James Rollins - The Blood Gospel

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.