The Blood Gospel (Page 35)

The woman’s heart beat faster now, too. “Jordan! You can’t just shoot him.”

Rhun considered allowing the sergeant to do just that. It would be easier. But when had his path ever been easy?

He faced them, showing them his true nature.

The woman stumbled back.

The soldier kept his gun leveled at Rhun’s chest.

He knew what they must see: his face darkened by blood, his body locked in shadows, his teeth the only brightness in the moonlight.

He felt the beast within him sing, a howl struggling to break free. Soaked in blood, he fought against releasing that beast; fought equally against running into the desert to hide his shame. Instead, he simply lifted his arms straight out from his body at shoulder level. They needed to see that he was weaponless as much as they needed to see the truth.

Transfixed, the woman controlled her initial terror. “Rhun, you are strigoi, too.”

“Never. I am Sanguinist. Not strigoi.”

The soldier scoffed, never letting his weapon waver. “Looks the same from here.”

For them to understand, he knew he must debase himself still further. He hated the mere thought of it, but he saw no other way for them to leave the desert alive.

“Please, bring me my wine,” he asked.

His fingers trembled with longing as his arm stretched for the flask half buried in sand.

The woman bent to pick it up.

“Throw it to him,” the soldier ordered. “Don’t get close.”

She did as she was told, her amber eyes wide. The flask landed an arm’s length away on the sand.

“May I retrieve it?”

“Slowly.” The soldier’s weapon stayed fixed; plainly he would not flinch from his duty.

Nor would Rhun. Keeping his eyes on the soldier, he knelt. As soon as his fingers touched the flask, he felt calmer, the bloodlust waning. The wine might yet save them all.

Rhun stared up at the others. “May I walk into the desert and drink it? Afterward, I will explain all.”

Please, he prayed. Please leave me this last bit of dignity.

It was not to be.

“Stay right there,” the soldier warned. “On your knees.”

“Jordan, why can’t—”

The soldier cut her off. “You are still under my command, Dr. Granger.”

Emotions flickered across her face, ending with resignation. Clearly, she did not trust Rhun either. It surprised him how much that hurt.

Raising the flask to his lips, he emptied it in one long swallow. As always, the wine stung his throat, flaming all the way down. He fastened both hands to the cross around his neck and bowed his head.

The heat of the consecrated wine, of Christ’s blood, burned away the ropes that bound him to this time, to this place. Unmoored and beyond his control, he fell back to his greatest sins, never able to escape until his penance in this world was complete.

Elisabeta swept through her gardens in her crimson gown, laughing, as bright as the morning’s sun, the most brilliant rose among all the blooms.

So beautiful, so full of life.

Though he was a priest, sworn to avoid the touch of flesh, nothing forbid him from looking upon the beauty of God shining forth in the pale glimpse of tender flesh at her ankle as she bent to clip a sprig of lavender, or the curve of her soft cheek when she straightened to stare skyward, her gaze ever on the Heavens.

How she loved the sun—whether it be the warmth of a summer afternoon or merely the cold promise of a bright winter’s day.

She continued across the garden now, gathering lavender and thyme to make a poultice for her mare, all the while instructing him on the uses of each. In the months since he had known her, he had learned much about medicinal plants. He had even begun to write a book on the subject, hoping to share her gifts as a healer with the world.

She brushed his palm with her soft fingertips as she handed him stalks of lavender. A thrill surged through his body. A priest should not feel such a thing, but he did not move away. He stepped closer, admiring the sunlight on her jet-black hair, the sweep of her long white neck down to her creamy shoulders, and the curves of her soft silk gown.

Elisabeta’s maidservant held up the basket for the lavender. The wisp of a girl turned her head to the side to hide the raspberry-colored birthmark that covered half her face.

“Anna, take the basket back to the kitchen and empty it,” Elisabeta instructed, dropping in one more sprig of thyme.

Anna retreated across the field, struggling under the heavy load. Rhun would have helped the small girl carry such a burden, but Elisabeta would never allow it, considering it not his place.

Elisabeta watched her maid leave. Once they were alone, she turned to Rhun, her face now even brighter—if that were possible.

“A moment’s peace!” she exclaimed gladly. “It is so lonely with my servants constantly around me.”

Rhun, who often chose to spend days alone in dark prayer, understood all too well the loneliness of false company.

She smiled at him. “But not you, Father Korza. I never feel lonely in your company.”

He could not hold her gaze. Turning away, he knelt and cut a stalk of lavender.

“Don’t you ever tire of it, Father Korza? Always wearing a mask?” She adjusted her wide-brimmed hat. She always took great pains to keep sunlight from her fair skin. Women of her station must not look as if they needed to work in the sun.

“I wear a mask?” He kept his face impassive. If she knew all that he hid, she would run away screaming.

“Of course. You wear the mask of priest. But I must wear many masks, too many for one face to bear easily. Lady, mother, and wife. And others still.” She turned a heavy gold ring around and around on her finger, a gift from her husband, Ferenc. “But what is under all of those masks, I wonder.”

“Everything else, I suppose.”

“But how much truth … how much of our true nature can we conceal, Father?” Her low voice sent a shiver down his spine. “And from whom?”

He studied the shadow she cast on the field next to him and mumbled as if in prayer, “We conceal what we must.”

Her shadow retreated a pace, perhaps because she was unhappy with his answer—a thought that crushed him as surely as if she ground him under that well-turned heel.

The dark shape of a hawk floated across the field. He listened to its quick heartbeat above and the faint heartbeats of mice below. His service to the Church, the verdant field, the bright sun, the blooming flowers … all were bounteous gifts, given freely by God to one as lowly as himself.