James Rollins - The Blood Gospel

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.

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.