But they were there, so she stayed put, trying to convince herself that she was just humoring them, even though she knew better.
As she waited, icy cold seeped into her palm. It felt dead, like a corpse. The irrational thought would not leave her mind. The book was dead, and it would not come back to life on Russian soil.
She remembered the Cardinal’s words: The book can only be opened in Rome.
“Well, that was disappointing,” Jordan said, taking his hand back, the first to break the circle and admit defeat.
Rhun followed suit, and Erin hefted the block back against her chest. Would something miraculous have happened if she had only had faith?
She shook her head.
Enough of that.
“I figured it wouldn’t be that easy,” Jordan said.
“Indeed.” Rasputin gave his personal assistant, Sergei, a meaningful look and the young acolyte backed out the door.
Erin didn’t like to think where he might be going.
“Let’s gather up the stone pieces,” Rhun said. “And be on our way.”
“Where does your way lead?” Rasputin blocked their exit.
“Do you mean to break your word, Grigori? Steal the book and kill us?”
Rasputin’s feet stayed planted. “If God chose you, there is nothing I could do to stop him.”
“Great!” Jordan stepped close. “Thank you for your help and—”
Five acolytes glided up swiftly and surrounded him.
“Don’t be a fool,” Rhun warned Rasputin, his tone as calm as if they were discussing travel arrangements. “You must know that you do not have the resources here to open the Gospel.”
“I do realize that, my dear Rhun.” Rasputin smiled. A chill ran up Erin’s back that had nothing to do with the Russian weather. “Larger forces are at play than you or I.”
Sergei returned to the room.
A massive beast padded in after him, the dead come back to life.
The grimwolf growled, its ears flattened menacingly, its hackles spiked along his back.
Here was a twin to the one they had killed in the desert.
From behind the wolf, a woman stepped forward, running her fingers possessively along the flank of the monster. She tossed aside a mane of fiery hair to reveal a pale and familiar face—the woman from the forest in Germany.
The one who shot Rhun.
52
October 27, 9:01 P.M., MST
The Hermitage, Russia
As Rhun stared, fire lanced through his chest, igniting with the memory of the silver rounds exploding into him. The woman looked so much like his Elisabeta—the silvery-gray eyes, the high cheekbones, the perfect skin, the same tilt to her chin, even the knowing smile.
But it could not be her. Rhun closed his eyes, listened to her heart. Each beat told him that this woman was not his Elisabeta, could not be her.
Rage replaced remorse. She had used her resemblance to his beloved to trick him, to try to murder him. Her forces had killed Emmanuel, had almost killed them all.
Jordan spoke, but Rhun caught only the end of the sentence. “… the visitor who pulled you away from the church earlier today?”
“I am ever a polite host,” Rasputin said.
Rhun opened his eyes and studied the impostor. The resemblance was uncanny, but false. Like everything in Rasputin’s realm, the fair face hid an evil core.
Rasputin’s followers seemed frightened of her. They crowded against the walls, leaving a circle around her, as if they did not dare to touch her.
“I see that you are quite restored, Father Korza.” The redhead smiled coldly.
Her icy eyes flicked over Erin and lingered on Jordan. Rhun heard his heartbeat quicken under her gaze.
The grimwolf at her heels snarled, its red eyes fixed on Rhun with deep hatred. It looked enough like the one in the desert of Masada to be its littermate. If so, did it know that he had killed its brother?
Masada.
The woman with the wolf must have been there, too, Rhun realized. She had more than Emmanuel’s blood on her fair hands.
As if reading his thoughts, she nodded. “This sudden restoration of health. Was it perhaps the blood of your companions that fortified you so?”
“I drink only the blood of Christ.”
“Not always,” she said. “Long ago, you defiled one of my ancestors.”
“I’ve heard our guest’s story,” Rasputin said, shaking a finger at Rhun. “She has good reason to be angry at you. Since your tragic mistake with Elisabeta, one woman of each generation of the Bathory line is cursed to a lifetime of pain and servitude. Each must bear a mark to prove it.”
