The Blood Gospel

by Rebecca Cantrell James Rollins

  He raised his head from the stones. A woman sat with her back to him, her head bowed over her knees. The angle of her head called to him. The nape of her neck smelled familiar.

  Erin.

  The name drifted through the fog of memories and time.

  Erin Granger.

  The Woman of Learning.

  Rage burned inside him. Another innocent had been forced into his path. Better that he kill her now, simply and quickly, than abandon her to a crueler fate. He stood as crimson tinged his vision. He fought against the lust with prayer.

  Then another faint, familiar heartbeat reached his ears, thick and irregular.

  Ambrose.

  The priest had locked Erin in with Rhun, either to shame him, or perhaps with the hope that Rhun’s penance might cause him to lose control, as it almost had.

  He crossed the room so swiftly that Erin flinched and held her hands up in a placating gesture.

  “I’m sorry, Rhun. I didn’t mean to—”

  “I know.”

  He reached past her and shoved the door open with the force that only a Sanguinist could muster, taking satisfaction at the sound of Ambrose’s heavy body thudding into the wall.

  Then he heard the man’s rushed and frightened footsteps retreating up the stairs.

  He returned to Erin and helped her to her feet, smelling the lavender off her hair, the slight muskiness of her fading fear. The beat of her heart settled, her breathing softened. He held her hand a moment too long, feeling her warmth and not wanting to let go of it.

  She was alive.

  Even if it cost the world, he would make sure that this never changed.

  26

  October 26, 11:41 P.M., IST

  Undisclosed location, Israel

  Tommy rested his forehead against the window of his hospital room, slowly rapping his knuckles against its thick glass, listening to the dull thud. By now, he had convinced himself that this place was a military hospital or maybe even a prison.

  He pulled his IV pole closer, wondering if he could use it like a battering ram to break his way free.

  But then what?

  If he managed to break the window and jumped, would he die? A television show he watched a couple of years ago said that any fall above thirty feet was probably not survivable. He was higher than that.

  He toyed with the leads attached to his IV port. The medical staff measured everything about him—his heart rate, his oxygen saturation levels, and other random stuff. The Hebrew labels were gibberish to him. His father could read Hebrew and had tried to teach him, but Tommy had only learned enough to get through his bar mitzvah.

  Reminded of his father, he pictured the blackish-orange gas rolling over his parents.

  If he hadn’t told them the gas was safe, they might still be alive. He knew now the gas was toxic, just not to him. Immune was the word he’d heard one doctor use. Maybe he could have dragged his parents to safety. That strange priest at Masada had said that there was nothing he could have done, but what else could he say?

  You killed your parents, kid. You’re going to Hell, but it’ll be a long time till you get there.

  Tommy looked out the window again. It was a long drop to the desert. Far below, the boulders’ shadows looked like spilled ink against the brighter sand. It was a bitter landscape, but from this height, it looked peaceful.

  A rustle jerked his attention back into the room.

  A kid was standing right next to him. He looked about Tommy’s age, but he wore a gray three-piece suit. He sniffed the air like a dog, his nose moving closer to Tommy with each sniff. His black eyes glittered.

  “Can I help you?” Tommy asked, stepping away.

  This earned him a smile—one so cold that he shivered.

  Suddenly terrified, Tommy tapped his call button repeatedly, sending out an SOS of panic. He shrank back against the window as his heart rate spiked, triggering the monitors to beep wildly.

  The boy winked.

  Tommy was struck by the oddity of the action.

  Who winked nowadays? Seriously, who—

  The kid’s right hand moved so fast that Tommy didn’t even see a blur until it stopped by the angle of his jaw. A sharp pain cut across his neck.

  Tommy brought both hands up to feel. Blood ran through his fingers. It pumped from his throat, soaked his hospital gown, dripped on the floor.

  The boy lowered his arm and watched, cocking his head slightly.

  Tommy pressed his hands against his throat, trying to cut off the flood, strangling himself in the attempt. But blood continued to pour through his fingers.

  He screamed, earning only a warm gurgle as hot pain chased up his throat.

