Bernard gripped his shoulder. “Please, try.”
Tommy gave a defeated shake of his head and lifted a palm over the open pages of the Gospel. His hand trembled with even this small effort. “I bless . . . this book.”
Again they waited as ash fell, and the ground still trembled.
No miracle presented itself. No golden light, no new words.
Uneasiness rose in Erin.
They had missed something—but what?
Jordan frowned. “Maybe he needs to say some special prayer.”
Christian surveyed the blasted landscape. “Or maybe it’s this cursed place.”
Bernard stiffened and grasped Christian’s arm in thanks. “Of course! The Blood Gospel could only be transfigured above the holy bones of Peter in St. Peter’s Basilica. We must take the boy to Rome. Only there must the book be blessed!”
Tommy suddenly slumped against the countess, his brief strength blowing out like a spent candle. A drop of blood rolled from his wound, still unhealed.
“He will never make it to Rome,” Bathory said. “I can barely sense his heartbeat.”
Rhun glanced at Erin, confirming this.
A small sigh drew Erin’s attention past her shoulder, to where Arella lay in the sand. The woman had rolled to her side, but now fell again to her back, but not before her eyes glowed at Erin, full of the same sadness seen in the drawing, the same sorrow as she had looked upon Iscariot.
Erin understood that message, the one not heeded by Judas.
You are wrong.
As if the sibyl knew she was understood, her eyes finally closed, and her body went slack.
Worried, Erin shifted next to her and took her hand, finding it warm. She noted damp sand covering her fingertips. A glance to her side—where Arella had been leaning—revealed a symbol drawn in the sand.
It was a torch—hastily drawn, shaded with the ash, depicting a bundle of rushes, bound and set aflame.
Behind her, Bernard said, “We can bandage the boy here, put pressure on his wound en route. He will . . . he must survive the flight to Rome.”
Christian pointed to a second helicopter parked on the beach. It must have been brought in by the cardinal’s reinforcements. “I’ll grab the first-aid kit. There should be enough fuel in that chopper to make it to Vatican City. It’s no more than an hour’s flight. Once in the air, I’ll alert the doctors on staff to be ready for us.”
Bathory scoffed. “The boy bears no natural wound. It cannot be cured through your modern medicines.”
For once, Erin found herself agreeing with the countess. Even without Tommy’s healing powers, the wound should have begun to clot.
She considered the symbol again.
You are all wrong.
As Christian ran for the first-aid kit, Bernard tried pouring consecrated wine onto the wound, murmuring Latin prayers. He wiped it clean with his sleeve.
Blood welled up, flowing thicker now.
Erin noted a faint golden glow, only evident because of the gloom. Perhaps it marked his special angelic essence, the miracle that sustained his life, the same miracle that possibly saved Jordan in Stockholm.
“You do not know what you are doing,” Bathory said, pushing Bernard’s hands off the boy. She pointed to Arella. “She carried that blade that cut him. She must know more about it. Wake her.”
Erin tried, shaking the woman’s shoulder, but she got no response.
“We must remove the boy from these cursed sands and take him to Rome,” Bernard demanded as Christian returned. “There we will save him.”
Erin flashed to Arella’s earlier warning.
Neither you nor the priests can save the boy. Only I can.
Erin turned to Bernard and voiced aloud what she grew to believe. “You are all wrong.”
As if hearing her own message spoken aloud, Arella stirred. Her arm weakly flopped to Tommy, to his bloody throat. With her touch, a drop of blood stopped welling up from his wound. It hovered there. Then those fingers slipped away, and the drop swelled and rolled down his pale skin.
“She can heal him,” Erin insisted.
Bathory nodded. “It is an angelic weapon that pierced him. It will take an angel to heal him.”
“How?” Bernard asked.
Erin stared at the symbol, knowing it was important. The woman wouldn’t have drawn it without purpose. The sibyl never drew anything that was not important. She pictured the sketch found in Iscariot’s safe.
“A torch!” Erin drew the others to her and pointed to the sand. “It was one of the five symbols depicted on the drawing, representing the five sibyls.”
“What of it?” Bernard asked as Christian returned.
“She’s trying to tell us where to go, how to heal him. The flaming torch is the symbol for the Libyan Sibyl, another of the seers who prophesied the coming of Christ. According to the mythology of that area, the waters are said to have miraculous healing properties. Some believe Christ stayed there with Mary and Joseph after fleeing Herod’s slaughter.”