The stranger bared her long throat, revealing a black handprint.
Still, Rhun searched for some trickery here. Did this woman truly come from the line of Bathory? Was she a descendant of the first woman believed to be the Woman of Learning?
Reading portents of that time, Cardinal Bernard had thought Elisabeta was the prophesied Woman of Learning. In the end, he was proven wrong, but had someone believed Bernard was on the right path? Had they taken command of the Bathory lineage as a precaution? Or was there some other purpose here?
The redheaded woman shifted her attention to Rasputin, but she never took her eyes off Rhun. “Let me take him as well as the book. I will double your fee.”
Rhun’s eyes narrowed. Whom did this strange woman serve? Who gave her that black mark on her throat? And why?
Rhun could think of only one person powerful enough to receive favors from Rasputin. The mysterious head of the Belial. The very last person who should ever receive the book.
He studied the mark on the woman’s throat. Was he staring at the shadow of the man’s own hand, the true puppet master of the Belial? A shiver traveled through him. He prayed that Cardinal Bernard was right, that the Belial could not open the Gospel. The Nazis had not been able to. Nor had the Russians. Perhaps the book was its own best protector.
But he hated to leave that to chance.
Rhun calculated the odds. Ten strigoi, Rasputin, and the wolf. He could not win here, and if he tried, Erin and Jordan would likely be killed. But an opportunity could present itself later. If he let Bathory take him now, he could remain near the book, try to get it free. Knowing he had no other choice, he inclined his head in agreement.
Rasputin studied his face for several seconds before speaking, his blue eyes calculating. “No, my dear. He is too willing. I promised you the book as a gesture of goodwill toward those whom you serve. But Rhun is mine. You may, however, take one of the humans, if, in return, your master grants me the life of my choosing later.”
“That was not your promise to us, Grigori.” Rhun kept his voice calm, but still his minions tightened their grip on him. “But if someone must be taken, why not me?”
“Yes,” Bathory said. “Why not him?”
Rasputin motioned to his remaining followers, and they reluctantly stepped closer to her. “My counsel is my own. Do not try my patience further.”
“You gave us your word, Grigori,” Rhun said. “We were not to be harmed.”
Bathory ignored him. “My apologies, Father Rasputin.” She studied first Erin, then Jordan. “I will accept your kind offer, but you have left me with a hard choice. Whom will I choose?”
“Take me.” Jordan winked at her. “I’m a lot more fun.”
“I’m sure you are.” Bathory’s lips curved into a wicked-looking smile. Her silver eyes met Rhun’s. A malicious glint flared. “But I believe I will take the woman.”
Rhun dove for Bathory, but a crowd of strigoi bore him to the ground before he could take a single step, pinning him with their sheer weight. Three others immobilized Jordan.
“Now, Rhun.” Rasputin kicked him lightly with the toe of a black boot. “I always keep my word. Every word, in fact.”
Rhun struggled to fight free. Next to him, Jordan tried, too. But it was pointless. Erin’s eyes had grown wide. Strigoi held her by each a
rm. She could not escape either. Rhun cursed himself for foolishly trusting Grigori. This, too, was his fault.
Rasputin rested his hands on his hips. “Bathory, my dear, I gave my word that the woman would not be harmed while in Russia. And you will adhere to that promise. But that protection dies as soon as she crosses our borders. Once beyond Russian soil, you may do with her as you wish.”
9:04 P.M.
Erin fought the hands that restrained her, but she couldn’t budge an inch. More of Rasputin’s people swarmed into the room, filling it with the smell of death.
Rhun thrashed against the strigoi who were holding him, lashing out with teeth and nails. Blood spattered the nearby wall. More figures piled on top of him.
Jordan struggled with his attackers, too, but suddenly went limp. Erin gasped. Was he dead? Knocked out cold?
She struggled to get close to him, but it was impossible.
Hands snatched the lead block. Others cuffed her hands in front of her.
