Blood Relics (A James Acton Thriller, #12) Read Free Page A

one of his favorite parts of the
book then closed his eyes, taking a sip of the wine as he savored the effect
the tannins had on his tongue. His mind wandered, picturing himself on some
deserted island in the middle of nowhere, building a home to not only protect
himself from the elements, but from cannibals as well, disguising his new home
from outside eyes.
    He
opened his own, looking about the sparse rectory. The life of a priest was a
lonely one. Gone were the days where parishes were so well attended that
several priests were sometimes required. There was no more camaraderie among
those of the cloth. It was a lonely existence, but it was the one he had chosen
so long ago.
    Fifty
years next month.
    He
looked at the crucifix his proud mother had given him the day he had graduated
from the seminary.
    Oh
Mama, I look forward to seeing you and Papa again.
    They had
both died in the past few years, his mother’s a difficult death, Alzheimer’s taking
her mind long before her body. But they were at peace now, together he knew in
the Kingdom of God.
    He
winced, a stabbing pain in his knee reminding him of just how many years he had
put onto his own bones. He would be retiring soon, something he felt would
probably kill him long before any disease might. He couldn’t imagine the
boredom. Though he complained silently of the stream of people entering the
church day after day looking for him to solve their problems rather than they
themselves doing the obvious, he would miss them.
    The
people of this community were his friends.
    His
family.
    Though
it wouldn’t hurt some of them to invite me to dinner from time to time.
    Too
often he spent his evenings alone, heating a can of soup on his small stove,
his old radio providing his only company.
    No
one wants to dine with an old man who reminds them of their sins.
    He
laughed, shaking his head and taking another sip of wine, its numbing qualities
slowly taking hold, the pain in his knee subsiding if only slightly.
    Looking
back at the page, he began to read about the elaborate fence Crusoe was
building when he heard a loud bang from outside.
    Those
cursed teenagers!
    He
placed his glass of wine and book on the table, struggling to his feet.
Slipping into his slippers and tightening the belt on his robe, he grabbed a
flashlight and opened the door, walking down the short hallway to the church
itself. This was the second time this week, fifth time this month, that someone
had attempted to get in. He knew it was teenagers tormenting him, their
laughter and snickers from the alleyways echoing across the cobblestone streets
when he’d poke his head out the door.
    But he
had to investigate. He couldn’t ignore the possibility that there might be an
actual thief.
    For he
had been entrusted with one of Christianity’s most precious relics.
    A Blood
Relic.
    The very
cloth used to wrap the head of Jesus Christ when he was lowered from the cross.
    The Shroud
of Oviedo.
    It was
priceless, irreplaceable.
    Stored
in the original part of the church since the ninth century, it now stood behind
the mighty stone walls of the now much larger cathedral, and iron bars that
were rarely opened to the public.
    But
walls could be breached, locks picked, and display cases opened.
    “Who
goes there?” he cried into the dark, his flashlight playing across the darkened
pews, the only light from prayer candles still flickering nearby and the
occasional shaft of moonlight from overhead.
    There
was no reply of course, but he heard the creaking of the gate as it swung open,
sending his heart racing as he rushed forward, faith and duty rather than
intelligent forethought sending him hobbling toward the danger, his only
weapons God and a flashlight.
    “This is
a house of God!” he cried into the darkness as he rounded the corner that led
to the original structure, the Chapel of St. Michael.
    The beam
of a flashlight suddenly blinded him. He raised his hand to shield his eyes as
he heard glass smashing inside