Elisabeta held his hand. Rhun had no doubt that she would kill anyone who tried to harm the boy. He remembered her fierce protectiveness of her own children, even while she murdered the children of others. Her loyalties were inexplicable to him.
Wind stirred her cloak and a shaft of filtered daylight fell upon her cheek. Rhun rushed toward her, but her skin did not burn. Evidently, there was enough foul ash shrouding the air to allow strigoi to walk under this dread sky.
He pictured the ash cloud circling the world, waking horrors long slumbering in crypts, graves, and other sunless places.
Elisabeta sensed this change, too, lifting her face to the gray sky. Even overcast with ash, it was the first daylight sky she had looked upon with her naked eyes in centuries. She examined it for a long moment before returning her attention to the wounded boy in the sand.
Bernard stepped to Tommy’s other side. He shed his suit jacket and unbuttoned his bloodstained white shirt, revealing his hidden armor. He unzipped a waterproof compartment over his heart and pulled free a simple leather-bound book.
Rhun gaped at what he held.
It was the Blood Gospel.
8:21 A.M.
Spotting the Gospel in Bernard’s hands, Erin knelt by the boy’s head. She sensed the centuries of prophecy weighing down upon his pale brow. Ash settled into his hair, still boyishly soft. More flakes landed on his cheeks and lips. She reached and wiped them away, leaving an iron-rust smudge across his skin.
He did not move under her touch, his breathing shallow and too slow.
Christian joined her.
“What’s wrong with him?” Erin asked. “In Stockholm, he recovered much more quickly. Why isn’t Tommy healing now?”
“I don’t know,” Bathory whispered softly, glancing at her, grief shining in her eyes, catching Erin by surprise at its depth. “But I heard Iscariot say that blade he used could slay angels. Even now, I hear his young heart continuing to fade. It must be something about that knife.”
The countess stroked hair back from the boy’s forehead.
Bernard dropped to a knee. “Let me put the Gospel in Tommy’s hands,” he said. “Perhaps its grace will save him.”
Bathory scowled at him. “You place your hope in another holy book, priest? Has the other served us so well?”
Still, the countess did not resist as Bernard drew the boy’s hands to his chest. Even she knew any hope was better than none at all.
Bernard reverentially placed the book into his hands. As leather touched skin, the cover glowed golden for a brief breath, then went dark.
Tommy’s eyelids fluttered open. “Mom . . . ?”
The countess leaned over him, a tear falling to the boy’s cheek. “It’s Elizabeth, my brave boy,” she said. “We are free.”
“Open the book, son,” Bernard urged. “And save the world.”
Prophecy echoed through Erin.
The trio of prophecy must bring the book to the First Angel for his blessing . . .
She stared from Rhun, to Jordan, to Bathory.
Tommy struggled to sit, to fulfill his role, too.
Bathory helped him up, letting his thin back lean against her side, treating him ever so gently.
Tommy settled the book in his lap and opened it to the first page. He leaned down weakly, struggling to read the ancient words in Greek found there.
“What does it say?” he asked hoarsely.
Erin recited the words for him. “A great War of the Heavens looms. For the forces of goodness to prevail, a Weapon must be forged of this Gospel written in my own blood. The trio of prophecy must bring the book to the First Angel for his blessing. Only thus may they secure salvation for the world.”
As they watched, waiting, ash fell on the opened pages.
Nothing else transpired.
Tommy looked up at the roiling sky, then out to the choppy leaden sea. “What else am I supposed to do?” he asked, sounding so lost and forlorn.
“You are the First Angel,” Rhun said softly. “You are destined to bless this book.”
Tommy blinked ash away from his long lashes, looking doubtfully at him. He turned to the one person he plainly trusted most.
To Bathory.
The countess wiped blood from his throat, revealing the wound was still present. Worry filled her voice, grasping for any hope. “It may be so.”
“I’m not an angel.” Tommy scowled. “There’s no such thing as angels.”
Bathory grinned at him, showing the barest points of sharp teeth. “If there are monsters in the world, why not angels?”
Tommy sighed, his eyes rolling a bit—not from disdain but growing weakness. He was clearly fading again.
Bathory touched a palm to his cheek. “Whether you believe or not, what harm is it to abide their wishes, to bless this accursed book?”