The Blood Gospel

by Rebecca Cantrell James Rollins

  “Jesus. I think.” She returned to the parchment and continued reading, running a finger along the plastic surface. “Until such day, this blessed book shall be hidden in a well of deepest darkness by a girl.” She paused. “Or it might be woman? It’s not clear. It says here a ‘Girl of Corrupted Innocence.’ But the last word could also mean knowledge. Biblical references about knowledge and good and evil often get tangled up.”

  Jordan’s head was already beginning to spin. “How about a quick overview? Then work out the particulars?”

  “Right.” She continued again. “Until such day, this blessed book shall be hidden in a well of deepest darkness by a Girl of Corrupted Innocence, a Knight of Christ, and a Warrior of Man.”

  She took another breath. “Likewise shalt another trio return the book to the light. Only a Woman of Learning, a Knight of Christ, and a Warrior of Man may open Christ’s Gospel and reveal His glory to the world.”

  The Cardinal stared at Erin. “I believe that is you, Dr. Granger, along with Sergeant Stone and our Father Korza.”

  Erin looked down at the parchment. “Why do you think that we are the ones?”

  “The three of you came together at the original resting place of the book. Each of you played a part in defeating the creatures of darkness and returned alive to view the desert stars.”

  Jordan sighed—too loudly, drawing the others’ eyes. It all sounded like religious crap, and he told them why. “But we didn’t get the book. It was already gone, taken out into the world. Someone probably already opened the book a long time ago.”

  “No, my son, if they had opened the book, the world would have changed. Miracles would be commonplace.”

  “Maybe,” Jordan said. “But either way, someone else already found it and took it. They must be the ones the prophecy was talking about, right?”

  The Cardinal shook his head. “The prophecy does not say who will find it, only who must open it. I believe that whoever has the book cannot open it because they are not part of the prophetic trio. But I believe you three are.”

  “Where do we go to find the book?” Erin asked.

  Cardinal Bernard shook his head. “I have no answer to that question. Rhun said that he found nothing in the tomb to indicate who had plundered it.”

  Erin sought Jordan’s eyes, clearly asking permission. He nodded. He didn’t see much point in keeping secrets now. She reached in her pocket and drew out the Nazi medallion slowly.

  “This was found in the dead girl’s grip. She must have snatched it off whoever stole the book, whoever killed her.”

  The Cardinal held out his palm. She hesitated before dropping the silver disk into his red glove.

  He studied it for a full minute, closely examining the writing on the medal’s edge, reading it aloud. “The Ahnenerbe.”

  “You’re familiar with them?” Jordan asked.

  “Our order often had similar research interests as this group. The Ahnenerbe scoured the Holy Lands for lost artifacts and religious items of power. Actually, the priest who once led our search for the Gospel was also tasked with observing the Ahnenerbe. Unfortunately, we lost Father Piers during World War Two.” The Cardinal kissed his cross before continuing. “We lost so many back then.”

  Jordan knew how that felt.

  Bernard straightened slowly, thoughtfully, and passed back the medal. “I know someone who should see this. We have a Pontifical University—one run by the Order of the Sanguines—hidden at the abbey in Ettal, Germany. They have an enormous research library. There you will find our records concerning the Ahnenerbe and their activities during and after the war. Perhaps that should be the first stop on your quest?”

  Jordan looked at Erin. “Do you have any better ideas?”

  “Better than a Sanguinist library?” She looked ready to leave immediately. “I can’t wait to see it.”

  He grinned. No surprise there. Her excitement was contagious. “Unless Father Korza has objections, let’s start there.”

  “I will see to the preparations. After that, I must return to Rome—to ready the Vatican if you are successful.”

  The Cardinal made as if to stand, but Jordan held up his hand. “Before you do that, I have a favor to ask.”

  “Yes?”

  “I wrote letters for each member of my team.” He kept his voice even, professional, trying not to think. “Letters to be delivered to their families in the event of their deaths, and mine. I left instructions with my CO about where they were and how to deliver them. Could you make sure that they are sent?”

