The Blood Gospel (38 page)

Rhun nudged a dead bat with his toe. “She is right. Some of these icarops are decades old.”

“So we are not alone down here.” Emmanuel’s deep voice overrode theirs. “One or more
strigoi
are using this structure as a nest.”

“More good news,” Jordan said, fingering his scalp. “But these bat bites won’t turn us into
strigoi
, right?”

Erin aimed her light at him. Fresh blood streamed from his hands and temple. Slashes marked the top of her body, too.

Rhun flinched, having to look away from the gleaming red blood. He spoke to the wall. “No. To become a
strigoi
, you must be drained by one, then drink his blood. Or her blood. You are safe from that fate.”

Nadia reached a hand down and hauled the sergeant to his feet, seeming to sense that Rhun did not dare get any closer to him. “Are your wounds serious, Sergeant?”

Jordan directed his light at the cut on his hand. “Nothing I can’t fix with a big enough Band-Aid. How about you, Erin? You okay?”

“Mostly.” She wiped the back of her hand on her jeans. “But why didn’t the bats attack you three?”

“An intriguing question.” Emmanuel’s body rocked forward as bats thumped and squealed against the door. “It might be your heartbeats. Or perhaps they have been trained to attack humans.”

Jordan winced. “Trained attack bats?”

“Did you prefer the wolf?” Erin pulled his miniature first-aid kit out of his pocket.

“A little,” he said. “Yes.”

Rhun’s head was swimming with the scent of their blood. He stepped back toward the door.

“Your wine,” Nadia reminded him.

He reached to his thigh, freed his wineskin, and took a quick sip, enough to steady him, but hopefully not enough to trigger a penance. Christ’s blood burned down his throat, the warmth spreading through him—but thankfully no memories came.

“Hold out your hand,” Erin said to Jordan. “Let me see.”

The soldier pointed his flashlight at the wound on his thumb. “I think the teeth missed all the important parts. Stings like the devil, though.”

“They are the devil’s work,” Emmanuel said, still crouched at the door. He fingered his rosary and began to pray.

Nadia flattened her back against the wall, her eyes fixed on the bats on the floor, also doing her best to ignore the small drops of fresh blood striking the concrete, as loud as raindrops on a tin roof.

Here was why humans could not be included in Sanguinist expeditions. Rhun fought down his anger, much of it directed at Bernard for forcing this pair upon them. The Cardinal did not understand life in the field.

“Did you have a recent tetanus shot?” Erin whispered.

“Sure, but not rabies.”

“They’re not rabid,” Nadia said, not looking up.

Erin finished bandaging his thumb. “Luckily, it’s your left hand.”

“The expendable one?” The soldier grinned at her. “What about that gash at my hairline?”

“Put your head down.” She examined it and concluded her assessment. “Bloody, but not deep.”

Rhun tried not to notice how gently she wiped the scalp wound clean or how lightly her hands closed it with butterfly bandages. Every motion made it obvious that she cared for the soldier.

“Now your turn,” the soldier said once she was done. He switched places with her, taking up the first-aid kit. “Let me look at you.”

Jordan’s bandaged hand slid along Erin’s face and scalp, quickening her pulse.

She retreated and lifted her arm between them. “They only bit my hand.”

With a nod, Jordan quickly wrapped her injury.

“If you two are quite finished … ,” Emmanuel said, irritated. “Shall we discuss our next move?”

Behind him, claws continued to dig at the door.

The bats were almost through.

5:54
A.M
.

As Jordan watched, a fist-size section of the door splintered and gave way. Through the opening, a scabrous head pushed into view, screeching, ears unfolding, teeth gnashing.

Emmanuel slashed out with his short sword, and the bat’s head rolled to the floor.

Jordan helped Erin to her feet and backed away as another bat stuck its head through the hole.

“Bastard chewed through the door,” he said. “That’s dedication.”

Rhun nodded toward the shadowy rear of their space. “There is an open archway back there. Seek shelter in the next room.”

Jordan pointed his light, noting the dark doorway for the first time. The archway led who knew where, but at least bats weren’t coming through it. And if Rhun sensed nothing of menace back there, that was good enough for him.

“Make haste.” Emmanuel spoke through gritted teeth as more of the door began to disintegrate, torn apart by determined teeth and claws.

Nadia and Rhun went to his aid.

Jordan and Erin crossed and stood at the threshold, fearing to enter alone. Jordan played his light across the space, discovering that Rhun’s keen senses proved true. The archway did lead to another room—a large circular space, empty and cavernous—but as he played his beam along the curved wall, an awful truth became evident.

There was no other exit.

It was a dead end.

5:55
A.M
.

“There’s no way out of here!” Erin called back to Rhun.

Her eyes watered from the sharp smell of ammonia in the room.

Bat guano.

She took a few steps inside, trailed by Jordan. Her flashlight illuminated a round chamber with a domed roof. She was immediately struck by two details. The chamber was the same shape and size as the tomb in Masada. But here, fine white marble covered every surface: the floor, walls, and ceiling.

