“You said Dr. Granger worked with some students.”
She remembered the woman she’d viewed via the ROV’s camera. The archaeologist had been waving her cell phone, clearly attempting to reach the outside world. But for what? Had she been taking pictures? Discovered some clue?
Likely not, but before Bathory left the region, she must be absolutely certain.
The corporal’s pupils fixed to her, agonized, knowing what she intended.
“Where are they?” she asked. “Where was Dr. Granger’s dig?”
A tear flowed, touching her palm where it rested against his cheek.
For a moment—just a fleeting breath—she hoped he wouldn’t say.
But he did. His lips moved. She leaned an ear to hear the single word.
Caesarea.
She straightened, already beginning to plan in her head. Rafik stared intently at her, desire ripe in his eyes. He liked pretty things. His fingers tightened on his dagger.
She ignored him and stroked hair back from the corporal’s white forehead.
So like Istvan …
She leaned down, kissed his cheek, and slipped her own blade across his throat. Dark blood spurted. A small gasp brushed her ear.
When she straightened, she found his eyes already dull.
Free at last.
“None will touch his body,” she warned the others as she stood.
Rafik and Tarek stared at her, not comprehending such a waste.
Ignoring them, she took a seat and leaned her head back. She did not need to explain herself to the likes of them. With her back against the rear cargo hold, she sensed a stirring back there, a heavy shifting. She reached up and placed a palm on the bulkhead.
Calm yourself, she thought, casting out her will, bathed in reassurance. Everything is fine.
He settled, but she still felt his agitation, mirroring her own. He must have sensed the distress in her heart a moment ago.
Or maybe it was because his twin was missing.
She stared out the window, down at the desert.
The twin had been sent out to hunt.
She had to be sure.
Sanguinists were hard to kill.
14
October 26, 7:11 P.M., IST
Desert beyond Masada, Israel
Deep in thought, Erin cradled the head of the unconscious priest in her lap. Starlight twinkled above, a sickle moon scraped at the horizon, and a soft evening breeze whispered sand down the faces of dunes.
She studied the man’s face, his head resting on her knees.
Is it possible?
The priest claimed that Christ had written a Gospel. Surely he must have been raving. He had a goose egg on the right side of his head, near the temple.
She touched his icy brow. “Jordan!”
The soldier stood a few steps away, scanning the desert, standing guard against any pursuers—or maybe he needed time to think, too. Or mourn.
He turned to her.
“I think he’s going into shock,” she said. “He’s gone so cold and pale.”
Jordan came and crouched next to her. Unlike the priest, warmth radiated from his body.
“Guy was already pale,” he said. “Probably lives in a library and works out at night.”
She took in Jordan’s appearance. Even covered in soot and grime, he was an attractive man. She tried not to remember how safe she had felt in his arms back in the tunnel, how natural it was to fold against him, how the musky smell of him had enveloped her as warmly as his body. She could not forget the soft kiss atop her head. She had pretended not to notice, while secretly wanting more. But that moment, born of desperation and the fear of certain death, was over.
The priest’s head moved in her lap. She looked down at him again.
Jordan reached out and gently parted the bloody shreds of his shirt, examining the wounds beneath. The white of the priest’s well-muscled chest looked like marble against Jordan’s tanned skin. A silver pectoral cross, about the size of her palm, hung from a black silk cord and rested over the priest’s heart atop a scrap of shirt that had not been shredded.
Inscribed on the cross were the words Munire digneris me.
She translated the beginning of the prayer: Deign to fortify me.
“Guy took a beating,” Jordan diagnosed.
With his skin bared, the severity of his wounds became clear. Lacerations crisscrossed his flesh, gently weeping.
“How much blood did he lose?” she asked.
“Not too much. Most of his wounds look superficial.”
She winced.
“Painful,” he admitted. “But not life-threatening.”
Still, a shiver shook through her—but not from worry. It was already much colder as the desert quickly lost its heat.
Jordan dug a small first-aid kit from his pocket and went to work on the priest’s head. She smelled alcohol as he pulled out a wipe.
He raised a bigger health concern regarding the priest. “I’m more worried about that knock he took when the grenade exploded. He could have a concussion or a fractured skull.”
Jordan stripped off his camouflage jacket and spread it over the priest’s limp body. “He seemed pretty coherent a minute ago when you two were talking. Still, we need to get him some real medical care soon.”
Erin stared down at Father Korza.
Rhun, she reminded herself.
His first name suited him better. It was softer, and hinted at darker mysteries. Atop the shreds of his shirt he wore a Roman clerical collar of white linen, not the plastic worn by most modern priests.
Now that he was unconscious, his face had relaxed from its stern planes. His lips were fuller than she’d first thought, his chiseled features more pronounced. Dark umber hair hung in wavy locks over his brow, down to his round collar. She smoothed them off his face.
Worry burned brighter at the icy feel of his skin.
Would he wake up? Or die like Heinrich?
Jordan coughed. She drew her hand back. Rhun was a priest, and she should not be playing with his hair.
“What about your radio?” she said, rubbing her palms together. She had lost her cell phone. It was now entombed somewhere inside that mountain. Jordan had been fiddling with his handset earlier. “Any luck reaching someone?”
“No.” Jordan’s face tightened with concern. “Its case got cracked. With time, I might get it working.”
Goose bumps ran down Jordan’s bare arms from the cold. Still, he tucked his coat more securely around Rhun.
“What’s the plan, then?” she asked.
He flashed a quick grin. “I thought you made the plans.”
“I thought I was supposed to ask how high and then jump. Weren’t those your orders?”
He looked back at the collapsed mountain, and a shadow passed across his face. “Those under my orders didn’t fare so well.”