Meanwhile, Rhun and Emmanuel kept the path open ahead, continuing to fight through the shadowy forms with silver blades in both hands.
Jordan defended the rear as best he could with his Bowie knife. The high-pitched shrieking stabbed his ears. Despite the protection of his leather duster, his hands and face bore countless scratches.
It now seemed as if for every bat taken down, two took its place.
Erin plunged her knife into the belly of one that slipped past Jordan. Its sharp caninelike fangs snapped closed by her nose before it thudded to the floor.
Jordan grabbed another bat as it tried to fly past, its skin cold and dry, like a dead lizard. He swallowed revulsion and slashed at it with his knife. It pivoted its muscle-bound neck and sank its teeth into the fleshy part of his thumb. Pain shot up his arm.
He slammed his hand against the concrete wall, once, twice, three times, but the bat’s teeth stayed firm. It would not knock loose. He felt teeth scrape bone, threatening to take off his thumb. Blood ran down the inside of his coat to his elbow. Another bat glanced off the side of his head, opening up a stinging wound across his temple.
Erin came to his aid. She grasped the bat attached to his hand by its ears. She thrust her knife under its chin and drew the blade downward. Black blood sprayed the wall, and the teeth finally let go.
“Forward!” Rhun called from a step away—which at the moment felt like an impassible distance. “A door ahead! To the right!”
Emmanuel drove forward, leading the charge. Bats flew at Emmanuel’s face, his neck, his hands. But they seemed reluctant to bite him, not that the tall man didn’t sustain wounds. His entire form dripped blood, his blond hair black with it.
Another of the horde reached past Jordan’s tiring arm. Fangs locked onto his wrist. They didn’t seem to have any problem biting him.
Rhun’s knife flashed through the air, slicing through wings and fur, freeing him.
But the bats never slowed.
Jordan’s arm trembled, weakening—and still the bats came.
34
October 27, 5:39 A.M., CET
Harmsfeld, Germany
Bathory knelt beside the fog-shrouded Bavarian lake.
Her finger touched drag marks left in the mud. Something wide and heavy had been hauled along the bank here—and recently. Water had seeped in to fill the lines, but no leaves or pine needles marred the surface; nor animal tracks.
Straightening, she motioned for her troops to stay back while she circled the area where the boat had entered the water. She counted footprints, recognizing American military boots, a set of Converse sneakers, and three others in handmade boots, two large and one small. Judging by the depth of the impressions, she guessed two women and three men.
But Bathory hated to make assumptions.
She followed the tracks to the water’s edge. She peered into the gauzy fog, but could see no farther than a few yards, cursing the mountain mists. Earlier, she’d almost missed Rhun and his companions as they fled under the cloak of fog. Until the roar of the motorcycle engines gave them away.
She turned to her second in command. “Do you hear anything, Tarek?”
He cocked his head to the side as if listening. “Not a heartbeat out there.”
But was he telling the truth, or was he lying to keep her from finding the book?
Magor? she cast out silently.
The wolf pawed the ground and ducked his head. He also heard nothing. She patted his warm flank. Her vehicle had been no match for speeding motorcycles across this harsh terrain. It had taken Magor’s nose to track her quarry this far. While the wolf’s keen senses had served her well, he was no more able to sense across water than she was able to see in fog.
She studied the smooth lake again. It seemed that the Sanguinists had procured a boat and had a good head start.
That presented a new challenge.
“Tarek, bring up a map of the lake.”
He handed her his cell with a satellite picture. The lake had no islands. So either the Sanguinists had used the boat to cross to the other side, or they had searched for something underwater. A problem, as she had no boat, nor any idea of where to steal one. Searching would waste precious time.
Tarek growled deep in his throat, impatient. Strigoi hated to wait. The others caught his insolence and shifted from foot to foot.
She stared him down until he fell silent—then commanded him for good measure: “Disable the motorcycles. But stay within hearing.”
