The Blood Gospel

by Rebecca Cantrell James Rollins

  She cast her eyes on the cross and let out a quiet moan of disappointment.

  Rhun froze, fighting the warmth of her skin, the scent of snowmelt in her hair, the pulse of her heart in her lips, the salt smell of her tears. He had never been so terrified in his mortal and immortal life.

  She leaned forward and kissed him, her lips light as the touch of a butterfly.

  And Rhun was lost.

  She tasted of grief and blood and passion. He was no longer a priest or a monster. He was simply a man. A man as he had never been before.

  He pulled his head back and stared into her shadowed eyes, dark with passion. She pulled off her cap and black hair tumbled free around her shoulders.

  “Yes, Rhun,” she said. “Yes.”

  He kissed the inside of her wrist. Her heart pounded strong against his lips. He unfastened her sleeve and kissed the crook of her elbow. His tongue tasted her skin.

  She buried her hands in his hair and pulled him closer. He chased her pulse up her bare neck. As she swooned in his embrace, he tightened his arms around her back. Her mouth found his again.

  God and vows fled. He needed to feel her skin against his. His hands fumbled with the lacings of her dress. She pushed him away and undid them herself, her mouth never leaving his.

  Her dress fell heavy to the stone floor, and she stepped out of it, closer to the fire. Orange flames shone through her linen chemise. He released her long enough to tear the garment in half.

  And she stood naked in his arms. Skin soft and warm. Her heart racing under his palms.

  Her hands flew across the impossibly long row of buttons on his cassock. Thirty-three, to symbolize the thirty-three years of the earthly life of Christ. The cassock fell to the floor atop her dress. His silver cross burned against his chest, but he no longer cared.

  He swept Elisabeta up in his arms, crushing her against him. She gasped when the cross touched her bare breast. He reached up and broke the chain. The cross clattered to the stone next to his robes. He should care, he should gather up its holiness and hold it against his body, hold it between them like a wall.

  Instead, he chose her.

  Her lips found his again, and her mouth opened under his. Nothing separated them now. They were two bodies craving only union.

  She called out his name.

  Rhun answered with hers.

  He lowered her to the fire-warmed floor. She arched under him, long velvet throat curving toward his mouth.

  Rhun lost himself in her scent, her warmth, her heart. No man could experience what he felt; no Sanguinist could withstand it. Never had he felt so content, so strong. This bliss was why men left the priesthood. This bond was deeper than his feelings for God.

  He joined with her. He never wanted to be separate again.

  Red consumed him. Then it consumed her. He pulsed in a sea of seething red.

  When the red cleared, both their souls were destroyed.

  44

  October 27, 8:02 A.M., CET

  Harmsfeld, Germany

  A few feet away from Erin, Nadia knelt next to Rhun, whispering in Latin while he wept. Whatever happened when they drank consecrated wine, it was more unpleasant than being shot six times in the chest. She ached for Rhun, trapped in such a state for eternity, consigned to an unimaginable Hell for the sin of being attacked by a wild strigoi.

  Erin walked back to the broken church doors and stared out at the early morning. Jordan joined her, leaned next to her. How did he stay so warm? She was freezing. First they had both been dunked in that snowmelt lake, and now they stood in an unheated church.

  Once Rhun quieted, she heard Nadia gasp as she also consumed a draft of consecrated wine, but she did not weep as Rhun had done.

  For a long moment silence filled the church.

  “He is awake,” Nadia finally called out, returned again to her calm, even state. “With luck, he will be fit to travel before nightfall. But he will be weakened for the next few days. Christ’s blood does not heal us as quickly as human blood would.”

  “Why is the wine not as difficult for you to drink as it is for Rhun?” Erin glanced over at the priest, lying on his side, facing away from them, covered with the altar cloth.

  Nadia stared over at him, too. “I did not have so far to fall.”

  8:22 A.M.

  Jordan looked around the small room of the inn that Nadia had rented for him and Erin in Harmsfeld. The quaint residence stood across the town square from the church.

