“Because the book may give anyone the ability to touch and manifest their own divinity. Can you imagine if the strigoi learned this? It might help them free themselves of their weaknesses. Perhaps they could walk in daylight, like we do, multiplying their strengths. Imagine the consequences for mankind.”
Korza cut him off. “But we know none of this for certain. It is merely Bernard’s speculation.” He stared hard at Erin, then Jordan. “You must remember that.”
“Why?” Erin’s eyes narrowed.
The Cardinal’s face had gone stone-hard, stern. He plainly did not appreciate Korza’s interruption. His next words were equally firm.
“Because you have a role to play—both of you—in what comes next. If you refuse, the world will sink into darkness. So it has been foretold.”
22
October 26, 10:32 P.M., IST
Jerusalem, Israel
Erin tried not to scoff but failed. “The fate of the world depends on us? On Jordan? On me?”
Jordan muttered next to her: “You don’t have to sound so surprised when saying my name.”
Erin ignored him, hearing the sarcasm in his voice. He wasn’t buying any of it either. She summarized all her questions with one word. “Why?”
The Cardinal returned the dusky grape to the empty bowl. “I cannot reveal that to you, Doctor, not at this time, not until you make your choice. After that, I will tell you all, and you may again refuse with no consequences.”
“You were the one who sent the helicopter for me in Caesarea, weren’t you?” she asked, picturing the whirling blades and the frightened stallion, flashing to poor Heinrich sprawled and bloody in the dig site’s trench.
“I did,” the Cardinal said. “I used my contacts in Israeli intelligence to have you taken to Masada, in case the Gospel was there.”
“Why me?” She would keep repeating this until she got an answer that she liked.
“I have followed your work, Dr. Granger. You are skeptical of religion, but steeped in biblical knowledge. As a result, you see things that nonreligious scholars could miss. Likewise, you question things that religious scholars might not. It was that rare combination that made you perfectly suited to bring the Gospel back to the world. And I believe it continues to be true.”
Either that, she thought skeptically, or I was the closest archaeologist you could find. It was late in the year, and most archaeologists were back teaching the fall semester. But what good would it do to point that out? So she held her tongue.
“What about me?” Jordan asked, his voice still ringing with sarcasm. “I’m guessing I’m just a random wild card, since there’s nothing special about me.”
Erin would have argued against that assessment, picturing his tattoo, his story of being dead for three minutes.
Could there be something to all of this?
The Cardinal favored Jordan with a small smile. “I do not know why the prophecy chose you all, my son. But you are the ones who emerged living from the tomb.”
“So what are we supposed to be doing next?” Jordan shifted on his wooden chair.
Erin suspected he was accustomed to being kept in the dark for many of his missions—but she wasn’t. She wanted full disclosure.
The Cardinal continued: “The two of you, along with Rhun, must find and retrieve the Gospel and bring it to the Vatican. According to prophecy, the book can only be opened in Rome.” He rested his elbows on the table. “That is where our scholars will unlock its mysteries.”
“And what then?” she asked. “Do you intend to hide it away?”
If the Blood Gospel existed and contained what he said, it was too powerful to leave in the hands of the Church alone.
“The words of God have always been free to all.” The old man’s brown eyes smiled at her.
“Like when the Church burned books during the Inquisition? Often along with the men who wrote them?”
“The Church has made mistakes,” the Cardinal admitted. “But not this time. If we can share it, we shall share the light of this Gospel with all of mankind.”
He seemed sincere enough, but Erin knew better. “I have dedicated my life to revealing the truth, even if that goes against biblical teachings.”
The Cardinal’s lips twitched up. “I would say especially when it goes against biblical teachings.”
“Maybe.” She took a deep breath. “But can you swear that you will share this book—as much as is safe—with secular scholars? Even if it contradicts Church teachings?”
The Cardinal touched his cross. “I swear it.”
She was surprised by the gesture. That was something. She wasn’t confident that he would keep his word, especially if the contents were antithetical to Church teachings, but it wasn’t like she would get a better offer either. And if this Gospel existed, she wanted to find it. Such a discovery could in some small way pay back the debt of blood—both Heinrich’s back at the camp and all those who died at Masada.
She made her decision with a nod. “Then I am—”
“Wait,” Rhun said, cutting her off. “Before you pledge yourself, you must understand that you may lose your life in the search.” His hand strayed to his pectoral cross. “Or something even more precious.”
She remembered the earlier discussion about the souls—or the lack thereof—of the strigoi. It wasn’t just their lives—Rhun’s, Jordan’s, and her own—that were at risk on the journey ahead.
A deep well of sadness shone in Rhun’s eyes, something from his past.
Was he mourning his own soul or another’s?
Erin silently listed logical reasons why she should not do this, why she should go back to Caesarea, meet with Heinrich’s parents, and continue her dig. But this decision required more than logic.
“Dr. Granger?” the Cardinal asked. “What is your wish?”
She studied the table, spread as it had been for millennia, and Rhun, whose very existence offered possible proof of the miracle of transubstantiation. If he could be real, maybe so could Christ’s Gospel.
