The Blood Gospel
“Hush,” he whispered, as if she were his niece Abigail, famous in the family for her nightmares about giant tarantulas.
Erin let out one long breath and seemed to sink deeper into sleep.
She had plenty of food for bad dreams: strigoi, bats, and—
With a scream, Erin sat bolt upright.
“I’m right here,” Jordan said, sitting up with her. “We’re safe.”
She looked over at him, eyes wide.
“It’s Jordan, remember?” he said.
She drew in a ragged breath and scooted back to lean against the headboard. “I remember.”
Careful to stay on his side of the coat, Jordan did the same. “Bad dreams?”
“Bad reality.”
“Should I be insulted?” Maybe that would lighten the mood.
“I didn’t mean you. You’re … well … fine. But the rest of the situation …”
Jordan was insulted at being relegated to merely fine, but decided this wasn’t the time to make a smart-aleck comment about it. “At least we got some sleep and food. I haven’t felt so good since before Masada.”
He stopped talking. Masada. Where his team had died. All of them. He named them in his head, intending to never forget them: Sanderson. McKay. Cooper. Tyson. All of them, except McKay, younger than he. Tyson had a two-year-old daughter who would never see her mother again. McKay had three kids, an ex-wife, and a dog named Chipper. Cooper used his army pay to support his frail elderly mother and a long string of girlfriends. Sanderson hadn’t even had time to start a relationship. He was just a kid. Jordan rested his head against the headboard. “It’s been a very long twenty-four hours.”
“I wonder what comes next,” Erin said.
“Another field trip with our fun tour guides, Rhun and Nadia.”
“Nadia’s not much fun.” Erin pulled the covers up past her waist. “I think she would’ve killed me in that church.”
“I thought she was bluffing.”
Erin put one hand up to her throat. “I don’t think Nadia bluffs.”
Jordan didn’t think so either. “I get the feeling that if she wanted to, she could just crush us like bugs and hire someone to clean up the greasy spots.”
Erin grinned. “That’s supposed to be reassuring?”
He glanced over at her. “At least we have each other.” It sounded so cheesy he wished he could take it back.
“But I barely know you,” she said.
“What do you want to know?” He stuck a pillow behind his head. “I’m human. Thirty-five. Career army. Born in Iowa. Third son. My mom had five kids. My favorite color is green.”
Erin smiled and shook her head.
“Not good enough?” Jordan decided to go for it, just tell the truth. “My wife—Karen—was also in the army. She died about a year ago. Killed in action.” His voice tightened around that knot of grief, but he forged on. “No kids, but I wanted three. Now your turn. Kids? Husband? Siblings?”
“I can’t play this game.” He saw a quick flash of pain in her eyes before she glanced away.
Family was off-limits. Got it. He picked an easier question. “Not even your favorite color? That’s not a state secret, right?”
She turned back with a slight smile, as if she appreciated the effort. “Sepia.”
“Sepia?” He looked over at her. “That’s brown, right?”
“It’s a brown gray. It was originally made from the ink sac of a cuttlefish. Sepia is the Latinized form of ‘cuttlefish.’ ”
Her earnest amber eyes stared over into his. Or were they sepia?
“See. That’s a start.” He shifted on the bed, trying to come up with another question. “Let’s say today was Saturday, and you were home. What would you be doing?”
She looked down at the grimwolf jacket, almost as if she were embarrassed. “I’d be eating Lucky Charms and watching cartoons.”
“I didn’t see that answer coming.” He imagined her sitting in pajamas with a bowl of cereal in her lap and cartoons on TV. Not a bad way to start a weekend.
“My roommate in college, Wendy, got me into it. She said I had a lot of cartoons to catch up on.”
After her freaky childhood, it sounded like Wendy had a point.
“So,” Erin said. “Your turn. What would you be doing on a lazy Saturday morning?”
“Sleeping.” He wished he had a cooler answer.
She looked sheepish. “I’m sorry I woke you up.”
“I’m not.” He reached over and smoothed a damp strand of hair back from her cheek, ready to back off if she gave any sign that she wanted him to stop.
Instead, she closed her eyes and rested her head against his hand.
He leaned across the grimwolf leather jacket and kissed her. He did it without thinking, as if his lips were meant to be there.
She let out a tiny sigh and slid her arms around his neck.
10:04 A.M.
Rhun awoke to the lemony smell of chemical cleaning fluid. He laid a palm against his aching chest, remembering.
He pushed himself up on an elbow. He was in a bedroom with white curtains drawn against the light. A few steps away a woman was lying on the wooden floor. Nadia. He remembered now. Nadia. Emmanuel. The bunker. He listened for Erin’s and Jordan’s heartbeats, heard them on the other side of a wall. The soft rumble of their voices comforted him.
He used the headboard to lift himself to his feet.
Nadia stirred, stretching like a waking cat. “Better?”
Rhun stood, swaying. “Were you hurt?”
“Only my leg.” She stood, too, more easily than he had. “It will mend.”
Rhun envied her. “Were the others wounded?”
“The soldier has luck,” she said. “The woman is a talented shooter, even with a pistol, and she had the sense to stay low.”
“Piers?” Rhun looked around the darkened room.
“Gone.” Nadia explained all that had happened since Rhun was shot in the forest.
Rhun circled to the most disturbing question. “How did the Belial know where we were, where to ambush us?”
His team’s departure from Jerusalem had been known only by the Cardinal and his innermost circle.
Nadia sighed, concerned. “I think the best course of action is for me to return to the abbey with news of Emmanuel’s death, to claim you and the others died, too. That will give you time to operate outside the range of the Church and any spies, to hide your next steps on the way to the Blood Gospel.”