The Blood Gospel

by Rebecca Cantrell James Rollins

  They raced down into the open square, where Jordan skidded to a halt.

  The plaza teemed with people. They streamed from the basilica and the colonnades; they parted in riptides around the obelisk and the fountains, all heading for the exit and the streets. The setting sun washed their faces a warm orange.

  Swiss Guard troops jostled them forward, as if they were herding cattle.

  Far ahead, Bernard and Rhun’s progress had slowed as they tried to force their way forward against that current of humanity.

  “Grab my belt!” Jordan yelled over his shoulder.

  Erin wrapped her fingers around the thick leather.

  Jordan pushed himself out into the square like a fullback. Instead of cutting straight through the crowd like the Sanguinists, he hugged its edges, one arm up. The crowd rippled to the side around him.

  Erin kept pace, trying to match his stride. Jordan’s left shoulder knocked against a fleeing tourist. It was his wounded side, but he didn’t even flinch.

  Reaching the basilica, he cut left toward the door. Just ahead, Rhun and the Cardinal sprinted through the entrance in a flash of scarlet and black.

  Erin glanced up. Above the massive dome of the basilica, the sky glowed amber orange.

  The sun had set.

  Distracted by what that implied, she didn’t see the monk until it was too late. He slammed into her, knocking her hand off Jordan’s belt. The monk muttered what sounded like an apology in Polish, his hands reaching to pat her shoulder.

  “It’s okay,” she said.

  Jordan didn’t seem to notice that she was gone as he pushed through the door ahead of her. The two Swiss Guardsmen manning the doors were too distracted by the tourists coming out, but they collected their wits enough to collar her when she tried to follow.

  Already inside, Jordan turned back.

  “Go on!” she called. He could do more good against Bathory than she could anyway.

  He nodded and hurried deeper into the basilica.

  “The building is being evacuated, miss.” The guardsman’s polite words contrasted with the hard fingers digging into her arm. “I’m afraid I’m going to have to ask you to—”

  A flash of gold radiated from inside the basilica, bursting with the blinding brilliance of a supernova. Along with it came a sweet scent, and a hint of music just beyond hearing, causing the ear to strain toward it.

  The guard dropped her arm and turned to stare inside.

  It’s happening …

  Needing to bear witness, Erin quickly sidestepped the guard and slipped over the threshold. Once inside, she raced through the portico, knocking aside a tourist who stood as transfixed as the guard.

  She hurried through the inner doors and into the main nave. A forest of massive stone pillars rose ahead, holding up the elaborately decorated roof of the basilica. She stared across the expansive floor to the distant papal altar in the center of the church. Golden light flowed from beneath the massive black-and-gilt baldachin that sheltered the altar. The bronze structure seemed to tremble within that glow, like a shimmering mirage above hot desert sands. Or maybe the power behind that brilliance was too much for any man-made structure to contain within it.

  Without thinking, Erin ran toward that light, dodging straggling tourists heading in the opposite direction. But already most of the basilica had emptied out, leaving the way open.

  It was like sprinting across a football field, except that she was indoors. She knew that St. Peter’s Basilica had the largest interior of any church in the world. She had visited it many times in the past, but she had never run through it. As she did so now, her eyes remained fixed on the glowing brilliance flowing out from under the baldachin.

  As she got closer, she was struck by the sheer size of the baldachin. Marble plinths as tall as a man supported twisted black Solomonic columns that rose sixty feet into the air. They held up its massive bronze canopy, edged with fanciful borders and topped by statues and a cross.

  Under that canopy, in the very center of the basilica, stood Bathory.

  Her red hair blazed in the golden light that was blasting from the object in her hands. The brilliance illuminated every alcove and corner of the church. All the statues and frescoes pulsed with a deep, mystical light as if they sought to merge with the radiance flowing from the baldachin.

  In Bathory’s hands, the book had transformed from lead to gold.

  Transfiguration, Erin thought.

  I was right.

