The Blood Gospel

Ambrose stepped forward both to greet them, and to block them. His eyes ignored Rhun and the other Sanguinists and fixed a steely gaze upon Erin and Jordan. His words were terse enough to be considered rude.

“You may share nothing concerning what you see beyond this gate. Not with your family, not with your superiors in the military.”

Still blindfolded, Jordan dug in his heels and stopped, pulling Erin to a halt beside him. “I’m not taking orders from someone I can’t see.”

Rhun understood the man’s consternation and whipped off the two blindfolds before Ambrose could protest. The pair had already seen and been told too much. Adding the knowledge of this location seemed trivial in comparison. Besides, they must get indoors.

Jordan held out his hand to Ambrose. “Sergeant Stone, Ninth Ranger Battalion, and this is Dr. Granger.”

“Father Ambrose, assistant to His Eminence, Cardinal Bernard.” He wiped his palm on his fine cassock after shaking Jordan’s hand. “You have been summoned to meet with His Eminence. But I must once again stress that everything from this moment forward must be held in strictest confidence.”

“Or what?” Jordan loomed over Ambrose, and Rhun liked him all the more for it.

Ambrose stepped back. “Or we shall know of it.”

“Enough,” Rhun declared, and brushed roughly past Ambrose.

He stepped forward and placed a hand against the limestone blocks of the wall, moving his fingers stone by stone in the sequence of the cross. The limestone felt rough and warm under his hands.

“Take and drink you all of this,” he whispered, and pushed the centermost stone inward, revealing a tiny basin carved in a block, like the vessel that holds holy water at the entrance to a church.

Only this basin was not meant to hold water.

Rhun slipped free his curved blade and poked the center of his palm, in the spot where the nails had been driven into the palms of Christ. He squeezed his fist and let a few drops of blood splatter into the stone cup, its inner surface long darkened by the passage of countless Sanguinists who had entered this place before him.

“For this is the Chalice of My Blood, of the new and everlasting Testament.”

Erin gasped behind him as cracks appeared in the wall, revealing the outline of a gate so narrow that a man must turn sideways to pass.

“Mysterium fidei,” Rhun finished, and shoved the door open with his shoulder—then stepped back.

The other Sanguinists glided through ahead of him, followed by Ambrose. Erin and Jordan remained on the street with Rhun.

The woman remained fixed in place, staring up and down the city wall. “I’ve studied all the gates into the Old City, sealed and open,” she said. “There is no record of this one.”

“It has gone by many names over the centuries,” Rhun said, anxious to get them all off the street before they were discovered. “I assure you that you will find safe shelter inside. This gateway has been sanctified. The strigoi cannot cross its threshold.”

“They’re not the only ones who worry me.” Jordan stepped into a wider stance. “If Erin won’t go in, I won’t either.”

The woman finally stepped forward, placing her hand on the rough stone lintel. He heard her heart skip faster at the touch. From the hungry shine in her eyes, the sharper beat was not born of fear, but of a raw, aching desire.

“Here is living history.” Erin glanced back to Jordan. “How can I not go inside?”

9:19 P.M.

Jordan followed Erin across that dark threshold, squeezing sideways to enter. He wasn’t happy about it, but he suspected the choice of entering or not was not ultimately theirs anyway. He remembered Father Ambrose’s words: You have been summoned to meet with His Eminence.

It was clearly less an invitation than a demand.

Korza entered last and drew the gate shut behind him. A suffocating and complete blackness closed over the group. Breathing harder as he stood in the darkness, Jordan reached out and found Erin’s hand again.

She squeezed his fingers in return, tightly, gratefully.

A familiar rasping sound preceded a tiny pop of flame, flickering brilliantly in the darkness. A Zippo lighter shone in the fingers of a cowled Sanguinist ahead of Jordan. The sight of the familiar, modern-day object cheered him, made everything feel a bit more real.

The Sanguinist picked up a candle from a small wooden stand by the door and handed it to Erin. She held the wick up to the lighter’s golden flame. In turn, Jordan received and lit his own candle. The smell of smoke and beeswax pushed back the dry dust of the air, but the fragile light did not reach far.

Without a word and apparently needing no light of their own, the other Sanguinists turned and headed down the steep tunnel. Jordan was not thrilled to be going underground again, but Erin set off after them, and he followed.

Even with the candle, Jordan could barely see where he was going. He swept the flame low in front of him. Smooth stone surrounded him. He hung back, wanting to keep everyone where he could see them, not that there was a hell of a lot he could do if things went bad.

Korza seemed to understand his hesitancy and squeezed past him.

Erin, already a few paces ahead, sheltered her candle’s flame with one cupped hand. Her head swiveled around so fast he thought it might come right off. To her, this must be like slipping out of present time and into history.

To Jordan, it was simply a minefield, where any misstep could kill them both.

He tried his best to keep track of their path. The passageway seemed to be angling downward, heading to the northeast, but he couldn’t be sure. And without knowledge of the city’s layout, he had no idea where they might be going. With no other recourse, he fell back on his military training and counted his steps, trying his best to keep track of the crisscrossing passageways, building a three-dimensional map in his head. At the very least, it might help them find their way back.

At last, the tunnel evened out and stopped in front of a thick wooden door with heavy iron hinges. At least this door didn’t require the blood of a Sanguinist to open—only a large ornate key, which was wielded by Father Ambrose.

“Is this where we meet the Cardinal?” Erin asked.

Father Ambrose glanced up and down her body, his lips pursed with distaste, settling on her wounded leg, on her torn pants. “It would be unseemly to greet His Eminence in your present condition.”

Jordan rolled his eyes. So far, the only thing this new priest had going for him was that he was human. When they’d shaken hands outside, Jordan had felt the heat of real blood in his veins.