But Rhun was no longer there. Still running, he arched back and slid on the soles of his shoes, passing under the slavering jaws. A mere handsbreadth from his nose, teeth gnashed together. He dropped on one shoulder and skidded between the front legs and under the beast. Once there, he lashed up with his silver dagger, jabbing deep into the belly, one of its few weak spots. He dragged the blade’s razor edge through muscle and skin, using all his power. He said a silent prayer for the beast, for what was once one of God’s creatures. It did not deserve to have been put to such a cruel use.
Gore poured down on him, soaking his arms, his chest, his face.
He rolled free and crouched to wipe his eyes.
To the side, the soldier ran up, firing point-blank at the beast.
Its muzzle reached for the night sky, wailing—a wail that faded until, at last, it crashed to the sand.
The dark ruby glow faded from its eyes, leaving behind a rich gold. The wolf whimpered once, a flicker of its true nature returning—but only at that last moment.
A final spasm, and it lay still.
Rhun raised two fingers and made the sign of the cross over the animal’s body. He had set it free from its eternal bondage.
Dominus vobiscum, he said silently. The Lord be with you.
The woman climbed out of the rocks, fragrant blood streaming from a cut on her thigh. The soldier held her back. He kept his weapon pointed at the grimwolf’s body.
“Is it really dead, Korza?”
The beast’s blood steamed off of Rhun’s body. He tasted iron on his lips. It heated his throat, bloomed in his chest. It overwhelmed his senses. In his time doing God’s work, he had faced countless temptations and had faltered only one dreadful time. Yet, even steadfast determination could not prevent his body from reacting to the blood.
He turned away.
Behind him, the twin heartbeats of the soldier and the woman thundered for his attention.
He refused it.
He reached back, pulled his cassock’s hood low over his eyes, and faced the silent desert—hoping they hadn’t seen his fangs begin to lengthen.
16
October 26, 7:49 P.M., IST
Airborne to Caesarea, Israel
Dying along with Hunor, Bathory writhed in pain, curled over her stomach, straining against the helicopter’s straps. Her fingers clutched hard to her belly, trying to stanch the flow of blood, the tumult of gore through rent flesh.
She felt her blooded bond mate’s life escape. She longed to follow it, to gather that spirit to her bosom and comfort it in its journey.
Hunor … my sweet one …
But he was already gone, his pain fading from inside her. She stared down at her pale palms. She was whole—but not unwounded. Hunor’s last whispery howl of release had left her hollowed out as surely as if she, too, had been gutted.
That last cry was answered by another.
Magor mourned loudly in the cargo hold behind the cabin, calling out for his twin, the anguished mewling of one littermate for another. The two pups had been cut from the belly of a dying she-wolf. They were a gift from Him, blood-bonded to her during a dark rite, becoming as much a part of her as the black tattoo on her throat.
She twisted in her seat and placed her palm against the wall that kept her from Magor, wanting to go to him, to pull him close, to hold together what they once shared, as if cupping a feeble flame against a stiff wind.
I’m here, she cast out, bathing him in reassurance, but not hiding her own sorrow.
How could she?
Three were now two.
The words from an old Hungarian lullaby crooned through her, bringing with it the promise of security and peaceful slumber. She gave that to Magor.
Tente, baba, tente.
Magor calmed, his love entwining with her own, merging them together.
Two would survive.
For one purpose.
Vengeance.
Fortified, she collected herself and stared across the cabin.
The helicopter fled through the deep night, leaving the ruin of Masada far behind. Her remaining men sat subdued and silent in the seats across from her. Although spattered with blood, none of them had been wounded.
Tarek muttered Latin prayers, a reminder that long ago he had been a priest. As his lips moved, his cold eyes stared at her, having witnessed her prostration and grief. He knew what that meant.
Only one creature was capable of slaying a grimwolf in his prime.
Korza was still alive.
Tarek’s gaze flicked to her shoulder. Only then did she note the fear burning there. She touched her fingers to her upper arm—they came back wet.
With blood.
Lost in Hunor’s agony, she must have ripped herself against a bolt sticking out of the neighboring wall, tearing her shirt and skin.
It was a shallow wound.
Still, Tarek jerked back warily from her bloody fingers.
Scarlet tinged with silver.
Even a drop of her blood was poison to him and all others like him, a curse born out of the mark on her throat. Another of His gifts. The curse in her blood both protected her from the fangs of His armies and was the source of that constant pain in her veins, dull but always there, never abating, never forgotten, flaring with every beat of her heart.
She wiped her fingers and bound her wound one-handed, using her teeth to tighten the knot.
Next to Tarek, his brother, Rafik, bowed his head in clear reverence as Tarek resumed his Latin prayers.
Others simply stared at their bloodstained boots. Their bonds with the fallen soldiers went back decades, or longer. She knew that the men blamed her for those deaths, as would He. She dreaded the punishment He would mete out.
She stared out the window, picturing Korza down there.
Alive.
Anger burned hotter than the pain in her blood.
Magor responded, growling through the wall.
Soon, she promised him.
But first she had a duty in Caesarea. She pictured the archaeologist waving her cell phone in the tomb. She had recognized that look on the woman’s face: excitement mixed with desperation. The archaeologist knew something.
I’m sure of it.
But what? A clue about the book’s whereabouts? If so, had she been able to transmit that information out before the mountain dropped on her?
The only answer lay in Caesarea.
Where again blood would flow.
This time, with no Sanguinist to stop her.
17
October 26, 8:01 P.M., IST
Desert beyond Masada, Israel
“Korza?”
The soldier’s harsh and impatient voice broke through Rhun’s thoughts as he faced the desert, hidden in the depths of his hooded cassock. He struggled to hear over the wet, beckoning sound of the man’s heart.
“Turn around,” the soldier said, “or I will shoot you where you stand.”