The Blood Gospel (Page 45)

Rather than dimming, the glimmer in his friend’s eyes grew brighter.

Rhun drew his hand away. “But you put the woman there.”

That realization stabbed Rhun with misgiving. Was his friend still trying to force the hand of prophecy? Even after the tragic consequences of his past attempt? When another woman suffered as a consequence of his mistake?

Bernard dismissed this all with a wave of his fingers. “Yes, I used my influence to send a woman of learning to Masada. But, Rhun, it was not I who knocked down the mountain of Masada. It was not I who saved the woman and the warrior and led them out of the tomb, the last resting place of the Book. Against all commandments, you saved them both.”

“I could not leave them there to die.” Rhun looked down at his shredded garments, smelled again the blood on his skin.

“Don’t you see? The prophecy is a living force now.” Bernard lifted the silver cross that hung around his neck and kissed it, his lips reddening from the heat of silver and holiness. “We each have our role to play. We must each humbly bow to our own destinies. And whether I’m right or wrong, you know we must keep the Gospel from the hands of the Belial at all costs.”

“Why?” Bitterness tinged Rhun’s next words. “A moment ago, you were certain that the Belial could not open it. Yet now you seem to doubt that part of the prophecy.”

“I do not presume to understand God’s will, merely to interpret it as best I can.”

Rhun thought of Elisabeta’s silvery-gray eyes and Erin’s amber ones.

Never again will I fall so low.

“And if I refuse this destiny?” Rhun asked.

“Now who presumes to know God’s heart better than He?”

The words stung, as they were meant to.

Rhun bowed his head and prayed for guidance. Could this truly be a challenge that God had placed before him? A chance for absolution? What greater task could God ask of him than to protect His son’s final Gospel? Rhun still did not trust Bernard’s deeper motives, but perhaps the Cardinal was correct to see the hand of God in today’s actions.

He considered all that had come to pass.

The final resting place of the book had been sundered open, heralded by quakes, bloodshed, and the survival of one boy, an innocent child spared.

But with the lavender scent of Erin’s hair fresh in his nostrils, Rhun resisted that path. He would surely fail her—as he had failed another long ago.

“Even if I were to consent to aid in your search for the Gospel—” Rhun stopped at the smile on Bernard’s face. “Even so, we cannot force the two here to go after it, not with the Belial in play.”

“That is true. We can force no one. The two must enter the search of their own free will. And to do so, they must give up their worldly attachments. Do you think that they are ready for such a sacrifice?”

Rhun pictured the pair that Bernard believed to be the Woman and the Warrior. When he first met the two, he considered them, much as the Cardinal had done, to be little more than what was revealed by their roles: an archaeologist and a soldier.

But now he knew that was no longer true.

Such labels were pale reflections of the two who had bled and fought at his side.

There were truer ways to describe them, and one was by their given names.

Erin and Jordan.

The Cardinal’s last question plagued him. Do you think they are ready …?

Rhun hoped, for their sakes, that the answer was no.

21

October 26, 9:33 P.M., IST

Jerusalem, Israel

Hallelujah for small miracles.

Jordan discovered several gifts waiting for him on the bed of his small, monastic cell. A set of clean clothes had been folded atop the pillow—and on the blanket rested his weapons, returned to him.

He crossed quickly and examined his Heckler & Koch machine pistol and his Colt 1911. They were loaded—which both relieved him and disturbed him. His hosts either trusted him or were plainly not worried about any threat he might pose.

But that trust was a one-way street.

Standing in place, he gave the small room a once-over. It had been dug out from solid rock. The space contained a single bed that had been jammed against one wall to make room for a wide washstand topped with a copper basin full of steaming water.

He did a fast and thorough search for surveillance equipment. Considering the spartan accommodations, there weren’t many places to hide a listening device. He searched the mattress, felt along the edges of the raw wood bed frame, and examined the washstand.

Nothing.

He even stepped to the crucifix on the wall, took it down, and checked behind it, feeling vaguely blasphemous for doing so.

But still nothing.

So, they apparently weren’t listening in—at least not with modern technology. He eyeballed the door. How sharp was the hearing of a Sanguinist?

Considering his level of paranoia, he wondered how wise it had been to come here after all. Should he and Erin have waited in the desert and taken their chances with the jackals? Or maybe another grimwolf?

That didn’t sound any better.

And at least by coming here, they were still alive. Others had not been so lucky. He pictured his teammates’ broken bodies, buried now under tons of stone.

He thought of the calls and visits he would have to make once this ordeal was all over: to the parents, to the widows, to the children.

He sank to the bed in defeat and grief.

What in the hell could he tell them?

9:52 P.M.

Cramped was a generous description for Erin’s room.

She kept hitting her elbow on the wall as she tried to scrub herself clean at the washbasin. She had stripped down to a bra and panties, and once clean, she faced the clothes that had been laid out for her.

It was no problem to slip into the white cotton shirt she found on her bed—but what to do about that long black skirt? It was just like the ones she’d worn as a girl, the ones that always tripped her up, kept her from climbing trees, made it almost impossible to ride horses. In her former world, women wore skirts, while men enjoyed the freedom of pants.

She had worn a skirt or dress throughout her childhood and balked at returning to one. But with her jeans cut to shreds and covered in blood, sweat, and sand, she’d have to wear the dress—unless she wanted to run around in front of Jordan and the priests in her underwear.

That settled it.

She transferred the contents of her jeans to her skirt pocket: the Nazi medallion from the tomb, her wallet, and a faded scrap cut from a quilt many years before, no bigger than a playing card.

Her fingertips lingered over the last item, drawing both strength and anger from it. She always carried the scrap with her, along with the anger and guilt it represented. She pictured the baby’s quilt from which it had been cut, how she’d stolen it before it was buried with her infant sister. She shut down that memory before it overwhelmed her and stuffed it away, shoving the piece of cloth deep into the skirt’s pocket.