  She sprinted past the last of the statues lining the nave. Ahead, Jordan slowed to let her catch up. He caught her hand, and they ran together down the aisle toward the light.

  Farther ahead, Rhun and Bernard stood frozen at the edge of the baldachin.

  Stopped by a holiness that frightened even them.

  58

  October 28, 5:11 P.M., CET

  Vatican City, Italy

  Bathory’s blood sang with joy as golden light bathed her body.

  She breathed in warmth and love. The pain that had flowed through her veins since she had reached womanhood began to recede. She felt the black mark on her throat fading, washed away by the brilliance. How could any darkness withstand this light?

  The lead block warmed within her palms. It pulsed with its own heartbeat, like any living thing. With each passing second, it weighed less and less, until it felt as if it were floating above her fingers.

  In her hand, the block had been replaced by pure golden light.

  The radiance mesmerized her. It lit her eyes but did not burn them. She could gaze upon it forever, dwell forever in its light, explore its mystery for all time. Far above, the golden sun painted on the bottom of the baldachin outlined the painting of a white dove. The dove flew, free, in the light.

  As did she.

  But not for long.

  The archaeologist and the soldier rushed toward her. The knights circled, closing in. Swiss Guard troops rushed down the nave. She was trapped. They would kill her, spill her blood on the book, steal its light from her.

  As if sensing her fear, the radiance died away, fading until only an actual book rested in her palms, weighing down her hands.

  She stared at the book, transfixed.

  The tome was bound in ordinary sheepskin, its surface unadorned. Her fingertips caressed the worn leather while the scent of ancient sands rose up to her nostrils.

  How could such brilliance shine from something so simple and ordinary?

  Then she knew the answer.

  She pictured Christ’s visage—an ordinary man’s face, hiding a wellspring of divinity.

  Tears ran down her cheeks as a heavy ache returned to her blood.

  Without touching her throat, she knew that the black mark had returned.

  She shook her head to clear the glow that still filled her mind. It felt as if she had just awakened from a deep dream. But she did not have the luxury of distraction.

  She stared out across the basilica, knowing what she had to do. She needed a way out and intended to create her own exit.

  Moving swiftly, she leaped away from the altar into the apse behind her and retreated back toward the giant black marble throne high on the wall. It was the throne of Saint Peter, surrounded by popes and angels and rays of golden light that seemed cheap in comparison to what she had just witnessed.

  Once far enough away from the altar, she reached into her pocket, found the transmitter she had hidden there, and pressed the detonator button.

  The blast was a distant echo, like a clap of thunder beyond the horizon. The floor jolted under her feet. She’d planted charges deep in the necropolis below, beneath the very altar where she had been standing.

  She watched with satisfaction as the marble floor shattered in front of her, cracking like broken ice under the heavy baldachin. The massive bronze canopy shook—then, as she watched, the entire structure crashed under its own weight through the floor, dropping cleanly through the hole.

  Its base struck the floor of the necropoli
s below with the resounding boom of Heaven’s gate slamming shut.

  So be it.

  She waved rock dust and smoke from her eyes and watched as the baldachin came to a shuddering rest, sunk most of the way through the floor. Only the canopy still remained visible in the nave, tilted crookedly.

  Her charges had worked perfectly.

  On the far side of the hole, a Swiss Guardsman fell screaming into the crater as the edge broke under him.

  To the left, the Sanguinists jumped back like startled lions, leaping into the transept on that side. The archaeologist and soldier took shelter to the right. More Swiss Guardsmen came rushing down the center of the nave toward the site of the destruction.

  But the strigoi army below in the necropolis did not wait. With the sunset here, they swarmed up the twisted columns of the fallen baldachin, a horde of demons rising out of the Stygian darkness. They swarmed over the metal canopy and boiled into the basilica like ants fleeing from an anthill. Even weakened by the holiness of the sanctuary, they would make short work of the Swiss Guards and buy Bathory time to escape.

  She leaped from the broken edge of the floor onto one of the huge angels atop the baldachin’s canopy. Holding the book in one hand, she wrapped the other around a gilded wing.

