James Rollins - The Blood Gospel

He stopped before they reached the portico and veered left.

She raised her eyes from the floor to see what had captured his attention. Michelangelo’s Pietà . The marble sculpture depicted Mary on the rock of Golgotha, cradling her recently crucified son. Christ lay spread across her lap, head back, arm dangling limply. Mary’s head was tilted down, her face marked by sadness. She mourned the loss of her precious son. The death that set these events in motion all those years ago.

Jordan stared at the sculpture.

Erin cleared her throat. “Jordan?”

“Just thinking of the families I’ll have to visit when this is over: the Sandersons, the Tysons, the Coopers, and the McKays. The mothers who will look just like that.”

She wrapped her arms around his waist.

Eventually, he took her hand again and they stepped out of the basilica into the fresh air of an Italian morning.

He led her to the stairs that rose to the top of the dome.

“It’s a long climb.” His eyes asked if she wanted to make it.

“I’ll go first,” she answered, and wended her way up the 320 steps. The sky had lightened to pale gray. Soon the sun would break free of the horizon.

She reached the top, breathing hard. Jordan marched to the east side of the cupola and flung himself down. He patted the floor next to him, and she sat.

The sky paled to almost white.

“You know you’re probably wrong, right?” he asked.

She tried to give him a smile. She appreciated the effort. “If I’m not?”

“I want you on my team whether you’re part of some prophecy or not. We bumble around like a bunch of knuckleheads when you’re not around.”

“People sacrificed their lives to save the Woman of Learning,” she said. “But all they saved was me.”

“You’re not so bad.” He kissed the top of her head. “It was war, Erin. They were soldiers. Mistakes happen in battle. People die. You forge on—for you as much as for them. The key is to keep fighting.”

She tensed in his arms. “But the prophecy—”

“Look.” He started a count. “One: who found the medallion in the little girl’s hand? You did. Two: who figured out where the bunker was? You again. Three: who figured out the blood and the bone stuff to open the book? You again. It’s practically giving me a complex, how good you are at this.”

She smiled. He might be onto something. Up until the very end, it had been Bathory who had followed their trail, not the other way around.

She took the scrap of baby quilt out of her pocket and held it in her palm. For the first time, no anger rose in her at the sight of it. The anger had flown when, at death’s door, she forgave her father in the tunnels.

“What’s that?” Jordan asked.

“A long time ago I made a promise to someone.” She stroked the quilt with one fingertip. “I promised that I would never stand by when my heart told me that something was wrong.”

“What does your heart say now?”

“That you’re right.”

He grinned. “I like the sound of that.”

Erin let the tiny quilt flutter in the wind, holding it between just her thumb and index finger. Then she let it go. The scrap of fabric floated away into the bustle and life that was Rome.

She turned back to Jordan. “It’s about more than spirituality and miracles. It’s about logic, too, and having a questioning heart. We will find this First Angel.”

Jordan pulled her close. “Of course we will. We found the book, didn’t we?”

“We did.” She leaned her head against his chest, listened to his steady heartbeat. “And because we did, we have hope.”

“Sounds like a good day’s work to me.” Jordan’s voice was husky.

The sun broke over the horizon. Gold rays heated her face.

She tilted her head up toward his. He ran the back of his hand along her cheek, cupped the nape of her neck.

Then she stretched up to kiss him. His lips were warm and soft, different from Rhun’s, natural. She slipped her hands under his shirt, sliding her palms along the heat of his skin. He moaned and pulled her in closer, his hands now on her back.

Eventually, she pulled back. Both she and Jordan were breathing hard.

“Too fast?” Jordan asked.

“No.” Erin reached for him again. “Too slow.”

AND THEN

Late Autumn

Rome, Italy

Brother Leopold threw bills into the front seat for the taxi driver, enough to cover the fare and a small tip. As a humble man of the cloth, he had no room in his life for extravagance.

The man touched his cap in thanks as Leopold shut the door and ducked into a neighboring alley. He scanned the sunlit street. No one had followed him from Vatican City. He had redirected the driver over and over, insisting on abrupt turns, trips down blind alleys, and repeatedly doubled back. Even after all of that, he’d had the driver drop him several blocks away from his real destination.

He had waited so long and worked so hard, he would not fail in the last moment. If he did, then He whom he served would destroy him. Leopold was not so foolish as to think himself irreplaceable.

He walked down the narrow street and approached the glass-and-steel skyscraper with a silver anchor painted on the top panes of glass. It was the logo of the Argentum Corporation. The anchor concealed a cross in its design, the Crux Dissimulata, the symbol used by ancient Christians to show their belief in Christ to other Christians without having to fear reprisals. Today, too, it hid allegiances.

It housed the head of the Belial, He who forged a pact between strigoi and humans and wielded both to His own ends. But He was neither man nor beast—instead He was so much more, a figure cursed by Christ’s own word to live forever.

All because of a single betrayal.

Leopold trembled at the very thought, knowing he had betrayed the Church many times over, wearing a pious cloth over his traitorous heart as he did His bidding.

But how could he not?

He reached to the logo at the entrance and touched the cross buried in the center of the Argentum symbol, drawing strength in the knowledge that His cause was true and righteous. He was one of the few who walked the right path.

With renewed determination, he entered the building and gave his name at the front desk. The hard-eyed security guard checked him against a list and an online database before ushering him into the VIP elevator. It would stop at only one floor, and only if he had a key.

After the elevator doors slid closed, he lifted his pectoral cross over his head, then pulled off the longer part of the cross to reveal a hidden key. He stuck the key in the elevator lock. A green light told him that it worked. He let out a sigh of relief. He’d never used it before.

The elevator doors opened onto a receptionist in a smart black suit behind an imposing desk. Leopold whispered a quick prayer for protection and stepped out.

“Yes?” Amethyst earrings glittered when she raised her head. She had widely spaced brown eyes and full lips. A face from a Renaissance painting.

“Brother Leopold.” He leaned nervously on her tall glass desk. “I was summoned.”

She pressed a button with one long purple nail, then spoke into her phone. A one-syllable answer came back.

Yes .

He didn’t know whether to be relieved or terrified.

She rose and led him down a long polished hallway to a brushed aluminum door, her hips swaying as she walked.

She opened the door and stepped back.

He must go in alone. The sound of running water filled his ears.

He entered a vast room into which clear Roman sunlight shone through floor-to-ceiling windows.

A large rectangular fountain dominated the center of the room. Purple water lilies shone against gray slate. Water trickled over a round emerald-green stone. The sound was probably meant to be soothing, but the pattering grated on Leopold’s nerves.