The Blood Gospel

by Rebecca Cantrell James Rollins

  Jordan’s head throbbed, his wounds ached, and his arms and legs were done for the day. He’d come out on the short end of this transfusion party.

  Rhun sped up, and Jordan lost sight of him.

  Jordan tightened his grip around Erin and tried his best to follow Rhun, cursing his damnable speed.

  The reason for Rhun’s haste became clear as they rounded a corner.

  Rhun was kneeling next to a prone black-clad figure.

  Brother Leopold.

  Rhun reached out and pulled him upright. Leopold looked terrible, but he was still alive.

  “The book?” Leopold croaked hoarsely.

  “Safe,” Rhun assured him.

  Upon hearing that single word, the monk collapsed. Rhun lifted him in his arms and trotted down the tunnel toward the necropolis.

  At the end of the tunnel, he was greeted by the sight of corpses that littered the ground around the sunken baldachin. Strigoi and Sanguinist blood ran slick across the floor, making for treacherous footing as they worked their way across the killing field. A handful of Sanguinists searched and patrolled, but apparently the war was over.

  So many casualties for the sake of the book Erin carried.

  How could it possibly be worth it?

  Jordan drew in a deep, shuddering breath. Erin tightened her arms around him, pulling him close to her. The book in her hands pressed against his back. When he lowered his head to her shoulder, his cheek brushed the bandage on her throat.

  He would never forgive Rhun for that.

  64

  October 29, 5:44 A.M., CET

  The sanctuary below St. Peter’s Basilica, Italy

  Half the night later, Erin walked between Jordan and Rhun as they descended beneath Rome, far deeper than the necropolis where the battle had been fought and won. The remaining strigoi had been slaughtered or driven away. One of the enemy had even been converted to the order, beginning his long road to donning the cloth of the Sanguines.

  Erin continued down the steps, carrying the book. A soft glow had begun to shine again from its leather cover, illuminating the smooth stone walls. Its light grew brighter the deeper they went, as if it were drawn toward a power source. But where were they headed? Rhun had yet to reveal their destination.

  As they continued ever deeper, she felt stronger than she had in days. She and Jordan had spent a few hours being nursed back to health, learning that the pope had pulled through his surgery and was expected to make a full recovery. The old man was tougher than he looked.

  Nate, too, was doing well.

  Erin had eaten, napped, showered, and now finally wore clothes that were not saturated with blood. Next to her, Jordan looked revitalized. Was it the rest or the grace of the book’s golden glow that suffused them now? With each step, strength surged through her. Warmth and light spread not just through the hall, but through her body and, maybe, her soul.

  Still, she remembered Bathory, bent in death over her wolf. Though her death had been necessary, Erin could not escape a measure of guilt at taking her life, sensing that Bathory was less villain than pawn. But she kept such thoughts pushed back for now and focused on the task ahead.

  Golden light bathed the limestone walls around her, walls that had been cut through the earth with ancient hammers and chisels, forming an arched point high above, like a Gothic cathedral that stretched down for miles. This must have taken lifetimes to build.

  Underfoot, the floor was ice-smooth, worn down the center by the passage of many soles. Here was a new kind of ancientness, neither that of a deserted tomb nor that of an old street that now supported cars where it had once supported only hooves and feet. Down in this subterranean cathedral, the slow rhythms of the air seemed changeless but alive.

  The tunnel ended at a vast chamber. The vaulted ceiling soared fifty feet above them, reminding Erin of St. Peter’s Basilica.

  But this room had none of the opulence of the church far above. This place was unadorned. Its beauty came from the simplicity of its lines, the smoothness of the curves that drew the eyes ever upward. No man-made objects strove to distract or to glorify.

  Torches guttered in wrought-iron holders were fastened to the stone. Far above, lines of soot streaked the ceiling.

  Rounded alcoves lined the walls. Each space held a simple round plinth. On most of the bases stood detailed statues of men and women, most as emaciated as Piers had been, but these looked peaceful and beatific, not anguished.