  Gunshots cracked at her.

  She swung, keeping the angel between herself and the sniper. She quickly tucked the book into the front of her shirt to free her hands—then stretched out on her stomach and lowered her legs over the edge of the canopy, her feet searching for toeholds in the ornamented capital of a column. With all of its fanciful decorations, the baldachin made a lovely hundred-foot-tall ladder leading down into the tunnels of the necropolis, the city of the dead that lay beneath the basilica.

  Finding her footing, Bathory clambered down a twisted column of the baldachin, finding additional handholds among the metal garlands sculpted on the surface.

  Far below, Magor howled for her.

  She smiled, feeling the weight of the book against her breasts.

  Together, they would escape Rome—and maybe even Him.

  59

  October 28, 5:15 P.M., CET

  Vatican City, Italy

  Jordan rolled off Erin. Had he hurt her? He had knocked her to the marble floor with some force when the explosion hit.

  “Erin?”

  She pointed behind him.

  A cloud of dust obscured most of the basilica behind him, but Jordan swung his Heckler & Koch submachine gun out of his coat as he turned. He fired once, striking a strigoi in the shoulder as it stepped free of the pall of smoke. Dark blood sprayed against white stone. The strigoi backed off, more slowly than Jordan had expected, like it was walking through water. He trained his gun on it, but he hated to let loose in the basilica.

  Had all the civilians gotten out?

  He couldn’t see far through the dust to be sure, but he did spot the gaping hole with the black sculpture resting crookedly down its throat. He had to admire the skill of the enemy’s demolitions expert.

  With his left hand he pulled Erin to her feet and handed her his Colt 1911 pistol.

  She took it, her eyes on the wounded strigoi. “They seem dazed.”

  “Must be the sanctified ground weakening them.” He kept his gun up and ready to fire. “But dazed or not, they’re blocking our way to the exits.”

  “What do we do?”

  He pulled her with him. “Let’s get into a corner where nobody can circle behind us.”

  Erin resisted, pointing to the smoking crater in the floor. “We have to follow Bathory. She can’t escape with the Gospel.”

  He sighed, resigned, knowing Erin would go after the woman anyway if he balked. “You’re the boss.”

  She smiled at his tone.

  Using the dust from the explosion as cover, the two of them circled around to the apse, edging closer to the hole. Erin kept one step behind, her pistol up, moving in tandem with him.

  Most of the strigoi forces were concentrating their attention on the Swiss Guardsmen racing into the basilica with their guns blazing. Their lack of caution suggested that the civilians had been cleared out.

  Good to know, Jordan thought.

  He and Erin reached the back of the crater without drawing any attention. The entire baldachin leaned drunkenly before them, the canopy canted to one side. From the basilica floor, the bronze structure had appeared to be a hundred feet tall. Now only twenty feet stuck out, which meant an eighty-foot climb down into the darkness—with strigoi waiting at the bottom.

  The dust to the right swirled, revealing two black-cloaked figures.

  Rhun and the Cardinal.

  “Take that woman out of St. Peter’s,” Bernard ordered.

  “You try telling her that,” Jordan said.

  Proving the impossibility of ordering “that woman” to do anything, Erin jumped from the crumbling marble edge out onto the bronze canopy. She teetered backward, then clutched at one of the smaller angels, one who held a crown aloft.

  Jordan and Rhun jumped at the same time, landing to either side of her, both reaching to steady her. The Cardinal landed an instant later, higher up the canopy, next to the sphere that was topped by a cross. That seemed fitting.

  “If you follow,” Rhun warned, “stay behind me.”

  Without waiting for a response, the priest clambered down one side of the canopy.

  Jordan gripped Erin’s shoulder before she moved, catching her eye. “As soon as you’re over the edge, get to the inside of the columns. Use that bronze bulk to shield you as much as possible if there is any shooting.”

  She leaned forward and kissed him quick on the lips—then freed her grip on the angel, slid down the tilted bronze surface, and vanished over the edge.

