by Mark Carver
Natasha beamed for the first time that day. “Thank you, cher. I feel good about this. Let’s eat breakfast and then we can start planning. I want to go before anything else happens.”
She froze as she saw the black, smoldering bricks lying on the plate like casualties of war. Shooting Patric a knowing smirk, she unhooked the apron from the wall and walked over to the refrigerator.
Patric sat down at the creaking table, feeling strangely numb. His head felt heavy and light at the same time. A gnawing sense of dread crawled through his veins, and he strove to push the murmuring doubts out of his mind, but in vain.
Find your brother, or the child dies....
Natasha smiled at him as she laid strips of bacon in the sizzling skillet. Patric tried to smile back.
****
The Voice knelt in prayer before the massive altar piled high with a melted mountain of candles. A golden statue of the Great Dragon snarled through the flames, and its fearsome eyes seem to glow with the fires of Hell itself. Yet the Voice found such terrifying imagery soothing, even comforting, since it was but the barest shadow of the Great Lord’s true power. With a whispered incantation, he opened his eyes and rose to his feet. He took a candle from the undulating altar as if he were plucking a flower, and he held it close to his chest so that it illuminated the pentagram dangling from a chain.
He turned towards a great arching window. Moonlight streamed through the glass, trickling through the tracery and forming ornate and complex shadows on the carpeted floor.
His Worship breathed deeply.
These moments of calm and quiet were few, but he valued them greatly. He smiled to himself, then he stepped forward and pushed the window open, which led out to a grand terrace.
A sea of candles and expectant faces stretched beneath him as he stepped out onto the balcony, still cradling the fragile flame in clasped hands. The size of the crowd assembled in what had once been called St. Peter’s Square was nearly triple what it had been the previous month, and the Voice felt his veins surge with warm satisfaction. He surveyed the shimmering expanse for a few moments, then touched his candle to the balustrade in front of him.
With a whooshing sound, the marble rail burst into a trail of flames that sped across the surface and hungrily climbed two poles mounted at the corners of the terrace. The Voice of Satan raised his hands to the night sky and the crowd erupted in cheers and applause as two great pentagrams fixed to the tops of the poles exploded with terrifying fury. An unseen choir belted forth powerful choruses in praise of the mighty Apollyon.
The Voice peered through the flames at the frantic hordes below him, and for a moment, it seemed like they were all writhing in the lake of fire. His eyes turned towards heaven, watching the smoke coil around the stars. He cursed the silent God, challenging Him to show Himself to the throngs of mockers and blasphemers that occupied His once-holy square.
The Voice closed his eyes. Listening, waiting.
Of course, nothing.
The pontiff let his hands fall and waited patiently for the flames to die out. The fire upon the balustrade exhausted itself but the pentagrams above him remained ablaze. He stepped forward and placed his hands on the sizzling marble balustrade and the crowd’s fervor increased as they saw their beloved leader standing stone-faced above them. Their cheers and applause continued for several minutes until he quieted them with a wave of his hand.
“Almighty Lord Satan,” he shouted with incredible power as he raised his hands above the crowd, “we humbly gather here before you on this night. We pledge our service to you, Lord of the Earth, and we ask that you strengthen our minds and hearts to overcome the lies that assault us every day. We thank you for the liberty you have given us to seek our own prosperity and pleasure in this world, and we gather here tonight to celebrate the freedom that was denied us for too long.”
Cheers and cries of joy arose from the vast throngs, and the Voice of Satan clenched his fists.
“Children of darkness!” he shouted. “You are free!”
Instantly, the sound of drums exploded across the square, and the teeming hordes were seized with animal fury, tearing off their clothes and leaping upon one another.
The Voice looked out over the heaving sea of flesh, his ears filling with moans and screams of pleasure and ecstasy. His knuckles were white as he gripped the smoldering balustrade, and his gleaming teeth sparkled in the firelight.
****
Patric’s eyes snapped awake. He held his breath, listening, focusing....
He had heard it again, that dreaded sound. His wide eyes frantically searched the darkness. The sound was faint, but it was unmistakable. He peered into the shadows, into the corners....
Nothing.
Where is it?
Patric’s heart froze.
There.
The bedroom door.
It was masked in shadow, yet standing before it was an even darker shadow, and in its head burned two red eyes.
They glared straight at Patric.
As soon as he locked eyes with the intruder, the buzzing sound grew instantly louder, filling the room like locusts. Patric’s thundering heart was just as loud, and he clenched his teeth so tightly that his jaw screamed with pain.
With a jolt, the shadow stepped forward, and Patric shrieked with fear. He bolted upright and switched on the bedside lamp. Gasping violently, he scanned the room, but the intruder had disappeared, and the air was silent.
Natasha, awakened by his outburst, sat up and instinctively pressed herself close to him. “Patric, what’s wrong?”
He couldn’t answer; he could only stare at the door as his heart pounded in his ears.
“Patric?” Natasha repeated, her voice tense with concern. “Patric?”
Patric looked down at his hands clutching the bed sheets in a death grip. He uttered an exasperated sigh.
I can’t keep doing this....