“Erin?” Jordan asked.
She took a deep breath. “How could I pass up this opportunity?”
Jordan cocked his head. “Are you sure it’s your fight?”
If it wasn’t her fight, whose was it? She pictured the small child’s skeleton in the trench, curled up lovingly by a parent. She imagined the slaughter that brought that baby to an untimely grave. If there was any truth to the stories told this night, she could not let the Belial get hold of that book or such massacres could become commonplace.
Jordan met her gaze, his blue eyes questioning.
Rhun bowed his head and seemed to be praying.
Erin nodded, her decision firm. “I have to.”
Jordan eyed her a moment longer—then shrugged. “If she’s in, I’m in.”
The Cardinal bowed his head in thanks, but he wasn’t done. “There is one more condition.”
“Isn’t there always?” Jordan mumbled.
Bernard explained: “If you enter into league with the Sanguinists, you must know you will be declared dead, listed as one of the victims atop Masada. Your family will grieve for you.”
“Hold on a minute.” Jordan sat back.
Erin understood. Jordan’s family would miss him, would suffer for his decision. He couldn’t go. Erin almost envied him. She had friends, even close friends, and colleagues, but there was no one who would be devastated if she didn’t return from Israel. She didn’t have family.
“There is no other way.” The Cardinal held out his gloved hands palms up. “If the Belial know you live, that you seek the Gospel, they may strive to influence you through your family … I believe you know what that will entail?”
Erin nodded. She had seen the ferocity of the Belial firsthand in the tomb at Masada.
“To protect you, to protect those who love you, we must take you under the cloak of the Sanguinists. You must disappear from the larger world.”
Jordan stroked his empty ring fing
er thoughtfully.
“You shouldn’t come, Jordan. You have too much to lose.”
The Cardinal’s voice took on a kinder tone. “It is for their safety, my son. Once the threat is over, you will resume your former lives, and your friends and families will know you did this out of love.”
“And it has to be us, nobody else can do this?” Jordan’s eyes stayed on his fingers.
“I believe that the three of you together must perform this task.”
Jordan glanced over to Rhun, whose dark eyes gave little away—then to Erin.
He finally stood up and paced to the rooftop’s edge, his shoulders stiff. His decision was a difficult one, Erin knew. Unlike her, he was no orphaned archaeologist. He had a big family in Iowa, a wife, maybe children.
She had no one.
She was used to being alone.
So why was she staring at Jordan’s back, anxious to hear his answer?
23
October 26, 10:54 P.M., IST
Beneath the Israeli desert
Bathory stirred from a nap, not knowing when she’d fallen asleep, seduced by exhaustion and the cool quiet of the subterranean bunker. It took her a moment to remember where she was. A shadowy sense of loss hung over her like cobwebs.
Then she remembered all.
As time fell back over her shoulders, an edge of panic sliced through her weariness. She sat up, rolling her legs from the reclining sofa. She found Magor curled nearby, always protecting her. He raised his large head, his eyes glowing.
She waved him to rest, but he lumbered up and padded over to her.
At her side, he slumped down again, leaving his head on her lap. He sensed her distress, as she felt the simple warmth of his affection and concern.
“I’ll be fine,” she assured him aloud.
But he felt what was unspoken, her fear and worry.
As she scratched his ears, she searched for the words to tell Him of her failure—if such words existed. She had lost most of the strigoi under her command, let a Knight of Christ escape her snare. And worst of all, what did she have to show for it?
Certainly not the book—but that was not her fault.
Someone else had stolen it long before Masada crumbled to ruin.
She even had proof of the theft: grainy photos recovered from a cell phone.
But even to her, any explanation of the night’s events felt like excuses.
No longer able to sit, she gently shifted Magor’s muzzle and stood. Her bare feet crossed a Persian rug that had once graced the stone floor of her ancestral castle, once warmed feet now long dead.
She reached a concrete wall. It was covered in Chinese red silk to soften the stark confines of the bunker that was her home in the desert, a home buried twenty feet under the sands. Against the wall, artfully arranged shelves displayed an antique lancet with an ebony handle and a gold bleeding bowl with rings inside to indicate how much blood had been released.
She lifted the bowl. How much of her cursed blood might He take as punishment?
Magor nuzzled her hip, and she put down the bowl and knelt, burying her face in his fur. He smelled like wolf and blood and comfort. With Hunor gone, he was her last true companion.
What if He took Magor away?
That fear drew her face up. Her gaze fell on her most prized possession—an original Rembrandt portrait of a young boy. A version of Titus hung in an American gallery. The boy’s blond hair curled outward from an angelic face. Serious blue-gray eyes met hers, red lips curved in a tentative smile. In the American version, a gray smudge rested atop his shoulder. Art historians speculated that it was a pet parrot or monkey that had died during the weeks it took to complete the painting. To spare the boy, the lost pet had been painted over after the work’s completion. Her painting revealed it was neither of those animals. A tawny owl stared back from the boy’s shoulder.
But the nocturnal predator did not hold her gaze. The boy did. He looked like her brother Istvan, piquing the vague sense of loss into something more substantial.
