He lowered the gun. “But not forever.”
Rhun nodded. “When she is safe, you must follow your conscience.”
Jordan went after Erin. She stumbled forward, sliding along the wall. He pulled her arm over his shoulder and slid another one around her waist.
She tensed, displaying her anger.
Why is she mad at me? I didn’t leave her to die.
He gritted his teeth and started walking. She leaned against him, probably because she couldn’t help herself.
Rhun ghosted past them and settled into a position a few yards in front. He looked fresh, ready to take on a pack of strigoi single-handed. If Erin was right and he had been near death, her blood had definitely given him a shot of energy.
Jordan’s head throbbed, his wounds ached, and his arms and legs were done for the day. He’d come out on the short end of this transfusion party.
Rhun sped up, and Jordan lost sight of him.
Jordan tightened his grip around Erin and tried his best to follow Rhun, cursing his damnable speed.
The reason for Rhun’s haste became clear as they rounded a corner.
Rhun was kneeling next to a prone black-clad figure.
Brother Leopold.
Rhun reached out and pulled him upright. Leopold looked terrible, but he was still alive.
“The book?” Leopold croaked hoarsely.
“Safe,” Rhun assured him.
Upon hearing that single word, the monk collapsed. Rhun lifted him in his arms and trotted down the tunnel toward the necropolis.
At the end of the tunnel, he was greeted by the sight of corpses that littered the ground around the sunken baldachin. Strigoi and Sanguinist blood ran slick across the floor, making for treacherous footing as they worked their way across the killing field. A handful of Sanguinists searched and patrolled, but apparently the war was over.
So many casualties for the sake of the book Erin carried.
How could it possibly be worth it?
Jordan drew in a deep, shuddering breath. Erin tightened her arms around him, pulling him close to her. The book in her hands pressed against his back. When he lowered his head to her shoulder, his cheek brushed the bandage on her throat.
He would never forgive Rhun for that.
64
October 29, 5:44 A.M., CET
The sanctuary below St. Peter’s Basilica, Italy
Half the night later, Erin walked between Jordan and Rhun as they descended beneath Rome, far deeper than the necropolis where the battle had been fought and won. The remaining strigoi had been slaughtered or driven away. One of the enemy had even been converted to the order, beginning his long road to donning the cloth of the Sanguines.
Erin continued down the steps, carrying the book. A soft glow had begun to shine again from its leather cover, illuminating the smooth stone walls. Its light grew brighter the deeper they went, as if it were drawn toward a power source. But where were they headed? Rhun had yet to reveal their destination.
As they continued ever deeper, she felt stronger than she had in days. She and Jordan had spent a few hours being nursed back to health, learning that the pope had pulled through his surgery and was expected to make a full recovery. The old man was tougher than he looked.
Nate, too, was doing well.
Erin had eaten, napped, showered, and now finally wore clothes that were not saturated with blood. Next to her, Jordan looked revitalized. Was it the rest or the grace of the book’s golden glow that suffused them now? With each step, strength surged through her. Warmth and light spread not just through the hall, but through her body and, maybe, her soul.
Still, she remembered Bathory, bent in death over her wolf. Though her death had been necessary, Erin could not escape a measure of guilt at taking her life, sensing that Bathory was less villain than pawn. But she kept such thoughts pushed back for now and focused on the task ahead.
Golden light bathed the limestone walls around her, walls that had been cut through the earth with ancient hammers and chisels, forming an arched point high above, like a Gothic cathedral that stretched down for miles. This must have taken lifetimes to build.
Underfoot, the floor was ice-smooth, worn down the center by the passage of many soles. Here was a new kind of ancientness, neither that of a deserted tomb nor that of an old street that now supported cars where it had once supported only hooves and feet. Down in this subterranean cathedral, the slow rhythms of the air seemed changeless but alive.
The tunnel ended at a vast chamber. The vaulted ceiling soared fifty feet above them, reminding Erin of St. Peter’s Basilica.
But this room had none of the opulence of the church far above. This place was unadorned. Its beauty came from the simplicity of its lines, the smoothness of the curves that drew the eyes ever upward. No man-made objects strove to distract or to glorify.
Torches guttered in wrought-iron holders were fastened to the stone. Far above, lines of soot streaked the ceiling.
Rounded alcoves lined the walls. Each space held a simple round plinth. On most of the bases stood detailed statues of men and women, most as emaciated as Piers had been, but these looked peaceful and beatific, not anguished.
Erin paused to stare at one. Gold light from the book washed across a beautiful woman, her hair loose to her waist, eyes closed, cheekbones high, with an enigmatic smile and slender hands folded in prayer beneath her chin. A silver cross around her neck caught the book’s light.
Erin had never seen anything more beautiful. The expression etched on that face reminded her of her mother when she sang a lullaby late at night, her father long since gone to sleep, and she and her mother cuddled together in Erin’s bed.
The book pulsed against her, drawing away her sense of loss, reminding her that nothing was ever truly lost.
As she stared at the woman, she knew then that it was no statue; it was a Sanguinist in deep meditation. Rhun had mentioned such people in passing.
The Cloistered Ones.
She smiled and moved forward again, heading deeper into the cathedral.
“We should stay near the exit,” Jordan said, his wary suspicion shining in the dark.
She glanced to him. He had not spoken to Rhun since they found Leopold.
“I want to learn about the First Angel.” She turned to Rhun. “That’s why we’re down here, isn’t it?”
Rhun bowed his head in acknowledgment. “We seek the oldest of all. The only one who can bless the book. The Risen One.”
Erin’s heart skipped a beat. Even Jordan looked shaken.
The Risen One?
She had seen enough miracles in the past few days not to dismiss Rhun’s words. She pictured the crucifix that used to hang above her bed at the compound.
Could she be about to meet the figure on that cross?