The Blood Gospel

by Rebecca Cantrell James Rollins

  Oh no …

  With his heart thundering in his ears, he crashed next to her, reaching immediately for her throat to take her pulse. Her skin was cold, but a weak heartbeat throbbed in her neck.

  “She’s alive,” he told Leopold.

  “But barely.”

  The young monk knelt and tore open Erin’s grimwolf jacket. Blood stained her white shirt, running down to her waist. Leopold drew a balm from his robes. As he opened the container, Jordan noticed that it stank like the ointment Nadia had used on his own bite wounds.

  But would it be enough?

  Leopold intoned a prayer in Latin as he spread it over Erin’s wound.

  Jordan watched, holding his breath, shaking all over.

  Within seconds, the bleeding slowed, then stopped.

  Still, Erin lay unconscious on the ground, ghost white against the dark stone.

  Leopold examined her arms and legs, probably looking for more bites. “Only her neck.”

  Jordan shrugged off his coat and spread it over her body to warm her. He rubbed her cold hands. “Erin?”

  Her eyelids fluttered as if she were dreaming—then slowly opened. “Jordan?”

  “Right here.” He caressed her icy cheek. “You’re going to be fine.”

  Her lips curved up ever so slightly. “Liar.”

  “I never lie,” he said. “Eagle Scout, remember?”

  But he did lie. She wasn’t going to be fine at all.

  Leopold reached Jordan and touched a bite on his arm from which blood was oozing; the bite was from one of Rasputin’s minions and the wound had been torn open again during the struggle in the basilica. “Your blood type?”

  “O negative. Universal donor.” Jordan’s heart leaped and he turned to the monk. “Can you do a direct transfusion from me to her?”

  Leopold pulled his first-aid kit out of his pocket, muttering instructions. His hands moved with impossible swiftness, breaking apart a syringe, hooking it up to a tube, and placing a second tube on the other end.

  As the young monk worked, Jordan stroked wisps of hair off Erin’s face. His hands lingered on her forehead, her cheeks. “Hang in there.”

  He couldn’t tell if she heard him or not. What had attacked her? And where was Rhun? He looked up the tunnel, expecting to see the priest’s body. But the tunnel was empty. Had Rhun been taken?

  Leopold ripped open an alcohol patch and swabbed Erin’s arm, then used another for Jordan’s.

  “I must ask you to be silent, Jordan.” Leopold’s tone was no-nonsense. “I must hear both your heartbeats to see how much blood passes between you. I don’t want to kill you in this process.”

  “Just save her.” Jordan leaned against the stone wall, watching Erin’s pale face.

  Leopold stuck a needle in her arm, then Jordan’s. He barely felt it.

  Time passed, interminable, in the dark.

  To the side, Leopold attached a bandage to Erin’s neck. “We are fortunate. It’s a simple wound. Strigoi are not usually so careful when they feed.”

  Jordan shivered at the thought of one of those monsters at Erin’s throat.

  I should have been guarding her better.

  After several minutes, Leopold pulled the needle from Jordan’s arm and taped a cotton ball over the hole. “That is all you can spare.”

  “I can spare whatever she needs.” He pushed up straighter. “Do this right.”

  Light glinted off Leopold’s round glasses as he shook his head. “You cannot bully me, Sergeant.”

  Before Jordan could come up with a better argument, Erin opened her eyes; she looked bleary but still she seemed stronger than she’d been a few minutes ago. “Hey.”

  Jordan slumped next to her against the wall and smiled. “Welcome back.”

  “Her pulse is strong,” Leopold said. “With a little rest, she should be fine.”

  Jordan asked a question, knowing the answer. “Who did this to you?”

  Erin closed her eyes, refusing to speak.

  Jordan lifted his hand, revealing what he’d found as Leopold ripped off her coat. He showed her the pectoral cross. “Rhun?”

  Leopold flinched, aghast.

  “Erin?” Jordan tried to control his anger so she wouldn’t hear it. “Did Rhun do this to you?”

  “He had to.” Her fingertips traced the bandage at her neck. “Jordan, I begged him to.”

