by Mark Carver
The Voice angled his head backwards, peering at the monk down the bridge of his nose. “Did any escape?”
The monk swallowed again and his hands resumed their fidgeting. “Well, there are unconfirmed reports that one or two may have escaped,” he answered, hastily adding, “but even if that is true, they are so weakened now that they can hardly be considered a threat.”
The Voice of Satan narrowed his eyes. “I see. That will be all.”
The monk opened his mouth but said nothing. The Voice could see that he had something more to say.
“Out with it,” he snapped.
The monk bowed his head and said, “Your Worship, the informant who betrayed the terrorists has expressed his wish to come to the Vatican, and he requests a private audience with Your Worship.”
The Voice clasped his hands behind his back and turned to consider an ancient tapestry on the wall.
“No,” he answered simply. “Execute him when he arrives.”
The monk bowed low. “Yes, Your Worship.”
He scurried out of the chamber, then rushed back and closed the doors with a profusion of bows.
His Worship turned back to the shrine of the Great Dragon, and he snorted contemptuously.
Fools.
He crossed the chamber floor and knelt again at the altar. He dipped his hands in the bowl of blood that rested amongst a garden of yellow candles, then he whirled around, flinging blood across the marble floor.
The woman looked down at her blood-spattered black dress, then smirked.
“’Covered by the blood’ doesn’t work for me,” she purred coldly.
The Voice rose to his feet, wiping his hands on a silk cloth. “What do you want?” he demanded, immediately regretting his hostile tone.
The woman’s terrifyingly beautiful face did not betray any emotion as she began to pace in a wide arc. “I came here to discuss the topic your little lapdog was just blathering about.”
His Worship cocked one eyebrow. “Oh?”
The woman in black gazed at him but her eyes seemed to look through him rather than at him. “Were you aware of the traitor within their midst and the plan to track them down?”
His Worship shrugged. “I was aware of it but I wasn’t informed of the details. I leave such matters to those best suited for the job. The fine print doesn’t interest me; all I care about is the result.”
The woman’s black eyes flashed violently, and she took a menacing step towards him. “Do you realize what you may have done?” she snarled, her hands quivering with restraint.
His Worship drew back in surprise. “What are you talking about?”
The woman’s head suddenly jerked to the right, and then snapped back. “Forgive my outburst,” she hissed like a penitent snake, tilting her head back with barely-veiled condescension. “I was simply stating that with the terrorist threat gone, there will be little resistance to the work of our order.”
The Voice leered at her suspiciously. “And…that’s what we want, isn’t it? With this band of renegades dispatched, there will be no one left to inspire the delusional masses that insurrection against our order is possible. The church of God will wither and die.”
“Yes, that is true,” the woman said as she resumed her discomforting pacing. “But think of it another way: for millennia, those who follow our Great Lord have been seen as the aggressors, the antagonists, if you will, while the Christian church, though it has played the part of the villain as well, has historically been viewed as benevolent and peaceful. But with this group of insurgents, that image has flipped, and gives our side more momentum than ever.”
“I see your point,” the Voice said impatiently, “but the fact remains that those assassins were killing clergymen in their own sanctuaries in front of hundreds of witnesses and skipping off into the night without any retribution. That could not have been allowed to continue, even if it was good for our ‘public image.’ And on top of that, their methods were becoming even more brash and extreme. Look what happened in Susa for God’s sake.”
The woman nodded as she came to a stop behind him. “I suppose you are right. At any rate, it doesn’t matter now. They are all dead, or on the run, and cannot pose a serious threat anymore.”
The Voice turned around and waved a finger in her face. “Oh, don’t make that mistake, signora. Too many battles have been lost, kingdoms fallen, and fortunes destroyed because someone underestimated a weakened enemy. No, I will maintain a state of vigilance, both here and at our temples throughout Europe. We have seen the damage even one man can do, and these men, unfortunately, are quite good at what they do.”
The woman nodded. “Yes, that is probably best.” The black folds of her dress rustled like ash as she began to walk away.
“I am considering postponing the mass in Paris,” the Voice called after her.
“No!” she snapped viciously, spinning around to glare at him with demon eyes. She bared her teeth like a wolf, and this time, she made no attempt to hide her fury.
She began walking towards him, each step punctuating her words. “Do not, under any circumstances, alter this plan. It is imperative that this ceremony takes place.”
She came to a halt mere inches away from him.
“Do I make myself clear?”
The Voice of Satan held her gaze, and his nostrils flared with offense. “I understand,” he said through clenched teeth. “Now kindly leave; I am in the midst of my devotions.”
The woman in black smirked, then spun on her heel, smearing the blood splattered across the floor.
“We shall speak again soon,” she said as she blew through the chamber doors like a black wind. They closed behind her with a deafening rumble, and His Worship looked up in despair at the face of the Great Dragon.
How long must I endure this?
****
Patric slurped the final spoonful of soup into his mouth, then leaned back in his chair. Father DeMarco peered at him through the candles, which were for necessity rather than ambiance since the forsaken wine cellar beneath the ruined monastery didn’t have any electrical outlets. The candlelight cast a melancholy, wispy light across the room and danced over Patric’s sullen features.
