The Blood Gospel

He stepped out into the night. Moonlight shone on ancient stone seats and the rectangular trench where his friend Heinrich had received the blow that had killed him.

A cold wind blew sand into his eyes.

Nate blinked away tears. “What’s wrong with the horses?”

“I don’t care,” Amy said, still seated at the laptop. “I hope it’s something awful. Especially for that white one.”

“The stallion was just frightened. It was an accident.” Still he couldn’t blame her for being mad at the horse. Heinrich was dead, just like that. Wrong place, wrong time. It could just as easily have been him.

The neighing grew more shrill.

“I’m going to see,” he said. “Could be a jackal.”

Panic tinged Amy’s voice. “Don’t leave me here by myself.”

He crammed his cowboy hat on his head and rummaged through a wooden crate near the door for Dr. Granger’s pistol. She used it for shooting snakes.

“Let the stable people take care of the horses,” Amy pressed. “You shouldn’t go out there in the dark.”

“I’ll be fine,” he said. “And you’re perfectly safe here.”

Glad to be doing something besides stewing, he headed out of the tent and across the sand. But the night felt different now. Gooseflesh rose up on his arms that had nothing to do with cold.

Just spooked by Amy, he told himself.

Still, he tightened his grip on the pistol and strode faster—until a shadow rushed by on his right.

He stopped and whirled.

Out of the corner of his eye, he caught a glimpse of something large sweeping past. He didn’t get a good look at it, couldn’t tell what it was, only that it was bigger than any jackal he’d ever seen, the size of a yearling calf, but moving fast and smooth like a predator. It vanished so quickly he wasn’t sure he saw anything.

He looked back at the well-lit tent. It seemed far away now, a single lamp in the darkness.

Behind him, a horse screamed.

8:36 P.M.

Under the cover of the stallion’s cry, Bathory poked the tip of Farid’s dagger through the tent’s fabric and dragged the blade down. Its finely honed edge sliced through the taut material with barely a whisper.

All the while she kept an eye on Amy, who remained seated at the laptop, her focus fully on the tent’s door, her back to the new door opening up behind her.

Bathory pushed sideways through the sliced fabric, slipping silently into the tent. Once inside, she stood behind the frightened young woman, who remained oblivious to her presence. One earbud was still seated in Amy’s ear, the other dangled loosely. Bathory heard the tiny buzz of the CNN report playing on the laptop’s screen.

She was struck by how unconsciously most people moved through their lives, unmindful of the true nature of the world around them, safely ensconced in their cocoon of modernity, where news came 24/7, filtered and diluted, where jolts of caffeine were needed to nudge them blearily through their ordinary lives.

But that was not living.

Deep in her heart, Magor’s hunt stirred inside her, a distant haze of blood, adrenaline, and predatory glee.

That was the true face of the world.

That was living.

Bathory stepped forward, and with a single savage slash under the woman’s chin, she snuffed out that feeble flicker of the young woman’s wasted life. She tipped the body off the camp stool before the spray of blood doused the laptop.

Amy twitched on the floor, too stunned to know she was dead. She managed to squirm a few feet toward the tent’s door before finally slumping in defeat, crimson pooling under her.

Bathory worked quickly. She closed the laptop, slipped it into her backpack, along with the pair of cell phones on the table.

To the side, the tent flap twitched.

She turned to see Nate stepping inside. He took in the scene with a glance, his pistol jerking up to point at her. “What the hell … ?”

Bathory straightened, smiling warmly.

But she was not greeting the young man.

Behind Nate’s shoulder, shadows shifted to reveal a pair of red eyes, shining with bloodlust.

The night’s hunt was not yet over.

She cast her will to her bond mate, a desire summarized by one word.

Fetch.

19

October 26, 8:37 P.M., IST

Desert beyond Masada, Israel

Jordan scanned the sand and rocks one more time, seeking a place to hide, but there was no true cover, especially from the air.

Overhead, the chopper closed in, its blades cutting through the night. He studied it, recognizing the sleek silver nose and smooth lines. He’d only seen pictures of the EC145 online, advertised as the most luxurious helicopter that eight million dollars could buy. It was basically a Mercedes-Benz with rotors.

Whoever was backing Korza had money.

The priest moved to the side to meet the helicopter.

If Jordan remembered correctly, the aircraft could seat up to eight, including a pilot and a copilot. So he faced a potential of eight opponents with no defensible ground. Recognizing that hard truth, he holstered his pistol. He couldn’t fight and win, so he’d have to hope Korza wasn’t lying and they wouldn’t be harmed.