The priest took the last open seat, directly across from theirs. Hidden within a hooded cassock, Korza's neighbor leaned to whisper in his ear. Jordan didn't understand the words, but he could tell the speaker was a woman. That surprised him. Was she human? Or did the Church recruit female strigoi to the fold of the Sanguinists?

After that, no one spoke.

The others sat still as statues, which Jordan found more disturbing than if they had been racing at double speed.

As the helicopter roared and rose from the desert in a flurry of sand, he tried to think about anything besides Erin's warm body tucked against his. At first, she had struggled to keep as much space between them as possible, but she soon gave up on that, trapped together by the harness. As the helicopter droned onward through the night, she eventually relaxed into sleep, too exhausted to resist.

Her head came to rest against his shoulder, and he shifted to the side so that it wouldn't fall forward. It had been far too long since a beautiful woman had fallen asleep on him. Her blond hair had escaped its rubber band and spilled to her shoulders. This close, he noted the lighter strands woven through the richer honey, likely bleached white by her time digging under the sun.

He wanted to trace a finger along one of those strands, as if following a thread in a larger tapestry, trying to understand the warp and weft that made up this woman at his side. Erin had been through a lot in the past few hours. He intended to get her out of this mess and home safely. He had to. He'd failed everyone else under his command.

Better shut down that alley.

Instead, he turned his attention to the wound on her tanned thigh. Though it was not deep, the puckered edges were a nasty red and dusted with sand. Moving slowly so as not to wake her, he pulled out his tiny first-aid kit.

Freeing an antiseptic wipe, he gently cleaned the wound, keeping his touch soft, moving slowly. Still, she moaned in her sleep.

Every Sanguinist looked in her direction.

With a chill, Jordan moved his free hand toward his dagger and rested his palm there.

"Do not fear us," Korza whispered, his face hidden again inside his hood. "You are quite safe."

Jordan didn't bother to answer.

And he didn't move his hand.

9:02 P.M.

Erin's head jolted forward, snapping her awake. Deafened by the roar of the helicopter, she found herself looking into an amazing pair of eyes, light blue with a darker ring around the edge of the iris. The eyes smiled at her. She smiled back before she realized that they belonged to Jordan.

She had fallen asleep on his shoulder and woken up smiling at him.

A married man.

In a helicopter full of priests.

With her face burning, she straightened in her seat and shifted in the harness to create an inch of space between them. She could almost hear her mother's disappointed sigh and feel the back of her father's hand.

She turned to the window, the only safe place to look while her cheeks lost their embarrassed blush. Beyond the window, the lights of a city blazed ahead, drowning out the stars. A golden dome shone brightly amid the urban sprawl.

"Looks like we're coming into Jerusalem," she said.

"How can you tell?" he asked, probably trying to rescue her from her embarrassment.

She accepted his offer. "That dark mountain to the east is the Mount of Olives. An important historical site to all three major religions: Judaism, Islam, and Christianity. And it's said that's where Jesus supposedly ascended to Heaven."

A few of the Sanguinists stirred at the word supposedly, clearly offended, but she kept going.

"The Book of Zechariah says that during the Apocalypse it will split in two."

"Great, let's hope that doesn't happen anytime soon. I've had enough mountains splitting in two for one day." Jordan pointed toward that glowing golden dome she'd noted earlier. "What's that one?"

"That's the Dome of the Rock. It sits atop the Temple Mount." She shifted to give Jordan a better view out the window. "Around it you can see the wall of the Old City. It's like a ribbon of light, see? To the north is the Muslim quarter. South and west is the Jewish quarter with the famous Western Wall."

"The Wailing Wall?"

"That's right."

He leaned forward, and his body slid along hers.

She glanced across at the priests, their expressions invisible behind their hoods. Except for Rhun, whose face reflected the city's shine as the helicopter banked into a turn. His impassive dark eyes watched her.

