The Blood Gospel (32 page)

“Rhun, be welcome. All is safe.”

Rhun relaxed at the familiar soft voice, accented in German.

He turned and gave Jordan a quick nod. At least the man had had sense enough to stay inside the car with Erin. The pair clambered out, sounding loud and clumsy to Rhun’s sharp ears.

Once they were safely in his shadow, Rhun strode toward the wood door.

Jordan kept himself between Erin and the dark forest, protecting her from the most likely direction of attack. He had good instincts, Rhun had noticed. Perhaps that would be enough.

The thick door opened before they reached it.

Rhun stepped to the side to let the other two precede him. The sooner they were out of the open, the better.

As Jordan and Erin ducked through the small doorway, he cast one final glance around. He uncovered no menace, but danger still pricked at his senses.

October 27, 3:19
A.M
., CET

Ettal, Germany

Hidden on a forested hilltop overlooking the abbey, Bathory lay on her stomach in a bower of leaf litter, letting the cold damp soothe the fury smoldering inside her at the sight of Rhun Korza.

Bare linden branches creaked above. Through her high-power binoculars, she had watched the knight leave the sedan behind the monastery. She’d placed her post far from the monastery to stay out of range of the Sanguinist’s senses. The knight’s caution as he stood at a rear doorway indicated his suspicion, but he had not discovered her.

Right now her only enemy was the rising fog.

As Korza disappeared inside the abbey, she rested her forehead on her arm in relief.

The risky gamble she had played had paid off handsomely.

She had sent the photos of the Nazi medallion to three historians who were in league with the Belial. As they squabbled over the medallion’s importance, she had set another course, turning to her network of spies throughout the Holy Lands. They came back with news that Korza planned to take a plane to Germany, but they didn’t know where he would land, where he would go.

She did know—or at least, she had her suspicions.

Korza would not let the book’s trail grow cold for long. He would take the only clue from the tomb and consult historians loyal to his order, as she had done with those loyal to hers. She knew about Ettal Monastery, the Pontifical University of Sanguinist scholars devoted to historical research, going back to the end of World War II.

Of course he would come here.

So she had acted, telling no one, knowing that waiting for permission would take too long. She gathered
all
of the
strigoi
forces out of the sands of the Holy Lands—a small army—and hunkered them down here in loam and leaf.

It had been a bold move, one supported by Tarek, who she knew secretly hoped she would fail.

Magor shifted next to her, resting his head on her shoulder. She leaned against him. Despite wearing a thick fur-lined coat against the frigid cold of the Bavarian night, she appreciated the furnace of Magor’s body, and even more, the affection flowing from him, bathing her as warmly as his flesh. Likewise, he sought reassurance from her. She felt the undercurrent of unease in his breast.

This was a strange new world for the desert wolf.

Be calm …
she sent to him
… prey bleeds as easily here as out on the sand …

On her other side, another stirred, one who held her only in contempt. “Shouldn’t I take the others and move closer?” Tarek asked. “I have no heartbeat to give me away. Unlike you.”

She ignored the insult, suspecting he wanted to steal the glory of this moment from her. She reined him in. “We stay. We can’t risk alerting them.”

The musty smell of wet leaves filled her nostrils. Unlike Magor, she drank it in. After years in the dry Judean desert, she welcomed the familiar sounds and smells of a forest. It reminded her of her home in Hungary, and she took strength from those happier memories—the time before she took His mark.

“We have more troops this time,” Tarek pressed. “We could take them, wring the information from them, and retrieve the book ourselves.”

She heard the raw desire behind his words, his need to avenge those who had been lost at Masada, to slake his bloodlust. She gripped her binoculars tighter. Did he not realize she shared the same yearning for revenge, for blood? But she would not be foolish or rash—nor would she let Tarek be. That was the true strength of the Belial union: to temper the ferocity of the
strigoi
with the calculated cunning of humans.

She didn’t bother to turn her head. “My orders stand. Such strongholds have protections against your kind. Just
one
of those Sanguinists took down six of you on unfamiliar ground in Masada, and we do not know how many live at the abbey. Anyone who ventures down there will not return.”

Most of her troops looked cowed at the thought.

Tarek did not. He pointed toward the abbey, ready to argue, to test her. She was done with his disrespect of her authority. She needed to break him as surely as the Sanguinist had broken her family.

She grabbed his extended arm and forced his hand to her throat before he could react. “If you think you can lead,” she spat, “then take it!”

As his palm touched her mark, his skin sizzled. Tarek leaped high and away with a snarl, his fingers smoking from the brief contact with Bathory’s tainted blood, even through her skin.

The other men fell back—all but Rafik.

He came to his brother’s defense, landing on top of her.

Magor growled, ready to join the fray.

No
, she willed to him.

This was her fight, her lesson to teach.

She rolled Rafik’s thin frame under her, straddling him like a lover. She grabbed a fistful of his hair and dragged his mouth to her throat. Tender flesh smoked as Rafik screamed and writhed under her.

She stared at Tarek all the while. “Should I feed your brother?”

The anger in his eyes blew out, replaced with fear—for his brother’s life, but also fear of her. Satisfied, she let Rafik go and cast him away. He went whimpering on all fours to Tarek’s side, his lips smoking and blistered.

Tarek knelt and comforted his addled brother.

Bathory felt a twinge of guilt, knowing Rafik’s intelligence was little better than that of a small child, but she had to be hard—harder than any of them.

Magor belly-crawled to her side, both nosing her to make sure she was okay and prostrating himself to show he respected her dominant role in the pack.