“How long was my brother here?” he asked, keeping his eyes on the table.
Father DeMarco rested his chin on his steepled fingers. “About seven years. He came to us when he was quite young.”
“He was seventeen.”
Father DeMarco blinked in surprise. “That’s right.”
Patric nodded absently. “I remember when he left home to come here. I was only about six or seven, but I remember the look on my mother’s face after he was gone. Her expression…she looked like she had lost her only son, even though I was standing right by her side.”
Father DeMarco felt something pluck his heartstrings. “Did you resent him after that?”
Patric made no reply for a moment, then shrugged. “Perhaps....”
“And why do you seek him now?”
Patric raised his eyes and stared into the candles. An image flashed through his mind, of Natasha standing in the kitchen, the light filtering through her gossamer nightdress, that warm smile that she gave him every morning that outshone the rising sun....
Patric felt a stirring deep within his soul, and he knew, perhaps for the first time, that he loved her. He suddenly ached for her to be near him, and he felt a surge of sorrow washing over his heart.
“Patric?”
Patric looked up, and a tear fell from his face onto the table. He didn’t even know that he was crying.
“Patric?” Father DeMarco asked again with a gentle voice. “Are you all right?”
Patric nodded and hastily wiped his eyes. “I…I’m....”
“It’s okay,” Father DeMarco said with a reassuring smile. “I could see from the first moment that you bear great sorrow.”
Patric looked into the candles and swallowed hard. “I need to find Tourec because he can help someone I love.�
�
“Is someone in trouble?” Father DeMarco frowned.
Patric batted away another tear in frustration. “Listen, Father, I just need to find my brother. I can see that he’s not here, and if you can give me any help or ideas where he might be, I would greatly appreciate it and be on my way.”
“Patric,” Father DeMarco began with a sigh, “your brother…after he left this monastery, he chose a path that few have traveled.”
Patric squinted at the priest. “What do you mean?”
Father DeMarco rubbed his brow nervously and sighed again. “Patric, your brother is a very devout Christian. Perhaps too devout. When he was here, he was a brilliant student, but he was on the verge of fanaticism. He would get into passionate arguments with other pupils and even teachers about trivial points of faith, and I saw him descending a slippery slope into self-righteousness. Of course, his heart truly belonged to God, but his zeal was…uncontrollable.”
He paused, and Patric’s eyes pleaded with him to go on.
“There was…an event that was a critical turning point in Tourec’s life.”
Now Father DeMarco’s eyes began to glisten, and an almost imperceptible trembling entered his words.
“You may not know this, but when pupils join a monastic order, they forsake the world and all of its comforts. Wealth, status, love.... But we have all read the stories, and we know that the human heart is a reed swayed by the slightest wind. Tourec’s heart was no different.”
“What happened to him?”
Father DeMarco exhaled slowly. “Before I became a monastic priest, I was a common minister at a humble church. I also had a family. When my wife died, I was devastated, and I fled to the monastery to retreat from the world. But I was not alone in the world. I still had my daughter, Isabella. She was divine, and that is no exaggeration. She did not live here, but she would often come to the monastery to visit me and bring cakes for the monks and pupils. Of course, she always caused quite a stir when she would arrive, but everyone took their vows seriously and made no advances towards her.
“Except Tourec. I don’t know how it happened, but the two of them fell in love. Of course it was just puppy love, but when you are young, any stirrings of the heart feel strong enough to move the universe. It was more of a courtship actually, a love by correspondence, since they barely saw each other face to face. They wrote to each other frequently and formed quite a close bond.”
He gnawed on his lower lip for a moment. His eyes darted across the table at Patric, and he chuckled with embarrassment.
“I was so absorbed in my work at the monastery that I wasn’t even aware that all of this was happening right under my nose. Then one day, I discovered a cache of Tourec’s letters to Isabella. Of course I was furious at both of them, and I sent Isabella to a convent in France.”
“How did Tourec react?”
Father DeMarco shook his head. “He was quite angry with me, but more so with himself, for he knew he had violated his commitment to God and to the church. He shut himself away for a couple of weeks, immersing himself in books and crying out to God to forgive him.”
“And Isabella?”
“I forbade her to contact Tourec again, and I believe she respected my wishes.”
“Where is she now?”
Father DeMarco’s eyes flashed and his face seemed to wilt before Patric’s eyes. He spoke in a low, croaking voice.
“Two months after I sent her to the convent, she and several sisters went to Paris to sing at the Cathedral of Our Lady. That day, the....”
His eyes glared accusingly at Patric.
“…Your master appeared in the sky and brought the cathedral down upon everyone inside. My daughter perished beneath the stones.”
A cold wind brushed past them and the candles flickered. Patric remained still, unable to speak.
“After Isabella’s death,” Father DeMarco went on, “Tourec’s heart collapsed. I have never seen such anger boiling in any man, such hatred. But, to his credit, he directed all of his hatred at the devil, rather than at me or worse, at himself, though I am certain he felt guilt for what happened to Isabella. And I am sure that he blamed me as well. I saw it in his eyes.”