  Knowing he needed help, Tommy yanked off his EKG leads. Behind him, the monitor flatlined, setting an alarm to wailing.

  Immediately, two soldiers charged into the room, machine guns up and ready.

  He saw their shocked expressions—then the boy winked again.

  Not good.

  The kid lifted a chair, moving blindingly fast, and smashed it through the thick window. Without stopping, he shoved Tommy out into the night.

  Free at last.

  Cold air brushed across his body as he fell. Warm blood pumped from his neck.

  He closed his eyes, ready to see Mom and Dad.

  He had barely pictured them—when the ground slammed against his body. Nothing had ever hurt like this. Surely it had to end soon. It had to.

  It didn’t.

  Bullets sparked the asphalt around him. The soldiers shot through the broken window. Bullets tore electric trails of pain into his chest, his thigh, his hand.

  Sirens sounded. Searchlights went up.

  The boy landed lightly next to him, gray suede boots barely making a sound against the ground. Had he jumped? From that height?

  The boy grabbed his arm. Tommy’s bones ground against one another as the kid dragged him out of the spotlights and into the desert, running as quickly as a gazelle. He clearly did not care how the rocks cut Tommy’s back, how the jouncing grated his broken bones.

  All the while uncaring stars shone down on them both.

  Winking as coldly as the boy.

  Tommy wanted it to end. He wanted to sleep. He wanted to die.

  He counted down to his death.

  One. Two. Three. Four …

  Through the haze of pain, he had the worst thought of his life.

  What if I can’t die at all?

  27

  October 26, 11:44 P.M., IST

  Jerusalem, Israel

  Erin kept several feet behind Rhun as he swept out of the chapel, up the stairs, and through a maze of tunnels. Even as swiftly as he moved, she knew he kept his pace slow so that she could keep up, but it scared her to be close to him. In the flickering red glow of the chapel, his rage had been unmistakable. It looked like he had barely restrained himself from attacking her.

  If not for the dark maze of winding tunnels, she would have run away. But she had lost her own candle, and she needed the light of the chapel’s votive candle, held in Rhun’s hand, to return to safety.

  Then at last, she heard voices arguing, echoing from ahead, from an open doorway glowing with light. She recognized them all: the timbre of Jordan’s anger, Father Ambrose’s prissy officiousness, and the sighing resignation of Cardinal Bernard.

  “So where is she?” Jordan boomed, plainly wondering what Father Ambrose had done with her.

  Steps away, Rhun’s dark form disappeared through the doorway.

  She hurried behind to discover a modern room with whitewashed walls, a polished stone floor, and a long table covered with weapons and ammunition.

  All eyes turned to her when she entered.

  Jordan’s face relaxed. “Thank God,” he said—though God had nothing to do with it.

  The others remained inscrutable, except Rhun.

  He rushed forward, seized Father Ambrose by the neck, and slammed him against the wall. The short priest’s feet dangled
in the air.

  “Cardinal!” Father Ambrose gasped, choking.

  Rhun tightened his hand on the priest’s throat. “There will come a reckoning between us, Ambrose. Remember that.”

  Jordan took a step toward them, his hands raised as if to intervene.

  The Cardinal’s face was impassive. “Let him go, Rhun. I will make sure he is properly admonished.”

  Rhun leaned closer.

  Only Erin, standing to the side, saw the sharper points on Rhun’s teeth as he snarled and threatened. “Leave my sight. Lest that reckoning come now.”

  Rhun dropped the priest, who had gone dead-white. So he had seen those points, too. Father Ambrose collected himself, scuttled a few paces away, then fled.

  Jordan stepped closer. “Erin, are you okay? Where were you? What happened?”

  “I’m fine.”

  She didn’t want to talk about it, especially not until she’d adjusted to the change in the marital status of her new teammate. Still, she was more grateful than ever that he was accompanying them on the expedition. She pictured the dark rage in Rhun’s face when he looked at her in the chapel, how his teeth had sharpened when he threatened Father Ambrose.

