The Blood Gospel

Learning. In the end, he was proven wrong, but had someone believed Bernard was on the right path? Had they taken command of the Bathory lineage as a precaution? Or was there some other purpose here?

The redheaded woman shifted her attention to Rasputin, but she never took her eyes off Rhun. “Let me take him as well as the book. I will double your fee.”

Rhun’s eyes narrowed. Whom did this strange woman serve? Who gave her that black mark on her throat? And why?

Rhun could think of only one person powerful enough to receive favors from Rasputin. The mysterious head of the Belial. The very last person who should ever receive the book.

He studied the mark on the woman’s throat. Was he staring at the shadow of the man’s own hand, the true puppet master of the Belial? A shiver traveled through him. He prayed that Cardinal Bernard was right, that the Belial could not open the Gospel. The Nazis had not been able to. Nor had the Russians. Perhaps the book was its own best protector.

But he hated to leave that to chance.

Rhun calculated the odds. Ten strigoi, Rasputin, and the wolf. He could not win here, and if he tried, Erin and Jordan would likely be killed. But an opportunity could present itself later. If he let Bathory take him now, he could remain near the book, try to get it free. Knowing he had no other choice, he inclined his head in agreement.

Rasputin studied his face for several seconds before speaking, his blue eyes calculating. “No, my dear. He is too willing. I promised you the book as a gesture of goodwill toward those whom you serve. But Rhun is mine. You may, however, take one of the humans, if, in return, your master grants me the life of my choosing later.”

“That was not your promise to us, Grigori.” Rhun kept his voice calm, but still his minions tightened their grip on him. “But if someone must be taken, why not me?”

“Yes,” Bathory said. “Why not him?”

Rasputin motioned to his remaining followers, and they reluctantly stepped closer to her. “My counsel is my own. Do not try my patience further.”

“You gave us your word, Grigori,” Rhun said. “We were not to be harmed.”

Bathory ignored him. “My apologies, Father Rasputin.” She studied first Erin, then Jordan. “I will accept your kind offer, but you have left me with a hard choice. Whom will I choose?”

“Take me.” Jordan winked at her. “I’m a lot more fun.”

“I’m sure you are.” Bathory’s lips curved into a wicked-looking smile. Her silver eyes met Rhun’s. A malicious glint flared. “But I believe I will take the woman.”

Rhun dove for Bathory, but a crowd of strigoi bore him to the ground before he could take a single step, pinning him with their sheer weight. Three others immobilized Jordan.

“Now, Rhun.” Rasputin kicked him lightly with the toe of a black boot. “I always keep my word. Every word, in fact.”

Rhun struggled to fight free. Next to him, Jordan tried, too. But it was pointless. Erin’s eyes had grown wide. Strigoi held her by each arm. She could not escape either. Rhun cursed himself for foolishly trusting Grigori. This, too, was his fault.

Rasputin rested his hands on his hips. “Bathory, my dear, I gave my word that the woman would not be harmed while in Russia. And you will adhere to that promise. But that protection dies as soon as she crosses our borders. Once beyond Russian soil, you may do with her as you wish.”

9:04 P.M.

Erin fought the hands that restrained her, but she couldn’t budge an inch. More of Rasputin’s people swarmed into the room, filling it with the smell of death.

Rhun thrashed against the strigoi who were holding him, lashing out with teeth and nails. Blood spattered the nearby wall. More figures piled on top of him.

Jordan struggled with his attackers, too, but suddenly went limp. Erin gasped. Was he dead? Knocked out cold?

She struggled to get close to him, but it was impossible.

Hands snatched the lead block. Others cuffed her hands in front of her.

A cold collar encircled her neck, and Grigori’s minions stepped back a pace. As she hurled herself toward Jordan’s prone form, sharp points dug into her throat. Blood ran down her neck.

Gasping for air, she stopped short. Her neck throbbed. The collar was spiked, like a dog’s collar, although the points must have been sharpened to make it more painful. Someone ran a finger under the collar, pulling the spikes out of her flesh. She clenched her jaw to keep from crying out.

A moan ran through the strigoi who were gathered around her. All eyes fixed on her neck. The one holding her licked his lips.

“Enough!” Rasputin called.

He pushed himself to Erin’s side. In his hands he held a leather leash. He clipped one end to the back of Erin’s collar and handed the other end to Bathory.

“Thank you.” Bathory looped it around her wrist. With the other hand, she yanked the leash tight.

Erin choked, the tightness of the collar keeping her from coughing. She couldn’t breathe. Her cuffed hands rose to her throat, fingers trying to loosen it. Cold hands pulled her limbs down. She would die.

“Just so we understand each other.” Bathory stuck her face right next to Erin’s. “You can come very near to a painful death in Russia without me breaking my word to Rasputin.”

Her knees buckling, Erin looked into those cool silver eyes. Would they be the last things she ever saw?

“I hope that you understand that, too, Father Korza.” Bathory glanced at the pile of forms that were burying Rhun.

Erin’s vision closed in dark.

9:06 P.M.

Buried under a mass of Grigori’s acolytes, Jordan struggled to breathe against the sheer weight of them, squeezing the air from his chest, slowly choking him. Teeth sliced into his arms and legs.

Please, God, don’t let me die like this …

His prayer was answered from the most unlikely source.

Distantly, he heard Rasputin shout. “Enough!”

At that command, the pressure eased; bodies rolled off of him. Hot blood seeped from the bites on his arms and legs. His head swam; his vision whirled, but finally settled.

Impossibly strong hands hauled him to his feet. Grigori’s minions yanked Rhun upright, too. One acolyte still lay on the ground, bleeding profusely.

It seemed Rhun had put up a better fight than Jordan had.

“Wh-where did that woman take Erin?” Jordan swayed with dizziness. How much blood had he lost?

“Away.” Rasputin smiled his crazy smile. “If Bathory doesn’t kill her en route, I have an idea where they will end up.”

Rhun spat blood and wiped his chin with the back of his hand. “Why did you let the Belial take her—and the Gospel? They are godless. You must know the consequences if they open the book.”

“Would the consequences be any worse for me if Sanguinists had the book?” Rasputin’s face relaxed into planes of sorrow. “Your beloved Church has possessed countless holy tomes, Rhun—filled their precious Secret Archives with them—and they have never used any of them to help me and mine.”

“But the world will suffer, Grigori. The entire world that God created.”

“The world suffers now.” Rasputin ran his hand through his long hair. “And your God does nothing. Your Church does nothing. Your humans do nothing.”

Rhun took a step toward Rasputin, but the Russian’s acolytes surrounded him again, forcing him to halt.

“If it doesn’t matter,” Jordan said, “then let us go.”

Rasputin chuckled. “He is charming, your warrior.”

“What do you plan for us, Grigori?”

“What I have always planned.” Rasputin turned to leave the cramped room. He snapped his fingers, and his dark flock herded Jordan and Rhun along behind him. “I intend to let your God save you, Rhun. Has not that been your eternal prayer, my friend? Salvation at His hand.”