The Blood Gospel (Page 120)

Erin closed her eyes, refusing to speak.

Jordan lifted his hand, revealing what he’d found as Leopold ripped off her coat. He showed her the pectoral cross. “Rhun?”

Leopold flinched, aghast.

“Erin?” Jordan tried to control his anger so she wouldn’t hear it. “Did Rhun do this to you?”

“He had to.” Her fingertips traced the bandage at her neck. “Jordan, I begged him to.”

He barely heard her words as fury engulfed him.

That bastard had drained Erin and left her alone to die.

She struggled to sit up, to explain.

Jordan scooped her up in his arms and cradled her against his chest. He wrapped her in his arms. She was still so cold but had a little color back.

“We had to do this, Jordan, to heal him so he could keep Bathory from getting away with the Gospel. Rhun was almost dead.”

Jordan pulled her closer as she dropped her head against his shoulder.

Leopold readjusted the coat over them both, then turned his back. Crouched next to them, he swung his head from one side of the tunnel to the other.

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.