The Blood Gospel

“He’s no longer holy,” she said. “The wine would do more harm than good.”

Emmanuel cradled Piers in his arms. “What have they done to you?”

“Blut und bone,” the old man mumbled. “Libri.”

Beside him, Erin stirred. “Libri? That’s Greek for ‘book.’ Does his crucifixion here have something to do with the Gospel?”

Rhun knew that it did.

Erin held out her hand toward Rhun. In her palm rested a shard of ashy stone. “I found these accretions of lime and ash, an ancient form of concrete, broken into pieces around the pedestal. It might be that the Gospel was encased in a block of such stone and someone broke it free, right here in this room. Could Father Piers have been crucified here as the guardian of it, like the little girl in Masada?”

“Only he knows,” Rhun answered. “And I don’t know what’s left of his mind.”

“Then heal him.”

“Such matters may be beyond me, beyond even the Church.”

Rhun took the shard and examined it. His fingertips as much as his eyes picked out the Aramaic lettering impressed on one side. If his heart still beat, it would have quickened.

The book had been here. Someone had found it and removed its covering. But had they opened it?

That could not be. If it had happened, the thieves of Heaven would have claimed its power. But who had taken it?

He needed the answer—and Erin was right.

Only one person could supply it.

“Father Piers?” he intoned, trying to draw a moment of lucidity from him. “Can you hear me?”

The old man’s eyes slid closed. “Pride … shameful pride.”

What was Piers talking about? Did he mean the hubris of the Nazis, or did he mean something much worse?

“How did the Nazis capture you?” Rhun pressed. “Did you tell them of the book?”

“Es ist noch kein Buch,” Piers whispered through bloodless lips.

“It is not a book,” Jordan translated.

“They must have tortured him, Rhun,” Emmanuel said. “Just as you are doing now. We must heal him before you disturb him with questions.”

“Not yet,” Father Piers said. “Not yet a book.”

Nadia glanced at the marble walls as if they held windows. “Sunrise comes soon. Do you feel it?”

Rhun nodded. His body had begun to weaken. Christ’s grace allowed them to walk under the day’s sun, but because of their taint, they were always strongest at night.

“I like the sound of sunrise,” Jordan said.

“We can’t take Piers out into the new day,” Nadia said. “He’s no longer blessed by Christ’s blood. The sun would destroy him.”

“Then we hunker down here.” Jordan glanced uneasily at the ceiling. “It’s not a five-star hotel, but as long as the bats seem calm, I think we can—”

“He will die before nightfall,” Emmanuel said, and gestured toward the icarops horde rustling on the walls. “Unless he feeds off those cursed creatures.”

“And I will not allow that,” Nadia said. “It is a sin.”

“And I will not leave Piers to die in sin.” Emmanuel drew his knife, threatening her.

Rhun stepped between them and held his hands up. “If we hurry, we can still reach the chapel in Harmsfeld. We can sanctify him there. After that, he can partake of Christ’s blood again.”

“What if he cannot be sanctified?” Nadia practically spat out the words. “What if he was no pawn of the Nazis—”

Rhun held up a hand to silence her, but she would not be silenced.

“What if he sought them out?”

“We shall see,” Rhun said. Nadia had spoken his deepest fears, that Piers’s intellectual pride had led him into forming an alliance with the Nazis. Rhun knew that pride all too well—and where it could lead even a devout Sanguinist.

“Into formation,” he ordered the others. “We must reach the church at Harmsfeld before sunrise.”

Out of long habit, Emmanuel and Nadia stepped into their places, Emmanuel in front, Nadia to his left. Rhun met Jordan’s eyes and jerked his head toward Piers.

They stepped out of the defiled chamber, through the vestibule, and back into the dark concrete tunnel.

Jordan gathered up Piers, still wrapped in Emmanuel’s cassock, and followed with Erin close behind.

“Ich habe Euch betrogen,” Piers whispered. “Stolz. Buch.”

Rhun heard Jordan translate. “I have betrayed you all. Pride. Book.”

Emmanuel stopped and glanced back at Piers. Tears shone in his eyes. Rhun touched his arm. Piers had all but admitted it just then, that he had betrayed their order to the Nazis.

Rhun turned away, trying to understand. Had his friend’s all-consuming desire to be the first to find the book led him into his unholy alliance with the Ahnenerbe? Had the Germans betrayed him in the end? Rhun remembered his addled words. It is not a book. Did those words indicate that the Nazis had failed here somehow? As a punishment, did they crucify Piers?

No matter the outcome, if Piers had come here of his own free will, they might never be able to sanctify him enough for him to return to the Sanguinist fold.

Piers cocked his head to the left as they reached the crossroad of corridors. “Sortie.”

French for “exit.”

Erin must have understood. He was attempting to direct them to a way out.

She knelt and drew the Odal rune in the dust with her finger. She pointed to it. “Can you show me where the exit is, Piers?”

Jordan held Piers so that he could see the rune. The old man stretched one bone-thin finger to the left leg of the rune. Their team had entered through the right.

“There’s a second exit,” Erin said, looking up hopefully. “In the other leg of the rune. It must be how his bats came and went.”

Piers closed his paper-white eyelids, and his head fell back on Jordan’s shoulder.

“If we hurry,” Rhun said, “perhaps we can get him to the Harmsfeld chapel before sunrise.”

But, even so, a fear nagged at Rhun.

Was it already too late to save Father Piers’s soul?

37

October 27, 6:45 A.M., CET

Harmsfeld Mountains, Germany

Bathory gathered her sable-fur coat around her slender form and waited in the dark woods. To the east, the skies had already begun to pale. From the uneasy glances of her restless troops in that direction, it was clear they knew they had only a quarter hour left before sunrise.

The air had turned bitterly cold, as if night sought to concentrate its chill against the coming day. Bathory’s hot breath steamed from her lips—same as the panting wolf, blowing white into the dark forest. The same could not be said of the rest of her forces. They remained as cold and still as the forest as they waited, but not all were equally quiet.