The Blood Gospel

Bernard straightened slowly, thoughtfully, and passed back the medal. “I know someone who should see this. We have a Pontifical University—one run by the Order of the Sanguines—hidden at the abbey in Ettal, Germany. They have an enormous research library. There you will find our records concerning the Ahnenerbe and their activities during and after the war. Perhaps that should be the first stop on your quest?”

Jordan looked at Erin. “Do you have any better ideas?”

“Better than a Sanguinist library?” She looked ready to leave immediately. “I can’t wait to see it.”

He grinned. No surprise there. Her excitement was contagious. “Unless Father Korza has objections, let’s start there.”

“I will see to the preparations. After that, I must return to Rome—to ready the Vatican if you are successful.”

The Cardinal made as if to stand, but Jordan held up his hand. “Before you do that, I have a favor to ask.”

“Yes?”

“I wrote letters for each member of my team.” He kept his voice even, professional, trying not to think. “Letters to be delivered to their families in the event of their deaths, and mine. I left instructions with my CO about where they were and how to deliver them. Could you make sure that they are sent?”

Bernard bowed his head. “I can, my son. We have contacts with many army chaplains.”

Jordan cleared his throat, speaking formally. “One more thing, Your Eminence.”

“Of course.”

He reached into a tiny zippered pocket in his jacket and pulled out his wedding ring. He held the ring between his thumb and finger, remembering the rainy day when Karen had put it on his finger, the moment that had been coming at him like a freight train since his senior year of high school. They’d never thought they’d be apart.

“Please see that this gets to my wife’s family,” he said. “I always told them that if I were to die, they would get it back. They had talked of burying it near her gravestone.”

25

October 26, 11:14 P.M., IST

Jerusalem, Israel

Erin had been taking a sip of water when Jordan passed over his wedding ring. She smothered a cough of surprise.

The ring shone gold before the Cardinal’s red glove closed over it. “As you wish, my son. It will be done.”

So Jordan wasn’t married—he was widowed.

She fought to fit this change into her overall view of him, barely hearing Jordan give instructions on where to find his letters and where to send the ring. He was supposed to be married. The tan line said so. She hated it when she misinterpreted evidence. He was a widower, one who had clearly loved his wife and hadn’t wanted to let her go.

This changed everything. If he was single, his actions took on a different cast—as did her own. She began reviewing all their past interactions, centering back at last to that kiss in his room.

She found her fingertips touching her lips and had to force her hand down.

“Excuse me, Your Eminence.” A peevish voice carried across the garden, drawing their collective attention. Father Ambrose crossed toward them. “May I clear?”

She stood, not certain of where to go.

“Of course, my son,” the Cardinal said. “We are finished supping.”

Wanting to keep her hands busy, her thoughts redirected, Erin helped Father Ambrose clean off the table while Jordan and the Cardinal kept talking. She hurriedly followed the fussy priest with their plates back to the stairs.

She closed the door, wanting a moment of privacy with Father Ambrose on the stairs.

“I would like to speak to Father Korza,” she said.

Father Ambrose filched the lone remaining grape from the bowl and ate it. Out of view of the Cardinal, he seemed more relaxed. Or maybe he considered her no threat to his position. “You may try to speak to him, but our Father Korza is not a communicative man.”

“I would still like to take my chances,” she said.

“Very well.” Father Ambrose smiled tightly, as if hiding a secret. “But you have been warned.”

She followed him down to a surprisingly modern kitchen and deposited their dishes in the sink.

He then took two brass candleholders from a cabinet, inserted a candle in each, and lit them. “There is no light where we are going,” he explained.

He handed her a candleholder and returned to the spiral stairs. They descended, winding deeper and deeper, passing the cells where she and Jordan had washed up, where they’d kissed. Her steps hurried past that level.

As she continued deeper, she wondered how best to approach Rhun. He had been furious when she and Jordan agreed to accompany him on the search. But why? What price had he paid four hundred years ago?

She considered his alleged age. Could he truly be five hundred years old? That would mean he’d lived through the Renaissance. His courtly, formal mannerisms made more sense now, but nothing else did.

Like why she was even heading down here?

Part of the reason was simple: to escape. She needed to give herself space and time to adjust to the new Jordan.

But Rhun also had answers she needed.