The Blood Gospel (Page 43)

Still, Jordan looked down at his own filthy blood-soaked clothes. Erin looked little better, and Korza was a disaster.

“We had a bad night,” Jordan admitted.

A laugh burst out of Erin’s throat, sounding slightly hysterical at the edges, but she stifled it quickly.

“I cannot imagine,” Ambrose said, ignoring her.

The priest turned back to the door and unlocked it with an iron key as long as his hand. He pulled the door open, bathing them in the light from the hallway beyond.

The group filed past Ambrose. Jordan went last, stepping into a long stone passageway softened by a Persian carpet runner on the floor and tapestries on the walls. Electric lights shone from wall sconces. Rows of wooden doors, all closed, dotted both sides of the hall.

Jordan blew out his candle but kept hold of it, in case he needed to light his way to freedom again.

Father Ambrose relocked the door and pocketed the key, then gestured to the right. “That is your room, Dr. Granger. On the left is yours, Sergeant Stone. You may clean up inside.”

Jordan took Erin’s elbow. “We’d prefer to stick together.”

Father Ambrose’s voice went frosty. “While you bathe?”

A blush rose on Erin’s cheeks.

Jordan liked watching it.

“It is safe here,” Korza assured them. “You have my promise on that.”

Erin caught Jordan’s eye, passing on a silent message. She wanted to talk, once they were alone—which meant cooperating until the priests left.

He would go along with that.

At least for now.

9:24 P.M.

Rhun watched the pair disappear inside their respective rooms before he followed Ambrose. The man led the way up a rising passageway and to another door that had to be unlocked. The Church had many locks, and many secrets to hide behind them, but this doorway merely led to a winding stone staircase hewn out of the rock more than a thousand years ago.

Very familiar with it, Rhun moved to enter on his own, but Ambrose blocked the way with an arm.

“Wait,” the man warned. The thin mask of civility that he had presented for the newcomers fell away, revealing his raw disgust. “I will not present you to His Eminence with the cursed blood of a grimwolf upon you. Even I can smell that foul stench.”

Rhun glowered, letting Ambrose see his anger. “Bernard has seen me far worse.”

Ambrose could not face that fury for more than a breath. His arm fell, and he shrank back, his thick heartbeat tripping over itself in fear. Rhun felt a flicker of guilt—but only a flicker. He knew Ambrose. The priest was driven by human desires, possessive of his rank, full of pride, and protective of his role as Cardinal Bernard’s assistant. But Rhun also knew how loyal the man was. He guarded Bernard’s position in the Church hierarchy as devotedly as any watchdog—and in his own bitter manner, he served the Cardinal well, making sure no one insulted or slighted his superior.

But Rhun did not have time for such civilities. He swept past Ambrose and swiftly climbed the stairs, leaving the priest far behind. On his own, he threaded through dark passageways until he reached the mahogany door of Cardinal Bernard’s study.

“Rhun?” Bernard called from inside, his Italian accent rolling on the hard R, softening it with a warmth of friendship that spanned centuries. “Enter, my son.”

Rhun stepped into a chamber lit by a single white candle in an ornate gold candlestick. He needed little light to see the jeweled globe next to the massive desk, the ancient wooden crucifix attached to the wall, and the rows of leather-bound volumes lining one side. He breathed in the familiar smells of old parchment, leather, and beeswax. This room had not changed in a century.

Bernard rose to meet him. He wore full cardinal attire, the crimson cloth shining in the candlelight. He greeted Rhun with a warm embrace, not flinching from the stench of grimwolf blood. A Sanguinist himself, Bernard had fought many battles in the past and did not shy away from the vulgar aftermath of combat.

Bernard led him to a chair and drew it back for him. “Sit, Rhun.”

Not protesting, he settled to the seat, truly feeling his wounds for the first time.

Bernard returned to his own chair and slid a golden chalice of consecrated wine across the desktop. “You have suffered much these past few hours. Drink and we will talk.”

Rhun reached for the cup’s stem. The scent of wine drifted up: bitter, with a hint of oak. He craved it, but he hesitated to drink it. He did not want the pain of penance to distract him during this conversation. But his wounds also throbbed, reminding him that they, too, could distract him.

Resigned, he took the cup and drained it—then bowed his head so that Bernard would not see his expression, and waited. Would another vision of Elisabeta haunt him again tonight, reminding him of his sin? But that was not to be—for he had committed a greater sin, one that damned him for eternity.

Rhun’s knees pressed against cold, damp earth as he prayed at the gravestone of his younger sister. A moonless night cloaked him in darkness, blacker than the sober seminary robe he wore. Even the stars of Heaven hid behind clouds.

Would no light ever shine again in his heart?

He stared at the dates carved into the gravestone.

Less than a month before childbirth, death had claimed his sister and her infant son. Without the absolution of baptism, the infant could not be buried with his mother. She lay here on consecrated ground; her child could not.

Rhun would visit his tiny unmarked grave later.

Every night since her burial, he had left the quiet of the monastery after everyone slept and had come to pray for her, for her child, and to allay the sorrow in his own heart.

Soft footsteps sounded behind him.

Still on his knees, he turned.

A shadow-cloaked figure stepped close. Rhun could not make out its features in the darkness, but the stranger was not a priest.

“The pious one,” the newcomer whispered, his accent foreign, the voice unfamiliar.

Rhun’s heart quickened; his fingers sought his cross, but he forced his hands to remain clasped, tightening his fingers.

What did he have to fear from this stranger who showed no threat?

Rhun bowed his head respectfully to the man. “You are in the Lord’s cemetery late, my friend.”

“I come to pay my respects to the dead,” he answered, and waved long pale fingers toward the grave. “As do you.”

Icy wind blew through the field of stone crosses and carved angels, rustling the last leaves of autumn and bringing with it the odor of death and decay.

“Then I leave you to your peace,” Rhun said, turning back to his sister’s resting place.