A cold collar encircled her neck, and Grigori’s minions stepped back a pace. As she hurled herself toward Jordan’s prone form, sharp points dug into her throat. Blood ran down her neck.
Gasping for air, she stopped short. Her neck throbbed. The collar was spiked, like a dog’s collar, although the points must have been sharpened to make it more painful. Someone ran a finger under the collar, pulling the spikes out of her flesh. She clenched her jaw to keep from crying out.
A moan ran through the strigoi who were gathered around her. All eyes fixed on her neck. The one holding her licked his lips.
“Enough!” Rasputin called.
He pushed himself to Erin’s side. In his hands he held a leather leash. He clipped one end to the back of Erin’s collar and handed the other end to Bathory.
“Thank you.” Bathory looped it around her wrist. With the other hand, she yanked the leash tight.
Erin choked, the tightness of the collar keeping her from coughing. She couldn’t breathe. Her cuffed hands rose to her throat, fingers trying to loosen it. Cold hands pulled her limbs down. She would die.
“Just so we understand each other.” Bathory stuck her face right next to Erin’s. “You can come very near to a painful death in Russia without me breaking my word to Rasputin.”
Her knees buckling, Erin looked into those cool silver eyes. Would they be the last things she ever saw?
“I hope that you understand that, too, Father Korza.” Bathory glanced at the pile of forms that were burying Rhun.
Erin’s vision closed in dark.
9:06 P.M.
Buried under a mass of Grigori’s acolytes, Jordan struggled to breathe against the sheer weight of them, squeezing the air from his chest, slowly choking him. Teeth sliced into his arms and legs.
Please, God, don’t let me die like this …
His prayer was answered from the most unlikely source.
Distantly, he heard Rasputin shout. “Enough!”
At that command, the pressure eased; bodies rolled off of him. Hot blood seeped from the bites on his arms and legs. His head swam; his vision whirled, but finally settled.
Impossibly strong hands hauled him to his feet. Grigori’s minions yanked Rhun upright, too. One acolyte still lay on the ground, bleeding profusely.
It seemed Rhun had put up a better fight than Jordan had.
“Wh-where did that woman take Erin?” Jordan swayed with dizziness. How much blood had he lost?
“Away.” Rasputin smiled his crazy smile. “If Bathory doesn’t kill her en route, I have an idea where they will end up.”
Rhun spat blood and wiped his chin with the back of his hand. “Why did you let the Belial take her—and the Gospel? They are godless. You must know the consequences if they open the book.”
“Would the consequences be any worse for me if Sanguinists had the book?” Rasputin’s face relaxed into planes of sorrow. “Your beloved Church has possessed countless holy tomes, Rhun—filled their precious Secret Archives with them—and they have never used any of them to help me and mine.”
“But the world will suffer, Grigori. The entire world that God created.”
“The world suffers now.” Rasputin ran his hand through his long hair. “And your God does nothing. Your Church does nothing. Your humans do nothing.”
Rhun took a step toward Rasputin, but the Russian’s acolytes surrounded him again, forcing him to halt.
“If it doesn’t matter,” Jordan said, “then let us go.”
Rasputin chuckled. “He is charming, your warrior.”
“What do you plan for us, Grigori?”
“What I have always planned.” Rasputin turned to leave the cramped room. He snapped his fingers, and his dark flock herded Jordan and Rhun along behind him. “I intend to let your God save you, Rhun. Has not that been your eternal prayer, my friend? Salvation at His hand.”
9:12 P.M.
Gasping, her throat on fire, Erin trailed down the dark corridor at Bathory’s heels, dragged like a dog. The woman released the choke chain enough to allow her to breathe—but barely.
Rasputin’s words rang in her ears: Once beyond Russian soil, you may do with her as you wish.
If she didn’t get away before they left Russia, Bathory would kill her.
And what about Jordan? Was he already dead?
She refused to believe it.
Rhun was clearly alive, fighting desperately against overwhelming odds, when she was hauled away, but Jordan had not moved, buried and being bitten on all his limbs.