  She leaned closer to Jordan’s reassuring warmth. “Thanks.”

  Cardinal Bernard cleared his throat. “Since you are returned to us, Dr. Granger … perhaps now we should finish our discussion of the strigoi.”

  He gestured to the loaded table of weaponry. Erin kept to the far side of Rhun, despite the fact that he seemed calm again.

  Jordan picked up a pair of goggles from the table and studied them. “These are night-vision scopes, but they look odd.”

  “They are of special design, made to toggle between low-light vision and infrared,” Bernard explained. “A useful tool. The low-light feature allows you to discern opponents at night, but since the strigoi are cold, they do not glow with body heat on infrared goggles. If you toggle between those two features, you’ll be able to separate humans from strigoi at night.”

  Curious, needing to try this out for herself, Erin picked up the other pair of goggles and looked at Jordan. His hair and the tip of his nose were now yellow; the rest of his face looked warm and red. He waved an orange hand.

  Definitely warm-blooded.

  She remembered the heat of his kiss—and shoved that thought back down.

  She hurriedly turned the goggles on Rhun. Even though the Cardinal had just told her that his body would be at room temperature, it still startled her when she saw his face in the same cold purples and deep blues as the wall behind him. When she switched to low-light vision, everyone looked the same.

  “How’d it work?” Jordan asked.

  “Fine.”

  Yet another scientific tool that showed how other Rhun was from them. Did he have anything in common with them at all?

  “Here are silver rounds for your weapons.” The Cardinal handed wooden boxes to Jordan. “It is difficult to stop a charging strigoi with a gun, but these bullets help. They are hollow points and expand on impact to maximize the amount of silver that comes in contact with their blood.”

  Jordan shook a bullet into his palm and held it up to the light. The bullet and casing glinted white silver. “How does that help?”

  “Our unique blood resists mortal diseases. We can live forever unless felled by violence. Our immune system is superior to yours in every way, except when it comes to silver.”

  “But you carry silver crosses.” Erin pointed to the cross atop the Cardinal’s red cassock.

  He kissed his gloved fingertips and touched his pectoral cross. “Each Sanguinist bears that burden, yes, to remind us of our cursed state. If we touch the silver—” He took off his leather glove and pressed a pale finger against the bullet in Jordan’s hand. The smell of burning flesh drifted to Erin. The Cardinal held up his finger to show where the silver had seared his flesh. “It burns even us.”

  “But not as bad as it does the strigoi, I’d wager,” Jordan said, pocketing the rounds.

  “That is true,” Bernard admitted with a bow of his head. “As a Sanguinist, I exist in a state halfway between damnation and holiness. Silver burns me, but does not kill me. Strigoi do not have the protection of Christ’s blood in their veins, so silver is much more deadly to them.” He drew his glove on again. “Holy objects also have some value, although not enough to kill them.”

  “Then how do we defend ourselves?” Jordan asked.

  “I suggest that you view strigoi as animals,” the Cardinal said. “To put them down, you must grievously wound them with traditional weapons, just like any other animal.”

  She looked over at Rhun, who showed no reaction to being called an animal.

  Instead, the priest took a dagger and slashed his palm.

  She gasped.

  His eyes flicked to her face as blood pattered to the table. “You must understand fully,” he said.

  “Doesn’t that hurt?” She couldn’t help but ask.

  “We feel many things more acutely than humans. Including pain. So, yes, it does hurt, but watch the wound.”

  He held out his open hand. The blood flowing from his cut stopped as abruptly as if he had turned off a tap. The blood at the edge of his wound even seeped back into his hand.

  “And you are showing us this cool little trick because …?” Jordan asked.

  “The secrets lie in our blood. It flows on its own through our bodies, a living force. This means our wounds stop bleeding almost instantly.”

  Erin leaned closer. “So you don’t need a heart to propel your blood? It does it on its own?”

  Rhun bowed his head in acknowledgment.

  Erin considered the implications. Was this the origin of the legend of the living dead? Strigoi seemed dead because they were cold and didn’t have beating hearts?

