The Blood Gospel

Erin stared aghast at the spread of grassy hummocks.

“They contain the bones of half a million Russians. Four hundred and twenty thousand civilians. They died during the years that the Nazis surrounded our city. When we fought and prayed for help. But help did not come, did it, Rhun?”

Rhun said nothing. If he said anything, it would fan to life the flame of Grigori’s smoldering temper.

“Four years of unending slaughter. And yet do any of these graves weigh on your Cardinal’s conscience?”

“I am sorry,” Erin said. “For your losses.”

“Even the child can apologize, Rhun. Do you see?” Grigori pointed back toward a car idling near the entrance to the cemetery. “Shall we move your poor companions out of the cold? I can see that they suffer under its bite.”

Rhun spared Erin and Jordan a quick glance. They did, indeed, look very cold. He had so little to do with humans that he often forgot their fragility.

“Will you guarantee our safety?”

“No more than you will guarantee mine.” Wind whipped Grigori’s dark hair across his white face. “You must know that the time of your death is at my choosing now.”

5:12 P.M.

Jordan wrapped an arm around Erin’s shoulder. She didn’t lean into it, but she didn’t move away from it either. He faced Rhun and Rasputin, sensing between them the tension of old hostilities mixed with a measure of respect, maybe even dark friendship.

He kept his tone light. “How about we all talk about our imminent demise someplace warm?”

Rasputin’s eyebrows rose high at his words, then he threw back his head and laughed. It sounded deep and merry and completely out of place in a snowy graveyard, especially after the threat to kill them. Jordan could see why they called him the Mad Monk.

“I like this one.” Rasputin clapped a broad hand on Jordan’s back, almost knocking him off his feet. He smiled at Erin. “But not quite as much as the beauty here.”

Jordan didn’t like the sound of that.

Rhun stepped between them. “Perhaps my companion is right. We could find a more amenable location for our conversation.”

Rasputin shrugged heavily and led them back down the path to the waiting car. Once there, he indicated that Jordan and Erin should take the front seat. He and Rhun took the back.

Jordan opened the door to a wave of warmth. It smelled like vodka and cigarettes. He climbed in before Erin, to sit between her and Rasputin’s driver.

The driver held out his hand. He looked around fourteen, and his snow-white hand felt colder than Jordan’s.

“Name’s Sergei.”

“Are you old enough to drive?” It slipped out before Jordan could stop it.

“I am older than you.” The boy spoke with a slight Russian accent. “Perhaps older than your mother.”

Jordan suddenly missed his submachine gun, his dagger, and the days when all his enemies were human.

47

October 27, 5:15 P.M., MST

St. Petersburg, Russia

As the large sedan wound away from the cemetery, Erin held her outstretched fingers over the car’s heater vent. Jordan had one arm across the back of the seat behind her. He was the only one in the car whom she trusted—and in truth, she barely knew him.

But at least he was human.

Right now that meant one hell of a lot.

Rhun and Rasputin spoke in measured tones in the backseat. As civil as they sounded, she could tell that they were arguing, even if she didn’t understand a word of Russian.

The car screeched through the late-afternoon streets, bright Russian facades peeking like fairy-tale houses through plumes of swirling snow. They had at best another hour of daylight. If the Belial had followed them to Russia, would they attack again after nightfall? Was Rasputin at war with them, as he seemed to be with the Sanguinists?

Any answers would have to wait until she could get Rhun away from Rasputin.

After another ten minutes, the car slowed to a stop in front of a magnificent Russian-style church. Erin pushed her face closer to the window to see.

Onion-shaped domes topped with golden crosses soared into the sky, each dome more fantastical than the last—two gilt, one with bright swirls of color, others blue and encrusted with designs of gold and white and green. The facade sported columns, raised squares, arches, and an enormous mosaic of Jesus bathed in a golden light. Such fanciful opulence stole her breath away.

“Wondrous, yes?” the driver said with reverence.

“Stunning,” she answered honestly.

“You see here the Church of the Savior on Spilled Blood,” Rasputin said, leaning forward from the backseat. “Erected over the spot of Czar Alexander the Second’s assassination in 1881. But he would not be the last Romanov to fall to the wrath of the people. Inside that church, you will see cobblestones once stained with Alexander’s blood.”