Soon, she promised him.

But first she had a duty in Caesarea. She pictured the archaeologist waving her cell phone in the tomb. She had recognized that look on the woman's face: excitement mixed with desperation. The archaeologist knew something.

I'm sure of it.

But what? A clue about the book's whereabouts? If so, had she been able to transmit that information out before the mountain dropped on her?

The only answer lay in Caesarea.

Where again blood would flow.

This time, with no Sanguinist to stop her.

17.

October 26, 8:01 P.M., IST Desert beyond Masada, Israel "Korza?"

The soldier's harsh and impatient voice broke through Rhun's thoughts as he faced the desert, hidden in the depths of his hooded cassock. He struggled to hear over the wet, beckoning sound of the man's heart.

"Turn around," the soldier said, "or I will shoot you where you stand."

The woman's heart beat faster now, too. "Jordan! You can't just shoot him."

Rhun considered allowing the sergeant to do just that. It would be easier. But when had his path ever been easy?

He faced them, showing them his true nature.

The woman stumbled back.

The soldier kept his gun leveled at Rhun's chest.

He knew what they must see: his face darkened by blood, his body locked in shadows, his teeth the only brightness in the moonlight.

He felt the beast within him sing, a howl struggling to break free. Soaked in blood, he fought against releasing that beast; fought equally against running into the desert to hide his shame. Instead, he simply lifted his arms straight out from his body at shoulder level. They needed to see that he was weaponless as much as they needed to see the truth.

Transfixed, the woman controlled her initial terror. "Rhun, you are strigoi, too."

"Never. I am Sanguinist. Not strigoi."

The soldier scoffed, never letting his weapon waver. "Looks the same from here."

For them to understand, he knew he must debase himself still further. He hated the mere thought of it, but he saw no other way for them to leave the desert alive.

"Please, bring me my wine," he asked.

His fingers trembled with longing as his arm stretched for the flask half buried in sand.

The woman bent to pick it up.

"Throw it to him," the soldier ordered. "Don't get close."

She did as she was told, her amber eyes wide. The flask landed an arm's length away on the sand.

"May I retrieve it?"

"Slowly." The soldier's weapon stayed fixed; plainly he would not flinch from his duty.

Nor would Rhun. Keeping his eyes on the soldier, he knelt. As soon as his fingers touched the flask, he felt calmer, the bloodlust waning. The wine might yet save them all.

Rhun stared up at the others. "May I walk into the desert and drink it? Afterward, I will explain all."

Please, he prayed. Please leave me this last bit of dignity.

It was not to be.

"Stay right there," the soldier warned. "On your knees."

"Jordan, why can't-"

The soldier cut her off. "You are still under my command, Dr. Granger."

Emotions flickered across her face, ending with resignation. Clearly, she did not trust Rhun either. It surprised him how much that hurt.

Raising the flask to his lips, he emptied it in one long swallow. As always, the wine stung his throat, flaming all the way down. He fastened both hands to the cross around his neck and bowed his head.

The heat of the consecrated wine, of Christ's blood, burned away the ropes that bound him to this time, to this place. Unmoored and beyond his control, he fell back to his greatest sins, never able to escape until his penance in this world was complete.

Elisabeta swept through her gardens in her crimson gown, laughing, as bright as the morning's sun, the most brilliant rose among all the blooms.

So beautiful, so full of life.

Though he was a priest, sworn to avoid the touch of flesh, nothing forbid him from looking upon the beauty of God shining forth in the pale glimpse of tender flesh at her ankle as she bent to clip a sprig of lavender, or the curve of her soft cheek when she straightened to stare skyward, her gaze ever on the Heavens.

How she loved the sun-whether it be the warmth of a summer afternoon or merely the cold promise of a bright winter's day.

She continued across the garden now, gathering lavender and thyme to make a poultice for her mare, all the while instructing him on the uses of each. In the months since he had known her, he had learned much about medicinal plants. He had even begun to write a book on the subject, hoping to share her gifts as a healer with the world.

She brushed his palm with her soft fingertips as she handed him stalks of lavender. A thrill surged through his body. A priest should not feel such a thing, but he did not move away. He stepped closer, admiring the sunlight on her jet-black hair, the sweep of her long white neck down to her creamy shoulders, and the curves of her soft silk gown.

Elisabeta's maidservant held up the basket for the lavender. The wisp of a girl turned her head to the side to hide the raspberry-colored birthmark that covered half her face.

"Anna, take the basket back to the kitchen and empty it," Elisabeta instructed, dropping in one more sprig of thyme.

Anna retreated across the field, struggling under the heavy load. Rhun would have helped the small girl carry such a burden, but Elisabeta would never allow it, considering it not his place.