  “But what about breathing?” she asked, wanting every detail.

  “We breathe only to smell and to speak,” Rhun explained. “But there is no necessity for it. We can hold our breath indefinitely.”

  “More good news,” Jordan mumbled.

  “So now you understand,” Rhun said. “As Cardinal Bernard warned you, if you cut a strigoi, keep cutting. Do not assume that they are fatally wounded, because they are likely not. Be on guard at all times.”

  Jordan nodded.

  “A strigoi’s only weaknesses are fire, silver, sunlight, and wounds so grievous that they cannot stop the blood flow quickly enough.”

  Jordan stared down at the array of weaponry, clearly more worried than he’d been a moment ago. “Thanks for the pep talk,” he muttered.

  The Cardinal spread his gloved hands across several daggers that had been laid out on the table. “All of these weapons are coated with silver and blessed by the Church. I think you will find them more effective than the blade you wear at your ankle, Sergeant Stone.”

  Jordan picked up each dagger, testing its heft. He settled on a bone-handled knife that was almost a foot long. He examined it closely. “This is an American Bowie knife.”

  “A fitting weapon,” Rhun said. “It dates back to the Civil War and was carried by a brother of our order who died during the Battle of Antietam.”

  “One of the bloodiest fights of that war,” Jordan commented.

  “The blade has since been silver-plated.” Rhun eyed Jordan. “Wear it well and with respect.”

  Jordan nodded, soberly acknowledging the weapon’s heritage.

  Erin remembered the knife battles in the tomb. She would never cower helplessly in a box again. “I want one, too. And a gun.”

  “Can you shoot?” the Cardinal asked.

  “I hunted as a kid—but I’ve never shot anything I didn’t intend to eat.”

  Jordan gave her that crooked grin again. “Think of this as shooting something that wants to eat you.”

  She forced a smile, still sickened by the thought of shooting someone, even a strigoi. They looked like people; they were once people.

  “They will
not hesitate to kill you or worse,” Rhun said. “If you cannot bring yourself to take their lives—”

  “Now, Rhun,” the Cardinal interrupted. “Not everyone is meant to serve as a soldier. Dr. Granger will be traveling as a scholar. I am certain that you and Sergeant Stone can keep her safe.”

  “I do not share your unswerving belief in our abilities,” Rhun said. “She must be ready to defend herself.”

  “And I will.” Erin picked up a Sig Sauer pistol.

  “A fine weapon.” The Cardinal handed her a few boxes of silver ammunition.

  She put the gun in a shoulder holster, feeling ridiculous in her long skirt, like she should be part of a Wild West sideshow. “Can I get a pair of jeans?”

  “I will see to it,” Bernard promised, then pointed to a pair of garments hanging on wall pegs: two long leather dusters. “And these are for you also.”

  Jordan crossed and fingered the larger of the two coats. “What’s this made of?”

  “From the wolf skin of a blasphemare,” the Cardinal said. “You’ll find such leather both stab- and bullet-resistant.”

  “Like body armor,” Jordan said approvingly.

  Erin picked up the smaller coat, clearly meant for her. It was about twice as heavy as a normal jacket. Otherwise it looked the same, textured like expensive leather.

  Jordan pulled his on over his shoulders. It was the color of milk chocolate, and it suited him perfectly. He looked even better in it than he did in his camouflage.

  Erin slipped into her jacket, a lighter brown than Jordan’s. It reached her knees, but was full enough to allow plenty of movement. The round collar brushed the bottom of her chin, protecting her neck.

  “I also want to give you this.” Rhun pressed a silver necklace into her hand, a chain with an Orthodox cross.

  Years ago, she had worn such a cross every day—until finally she had flung it from the horse’s back as she fled the compound. After years of beating God into her, her father had succeeded only in beating God out of her.

  “How is this useful?” she asked. “The Cardinal said that holy objects are not that powerful against the strigoi.”

  “It is no mere weapon.” Rhun spoke so softly she had to strain to hear him. “It’s a symbol of Christ. That is beyond weaponry.”