  He barely heard her words as fury engulfed him.

  That bastard had drained Erin and left her alone to die.

  She struggled to sit up, to explain.

  Jordan scooped her up in his arms and cradled her against his chest. He wrapped her in his arms. She was still so cold but had a little color back.

  “We had to do this, Jordan, to heal him so he could keep Bathory from getting away with the Gospel. Rhun was almost dead.”

  Jordan pulled her closer as she dropped her head against his shoulder.

  Leopold readjusted the coat over them both, then turned his back. Crouched next to them, he swung his head from one side of the tunnel to the other.

  Jordan rested his chin on top of Erin’s head. She smelled like blood. Under the coat, she curled up to nestle closer against his chest. He took in a shaky breath and let it go.

  Leopold stood—a bit too swiftly.

  “What is wrong?” Jordan asked.

  Leopold faced him. “More strigoi are coming. It is not over.”

  6:24 P.M.

  Erin winced when Leopold hauled her upright. With the other arm, he hoisted Jordan up onto his feet as if he weighed no more than a doll. Jordan staggered a step and caught himself. He was weaker than he let on. The blood transfusion had cost him.

  Jordan pulled Erin’s arm over his shoulder and wrapped his other arm around her waist. She wanted to argue that she could walk on her own, but she suspected that she wouldn’t make it more than a few steps. This was no time for false pride.

  “Go forward.” Leopold pushed them ahead, his eyes fixed on the tunnel behind.

  She struggled to stay on her feet. She and Jordan did their best to run, but even by human standards they were slow.

  Leopold guarded their rear, his blade drawn.

  Echoing snarls grew louder behind them.

  “There’s a bend up ahead,” Jordan said. “We can face them there.”

  Leopold herded them forward—then waved them onward. “I stay. You go on.”

  “No.” Jordan’s stride broke.

  “You are the prophesied trio,” Leopold said simply. “My duty is to serve you. Find Rhun. Retrieve the book. That is your duty.”

  Jordan set his jaw, but he said nothing.

  “Go with God.” Leopold stopped at the bend in the tunnel, his sword flashing silver as he turned to face the enemy.

  With no other choice, Erin fled with Jordan, chased by guilt at leaving Leopold. But how many others had already given up their lives to keep them moving forward? They had to honor that debt of blood by not giving up.

  Savage screaming rose behind her, accompanied by the clash of steel.

  Behind her, the boyish scholar was facing down the savage strigoi alone—but how long could he keep them at bay?

  She concentrated on moving each heavy leg, refusing to surrender.

  Jordan’s flashlight jolted up and down as they walked, illuminating the smooth stone floor, the massive blocks on the bottom of the tunnel, the rough stone arch that curved above their heads.

  She lost track of time and distance. Her world narrowed down to the next step.

  Far ahead, a light appeared, glowing dimly.

  Jordan pulled her forward, drawing her toward it.

  The light grew brighter.

  The source appeared as they rounded a corner. It came from a flashlight, attached to the barrel of a pistol. Silhouetted against that light was the lithe form of Bathory, her red hair loose around her shoulders, her back to them.

  She was pointing the weapon at Rhun.

  Yards away, Rhun fought the grimwo
lf—pinned under its bulk.

  The beast growled into his face, throwing slather, ready to tear his throat out. Only this time Rhun was strong enough to hold it back, the two now equally matched. But it took all of the priest’s renewed power to do so.

  Riveted by the fighting, Bathory remained oblivious to Jordan and Erin’s sudden arrival. She stalked toward the warring pair with her pistol, intending to end the impasse between priest and wolf with a barrage of silver.

  Trembling with weakness, Erin nudged Jordan with a silent command.

  Help him!

  Jordan’s face stayed hard. He stood, rigid, and did not reach for his gun.

  Enough of this …

  Erin slipped behind him and yanked out the Colt pistol. Earlier, she had fired almost an entire magazine at the grimwolf. The bullets had barely made it twitch. She couldn’t kill it with a pistol.

  But she had to do something.

