The Blood Gospel (27 page)

“What do you mean by ‘unleashed his divinity’?” Jordan asked, pushing aside his plate, the last of his appetite dying away.

The Cardinal nodded to him. “A fascinating question. As you may know, in the Bible, Christ performs no miracles early in his life. Only later does he begin to perform a whole series of wondrous acts. His first divine miracle was recorded in the Book of John, the turning of water into wine.”

Erin shifted and quoted scripture. “
The first of his miraculous signs, Jesus performed at Cana in Galilee. He thus revealed his glory, and his disciples put their faith in him.
”

Bernard nodded. “Thereafter, a slew of other wonders: the multiplication of the fishes, the healing of the sick, the raising of the dead.”

“But what does all of that have to do with the Blood Gospel?” Erin asked.

The Cardinal explained. “This mystery of Christ’s miracles has confounded many biblical scholars.
Why
this sudden manifestation of the miraculous?
What
caused His divinity to shine forth so suddenly from His earthly flesh?” Bernard stared around the table. “Those questions are answered in Christ’s Gospel.”

Erin stared at him, rapt.

“Sounds like good stuff,” Jordan said. “But why do the Belial care about any of this?”

“Because the book may give
anyone
the ability to touch and manifest their own divinity. Can you imagine if the
strigoi
learned this? It might help them free themselves of their weaknesses. Perhaps they could walk in daylight, like we do, multiplying their strengths. Imagine the consequences for mankind.”

Korza cut him off. “But we know
none
of this for certain. It is merely Bernard’s speculation.” He stared hard at Erin, then Jordan. “
You
must remember that.”

“Why?” Erin’s eyes narrowed.

The Cardinal’s face had gone stone-hard, stern. He plainly did not appreciate Korza’s interruption. His next words were equally firm.

“Because you have a role to play—both of you—in what comes next. If you refuse, the world will sink into darkness. So it has been foretold.”

October 26, 10:32
P.M
., IST

Jerusalem, Israel

Erin tried not to scoff but failed. “The fate of the world depends on us? On Jordan? On me?”

Jordan muttered next to her: “You don’t have to sound
so
surprised when saying my name.”

Erin ignored him, hearing the sarcasm in his voice. He wasn’t buying any of it either. She summarized all her questions with one word. “Why?”

The Cardinal returned the dusky grape to the empty bowl. “I cannot reveal that to you, Doctor, not at this time, not until you make your choice. After that, I will tell you all, and you may again refuse with no consequences.”

“You were the one who sent the helicopter for me in Caesarea, weren’t you?” she asked, picturing the whirling blades and the frightened stallion, flashing to poor Heinrich sprawled and bloody in the dig site’s trench.

“I did,” the Cardinal said. “I used my contacts in Israeli intelligence to have you taken to Masada, in case the Gospel was there.”

“Why me?” She would keep repeating this until she got an answer that she liked.

“I have followed your work, Dr. Granger. You are skeptical of religion, but steeped in biblical knowledge. As a result, you see things that nonreligious scholars could miss. Likewise, you question things that religious scholars might not. It was that rare combination that made you perfectly suited to bring the Gospel back to the world. And I believe it continues to be true.”

Either that
, she thought skeptically,
or I was the closest archaeologist you could find.
It was late in the year, and most archaeologists were back teaching the fall semester. But what good would it do to point that out? So she held her tongue.

“What about me?” Jordan asked, his voice still ringing with sarcasm. “I’m guessing I’m just a random wild card, since there’s nothing special about me.”

Erin would have argued against that assessment, picturing his tattoo, his story of being dead for three minutes.

Could there be something to all of this?

The Cardinal favored Jordan with a small smile. “I do not know why the prophecy chose you all, my son. But you are the ones who emerged living from the tomb.”

“So what are we supposed to be doing next?” Jordan shifted on his wooden chair.

Erin suspected he was accustomed to being kept in the dark for many of his missions—but she wasn’t. She wanted full disclosure.

The Cardinal continued: “The two of you, along with Rhun, must find and retrieve the Gospel and bring it to the Vatican. According to prophecy, the book can only be opened in Rome.” He rested his elbows on the table. “That is where our scholars will unlock its mysteries.”

“And what then?” she asked. “Do you intend to hide it away?”

If the Blood Gospel existed and contained what he said, it was too powerful to leave in the hands of the Church alone.

“The words of God have always been free to all.” The old man’s brown eyes smiled at her.

“Like when the Church burned books during the Inquisition? Often along with the men who wrote them?”

“The Church has made mistakes,” the Cardinal admitted. “But not this time. If we can share it, we shall share the light of this Gospel with all of mankind.”

He seemed sincere enough, but Erin knew better. “I have dedicated my life to revealing the truth, even if that goes against biblical teachings.”

The Cardinal’s lips twitched up. “I would say
especially
when it goes against biblical teachings.”

“Maybe.” She took a deep breath. “But can you swear that you will share this book—as much as is safe—with secular scholars? Even if it contradicts Church teachings?”

The Cardinal touched his cross. “I swear it.”

She was surprised by the gesture. That was something. She wasn’t confident that he would keep his word, especially if the contents were antithetical to Church teachings, but it wasn’t like she would get a better offer either. And if this Gospel existed, she wanted to find it. Such a discovery could in some small way pay back the debt of blood—both Heinrich’s back at the camp and all those who died at Masada.

She made her decision with a nod. “Then I am—”

“Wait,” Rhun said, cutting her off. “Before you pledge yourself, you must understand that you may lose your life in the search.” His hand strayed to his pectoral cross. “Or something even more precious.”