  Bernard bowed his head. “I can, my son. We have contacts with many army chaplains.”

  Jordan cleared his throat, speaking formally. “One more thing, Your Eminence.”

  “Of course.”

  He reached into a tiny zippered pocket in his jacket and pulled out his wedding ring. He held the ring between his thumb and finger, remembering the rainy day when Karen had put it on his finger, the moment that had been coming at him like a freight train since his senior year of high school. They’d never thought they’d be apart.

  “Please see that this gets to my wife’s family,” he said. “I always told them that if I were to die, they would get it back. They had talked of burying it near her gravestone.”

  25

  October 26, 11:14 P.M., IST

  Jerusalem, Israel

  Erin had been taking a sip of water when Jordan passed over his wedding ring. She smothered a cough of surprise.

  The ring shone gold before the Cardinal’s red glove closed over it. “As you wish, my son. It will be done.”

  So Jordan wasn’t married—he was widowed.

  She fought to fit this change into her overall view of him, barely hearing Jordan give instructions on where to find his letters and where to send the ring. He was supposed to be married. The tan line said so. She hated it when she misinterpreted evidence. He was a widower, one who had clearly loved his wife and hadn’t wanted to let her go.

  This changed everything. If he was single, his actions took on a different cast—as did her own. She began reviewing all their past interactions, centering back at last to that kiss in his room.

  She found her fingertips touching her lips and had to force her hand down.

  “Excuse me, Your Eminence.” A peevish voice carried across the garden, drawing their collective attention. Father Ambrose crossed toward them. “May I clear?”

  She stood, not certain of where to go.

  “Of course, my son,” the Cardinal said. “We are finished supping.”

  Wanting to keep her hands busy, her thoughts redirected, Erin helped Father Ambrose clean off the table while Jordan and the Cardinal kept talking. She hurriedly followed the fussy priest with their plates back to the stairs.

  She closed the door, wanting a moment of privacy with Father Ambrose on the stairs.

  “I would like to speak to Father Korza,” she said.

  Father Ambrose filched the lone remaining grape from the bowl and ate it. Out of view of the Cardinal, he seemed more relaxed. Or maybe he considered her no threat to his position. “You may try to speak to him, but our Father Korza is not a communicative man.”

  “I would still like to take my chances,” she said.

  “Very well.” Father Ambrose smiled tightly, as if hiding a secret. “But you have been warned.”

  She followed him down to a surprisingly modern kitchen and deposited their dishes in the sink.

  He then took two brass candleholders from a cabinet, inserted a candle in each, and lit them. “There is no light where we are going,” he explained.

  He handed her a candleholder and returned to the spiral stairs. They descended, winding deeper and deeper, passing the cells where she and Jordan had washed up, where they’d kissed. Her steps hurried past that level.

  As she continued deeper, she wondered how best to approach Rhun. He had been furious when she and Jordan agreed to accompany him on the search. But why? What price had he paid four hund
red years ago?

  She considered his alleged age. Could he truly be five hundred years old? That would mean he’d lived through the Renaissance. His courtly, formal mannerisms made more sense now, but nothing else did.

  Like why she was even heading down here?

  Part of the reason was simple: to escape. She needed to give herself space and time to adjust to the new Jordan.

  But Rhun also had answers she needed.

  From the priest’s reaction in the garden, she suspected Rhun would be more truthful about the dangers ahead—at least more forthright than the Cardinal. Even though her mind was made up, she wanted to know everything she could about the quest. Rhun might give her answers or, more likely, he would just stare at her with those dark eyes and say nothing. But she had to try.

  Father Ambrose stopped in front of another massive wooden door. He struggled to unlock it with a skeleton key from a ring he kept on his belt. The rusty lock looked as if it had not been opened in years.

