The Blood Gospel

Rage replaced remorse. She had used her resemblance to his beloved to trick him, to try to murder him. Her forces had killed Emmanuel, had almost killed them all.

Jordan spoke, but Rhun caught only the end of the sentence. “… the visitor who pulled you away from the church earlier today?”

“I am ever a polite host,” Rasputin said.

Rhun opened his eyes and studied the impostor. The resemblance was uncanny, but false. Like everything in Rasputin’s realm, the fair face hid an evil core.

Rasputin’s followers seemed frightened of her. They crowded against the walls, leaving a circle around her, as if they did not dare to touch her.

“I see that you are quite restored, Father Korza.” The redhead smiled coldly.

Her icy eyes flicked over Erin and lingered on Jordan. Rhun heard his heartbeat quicken under her gaze.

The grimwolf at her heels snarled, its red eyes fixed on Rhun with deep hatred. It looked enough like the one in the desert of Masada to be its littermate. If so, did it know that he had killed its brother?

Masada.

The woman with the wolf must have been there, too, Rhun realized. She had more than Emmanuel’s blood on her fair hands.

As if reading his thoughts, she nodded. “This sudden restoration of health. Was it perhaps the blood of your companions that fortified you so?”

“I drink only the blood of Christ.”

“Not always,” she said. “Long ago, you defiled one of my ancestors.”

“I’ve heard our guest’s story,” Rasputin said, shaking a finger at Rhun. “She has good reason to be angry at you. Since your tragic mistake with Elisabeta, one woman of each generation of the Bathory line is cursed to a lifetime of pain and servitude. Each must bear a mark to prove it.”

The stranger bared her long throat, revealing a black handprint.

Still, Rhun searched for some trickery here. Did this woman truly come from the line of Bathory? Was she a descendant of the first woman believed to be the Woman of Learning?

Reading portents of that time, Cardinal Bernard had thought Elisabeta was the prophesied Woman of Learning. In the end, he was proven wrong, but had someone believed Bernard was on the right path? Had they taken command of the Bathory lineage as a precaution? Or was there some other purpose here?

The redheaded woman shifted her attention to Rasputin, but she never took her eyes off Rhun. “Let me take him as well as the book. I will double your fee.”

Rhun’s eyes narrowed. Whom did this strange woman serve? Who gave her that black mark on her throat? And why?

Rhun could think of only one person powerful enough to receive favors from Rasputin. The mysterious head of the Belial. The very last person who should ever receive the book.

He studied the mark on the woman’s throat. Was he staring at the shadow of the man’s own hand, the true puppet master of the Belial? A shiver traveled through him. He prayed that Cardinal Bernard was right, that the Belial could not open the Gospel. The Nazis had not been able to. Nor had the Russians. Perhaps the book was its own best protector.

But he hated to leave that to chance.

Rhun calculated the odds. Ten strigoi, Rasputin, and the wolf. He could not win here, and if he tried, Erin and Jordan would likely be killed. But an opportunity could present itself later. If he let Bathory take him now, he could remain near the book, try to get it free. Knowing he had no other choice, he inclined his head in agreement.

Rasputin studied his face for several seconds before speaking, his blue eyes calculating. “No, my dear. He is too willing. I promised you the book as a gesture of goodwill toward those whom you serve. But Rhun is mine. You may, however, take one of the humans, if, in return, your master grants me the life of my choosing later.”

“That was not your promise to us, Grigori.” Rhun kept his voice calm, but still his minions tightened their grip on him. “But if someone must be taken, why not me?”

“Yes,” Bathory said. “Why not him?”

Rasputin motioned to his remaining followers, and they reluctantly stepped closer to her. “My counsel is my own. Do not try my patience further.”

“You gave us your word, Grigori,” Rhun said. “We were not to be harmed.”

Bathory ignored him. “My apologies, Father Rasputin.” She studied first Erin, then Jordan. “I will accept your kind offer, but you have left me with a hard choice. Whom will I choose?”

“Take me.” Jordan winked at her. “I’m a lot more fun.”

“I’m sure you are.” Bathory’s lips curved into a wicked-looking smile. Her silver eyes met Rhun’s. A malicious glint flared. “But I believe I will take the woman.”

Rhun dove for Bathory, but a crowd of strigoi bore him to the ground before he could take a single step, pinning him with their sheer weight. Three others immobilized Jordan.

“Now, Rhun.” Rasputin kicked him lightly with the toe of a black boot. “I always keep my word. Every word, in fact.”

Rhun struggled to fight free. Next to him, Jordan tried, too. But it was pointless. Erin’s eyes had grown wide. Strigoi held her by each arm. She could not escape either. Rhun cursed himself for foolishly trusting Grigori. This, too, was his fault.

Rasputin rested his hands on his hips. “Bathory, my dear, I gave my word that the woman would not be harmed while in Russia. And you will adhere to that promise. But that protection dies as soon as she crosses our borders. Once beyond Russian soil, you may do with her as you wish.”

9:04 P.M.

Erin fought the hands that restrained her, but she couldn’t budge an inch. More of Rasputin’s people swarmed into the room, filling it with the smell of death.

Rhun thrashed against the strigoi who were holding him, lashing out with teeth and nails. Blood spattered the nearby wall. More figures piled on top of him.

Jordan struggled with his attackers, too, but suddenly went limp. Erin gasped. Was he dead? Knocked out cold?

She struggled to get close to him, but it was impossible.

Hands snatched the lead block. Others cuffed her hands in front of her.

A cold collar encircled her neck, and Grigori’s minions stepped back a pace. As she hurled herself toward Jordan’s prone form, sharp points dug into her throat. Blood ran down her neck.

Gasping for air, she stopped short. Her neck throbbed. The collar was spiked, like a dog’s collar, although the points must have been sharpened to make it more painful. Someone ran a finger under the collar, pulling the spikes out of her flesh. She clenched her jaw to keep from crying out.