Magor slumped to his haunches next to her, his reddish-golden eyes staring across the water. She rested her free hand atop his head, then returned her gaze to the on-screen image. Perhaps she could learn why the Sanguinists had chosen this place.
She zoomed in on the satellite image and scrolled around to view the terrain surrounding the lake. The picture had been taken in summer. Dark green trees obscured the ground. No clearings seemed significant.
“The bikes won’t run again,” Tarek called.
“Good,” she answered. When they returned, the Sanguinists would have no quick way to escape.
She zoomed in tighter on the map, her eye caught by a long straight line of lighter green. The trees were different in this spot. Did that mean water? Or were the trees younger? She connected that line with another line, then another, almost too faint to see.
She smiled at her own brilliance as she recognized the pattern.
It was a corner of the design depicted on the Nazi medallion. The rest appeared to extend under the lake.
So that’s why they came out here.
In her mind’s eye, she completed the shape of the rune. On the screen, she ran one long fingernail around the diamond shape. She realized something of great interest. The two legs of the rune—one stretched and ended under the lake, but the other ran underground and terminated on the far side of the hill across the lake. The terrain maps showed that area to be heavily wooded. No man-made structures, just trees and boulders, but that didn’t mean something wasn’t still buried there.
She glanced to her small army, a force strong enough to dig for hours without tiring. She had to take the gamble. She stared across the lake to the distant hills.
If she was right, this subterranean vault might have a back door.
35
October 27, 5:48 A.M., CET
Beneath Harmsfeld Lake, Germany
In the echo chamber of the cavernous concrete tunnels, Rhun’s senses swam and wavered, as if he were fighting underwater. Ultrasonic shrieking tore into his skull. The flurry of beating wings and writhing bodies, splattered with a rain of blood, made it near impossible to focus.
But he fought through the noise by concentrating on one face: scared, bloodied, and fierce.
Erin Granger.
Rhun reached her and swatted a bat away from her chest with all the strength in his arm, cracking hollow bones and crushing the creature’s face. Although Erin’s long jacket continued to protect all but her hands and head, he watched the frantic thrum of her heartbeat in her throat, heard the gasp of her breath. Their group could not last much longer.
Erin twirled before him, struggling with another icarops that clung to her back, clawing its way toward her neck.
Her flashlight jerked as she struggled, illuminating curtains of bats overhead.
Thousands.
He grabbed her, threw her across his back, and shouldered her through the dark doorway, where Emmanuel was fighting with his blade. At his side, Nadia danced amid a shimmer of whirling silver death.
“Get the soldier inside!” Rhun yelled to his sister of the cloth.
He dropped Erin roughly, deliberately, onto her back, crushing the icarops with a sharp squeal and a wash of blood. The soldier skidded across the floor next, protected by his own leathers. He rolled to bash a bat from his shoulder with his flashlight, then finished with a sharp blow of the butt of his gun.
A reverberating crash behind Rhun shook the air, telling him that Nadia had slammed the do
or. Emmanuel leaned his back against it. The room was square, small, but secure for the moment. An open archway at the rear of the room led into yet another chamber, but Rhun heard no heartbeats, no movement. The air smelled dead and still, tainted by old guano.
They should be safe for a few moments.
Nadia finished clearing the smattering of bats that had made it into the room with them.
The wooden door muffled the squealing of the bats outside, but claws continued to scrabble and teeth to gnaw as the horde fought to reach them.
Rhun understood that desire. Erin’s heartbeat continued fast but strong. Next to her the soldier’s heart still raced. The fragrance of blood wafting from her and the soldier threatened to overpower him.
He took a step back, away from the bleeding pair.
Erin stood and stumbled to Jordan’s side. “Are you hurt?”
He still sat on the ground. “Just my pride,” he said. “Give it a minute.”
“Did the Belial do this?” Erin turned toward Rhun, bringing with her another drift of blood scent.
He swallowed and retreated another step.
