The Blood Gospel (Page 66)

Jordan’s eyes widened, but he didn’t say anything.

Emmanuel nudged the door open with one leather boot. A short silver sword appeared in his hand. He and Nadia stepped through together.

Rhun stayed outside next to Erin. She glanced up the hall, pointing her flashlight. Empty as far as her beam would reach.

“Safe,” called Nadia from inside.

Erin and Jordan went in next, Rhun last.

Inside, Erin’s light revealed a dusty-looking desk on which sat an old-fashioned radio assembly. A code book lay open in front of it. Next to the desk, a chair had been pushed out. Beside it sprawled the skeleton of a Nazi soldier. He had probably been transmitting or receiving when he died.

Jordan’s light picked out a pewter Ahnenerbe pin on his lapel. The decoration was in the shape of the Odal rune, an exact match of the one etched on the Nazi medal found in the tomb at Masada.

“Looks like we came to the right place,” he said.

Erin stepped over and examined the dead soldier, keeping a professional attitude.

He’s just like any mummy I’ve encountered on digs.

That was what she kept reminding herself as she studied the dried blood staining the front of his uniform. It had run in great gouts down his chest.

What had happened?

She shifted behind the body, turned, and directed her light back at the doorway. A second body lay off to the side. She shuddered to think that she had practically stepped on it on her way in.

The Sanguinists ignored both corpses and searched the shelves next to the radio.

There wasn’t room to help them, so Erin walked to the remains by the door. A neat round hole in the center of the man’s skull left no question as to how he had died. His uniform differed from the radio operator’s. His was khaki brown and of a rougher fabric.

She panned her light across it.

“Russian,” Jordan said. “See the five-pointed red star? It’s an emblem from the World War Two era, too.”

Russian?

“What was he doing here?” Erin asked. “And how did he get in?”

Jordan crouched next to her and went through the soldier’s pockets, setting items on the thick dust that covered the floor: cigarette pack, matchbox, an official-looking document in Cyrillic, a letter, and a picture.

Jordan held up the faded black-and-white photo of a Slavic woman holding a thin girl with pigtails in front of a haystack.

Probably the dead man’s wife and daughter.

She wondered how long the woman had had to wait to learn of her husband’s fate. Had she mourned him or been relieved that he was gone? The man’s wife surely must be dead by now, but the little girl might well be alive.

Erin turned to Rhun, needing to do something. “Is there any way for Brother Leopold to notify the soldier’s family?”

Rhun spared her a quick glance. “Take the letter. Knowing Leopold, he will try.”

She collected the note and stood up. She pictured the scene from long ago.

The radio operator at his desk, perhaps calling for help. The Russian soldier bursts in. Shots are exchanged. Afterward, someone seals the place without anyone retrieving the bodies.

But why?

Nadia stood over Jordan, holding out her gloved hand. “Show me the other document.”

When he handed her the paper with the Cyrillic writing, she scanned it, folded it, and put it in her pocket.

“What did it say?” he asked.

“Orders. His unit had been ordered to deploy from St. Petersburg to southern Germany near the end of the war. To ‘retrieve items of interest’ from the bunker before the American invasion.”

“From St. Petersburg?” Rhun asked.

He and Nadia exchanged a long glance, both their faces worried.

Then Nadia waved toward the door. “We’ve learned what we can here,” she said. “We move on.”

Erin looked around in dismay. The archaeologist in her hated that she had not photographed the room, mapped things properly, and made an inventory of the contents. “But there might be more clues to—”

“We must search as many rooms as we can before the Belial find us.” Rhun stopped halfway out the door. “Brother Leopold will do a more thorough inventory later, if there is time.”

Jordan stayed close behind Erin as she followed Rhun back into the long tunnel.

The Sanguinists proceeded more quickly now. Something had clearly spooked them. Erin shared an uneasy look with Jordan. Anything that made a trio with powers like theirs nervous had to be terrifying.

Moving down the tunnel, they cleared another room: sleeping quarters filled with bunks. Erin counted four dead German soldiers, two still in their bunks, two halfway to the door. Two dead Russians were slumped against the wall.

Whatever transpired here, it had been hard fought.

Metal chests next to the bunks stored folded clothes, cigarette packs, matches, a few risqué postcards, more letters, and plenty of pictures of women and children, a sad reminder of those who had sat at home awaiting word on their loved ones.

Erin collected as many letters as she could and crammed them into her pockets, hoping that the water wouldn’t cause the faded ink to run.

They also discovered books—a manual on caring for a rifle, a novel in German, an instruction pamphlet on venereal diseases—but nothing that fit the description of the Blood Gospel.

Defeated and heavyhearted from all the slaughter, Erin returned to the corridor. The others filed out with her.

A heavy rustling, like the shaking of curtains, accompanied by a faint and distant squeaking filled the corridor. The hairs on the back of her neck immediately stood on end.

“Jordan?”

“I hear it, too,” he said. “Rats?”

Nadia herded them behind her. “No.”

A pace ahead of them, Emmanuel sniffed the air, shoulders thrown back, neck arched, and head raised, like a dog.

Or a grimwolf.

Erin drew in a deep breath, but she only smelled mildew and wet concrete. What could he smell that she could not?

“What is it?” Jordan asked.

“Blasphemare,” Nadia said. “The tainted ones.”

“Another grimwolf?” Jordan moved his machine pistol into ready position.

“No.” Nadia’s eyes flashed at Erin, wholly inhuman at that moment. “Icarops.”

Jordan looked confused by the foreign word.

Rhun clarified, cold and matter-of-fact. “Icarops are bats whose nature has been twisted by strigoi blood.”

Erin’s heart clenched into a knot.

He was talking about blasphemare bats.

Erin remembered the monstrous wolf in the moonlit desert—its fetid breath, its teeth, its muscled bulk. This time, with wings. She shuddered.