The Blood Gospel

Jordan crossed and fingered the larger of the two coats. “What’s this made of?”

“From the wolf skin of a blasphemare,” the Cardinal said. “You’ll find such leather both stab- and bullet-resistant.”

“Like body armor,” Jordan said approvingly.

Erin picked up the smaller coat, clearly meant for her. It was about twice as heavy as a normal jacket. Otherwise it looked the same, textured like expensive leather.

Jordan pulled his on over his shoulders. It was the color of milk chocolate, and it suited him perfectly. He looked even better in it than he did in his camouflage.

Erin slipped into her jacket, a lighter brown than Jordan’s. It reached her knees, but was full enough to allow plenty of movement. The round collar brushed the bottom of her chin, protecting her neck.

“I also want to give you this.” Rhun pressed a silver necklace into her hand, a chain with an Orthodox cross.

Years ago, she had worn such a cross every day—until finally she had flung it from the horse’s back as she fled the compound. After years of beating God into her, her father had succeeded only in beating God out of her.

“How is this useful?” she asked. “The Cardinal said that holy objects are not that powerful against the strigoi.”

“It is no mere weapon.” Rhun spoke so softly she had to strain to hear him. “It’s a symbol of Christ. That is beyond weaponry.”

She stared at the sincerity in his eyes. Was he trying to bring her back into the fold of the Church? Or was it something more?

In deference to what she saw in his gaze, she hung the cross around her neck. “Thank you.”

Rhun bowed his head fractionally, then handed another cross to Jordan.

“Isn’t it early in the relationship for jewelry?” Jordan asked.

Rhun’s eyebrows drew together in confusion.

Erin smiled—and it felt good to do so. “Don’t mind him. He’s teasing you, Rhun.”

Jordan sighed, put his hands on his hips, and asked one last question. “So when are we leaving?”

Bernard answered with no hesitancy. “At once.”

PART III

They mounted up to heaven;

they went down to the depths;

their courage melted away in their evil plight.

—Psalm 107:26

28

October 27, 3:10 A.M., Central European Time

Oberau, Germany

With the promise of dawn still hours away, Jordan shifted in the rear passenger seat of the black Mercedes S600 sedan. He stared out the window into a dark Bavarian forest, where night still held sway. Erin sat next to him, while up front, Korza drove with a skill that demonstrated his preternatural reflexes.

Mario Andretti in a Roman collar.

Beyond the asphalt of the winding stretch of road, spruce and fir trees carved blacker lines into the murky gray sky. All around, wisps of fog stretched from the dark loam like ghostly fingers. Jordan rubbed his eyes. He had to stop thinking like a man trapped in a horror movie. Reality was freakish enough without letting his imagination run away with him.

He yawned, still jet-lagged. He had barely climbed into the luxurious private plane supplied by the Vatican before falling asleep in one of its giant seats. It was hard to believe that it was still the same night, and they had left Jerusalem only four hours before, whisking north at the jet’s top speed.

When the plane had landed in Munich, Erin had an endearing, just-woken-up look, so he figured she got a bit of sleep, too.

Now she was facing away from him in the backseat, looking out her own window. She wore simple gray jeans, a white shirt, and the leather jacket the Cardinal had given her. Jordan slid his finger around his own high collar. Except for the tight neck, it was the most comfortable body armor he’d ever worn, and it looked like a regular jacket. Still, considering what they were up against, it might not be enough.

Up front at the wheel, Korza had ditched his torn cassock and wore his own leathers—black, nicer than Erin’s and Jordan’s, and tailored. He seemed unfazed by the long night they had spent.

Had he slept at all on the plane? Did he need sleep?

Jordan hadn’t made a sound since the car started, not wanting to distract Korza from the road. Erin had kept quiet, too, but he doubted it was for the same reason.

He couldn’t figure her out. Ever since he handed the Cardinal his wedding band, Erin seemed to have retreated from him. He caught her watching him occasionally from the corner of her eye, as if she dared not look him fully in the face.

If he’d known that announcing that he was single would make her less interested in him rather than more, he would have passed the ring to Bernard in private. But what did he know about women? He’d spent the year since Karen’s death hiding behind the ring.

Erin stirred beside him. “There’s the village of Ettal.”

He leaned over to see where she pointed.