A blush rose again on her face, and she turned back to the view. What must Rhun think of her? What must he think of the view? She tried to picture the sight through the prism of eyes that had been open for centuries. Had Rhun been on the Temple Mount when Mahmud II restored it in 1817? She shivered at the thought-fearful, but also with a touch of awe.

"Are you cold?" Jordan reached over and adjusted his jacket across her other shoulder.

"I'm f-fine," she stuttered breathlessly. She was actually too warm. Her proximity to Jordan did unpredictable things to her body temperature. For the past decade, she had kept too busy to allow herself to be attracted to a man. It was just her luck that she was now strapped to one who was both damnably attractive-and married.

"Thank you for the jacket."

"We will land soon." Rhun's quiet voice claimed their attention.

"Where?" Jordan leaned a tiny bit away from her, and she missed the warmth of his body against hers. She glanced down at the strip of white skin on his ring finger.

Evidence. Always take into consideration the evidence before reacting.

Now if only she could convince her body to do the same.

"We must blindfold you both," Rhun warned, his expression never changing.

Jordan sat straighter. The harness tugged against her shoulder. "What? So we're your prisoners now?"

"Guests," Rhun answered.

"I don't blindfold my guests." Jordan folded his arms. "Seems downright inhospitable."

"Nevertheless ..." Rhun unclipped his harness.

The priest next to him passed over two strips of black cloth.

Jordan's leg went rock-hard next to hers. His feet pressed solidly against the floor. He seemed ready to take on the Sanguinists with nothing but his fists and his indignation.

She touched his hand. "This isn't the time, Jordan."

He looked at her, as if suddenly remembering that she was there. He studied her for a long moment before nodding.

Rhun stood, balancing nimbly in the moving aircraft. He tied on Jordan's blindfold first, then wrapped black cloth over her eyes. His cold fingers tied the knot behind Erin's head, working gently with her hair. After he finished, he left his palm flat against the back of her head for a second longer than necessary, as if to comfort her.

She then heard him retreat and the snap as he buckled back into his seat.

A hand found hers and gripped it tightly. Jordan's palm burned warmly in hers as he, too, sought to reassure her. His message here was plain.

Whatever was to come, they were in this together.

20.

October 26, 9:13 P.M., IST Jerusalem, Israel Rhun helped the soldier and the woman out of the aircraft, passing under the whirling blades. He herded them off the helipad atop a building, down a series of stairs, and out onto a narrow street. All the while, the soldier kept a firm clasp on the woman's hand.

Despite their brave faces, Rhun heard the frightened flutter of their hearts, smelled the salt of their fear, and noted the sheen of their skin. He did his best to shelter them from the others, to leave enough space for both. He refused to entrust them to any of his brethren-not that he feared that anyone would harm them. He simply felt protective of them, responsible for them.

He watched them lean closer together on the streets.

Erin and Jordan.

At some point, they went from being an archaeologist and a soldier in his mind's eye to being simply Erin and Jordan. He didn't like that growing familiarity. It created bonds when there should be none. He had learned that hard truth centuries ago.

Never again.

He turned away.

Out on the street and moving again, Rhun breathed the nighttime scents of the old city-soot, cold rock, and fouling garbage from the bazaar. The other Sanguinists surrounded the trio. Rhun hoped that their presence would keep the blindfolded humans hidden from curious eyes.

So far, nothing had stirred on the dark avenue, the shops remained shuttered, the lights dark. He listened for nearby heartbeats in the cramped alleyways and cross streets that made up the maze of this quarter of the city. He found nothing amiss, but he still pressed them to move faster. He worried that they could be seen at any time.

After a few minutes, the group reached a rough-hewn stone wall where a robed man waited, tapping his leather shoe on the sidewalk, both impatient and nervous. The figure was as short as he was round. His face had a reddish cast, as did his bald pate.

Like a vulture.

Rhun knew the man-Father Ambrose-and cared little to find him here, guarding the gateway.

Ambrose stepped forward both to greet them, and to block them. His eyes ignored Rhun and the other Sanguinists and fixed a steely gaze upon Erin and Jordan. His words were terse enough to be considered rude.

