The Blood Gospel

tearing her shirt and skin.

It was a shallow wound.

Still, Tarek jerked back warily from her bloody fingers.

Scarlet tinged with silver.

Even a drop of her blood was poison to him and all others like him, a curse born out of the mark on her throat. Another of His gifts. The curse in her blood both protected her from the fangs of His armies and was the source of that constant pain in her veins, dull but always there, never abating, never forgotten, flaring with every beat of her heart.

She wiped her fingers and bound her wound one-handed, using her teeth to tighten the knot.

Next to Tarek, his brother, Rafik, bowed his head in clear reverence as Tarek resumed his Latin prayers.

Others simply stared at their bloodstained boots. Their bonds with the fallen soldiers went back decades, or longer. She knew that the men blamed her for those deaths, as would He. She dreaded the punishment He would mete out.

She stared out the window, picturing Korza down there.

Alive.

Anger burned hotter than the pain in her blood.

Magor responded, growling through the wall.

Soon, she promised him.

But first she had a duty in Caesarea. She pictured the archaeologist waving her cell phone in the tomb. She had recognized that look on the woman’s face: excitement mixed with desperation. The archaeologist knew something.

I’m sure of it.

But what? A clue about the book’s whereabouts? If so, had she been able to transmit that information out before the mountain dropped on her?

The only answer lay in Caesarea.

Where again blood would flow.

This time, with no Sanguinist to stop her.

17

October 26, 8:01 P.M., IST

Desert beyond Masada, Israel

“Korza?”

The soldier’s harsh and impatient voice broke through Rhun’s thoughts as he faced the desert, hidden in the depths of his hooded cassock. He struggled to hear over the wet, beckoning sound of the man’s heart.

“Turn around,” the soldier said, “or I will shoot you where you stand.”

The woman’s heart beat faster now, too. “Jordan! You can’t just shoot him.”

Rhun considered allowing the sergeant to do just that. It would be easier. But when had his path ever been easy?

He faced them, showing them his true nature.

The woman stumbled back.

The soldier kept his gun leveled at Rhun’s chest.

He knew what they must see: his face darkened by blood, his body locked in shadows, his teeth the only brightness in the moonlight.

He felt the beast within him sing, a howl struggling to break free. Soaked in blood, he fought against releasing that beast; fought equally against running into the desert to hide his shame. Instead, he simply lifted his arms straight out from his body at shoulder level. They needed to see that he was weaponless as much as they needed to see the truth.

Transfixed, the woman controlled her initial terror. “Rhun, you are strigoi, too.”

“Never. I am Sanguinist. Not strigoi.”

The soldier scoffed, never letting his weapon waver. “Looks the same from here.”

For them to understand, he knew he must debase himself still further. He hated the mere thought of it, but he saw no other way for them to leave the desert alive.

“Please, bring me my wine,” he asked.

His fingers trembled with longing as his arm stretched for the flask half buried in sand.

The woman bent to pick it up.

“Throw it to him,” the soldier ordered. “Don’t get close.”

She did as she was told, her amber eyes wide. The flask landed an arm’s length away on the sand.

“May I retrieve it?”

“Slowly.” The soldier’s weapon stayed fixed; plainly he would not flinch from his duty.

Nor would Rhun. Keeping his eyes on the soldier, he knelt. As soon as his fingers touched the flask, he felt calmer, the bloodlust waning. The wine might yet save them all.

Rhun stared up at the others. “May I walk into the desert and drink it? Afterward, I will explain all.”

Please, he prayed. Please leave me this last bit of dignity.

It was not to be.

“Stay right there,” the soldier warned. “On your knees.”

“Jordan, why can’t—”

The soldier cut her off. “You are still under my command, Dr. Granger.”

Emotions flickered across her face, ending with resignation. Clearly, she did not trust Rhun either. It surprised him how much that hurt.

Raising the flask to his lips, he emptied it in one long swallow. As always, the wine stung his throat, flaming all the way down. He fastened both hands to the cross around his neck and bowed his head.

The heat of the consecrated wine, of Christ’s blood, burned away the ropes that bound him to this time, to this place. Unmoored and beyond his control, he fell back to his greatest sins, never able to escape until his penance in this world was complete.

Elisabeta swept through her gardens in her crimson gown, laughing, as bright as the morning’s sun, the most brilliant rose among all the blooms.

So beautiful, so full of life.

Though he was a priest, sworn to avoid the touch of flesh, nothing forbid him from looking upon the beauty of God shining forth in the pale glimpse of tender flesh at her ankle as she bent to clip a sprig of lavender, or the curve of her soft cheek when she straightened to stare skyward, her gaze ever on the Heavens.

How she loved the sun—whether it be the warmth of a summer afternoon or merely the cold promise of a bright winter’s day.

She continued across the garden now, gathering lavender and thyme to make a poultice for her mare, all the while instructing him on the uses of each. In the months since he had known her, he had learned much about medicinal plants. He had even begun to write a book on the subject, hoping to share her gifts as a healer with the world.

She brushed his palm with her soft fingertips as she handed him stalks of lavender. A thrill surged through his body. A priest should not feel such a thing, but he did not move away. He stepped closer, admiring the sunlight on her jet-black hair, the sweep of her long white neck down to her creamy shoulders, and the curves of her soft silk gown.

Elisabeta’s maidservant held up the basket for the lavender. The wisp of a girl turned her head to the side to hide the raspberry-colored birthmark that covered half her face.

“Anna, take the basket back to the kitchen and empty it,” Elisabeta instructed, dropping in one