The Blood Gospel

Rhun and Nadia ran behind Bernard, flanking him, forming their own triad. No longer concerned about revealing their unnatural heritage, they moved at top speed, shadows sweeping the halls of the Apostolic Palace. The humans fell behind. But this was no affair of theirs.

Rhun sprinted down the long hall that led to His Holiness’s bedroom. Walls covered in rich wood flashed by. Crucifixes and dark religious paintings hung throughout the hall. A fortune in art, but that would not be enough to save an old man’s life. Only they could do that.

Grant, O God, Thy protection, and in protection, strength.

The pope’s bedroom door stood open, spilling light into the dark hall.

Shadows flickered inside.

Bernard ran into the room without pause or a knock, he and Nadia in formation close behind him. A wave of blood assaulted his senses. They were too late.

His Holiness lay on his side on the floor. Blood flowed from his opened neck onto his holy white cassock. On the floor next to his body lay a straight razor, probably his own. Near his old white head were his red papal shoes, neatly lined up next to his bed. His usually carefully combed hair was tousled, his lined face pale with shock, his warm blue eyes closed.

Ambrose was kneeling by him. Blood coated his palms. He was trying, ineffectually, to stanch the wound.

Bernard joined Ambrose on the floor, Nadia stepped into the adjoining bathroom, and Rhun assessed the bedroom for threats. Thick velvet curtains were drawn tight, the simple brass bed rumpled and empty, the chair pushed straight into the antique desk, bookshelf orderly behind it.

Rhun understood.

They had taken him in his bed as he rested, and with little struggle.

Rhun closed his eyes and reached out with other senses. The only heartbeats in the room belonged to Ambrose and His Holiness. The only smells were familiar ones: Ambrose, His Holiness, the other Sanguinists, paper, dust, and a trace of incense. And, overlying it all, the old man’s spilled blood.

He returned his attention to His Holiness. His face had lost even the small amount of color it had when they’d arrived. His breath rasped out through his partially opened mouth.

“I came to tell him and he … he …” Ambrose stuttered. “He needs a doctor. Get him a doctor!”

Bernard pressed a firm palm on the pope’s wound. Nadia nodded once to let the Cardinal know that the bathroom was clear, then ran from the room, as fleet as the wind.

Ambrose wiped his hands down his black cassock. His heart tripped along in fear or shock. He looked so pale and lost that Rhun pitied him.

Rhun dropped his hand to Bernard’s shoulder. “We must take him to the surgery. Perhaps his physician can help him there.”

Bernard’s shocked eyes met his.

“Bernard!” he said sharply.

The Cardinal’s eyes cleared. “Of course.”

Bernard kept one hand tight against His Holiness’s throat and slid the other under his shoulders. Rhun put his own arms under the pope, too. The slight weight would be easy to bear. The old man’s heart stumbled, weakness in every beat. Without help, he did not have long to live.

Rhun and Bernard lifted the wounded man and bore him toward the emergency surgery. Nadia would bring the physician there.

This time their progress down the hall was slow. Rhun had time to see the ancient paintings, framed in heavy wood. This was the wall of saints, and each picture told a story of pain and martyrdom.

Swiss Guardsmen pounded down the hall, arriving with Erin, Jordan, and Nate.

“His Holiness is grievously wounded.” Bernard spoke in the formal Italian of his long-ago boyhood. Rhun had not heard that accent for many years. Bernard must be still in shock.

The guards parted like water to let them through.

As Rhun had hoped, Nadia waited at the surgery, a disheveled man in a white coat next to her. He looked as if she had dragged him from his bed, running every step.

He blanched when he saw whom they carried.

They stepped past him into the sleek modern surgery. Stainless-steel surfaces gleamed and modern machines waited under plastic covers. On the wall was only a simple round clock and a heavy iron cross.

Rhun and Bernard laid His Holiness gently on the clean white bed. Bernard still held his wound closed. “A razor did this,” he explained.

A second doctor rushed in.

“Everyone must leave,” the first doctor said. “Only medical staff allowed.”

As the physicians began to administer to His Holiness, Rhun prayed that they would find a way to save him. There was nothing more for the Sanguinists to do.

He stepped out into the hall. Drops of the pope’s blood gleamed against the wooden floor. “Where did Nadia go?”

“She took a division of the guardsmen back down the hall,” Jordan said. “To look for the guy who did this.”

If the attacker could be found, Nadia would find him. Rhun leaned against the wood paneling. Bernard reached an arm around his shoulders, and he leaned against him. A successful papal assassination had not occurred in centuries.