Nadia answered, wiping her chain across her thigh before securing it back around her waist like a belt. “It would take years to make that many blasphemare. It was not those who hunted you in Masada who made these creatures.”
Rhun nudged a dead bat with his toe. “She is right. Some of these icarops are decades old.”
“So we are not alone down here.” Emmanuel’s deep voice overrode theirs. “One or more strigoi are using this structure as a nest.”
“More good news,” Jordan said, fingering his scalp. “But these bat bites won’t turn us into strigoi, right?”
Erin aimed her light at him. Fresh blood streamed from his hands and temple. Slashes marked the top of her body, too.
Rhun flinched, having to look away from the gleaming red blood. He spoke to the wall. “No. To become a strigoi, you must be drained by one, then drink his blood. Or her blood. You are safe from that fate.”
Nadia reached a hand down and hauled the sergeant to his feet, seeming to sense that Rhun did not dare get any closer to him. “Are your wounds serious, Sergeant?”
Jordan directed his light at the cut on his hand. “Nothing I can’t fix with a big enough Band-Aid. How about you, Erin? You okay?”
“Mostly.” She wiped the back of her hand on her jeans. “But why didn’t the bats attack you three?”
“An intriguing question.” Emmanuel’s body rocked forward as bats thumped and squealed against the door. “It might be your heartbeats. Or perhaps they have been trained to attack humans.”
Jordan winced. “Trained attack bats?”
“Did you prefer the wolf?” Erin pulled his miniature first-aid kit out of his pocket.
“A little,” he said. “Yes.”
Rhun’s head was swimming with the scent of their blood. He stepped back toward the door.
“Your wine,” Nadia reminded him.
He reached to his thigh, freed his wineskin, and took a quick sip, enough to steady him, but hopefully not enough to trigger a penance. Christ’s blood burned down his throat, the warmth spreading through him—but thankfully no memories came.
“Hold out your hand,” Erin said to Jordan. “Let me see.”
The soldier pointed his flashlight at the wound on his thumb. “I think the teeth missed all the important parts. Stings like the devil, though.”
“They are the devil’s work,” Emmanuel said, still crouched at the door. He fingered his rosary and began to pray.
Nadia flattened her back against the wall, her eyes fixed on the bats on the floor, also doing her best to ignore the small drops of fresh blood striking the concrete, as loud as raindrops on a tin roof.
Here was why humans could not be included in Sanguinist expeditions. Rhun fought down his anger, much of it directed at Bernard for forcing this pair upon them. The Cardinal did not understand life in the field.
“Did you have a recent tetanus shot?” Erin whispered.
“Sure, but not rabies.”
“They’re not rabid,” Nadia said, not looking up.
Erin finished bandaging his thumb. “Luckily, it’s your left hand.”
“The expendable one?” The soldier grinned at her. “What about that gash at my hairline?”
“Put your head down.” She examined it and concluded her assessment. “Bloody, but not deep.”
Rhun tried not to notice how gently she wiped the scalp wound clean or how lightly her hands closed it with butterfly bandages. Every motion made it obvious that she cared for the soldier.
“Now your turn,” the soldier said once she was done. He switched places with her, taking up the first-aid kit. “Let me look at you.”
Jordan’s bandaged hand slid along Erin’s face and scalp, quickening her pulse.
She retreated and lifted her arm between them. “They only bit my hand.”
With a nod, Jordan quickly wrapped her injury.
“If you two are quite finished … ,” Emmanuel said, irritated. “Shall we discuss our next move?”
Behind him, claws continued to dig at the door.
The bats were almost through.
5:54 A.M.
As Jordan watched, a fist-size section of the door splintered and gave way. Through the opening, a scabrous head pushed into view, screeching, ears unfolding, teeth gnashing.
Emmanuel slashed out with his short sword, and the bat’s head rolled to the floor.
Jordan helped Erin to her feet and backed away as another bat stuck its head through the hole.