  Erin paused to stare at one. Gold light from the book washed across a beautiful woman, her hair loose to her waist, eyes closed, cheekbones high, with an enigmatic smile and slender hands folded in prayer beneath her chin. A silver cross around her neck caught the book’s light.

  Erin had never seen anything more beautiful. The expression etched on that face reminded her of her mother when she sang a lullaby late at night, her father long since gone to sleep, and she and her mother cuddled together in Erin’s bed.

  The book pulsed against her, drawing away her sense of loss, reminding her that nothing was ever truly lost.

  As she stared at the woman, she knew then that it was no statue; it was a Sanguinist in deep meditation. Rhun had mentioned such people in passing.

  The Cloistered Ones.

  She smiled and moved forward again, heading deeper into the cathedral.

  “We should stay near the exit,” Jordan said, his wary suspicion shining in the dark.

  She glanced to him. He had not spoken to Rhun since they found Leopold.

  “I want to learn about the First Angel.” She turned to Rhun. “That’s why we’re down here, isn’t it?”

  Rhun bowed his head in acknowledgment. “We seek the oldest of all. The only one who can bless the book. The Risen One.”

  Erin’s heart skipped a beat. Even Jordan looked shaken.

  The Risen One?

  She had seen enough miracles in the past few days not to dismiss Rhun’s words. She pictured the crucifix that used to hang above her bed at the compound.

  Could she be about to meet the figure on that cross?

  The one who rose from the dead three days after his crucifixion?

  5:52 A.M.

  Rhun fingered his rosary, running through prayers to calm his mind. He was in awe of the Risen One, the one who had made their order possible, the one who had taught those such as Rhun that even the damned could seek forgiveness. Without him, Rhun would have become no more than a tainted animal.

  He pushed forward into the sanctuary.

  Jordan started when a figure in one of the alcoves moved, the face turning toward them. “The statues are alive. Like Piers.”

  “No.” Rhun shook his head. “Not like Piers. They are not trapped and suffering. They have sought out this sanctuary.”

  Erin’s eyes took in the scene. “Why?”

  “After many long years of service, many choose to retire here, to spend their eternal existence in contemplation.”

  He knew some had been here a millennium, sustained by no more than the smallest sips of sacramental wine.

  Jordan’s eyebrows lifted.

  Rhun smiled. “I, too, sought to shed the world in this place.”

  “What happened to that plan?” Jordan didn’t sound pleased that Rhun hadn’t abided by that choice.

  “Cardinal Bernard called me to service.”

  Rhun was grateful that he had answered the call. He had discovered the book, yes, but he had also found Jordan and Erin, and a new life. Perhaps, with the aid of the book, he might shed his curse, walk in sunlight without pain, partake of simple meals, and live the life of a mortal priest.

  Erin shifted, warm next to him.

  Or perhaps he could live the life of a mortal man, outside the walls of the Church.

  The book glowed brighter in her hands.

  Rhun knelt and bowed his head in supplication.

  The book knew his deepest desires.

  Then footsteps approached out of the darkness ahead, out of the blackness of time.


  The Risen One had come.

  5:53 A.M.

  Erin dropped to her knees next to Rhun, and Jordan followed suit. The book trembled in her arms. She wasn’t ready.

  “Rise,” commanded a hoarse voice.

  As one, all stood, heads still bowed.

  “Thou hast brought me the book, Rhun?”

  “Yes, Eleazar.”

  Erin smothered a gasp. Eleazar? She remembered that this was the name of the one who had first hidden the book in Masada. Here was not the risen Jesus Christ, but a different miracle come to life.

  Someone else who had risen long ago.

  Jordan tilted his head to look at her, his eyes asking a question. He didn’t know who faced them.

  She did. They did not stand before Christ.

  Eleazar was the ancient form of a name now translated as Lazarus.

  Here was the spiritual leader of the Sanguinist branch of the Catholic Church, just as the pope was the spiritual leader of the human branch of the Catholic Church.

  Keeping her head bowed, she offered him the book, and he took it.