She scratched behind his ear, accepting his wolfish deference.

She stared over at Tarek, expecting the same from him.

Slowly, his head bowed, his eyes averted.

Good.

She returned to her leafy bower and lifted her binoculars.

Now to break the other one.

October 27, 3:22
A.M
., CET

Ettal, Germany

As soon as Erin stepped through the small rear door of the abbey, the familiar smell of wood smoke took her back to her days of hauling firewood and water at the compound.

The oddity of it struck her. Why would the Sanguinists need a fire? Did they enjoy the warmth, the dance of flame, the crackle of embers? Or were there humans in this part of the abbey?

Past the threshold, she stopped alongside Jordan at the entrance to a long stone hallway, the end hidden in darkness. The way was blocked by a cherubic-looking priest, no more than a boy really.

If he was a boy.

“I am Brother Leopold,” he greeted them, accompanied by a slight bow, his accent strongly Bavarian. He wore a simple monk’s robe and round, wire-rim glasses. “Let me switch the lights on.”

He reached forward, but Rhun caught his hand. “No illumination until we are well away from the door.”

“Forgive my carelessness.” Brother Leopold motioned to the long hall. “We get little excitement here in the provinces. If you’ll follow me.”

He hustled them down the dark hallway to a set of stairs. In the darkness, Erin stumbled and almost took a header down the steps, but Rhun caught her elbow and pulled her upright, his hand as firm as it was cold.

Jordan put a pair of the night-vision goggles in her other hand. “We’ve got the toys. Might as well use them. Like they say, when in Rome …”

She slipped the glasses over her head and strapped them in place. The world brightened into shades of green. She could now easily pick out the stairs. Rather than crude stone steps, she found only worn linoleum, which remined her of the steps at any other university.

The small touch of normalcy reassured her.

Curious, she switched her goggles to infrared mode, picking out the glow of Jordan’s body heat beside her. She instinctively drew a little closer to it.

A glance toward their host revealed that he had vanished—though she could still hear his footsteps on the stairs. He plainly cast no body heat. Despite his cherubic exterior, he was not a young man, not at all. He was a Sanguinist. Disturbed at the thought, she quickly toggled back to low-light mode.

At the bottom of the stairs, a steel door with an electronic keypad blocked their way.

Brother Leopold punched five digits into the keypad and the door swung inward. “Quickly, please.”

Erin looked over her shoulder, suddenly fearful, wondering what danger he had sensed.

“The room is climate-controlled,” Brother Leopold explained with a reassuring smile. “Nothing more, I assure you.”

She hurried through the door, followed by Jordan, who did not relax his vigilant posture.

Brother Leopold reached over and flipped a switch. Light flared, bursting blindingly bright through Erin’s goggles. Both she and Jordan ripped off the equipment.

“Sorry,” Brother Leopold said, realizing what he had done.

Erin blinked away the residual retinal flare to discover an overstuffed office, much like her own back at Stanford. But instead of biblical-era treasures, the room was filled with memorabilia and artifacts from World War II. Framed maps from the 1940s plastered one wall; another was covered with a floor-to-ceiling case crammed with books shelved two deep; the far wall was odd, covered with black glass. The room smelled like old books, ink, and leather.

The scholar in her wanted to move in and never leave.

A dilapidated leather office chair stood at an angle to the large oak desk. The top was obscured by stacks of papers, more books, and a glass display box filled with pins and medals.

Jordan surveyed the room. “Thank God, for once, I don’t see a single thing that looks older than the United States.”

“You say that like it’s a
good
thing,” Erin scolded.

“And do not be fooled,” Rhun added. “Much evil has been done in modern settings as well as old.”

“No one is going to let me enjoy the moment, are they?”

Jordan moved closer to her as he let Brother Leopold pass. She again felt the welcoming and reassuring heat of his body.

“Forgive me for not tidying up,” the young monk said, adjusting his glasses. “And for not making a proper introduction. You are Sergeant Jordan Stone, yes?”

“That’s right.” Jordan offered his hand.

Brother Leopold grasped it in both of his, pumping it up and down. “
Wilkommen
. Welcome to Ettal Abbey.”

“Thanks.” Jordan gave the monk a genuine smile.

Brother Leopold returned it, his expression as enthusiastic as his handshake.

After making her own introductions, Erin decided the monk seemed far more human than either Rhun or Bernard. True, his hand felt as cold as theirs when she shook it, but it was still friendlier than the usual stiff and formal gloved handshake of the others.

Maybe he was simply
younger
than his centuries-old elders.

Brother Leopold turned with a dramatic sweep of his arm over the chaos of his office. “The collection and I are at your disposal, Professor Granger. I understand you have some artifact that you wish to gain some further insight about.”

“That’s right.” She reached under her long duster to her pants pocket and pulled out the Nazi medal. She held it out toward the monk. “What can you tell us about this?”

He held it between his pudgy finger and thumb, eyeballing it with and without his glasses. He flipped the coin over several times, finally drifting toward his desk, where he placed the medal under a fixed magnifying lens.

He read the writing along the edge of the medallion. “
Ahnenerbe
. No surprise to find one of their calling cards buried in the sands of the Holy Land. That group spent decades scouring tombs, caves, and ruins there.”

He tapped the symbol on the back. “But this is interesting. An Odal rune.” He glanced at Erin. “Where exactly was this found?”

“In the mummified hand of a girl murdered in the Israeli desert. We are looking for something, an artifact, that might have been stolen from her by the
Ahnenerbe
.”