The Blood Gospel

“That’s not what you’re supposed to say,” Jordan groused. “You’re supposed to lie.”

“Lying is a sin.”

“Like telling the Cardinal we died.”

Nadia unscrewed the top of a jar that smelled like pitch mixed with horse manure.

“What’s in that stuff?” he asked, changing the tender subject.

She scooped the goop onto her index and middle fingers. “It’s best you don’t know.”

He opened his mouth to insist—then thought better and shut it again. If something made Nadia squeamish, he didn’t want to know.

She slathered the balm into a bite wound on his back. Fire followed in its wake.

He gasped, immediately breaking out into a sweat. “Feels like napalm.”

“I know.” She worked fast, sealing each wound.

He studied a bite on his arm. It had been oozing blood since they’d left Russia, but the stinking salve had stopped the bleeding. He took deep breaths, hoping that the burning would subside. “What’s the plan for finding Erin?”

Rhun kept pacing, his steps quiet on the old rug. “Once the Cardinal arrives, we will put together a team to search for her and the book. The Sanguinists have a wide net of informants, especially in Rome. We’ll find them.”

Near as Jordan could tell, the Sanguinists’ net of informants had been useless so far, but saying that wouldn’t help. He stayed quiet as Nadia roughly bandaged his wounds. She had no future as a nurse.

Nadia tossed him a clean gray T-shirt, and he sat up to put it on. He now looked like a normal guy with a couple of big Band-Aids, instead of the survivor of a strigoi attack.

Progress.

Someone tapped on the door. Before anyone could reach it, it burst open.

The Cardinal stood in the doorway. Scarlet cassock and all.

He was flanked by men wearing blue pantaloons tucked into high black leather boots, blue long-sleeved shirts with flat white collars, white gloves, and black berets. They looked like they had stepped out of another century.

But the Sig Sauers in their hands were plenty modern.

4:12 P.M.

Erin froze as the light grew brighter below. She didn’t want anyone to hear—then realized how ridiculous that was.

The cell had a single exit, and she and Nate were jammed in it, about ten feet up. The strigoi could hear heartbeats, so hiding was useless. The only chance of escape lay in flight.

Above her, Nate scrambled faster. His labored breathing expressed how much this effort cost him. And, since neither he nor Erin knew the length of the shaft, she had no idea if it made any difference. She kept close behind him, hoping for a miracle.

The grimwolf barked up the shaft.

The sound bounced off the stone, as if a pack of hellhounds were coming to get them.

Nate slipped.

Erin braced herself hard against both sides of the slot.

No use.

The impact of his body knocked her loose. She and Nate hurtled downward. Her head and arms glanced off the sides as she tried to slow them.

Then she dropped through empty air, Nate on top of her.

Her back struck not stone, but a figure that crashed to the floor underneath her.

She tried to push Nate off to roll free, but he was too heavy.

A woman snarled Slavic-sounding curses and with sharp elbows drove Erin to the side. Erin rolled off Bathory with no small amount of grim satisfaction.

A hulking strigoi picked Erin up in his left hand, Nate in his right. He must have been seven feet tall, bald, with beady eyes. He was dark-skinned, for a strigoi, and wore dirty cargo pants with a stained white T-shirt. The shirt hugged the contours of his muscular chest. He definitely didn’t have a weapon on his upper body. She looked lower. A dagger in a leather sheath was strapped to his waistband.

He tossed Nate against the wall, then reached a hand down to Bathory.

And stopped.

He jerked his hand back.

Blood was seeping from a wound in Bathory’s arm. A dirty white bandage had slid down to her elbow. Erin must have knocked it off when she hit her. Stitches had pulled out of a cut across her triceps. Blood trickled down her arm. Bathory glanced down and swore, then yanked the bandage up. It slid back down.

The grimwolf nuzzled her leg and whimpered.

“Back.” Bathory pushed the wolf away roughly, almost frantically. “Magor, stay away.”

The creature retreated a pace and sat.

Erin’s eyes narrowed. Interesting.

Bathory struggled to her feet unaided. A drop of blood fell from her arm to the floor. The color looked strange, but Erin couldn’t bend to look closer because the strigoi held her arm fast.

“You are an enterprising one.” Bathory dusted off her pants.

“The first duty of any prisoner is to escape,” Erin said.

With wide eyes, the strigoi stared at Bathory’s wounded arm.

Erin had never seen a strigoi react to blood with fear rather than excitement. Clearly, injuring Bathory was a bad thing to do.

“I shall get my wound seen to.” Bathory picked up her flashlight. “And return.”

What would happen then?

Bathory turned to the strigoi who was holding Erin. “Mihir, stay and watch them. Don’t let them even think of escaping.”

Mihir bowed his head.