“Bastard chewed through the door,” he said. “That’s dedication.”
Rhun nodded toward the shadowy rear of their space. “There is an open archway back there. Seek shelter in the next room.”
Jordan pointed his light, noting the dark doorway for the first time. The archway led who knew where, but at least bats weren’t coming through it. And if Rhun sensed nothing of menace back there, that was good enough for him.
“Make haste.” Emmanuel spoke through gritted teeth as more of the door began to disintegrate, torn apart by determined teeth and claws.
Nadia and Rhun went to his aid.
Jordan and Erin crossed and stood at the threshold, fearing to enter alone. Jordan played his light across the space, discovering that Rhun’s keen senses proved true. The archway did lead to another room—a large circular space, empty and cavernous—but as he played his beam along the curved wall, an awful truth became evident.
There was no other exit.
It was a dead end.
5:55 A.M.
“There’s no way out of here!” Erin called back to Rhun.
Her eyes watered from the sharp smell of ammonia in the room.
Bat guano.
She took a few steps inside, trailed by Jordan. Her flashlight illuminated a round chamber with a domed roof. She was immediately struck by two details. The chamber was the same shape and size as the tomb in Masada. But here, fine white marble covered every surface: the floor, walls, and ceiling.
She imagined it must have been a beautiful space once, but now dark guano streaked the walls and piled up in corners.
She also noted a second detail, her heart beating faster, again picturing the schematic of the Odal rune in her head.
“What is wrong?” Rhun shouted back.
Erin glanced back. Had he felt the stirring of her excitement?
She answered him, not bothering to shout this time, knowing he would hear her fine at a normal speaking volume: “I believe this chamber lies in the exact center of the diamond part of the Odal rune.”
Their path here glowed in her mind’s eye.
Rhun understood. “Search for the book. Time runs short! If we cannot defend this door, we may have to flee back to the tunnel and seek a more secure shelter.”
Granted his permission and responding to his urgency, she hurried inside, her attention already drawn to the most dramatic obj
ect, the tallest item, in the room: a life-size marble crucifix with a shockingly emaciated Christ nailed to it, sculpted of the whitest marble. Every detail on his body was faultlessly rendered, from his perfectly formed muscles to the deep wound on his side. Unlike Christ, though, this figure was naked, hairless as a newborn, giving the image a stylized beauty, a mix of godlike innocence and human agony.
She moved her light to follow the gaze of his lowered head. The sculpture looked down upon a tall stone pedestal with a splayed top. Erin knew that shape, having just seen it hours ago. It matched the Ahnenerbe pin in Leopold’s office, the one depicting a column supporting on open book.
The monk had said the emblem’s pedestal represented an important Ahnenerbe goal: to document Aryan history and heritage. But he also said it could symbolize “a great mystery, some occult book of great power held by them.”
Breathless, Erin knew she was looking at the source of that Ahnenerbe symbol.
From the way the pedestal’s top was tilted toward the statue and away from her, she could not tell if anything rested there.
“We should stay by the door,” Jordan warned. “In case we have to make a run for it.”
She did not slow, did not hesitate. Nothing would stop her from reaching that pedestal and seeing for herself what lay there—possibly a book written in Christ’s own blood.
Jordan swore under his breath and followed her deeper inside.
The cross and column rested upon a dais, a square marble base six feet across. That both objects should have been placed on a stage demonstrated their importance. But why would the Nazis erect a life-size crucifix? Were they guarding something they considered sacred and holy?
Erin had to find out.
She jumped up onto the stage, wincing when her feet ground into pieces of broken rock. Careful not to step on anything else, she circled the pedestal.
As she came around, holding her breath, her light glowed across the upper surface of the marble lectern.
Then her heart sank.
It was empty.
“What did you find?” Jordan called to her from the base of the dais, but his face remained turned toward the vestibule, where the Sanguinists fought to keep the bats at bay.
The Blood Gospel Page 26