The Blood Gospel (Page 63)

He bent close to her ear, his breath chasing across her cheek. “Anything I need to know about what they just said?”

Of course, her act hadn’t fooled him. He knew she had been eavesdropping. She struggled to answer his question, but her mind was too busy registering his proximity—and how a part of her longed to close the last inch.

She had to repeat the question in her head before she answered. “Nothing important. He just filled the others in.”

“Keep me apprised,” he whispered.

She glanced over at his eyes, then down to his lips, remembering how they’d felt against hers in Jerusalem.

“Dr. Granger?” Rhun called from the top of the stairs. “Sergeant Stone?”

Jordan gestured for her to proceed ahead of him. “Duty calls.”

Rather breathless—and not only from the climb—Erin hurried toward the Sanguinists.

Once outside, she found the night much colder, the fog much thicker. She could barely make out the outline of their Mercedes sedan.

As they rounded past the car, Jordan whistled appreciatively.

Three black motorcycles, accented with red piping, sat parked on the dried grass ahead. They didn’t seem like much to Erin, but Jordan was clearly impressed.

“Ducati Streetfighters,” he commented happily. “With magnesium rims and what looks like carbon silencers on the exhaust. Nice. Apparently it’s good to be pope.”

Erin had a more practical concern, comparing the number of passengers and the number of bikes. “Who is riding with whom?”

Nadia raised the corner of her mouth in a tiny smile, which went a long way toward humanizing her. “For an even weight distribution, I shall take Sergeant Stone.”

Erin hesitated. She still didn’t fully understand the role of a female Sanguinist. If Rhun was a priest, was Nadia some sort of nun, equally sworn to the Church? Whatever the circumstance, the look she gave Jordan was anything but chaste.

Jordan apparently had his own thoughts on the matter, crossing to one of the bikes. “I can drive.” From the edge to his voice, it was clear that he wanted to drive one of these bikes. “And I prefer that Erin and I stick together.”

“You will slow us down,” Nadia said, her dark eyes twinkling with amusement.

Erin bristled, but she knew, after watching Rhun drive the sedan, that her and Jordan’s reflexes were no match for a Sanguinist’s.

Jordan must have recognized it, too, sighing heavily with a curt nod.

Emmanuel crossed and hooked a leg possessively over one of the bikes, not saying a word. Jordan followed Nadia to another.

“You shall ride with me, Dr. Granger,” Rhun said, motioning to the third motorcycle.

“I don’t know if—”

Rhun stepped past her objection and crossed to the bike, mounting with a flourish of his long coat. Twisting in his seat, he patted the leather behind him with one gloved hand. “I believe you stated ‘the book demands our best.’ Those were your words, were they not?”

“They were.” She hated to admit it and climbed behind him. “Shouldn’t we be wearing helmets?”

Nadia laughed, and her bike roared to life.

4:10 A.M.

Rhun tensed when Erin’s arms slipped around his waist. Even through his leather, he felt the heat of her limbs wrapped low over his midsection. For a moment he fought between elbowing her away and pulling her closer.

Instead, he stuck to the practical requirements of the moment. “Have you ridden before?” he asked, keeping his gaze fixed to the fog-shrouded dark forest.

“Once, a long time ago,” she said.

He felt her heart race against his back. She was more frightened than her tone indicated.

“I will keep you safe,” he promised her, hoping it was true.

She nodded behind him, but her heart did not slow.

Jordan gave a thumbs-up from the back of Nadia’s bike as she throttled her engine to a muffled roar. Emmanuel simply gunned his bike and tore away, not waiting.

Nadia followed after him.

As Rhun urged his bike forward more gently, Erin’s arms tightened around him. Her body slid forward until it pressed against his. Her animal warmth flowed into his back, and his body fought against leaning into it.

He must not permit baser instincts to control him. He was a priest, and with God’s help, he would fulfill his mission. He murmured a short prayer and focused on Nadia’s rapidly disappearing red taillight.

He sped faster—and faster still.

Black tree trunks whipped past on both sides. The blue beam of his headlight penetrated the heavy blanket of fog. He kept his eyes on the uneven road. One misjudgment, and they would crash.

Ahead of him, Nadia and Emmanuel poured on more speed. He matched it.

Erin buried her face between his shoulder blades. Her breaths came quick and shallow, and her heartbeat skittered like a rabbit’s.

Not panicked yet, but close.

Despite his prayers and promises, his body quickened in response to her fear.

4:12 A.M.

Jordan leaned hard into the curve. Nearby trees blurred into a long line of black topped by dark green. Wind stung his eyes. His jacket flapped behind him.

Nadia opened up the throttle on the next straightaway, a rare stretch along this twisting dirt course. He flicked a quick glance over her shoulder at the speedometer: 254 kilometers per hour. That came out to a little more than 150 miles per hour.

It felt like flying.

He felt more than heard Nadia’s laugh as she pushed the bike to go faster.

Unable to stop himself, Jordan matched her enthusiasm, laughing along with her, ebullient and feeling free for the first time since Masada.

Nadia leaned the bike over for another curve. His left knee skimmed a fraction of an inch above the gravel, his face not more than a foot from the rocks that tumbled by under them. One wrong move from either of them, and he was dead.

A part of him hated to be at the mercy of her skill.

No more than a spectator to her dexterity.

Still, he smiled into the wind, tucked in tight against her cold, hard form, and simply abandoned himself to the ride.

32

October 27, 4:43 A.M., CET

Harmsfeld, Germany

When the motorcycle finally slowed, Erin risked opening her eyes. For most of the journey, she had ridden blind, sheltered behind Rhun’s broad back, but she was still left windburned and rattled.

Ahead, a spatter of lights revealed the reason for Rhun’s slowing pace. They had reached the mountain hamlet of Harmsfeld. He slowed their pace to a crawl as he crept through the center of the sleeping village. The small Bavarian town looked like it had just emerged from a medieval time capsule, complete with dark houses with red tile roofs, stacked stone walls, and painted wooden flower boxes adorning most windows. A single church with a Gothic-style steeple marked a village square, a space that probably converted into a farmers’ market during the day.