James Rollins - The Blood Gospel

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 grimwolf—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.