The Blood Gospel

Fainter, her heart throbbed.

He had little time. Almost none. He slashed his wrist with his silver knife. The hissing and burning were stronger, now that he was no longer holy. His blood, now mixed with hers, welled out. He held his wrist over her mouth. Drops splattered onto bloodless lips. Gently he parted those lips with his own.

Please, my love, he begged.

Drink.

Join me.

Rhun woke to hunger on the cold marble, the points of his fangs sharp on his tongue.

Grigori’s cursed wine had been spiked with human blood. Rhun fought against that treachery. But his body, even now, demanded more, insisted upon release.

His ears picked out the twin heartbeats at the back of the church.

He staggered to his feet, shaking with desire, turning inexorably toward the thrum of life, like the face of a flower turning to the sun.

“Do not deny your true nature, my friend,” Grigori whispered seductively behind him. “Such measures of control must always snap. Release the beast within you. You must sin greatly in order to repent as deeply as God demands. Only then will you be closer to the Almighty. Do not struggle to withstand it.”

“I shall withstand it,” Rhun gasped out hoarsely.

His ears rang, his vision dimmed, and the hand at his cross trembled.

“You didn’t always,” Grigori reminded him. “What did you see when you drank my wine? Perhaps the defilement of your Elisabeta?”

Rhun turned and lunged for him, but Grigori’s troops fell upon him, ready for such an assault. Two boys held each of his arms, two encircled each leg, another two pulled at his shoulders.

Still, he fought, dragging them all across the marble floor.

Paces away, Grigori laughed.

“Rhun!” Erin called to him. “Don’t!”

He heard the fear in her voice, in her heart—for them all.

Grigori heard it, too. Nothing escaped him.

“Look, Rhun, how she knows to fear you. Perhaps it will save her, as it did not save your Lady Elisabeta Bathory.”

Rhun heard the gasp behind him, one of recognition, coming from Erin.

Shame finally drew him to a stop, down to his knees.

Grigori smiled over him. “So even your friend knows that name. The woman whom history would curse as the Blood Countess of Hungary. A monster born out of your very love.”

48

October 27, 5:57 P.M., MST

St. Petersburg, Russia

Cold hands clutched and held Erin to the rear pew. Frigid bodies pressed from all sides. She forced herself to stay still, not to yield to fear, and most of all, not to provoke an attack. Jordan leaned against her, his body as tense as hers.

The next moment would determine everything.

Rhun turned from his pursuit of Grigori. He met her gaze. She read the raw hunger there, his eyes almost aglow with it. In the pain of his grimace, the points of his fangs punctured his own lips. He clearly fought a battle against his bloodlust.

From Rhun’s reaction, she assumed that Rasputin had tainted the wine with human blood.

Resist it, she sent silently to him, keeping her eyes locked upon his, refusing to look away, to face the beast inside him and his shame.

At last, Rhun’s shoulders sagged and he sank to his knees. He raised his folded hands before his nose. Past his fingers, he still locked gazes with her. His mouth moved in a silent Latin prayer. She read those bloody lips, knew that prayer of atonement from her days spent kneeling in the dirt as punishment.

She shook off those who held her and sank to her knees at her pew.

In unison with Rhun, she recited that Latin plea for forgiveness.

All the while she stared into Rhun’s eyes.

At the end, his head finally bowed—when he raised it again, his fangs were gone.

He whispered to the church: “You have failed, Grigori.”

“And you have triumphed, my friend. God’s will be done.” Rasputin did not sound disappointed. If anything, he sounded awed and reverential.

Grumbling, the congregants retreated from the pew, from behind Erin and Jordan.

Sergei patted Jordan’s shoulder before stepping away. “Perhaps later.”

Once Jordan was alone with Erin, he turned to face her as she rose from her knees and returned to her seat. His breath whispered warm against her cheek. “Are you all right?”

Not trusting herself to speak, she simply nodded.

She watched Rhun slowly regain his feet, still wobbly.

If she understood what Rasputin implied, it sounded like Rhun had defiled Elizabeth Bathory. Erin knew that name, one that echoed from the bloody legends of the dark forests of Hungary and Romania.