First she’d lost Istvan.
And now Hunor.
She could not lose Magor.
The wolf rested his massive muzzle on her shoulder. She crooned him a lullaby and tried to make plans. Perhaps she should flee into the desert, disappear with Magor. She had enough money and jewels in her closet to keep them comfortable for years. Maybe she could escape at last from the silver cage that had held her for so long.
As if someone had read her thoughts, a heavy hand rapped on her door.
Magor growled, his hackles rising like a ridge along his back.
Without waiting for an answer, the thick metal door of her room swung open. Dark boots entered.
Tarek stopped just past the threshold, shadowed by his brother, Rafik. It was a daring move on his part.
She stood, lifting her chin, baring her throat and His mark.
Magor crossed in front of her, another line of defense.
“How dare you enter without my permission?” she said.
Tarek smiled, his lips stretched wide to reveal his extended fangs. “I dare because He knows of your failure.”
Rafik hovered at his brother’s shoulder, malicious madness dancing in his eyes.
Tarek made clear the reason for his bold intrusion, smelling a possible shift in power, declaring his intent by crossing her threshold, like a dog marking a tree. “I have received instructions from Him on how to kill you the next time that you fail.”
From the glee in Rafik’s eyes, she imagined such a death would be neither quick nor painless.
She kept her face impassive and met Tarek’s gaze. The monsters at her door might be stronger than she was, but she was far more cunning. She let this confidence show and stared Tarek’s gaze down—until she finally drove him back out the door.
Rather than making her fearful, such threats only fortified her, steeled her resolve.
As He knew they would.
She touched Magor’s shoulder.
“Time we hunt again.”
24
October 26, 10:57 P.M., IST
Jerusalem, Israel
From the rooftop garden, Jordan stared down at the Wailing Wall, at those praying in front of it. A young mother held up her baby, the girl’s frilly pink dress shifting when her tiny hand stroked down the stone. She looked like his niece Abigail had at that age. For three years his youngest sister had dressed her little tomboy in nothing but pink. After that, Abigail picked out her own clothes—brown ones. The mother below brought the little girl back to her chest and kissed the top of her head.
The pair had no idea about strigoi.
They lived in a world with no monsters.
But monsters were out there, and now Jordan knew it. If this mission failed, everyone else would have to face them, too. He remembered the short work they had made of his own highly trained men.
As he watched the pair step away from the wall and head home, he fought against thoughts of his own family. Especially his mother. She had survived surgery for a brain tumor last month and was still frail, finishing off chemotherapy.
Forget the Belial, the grief of his death might do her in.
Still, he knew what she would want him to do. He was his mother’s child; his belief in right and wrong had been instilled in him by her—by her words, by her actions, even by her suffering. He had signed up to serve his country, his fellow man, partly because of her. He believed in the army motto This We’ll Defend.
Keeping strigoi from ruling the earth was worth a terrible price; he would not flinch from paying it. His family would expect nothing less. His team had given nothing less.
Resolved, he walked back to the table.
His reasons all sounded noble, but he knew part of his decision came from the way Erin had smiled at him when she woke up in the chopper, how she had melted in his arms downstairs. He couldn’t abandon her to Rhun and the others.
He stepped to the table and dropped his dog tags. “I’m i
n.”
“Jordan …” Erin stared at him, the internal war between relief and fear visible on her face.
He studied his dog tags and looked away. When his parents received them, they would think him dead.
The Cardinal nodded soberly, but his eyes shone with determination. Jordan had seen many a general wear that same expression. Usually it was after you volunteered for something. Something likely to kill you.
Korza stood so abruptly that his chair toppled backward and crashed to the tiles—then he stormed off.
“You must forgive Rhun,” the Cardinal said. “In the past, he paid a terrible price in service of the prophecy.”
“What price?” Jordan picked up Rhun’s chair, flipped it around, and straddled it.
“It was almost four hundred years ago.” Lamplit eyes stared past him toward the modern city lights. “I am certain that, should he wish you to know, he will tell you.”
Jordan had half expected that kind of response. He leaned his arms on top of his chair back. “Now that we are on board, how about telling us about the prophecy and why the three of us are so special?”
Erin folded her hands in her lap like a schoolgirl and leaned forward, wanting answers, too.
“When the book was sealed away, prophecy decreed that—” The Cardinal stopped and shook his head. “Better I simply show you.”
He opened a drawer in the table and pulled out a soft leather case. It didn’t look like a prophecy. But when he opened it, Erin sat forward. Jordan scooted closer, shoulder to shoulder with her.
“This is it?” she asked.
The Cardinal pulled out a document sheathed in plastic. Jordan was no judge, but the parchment looked as old as the city around them. Letters written in dark ink marched along the single page. He couldn’t read it but it looked familiar.
“Greek?” he asked.
Erin nodded, leaning closer to read it aloud. “The day shall come when the Alpha and the Omega shall pour His wisdom into a Gospel of Precious Blood that the sons of Adam and the daughters of Eve may use it on the day of their need.”
“The Alpha and Omega?” he asked.
The Blood Gospel Page 19