Innocent Blood(136)

“This is Agmundr.”

The newcomer thumped a meaty fist against his chest and flashed a grin at Christian. He lifted his other arm proudly toward the smoking aircraft.

Christian sighed and shook his head. “So it looks like you trashed another helicopter. I thought I taught you better, Agmundr. It’s not a Viking warship. It’s a finely tuned piece of machinery.”

“It vexed me.” Agmundr’s voice rumbled out in a deep-throated Nordic accent. “Too slow.”

“Everything vexes you,” Christian scolded, but they grasped each other’s forearm in a warm shake, earning Christian a slap on the back that almost dropped him to his knees. Jordan liked this Agmundr.

Bernard indicated the other Sanguinist. “And this is Wingu.”

The woman was black and stood taller than Jordan. Up close now, he saw her gray braid was decorated with feathers and wound by a colorful bead tie. Her face was stern, pocked with tribal scarring, small dots across her cheeks.

She gave them a simple nod, but her dark eyes took in everything.

“We have little time for pleasantries,” Bernard said, scanning the skies behind him. “We must bring the boy to the book. If he can be healed here, perhaps he can bless it here.”

“It is a holy site,” Erin said. “Possibly holier than St. Peter’s.”

Bernard frowned at the crater.

“This is where Christ performed his first miracle,” Erin explained. “When he was a child.”

Wingu spoke in a deep whisper, “I can sense great holiness here.”

Bernard slowly nodded, clearly feeling something, too, but he straightened and motioned to Tommy. “Then let us see if the book can be blessed upon this ground.”

Bathory let Tommy join them, but she looked reluctant. Not that she could do anything about it. Though she could walk under this ash-shrouded sky, she was clearly drained by the sun overhead, or maybe it was the holiness underfoot. Either way, she must know she could not resist the Sanguinists gathered here, on holy ground that gave them strength.

Bathory studied the pictures as she stepped across the ribbon of art. Her interest finally drew Bernard’s attention to the same. He did a double take, then moved closer himself, turning in a circle, his gaze sweeping from panel to panel, as if he were speed-reading.

He turned to Arella. “This is the story you destroyed in Jerusalem.” He strode to the last panel, bending a knee to touch the sword depicted there. His voice was full of anguish. “Why did you keep this from me?”

“The world was not ready,” she explained simply.

“Who are you to judge what the world is ready for?” Bernard stood, moving toward Arella with a hand on the hilt of his own sword.

Jordan touched his rifle.

Rhun blocked Bernard. “Stand down, old friend. Leave the past to the past. We must now face the present and the future.”

“If we could’ve possessed such a weapon . . .” Bernard shook his head, as distraught as Jordan had ever seen him. “Imagine the suffering we could have spared the world.”

“And all you would’ve wreaked,” Arella said. “I walked the mosque after you left Jerusalem. I saw what your forces did in the name of God. You were not ready. The world was not ready.”

Rhun touched his pectoral cross. “We have no time for this,” he reminded them. “The sun will be setting in another hour.”

His words seemed to finally break through Bernard’s anger and anguish. “You are right.” He reached to his armor and removed the Blood Gospel again and held it out. “Please, my child. Before it’s too late. You must bless this book.”

Looking worried, Tommy took it. The book looked huge in his small hands. “This didn’t work last time. And remember, I’m not the First Angel.”

Bernard gave them a baffled look. It seemed the cardinal was suffering one long day of surprises, most of them bad. Jordan knew how that felt. “What does he mean?”

Erin ignored him. “Try anyway,” she urged the boy. “You can’t do any harm.”

“Okay,” Tommy said doubtfully. He opened the book and lifted his palm over the pages. “I, Thomas Bolar, bless this book.”

Everyone leaned forward, as if expecting a miracle.

Again nothing.

No golden light, no new words.

It seemed this blasted place had worn out its potential for miracles.



4:04 P.M.

“As Tommy said,” Erin offered, sensing the defeat among the Sanguinists, “he’s not the First Angel.”

“Then who is?” Bernard asked.

Erin knew she was missing something, but she felt as if she were struggling with a jigsaw puzzle in the dark, shifting pieces blindly. “Arella said Tommy carries the best of the First Angel inside him. So I think he’s still key to this puzzle.”