  Hair stood up on her arms as a stray fear came to mind. What if Father Ambrose intended her harm? She scolded herself at such foolishness. Both Jordan and the Cardinal saw her leave with him. He wouldn’t dare do anything to her. Still, her heart would not slow.

  The lock finally gave and Father Ambrose pulled back the heavy door with difficulty and pointed into the dark room.

  Across the chamber, Rhun knelt in front of what might have been an altar, although it was too dark to tell. A single votive candle lit the room, most of its light absorbed by the scarlet glass that held it. Its small flame revealed a distant, arched ceiling and ancient stained-glass windows that must look out upon nothing but more rock. Empty wooden pews filled the space, separated by a threadbare carpet running down the center.

  Was this a Sanguinist’s chapel?

  Father Ambrose gestured that she enter first, and she slipped inside, moving quietly, crossing only a few steps past the threshold, not wanting to disturb Rhun in prayer.

  As the door closed behind her, the wind blew out her candle. She should have thought to cup the flame. She turned to Father Ambrose—only to find he hadn’t entered with her.

  She went back to the door and tried the handle.

  Locked.

  He had trapped her alone with Rhun.

  She paused, uncertain about what to do. She would not give Father Ambrose the satisfaction of pounding on the door and begging to be let out. Also she did not want to intrude upon Rhun’s prayers.

  For him not to notice her presence already, he must be in deep meditation. Rhun noticed everything. His senses were sharper than hers, but now he gave no outward sign that he knew she was here.

  Was he so lost in his faith?

  She felt a twinge of envy for such focused devotion.

  In the quiet, she heard faint words whispered in Latin, words easy to translate because she’d heard them often enough during the Masses of her childhood.

  “The Blood of our Lord Jesus Christ, which was shed for thee, preserve thy body and soul unto everlasting life. Drink this in remembrance that Christ’s Blood was shed for thee, and be thankful.”

  He was giving himself Communion. For the first time, she truly understood the meaning behind the prayers. Everything she knew about the Church would have to be rethought. Beliefs she had once rejected were being proven true, supported by a history she had not even thought possible.

  “The Blood of our Lord Jesus Christ keep you in everlasting life.”

  He put a large chalice to his lips and intoned:

  “The Blood of Christ, the cup of salvation.”

  In the desert, he had been ashamed to drink his wine in front of her and Jordan. She crept back to the door, about to knock, but she stayed her hand.

  As much as Rhun had hated her and Jordan seeing him vulnerable, it would surely be worse if Father Ambrose did.

  She turned her back to Rhun, granting him his privacy. She slid to a sitting position on the floor, wrapped her arms around her knees, and waited.

  11:31 P.M.

  Rhun raised the cold cup to his lips, inhaling the familiar scents of gold and wine. He needed Christ’s blood tonight more than he had in many years. It would help him heal, and it would still his anger. Knowing the risks, Bernard had bound the innocent woman and the soldier to him. They had accepted the quest, not understanding where it would lead. Had he been so rash when he was a fragile human?

  Shame burned in him. The blame for it was not Bernard’s alone. Rhun’s actions had brought the soldier and the woman here. He had told them the forbidden. He had saved them when he should have let them die.

  If he failed them now, they would wish that he had let them find a quick death in the desert.

  He raised the cup one final time and drank. Long and deep. The liquid scalded his lips, his throat. It was not the fermented grape, but the essence of Christ’s own blood that flamed against the sin that flowed through his tainted body. He set down the drained cup, then raised his arms to shoulder height and let the flames of Christ’s gift burn through him while he finished his prayer. Steam rose from his lips, and he forced the last words through the agony. Then he knelt with nothing left but the memory of his sin.

  Fresh rushes rustled under Rhun’s boots as he crossed into the entry hall to greet Elisabeta’s maid, the shy little Anna.

  At Čachtice Castle, Elisabeta insisted that each fall the old rushes be discarded, the stone washed clean and dried, and new rushes be left in their place. She strewed chamomile over them, lending her house a clean, restful scent so unlike most of the other noble homes he visited.