The priest drummed the table and shifted in his chair. “Well, as you saw yourself, the whole world was in chaos in those days. People flocked to our chapel, seeking protection and answers, while many left our order to be with their families or simply fled out of fear. Tourec…well, he only stayed about two weeks, then announced to me that he was going to Jerusalem to defend the holy relics there. I was quite puzzled at this decision, but later I realized that he was looking for an outlet to channel his grief and anger. I should have recognized it long before but for some reason I never did: there is tremendous violence within Tourec’s soul.”
Patric frowned. “But…the Jerusalem battles are over. Where is Tourec now?”
Father DeMarco shook his head as he looked at his hands. “Patric, I wish there was an easier way to say this: Tourec is one of the assassins targeting Satanic clergymen.”
The room was silent. Even the candles seemed to be holding their breath.
“That’s impossible,” Patric said flatly.
“I’m sorry, but it is the truth.”
Patric leaned forward, his brow dark and heavy. “How could my brother, a devout Christian man as you say, become a terrorist? That doesn’t make sense.”
Father DeMarco looked around, searching for an answer. “I wish I knew. But I know it is true. I spoke with him less than a week ago.”
Patric fell back in his chair, feeling like someone had just punched him in the stomach. “He was here? Where did he go?”
“I do not know.”
“Then thanks for nothing!”
Patric leaped to his feet, jarring the table and knocking over one of the candles.
“Please, Patric,” Father DeMarco pleaded, quickly righting the toppled candle and wincing as scalding drops of wax splashed onto his skin, “don’t be angry at your brother; he’s just woefully misguided.”
“Misguided!” Patric cried. “You tell me that my brother is one of the most wanted men in Europe, that he’s going to temples and assassinating unsuspecting priests and priestesses during mass, and you say he’s misguided?”
Father DeMarco took a step forward, but Patric backed away.
“You Delusionals are all fools!” he spat. “You devote your life to a dead God, and my brother even kills for Him! Are you all insane?”
“Patric, please sit down,” Father DeMarco insisted, motioning towards the chair. His voice was gentle but firm.
Patric leered at the priest as if he were a viper poised to strike, then he crept along the wall and sought out the chair in the dim light. Father DeMarco nodded gratefully and took his seat as well.
“Patric, I want you to listen to me. I too am appalled by what Tourec and his brethren are doing. Perhaps it is even possible to blame them for the persecution that has fallen on our church. But I see the sincerity of his heart, and I know that he will see the error of his ways. Right now, all we can do is pray.”
Patric clenched his teeth with fury. “You don’t understand, old man. I need to find him. I need to....”
Father DeMarco cocked his head. “Need to what?”
Patric opened his mouth, but no sound came out. What could he say?
An archaic phone hidden in a shadowy corner crowed like a metallic rooster. Father DeMarco jumped from his chair and answered the call in a hushed voice. He hunched his shoulders and pressed the receiver to his ear, listening intently. Patric could hear the priest speaking in low, agitated tones, but he couldn’t make out any of the words.
After a few minutes, Father DeMarco placed the receiver back in its cradle and faced the wall.
Patric stared at his back, wondering if he should say something. Finally, after a very long silence, the priest turned around and shuffled back to the chair, sinking heavily upon it. His face was a mask of utter dejec
tion.
“I know where your brother is, at least until recently.” His eyes were vacant and listless.
Patric waited impatiently. “Yes?”
Father DeMarco exhaled with leaden lungs. “Several of the assassins were having a secret meeting in Bussoleno a few hours ago. It’s a small town not too far from here. The police received a tip about the meeting and raided the location. There was a violent gunfight and nearly all of the assassins were killed, along with a bishop. A close colleague of mine.”
“Bussoleno,” Patric repeated.
Father DeMarco nodded.
“You said nearly all of the assassins were killed. Was Tourec one of them?”
“We don’t know. The bodies are in police custody now, and I expect they’re working on identifying them now.” The priest rubbed his weary brow. “I am sorry to tell you this.”
Patric’s veins felt cold.
Bring him to Paris, or the child dies....
He shook his head. “No, no, he can’t be dead. He must have escaped....”
“Patric — “
“No!”
Patric leaped to his feet, knocking the chair back against the wall. He felt an impossibly heavy weight of grief smothering him, and he collapsed to his knees.
“No…please, no....”
He fell to the floor, burying his face in his hands as his body was wracked with sobs. Father DeMarco knelt beside him and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder.
“I am sorry, my son,” he said.
“You don’t understand,” Patric wept, his voice muffled by his palms. “They are going to die now.”
“Who? Who is going to die?”
Patric didn’t answer; he just kept shaking his head as tears flowed through his fingers. Father DeMarco gave his shoulder a squeeze and rose to his feet.
“There is a spare bedroom up the stairs, if you would like to stay the night,” he said. He paused a moment, then scooped up one of the candles from the table and shuffled out of the room. Patric remained huddled on the floor, feeling like his heart was ripping apart, vein by vein. Through his sobs, he was shocked to find himself praying.
