the window. “Around it you can see the wall of the Old City. It’s like a ribbon of light, see? To the north is the Muslim quarter. South and west is the Jewish quarter with the famous Western Wall.”
“The Wailing Wall?”
“That’s right.”
He leaned forward, and his body slid along hers.
She glanced across at the priests, their expressions invisible behind their hoods. Except for Rhun, whose face reflected the city’s shine as the helicopter banked into a turn. His impassive dark eyes watched her.
A blush rose again on her face, and she turned back to the view. What must Rhun think of her? What must he think of the view? She tried to picture the sight through the prism of eyes that had been open for centuries. Had Rhun been on the Temple Mount when Mahmud II restored it in 1817? She shivered at the thought—fearful, but also with a touch of awe.
“Are you cold?” Jordan reached over and adjusted his jacket across her other shoulder.
“I’m f-fine,” she stuttered breathlessly. She was actually too warm. Her proximity to Jordan did unpredictable things to her body temperature. For the past decade, she had kept too busy to allow herself to be attracted to a man. It was just her luck that she was now strapped to one who was both damnably attractive—and married.
“Thank you for the jacket.”
“We will land soon.” Rhun’s quiet voice claimed their attention.
“Where?” Jordan leaned a tiny bit away from her, and she missed the warmth of his body against hers. She glanced down at the strip of white skin on his ring finger.
Evidence. Always take into consideration the evidence before reacting.
Now if only she could convince her body to do the same.
“We must blindfold you both,” Rhun warned, his expression never changing.
Jordan sat straighter. The harness tugged against her shoulder. “What? So we’re your prisoners now?”
“Guests,” Rhun answered.
“I don’t blindfold my guests.” Jordan folded his arms. “Seems downright inhospitable.”
“Nevertheless …” Rhun unclipped his harness.
The priest next to him passed over two strips of black cloth.
Jordan’s leg went rock-hard next to hers. His feet pressed solidly against the floor. He seemed ready to take on the Sanguinists with nothing but his fists and his indignation.
She touched his hand. “This isn’t the time, Jordan.”
He looked at her, as if suddenly remembering that she was there. He studied her for a long moment before nodding.
Rhun stood, balancing nimbly in the moving aircraft. He tied on Jordan’s blindfold first, then wrapped black cloth over her eyes. His cold fingers tied the knot behind Erin’s head, working gently with her hair. After he finished, he left his palm flat against the back of her head for a second longer than necessary, as if to comfort her.
She then heard him retreat and the
A hand found hers and gripped it tightly. Jordan’s palm burned warmly in hers as he, too, sought to reassure her. His message here was plain.
Whatever was to come, they were in this together.
20
Rhun helped the soldier and the woman out of the aircraft, passing under the whirling blades. He herded them off the helipad atop a building, down a series of stairs, and out onto a narrow street. All the while, the soldier kept a firm clasp on the woman’s hand.
Despite their brave faces, Rhun heard the frightened flutter of their hearts, smelled the salt of their fear, and noted the sheen of their skin. He did his best to shelter them from the others, to leave enough space for both. He refused to entrust them to any of his brethren—not that he feared that anyone would harm them. He simply felt protective of them, responsible for them.
He watched them lean closer together on the streets.
Erin and Jordan.
At some point, they went from being an archaeologist and a soldier in his mind’s eye to being simply Erin and Jordan. He didn’t like that growing familiarity. It created bonds when there should be none. He had learned that hard truth centuries ago.
He turned away.
Out on the street and moving again, Rhun breathed the nighttime scents of the old city—soot, cold rock, and fouling garbage from the bazaar. The other Sanguinists surrounded the trio. Rhun hoped that their presence would keep the blindfolded humans hidden from curious eyes.
So far, nothing had stirred on the dark avenue, the shops remained shuttered, the lights dark. He listened for nearby heartbeats in the cramped alleyways and cross streets that made up the maze of this quarter of the city. He found nothing amiss, but he still pressed them to move faster. He worried that they could be seen at any time.
After a few minutes, the group reached a rough-hewn stone wall where a robed man waited, tapping his leather shoe on the sidewalk, both impatient and nervous. The figure was as short as he was round. His face had a reddish cast, as did his bald pate.
Rhun knew the man—Father Ambrose—and cared little to find him here, guarding the gateway.
Ambrose stepped forward both to greet them, and to block them. His eyes ignored Rhun and the other Sanguinists and fixed a steely gaze upon Erin and Jordan. His words were terse enough to be considered rude.
“You may share nothing concerning what you see beyond this gate. Not with your family, not with your superiors in the military.”
Still blindfolded, Jordan dug in his heels and stopped, pulling Erin to a halt beside him. “I’m not taking orders from someone I can’t see.”
Rhun understood the man’s consternation and whipped off the two blindfolds before Ambrose could protest. The pair had already seen and been told too much. Adding the knowledge of this location seemed trivial in comparison. Besides, they must get indoors.
Jordan held out his hand to Ambrose. “Sergeant Stone, Ninth Ranger Battalion, and this is Dr. Granger.”
“Father Ambrose, assistant to His Eminence, Cardinal Bernard.” He wiped his palm on his fine cassock after shaking Jordan’s hand. “You have been summoned to meet with His Eminence. But I must once again stress that everything from this moment forward must be held in strictest confidence.”
“Or what?” Jordan loomed over Ambrose, and Rhun liked him all the more for it.
Ambrose stepped back. “Or we shall know of it.”
“Enough,” Rhun declared, and brushed roughly past Ambrose.
He stepped forward and placed a hand against the limestone blocks of the wall, moving his fingers stone by stone in the sequence of the cross. The limestone felt rough and warm under his hands.
“Take and drink you all of this,” he whispered, and pushed the centermost stone inward, revealing a tiny basin carved in a block, like the vessel that holds holy water at the entrance to a church.
Only this basin was not meant to hold
Rhun slipped free his curved blade and poked the center of his palm, in the spot where the nails had been driven into the palms of Christ. He squeezed his fist and let a few drops of blood splatter into the stone cup, its inner surface long darkened by the passage of countless Sanguinists who had entered this place before him.
“For this is the Chalice of My Blood, of the new and everlasting Testament.”
Erin gasped behind him as cracks appeared in the wall, revealing the outline of a gate so narrow that a man must turn sideways to pass.
“
