Rhun squeezed his old friend’s shoulder, knowing there would always be a gulf between them. Grigori was too angry at God, too wounded in the past by His servants on Earth. They could never fully make amends between them, but for this night, they would part as best they could.
Grigori watched Jordan walk away. “In the end, maybe I did see the hand of God.”
The monk’s face turned slightly toward Rhun, his cheeks stained with tears.
With a final squeeze of farewell, Rhun departed and slammed the door. The van took off down the street, abandoning them to the night.
A step away, Christian held Nadia’s covered head against his shoulder as if she slept, one palm cradling the back of her neck.
Rhun, too, had fought many battles at her side. In many ways, she had been the strongest among them, not plagued by doubt. Her dedication to her purpose was fierce and unyielding. Her loss—as both a Sanguinist and a friend—was incalculable.
“We should get off the street,” Jordan warned.
Rhun nodded, and Christian headed for the side of the church, passing under the skeletal limbs of winter-bare trees. Rhun tilted his head to look up at the windows of the cathedral. The church inside was ever a beautiful space, with whitewashed ceilings and redbrick archways. Their prayers for Nadia would find a proper home here.
At the rear of the cathedral, facing a featureless wall, Rhun went through the ritual, cutting his palm and opening the secret Sanguinist door. He remembered Nadia doing the same half a day ago, neither of them knowing it would be her last time.
Christian hurried inside and down the dark steps.
Jordan clicked on a flashlight and followed. Erin held the soldier’s hand with an easy intimacy. Rhun remembered listening to her heart, gauging the bottomless depth of her grief. Yet, against all expectations, Jordan had been returned to her.
Envy flashed through Rhun. Centuries ago, he had once lost his love, but when she was restored to him, she had been forever changed.
For him, there was no going back.
Rhun entered the secret chapel below. Like the church above, it had a vaulted ceiling, painted a serene blue centuries ago, to remind the Sanguinists of the sky, of God’s grace restored to them. To either side, red bricks lined the walls from floor to ceiling. Ahead, the simple altar contained a picture of Lazarus rising from the dead with a resplendent Christ in front of him.
Passing ahead, Rhun smoothed the altar cloth, then Christian placed Nadia’s remains gently atop it, keeping her wrapped. They prayed over her. With her death, all unholiness had finally fled her.
In death, she was free.
Erin and Jordan also bowed their heads during these last prayers, their hands clasped. Grief sounded in each breath, each heartbeat, as they mourned her, too.
Once finished, Christian stepped back from the altar. “We must go.”
“We’re not staying here?” Jordan asked, sounding exhausted.
“We cannot risk it,” Christian said. “If we hope to rescue the boy, we should keep moving.”
Rhun agreed, reminding them, “Someone within the Church remains a traitor. We dare not stay in any one place too long. Especially here.”
“What about Nadia’s body?” Erin asked.
“The local priests will understand,” Rhun assured her. “They will see to it that she is returned to Rome.”
Rhun bowed his head a final time to honor her, then left her cold body alone on the altar and followed the others out.
He must look to the living now.
31
December 19, 11:03 P.M. CET
Stockholm, Sweden
Erin walked down a well-lit street, heading away from the shelter and warmth of the cathedral. Snow fell more thickly now, shrinking the world around her. Flakes soon dusted her hair, her shoulders. A few inches had accumulated underfoot.
A handful of cars flowed along the street at this late hour, tires rumbling over cobblestones, headlights poking holes through falling snow.
She kept a firm grip on Jordan—both to keep from slipping on the icy pavement and to make sure she was not dreaming. As they walked, she watched the warm breath huffing from his lips, turning white in the cold air.
Less than an hour ago, he had been dead—no breath and no heartbeat.
She studied Jordan sidelong.
Her logical mind struggled to understand this miracle, to put it into scientific context, to understand the rules. But for now, she simply held tight to him, grateful that he was warm and alive.
Rhun walked on the other side of her. He looked beaten down, weaker than even the recent loss of blood could explain. She could guess why. Bathory had done a great deal of damage to him—and not only to his body. He still clearly loved her, and the countess seemed intent on using those feelings to hurt him.