With a deep breath, he turned and faced his fiancée. His eyes were serious, and Natasha held his gaze.
“Bébé,” he began, surprised at how steady his voice was. “I…I had a visitation.”
Natasha was silent for a moment.
“A visitation?” Her tone betrayed her skepticism.
Patric winced inside. He knew this was going to be a tough sell. “I know; I never get visited, but this was real.”
“Are you sure you weren’t just dreaming?”
“No, I am certain I was awake.”
“Then why did you scream just now as if you were having a nightmare?”
Patric’s mind raced furiously. “Because...because I was scared....”
Natasha folded her arms and looked at him like a teacher waiting to hear an excuse for late homework. “Tell me.”
Patric took a deep breath. He pointed towards the bedroom door. “It was there. A dark shadow. I could see its eyes.”
“And then what?”
“And then...it spoke. In my head.”
“What did it say?”
“It said....” Patric steeled his nerves and chose each word carefully. “It told me that I must go and find my brother.”
Natasha’s eyebrows rose dramatically. “Your brother? You mean, your delusional hellfire-and-brimstone brother? In Italy?”
Each successive question stabbed Patric with discouragement. “Please, Natasha,” he said desperately, “just listen to me.”
She leaned back on the pillows and beckoned his explanation with haughty eyes.
“I heard its voice in my head as clearly as I hear my own right now,” Patric continued. “It told me that I had to find my brother.”
Natasha’s brow furrowed, and her cool demeanor softened a little with curiosity. “Why do we need to find your brother?”
Patric shrugged. “I don’t know. But I swear, I never felt so afraid in my life. I know our Master shelters those who believe, but I felt a real sense of danger when I saw that...that thing. Natasha, I would know if it was a dream, and this was no dream. I don’t w
ant to make the mistake of disobeying its command.”
She continued to look at him with tight lips.
Patric took another deep breath, then played his trump card.
“It said something else.”
“What did it say?” She didn’t even try to conceal her irritation.
“It said something about our child.”
Natasha sat up with lightning quickness.
“What did it say?”
“It said...it said that we needed to find my brother or our child would not be safe.”
Patric’s stomach twisted as he spoke. He wasn’t being completely truthful, but he wasn’t telling a lie, either.
“What does that mean?” Natasha’s eyes were wide.
“I don’t know. But I think my brother is an important part of what is going on between us and the Delusionals, and somehow it concerns our child.”
Natasha’s eyes fell away from him, and she wrapped her arms around herself.
“Patric,” she said quietly, “do you swear that what you are telling me is the truth?”
Patric swallowed forcefully. “Yes Natasha, I swear. Every word.”
She looked directly at him. “So we find your brother, and then what?”
“I don’t know,” he said as his head filled with a thousand thoughts, “but I do know that I won’t let anything happen to you or our child. I haven’t been good to you, both of you, but I am making a change, starting with this. I have been chosen for a task, Natasha, one that could be important for the future of our order, and more importantly, for the future of our family. If there is a chance to please our Master and protect you, then I will take it. If we are going to be a family, I need to take responsibility and make decisions, even when they’re tough.”
Natasha’s sternness melted away, and she embraced Patric’s neck. “I’m so happy to hear you say that.”
Patric returned the embrace. “It’s the truth,” he said, hoping his voice didn’t waver.
She looked at him with an expression of gratitude and determination. “So, how do we do this? We don’t have much money.”
Patric looked at his hands for a few moments, then an idea flashed in his mind. “I know who can help us.”
“Who?”
“My mother.”
Natasha’s eyes widened. “Your mother.... Patric, you ran out on her when you were a teenager and pledged your life to Satan. She probably hates you!”
Patric exhaled and squeezed her hands. “Maybe, but we have to try.”
“Are you going to tell her that a dark angel sent you on a mission to find her eldest child and stop him from doing whatever it is that he’s doing?”
A flush crept over Patric’s cheeks. “No, of course not....”
Natasha took his face in her hands. “Your Master and your family come first. Those other people are not your family anymore.”
Patric closed his eyes and nodded. “I know.”
Natasha pressed a soft kiss to his lips. “You know something? I’m glad this is happening to us. You have a chance to show your faith. Tests like these build us up and show our Great Lord that we are willing tools in his hands.”
“Yes. I’m glad too.”
Patric hoped his smile didn’t look as weak as it felt.
As if to punctuate his words, a distant explosion popped the nighttime stillness like a bubble. Patric sprang to the window and parted the curtain.
“Where is it?” Natasha asked quietly.
“It’s far,” he frowned. “I can’t tell what it was. The neighborhood is quiet, though.”
Natasha beckoned him back to bed, and she embraced him tightly as they lay down together.
“Patric?”
“Hmm?”
“We’re going to be fine, right?”
...Or the child dies....
“Of course, mon ange.”
Natasha nuzzled his shoulder and closed her eyes. “Let’s leave tomorrow. I don’t feel safe here anymore.”
“That’s a good idea,” Patric replied. He glanced warily at the bedroom door and switched off the light. “I don’t feel safe here either.”
****
Vercelli, Italy
Tourec saw them everywhere. Afraid, forlorn, beaten, downcast. The world labeled them “Delusionals,” but these were his brothers and sisters, members of his eternal family.