She imagined it must have been a beautiful space once, but now dark guano streaked the walls and piled up in corners.

She also noted a second detail, her heart beating faster, again picturing the schematic of the Odal rune in her head.

“What is wrong?” Rhun shouted back.

Erin glanced back. Had he felt the stirring of her excitement?

She answered him, not bothering to shout this time, knowing he would hear her fine at a normal speaking volume: “I believe this chamber lies in the exact center of the diamond part of the Odal rune.”

Their path here glowed in her mind’s eye.

Rhun understood. “Search for the book. Time runs short! If we cannot defend this door, we may have to flee back to the tunnel and seek a more secure shelter.”

Granted his permission and responding to his urgency, she hurried inside, her attention already drawn to the most dramatic object, the tallest item, in the room: a life-size marble crucifix with a shockingly emaciated Christ nailed to it, sculpted of the whitest marble. Every detail on his body was faultlessly rendered, from his perfectly formed muscles to the deep wound on his side. Unlike Christ, though, this figure was naked, hairless as a newborn, giving the image a stylized beauty, a mix of godlike innocence and human agony.

She moved her light to follow the gaze of his lowered head. The sculpture looked down upon a tall stone pedestal with a splayed top. Erin knew that shape, having just seen it hours ago. It matched the
Ahnenerbe
pin in Leopold’s office, the one depicting a column supporting on open book.

The monk had said the emblem’s pedestal represented an important
Ahnenerbe
goal: to document Aryan history and heritage. But he also said it could symbolize “a great mystery, some occult book of great power held by them.”

Breathless, Erin knew she was looking at the source of that
Ahnenerbe
symbol.

From the way the pedestal’s top was tilted toward the statue and away from her, she could not tell if anything rested there.

“We should stay by the door,” Jordan warned. “In case we have to make a run for it.”

She did not slow, did not hesitate. Nothing would stop her from reaching that pedestal and seeing for herself what lay there—possibly a book written in Christ’s own blood.

Jordan swore under his breath and followed her deeper inside.

The cross and column rested upon a dais, a square marble base six feet across. That both objects should have been placed on a stage demonstrated their importance. But why would the Nazis erect a life-size crucifix? Were they guarding something they considered sacred and holy?

Erin had to find out.

She jumped up onto the stage, wincing when her feet ground into pieces of broken rock. Careful not to step on anything else, she circled the pedestal.

As she came around, holding her breath, her light glowed across the upper surface of the marble lectern.

Then her heart sank.

It was empty.

“What did you find?” Jordan called to her from the base of the dais, but his face remained turned toward the vestibule, where the Sanguinists fought to keep the bats at bay.

Erin stepped forward and ran her fingertips across the empty surface of the lectern. She felt the indentation along the top, as if something was meant to rest there, an object roughly of the dimensions described by Rhun.

“The book was here,” she mumbled.

“What?” Jordan asked.

Defeated, she stepped back, her heel crushing another chunk of debris underfoot. She glanced down, shining her light. Fragments of gray rock lay scattered around the pedestal. Focused now, she saw that they were not natural stone, but something man-made. She knelt and carefully picked up one shard.

Most of the others strewn on the floor were less than an inch thick and ashy in hue. She retrieved a larger piece and rolled it around in her palm, judging the material.

Gray. Concrete. If ancient, probably lime and ash.

Could these pieces date to the time of the Blood Gospel? To know for sure, she would have to do a proper analysis somewhere else, but for now she improvised.

She scratched a thumbnail over one corner and sniffed at the abraded edge.

A familiar spicy scent struck her deeply, almost causing her eyes to tear.

Frankincense
.

Her heartbeat sped up. There had been traces of frankincense in the tomb in Masada, common enough in ancient burials.

But not in Nazi bunkers.

She fought to keep her composure, kicking herself mentally for jumping on the dais like a lumbering ox, especially after years of scolding her students for the most minor violations of the integrity of a site.

She turned the shard over. The piece was roughly triangular, like the corner of a box. Frozen in place, as if she were crouching in the middle of a minefield, she studied the other pieces on the floor. Three other triangles rested nearby, along with other pieces.

What if the triangles were corners?

If so, maybe they had been part of a
box
.

A box that might have held a
book
.

She stared up at the empty lectern. Had the marauding Russians come upon what was hidden here? Smashed open what they found and stole what was inside?

Despairing, she looked to the crucifix for answers. The figure on the cross was as skeletal as a concentration-camp victim, thinner than any representation of Christ she had ever seen. Black nails pinned each bony hand to the cross, and a larger spike had been driven deep through the figure’s overlapping feet. Burgundy paint glistened around his wounds. She moved the light up, drawn to the nearly featureless face, eyes and mouth barely demarcated by slits, the nostrils even thinner—depicted here was a perfect rendition of endless suffering.