The Blood Gospel

But cold fingers grabbed his chin, pulling him to Nadia’s dark eyes. “You will do this for me, Rhun. I have given you all of your wine—and mine. Without it, I, too, will die. That is, unless I break my oath.”

He strove to keep his eyelids open, but they slid closed again. He pushed them open.

“You force this upon me, Rhun.”

Nadia released his head and stood, a quick flash of darkness. She wrapped an arm around Erin’s waist and yanked her head to the side. Erin’s heartbeats sped until each muscular squeeze flowed into the next in one continuous thrumming.

Jordan brought up his submachine gun.

“If you shoot me, soldier, know that I can kill her before the second bullet strikes,” Nadia hissed. “So, Rhun, can you do this?”

Erin’s amber eyes stared into his, pleading for her life, and for his.

To answer that look more than Nadia’s question, Rhun found the strength. He roused himself to grasp the wine, to pull the bottle to his heart, to recite the necessary words.

The ceremony stretched into a sacrament—all the while Nadia held Erin, her teeth at her throat.

Finally, Rhun ended with “We offer to Thee this reasonable and unbloody sacrifice; and we beg Thee, we ask Thee, we pray Thee that Thou send down Thy Holy Spirit on us and on these present gifts.”

Nadia answered, “Amen. Bless this Holy Chalice.”

“‘And that which is in this chalice, the Precious Blood of Thy Christ.’ ”

He dropped his hands to his lap, the ritual complete, his strength fleeing his limbs, his only desire a wish for unconsciousness.

But Nadia refused to let him rest. She poured Christ’s blood into his wounds, into his mouth. His body took in that fire, and it burned him completely this time. He knew where it would take him, and he quailed at the prospect.

“No … ,” he begged—but this prayer wasn’t answered.

“Turn away.” Nadia’s ragged command to the humans faded as his sins carried him away into penance.

Bernard had sensed the blackness in Rhun’s heart and sent him to Čachtice Castle to cut ties with Elisabeta. Rhun told himself that he could do it, that he felt nothing more for her than the duty to serve her as a priest.

Still he prayed as he lingered on the long winter road to her door. Snow hid fields and gardens where they had once walked together. Among long dried stalks of lavender, a raven pecked at a gray mouse, the tiny scarlet stain of its lifeblood visible even from so far away. He tarried until the raven finished its repast and flew away.

He reached the castle at twilight, hours later than he had planned. Yet he stood long in front of the door before he could bring himself to knock. Snow dusted the shoulders of his cassock. He did not feel cold anymore, but he brushed the snow away as a man would do. He would not show his otherness in this house.

Her maid, Anna, answered, her hands reddened with cold. “Good evening, Father Korza.”

“Hello, my child,” he said. “Is the Widow Nádasy at home?”

He prayed that she was far away. Perhaps he should request that she meet him at the village church. His resolve was strongest there. Yes, the church would be better.

Anna curtsied. “Since the death of the good Count Nádasy, she walks late in the evenings, but she will return before dark. You may wait?”