dramatic influence you.”

  “Influence us how?” Jordan asked.

  “Why were the Belial formed?” Erin talked over him.

  “As I believe Rhun told you, the tomb of Masada contained the most holy book ever written. It is Christ’s own story of how He unleashed His divinity, written in His own blood. It is called the Blood Gospel.”

  “What do you mean by ‘unleashed his divinity’?” Jordan asked, pushing aside his plate, the last of his appetite dying away.

  The Cardinal nodded to him. “A fascinating question. As you may know, in the Bible, Christ performs no miracles early in his life. Only later does he begin to perform a whole series of wondrous acts. His first divine miracle was recorded in the Book of John, the turning of water into wine.”

  Erin shifted and quoted scripture. “The first of his miraculous signs, Jesus performed at Cana in Galilee. He thus revealed his glory, and his disciples put their faith in him.”

  Bernard nodded. “Thereafter, a slew of other wonders: the multiplication of the fishes, the healing of the sick, the raising of the dead.”

  “But what does all of that have to do with the Blood Gospel?” Erin asked.

  The Cardinal explained. “This mystery of Christ’s miracles has confounded many biblical scholars. Why this sudden manifestation of the miraculous? What caused His divinity to shine forth so suddenly from His earthly flesh?” Bernard stared around the table. “Those questions are answered in Christ’s Gospel.”

  Erin stared at him, rapt.

  “Sounds like good stuff,” Jordan said. “But why do the Belial care about any of this?”