  With her back still to them, Bathory stepped near the wolf, aiming her pistol at Rhun’s face.

  “Now to set us both free.”

  Erin noted the bandage on Bathory’s upper arm. It glowed white in the gloom.

  The sight made her flash back to the Circus of Nero. She remembered the reopening of Bathory’s wound, how she pushed the wolf away from her in a panic, and how Mihir had kept his distance from the dripping blood. Erin had never seen a strigoi react in such a way to blood. Mihir had been afraid to step on even a single drop. Then she pictured Mihir’s blood smoking when it touched that silvery-crimson drop on the floor of the cell.

  She knew what she had to do.

  Erin shifted away from Jordan, putting Bathory between her and the wolf, calculating angles. She held the pistol steady in front of her with both hands, lined up the sights, and took a deep breath.

  On the exhale, her left index finger squeezed the trigger.

  The shot blasted loudly.

  Bathory lurched forward, and the grimwolf howled in agony.

  Jordan turned in surprise, but Erin kept her eyes on Bathory and lined up a second shot.

  The grimwolf hurled its body away from Rhun and ran in a circle, snapping at its shoulder. The bullet had passed through Bathory’s body before it struck the wolf, carrying her blood with it. The wolf’s coat rippled, smoke boiling out from the bullet wound.

  Bathory’s blood was toxic to the strigoi—and the blasphemare created by them.

  Bathory swung around to face Jordan and Erin. Blood seeped through her shirt, low, above her right hip. Her eyes fastened on her enemies. Her lip raised in a sneer. She lifted her gun toward them.

  Holding steady, Erin squeezed the trigger three more times.

  The cluster of shots struck Bathory through the chest—and from there into the grimwolf’s flank.

  Bathory fell backward, stumbling against the wall, crimson spreading across her chest. She slid to the floor, her silver eyes wide with surprise. Her gun clattered to the floor next to her limp arm.

  The grimwolf collapsed with a mighty shudder. Blood smoked from its body and frothed from its mouth. Unable to stand now, it dragged itself on its belly, whimpering. A dark smear of blood trailed behind it.

  The wolf reached Bathory and dropped its head into her lap. She lifted her arms and wrapped them around its head.

  Beyond them, Rhun struggled to his feet and retrieved Bathory’s gun.

  Straightening, he turned in Erin’s direction. When he saw her, his lips moved into a shadow of a tired smile, relieved to see her—and maybe something more. Either way, it was the first genuine and honest smile she had ever seen him give.

  He looked young, vulnerable, and very human.

  She stumbled toward him, but Jordan pulled her back. “That’s close enough.”

  His gun was out and pointed at Rhun.

  That smile fled Rhun’s face.

  And the world was darker for it.

  62

  October 28, 6:54 P.M., CET

  Necropolis below St. Peter’s Basilica, Italy

  Magor …

  Bathory cradled the wolf’s huge head in her lap. She felt his agony, heard his moan, poisoned by her blood. More silvery crimson flowed down her chest, pooling on her lap where he lay, boiling his skin, burning him in agony.

  Please go … don’t die like this …

  She tried to push him away, but he nuzzled closer into that pain so he could be with her.

  Too weak to fight him, she leaned over as he rolled one eye up at her. She sang him a final lullaby. It had no words. She had no breath to form them. Her song came from somewhere deeper than language, where summer suns still shone on a little boy catching butterflies in a white net among tall green grasses. Her song was laughter and love and the simple warmth of one body holding another.

  The world darkened at the edges, until it was reduced to just that pained eye staring lovingly up at her. She watched that crimson glow within it fade, becoming only a soft gold as the curse inside him faded, and Magor became, again, just wolf … leaving all the grimness behind.

  The pain also faded from his great, loving bulk as she sagged over him.

  The pain fled her blood, too, leaving only peace.

  As darkness consumed them both, she willed one last message to her friend.

  Let’s go find Hunor …

  63

  October 28, 6:57 P.M., CET

  Necropolis below St. Peter’s Basilica, Italy

  Rhun knelt before the ghost of Elisabeta.