"You may share nothing concerning what you see beyond this gate. Not with your family, not with your superiors in the military."

Still blindfolded, Jordan dug in his heels and stopped, pulling Erin to a halt beside him. "I'm not taking orders from someone I can't see."

Rhun understood the man's consternation and whipped off the two blindfolds before Ambrose could protest. The pair had already seen and been told too much. Adding the knowledge of this location seemed trivial in comparison. Besides, they must get indoors.

Jordan held out his hand to Ambrose. "Sergeant Stone, Ninth Ranger Battalion, and this is Dr. Granger."

"Father Ambrose, assistant to His Eminence, Cardinal Bernard." He wiped his palm on his fine cassock after shaking Jordan's hand. "You have been summoned to meet with His Eminence. But I must once again stress that everything from this moment forward must be held in strictest confidence."

"Or what?" Jordan loomed over Ambrose, and Rhun liked him all the more for it.

Ambrose stepped back. "Or we shall know of it."

"Enough," Rhun declared, and brushed roughly past Ambrose.

He stepped forward and placed a hand against the limestone blocks of the wall, moving his fingers stone by stone in the sequence of the cross. The limestone felt rough and warm under his hands.

"Take and drink you all of this," he whispered, and pushed the centermost stone inward, revealing a tiny basin carved in a block, like the vessel that holds holy water at the entrance to a church.

Only this basin was not meant to hold water.

Rhun slipped free his curved blade and poked the center of his palm, in the spot where the nails had been driven into the palms of Christ. He squeezed his fist and let a few drops of blood splatter into the stone cup, its inner surface long darkened by the passage of countless Sanguinists who had entered this place before him.

"For this is the Chalice of My Blood, of the new and everlasting Testament."

Erin gasped behind him as cracks appeared in the wall, revealing the outline of a gate so narrow that a man must turn sideways to pass.

"Mysterium fidei," Rhun finished, and shoved the door open with his shoulder-then stepped back.

The other Sanguinists glided through ahead of him, followed by Ambrose. Erin and Jordan remained on the street with Rhun.

The woman remained fixed in place, staring up and down the city wall. "I've studied all the gates into the Old City, sealed and open," she said. "There is no record of this one."

"It has gone by many names over the centuries," Rhun said, anxious to get them all off the street before they were discovered. "I assure you that you will find safe shelter inside. This gateway has been sanctified. The strigoi cannot cross its threshold."

"They're not the only ones who worry me." Jordan stepped into a wider stance. "If Erin won't go in, I won't either."

The woman finally stepped forward, placing her hand on the rough stone lintel. He heard her heart skip faster at the touch. From the hungry shine in her eyes, the sharper beat was not born of fear, but of a raw, aching desire.

"Here is living history." Erin glanced back to Jordan. "How can I not go inside?"

9:19 P.M.

Jordan followed Erin across that dark threshold, squeezing sideways to enter. He wasn't happy about it, but he suspected the choice of entering or not was not ultimately theirs anyway. He remembered Father Ambrose's words: You have been summoned to meet with His Eminence.

It was clearly less an invitation than a demand.

Korza entered last and drew the gate shut behind him. A suffocating and complete blackness closed over the group. Breathing harder as he stood in the darkness, Jordan reached out and found Erin's hand again.

She squeezed his fingers in return, tightly, gratefully.

A familiar rasping sound preceded a tiny pop of flame, flickering brilliantly in the darkness. A Zippo lighter shone in the fingers of a cowled Sanguinist ahead of Jordan. The sight of the familiar, modern-day object cheered him, made everything feel a bit more real.

The Sanguinist picked up a candle from a small wooden stand by the door and handed it to Erin. She held the wick up to the lighter's golden flame. In turn, Jordan received and lit his own candle. The smell of smoke and beeswax pushed back the dry dust of the air, but the fragile light did not reach far.

Without a word and apparently needing no light of their own, the other Sanguinists turned and headed down the steep tunnel. Jordan was not thrilled to be going underground again, but Erin set off after them, and he followed.