He waited to come back from the past, to inhabit this dank cell.
Once fully returned, he dipped his arms deep into the scalding bath of holy wine. At the bottom, his cold hands found what he sought and drew her forth, back into the world after centuries of slumber.
Wine had stained her fine green cloak burgundy, but her alabaster face shone as white as the day he had immersed her here instead of killing her as Bernard had ordered. He stroked long, dark hair off her still face, caressed her high forehead, her curved cheeks. She was as beautiful as she had been the moment he first saw her, four hundred years ago. Before he destroyed her soul and made her a
Almost.
Rhun whispered a prayer.
Elisabeta’s soft storm-gray eyes opened, found him.
Lips moved, no words, only air.
Still Rhun understood what she tried to say, still lost in her dream, her anger still somewhere in the past, leaving only those two words formed by perfect lips.
Erin stumbled up the long dark tunnel. Without the golden light of the book to guide them, Jordan had clicked on his flashlight. Compared with the book, its pale blue light looked cold and feeble. He kept an arm across her shoulder all the long way up.
They came at last to the collapsed baldachin, its base resting on the floor of the tunnel, its canopy extending up into the basilica. The bodies were gone, and the Sanguinists had strewn sand over the blood.
Erin tried to step around the piles, but sand was everywhere. It felt gritty under her shoes, reminding her of the desert around Masada, of her dig site in Caesarea. How would things have played out if she had stayed in the trench with Heinrich, had pulled him out of the way of the horse, had never gotten into the helicopter? He would still be alive, but the Belial would have the book. There would be no hope. They had opened Pandora’s box, and the evil had escaped, but hope remained. Not just hope, but a path forward to keep the world safe.
“Halt!” A Sanguinist blocked their path. He was thin, with long spidery fingers. “What is your business here?”
“Sergeant Jordan Stone,” Jordan said. “And Dr. Erin Granger.”
“Two parts of the trio.” The man’s voice was reverent. “My apologies.”
The Sanguinist gestured to a ladder that had been leaned against the baldachin.
“Ladies first,” Jordan said.
Erin climbed, and at the top, needed help to awkwardly step from the ladder back onto the marble floor of the basilica. The immense scale of the building hit her all at once. Everything here was many times larger and grander than life. From the baldachin that now rested on the graves below to the soaring ceilings of Michelangelo that formed a false sky above. She spun in a slow circle, taking in white walls, opulent gilding, graceful statues, and sophisticated art. Men had accomplished great things in this place.
Resolution settled inside her breast at the sights.
They would find the First Angel and make sure that such wonders were protected.
Jordan climbed up next to her and took her hand. Here, too, piles of sand on the polished floor soaked up blood, marking the spots where
She kept her eyes on the elaborate designs worked into the marble floor and concentrated on putting one foot in front of the other, avoiding the sand. The energy she had received from the book was long gone.
Jordan’s legs moved them steadily toward the front door.
He stopped before they reached the portico and veered left.
She raised her eyes from the floor to see what had captured his attention. Michelangelo’s
Jordan stared at the sculpture.
Erin cleared her throat. “Jordan?”
“Just thinking of the families I’ll have to visit when this is over: the Sandersons, the Tysons, the Coopers, and the McKays. The mothers who will look just like that.”
She wrapped her arms around his waist.
Eventually, he took her hand again and they stepped out of the basilica into the fresh air of an Italian morning.
He led her to the stairs that rose to the top of the dome.
“It’s a long climb.” His eyes asked if she wanted to make it.
“I’ll go first,” she answered, and wended her way up the 320 steps. The sky had lightened to pale gray. Soon the sun would break free of the horizon.
She reached the top, breathing hard. Jordan marched to the east side of the cupola and flung himself down. He patted the floor next to him, and she sat.
The sky paled to almost white.
“You know you’re probably wrong, right?” he asked.
She tried to give him a smile. She appreciated the effort. “If I’m not?”
“I want you on my team whether you’re part of some prophecy or not. We bumble around like a bunch of knuckleheads when you’re not around.”
“People sacrificed their lives to save the Woman of Learning,” she said. “But all they saved was me.”
“You’re not so bad.” He kissed the top of her head. “It was war, Erin. They were soldiers. Mistakes happen in battle. People die. You forge on—for you as much as for them. The key is to keep fighting.”
She tensed in his arms. “But the prophecy—”
“Look.” He started a count. “One: who found the medallion in the little girl’s hand? You did. Two: who figured out where the bunker was? You again. Three: who figured out the blood and the bone stuff to open the book? You again. It’s practically giving me a complex, how good you are at this.”
She smiled. He might be onto something. Up until the very end, it had been Bathory who had followed their trail, not the other way around.
She took the scrap of baby quilt out of her pocket and held it in her palm. For the first time, no anger rose in her at the sight of it. The anger had flown when, at death’s door, she forgave her father in the tunnels.
“What’s that?” Jordan asked.
“A long time ago I made a promise to someone.” She stroked the quilt with one fingertip. “I promised that I would never stand by when my heart told me that something was wrong.”
“What does your heart say now?”
“That you’re right.”
He grinned. “I like the sound of that.”
Erin let the tiny quilt flutter in the wind, holding it between just her thumb and index finger. Then she let it go. The scrap of fabric floated away into the bustle and life that was Rome.
She turned back to Jordan. “It’s about more than spirituality and miracles. It’s about logic, too, and having a questioning heart. We will find this First Angel.”
Jordan pulled her close. “Of course we will. We found the book, didn’t we?”
“We did.” She leaned her head against his chest, listened to his steady heartbeat. “And because we did, we
