Knights of the Blood by Katherine Kurtz, Scott MacMillan

the chapel. The crucifix was still there, only now Christ had turned His head away from the knights, and His face was not visible.
    So. The Knights of the Sword had committed sacrilege, and been cursed by their God, and had retreated here to their castle in Luxembourg to make amends. But meanwhile, they were vampires!
    Vampires! The thought of their total power electrified Kluge. It did not take a genius to see that Germany was losing the war, and yet here was a way in which some men could survive, and no matter what the outcome of the battle now raging in the forests around them, could rise out of the ashes of defeat and rebuild the Aryan race.
    And now the vampires who could give Kluge this power were waiting to receive Christian communion. Kluge’s theology, based on childhood catechisms mostly forgotten, was hazy; but if the words of consecration truly did transform ordinary wine into the Blood of Christ, he had to wonder what such blood would do to a vampire. Would it provide the same kind of nourishment as human blood? Or would it destroy them utterly for daring to profane so sacred a thing? If vampires were cursed of God, the Blood of Christ would surely destroy them the instant it touched their lips.
    Kluge decided he did not want to wait to find out. The potential gift was too precious to risk losing it by the pious self—sacrifice of six—hundred—yearold knights who had decided it was time to pay the price for a sacrilege committed long ago in the Holy Land. Even now, the young priest was dipping a fragment of the consecrated bread into the cup, touching it to the edge to stop its dripping, holding it a little above the cup as he looked into the ancient eyes of the leader of the knights.
    “Corpus et Sanguis Domini nostri Jesu Christi custodiat animam tuam in. vitam aeternam. Amen,” he said.
    And as the vampire knight also murmured, “Amen,” and extended his tongue to receive, Kluge and his men opened fire.
    The first shots slammed into de Beq and several other of the knights kneeling nearest the priest. Freise sprang back, instinctively throwing himself to the floor and rolling to his right, scrambling behind the cover of a thick pillar that supported the roof of the chapel. He was still holding the chalice as he drew himself into a huddled ball behind the pillar, but the wine had spilled across the floor of the sanctuary. Freise grimaced at the sight, but he decided that it was more important not to spill any of his own blood just now, than to worry about Blood already spilled. Surely the Lord would not fault him for this.
    Meanwhile 9mm slugs were slamming into the mailed bodies of the knights, shredding their white mantles and punching ragged holes through centuries—old chain mail. The knights reeled under the impact of the bullets, but struggled to their feet nonetheless, already drawing their swords and staggering forward to charge Kluge and his men.
    Baumann and the SS troopers with him poured a deadly fire into the three men nearest them, finally managing to knock them off their feet—but they got back up! Another of the mailed men charged at Kluge, his heavy sword raised high above his head. The pistol in Kluge’s fist barked twice, but the slugs thudded into the chest of his attacker with no apparent effect. Coolly taking aim, Kluge fired a third round into the man’s forehead–and that dropped him, twitching, at his feet.
    A crossbow bolt slammed into the door behind Kluge, missing him by inches and sending him diving for cover as another warrior bore down on him with an axe. Firing wildly at the man’s head, Kluge managed to slow him down only when one of his bullets struck and shattered his assailant’s jaw. His pistol empty, Kluge grabbed the sword from the dead man at his feet and, swinging it with all his might, nearly severed the head of his latest attacker. Dropping the sword and crouching low, he reloaded his P—38 on the run as he made his way towards Baumann and his other