  “Ye all may look upon it.”

  She raised her head, still afraid to look upon him. But she did. The figure before her was tall, taller than Jordan. Long white hair flowed back from an unlined face. Deep-set eyes were dark brown, like olives, and his stern face smiled at her.

  He turned the book so that all could see it, then opened the cover.

  Golden light flowed from the page, but the crimson letters, written in ancient Greek by Christ’s own hand, could be easily read. Erin had them already memorized.

  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.

  Lazarus seemed to take the words in at a glance. “As you see, the book is safe. Ye have done well. This battle is won, and without that victory all hope would have been lost.”

  “That sounds promising,” Jordan said.

  “But war still looms. To prevail, ye must seek out the First Angel.”

  Erin stared at him in disbelief.

  “Isn’t that you?” Jordan asked.

  “No,” Lazarus said. “It is not.”

  Erin looked around the vast cavern. “Then who is the First Angel?”

  Unknown time

  Undisclosed location

  Tommy fiddled with his bootlaces. Alyosha had promised that today he could go outside. He’d only been cooped up for a few days, but it felt like forever. He wanted to see the sky, feel the wind, and he wanted to escape.

  A pearl-handled knife had dropped from Alyosha’s pocket when he was playing video games a few days ago. Tommy had covered it with a pillow, then hid it under his mattress. It was in his pocket now. He didn’t know if he could hurt anyone. He’d never even been in a fight at school.

  His parents had always taught him that violence didn’t solve anything, but he thought it might solve this problem. Asking politely sure hadn’t helped.

  The door opened. Alyosha stood there, holding a snow-white fur coat. The strange kid wore only pants and a light shirt, not bothering even with a jacket. Probably why he was always so cold.

  Tommy shrugged into the unusual coat. “What’s it made of?”

  “Ermine. Very warm.”

  Tommy stroked his hand along the front. It was the softest thing he’d ever felt. How many little creatures had been killed and skinned to make it?

  Alyosha led the way down a long hall, up a flight of stairs, and through a thick steel door painted black. Paint flaked off into the snow when Alyosha slammed it behind him.

  Tommy spun in a slow circle. They were in a city, in a deserted parking lot. Dirty snow had been crossed by many feet. The sky was overcast and dark gray, as if a storm or night threatened.

  Seeing his chance to escape, Tommy made a break for it, but Alyosha was suddenly in front of him. Tommy cut to the right, hoping to get around him and run along the side of the building. Alyosha jumped in front of him again. Tommy dodged left.

  But Alyosha stopped him yet again.

  Tommy pulled out the knife. “Out of my way!”

  Alyosha threw back his head and laughed to the uncaring gray clouds.

  Tommy tried to turn, to flee, but he slipped on the ice and caught himself before he fell into the dirty snow. Alyosha had just been playing with him. He would never be able to escape. He’d be stuck here forever, eternally bound to this cruel kid.

  Alyosha’s gray eyes glittered with malice. He reminded Tommy of a shrike. Shrikes were cute little birds, but they survived by impaling their prey on thorns and waiting for them to bleed to death. Skeletons of smaller birds and mice littered the ground around their nests.

  “You won’t let me go, will you?” Tommy asked.

  “He cannot let you go,” boomed a voice from behind them.

  Tommy spun around so fast he fell. Gray slush stained his coat. Alyosha dragged him up painfully by one arm.

  A priest in a black robe crunched across the snow toward them. At first, Tommy thought it was the priest from Masada because he wore the same kind of uniform, but this one was taller and broader, and his eyes were blue instead of brown.

  “I have been waiting a very long time for you, Tommy,” the priest said.

  “Are you the one who Alyosha says is like me?”

  “Alyosha?” The man frowned, then smiled as if at a private joke. “Ah, that is a—how do you Americans call it?—a slang name. His full title is Alexei Nikolaevich Romanov, prince of Russia, heir to the true throne of the Russian Empire.”

  Tommy frowned, believing the man was joking. “You didn’t answer my question.”