  With his heart in his throat, Jordan stood still for a moment, shocked, then hustled after her. No matter what, he had to keep her safe.

  Reaching the edge, he flipped to his belly, lowered his legs, and discovered plenty of footholds and handholds. In moments, he was leaving the light above for the blackness below. Once this was over, he vowed to climb the tallest building he could find, sit up on its roof, and spend an entire day staring at the sun and enjoying a clean breeze on his face. But for now, he kept climbing down, again, following the blond crown of Erin’s head. She heeded his advice and got to the inside of the column.

  He fitted his fingers into the shallow golden swirls decorating the column, moving fast, hoping to get as far down as he could in case he his lost his grip and fell.

  Then a dark shadow, tinged with red, stormed past him.

  The Cardinal.

  “Be warned!” Bernard yelled as he passed. “The enemy is on all sides!”

  Great.

  Moments later, Jordan’s boots hit the stone floor. He clicked on the flashlight attached to his machine pistol. All around, black shapes converged upon him, boiling out of the dark passageways of the necropolis.

  To the right, he spotted Bathory—shadowed by her massive grimwolf. The pair rounded a corner and disappeared into a black tunnel.

  “Over there!” Jordan yelled, and pointed.

  Rhun and the Cardinal stepped into formation, with Bernard at the head. Jordan took the left side, pushing Erin between him and Rhun. It wasn’t much, but it was the safest place for her. She brought her pistol up and fired once into the darkness.

  Jordan turned and opened up with his machine pistol.

  Dark blood splattered rough stone walls.

  Ahead, the Cardinal grappled hand to hand with three strigoi, proving his spryness.

  But at this rate, they’d never reach that tunnel.

  Then a voice spoke at his ear, seemingly arriving out of thin air.

  “I bring reinforcements.”

  He turned to discover the cherubic, bespectacled Brother Leopold at his shoulder. Beyond his small frame, a cadre of Sanguinist monks—twenty strong—fell like rain from the baldachin and landed in a circle around Jordan’s group, already fighting before t
heir feet hit the floor.

  Leopold joined Jordan, pushing his eyeglasses higher on his nose, looking more like a kid brother than an undying warrior of Christ.

  As if zeroing in on a weaker target, a strigoi lunged out of the darkness behind the short scholar; the flash of sword was the only warning.

  Jordan reacted on pure muscle memory. He jerked his machine pistol up and caught the blade, deflecting it from Leopold’s neck. The edge still grazed a bloody line across the young Sanguinist’s shoulders.

  The scholar’s eyes grew round.

  Angered, the strigoi turned toward Jordan. He was a hulking figure with dark skin and pale tattoos, studs puncturing his nose and ears. Jordan remembered seeing the guy in Germany, at Bathory’s side. He figured him to be some sort of lieutenant for the Belial—which meant he must have helped orchestrate the attack on Jordan’s men in Masada.

  The beast smiled, showing teeth.

  “Get back, Leopold,” Jordan warned, ready to square off with this bastard, who only kept smiling.

  The young monk’s eyes became huge as he stared at Jordan—or rather behind Jordan.

  Caught in the reflection of Leopold’s eyeglasses, Jordan spotted movement.

  He twirled, his American Bowie knife appearing in his fingers.

  A gaunt, skeletal version of the larger lieutenant lunged at him, impossibly wide jaws going for his throat.

  Jordan continued his spin and drove the silver-plated blade between those snapping jaws, punching it hilt-deep.

  Chew on that.

  The creature screamed, jerking straight up into the air like a jack-in-the-box, ripping the knife’s haft from Jordan’s fingers. As it flew high, smoke and boiling blood erupted from its mouth, from the back of its skull.

  The body fell and struck the stone, already dead.

  A scream of rage erupted behind him. “Rafik!”

  Feral, grief-filled eyes fixed on Jordan.

  “Hurts, doesn’t it?” Jordan growled. “Losing someone you love.”

  The strigoi launched himself at Jordan, flying through the air, his cloak billowing wide, like a man-size icarops.