She remembered the earlier discussion about the souls—or the lack thereof—of the
strigoi
. It wasn’t just their lives—Rhun’s, Jordan’s, and her own—that were at risk on the journey ahead.

A deep well of sadness shone in Rhun’s eyes, something from his past.

Was he mourning his own soul or another’s?

Erin silently listed logical reasons why she should not do this, why she should go back to Caesarea, meet with Heinrich’s parents, and continue her dig. But this decision required more than logic.

“Dr. Granger?” the Cardinal asked. “What is your wish?”

She studied the table, spread as it had been for millennia, and Rhun, whose very existence offered possible proof of the miracle of transubstantiation. If he could be real, maybe so could Christ’s Gospel.

“Erin?” Jordan asked.

She took a deep breath. “How could I pass up this opportunity?”

Jordan cocked his head. “Are you sure it’s your fight?”

If it wasn’t her fight, whose was it? She pictured the small child’s skeleton in the trench, curled up lovingly by a parent. She imagined the slaughter that brought that baby to an untimely grave. If there was any truth to the stories told this night, she could not let the Belial get hold of that book or such massacres could become commonplace.

Jordan met her gaze, his blue eyes questioning.

Rhun bowed his head and seemed to be praying.

Erin nodded, her decision firm. “I have to.”

Jordan eyed her a moment longer—then shrugged. “If she’s in, I’m in.”

The Cardinal bowed his head in thanks, but he wasn’t done. “There is one more condition.”

“Isn’t there always?” Jordan mumbled.

Bernard explained: “If you enter into league with the Sanguinists, you must know you will be declared dead, listed as one of the victims atop Masada. Your family will grieve for you.”

“Hold on a minute.” Jordan sat back.

Erin understood. Jordan’s family would miss him, would suffer for his decision. He couldn’t go. Erin almost envied him. She had friends, even close friends, and colleagues, but there was no one who would be devastated if she didn’t return from Israel. She didn’t have family.

“There is no other way.” The Cardinal held out his gloved hands palms up. “If the Belial know you live, that you seek the Gospel, they may strive to influence you through your family … I believe you know what that will entail?”

Erin nodded. She had seen the ferocity of the Belial firsthand in the tomb at Masada.

“To protect you, to protect those who love you, we must take you under the cloak of the Sanguinists. You must disappear from the larger world.”

Jordan stroked his empty ring finger thoughtfully.

“You shouldn’t come, Jordan. You have too much to lose.”

The Cardinal’s voice took on a kinder tone. “It is for
their
safety, my son. Once the threat is over, you will resume your former lives, and your friends and families will know you did this out of love.”

“And it has to be
us
, nobody else can do this?” Jordan’s eyes stayed on his fingers.

“I believe that the
three
of you together must perform this task.”

Jordan glanced over to Rhun, whose dark eyes gave little away—then to Erin.

He finally stood up and paced to the rooftop’s edge, his shoulders stiff. His decision was a difficult one, Erin knew. Unlike her, he was no orphaned archaeologist. He had a big family in Iowa, a wife, maybe children.

She had no one.

She was used to being alone.

So why was she staring at Jordan’s back, anxious to hear his answer?

October 26, 10:54
P.M
., IST

Beneath the Israeli desert

Bathory stirred from a nap, not knowing when she’d fallen asleep, seduced by exhaustion and the cool quiet of the subterranean bunker. It took her a moment to remember where she was. A shadowy sense of loss hung over her like cobwebs.

Then she remembered all.

As time fell back over her shoulders, an edge of panic sliced through her weariness. She sat up, rolling her legs from the reclining sofa. She found Magor curled nearby, always protecting her. He raised his large head, his eyes glowing.

She waved him to rest, but he lumbered up and padded over to her.

At her side, he slumped down again, leaving his head on her lap. He sensed her distress, as she felt the simple warmth of his affection and concern.

“I’ll be fine,” she assured him aloud.

But he felt what was unspoken, her fear and worry.

As she scratched his ears, she searched for the words to tell Him of her failure—if such words existed. She had lost most of the
strigoi
under her command, let a Knight of Christ escape her snare. And worst of all, what did she have to show for it?

Certainly not the book—but that was not her fault.

Someone else had stolen it long before Masada crumbled to ruin.

She even had proof of the theft: grainy photos recovered from a cell phone.

But even to her, any explanation of the night’s events felt like excuses.

No longer able to sit, she gently shifted Magor’s muzzle and stood. Her bare feet crossed a Persian rug that had once graced the stone floor of her ancestral castle, once warmed feet now long dead.

She reached a concrete wall. It was covered in Chinese red silk to soften the stark confines of the bunker that was her home in the desert, a home buried twenty feet under the sands. Against the wall, artfully arranged shelves displayed an antique lancet with an ebony handle and a gold bleeding bowl with rings inside to indicate how much blood had been released.

She lifted the bowl. How much of her cursed blood might He take as punishment?

Magor nuzzled her hip, and she put down the bowl and knelt, burying her face in his fur. He smelled like wolf and blood and comfort. With Hunor gone, he was her last true companion.

What if He took Magor away?

That fear drew her face up. Her gaze fell on her most prized possession—an original Rembrandt portrait of a young boy. A version of
Titus
hung in an American gallery. The boy’s blond hair curled outward from an angelic face. Serious blue-gray eyes met hers, red lips curved in a tentative smile. In the American version, a gray smudge rested atop his shoulder. Art historians speculated that it was a pet parrot or monkey that had died during the weeks it took to complete the painting. To spare the boy, the lost pet had been painted over after the work’s completion. Her painting revealed it was neither of those animals. A tawny owl stared back from the boy’s shoulder.