As he made his way through the city in the fading hours of dusk, his heart cried out to God, pleading for mercy for the weary souls he passed on the city sidewalks, their faces dirty and haggard and bruised. Only a few days ago, these had been doctors, teachers, housewives, schoolchildren, even clergymen...now they were destitute, homeless, scorned by their vicious enemies and a cowardly and indifferent public. Their shock and disbelief was worn on their faces — how could their lives have been upended so quickly and completely? The government, though not officially religious, was fiercely influenced by the Satanic Party, and those responsible for public order turned a blind eye to the robbing, looting, arson, rapes, and murders that had descended upon the church of God like the plagues of Egypt. Now the believers sought refuge in heavily guarded sanctuaries and relief centers, and were clogging the airports and rail stations, all while being spit upon and pelted with garbage.
And it’s because of you.....
Tourec scowled beneath his hood. He recognized the voice of the Accuser. Ever since he had begun this crusade, his soul was continually under siege.
“In the name of God, be silent!” he hissed, just before he collided with an absentminded man who wandered into his path. His lightning reflexes gave him balance, but the man collapsed to the sidewalk in a heap. Tourec stooped to help him up, but the man recoiled at the sight of Tourec’s black robe and gleaming pentagram medallion. Tourec was dressed as a monk of the Satanic church.
“Don’t touch me!” the man rasped, scurrying to his feet and fleeing into the crowd.
As he watched the man run away in fear, Tourec’s heart was clutched by a hot fist of pain. He wanted to reach out to his bewildered and terrified brothers and sisters, to admonish them to rise up and defend their faith and families by whatever means necessary, not to huddle together like frightened animals or scatter like fish when a rock is thrown into a pond. God was on their side; what had they to fear?
He felt a surge of anger rising within him, and he had to hurry away from the crowd before his emotions became uncontrollable.
This wasn’t the way things were supposed to happen....
He asked God to bless these suffering people, and to give him strength for what was to come. Quickening his steps, he finally freed himself from the throngs of people and emerged onto a small piazza. He startled a flock of grey pigeons that immediately took flight across the square and sailed skittishly over what had once been the Basilica of St. Andrea, though it now bore the heathen name of the Temple of Astaroth. He watched the pigeons’ aerial path, then turned to his right and his left as two hooded figures joined him.
“Greetings, brothers,” he said quietly as he watched the sun slowly vanish behind the grand bell tower. They stepped forward together, invisible to the crowd beginning to assemble in the piazza. A few disinterested policemen maintained a loose perimeter around a small stage where several grim-faced men were piling Bibles in a heap.
“Blasphemy!” one of Tourec’s companions muttered sharply as they passed.
“Silence!” Tourec snapped, glancing warily towards the crowd. “Save your anger.”
The three continued across the piazza and walked into the shadow of the temple. Tourec wanted to look up and gaze upon the simple yet worshipful facade that had once enchanted him when he had journeyed here many years ago, but he dared not risk the chance of anyone seeing his face. He felt a sudden urge to cross himself and immediately suppressed the impulse. It would look quite bizarre and, more importantly, very suspicious to see a monk of the Order of Satan crossing himself before a temple’s portal.
He exhaled a breath of frustrati
on as he led his brethren around the west facade to the transept on the south side of the temple. A small, dark door was tucked in the corner where the nave joined the transept, hidden in shadows and shielded from the growing commotion in the square by a cluster of small trees. The three men crowded close together, and one of them slipped his hands into the folds of his robe and withdrew a severed thumb. He pressed it to a fingerprint screen next to the door, and there was a sharp click as the door unlocked. With a flick of his wrist, he tossed the digit into a cluster of bushes where it was lost from sight. Tourec started to say something in protest, but his companions had already disappeared into the darkened temple, and he followed them inside.
They found themselves surrounded by empty chapels that once housed shrines to esteemed saints and patrons of God’s kingdom on earth. Now, vacant enclaves yawned like hungry mouths, their statues and frescos long since demolished. Tourec took advantage of the relative solitude to solemnly cross himself, as did his partners, as they slipped silently across the cool marble floor towards the choir, located at the east end of the sanctuary. They briefly glimpsed the expansive nave, where several monks were offering pre-mass prayers to the Prince of Darkness. Rage flared in Tourec’s soul as he shut his eyes and ears to the blasphemous symbols and heathen incantations. He was only too happy to reach the door leading down to the undercroft beneath the sanctuary.
On silent footsteps, the three shadows crept down the freshly-hewn stairs, which contrasted violently with the drab walls worn smooth by countless people ascending and descending and placing their hands against the wall for stability in the darkness. Though electric lamps illuminated the stairwell and corridor, Tourec squinted to focus his vision, scanning the featureless walls carefully.
All three froze instantly. Ghoulish chants wafted through the air as they came to an intersection. Tourec cocked his head and listened, trying to determine the direction of the sounds. Taking point, he motioned for his partners to follow him and proceeded stealthily down the left corridor. After about twenty meters, they reached the entrance to the crypt, where they stopped again.
