James Rollins - The Blood Gospel

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 their 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.