The Blood Gospel

She smoothed her hands down the front of her dress. “You are wise, Father. An aristocrat who lowers his mask does not survive long in these times.”

He stood. “What is it that troubles you so?”

“Perhaps I am simply weary of the intrigues.” Her eyes followed the hawk as it fell. “Surely the Church struggles amidst the same cauldron of ambitions, both great and small?”

He touched his pectoral cross with one fingertip. “Bernard shields me from the worst, I think.”

“Never trust those who would be your shield. They feed on your ignorance and darkness. It is best to look at things directly and be unafraid.”

He offered her some consolation. “Perhaps it is best to trust those who would shield you. If they do it out of love, to protect you.”

“Spoken like a man. And a priest. But I have learned to trust very few.” She tilted her head thoughtfully. “Except I trust you, Father Korza.”

“I am a priest, so you must trust me.” He offered her a shy smile.

“I trust no other priests. Including your precious Bernard. But you are different.” She placed her hand on his arm, and he savored the touch. “You are simply a friend. A friend where I have so very few.”

“I am honored, my lady.” He stepped back and bowed, an exaggerated gesture to lighten the mood.

She smiled indulgently. “As you should be, Father.”

They both laughed at her tone.

“Here comes Anna, returned again. Tell me once more about the time you had a footrace with your brother and how you both ended up in the stream with fish in your boots.”

He told her the story, embellishing it with more details than he had in the last telling to make her laugh.

They had happy times, with much laughter.

Until, one day, she had stopped laughing.

The day that he betrayed her.

The day he betrayed God.

Back in his body, where cold sand pressed against his knees, dry wind chased tears from his cheeks. His silver cross had burned through his glove and left a scarlet welt on his palms. His shoulders bowed under the weight of his sins, his failures. He tightened his grip on the searing metal.

“Rhun?” A woman’s voice spoke his name.

He raised his head, half expecting to see Elisabeta. The soldier watched him with suspicion, but the woman’s eyes held only pity.

He fixed his eyes on the soldier. He found the man’s hard gaze easier to bear.

“Time to start explaining,” the soldier said, training his weapon on Rhun’s heart—as if that had not been destroyed long ago.

8:08 P.M.

“Jordan, look at his teeth … they’re normal again.”

Amazed, Erin stepped forward, wanting to examine the miraculous transformation, to understand what her mind still refused to believe.

Jordan blocked her with a muscled arm.

She didn’t resist.

Despite her curiosity as a scientist, Rhun still scared her.

The priest’s voice came out shaky, his Slavic accent thicker, as if he’d returned from a long distance, from a place where his native tongue was still spoken. “Thank you … for your patience.”

“Don’t expect that patience to last,” Jordan said, not unfriendly, just certain.

Erin pushed Jordan’s arm down, willing to listen, but she didn’t step forward. “You said that you were ‘Sanguinist,’ not strigoi. What does that mean?”