The Blood Gospel

Above her, two thuds sounded. She heard a low growl, knew it was aimed at the cursed archaeologist, and felt a wash of satisfaction emanating from Magor, the pleasure of a predator who had cornered its prey.

“Easy!” Bathory called out, sharing in the wolf’s joy. It helped dull the pain as she climbed to her feet. She would have some nasty bruises, but nothing serious. She had lived so long with pain she barely noticed it.

She climbed with determination to the landing above. Magor had pinned the woman against the battered door, a paw on either side of her shoulders, his teeth bared at her neck. She felt his longing to tear out her throat. His claws scored the concrete wall.

The archaeologist watched him with wide eyes. She looked ready to faint.

In fact, Bathory was surprised she hadn’t.

“Not yet, my pet.” She retrieved the end of the leather leash and drew the collar tight. “When we can, I promise you can play with her as long as you like.”

Cowed and on shaking legs, the archaeologist trudged after her up the next flight of stairs, her shoulders low.

“Such despair and hopelessness,” Bathory taunted. “This isn’t what you expected when you started out on this bold quest in Jerusalem, is it? You thought your life might have value because of the prophecy?”

They reached a side door, and she unlocked it before pulling the woman out onto the empty street. Wind ruffled the sable fur of Bathory’s coat.

“What prophecy are you talking about?” the archaeologist asked, feigning ignorance … badly.

Lying took practice, and her prisoner clearly hadn’t had much of that.

Moving suddenly, Bathory grabbed her shoulder and slammed her against the side of a silver SUV that was parked roadside.

Magor growled.

“Don’t even try to lie to me. I am not a fool. I don’t believe in prophecy. So don’t think your life has value to me because of a thousand-year-old poem.”

The woman struggled to keep her feet on the icy cobblestones. Hauling the leash up, Bathory forced her higher up onto her tiptoes. If the woman should slip, the choke collar might kill her.

Bathory glanced up and down the empty street. No witnesses. But Rasputin would still know. She was not safe from him until she was well off Russian soil.

She loosened the leash, opened the SUV’s door, and shoved the archaeologist into the backseat. Magor jumped in after her, pushing his muzzle close to the prisoner’s throat. A tongue, frothing and thick with drool, licked the blood dribbling from under the spiked collar.

The archaeologist smothered a scream. She was a brave one, Bathory thought, but she had limits, too.

“Easy, Magor. If the Cardinal believes that she has a special destiny, she might have some use for us yet as a pawn in the game to come.”

The woman twisted her face away from the wolf, her voice tight and hard. “I don’t think the Cardinal cares that much about me.”

“Then you don’t know this Cardinal very well.” Bathory smiled. “Either way, remember that the prophecy never specified the condition you must be in when the book opens.”

Bathory read the understanding, the fear, in the archaeologist’s eyes.

Smart.

Maybe she was indeed the Woman of Learning.

“We will probably need you alive,” Bathory cruelly acknowledged. “But unwounded?”

She shook her head and smiled.

No.

53

October 27, 9:20 P.M., MST

Under St. Petersburg, Russia

Standing in the tunnel outside the cage’s gate, Rhun watched the Ursa, and the Ursa watched Rhun. Her red eyes glinted with old malice, her hatred of him undiminished across the past century. Drool slavered from her muzzle, and her impossibly long tongue slid across lips as black as rubber.

He suspected she remembered how he tasted. His leg throbbed and threatened to buckle. His limb remembered her, too.

Grigori wrapped his fingers around the branch of a wrought-iron oak sculpted into the gate. “If God loves you, Rhun, He will help you to escape the bear. Remember the lesson of Daniel and the lions? Perhaps your belief will close her mouth.”

Rhun didn’t think it would be that simple.

He studied the tiles that covered the chamber where the tunnels met, finding no break, no other way out. He shifted his attention to the iron gates.

When unlocked, they parted down the middle into two halves, opening like French doors. Two thick iron rods, one on each side of the gateway, had been drilled into the concrete and attached each side of the gate to the floor and ceiling. Less than an inch of a gap surrounded the gateway, and the elaborate patterns woven through the bars left openings no bigger than a few inches.

Once Rhun went into the room, there would be no escape.

Jordan dropped a warm hand to his shoulder. Rhun met his questioning blue eyes. The soldier glanced surreptitiously to Grigori and the strigoi. It was plain that he was asking if they should make their stand here, go down fighting before Rhun could be thrown in with the bear.