door. She held tight to a railing and stared below. A fire still raged atop the blasted summit. She could feel the heat on her face, as if she were staring into the sun. She closed her eyes, and for a moment imagined a youthful summer day at her country estate along the Drava River in her rural Hungary, sitting in the garden, watching her younger brother, Istvan, play, chasing butterflies with his tiny net.
A groan drew her attention back into the cabin, the interruption piquing her irritation. She turned to the young corporal lying on the floor, whose pale face and pinprick pupils spoke of his deep shock.
Tarek knelt on his shoulders while his brother, Rafik, carved into the man’s chest with the point of a dagger, idly, as if bored. Afterward, he absently licked the blade, as if wetting the tip of a pen, ready to continue his writing.
“Don’t,” she warned.
Tarek glanced hard at her, one corner of his lip curling in anger, showing teeth. Rafik lowered his dagger. His ferret eyes darted between his brother and Bathory, his face lighting with the delight of what might happen.
“I have one last question for him,” she said, staring Tarek down.
She met the animal’s gaze. To her, that was all Tarek and Rafik were—animals.
Tarek finally backed down and waved his brother away.
She took Rafik’s place. She placed a palm on the soldier’s cheek. He looked so much like Istvan. It was why she forbade them from marring his face. He stared up at her, piteous, nearly blind with pain, barely in this world.
“I made you a promise,” she said, leaning close as if to kiss his lips. “One last question and you’ll be free.”
His eyes met hers.
“Erin Granger, the archaeologist.”
She let that name sink through his stupor. He’d already talked, spilling forth most everything he knew as they escaped the crumbling, fiery summit of Masada. She would have left him there to die with his brothers-in-arm, but she needed to squeeze everything she could out of this man, no matter the cruelty. She had learned long ago the practicality of cruelty.
“You said Dr. Granger worked with some students.”
She remembered the woman she’d viewed via the ROV’s camera. The archaeologist had been waving her cell phone, clearly attempting to reach the outside world. But for what? Had she been taking pictures? Discovered some clue?
Likely not, but before Bathory left the region, she must be absolutely certain.
The corporal’s pupils fixed to her, agonized, knowing what she intended.
“Where are they?” she asked. “Where was Dr. Granger’s dig?”
A tear flowed, touching her palm where it rested against his cheek.
For a moment—just a fleeting breath—she hoped he wouldn’t say.
But he did. His lips moved. She leaned an ear to hear the single word.
She straightened, already beginning to plan in her head. Rafik stared intently at her, desire ripe in his eyes. He liked pretty things. His fingers tightened on his dagger.
She ignored him and stroked hair back from the corporal’s white forehead.
She leaned down, kissed his cheek, and slipped her own blade across his throat. Dark blood spurted. A small gasp brushed her ear.
When she straightened, she found his eyes already dull.
“None will touch his body,” she warned the others as she stood.
Rafik and Tarek stared at her, not comprehending such a waste.
Ignoring them, she took a seat and leaned her head back. She did not need to explain herself to the likes of them. With her back against the rear cargo hold, she sensed a stirring back there, a heavy shifting. She reached up and placed a palm on the bulkhead.
He settled, but she still felt his agitation, mirroring her own. He must have sensed the distress in her heart a moment ago.
Or maybe it was because his twin was missing.
She stared out the window, down at the desert.
The twin had been sent out to hunt.
She had to be sure.
Sanguinists were hard to kill.
14
Deep in thought, Erin cradled the head of the unconscious priest in her lap. Starlight twinkled above, a sickle moon scraped at the horizon, and a soft evening breeze whispered sand down the faces of dunes.
She studied the man’s face, his head resting on her knees.
The priest claimed that Christ had written a Gospel. Surely he must have been raving. He had a goose egg on the right side of his head, near the temple.
She touched his icy brow. “Jordan!”
The soldier stood a few steps away, scanning the desert, standing guard against any pursuers—or maybe he needed time to think, too. Or mourn.
He turned to her.
“I think he’s going into shock,” she said. “He’s gone so cold and pale.”
Jordan came and crouched next to her. Unlike the priest, warmth radiated from his body.
“Guy was already pale,” he said. “Probably lives in a library and works out at night.”
She took in Jordan’s appearance. Even covered in soot and grime, he was an attractive man. She tried not to remember how safe she had felt in his arms back in the tunnel, how natural it was to fold against him, how the musky smell of him had enveloped her as warmly as his body. She could not forget the soft kiss atop her head. She had pretended not to notice, while secretly wanting more. But that moment, born of desperation and the fear of certain death, was over.
The priest’s head moved in her lap. She looked down at him again.
Jordan reached out and gently parted the bloody shreds of his shirt, examining the wounds beneath. The white of the priest’s well-muscled chest looked like marble against Jordan’s tanned skin. A silver pectoral cross, about the size of her palm, hung from a black silk cord and rested over the priest’s heart atop a scrap of shirt that had not been shredded.
Inscribed on the cross were the words
She translated the beginning of the prayer: Deign to fortify me.
“Guy took a beating,” Jordan diagnosed.
With his skin bared, the severity of his wounds became clear. Lacerations crisscrossed his flesh, gently weeping.
“How much blood did he lose?” she asked.
“Not too much. Most of his wounds look superficial.”
She winced.
“Painful,” he admitted. “But not life-threatening.”
Still, a shiver shook through her—but not from worry. It was already much colder as the desert quickly lost its
