She cupped his face in her palms, wanting to both cry and laugh.
Rhun helped pull Jordan into a sitting position. He felt for the exit wound in Jordan’s back. Then simply shook his head when he found nothing.
“A miracle,” Rhun breathed.
Jordan looked dazedly to her for an explanation for all the commotion.
Words failed her.
Rasputin spoke. “It must have been the touch of the First Angel. It was the boy’s blood.”
Erin pictured Tommy placing his bloody hand on Jordan’s chest.
Could it be?
Sirens reached the square, blue and white lights flashing beyond the wall. Shouts could be heard in the distance.
Rhun helped Jordan to his feet. “Can you stand?”
Jordan rose with little effort, shivering and pulling on his jacket, staring down at his bloody shirt with a confused expression. “Why shouldn’t I be able to stand?”
He clearly had no memory of getting shot.
Rhun pointed for the exit that lay farthest from the sirens and lights. “We must go.”
Rasputin nodded, moving forward in that direction. “I know the path out. I have a car not far.”
Christian hiked Nadia’s body up, ready to run with her.
Seeing her prostrate form in the young Sanguinist’s arms, Erin’s joy ebbed. Rather than succumbing to grief, she took firm hold of the anger inside her. She glared down at the broken moths in the snow. Determined to better understand her enemy, to turn grief into purpose, she bent and scooped up several of the broken moths, dumping them into the pocket of her grimwolf jacket.
As she bent for a last moth, Erin looked with sorrow at the destruction left in Iscariot’s wake. The bodies of the strigoi were beyond recognition, a mystery that would haunt Stockholm for some time. Peering that way, she noted something discarded in the snow a yard away, something dark. She crossed to it and discovered a package wrapped in oilcloth. She scooped it up and tucked it into her inner jacket.
As she straightened, fingers gripped her arm, as hard as iron.
Rhun tugged her toward the exit, as shouts of the police grew louder behind her. He herded Jordan along with her. Reaching the archway of ice, he pushed them both into the maze.
“Run!”
10:23 P.M.
Snow crunched under Rhun’s feet. He listened to Erin’s and Jordan’s heartbeats as they ran. Steady and strong, faster because of the exertion.
Jordan’s heart sounded like any other. But Rhun knew he had heard it stop. He had listened to the silence of his death. He had known that stilled heart would never beat again—but it had.
It was a true miracle.
He pictured the boy’s face, the First Angel, imagining such grace, to bring the dead back to life. Did the boy know he held such power? Rhun knew such a miracle must ultimately come from the will of God. Was this resurrection a sign that the trio truly served His will?
But who were the trio?
He studied Erin’s back, while recalling Elisabeta’s departure. She had not even looked back when she walked away. Still, he knew he had earned that desertion.
Finally, the exit loomed. They fled the massive ice palace for the dark tangle of streets beyond. Grigori led them to a blue minivan parked in a deserted alleyway. They piled through the doors from all sides.
Grigori took the wheel and sped out into the dark city.
Christian leaned forward from the backseat. “Take us to the Church of St. Nicholas. We should be safe there for a short time.”
“I will drop you off there,” Grigori said, dull with the shock of his loss. “I have my own rooms.”
In the rearview mirror, Grigori’s shadowy blue eyes met Rhun’s, apology shining there along with profound grief. Rhun wanted to lash out at the monk, for laying this trap, but his old friend had also saved him a moment ago, using the favor owed him to spare Rhun’s life. In the end, there was no worse punishment than what the monk had already suffered inside that maze.
A few turns later, the minivan pulled to a stop in front of Stockholm’s cathedral: the Church of St. Nicholas. The structure was simpler than the churches of Rome, built in a brick gothic style. Four streetlamps cast golden light against the yellow sides. Arched windows were set deep in the stone, flanking a large rosette of stained glass in the middle.
Rhun waited while everyone else exited. Once he was alone, he leaned forward and touched Grigori on the shoulder. “I am sorry for all you lost today. I will pray for their souls.”
Grigori nodded his thanks, glancing to Alexei. The monk gripped the boy’s small hand as if afraid of losing him, too.
“I did not think he would show himself,” Grigori whispered. “In person.”
Rhun pictured Iscariot’s cold countenance.
“I only wished to challenge God,” the monk said. “To see His hand in action by casting all into chaos by my own hand. To see if He would make it right.”