Innocent Blood(141)
Jordan felt bad for the damned creature. It hadn’t asked to be turned into what it was. But pity only brought you so much mercy.
He kept firing.
Agmundr faced the second lion, dancing before it, both adversaries looking for a weakness—then a massive jackal barreled into the Viking, blindsiding him, sinking powerful teeth into his thigh.
Jordan shot the beast in the shoulder, but it didn’t even flinch.
Growling, Agmundr fell to the sand and rolled onto his back. The jackal released its hold of his thick leg and lunged for his throat. Jordan fired at its face—only to find his weapon empty.
Screw it . . .
He rushed forward with his gun raised, ready to use it as a club. Before he could bring it down, snapping jaws darted under Agmundr’s sword. Yellow teeth ripped deep into the Viking’s throat.
Agmundr bucked once from the assault—then went limp, as the jackal ripped upward, taking out the man’s entire throat.
Cold blood splashed Jordan’s arm.
He fell back.
The jackal turned toward him, blood and slather dripping from its gray muzzle onto the gold sand. Its massive haunches bunched—then it sprang straight at him.
His entire world became yellow fangs and a terrifying howl.
4:36 P.M.
Rhun spun to Jordan’s defense. From the corner of an eye, he had watched Agmundr fall, and the soldier leap to help—only to face the same jaws that took the mighty Viking’s life.
Rhun slammed into the huge jackal’s side. Its jaws snapped shut less than an inch from Jordan’s face. The beast skidded in the sand, sliding around to face him, nails digging through sand to scratch the glass beneath.
Rhun held his bloody karambit in front of him and prayed for the strength to protect the others. The very air was full of blood as Christian, Bernard, and Wingu continued their dance among the dark horde. The crimson mist sang to his own blood, begging him to drink lustily from that font.
Rhun held his breath against it.
Across from him, the jackal’s angry red eyes locked onto his. Gray hair bristled down the scruff of its hunched neck. A snarl revealed yellow teeth set in a powerful jaw.
As it lunged, Rhun kept firm in the sand and thrust out his arm, ramming his karambit between the pointed teeth and deep into the creature’s mouth. With all the force that he could muster, he drove his blade up through the roof and into its brain—then yanked his hand out.
The beast collapsed, black blood frothing from its mouth to stain the sand. Its front paws scratched at its jaws, whimpering from the pain.
Pity rose in Rhun at the sight of one of God’s creatures turned into such a suffering monstrosity. Finally, that crimson glow dulled to a sightless brown, as the beast was freed of its curse.
Rhun had no time to rejoice in its release.
A heavy force bore him to the sand from behind, slamming his face into the jackal’s dark blood. Claws raked his back, shredding through his armor and skin, a long claw catching on his rib.
Rhun screamed—as a lion roared in triumph atop him.
52
December 20, 4:37 P.M. EET
Siwa, Egypt
Panicked, Tommy floundered in the flooded cavern. He clutched both hands over his mouth. Unable to stop himself, he convulsed a lung full of water into his body, setting his chest on fire. His arms and legs kicked out blindly, striking the sides of the cavern as his body fought to expel that fire, to cough, to gag. But there was nothing to replace it but more water.
He fought until he could fight no more and hung motionless.
Drowned.
But he was the boy who could not die.
His lungs ached, but they no longer struggled to force out the water. He opened his eyes again and stared around him, wanting to cry.
Knowing now he would not die, he searched the cavern.
The woman must have drawn him down here for some reason.
He remembered her pointing him to the cave.
Why?
The source of the cavern’s light rose from an upwelling of glass in the room’s center, like a miniature volcano. It was so bright that he had to shield his eyes against it. Still, he spotted something silver at its heart.
He leaned deeper into that glow, able now to make out a foot or two of thin silver sticking out of the block, topped by a wider, shielded hilt. He noted the grip was indented, for fingers to clutch it firmly.
His right hand reached to do just that—then he remembered the story above, of Archangel Michael’s sword. He looked closer and could even make out the long notch along one side, where a shard had been chipped from it.
His other hand rose to his neck, remembering that pain.
He reached a single finger and touched the round knob at the hilt’s end. As his skin brushed the metal, power fired through him, like touching a raw electric wire—only it left him feeling stronger. He felt like he could shatter mountains with his fists.