the sunlight.
He hurried to the spot where they’d hidden their Ducati bikes. They could be back at the abbey in less than an hour. Maybe Brother Leopold had some kind of medicine to help Rhun heal.
But as Jordan stepped behind the sheltering tree, he stopped, staring down at the wreckage of the trio of bikes. He tensed, searching around. The
At that moment he realized a horrible truth.
They were still not safe—even in the brightness of a new day.
Standing on the muddy shore, Erin pulled her leather duster tightly around her body. She turned her gaze at the trees that had swallowed up Jordan. She saw no movement out there, which burned an ember of worry in her chest.
To the side, Nadia unstrapped the wineskin from her leg and ducked under the coat covering Rhun, still keeping the sunlight off his body as she checked on him.
Erin longed to peek beneath, too, and see how Rhun fared, but she didn’t dare. Nadia knew best how to care for him. She had probably known him longer than Erin had been alive.
Jordan’s familiar form reappeared out of the woods, and Erin let out a deep breath. But she could tell by the slump of his shoulders that he had bad news. Very bad. It took a lot to defeat him, and Jordan looked crestfallen.
Nadia sat back up, one hand resting on Rhun’s covered head.
“Someone destroyed the bikes,” Jordan said, casting her an apologetic look, as if it were his fault.
“All of them?” Nadia asked.
Jordan nodded. “Not fixable without parts and tools and time.”
“None of which we have.” Nadia’s hand stroked her wounded leg. She suddenly looked frail. “We’ll never get Rhun back to the abbey alive if we have to walk.”
“What about the Harmsfeld church?” Erin pointed to the steeple poking above the forest. “You thought it could offer Piers sanctuary. What about Rhun?”
Nadia leaned back. She stroked a hand along the coat covering Rhun.
“We must pray it has what we need.”
From the shoreline, Jordan watched the fog disperse in tatters in the early morning sunlight. Once it was gone, they’d be exposed beside the lake: three adults with a stolen dory and a badly wounded man.
Not easy to explain that one.
Nadia stepped over to the beached boat and began to haul the unconscious Rhun up in her arms. It was a short hike to the picturesque hamlet of Harmsfeld.
Jordan stepped in to intervene. “Please give him to me.”
“Why? Do you think me too weak for such a task?” Her dark eyes narrowed.
“I think that if anyone sees a woman as small as you carrying a full-grown man as easily as if he were a puppy, it’ll raise questions.”
Reluctantly, she allowed Jordan to hoist Rhun on his shoulder. The priest was deadweight in his arms. If he were a human, he’d be simply dead: cold, no heartbeat, and no breath. Was he even still alive?
Jordan had to trust that Nadia would know.
The woman led them through the surrounding forest at a punishing pace. Jordan soon wished he’d let her carry Rhun until they got within sight of the village.
But in less than ten minutes, they were traipsing across the frost-coated paving stones of the main street. Nadia led them in a seemingly haphazard fashion, stopping occasionally to listen with her head cocked. She probably heard people long before Jordan and Erin could and sought to avoid running into any.
He glanced over at Erin. Like him, she was soaked to the skin. But unlike him, she wasn’t working up heat from carrying a heavy weight. Her blue lips trembled. He had to get her inside and warmed up.
Finally, they reached the village church in the square. The sturdy structure had been constructed out of locally quarried stone centuries ago, its builders forming bricked archways and framing stained-glass windows along both flanks. The single bell spire pointed toward Heaven with what seemed like an unquestioning resolve.
Nadia sprang up the steps and tried the double front doors. Locked.
Jordan eased Rhun to the ground. Maybe he could pick the lock.
Nadia drew back a step, lifted her leg, then kicked the thick wooden doors. They slammed open with a
She rushed inside. Jordan picked up Rhun and followed, with Erin close behind. He wanted everyone out of sight before someone noticed that they had broken into a church while carrying a dead man.
Erin tugged the doors closed behind them, likely fearing the same.
Nadia was already at the altar, rooting around. “No consecrated wine,” she said, and in her frustration, she elbowed an empty chalice and sent it crashing to the stone floor.
“Maybe a little quieter?” Jordan hated to upset her.
She uttered something that sounded blasphemous, then stormed toward a wooden crucifix behind the altar. The resemblance of the carved oak figure to Piers was so uncanny that Jordan stepped back a pace.
What was Nadia planning on doing?
42
Bathory stood before the dead Sanguinist’s body. It was still spiked by crossbow bolts to the trunk of an ancient pine, like some druidic sacrifice.
She gripped one of the bolts by its feathered end and yanked it out of the dead arm, freeing the limb to hang limp and broken. She studied her handiwork with a sigh.
Bright sunlight suffused the glade, melting frost from the yellow linden leaves. There was little evidence of the battle that had been fought here: some torn earth, more than a few rounds of ammunition that peppered tree trunks, and dark splotches of blood soaking into the ground. A good rain, a couple weeks of new growth, and no one would have any clue as to what transpired here.
Except for this damned body bolted to the tree.
She yanked out another bolt, wishing that she could have assigned this job to Tarek, but she couldn’t, not during the day. Even Magor had suffered too much in the sunlight, his body smoking, until she had forced him to retreat into the bunker with the others.
She continued yanking out spikes, slowly freeing the body.
Too bad it wasn’t Korza impaled here. But she had seen him fall after putting six silver slugs into him. He wouldn’t last long in that state. She savored the look of surprise on his face when she shot him. He had thought her Elisabeta—Bathory’s long-dead ancestor, somehow come back to forgive him.
As if that would be enough to atone for his sins.
She pulled the Sanguinist free from the last spike. If the man had been a
Resigned, she hurried with this last bit of bloody business as a plan took shape in her mind.
The book was still lost—but she knew where to go to find it.
And more important,
43