  Nadia shared a room with Rhun, right next door, but Jordan still surveyed the room as if he were preparing for a coming siege. The hotel door was made of stout oak. A check of the window revealed a trellis below their second-story room. A difficult entry point. He did a quick assessment of the bathroom. The window there was too small to admit anyone. The rest of the space was typical of European accommodations: white tiles, a utilitarian shower, sink, toilet, and bidet.

  When he returned to the main room, Erin hadn’t moved from her spot on the bed, perched at the edge of a plump duvet. The space contained a double bed, two nightstands with lamps, and an odd metal contraption he thought might be used for cleaning boots.

  Erin looked paler than he’d ever seen her. Dark circles shadowed her eyes; dirt smudged her face.

  “Do you want the first shower?” he asked.

  “‘Shower,’” she said, standing and stretching. “Best word in the English language right now.”

  Jordan watched her leave, closing the door. He thought that the best two words in the English language right now might be shower together, but he knew better than to say so. Instead, he sat on the other side of the bed and opened the room-service menu.

  He selected three breakfasts with coffee and tea because he had no idea what Erin ate or drank. He picked up the phone and dialed, but before anyone answered, Erin turned on the water for the shower. Jordan pictured her stepping over the tile threshold, her hair loose and falling halfway down her bare back, water tracing its way down the curves of her—

  “Darf ich Ihnen behilflich sein?” said the voice on the other end of the phone.

  Jordan turned his back to the bathroom door and ordered breakfast in German.

  While he waited, he spread their coats to dry over the radiator, trying not to think about Erin in the shower, face upturned to the water and steam rising around her.

  He had to find something else to do. He sat on the bed and cleaned his weapons, one at a time, keeping the other always near to hand. After that, he cleaned Erin’s Sig Sauer.

  Nadia knocked on the door and thrust a paper bag into his hands without a word. As he closed the door, he opened the bag to find basic toiletries and a change of clothes for both of them.

  Warm sweaters, so he guessed he wasn’t flying back to Jerusalem.

  Room service arrived, and Jordan started his breakfast before Erin finished her shower.

  Moments later, the flow of water shut off with a clunking sound. He kept glancing at the door, trying his best not to picture Erin buffing her naked form.

  He failed.

  He waited for her to come out. When she finally did, she stepped into the room in a cloud of steam. She wore a white terrycloth robe she must have found in the bathroom and had rebandaged her hand. Her face and neck were flushed from the hot water. He wished he could see how far down her body that flush extended.

  As she approached, Jordan adjusted the napkin on his lap.

  “I tried to save you some hot water,” she said.

  “I … um … tried to save you some breakfast.” Jordan took a big sip of his steaming coffee.

  Erin walked over and looked down at the remains of the food. She smelled like soap and clean laundry. “Here’s hoping I did a better job than you.”

  He kept his eyes studiously averted from the front of her robe and hurried to the bathroom. He showered and shaved quickly. After he brushed his hair and pulled on a clean pair of khakis and a long-sleeved shirt, he felt ready to take on the world.

>   Or at least to take a long nap.

  Erin was just finishing up breakfast when Jordan came out of the bathroom. He lay down on the bed and sighed. A real bed.

  “I could sleep on the floor,” Erin said.

  “Neither of us is taking the floor,” Jordan answered. “I promise to stay on my side, if you promise to stay on yours.”

  Erin looked at the floor, as if considering the other option.

  Jordan rolled back to his feet and retrieved his dry coat from the radiator. “During times of dire need, didn’t maidens once sleep with a sword between them and their knight protector?” He spread the coat across the middle of the bed and held up three fingers. “Scout’s honor, I won’t cross this moat of leather unless you ask me to.”

  She eyed him skeptically. “Were you ever a Boy Scout?”

  He flopped down on the side of the bed closest to the door. “Eagle Scout.”

  After a short time, they both settled to their respective sides of the bed. Jordan thought he’d be awake thinking about Erin lying inches away, but he fell asleep almost immediately, still in his clothes.

