The Blood Gospel

The wolf rested his massive muzzle on her shoulder. She crooned him a lullaby and tried to make plans. Perhaps she should flee into the desert, disappear with Magor. She had enough money and jewels in her closet to keep them comfortable for years. Maybe she could escape at last from the silver cage that had held her for so long.

As if someone had read her thoughts, a heavy hand rapped on her door.

Magor growled, his hackles rising like a ridge along his back.

Without waiting for an answer, the thick metal door of her room swung open. Dark boots entered.

Tarek stopped just past the threshold, shadowed by his brother, Rafik. It was a daring move on his part.

She stood, lifting her chin, baring her throat and His mark.

Magor crossed in front of her, another line of defense.

“How dare you enter without my permission?” she said.

Tarek smiled, his lips stretched wide to reveal his extended fangs. “I dare because He knows of your failure.”

Rafik hovered at his brother’s shoulder, malicious madness dancing in his eyes.

Tarek made clear the reason for his bold intrusion, smelling a possible shift in power, declaring his intent by crossing her threshold, like a dog marking a tree. “I have received instructions from Him on how to kill you the next time that you fail.”

From the glee in Rafik’s eyes, she imagined such a death would be neither quick nor painless.

She kept her face impassive and met Tarek’s gaze. The monsters at her door might be stronger than she was, but she was far more cunning. She let this confidence show and stared Tarek’s gaze down—until she finally drove him back out the door.

Rather than making her fearful, such threats only fortified her, steeled her resolve.

As He knew they would.

She touched Magor’s shoulder.

“Time we hunt again.”

24

October 26, 10:57 P.M., IST

Jerusalem, Israel

From the rooftop garden, Jordan stared down at the Wailing Wall, at those praying in front of it. A young mother held up her baby, the girl’s frilly pink dress shifting when her tiny hand stroked down the stone. She looked like his niece Abigail had at that age. For three years his youngest sister had dressed her little tomboy in nothing but pink. After that, Abigail picked out her own clothes—brown ones. The mother below brought the little girl back to her chest and kissed the top of her head.

The pair had no idea about strigoi.

They lived in a world with no monsters.

But monsters were out there, and now Jordan knew it. If this mission failed, everyone else would have to face them, too. He remembered the short work they had made of his own highly trained men.

As he watched the pair step away from the wall and head home, he fought against thoughts of his own family. Especially his mother. She had survived surgery for a brain tumor last month and was still frail, finishing off chemotherapy.

Forget the Belial, the grief of his death might do her in.

Still, he knew what she would want him to do. He was his mother’s child; his belief in right and wrong had been instilled in him by her—by her words, by her actions, even by her suffering. He had signed up to serve his country, his fellow man, partly because of her. He believed in the army motto This We’ll Defend.

Keeping strigoi from ruling the earth was worth a terrible price; he would not flinch from paying it. His family would expect nothing less. His team had given nothing less.

Resolved, he walked back to the table.

His reasons all sounded noble, but he knew part of his decision came from the way Erin had smiled at him when she woke up in the chopper, how she had melted in his arms downstairs. He couldn’t abandon her to Rhun and the others.

He stepped to the table and dropped his dog tags. “I’m in.”

“Jordan …” Erin stared at him, the internal war between relief and fear visible on her face.

He studied his dog tags and looked away. When his parents received them, they would think him dead.

The Cardinal nodded soberly, but his eyes shone with determination. Jordan had seen many a general wear that same expression. Usually it was after you volunteered for something. Something likely to kill you.

Korza stood so abruptly that his chair toppled backward and crashed to the tiles—then he stormed off.

“You must forgive Rhun,” the Cardinal said. “In the past, he paid a terrible price in service of the prophecy.”

“What price?” Jordan picked up Rhun’s chair, flipped it around, and straddled it.

“It was almost four hundred years ago.” Lamplit eyes stared past him toward the modern city lights. “I am certain that, should he wish you to know, he will tell you.”

Jordan had half expected that kind of response. He leaned his arms on top of his chair back. “Now that we are on board, how about telling us about the prophecy and why the three of us are so special?”

Erin folded her hands in her lap like a schoolgirl and leaned forward, wanting answers, too.