The Blood Gospel (Page 44)

Oddly, the man knelt next to Rhun. He wore fine breeches and a studded leather tunic. Mud besmirched costly boots. In spite of his coarse accent, his finery betrayed his origin as a nobleman.

Growing irritated, Rhun turned to him, noting the long dark hair that fell back from a pale brow. The stranger’s full lips curved up in amusement, although Rhun could not fathom why.

Enough … it is late.

Rhun gathered his rough-spun robes together to stand.

Before he could rise, the man wrapped an arm around his shoulder and pulled him to the wet ground, as if he were taking a lover. Rhun opened his mouth to yell, but the stranger pressed one cold hand on his face. Rhun tried to push the man away, but the other caught both of his wrists in one hand and held them as easily as if he were a small child.

Rhun struggled against him, but the man held him fast, leaning down. He used his rough cheek to tilt Rhun’s head to the side, exposing his neck.

Rhun suddenly understood, his heart galloping. He had heard legends of such monsters, but he had never believed them.

Until now.

Sharp fangs punctured his throat, taking away his innocence, leaving only pain. He screamed, but no sound escaped him. Slowly, the pain turned into something else, something darker: bliss.

Rhun’s blood pulsed out of him and into the stranger’s hungry mouth, those cold lips growing warmer with his hot blood.

He continued to struggle, but weakly now—for, in truth, he did not want the man to stop. His hand rose on its own and pulled that face tighter to his throat. He knew it was sinful to give in to such bliss, but he no longer cared. Sin had no meaning; only the aching desire for the probe of tongue into wound, the gnaw of sharp teeth into tender flesh, mattered now.

There was no room in him for holiness, only an ecstasy that promised release.

The man drew back at last.

Rhun lay there, spent, dying.

Strong fingers stroked his hair. “It is not yet time to sleep, pious one.”

A sliced wrist was pressed against Rhun’s opened lips. Hot silken blood burst on his tongue, filled his mouth. He swallowed, drew in more. A deep moan rose in his throat, drowned itself in the blood.

Soon his entire existence glowed with one word, one wish.

More …

Then that precious font was ripped from him, leaving an unfathomable well of hunger inside him, demanding to be filled with blood—any blood.

Above him, the stranger was struggling with four priests.

A blade flashed silver in the moonlight.

“No,” Rhun screamed.

Rough hands pulled him to his feet and dragged him stumbling back to the silent monastery, where the gift of eternity soon became his curse.

Rhun shed his penance with a shudder. Even now, he missed that man who had killed him, who destroyed his old life. In quiet moments, he still longed for that first taste of his blood. It was a sin he had repented many times, but it never went away.

Across the desk, Bernard watched him, his face as full of sorrow as it had been the night that Rhun was brought before him, covered in blood, weeping and trying to escape the monks and flee into the night. Bernard had saved him then, shown him how he could serve God in his new form, kept him from ever feeding on innocent human blood.

Rhun shook his head to clear it of the past.

He faced Bernard, both friend and mentor, remembering the events at Masada and in the desert. Here was the man who had set much of it in motion, a man who kept too many secrets.

“You have gone too far,” Rhun said hoarsely, still feeling his torn throat, the wash of hot blood from the stranger’s wrist.

“Have I?” The Cardinal ran a robust hand through his white hair. “How so?”

Rhun knew the man was testing him. He gripped his pectoral cross, using the pain to control his anger. “You sent that archaeologist into danger. You sent me to face the enemy alone—strigoi of the Belial sect.”

His friend leaned back and steepled his fingers. His eyebrows knitted with concern. “You believe your attackers were Belial? Why?”

Rhun related his experiences on and under the mountain, then explained. “The strigoi who came were not mere scavengers drawn to the tragedy. They came with plain purpose. And used concussive charges.”

“Employing the weapons of man.” Bernard lowered his hands. He sat straighter, his warm brown eyes pained. “I did not know that they would come for it.”

The Belial were a sect of the strigoi who were in league with humans, combining the worst of both worlds—merging human cunning to feral ferocity, uniting modern weaponry with ancient evil. They were a scourge whose numbers had swollen over the past century, posing an ever greater threat to their order and to the Church. Even after decades of fighting them, hunting them down, much was still unknown about the Belial, such as who truly ruled them: was it man or monster?

Rhun’s anger calmed. “The Belial must have caught wind of the strange deaths surrounding the earthquake and guessed what it meant as well as we did.”

The Cardinal remained statue still. “Then they seek the Gospel—like we do—and are desperate enough to reveal themselves for it.”

“But the book was gone, the crypt empty,” Rhun said. “They did not find it either.”

“No matter.” The familiar face looked softer in the candlelight, relieved and reassured. “If the prophecies are correct, they cannot open it. Only the three may bring it back to this world.”

Rhun’s chair creaked when he leaned forward, an old fury kindling back to life. He knew all too well what Bernard meant by evoking the three mentioned in the prophecies surrounding the Gospel, the three figures who were destined to find and open the book.

The Woman of Learning.

The Warrior of Man.

The Knight of Christ.

Even now he saw the glimmer of hope in Bernard’s eyes, knew what the Cardinal suspected.

He pictured Erin’s face, bright with curiosity—a Woman of astounding Learning.

And Jordan’s heroic attack on the grimwolf—a Warrior of Man.

He gripped his own cross—marking him as a Knight of Christ.

He forced his fingers to let go of the silver, hoping his friend could do the same with his foolish hope. “Bernard, you place too much trust in those old prophecies. Such conviction in the past cost much misery and bloodshed.”

The Cardinal sighed. “I do not need to be reminded of my past mistakes. I carry that burden as heavily as you do, my son. I attempted to force God’s hand in Hungary all those centuries ago. It was hubris of the highest order. I thought the portents pointed to Elisabeta, that she was meant to join you. But I was mistaken. I admitted it then, and I do not recant that foolishness now.” He reached over and placed a cold palm atop Rhun’s hand. “But do you not see what happened today? You stumbled out of that rubble with a Woman of Learning to your left and a Warrior of Man to your right. It must mean something.”