  “Do you not wish to follow me to the great room, Father?” Anna kept her eyes on the rushes and her birthmark turned from him.

  “If you would, Anna, could you fetch the lady here?” Although he had visited many times, tonight he was loath to go deeper inside.

  Before Anna had time to leave, Elisabeta arrived in a sumptuous dark green gown cinched tight around her slender waist. “My dear Father Korza! It is rare to see you about so late. Do come into the great room. Anna just laid a fresh fire.”

  “I must decline. I believe that my errand … my task … that we are best served if I remain here.”

  Her sculpted eyebrows raised in surprise. “How mysterious!”

  She waved Anna away, then glided to a high table by the door and lit the beeswax candles. Their honey scent wafted up, reminding him of innocent summers too long past.

  Flickering candlelight fell across a face lovelier than he had ever seen. Light glinted off jet-black hair, and silvery eyes danced with mischief. She clasped her hands as she faced him. “Tell me of your errand, Father.”

  “I come bearing tidings.” His throat closed.

  She stood quite still. The smile vanished from her face, and her silver eyes darkened like a storm cloud. “Of my husband, the Count Nádasy?”

  He could not tell her. He could not hurt her. He gripped the silver cross of his office, hoping that it would give him strength. As usual, it only gave him pain.

  “He has fallen,” she said.

  Of course, as a soldier’s wife, she knew.

  “It was with honor. In—”

  She sagged back against the wall. “Spare me such details.”

  Rhun stood fixed, unable to speak.

  She ducked her head, trying to hide tears.

  As a priest, he should go to her. He should pray with her, talk of God’s will, explain that Ferenc now dwelt with the exalted. He had filled that role many times and for many mourners.

  But he could not do it for her.

  Not her.

  Because in truth, he longed to enfold her slim form in his arms, to hold her sorrow against his chest. So, instead, he backed away, letting his cowardice become cruelty, forsaking her at this hard time.

  “I offer my deepest condolences for your loss,” he said stiffly.

  She raised grief-filled eyes to his. Surprise and confusion flickered across them, then only deeper sadness. She did her be
st to fix her mask of normality back in place, but she wore it crookedly, unable to fully hide the hurt of his coldness.

  “I shall not detain you, Father. The hour is late, and your journey long.”

  He said not another word and fled.

  Because he loved her, he abandoned her.

  As he stumbled down the frost-rimed road that led away from Elisabeta, he realized that everything had shifted between them. Surely she knew it, too. Ferenc had been the wall that kept them both safe, kept them apart.

  Without that wall, anything might escape.

  Rhun returned to himself, back to the present, sprawled flat on the chapel’s stone floor. As he lay there, he thought again upon that visit to the castle. He should have followed his instinct and fled forever, never to return to her side.

  Then, as now, he had buried himself in the dark quiet of the Church. The bright scents in his life dissolved into nothing more than stone dust, the sweat of men, and traces of frankincense, spicy with an undertone of the conifer from which it had bled.

  But nothing green and alive.

  During those long-ago nights, he had performed his priestly duties. But during the days, he gazed into the Virgin Mary’s clear eyes as she wept for her son, and he thought only of Elisabeta. He slept only when he had to, because when he slept he dreamed that he had not failed her, that he held her warm body against his and comforted her. He kissed her tears, and sunshine returned to her smile, a smile meant for him.

  In his long years of priesthood, his faith had never wavered. But, then, it did.

  He had put aside thoughts of her and prayed until the stone rubbed his knees raw. He had fasted until his bones ached. Only he and one other Sanguinist in all the centuries had not tasted human blood, had never taken a human life. He had thought his faith stronger than his flesh and his feelings.

  And he had thought that he conquered them.

  His hubris still ate at him.

  His pride had caused his downfall, and hers.

  Why had the wine shown him this part of his penance tonight?

  A heartbeat thrummed through his thoughts, pulling him back to the candlelit chapel.

  A human, here? Such trespass was forbidden.