The Blood Gospel (Page 121)

Bathory fell backward, stumbling against the wall, crimson spreading across her chest. She slid to the floor, her silver eyes wide with surprise. Her gun clattered to the floor next to her limp arm.

The grimwolf collapsed with a mighty shudder. Blood smoked from its body and frothed from its mouth. Unable to stand now, it dragged itself on its belly, whimpering. A dark smear of blood trailed behind it.

The wolf reached Bathory and dropped its head into her lap. She lifted her arms and wrapped them around its head.

Beyond them, Rhun struggled to his feet and retrieved Bathory’s gun.

Straightening, he turned in Erin’s direction. When he saw her, his lips moved into a shadow of a tired smile, relieved to see her—and maybe something more. Either way, it was the first genuine and honest smile she had ever seen him give.

He looked young, vulnerable, and very human.

She stumbled toward him, but Jordan pulled her back. “That’s close enough.”

His gun was out and pointed at Rhun.

That smile fled Rhun’s face.

And the world was darker for it.

62

October 28, 6:54 P.M., CET

Necropolis below St. Peter’s Basilica, Italy

Magor …

Bathory cradled the wolf’s huge head in her lap. She felt his agony, heard his moan, poisoned by her blood. More silvery crimson flowed down her chest, pooling on her lap where he lay, boiling his skin, burning him in agony.

Please go … don’t die like this …

She tried to push him away, but he nuzzled closer into that pain so he could be with her.

Too weak to fight him, she leaned over as he rolled one eye up at her. She sang him a final lullaby. It had no words. She had no breath to form them. Her song came from somewhere deeper than language, where summer suns still shone on a little boy catching butterflies in a white net among tall green grasses. Her song was laughter and love and the simple warmth of one body holding another.

The world darkened at the edges, until it was reduced to just that pained eye staring lovingly up at her. She watched that crimson glow within it fade, becoming only a soft gold as the curse inside him faded, and Magor became, again, just wolf … leaving all the grimness behind.

The pain also faded from his great, loving bulk as she sagged over him.

The pain fled her blood, too, leaving only peace.

As darkness consumed them both, she willed one last message to her friend.

Let’s go find Hunor …

63

October 28, 6:57 P.M., CET

Necropolis below St. Peter’s Basilica, Italy

Rhun knelt before the ghost of Elisabeta.

He held the Gospel in his lap and prayed for her soul. How soft and young her face looked in death, the fire of hatred snuffed out, leaving a purity and innocence that had been corrupted in part by his act centuries ago.

He stared at the paleness of her long throat.

A black mark had once marred its beauty, a strangling imprint from some unknown hand. Rasputin’s words in the Hermitage came back to him, words about one woman from every generation of the Bathory line who was sentenced to a lifetime of pain and servitude.

Going back to the time of his defilement of Elisabeta.

But who could do such a thing? The Belial? If so, what interest was Elisabeta’s line to them; surely it could not just be to torture him? What was he not seeing here? Why prey upon the descendants of Elisabeta Bathory?

To what end?

Now, with this woman dead, he realized that he might never know the answers to these questions, that perhaps the chain had finally been broken.

As he stood, his prayers done, he stared down at the humble book that he’d taken from her.

Though a creature whose life was damned, he had brought this great goodness into the world. Perhaps the Gospel held the secret to restoring his own soul. He feared even wishing for such a thing, to be human again, with a heartbeat and warm flesh to share.

Erin stood several paces to his right, waiting, Jordan beside her, his machine pistol up and ready. After what the Sanguinist himself had done to her, he could not blame the man.

“Aren’t you going to open it?” Erin asked.

Rhun opened the book and turned it around so that Erin and Jordan could see the pages. “I have,” he said.

The first page contained only a single paragraph, written in Greek. The rest of the pages remained empty, possibly awaiting further miracles before more text would come to light. But what was there was frightening enough.

The two came closer, drawn by the curiosity that burned so brightly in those with the shortest lives.

“What the hell?” Jordan groaned. “All of this for one paragraph. It had better be good.”

Erin stared at the page as if she might cause more words to appear by force of will alone. She translated what she saw. “A great War of the Heavens looms. For the forces of goodness to prevail, a Weapon must be forged of this Gospel written in my own blood. The trio of prophecy must bring the book to the First Angel for his blessing. Only thus may they secure salvation for the world.”

“You’re supposed to be a priest.” Jordan shifted back a pace. “If the book needs a blessing, then go ahead and bless it.”

“I am not the First Angel.” Rhun ran his hand down the smooth leather cover, longing to know what else might be revealed, sensing he held only the beginning of a greater truth. “The book must be blessed by the first one, someone pure in heart and deed. Only then will more be learned.”

“That leaves you right out, doesn’t it?” Jordan said.

“Jordan!”

“He is correct.” Hating to part with it, Rhun handed the book to Erin. “I am not pure. Even today my actions showed this to be so.”

“If we had not done what we did, then the book would be gone.”

Rhun watched a blush rise to Erin’s cheeks and heard her heart beat faster. What had it been like for her when he’d fed on her, that it shamed her so to think of it? He thought back to the long-ago night when he had been turned.

“I don’t approve of the price Erin paid.” Jordan glared at him.

“It wasn’t your choice.” Erin hugged the book and turned away. “It was ours.”

She walked back the way they had come, one steadying hand on the wall. Rhun wanted to pick her up and carry her, but he did not trust himself to touch her.

7:04 P.M.

Jordan fought the urge to shoot Rhun.

As if he knew, Rhun held out his hands. “She needs us both now.”

The bastard was right; he and Erin needed Rhun’s protection to get out of this subterranean charnel house. Jordan could not protect her down here. Rhun could.