Elisabeta watched her maid leave. Once they were alone, she turned to Rhun, her face now even brighter-if that were possible.

"A moment's peace!" she exclaimed gladly. "It is so lonely with my servants constantly around me."

Rhun, who often chose to spend days alone in dark prayer, understood all too well the loneliness of false company.

She smiled at him. "But not you, Father Korza. I never feel lonely in your company."

He could not hold her gaze. Turning away, he knelt and cut a stalk of lavender.

"Don't you ever tire of it, Father Korza? Always wearing a mask?" She adjusted her wide-brimmed hat. She always took great pains to keep sunlight from her fair skin. Women of her station must not look as if they needed to work in the sun.

"I wear a mask?" He kept his face impassive. If she knew all that he hid, she would run away screaming.

"Of course. You wear the mask of priest. But I must wear many masks, too many for one face to bear easily. Lady, mother, and wife. And others still." She turned a heavy gold ring around and around on her finger, a gift from her husband, Ferenc. "But what is under all of those masks, I wonder."

"Everything else, I suppose."

"But how much truth ... how much of our true nature can we conceal, Father?" Her low voice sent a shiver down his spine. "And from whom?"

He studied the shadow she cast on the field next to him and mumbled as if in prayer, "We conceal what we must."

Her shadow retreated a pace, perhaps because she was unhappy with his answer-a thought that crushed him as surely as if she ground him under that well-turned heel.

The dark shape of a hawk floated across the field. He listened to its quick heartbeat above and the faint heartbeats of mice below. His service to the Church, the verdant field, the bright sun, the blooming flowers ... all were bounteous gifts, given freely by God to one as lowly as himself.

Should that not be enough?

She smoothed her hands down the front of her dress. "You are wise, Father. An aristocrat who lowers his mask does not survive long in these times."

He stood. "What is it that troubles you so?"

"Perhaps I am simply weary of the intrigues." Her eyes followed the hawk as it fell. "Surely the Church struggles amidst the same cauldron of ambitions, both great and small?"

He touched his pectoral cross with one fingertip. "Bernard shields me from the worst, I think."

"Never trust those who would be your shield. They feed on your ignorance and darkness. It is best to look at things directly and be unafraid."

He offered her some consolation. "Perhaps it is best to trust those who would shield you. If they do it out of love, to protect you."

"Spoken like a man. And a priest. But I have learned to trust very few." She tilted her head thoughtfully. "Except I trust you, Father Korza."

"I am a priest, so you must trust me." He offered her a shy smile.

"I trust no other priests. Including your precious Bernard. But you are different." She placed her hand on his arm, and he savored the touch. "You are simply a friend. A friend where I have so very few."

"I am honored, my lady." He stepped back and bowed, an exaggerated gesture to lighten the mood.

She smiled indulgently. "As you should be, Father."

They both laughed at her tone.

"Here comes Anna, returned again. Tell me once more about the time you had a footrace with your brother and how you both ended up in the stream with fish in your boots."

He told her the story, embellishing it with more details than he had in the last telling to make her laugh.

They had happy times, with much laughter.

Until, one day, she had stopped laughing.

The day that he betrayed her.

The day he betrayed God.

Back in his body, where cold sand pressed against his knees, dry wind chased tears from his cheeks. His silver cross had burned through his glove and left a scarlet welt on his palms. His shoulders bowed under the weight of his sins, his failures. He tightened his grip on the searing metal.

"Rhun?" A woman's voice spoke his name.

He raised his head, half expecting to see Elisabeta. The soldier watched him with suspicion, but the woman's eyes held only pity.

He fixed his eyes on the soldier. He found the man's hard gaze easier to bear.

"Time to start explaining," the soldier said, training his weapon on Rhun's heart-as if that had not been destroyed long ago.

8:08 P.M.

"Jordan, look at his teeth ... they're normal again."

Amazed, Erin stepped forward, wanting to examine the miraculous transformation, to understand what her mind still refused to believe.

Jordan blocked her with a muscled arm.

She didn't resist.

Despite her curiosity as a scientist, Rhun still scared her.

The priest's voice came out shaky, his Slavic accent thicker, as if he'd returned from a long distance, from a place where his native tongue was still spoken. "Thank you ... for your patience."

"Don't expect that patience to last," Jordan said, not unfriendly, just certain.

Erin pushed Jordan's arm down, willing to listen, but she didn't step forward. "You said that you were 'Sanguinist,' not strigoi. What does that mean?"

Rhun looked out to the dark desert for that answer. "Strigoi are wild, feral creatures. Born of murder and bloodshed, they serve no one but themselves."

"And the Sanguinists?"