The judge of this contest stood beside the victor.
Rasputin lifted his arm in greeting toward her. “Welcome, Dr. Granger! About time you joined us!”
The monk looked the same as always, in a simple black robe that draped below his knees. From his neck hung a prominent Orthodox cross, in gold instead of the Sanguinist’s silver. His shoulder-length hair looked oily in the dim light, but his light blue eyes stood out, dancing with amusement.
She met his gaze defiantly as she crossed toward them.
He clapped bare white hands, the sound too loud for the quiet space. “Alas, it seems you have come in second, my dear Erin. It was close, I must say.”
Bathory gave her a cold triumphant smile, here again proving she was the true Woman of Learning.
Rasputin continued, turning to Jordan. “But what is that clever expression, Sergeant Stone? Close only counts with hand grenades?”
“Or horseshoes,” Jordan added. “Which is this?”
Rasputin laughed, deep from his belly.
Rhun scowled. “We did not come here to play games, Grigori. You promised us the First Angel. As Bernard agreed, your home in St. Petersburg—the Church of the Savior on Spilled Blood—will be reconsecrated by the pope himself. His Holiness will also give you a full pardon and rescind your excommunication. If you wish, you may take the vows of a Sanguinist again and—”
“Why would I want that?” Rasputin said, cutting him off. “An eternity of pious suffering.”
Bathory tilted her head. “Indeed.”
Erin kept back, ignoring Rhun and Rasputin as their argument grew more heated. The masterful sculpture captured her attention. Closer now, she saw the expression of anguish on that white face, as if this winged creature had been cast from the heavens to land atop this plinth, banished to this earthly realm.
It was horrible and beautiful at the same time.
Rhun continued. “You may return to St. Petersburg knowing that your soul has been forgiven by the Church. But you must first deliver us the boy, Grigori.”
“But I brought you what I promised,” Rasputin said, waving toward the statue. “A beautiful angel.”
“We did not ask for this mockery of holiness,” Rhun said, taking a threatening step toward Rasputin, stirring the handful of strigoi who gathered at the room’s edges.
“So are you then saying you don’t want my gift?” Rasputin asked. “Are you declining my generous offer and breaking our bargain?”
Something in the monk’s eyes went dark, hinting at a danger, a trap.
Oblivious to this, too angered to note it, Rhun began to tell Rasputin where he could shove this frozen angel.
Erin cut him off. “We want it!” she called out before Rhun could say otherwise.
Rasputin turned to her, his face going hard, angry.
Erin moved to the statue, beginning to fathom the level of the monk’s cruelty. She took off her gloves and touched the angel’s foot. Frost melted under the warm fingertips. She wiped her palm up the statue’s leg, wiping away more of the surface to reveal the clear ice underneath.
She brought up her flashlight, shining the beam of her light into the heart of the clear sculpture. She swore and stared daggers at Rasputin.
“What is it?” Jordan asked.
She shifted aside to show him, to show them all.
Through the space she had cleared, a bare human leg shone within the ice.
A boy’s leg.
A boy who could not die.
Even if frozen.
With her stomach heaving, she whirled to face Rasputin. “You froze him inside a block of ice and carved a statue out of him.”
Rasputin shrugged, as if this were the most natural thing to do. “He is an angel, so of course I gave him wings.”
9:24 P.M.
Jordan pointed to the statue and grabbed Christian by the arm. “Help me! We need to get that kid free!”
The boy must be in agony.
Frozen to death, but unable to die.
Together, they rammed their shoulders at the statue’s midsection. It toppled backward off the plinth and crashed to the snow. A crack shattered down the torso. Erin joined them, dropping to her knees. They worked to clear the ice from the frozen form, each taking a side, pulling and breaking away chunks of ice.
Jordan removed a piece from the boy’s chest, taking some of his skin with it.
He prayed the boy slept in this icy slumber, trying not to picture the kid being dropped into cold water, sealed there, drowning as the ice formed around him. He could only imagine the suffering.
Erin worked very gently on his face, exposing his cheeks, his eyelids, cracking ice from his hair. His lips and the tip of his nose had split, leaking blood and freezing again.
Rasputin looked on, his arms crossed. “Of course, this presents a problem,” he said. “The countess reached the center of the maze first, but Erin found the angel. So then who is the winner?”