The Blood Gospel (57 page)

“And here I stand,” Rhun said. “But your test is not over, is it? That is why you sent Erin off. You sundered the trio, to test if the three of us would find one another again and fulfill our duties. In this way, you continue to challenge God, as you once challenged the Church.”

Rasputin shook his head. “Not at all. I challenge only you, my friend. The one whom the Church loves as much as it hates me.”

Turning on a heel, Rasputin swept his minions aside with a wave of his hand, opening up a path to freedom.

Jordan waited for Rhun to reach him. Together, they walked through the gauntlet of Rasputin’s dark flock. With each step, Jordan’s bite wounds throbbed. The hair stood up on the back of his neck. He tensed, waiting for an attack from behind, a final betrayal by Rasputin.

None came.

“Find your woman, Rhun,” Rasputin called after them. “Prove that the Church placed its faith in the correct bloodstained hands.”

Rhun swept down the tunnel toward the Church of the Savior on Spilled Blood, not seeming to notice that his own blood pattered onto the frozen ground behind him.

And they sang a new song, saying, Thou art worthy to take the book, and to open the seals thereof: for thou wast slain, and hast redeemed us to God by thy blood …

—Revelation 5:9

October 28, 2:55
P.M
., Central European Time

Rome, Italy

Erin jerked awake, chased by nightmares. She batted at the darkness around her, but it wouldn’t go away. Only now did the full desperation of her plight wash back over and fill her with an icy dread that did little to settle her waking panic. She stretched her eyes wider—not that it did any good. The place where they had imprisoned her was so dark that it made no difference whether her eyes were open or closed.

She pressed her palms against her cheeks, surprised that she had fallen asleep. But the exhaustion and total sensory deprivation here must have finally overwhelmed her.

How long have I been asleep?

She remembered the flight from St. Petersburg by private jet last night. They had kept her hooded the entire time, but she had overheard enough of the conversation around her to know that the destination was Rome. The trip had taken about four hours. Once they had landed, another hour’s ride brought them into the predawn city. Erin could hear the sound of honking horns and the shouts and curses in Italian, and smell the Tiber as they crossed one of the city’s major bridges.

If she wasn’t mistaken, they were heading in the general direction of Vatican City.

What was Bathory planning?

What does she want with me?

The SUV that had shuttled them from the private airstrip eventually stopped and Erin had been dragged, still hooded, into a cold early morning. She could see enough under the lower edge of the hood to determine that it was still before sunup.

Then back underground they went, using stairs, tunnels, and ladders—the last especially difficult when blindfolded. They must have traversed the subterranean world of Rome for a full hour. She was familiar enough with the city to know that a good portion of the ancient world still existed below its surface, in a series of interconnected catacombs, wine cellars, tombs, and secret churches.

But where had she ended up?

At the end of the journey, she had been thrust into this dark cell, with the bloody collar still clamped around her neck. She had sat against the wall for ten minutes, hugging her knees, hearing no one, before she tugged off the hood and discovered the collar unlocked. She removed it and tossed it aside gladly. Shortly after that, she must have fallen asleep.

She raised her fingers now and felt the ring of scabs around her neck.

She always had a good internal clock, and now she wagered it must be somewhere around midafternoon in the world above.

She stretched out her other senses and heard the slow drip of water, the echoing giving her some indication that the space beyond her cell was cavernous. The air smelled old and stale, with a hint of mildew. She reached out and slid her palm along the floor. Stone. Her fingertips picked out chisel marks.

A tomb?

Erin’s hands slipped into her jacket pockets, searching. Of course, they had taken her flashlight, but she discovered the scrap of quilt in her pants pocket. At least they let her keep that.

Scooting up onto her hands and knees, she swept her hand from left to right in bigger and bigger arcs, stirring up a thick carpet of dust that made her eyes water and drew several sneezes. When she rubbed the dust between her fingers, it felt like wood slivers and rock dust.

Continuing on in a wider sweep, her fingers bumped against a rounded object. She picked it up and brought it to her lap. Bone. Her fingers filled in what her eyes could not see. A skull. She gulped, but still blindly examined its surfaces: an elongated nose, a small brainpan, long curved incisors.

Not human. Not even
strigoi
.

A giant cat. Probably a lion.