  He held the Gospel in his lap and prayed for her soul. How soft and young her face looked in death, the fire of hatred snuffed out, leaving a purity and innocence that had been corrupted in part by his act centuries ago.

  He stared at the paleness of her long throat.

  A black mark had once marred its beauty, a strangling imprint from some unknown hand. Rasputin’s words in the Hermitage came back to him, words about one woman from every generation of the Bathory line who was sentenced to a lifetime of pain and servitude.

  Going back to the time of his defilement of Elisabeta.

  But who could do such a thing? The Belial? If so, what interest was Elisabeta’s line to them; surely it could not just be to torture him? What was he not seeing here? Why prey upon the descendants of Elisabeta Bathory?

  To what end?

  Now, with this woman dead, he realized that he might never know the answers to these questions, that perhaps the chain had finally been broken.

  As he stood, his prayers done, he stared down at the humble book that he’d taken from her.

  Though a creature whose life was damned, he had brought this great goodness into the world. Perhaps the Gospel held the secret to restoring his own soul. He feared even wishing for such a thing, to be human again, with a heartbeat and warm flesh to share.

  Erin stood several paces to his right, waiting, Jordan beside her, his machine pistol up and ready. After what the Sanguinist himself had done to her, he could not blame the man.

  “Aren’t you going to open it?” Erin asked.

  Rhun opened the book and turned it around so that Erin and Jordan could see the pages. “I have,” he said.

  The first page contained only a single paragraph, written in Greek. The rest of the pages remained empty, possibly awaiting further miracles before more text would come to light. But what was there was frightening enough.

  The two came closer, drawn by the curiosity that burned so brightly in those with the shortest lives.

  “What the hell?” Jordan groaned. “All of this for one paragraph. It had better be good.”

  Erin stared at the page as if she might cause more words to appear by force of will alone. She translated what she saw. “A great War of the Heavens looms. For the forces of goodness to prevail, a Weapon must be forged of this Gospel written in my own blood. The trio of prophecy must bring the book to the First Angel for his blessing. Only thus may they secure salvation for the world.”

  “You’re supposed to be a priest.” Jordan shifted back a pace. “
If the book needs a blessing, then go ahead and bless it.”

  “I am not the First Angel.” Rhun ran his hand down the smooth leather cover, longing to know what else might be revealed, sensing he held only the beginning of a greater truth. “The book must be blessed by the first one, someone pure in heart and deed. Only then will more be learned.”

  “That leaves you right out, doesn’t it?” Jordan said.

  “Jordan!”

  “He is correct.” Hating to part with it, Rhun handed the book to Erin. “I am not pure. Even today my actions showed this to be so.”

  “If we had not done what we did, then the book would be gone.”

  Rhun watched a blush rise to Erin’s cheeks and heard her heart beat faster. What had it been like for her when he’d fed on her, that it shamed her so to think of it? He thought back to the long-ago night when he had been turned.

  “I don’t approve of the price Erin paid.” Jordan glared at him.

  “It wasn’t your choice.” Erin hugged the book and turned away. “It was ours.”

  She walked back the way they had come, one steadying hand on the wall. Rhun wanted to pick her up and carry her, but he did not trust himself to touch her.

  7:04 P.M.

  Jordan fought the urge to shoot Rhun.

  As if he knew, Rhun held out his hands. “She needs us both now.”

  The bastard was right; he and Erin needed Rhun’s protection to get out of this subterranean charnel house. Jordan could not protect her down here. Rhun could.

  He lowered the gun. “But not forever.”

  Rhun nodded. “When she is safe, you must follow your conscience.”

  Jordan went after Erin. She stumbled forward, sliding along the wall. He pulled her arm over his shoulder and slid another one around her waist.

  She tensed, displaying her anger.

  Why is she mad at me? I didn’t leave her to die.

  He gritted his teeth and started walking. She leaned against him, probably because she couldn’t help herself.

  Rhun ghosted past them and settled into a position a few yards in front. He looked fresh, ready to take on a pack of strigoi single-handed. If Erin was right and he had been near death, her blood had definitely given him a shot of energy.