Lazarus.
Their true father.
Even Grigori recognized that role. He traced the holy form of Lazarus on the painting, his finger slowing as it crossed a thin line of red dripping from the corner of Lazarus’s mouth.
How could anyone look upon this painting and not recognize the truth revealed by Rembrandt? The scared spectators, the blood on the lips, the weapons on the wall. Rembrandt had been privy to the Sanguinists’ secrets, one of the few ever allowed such knowledge outside the inner circle of the Church. To honor that trust, he produced this masterwork of light and shadow, to hide a secret in plain sight as a memorial and testament to their order.
Grigori regained his feet, his eyes lifting from the painting to a mosaic in his own church, sprawled above the entrance. It depicted Lazarus in his shroud, standing alive at the door to his tomb, his hood up to protect his face from the sunlight. Christ stood before the risen man, his hand outstretched toward his new disciple as his followers looked on in wonder, much as Grigori’s followers looked to him.
Tears shone in Grigori’s eyes as he faced Rhun.
“I will help you search for your book, my friend, and, unless God wills otherwise, no grievous harm shall come to you while you are within the borders of my land.”
49
Jordan stood a few steps from the altar, watching the others.
He didn’t trust any of them. Not Rasputin with his crazy laugh and his games, not the waiflike congregants who had finally retreated into the shadows, not even Rhun. He pictured that glowing bloodlust in his eyes, the way he stared at Erin, locked on her like a lion on a fatted calf.
Worst of all, Jordan could have done nothing if she had been attacked. Grigori’s minions had him trapped, weighing down his every limb, his strength useless against them.
Voices drew his attention away from the altar. Rasputin’s children spoke in hushed tones as they carried a wooden table and four clunky chairs into the nave. Although the dark chairs had to be heavy, the boys lifted them as if they were made of balsa wood.
Unlike Rasputin, his acolytes wore regular street clothes instead of priestly garb. Jeans or black pants and sweaters. If he hadn’t known what they were, he’d have assumed them to be pasty Russian schoolchildren and their parents.
But he did know.
“Come.” Rasputin strode from the altar to the table, leading the others and collecting Jordan in the wake of their passage. The Mad Monk sat quickly, straightening his robes like a fussy old lady. “Join me.”
Erin found a seat, and Jordan took the one next to her, leaving the last for Rhun.
Sergei set a giant silver samovar in the middle of the table. Another of Rasputin’s minions brought in tea glasses that fit into silver holders with handles.
“Tea?” Rasputin asked.
“No, thanks,” Jordan mumbled.
After seeing what happened to Rhun, Jordan had no intention of eating or drinking anything Rasputin had touched. He’d rather not even breathe the air.
Erin declined, too, but from the way she pulled the ends of her sweater down over her hands, she was probably cold enough to want something hot to drink.
“Your companions don’t trust me, Rhun.” Rasputin bared square white teeth. His fangs were retracted, but Jordan didn’t find him any less dangerous for it.
None of them responded. Apparently the subject of Rasputin’s trustworthiness would never take up a lot of conversation.
Rasputin turned to Rhun. “Pleasantries aside, then. What makes you think the Gospel might be here in my city?”
“We believe it may have been brought back by Russian troops at the end of the Second World War.” Rhun kept his palms flat on the table, as if he wanted to be ready to push back and stand, either to fight—or possibly to flee.
“So long ago?”
Rhun inclined his head. “Where might they have taken the book?”
“If they knew what they possessed, they would have taken it to Stalin.” Rasputin rested his elbows on the table. “But they did not.”
“Are you certain?”
“Of course. If they had taken it anywhere of significance, I would have known. I know everything.”
Rhun rubbed his index finger where his
“I assume you refer to my sin of pride, which always made you worry so for my soul.” Rasputin shook his head. “Yet it is
Rhun inclined his head. “I am aware of my sins.”
“Yet, every day, you suffer the foolishness of penance.”
“And should we not repent our sins?” Rhun’s fingers found his pectoral cross.
Rasputin leaned forward. “Perhaps. But are we forever defined by our sins? How is a moment or two of weakness so large a crime when weighed against centuries of service?”
Though inclined to agree with him, Jordan suspected Rasputin might have had more than a couple of weak moments in his time.
Rhun tightened his lips. “I am not here to discuss sin and repentance with you.”
“A pity.” Rasputin looked at Erin. “We’ve had many enlightening discussions about that over the years, your Rhun and I.”
“We are here for the Gospel,” Erin reminded him. “Not enlightenment.”
“I have not forgotten.” Rasputin smiled at her. “Tell me from where was it taken and when?”
Rhun hesitated, then spoke the truth. “We found evidence that the book may have been at a bunker in southern Germany, near Ettal Abbey.”
“Evidence?” Rasputin fixed his intense eyes on Jordan, as if he were more likely to answer than Rhun.
Jordan tensed. His instinct was to hide everything from Rasputin that he could. “I’m just the muscle.”
“Russia is a big land.” Rasputin looked to Erin. “If you do not help me, I cannot help you.”
Erin glanced at Rhun. She tugged at the cuff of her sweater.
“Piers told us,” Rhun answered. “Before he died.”
Rasputin’s face drooped. “Then he turned to the Nazis after all?”
When Rhun did not answer, Rasputin continued: “He came to me early in the war. I was not as comfortable as I am now.” He paused and gazed around at the church, smiling at the silent followers lined up against resplendent walls. “But even then I had my resources.”
Surprise flickered across Rhun’s face. “Why would he go to you?”
“We were close once, Rhun. Piers as first, you as second, and I as third. Do you honestly not remember?” Hurt was plain in his voice, with an undercurrent of anger. “Where else could he go? The Cardinal threatened to excommunicate him if he continued searching for the book. So after visiting me, Piers went next to the Nazis, seeking help that I could not provide. He refused to give up the hunt. Obsessions are hard to forsake, as you can attest with Lady Elisabeta.”
Rhun turned away. “Cardinal Bernard would have done no such thing to Piers.”
But Jordan heard the lack of conviction in Rhun’s words. Even with the little experience Jordan had with the Cardinal, he knew how much importance the man placed upon the prophecy of the three. To the Cardinal, Father Piers had no role to play.