She sat back, pondering the implications of her discovery. She must be in some sort of Roman circus, an arena where gladiators and slaves fought one another and wild beasts. But the beast to which this skull had belonged had been buried with the remains of the spectacle in which it lost its life.

She paired that information with her knowledge of the path she had just taken through the city.

Toward Vatican City.

She knew of only one cavernous circus in that region. The Vatican itself had been built over half of the blood-drenched place.

The Circus of Nero.

Almost two thousand years ago, Nero had completed the circus started by Caligula. He had built enormous tiers of seating for the audience to watch his brutal games. At first, he sacrificed lions and bears to cheering crowds. But slaughtering animals hadn’t been enough for the ancient Romans, so he moved on to gladiators.

And eventually Christians.

The blood of Christian martyrs soon drenched the soil of the arena. They weren’t just ripped apart by animals and gladiators. Many were crucified. Saint Peter himself had been nailed upside down on a cross, near the obelisk in the center of the arena.

The circus was also famous for its vast network of underground tunnels, used to shuttle prisoners, animals, and gladiators to and fro. The builders had even installed crude elevators for delivering wild beasts or warriors directly to the sands above.

Erin stared up, picturing how St. Peter’s Basilica sat partly on top of this cursed place. During her postgraduate studies in Rome, she had read a text written a century ago—
Pagan and Christian Rome
by Rodolfo Lanciani. It depicted a map of the two overlapping structures—the horseshoe-shaped Circus below, the cruciform Basilica above.

In the dark, the schematic glowed again in her mind’s eye.

If she could get free of her cell, climb up, and reach the outside, she should be very near to St. Peter’s Basilica.

With help close at hand.

With renewed determination, she explored the edges of the room. It was about eight by ten feet, with a modern steel gate installed at the front. No weaknesses that she could detect.

She needed help. Two faces flashed before her: one as pale as his eyes were dark, but always shining with noble purpose; the other grinning, with flushed cheeks and laughing eyes the color of the sky.

What might have happened to Rhun and Jordan in that time?

She shied away from that thought.

Not in the dark.

After what seemed an eternity, Erin noticed a light approaching. She jammed her face next to the bars. Four figures and what looked like a huge dog were walking toward her down a stone tunnel, one carrying a flashlight. The dog walked next to a woman with long hair.

Bathory and her grimwolf
.

Behind them, two taller figures who looked like brothers dragged along a third man, his arms slung over their shoulders. At the sight, her throat closed up. Was that Jordan? Or Rhun?

Reaching the cell without a word, Bathory unlocked the door and swung it open.

Erin tensed. She wanted to charge out, but she wouldn’t make it two steps down that tunnel.

The grimwolf padded into the cell.

Bathory and the two men followed the wolf in. A blast of cold air came in with them. The two brothers were both
strigoi
.

They dumped the man at her feet. He moaned and turned over. A mass of bruises covered his face, his eyes were nearly swollen closed, dried blood soaked his shirtsleeves and a pant leg.

“Professor Granger?” asked a cracked, familiar voice, with a slight Texas twang.

She fell to her knees next to him, taking his hand. “Nate? Are you okay …
why
are you here?”

She knew the answer to both questions and despaired as she realized the result of her own shortsightedness. She had never considered that the Belial would go after her innocent students. What did they know? Then it all tumbled together. She had sent the
pictures
of the tomb, of the Nazi medallion. No wonder Bathory knew to track their team to Germany.

What have I done?

She didn’t know the answer to that one, nor another. “Amy?” she whispered.

Nate stared up at her, tears welling in his eyes. “I … I wasn’t there to protect her.”

Erin rocked back as if she had taken a blow to the face. She heard a sob escape Nate.

“It’s not your fault, Nate.”

It had been
her
fault. The students had been left in
her
care.

Nate’s voice was hoarse. “I don’t know why I’m here.”

A rush of affection rose in Erin for the tough Texas kid. She squeezed his hand.

“How touching,” sneered Bathory.

“Why did you take him?” Erin turned and glared at her, earning a threatening growl from the grimwolf. “You got the photos, I imagine. He knows nothing else. He has nothing to do with any of this.”

“Not quite,” said Bathory. “He has something to do with
you
.”

Guilt washed across Erin. “What do you want?”

“Information from the
Woman of Learning
, of course.” Bathory displayed her perfect white teeth in an unpleasant grin.