The Blood Gospel (Page 115)

How could such brilliance shine from something so simple and ordinary?

Then she knew the answer.

She pictured Christ’s visage—an ordinary man’s face, hiding a wellspring of divinity.

Tears ran down her cheeks as a heavy ache returned to her blood.

Without touching her throat, she knew that the black mark had returned.

She shook her head to clear the glow that still filled her mind. It felt as if she had just awakened from a deep dream. But she did not have the luxury of distraction.

She stared out across the basilica, knowing what she had to do. She needed a way out and intended to create her own exit.

Moving swiftly, she leaped away from the altar into the apse behind her and retreated back toward the giant black marble throne high on the wall. It was the throne of Saint Peter, surrounded by popes and angels and rays of golden light that seemed cheap in comparison to what she had just witnessed.

Once far enough away from the altar, she reached into her pocket, found the transmitter she had hidden there, and pressed the detonator button.

The blast was a distant echo, like a clap of thunder beyond the horizon. The floor jolted under her feet. She’d planted charges deep in the necropolis below, beneath the very altar where she had been standing.

She watched with satisfaction as the marble floor shattered in front of her, cracking like broken ice under the heavy baldachin. The massive bronze canopy shook—then, as she watched, the entire structure crashed under its own weight through the floor, dropping cleanly through the hole.

Its base struck the floor of the necropolis below with the resounding boom of Heaven’s gate slamming shut.

So be it.

She waved rock dust and smoke from her eyes and watched as the baldachin came to a shuddering rest, sunk most of the way through the floor. Only the canopy still remained visible in the nave, tilted crookedly.

Her charges had worked perfectly.

On the far side of the hole, a Swiss Guardsman fell screaming into the crater as the edge broke under him.

To the left, the Sanguinists jumped back like startled lions, leaping into the transept on that side. The archaeologist and soldier took shelter to the right. More Swiss Guardsmen came rushing down the center of the nave toward the site of the destruction.

But the strigoi army below in the necropolis did not wait. With the sunset here, they swarmed up the twisted columns of the fallen baldachin, a horde of demons rising out of the Stygian darkness. They swarmed over the metal canopy and boiled into the basilica like ants fleeing from an anthill. Even weakened by the holiness of the sanctuary, they would make short work of the Swiss Guards and buy Bathory time to escape.

She leaped from the broken edge of the floor onto one of the huge angels atop the baldachin’s canopy. Holding the book in one hand, she wrapped the other around a gilded wing.

Gunshots cracked at her.

She swung, keeping the angel between herself and the sniper. She quickly tucked the book into the front of her shirt to free her hands—then stretched out on her stomach and lowered her legs over the edge of the canopy, her feet searching for toeholds in the ornamented capital of a column. With all of its fanciful decorations, the baldachin made a lovely hundred-foot-tall ladder leading down into the tunnels of the necropolis, the city of the dead that lay beneath the basilica.

Finding her footing, Bathory clambered down a twisted column of the baldachin, finding additional handholds among the metal garlands sculpted on the surface.

Far below, Magor howled for her.

She smiled, feeling the weight of the book against her br**sts.

Together, they would escape Rome—and maybe even Him.

59

October 28, 5:15 P.M., CET

Vatican City, Italy

Jordan rolled off Erin. Had he hurt her? He had knocked her to the marble floor with some force when the explosion hit.

“Erin?”

She pointed behind him.

A cloud of dust obscured most of the basilica behind him, but Jordan swung his Heckler & Koch submachine gun out of his coat as he turned. He fired once, striking a strigoi in the shoulder as it stepped free of the pall of smoke. Dark blood sprayed against white stone. The strigoi backed off, more slowly than Jordan had expected, like it was walking through water. He trained his gun on it, but he hated to let loose in the basilica.

Had all the civilians gotten out?

He couldn’t see far through the dust to be sure, but he did spot the gaping hole with the black sculpture resting crookedly down its throat. He had to admire the skill of the enemy’s demolitions expert.

With his left hand he pulled Erin to her feet and handed her his Colt 1911 pistol.

She took it, her eyes on the wounded strigoi. “They seem dazed.”

“Must be the sanctified ground weakening them.” He kept his gun up and ready to fire. “But dazed or not, they’re blocking our way to the exits.”

“What do we do?”

He pulled her with him. “Let’s get into a corner where nobody can circle behind us.”

Erin resisted, pointing to the smoking crater in the floor. “We have to follow Bathory. She can’t escape with the Gospel.”

He sighed, resigned, knowing Erin would go after the woman anyway if he balked. “You’re the boss.”

She smiled at his tone.

Using the dust from the explosion as cover, the two of them circled around to the apse, edging closer to the hole. Erin kept one step behind, her pistol up, moving in tandem with him.

Most of the strigoi forces were concentrating their attention on the Swiss Guardsmen racing into the basilica with their guns blazing. Their lack of caution suggested that the civilians had been cleared out.

Good to know, Jordan thought.

He and Erin reached the back of the crater without drawing any attention. The entire baldachin leaned drunkenly before them, the canopy canted to one side. From the basilica floor, the bronze structure had appeared to be a hundred feet tall. Now only twenty feet stuck out, which meant an eighty-foot climb down into the darkness—with strigoi waiting at the bottom.

The dust to the right swirled, revealing two black-cloaked figures.

Rhun and the Cardinal.

“Take that woman out of St. Peter’s,” Bernard ordered.

“You try telling her that,” Jordan said.

Proving the impossibility of ordering “that woman” to do anything, Erin jumped from the crumbling marble edge out onto the bronze canopy. She teetered backward, then clutched at one of the smaller angels, one who held a crown aloft.

Jordan and Rhun jumped at the same time, landing to either side of her, both reaching to steady her. The Cardinal landed an instant later, higher up the canopy, next to the sphere that was topped by a cross. That seemed fitting.