The Blood Gospel

She and the soldier had fought, killed, and had friends die because of the book. Had they not earned an answer? For that reason alone, he told her.

“It is the Gospel. Written in the blood of its maker.”

Behind her, stars framed her face. “What do you mean? Are you talking about some lost apocryphal text?”

He heard the hunger in her voice, the desire for knowledge, but she did not seem to understand. He turned his heavy head to meet her eyes directly. She had to see his sincerity.

“It is the Gospel,” he repeated as darkness took away the world. “Written by Christ’s own hand. In his own blood.”

PART II

Jesus did many other miraculous signs in the presence of his disciples, which are not recorded in this book.

—John 20:30

13

October 26, 6:48 P.M., IST

Airborne over Masada, Israel

The Eurocopter spiraled over the smoking caldera that was Masada. The pilot fought thermals rising from the desert as the dark sands slowly released the sun’s heat. The blades churned the rock dust, engines whining as they sucked the fouled air.

The helicopter suddenly bumped and banked hard left, coming close to throwing Bathory out the open bay door. She held tight to a railing and stared below. A fire still raged atop the blasted summit. She could feel the heat on her face, as if she were staring into the sun. She closed her eyes, and for a moment imagined a youthful summer day at her country estate along the Drava River in her rural Hungary, sitting in the garden, watching her younger brother, Istvan, play, chasing butterflies with his tiny net.

A groan drew her attention back into the cabin, the interruption piquing her irritation. She turned to the young corporal lying on the floor, whose pale face and pinprick pupils spoke of his deep shock.

Tarek knelt on his shoulders while his brother, Rafik, carved into the man’s chest with the point of a dagger, idly, as if bored. Afterward, he absently licked the blade, as if wetting the tip of a pen, ready to continue his writing.

“Don’t,” she warned.

Tarek glanced hard at her, one corner of his lip curling in anger, showing teeth. Rafik lowered his dagger. His ferret eyes darted between his brother and Bathory, his face lighting with the delight of what might happen.

“I have one last question for him,” she said, staring Tarek down.

She met the animal’s gaze. To her, that was all Tarek and Rafik were—animals.

Tarek finally backed down and waved his brother away.

She took Rafik’s place. She placed a palm on the soldier’s cheek. He looked so much like Istvan. It was why she forbade them from marring his face. He stared up at her, piteous, nearly blind with pain, barely in this world.

“I made you a promise,” she said, leaning close as if to kiss his lips. “One last question and you’ll be free.”

His eyes met hers.

“Erin Granger, the archaeologist.”

She let that name sink through his stupor. He’d already talked, spilling forth most everything he knew as they escaped the crumbling, fiery summit of Masada. She would have left him there to die with his brothers-in-arm, but she needed to squeeze everything she could out of this man, no matter the cruelty. She had learned long ago the practicality of cruelty.

“You said Dr. Granger worked with some students.”

She remembered the woman she’d viewed via the ROV’s camera. The archaeologist had been waving her cell phone, clearly attempting to reach the outside world. But for what? Had she been taking pictures? Discovered some clue?

Likely not, but before Bathory left the region, she must be absolutely certain.

The corporal’s pupils fixed to her, agonized, knowing what she intended.

“Where are they?” she asked. “Where was Dr. Granger’s dig?”

A tear flowed, touching her palm where it rested against his cheek.

For a moment—just a fleeting breath—she hoped he wouldn’t say.

But he did. His lips moved. She leaned an ear to hear the single word.

Caesarea.

She straightened, already beginning to plan in her head. Rafik stared intently at her, desire ripe in his eyes. He liked pretty things. His fingers tightened on his dagger.

She ignored him and stroked hair back from the corporal’s white forehead.

So like Istvan …

She leaned down, kissed his cheek, and slipped her own blade across his throat. Dark blood spurted. A small gasp brushed her ear.

When she straightened, she found his eyes already dull.

Free at last.

“None will touch his body,” she warned the others as she stood.

Rafik and Tarek stared at her, not comprehending such a waste.

Ignoring them, she took a seat and leaned her head back. She did not need to explain herself to the likes of them. With her back against the rear cargo hold, she sensed a stirring back there, a heavy shifting. She reached up and placed a palm on the bulkhead.