  He awoke sitting up, one hand on his gun. He took in the sunlit room with a single glance. Nothing out of place. Door closed. Window closed. Bathroom empty. What had woken him up?

  Next to him, Erin whimpered.

  He turned to check on her. Still in her robe, she lay on her side facing him, her hands clasped under one cheek. She gasped in her sleep. He wanted to reach over the coat and touch her, but he didn’t want to break his promise. One wrong move with Erin, and he would be finished.

  “Hush,” he whispered, as if she were his niece Abigail, famous in the family for her nightmares about giant tarantulas.

  Erin let out one long breath and seemed to sink deeper into sleep.

  She had plenty of food for bad dreams: strigoi, bats, and—

  With a scream, Erin sat bolt upright.

  “I’m right here,” Jordan said, sitting up with her. “We’re safe.”

  She looked over at him, eyes wide.

  “It’s Jordan, remember?” he said.

  She drew in a ragged breath and scooted back to lean against the headboard. “I remember.”

  Careful to stay on his side of the coat, Jordan did the same. “Bad dreams?”

  “Bad reality.”

  “Should I be insulted?” Maybe that would lighten the mood.

  “I didn’t mean you. You’re … well … fine. But the rest of the situation …”

  Jordan was insulted at being relegated to merely fine, but decided this wasn’t the time to make a smart-aleck comment about it. “At least we got some sleep and food. I haven’t felt so good since before Masada.”

  He stopped talking. Masada. Where his team had died. All of them. He named them in his head, intending to never forget them: Sanderson. McKay. Cooper. Tyson. All of them, except McKay, younger than he. Tyson had a two-year-old daughter who would never see her mother again. McKay had three kids, an ex-wife, and a dog named Chipper. Cooper used his army pay to support his frail elderly mother and a long string of girlfriends. Sanderson hadn’t even had time to start a relationship. He was just a kid. Jordan rested his head against the headboard. “It’s been a very long twenty-four hours.”

  “I wonder what comes next,” Erin said.

  “Another field trip with our fun tour guides, Rhun and Nadia.”

  “Nadia’s not much fun.” Erin pulled the covers up past her waist. “I think she would’ve killed me in that church.”

  “I thought she was bluffing.”

  Erin put one hand up to her throat. “I don’t think Nadia bluffs.”

  Jordan didn’t think so either. “I get the feeling that if she wanted to, she could just crush us like bugs and hire someone to clean up the greasy spots.”

  Erin grinned. “That’s supposed to be reassuring?”

  He glanced over at her. “At least we have each other.” It sounded so cheesy he wished he could take it back.

  “But I barely know you,” she said.

  “What do you want to know?” He stuck a pillow behind his head. “I’m human. Thirty-five. Career army. Born in Iowa. Third son. My mom had five kids. My favorite color is green.”

  Erin smiled and shook her head.

  “Not good enough?” Jordan decided to go for it, just tell the truth. “My wife—Karen—was also in the army. She died about a year ago. Killed in action.” His voice tightened around that knot of grief, but he forged on. “No kids, but I wanted three. Now your turn. Kids? Husband? Siblings?”

  “I can’t play this game.” He saw a quick flash of pain in her eyes before she glanced away.

  Family was off-limits. Got it. He picked an easier question. “Not even your favorite color? That’s not a state secret, right?”

  She turned back with a slight smile, as if she appreciated the effort. “Sepia.”

  “Sepia?” He looked over at her. “That’s brown, right?”

  “It’s a brown gray. It was originally made from the ink sac of a cuttlefish. Sepia is the Latinized form of ‘cuttlefish.’ ”

  Her earnest amber eyes stared over into his. Or were they sepia?

  “See. That’s a start.” He shifted on the bed, trying to come up with another question. “Let’s say today was Saturday, and you were home. What would you be doing?”

  She looked down at the grimwolf jacket, almost as if she were embarrassed. “I’d be eating Lucky Charms and watching cartoons.”

  “I didn’t see that answer coming.” He imagined her sitting in pajamas with a bowl of cereal in her lap and cartoons on TV. Not a bad way to start a weekend.