  The priest smiled. A cold chill ran down Tommy’s back. “How rude of me. No, I am not like you. I am like Alyosha.”

  “Who are you?”

  “I am Grigori Yefimovich Rasputin. And we are going to be great friends.”

  Above the man’s head, a flock of gray pigeons wheeled—and in their midst, a snow-white bird danced high, finding a beam of light in this gray day. Tommy’s gaze caught upon it, while he remembered the wounded bird back in Masada, the dove with the broken wing. He remembered picking up that injured bird—just before his life fell apart.

  Had that act of kindness and mercy doomed him?

  He squinted up as the white bird swooped low, passing over the scene. It stared down at Tommy—first with one eye, then the other.

  Tommy shuddered and tore his gaze away from the skies.

  The bird’s eyes had shone green, like slivers of jeweled malachite.

  Same as the dove in Masada.

  How could that be? How could any of this be?

  Any moment now, I’ll wake in a hospital room with tubes and drugs running into me.

  “I want to go back to my old friends,” he said, not caring if he sounded like a petulant child.

  “You shall make a great many new friends over the course of your long, long life,” Mr. Rasputin said. “That is your destiny.”

  Tommy looked back at the birds. He longed to be up there, flying free with them. Why couldn’t that be his destiny?

  To have wings.

  65

  October 29, 5:54 A.M., CET

  The sanctuary below St. Peter’s Basilica, Italy

  Rhun touched his cross. They had won the battle. He shuddered to think how close they had come to losing it all. But they had triumphed.

  Eleazar paused. He turned the book back to face him and ran his finger under the lines, reading it again, as if he had gotten it wrong the first time. But the words were the same.

  “So we won the first battle,” Jordan said.

  “But what about this ‘War of the Heavens’ … and the ‘First Angel’?” Erin asked.

  “We found the book,” Jordan said with firm conviction. “We can find an angel. I bet the angel is bigger than the
book was. How hard can it be, right?”

  Erin laughed and leaned against him. “Right.”

  The soldier was correct. They had accomplished the impossible once already. Rhun looked to Eleazar. “Where shall we begin?”

  Eleazar furrowed his brow. “The prophecy. Return to the prophecy.”

  Rhun waited.

  Eleazar recited it. “The day shall come when the Alpha and the Omega shall pour his wisdom into a Gospel of Precious Blood that the sons of Adam and the daughters of Eve may use it on the day of their need.

  “Until such day, this blessed book shall be hidden in a well of deepest darkness by a Girl of Corrupted Innocence, a Knight of Christ, and a Warrior of Man.

  “Likewise shall another trio return the book to the light. Only a Woman of Learning, a Knight of Christ, and a Warrior of Man may open Christ’s Gospel and reveal His glory to the world.”

  “We did that,” Jordan said. “What do we need to do next to find the angel?”

  Eleazar closed the book. “That may never come to pass.”

  “Why not?” Jordan said with a frown. “We found the book, didn’t we?”

  Eleazar sighed and hope drained from Rhun with that exhaled breath. “There is a chance that the trio has already been sundered,” Eleazar warned.

  What was the Risen One saying? Rhun asked himself. How could the trio have been sundered? They were all here. He put one hand on Jordan’s sleeve, the other on Erin’s.

  Then Erin closed her eyes. She grew pale.

  “What is it, Erin?” Jordan asked.

  She cleared her throat. “What if I am not part of the trio? What if I am not the Woman of Learning?”

  “What are you talking about? Of course you are. You solved the mystery of the Gospel. Without you, we never would have found it. You were there when we turned it into a book.” The soldier spoke patiently, no worry in his voice.

  But fear crept up Rhun’s spine.

  “Remember the wording of the prophecy,” she said. “It says the trio opens Christ’s Gospel and reveals His glory to the world.”

  “And?” Jordan asked.

  Erin shook her head miserable. “I wasn’t there when the book opened. I didn’t cross the threshold of the basilica before the golden light burst from the book. You did. Rhun did. But I didn’t. I was still outside with the guard.”