The Blood Gospel

He knew what they must see: his face darkened by blood, his body locked in shadows, his teeth the only brightness in the moonlight.

He felt the beast within him sing, a howl struggling to break free. Soaked in blood, he fought against releasing that beast; fought equally against running into the desert to hide his shame. Instead, he simply lifted his arms straight out from his body at shoulder level. They needed to see that he was weaponless as much as they needed to see the truth.

Transfixed, the woman controlled her initial terror. “Rhun, you are strigoi, too.”

“Never. I am Sanguinist. Not strigoi.”

The soldier scoffed, never letting his weapon waver. “Looks the same from here.”

For them to understand, he knew he must debase himself still further. He hated the mere thought of it, but he saw no other way for them to leave the desert alive.

“Please, bring me my wine,” he asked.

His fingers trembled with longing as his arm stretched for the flask half buried in sand.

The woman bent to pick it up.

“Throw it to him,” the soldier ordered. “Don’t get close.”

She did as she was told, her amber eyes wide. The flask landed an arm’s length away on the sand.

“May I retrieve it?”

“Slowly.” The soldier’s weapon stayed fixed; plainly he would not flinch from his duty.

Nor would Rhun. Keeping his eyes on the soldier, he knelt. As soon as his fingers touched the flask, he felt calmer, the bloodlust waning. The wine might yet save them all.

Rhun stared up at the others. “May I walk into the desert and drink it? Afterward, I will explain all.”

Please, he prayed. Please leave me this last bit of dignity.

It was not to be.

“Stay right there,” the soldier warned. “On your knees.”

“Jordan, why can’t—”

The soldier cut her off. “You are still under my command, Dr. Granger.”

Emotions flickered across her face, ending with resignation. Clearly, she did not trust Rhun either. It surprised him how much that hurt.

Raising the flask to his lips, he emptied it in one long swallow. As always, the wine stung his throat, flaming all the way down. He fastened both hands to the cross around his neck and bowed his head.

The heat of the consecrated wine, of Christ’s blood, burned away the ropes that bound him to this time, to this place. Unmoored and beyond his control, he fell back to his greatest sins, never able to escape until his penance in this world was complete.

Elisabeta swept through her gardens in her crimson gown, laughing, as bright as the morning’s sun, the most brilliant rose among all the blooms.

So beautiful, so full of life.

Though he was a priest, sworn to avoid the touch of flesh, nothing forbid him from looking upon the beauty of God shining forth in the pale glimpse of tender flesh at her ankle as she bent to clip a sprig of lavender, or the curve of her soft cheek when she straightened to stare skyward, her gaze ever on the Heavens.

How she loved the sun—whether it be the warmth of a summer afternoon or merely the cold promise of a bright winter’s day.

She continued across the garden now, gathering lavender and thyme to make a poultice for her mare, all the while instructing him on the uses of each. In the months since he had known her, he had learned much about medicinal plants. He had even begun to write a book on the subject, hoping to share her gifts as a healer with the world.

She brushed his palm with her soft fingertips as she handed him stalks of lavender. A thrill surged through his body. A priest should not feel such a thing, but he did not move away. He stepped closer, admiring the sunlight on her jet-black hair, the sweep of her long white neck down to her creamy shoulders, and the curves of her soft silk gown.