“What prophecy are you talking about?” the archaeologist asked, feigning ignorance …
Lying took practice, and her prisoner clearly hadn’t had much of that.
Moving suddenly, Bathory grabbed her shoulder and slammed her against the side of a silver SUV that was parked roadside.
Magor growled.
“Don’t even try to lie to me. I am not a fool. I don’t believe in prophecy. So don’t think your life has value to me because of a thousand-year-old poem.”
The woman struggled to keep her feet on the icy cobblestones. Hauling the leash up, Bathory forced her higher up onto her tiptoes. If the woman should slip, the choke collar might kill her.
Bathory glanced up and down the empty street. No witnesses. But Rasputin would still know. She was not safe from him until she was well off Russian soil.
She loosened the leash, opened the SUV’s door, and shoved the archaeologist into the backseat. Magor jumped in after her, pushing his muzzle close to the prisoner’s throat. A tongue, frothing and thick with drool, licked the blood dribbling from under the spiked collar.
The archaeologist smothered a scream. She was a brave one, Bathory thought, but she had limits, too.
“Easy, Magor. If the Cardinal believes that she has a special destiny, she might have some use for us yet as a pawn in the game to come.”
The woman twisted her face away from the wolf, her voice tight and hard. “I don’t think the Cardinal cares that much about me.”
“Then you don’t know this Cardinal very well.” Bathory smiled. “Either way, remember that the prophecy never specified the
Bathory read the understanding, the fear, in the archaeologist’s eyes.
Smart.
Maybe she was indeed the Woman of Learning.
“We will probably need you
She shook her head and smiled.
No.
53
Standing in the tunnel outside the cage’s gate, Rhun watched the Ursa, and the Ursa watched Rhun. Her red eyes glinted with old malice, her hatred of him undiminished across the past century. Drool slavered from her muzzle, and her impossibly long tongue slid across lips as black as rubber.
He suspected she remembered how he tasted. His leg throbbed and threatened to buckle. His limb remembered her, too.
Grigori wrapped his fingers around the branch of a wrought-iron oak sculpted into the gate. “If God loves you, Rhun, He will help you to escape the bear. Remember the lesson of Daniel and the lions? Perhaps your belief will close her mouth.”
Rhun didn’t think it would be that simple.
He studied the tiles that covered the chamber where the tunnels met, finding no break, no other way out. He shifted his attention to the iron gates.
When unlocked, they parted down the middle into two halves, opening like French doors. Two thick iron rods, one on each side of the gateway, had been drilled into the concrete and attached each side of the gate to the floor and ceiling. Less than an inch of a gap surrounded the gateway, and the elaborate patterns woven through the bars left openings no bigger than a few inches.
Once Rhun went into the room, there would be no escape.
Jordan dropped a warm hand to his shoulder. Rhun met his questioning blue eyes. The soldier glanced surreptitiously to Grigori and the
Affection rose in his breast. Jordan was a true Warrior of Man to the end. “Thank you,” Rhun whispered. “But no.”
Jordan stepped back, his eyes scared—but less for his own safety than for Rhun’s.
Unable to face that raw humanity any longer, Rhun turned to the gate. “I am ready, Grigori.”
Acolytes grabbed Jordan’s arms; others held Rhun in place while Grigori unlocked the thick steel lock and wrenched open the door.
Rhun was shoved bodily through the gate and into the cage.
The Ursa’s head swung toward him.
“Yes, my love,” Grigori called. “Sport with him as long as you like.”
Keeping back and staying low, Rhun circled her. The room was large, about fifty feet by fifty. He must use that space wisely. Overhead, the creature’s shoulders brushed the ceiling. Rhun could not jump over her.
A twig cracked under his shoe, releasing the sharp smell of spruce, the only natural scent in the cavern. He drank it in.
Then the Ursa lunged.
Her giant paw drove through the air with unnatural speed.
He had expected it. Long ago, she had always led with her left paw. He dove under her claws and rolled. The movement took him to the center of the room.
Ahead, a glint caught his eye. He ran forward and snatched it from the floor.
“May God have mercy on your soul, Grigori,” Rhun called out.
“God forsook my soul long ago.” Grigori rattled his gate. “As He did yours.”
The Ursa spun to face Rhun.
He swept the chamber swiftly with his eyes. If the murdered Sanguinist had been armed, perhaps his or her weapons remained. If he could—
The Ursa charged again.
He stood his ground.
The floor shook under her paws. He listened as her old heart stirred to passion again, beating hard.
When her carrion breath touched his cheek, he dropped flat to his back, letting her momentum carry her across his body. The sea of dark fur passed inches from his face. He lifted his own cross and let it drag across her stomach, setting her fur to smoldering.
She shrieked.
He had inflicted no serious damage, but he had given the bear a reminder that he was no mosquito to be squashed.
Jordan cheered from outside the gates.
Rhun rolled across the floor, his hands seeking the objects he had spotted before the attack. Two wooden staffs lay on the floor, both ends tipped with silver. He knew those unique weapons. His brother of the cloth— Jiang—had died here. Rhun had watched him practice with those staffs for hours, deep below the necropolis of Rome, where the Sanguinists made their home.
Still addled by the burn, the Ursa swept her head from side to side.
Rhun crouched perfectly still and measured the sides of his prison with his eyes.
With the hint of a plan in his mind, he darted to the iron gate that was farthest from Grigori.
The Ursa caught his movement and barreled toward him.
Leaping and twisting at the last moment, he cracked one of the staffs across her muzzle and rolled to the