He cannot be dead … he cannot.
Erin lifted her chin in an effort to ease the pressure of the spikes at her throat. Even that small movement caught her neck in a fiery noose of agony, narrowing her vision. She suspected the spikes were made of silver, the collar likely meant to imprison Sanguinists. She tried not to imagine how much worse it would feel if the silver acted as a poison in her body as it did in those of the Sanguinists.
Bathory threaded through corridors with no hesitation, trusting her grotesque wolf to lead the way. It loped ahead, occasionally dropping its nose to the floor and snuffling along like an ordinary dog. Erin found the naturalness of the gesture unsettling, as if this creature had no right to behave like a normal animal.
“Why do you hate Rhun Korza?” Erin’s voice sounded hoarse and unnatural, echoing in the corridor.
The leash twitched, and her throat closed in fear, but Bathory did not pull.
“That creature ruined my family.”
Erin took a fast step to keep up. “Then it’s true. You are descended from the Elizabeth Bathory? But how exactly did Rhun ruin her?”
“He killed her and turned her. As a strigoi, she abused peasants to satisfy her needs, something which would have gone unremarked during that time, but then she turned to noble girls, and the Hungarian king stripped her of her wealth, her nobility, and sent the Church after her. Since that time …”
Her voice trailed off and she touched the mark on her throat.
Erin took a few more steps before prompting, “Since that time …?”
Bathory’s fingers dropped from her neck. “We were penniless, persecuted. Then a stranger came offering a path to survival, to lost riches, and also to revenge.” She held up her hand, one finger of which bore a large ruby ring. “He even returned some of our family treasures and heirlooms, rescued them in secret before they were lost forever. But such noble generosity came with a stiff price: one woman from every generation had to be bound in servitude to a hard master, chained to His painful will. I am the only woman of my generation. So it fell to me, whether I wished for it or not.”
This last was said with a bitterness that stung.
Aghast, Erin fell silent for several steps. They reached a closed door, and Bathory unlocked it to reveal a dingy stairwell. She took a flashlight from her pocket and shone it up. Steps ascended for several stories. It would be a long climb.
“Come.”
Bathory pulled Erin into the stairwell behin
d her as the grimwolf bounded ahead. With each step, the collar pinched against Erin’s throat. Fresh blood dripped down her neck. She tried to block the pain out of her mind, struggling to think of some way to escape.
The grimwolf had reached the next flight. The landing ahead had a door. This might be the only chance she would get.
As they reached the next landing, she took a deep breath, then slipped into a quick crouch, sweeping out with her leg, catching Bathory across the knees.
As the woman fell back toward the steep stairs, Erin yanked the leash free from her grip. Bathory went tumbling and crashing below. Erin twisted to the side. The spikes still dug painfully into her neck, but she didn’t care. If she could get through that door and somehow seal it, she might be able to lose her captors in the maze of the Hermitage.
Higher up on the stairs, the wolf yelped, as if feeling his mistress’s pain.
Glowing red eyes turned to stare down at Erin.
She fell back against the door and fumbled at it with her cuffed hands. She struggled to turn the doorknob—and despaired.
Locked.
9:16 P.M.
Forced down the hallway by a squad of Grigori’s acolytes, Jordan smelled the giant, reeking bear. As he marched, he pictured the human skull that had rolled out of its cage, and glanced sidelong at Rhun.
The priest nodded. He knew the truth, too.
Rasputin planned to feed them to the bear.
Jordan had been waiting for a clear moment, but the bastards surrounded him like a wall, less than a step away on all sides. He knew their strength, and his own weakness. He’d lost too much blood to put up much of a fight. Hell, he could barely walk.
Was this how he was going to die, as bear chow? He recalled his desperate plea not to meet his end at the fangs of Grigori’s minions. That prayer had been answered, and he was, oddly, still grateful. He would take the maw of the bear over the fangs of a strigoi any day.
The Blood Gospel Page 38