  “My roommate in college, Wendy, got me into it. She said I had a lot of cartoons to catch up on.”

  After her freaky childhood, it sounded like Wendy had a point.

  “So,” Erin said. “Your turn. What would you be doing on a lazy Saturday morning?”

  “Sleeping.” He wished he had a cooler answer.

  She looked sheepish. “I’m sorry I woke you up.”

  “I’m not.” He reached over and smoothed a damp strand of hair back from her cheek, ready to back off if she gave any sign that she wanted him to stop.

  Instead, she closed her eyes and rested her head against his hand.

  He leaned across the grimwolf leather jacket and kissed her. He did it without thinking, as if his lips were meant to be there.

  She let out a tiny sigh and slid her arms around his neck.

  10:04 A.M.

  Rhun awoke to the lemony smell of chemical cleaning fluid. He laid a palm against his aching chest, remembering.

  He pushed himself up on an elbow. He was in a bedroom with white curtains drawn against the light. A few steps away a woman was lying on the wooden floor. Nadia. He remembered now. Nadia. Emmanuel. The bunker. He listened for Erin’s and Jordan’s heartbeats, heard them on the other side of a wall. The soft rumble of their voices comforted him.

  He used the headboard to lift himself to his feet.

  Nadia stirred, stretching like a waking cat. “Better?”

  Rhun stood, swaying. “Were you hurt?”

  “Only my leg.” She stood, too, more easily than he had. “It will mend.”

  Rhun envied her. “Were the others wounded?”

  “The soldier has luck,” she said. “The woman is a talented shooter, even with a pistol, and she had the sense to stay low.”

  “Piers?” Rhun looked around the darkened room.

  “Gone.” Nadia explained all that had happened since Rhun was shot in the forest.

  Rhun circled to the most disturbing question. “How did the Belial know where we were, where to ambush us?”

  His team’s departure from Jerusalem had been known only by the Cardinal and his innermost circle.

  Nadia sighed, concerned. “I think the best course of action is for me to return to the abbey with news of Emmanuel’s death, to claim you and the others died, too. That will give you time to operate outside the
range of the Church and any spies, to hide your next steps on the way to the Blood Gospel.”

  Rhun nodded. They needed to keep their search secret from the Belial. “What about Piers? What will you say about him?”

  “I’ll tell them what I found,” she said. “A shame that I only noticed German soldiers in the bunker. And strigoi, of course.”

  “So you will not tell them of the Russian soldiers?”

  “If the Church learns that Russian soldiers from St. Petersburg had been in the same bunker as the Blood Gospel, they will send more than a team to Russia. It will be all-out war.”

  Rhun nodded. No Sanguinist had ever returned from St. Petersburg alive since the traitorous Vitandus took command there. To retrieve anything from Russia, the Church would have to send an army. And every casualty would weaken their order in the battle they must eventually fight against the Belial.

  “We must go alone,” Rhun said. “Both to prevent a war and for any hope of recovering the book.”

  “And what about the humans? It will be dangerous to bring them.”

  “The Vitandus may hate our order, but he maintains a strange sense of honor. It may be enough to keep them safe.”

  From the other side of the wall, Rhun heard Jordan’s and Erin’s hearts beat faster.

  “I can plainly see your affection for them, Rhun,” Nadia said. “Do you think that the Russian will not?”

  “I can’t leave them here.” He tried to block out the sounds of Erin and Jordan. “If the Belial have agents within the Sanguinist ranks, their lives might be more at risk here than if I took them to Russia.”

  “Then the matter is settled.” Nadia stood and put on her chain belt.

  “I will need papers for us all,” Rhun added.

  “I will get them for you in secret.”

  Rhun considered the path on which he was about to embark. For the first time in his long, long life, he was about to be sundered from the Church, even if only for a time. He felt bereft.

  Nadia headed toward the door. “And I will bring you something you can trade for safe passage. Something precious to the ruler of St. Petersburg.”