by Mark Carver
He took a deep breath and stuffed a cigarette into his mouth.
Are you going to spend your whole life in fear? his conscience sneered. Fear of God, fear of Satan, now fear of total strangers?
Patric inhaled the smoke and felt a warm sense of calmness trickle through his veins.
You’re right. I can’t walk in fear all the time. Besides, how would they know Tourec and I are related? They haven’t even identified Tourec as the shooter, and even if they did, there are no records connecting us, now that….
A surge of sorrow choked his throat. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to erase his mother from his thoughts.
It didn’t work.
He finished the cigarette, then turned and looked up at the temple facade. He flicked the cigarette against the stone wall and watched it explode like fireworks.
He glanced up at the pentagram above the door.
You killed her. I know you did.
He took another deep breath, then opened the door to the temple. His heart began pounding again, but he did not retreat. He stepped inside and closed the door behind him, keeping his eyes on the bowed heads scattered through the sanctuary. This time, no one turned to look at him.
He spotted a large figure clothed in black standing before the altar, his back to the pews. Patric swallowed roughly and began walking down the center aisle.
Father Souvrait, high priest of the Temple of Azazel, lifted his eyes and gazed upon the large silver pentagram hovering above the altar. Patric touched his shoulder. The priest jumped up with a cry. Several heads looked up from the pews.
Patric raised his hands in apology. “Forgive me, Father. I did not mean to startle you.”
The agitated priest straightened his glasses and wiped his sweaty hands on his vestments. “It is all right. Patric…Bourdon, isn’t it? Natasha’s boyfriend?”
Patric nodded. “I’m sorry to disturb you, Father, but I need to ask you something important.”
Father Souvrait motioned towards the south transept, and they walked to a marble bench nestled in an enclave dedicated to St. Agrippa I. They sat down and a few moments of silence passed between them.
Patric spoke up. “Father…”
He paused. The priest seemed a bit uncomfortable, and couldn’t hold Patric’s gaze for more than a second. Patric brushed aside his confusion, figuring that the man was simply on edge with everything that had been happening recently.
“Father, I have a question. I know that Natasha was a devoted member of your church. But something has happened to her, and I don’t know where she is.”
Father Souvrait suddenly looked up at Patric, his eyes flashing with surprise.
“What? Natasha is missing? How?”
Patric blinked. “She, um, when…when His Worship was…killed, she...”
…Shot my brother in the back when he tried to kill me, after he murdered the Voice of Satan…
“…She felt lost, afraid. I don’t know what went through her mind, but she disappeared without telling me anything.”
…Along with that demon-woman…
Father Souvrait peered at him closely.
“Are you all right, my son? You look…angry.”
Patric’s eyes remained on the floor. He wasn’t sitting next to the priest…
He was in that dark, clammy room beneath the Temple of the Dragon, flattened against the cold stone floor by an invisible, crushing hand. He saw Tourec’s body, inches away, blood gushing from his back and pooling against the wall. The woman, her black eyes burrowing through Patric’s heart. Her spider-like fingers wrapping around Natasha’s shoulders.
Natasha, her eyes, gleaming with sadness, her face cold and unfeeling. Her hand, reaching out…
Patric flinched. Father Souvrait quickly withdrew his hand from his shoulder.
“Are you all right?” he repeated, leaning forward. “Patric?”
Patric opened his eyes but he could still see her. He inhaled deeply, then looked at the priest.
“I’m sorry, Father. I’m…just upset. About Natasha and…everything else…”
Father Souvrait settled his bulky body against the wall. “I understand,” he said. Then all color drained from his face and he sat upright.
“Natasha,” he said, his face stern. “Where do you think she would go?”
“I’m sorry, Father, I don’t know. That’s why I came to you, in case she tried to contact you.”
“No, no she didn’t…”
Father Souvrait looked extremely worried.
“What about the baby?” he asked. “Was she okay?”
Patric frowned. “She? Do you mean Natasha, or the baby?”
“I..uh, I meant…”
“How do you know it’s a girl?” Patric demanded, oblivious to the accusatory tone in his voice.
Father Souvrait wiped a bead of sweat trailing down his face. “Well…when Natasha spoke of the baby, she always called it ‘she.’ Of course, you know this too, right?”
Patric stared at the priest. “No, I didn’t. Natasha never told me.”
Father Souvrait let out a quick, nervous laugh. “That is certainly no way to maintain a relationship. Shame on her for keeping it from you.”
His eyes fell away from Patric’s gaze and he kneaded his chubby hands. Neither man spoke, and the silence seemed to loom as large as the sanctuary.
“Patric,” the priest said, his voice low and quiet, “Natasha is a wonderful person and a valued member of our congregation. I sincerely hope that nothing unfortunate has happened to her. I will beseech our Great Lord for her safe and quick return.”
He licked his lips and looked directly into Patric’s eyes. “And I will also pray that your child is healthy and safe.”
Patric felt something like a cold wind slither over his skin. He inhaled a sharp breath and quickly closed his mouth.
“Thank you, Father,” he muttered as he rose to his feet. He stepped out of the shadowy enclave without looking back, and he quickly walked towards the altar.
He stopped beneath the massive pentagram and he stared into the gaping jaws of the Dragon. He stood motionless for a moment, not realizing how tightly he was clenching his fists until he felt his fingernails digging into his palms. The Dragon stared back at him, its silver eyes sparkling in the candlelight.
Patric tried to rally his courage, but he felt something inside of him like a hollow cavity in his chest, a punctured airlock that expelled his bravery into oblivion. He swallowed dryly and his eyes fell to the sanctuary floor.
Somewhere, deep in his heart, he heard laughter.
He scowled bitterly, then spun on his heel and skulked down the center aisle towards the sanctuary entrance. He passed the first three rows of pews, which were empty. As he walked past the fourth row, the seated worshipers interrupted their prayers and raised their heads to look at him. Patric shot a hasty glance towards them and quickened his pace.
The men and women seated in the next row also looked up, their eyes glinting with recognition. Patric stifled a gasp.
Their eyes.
They seemed to shout: We know.
Patric hurried down the aisle, his chest constricting and his breath spurting from his lips. Row by row, every bowed head lifted and every eye turned towards him. No one stood up or made any other movements. They just watched.
They watched as Patric practically sprinted towards the door and flung it open with all his strength. He rushed out and stumbled towards the iron banister at the edge of the stairs, clutching it tightly for support. He felt sick. He leaned over the railing, prepared to spew the contents of his stomach into the bushes.
Fortunately, the wave of nausea passed, and Patric stood upright. He coughed as he stared out at the dark Limoges skyline.
What was that?
He shut his eyes tight, commanding his runaway imagination to apply the brakes.
They don’t know. How could they?
He rubbed his temples in frustration. He had just had this argument w
ith himself before entering the sanctuary. So what if people looked at him? So what if every…single…person…
Patric‘s fingers sought out the iron rail again. He fumbled through his pockets and was startled to discover that his cigarettes were gone. He looked at the dark stone beneath his feet but saw nothing.
How…?
The nausea came back. Patric licked his lips and exhaled. He needed to get out of here.
He looked again across the city.
What do I do now?
Tourec was dead. His mother was dead. Natasha was gone and she was never coming back…
A hand reached out of the darkness and seized his arm. Patric yelped and whirled.
He couldn’t see her face clearly, but her eyes seemed to glow with a light of their own. They were enchanting and extremely beautiful, though they sparkled with fear and urgency
“Quick!” she whispered. “You must come with me!”
Patric was frozen. “Who are you?”
“You must come with me!” she repeated. Her voice was soft but there was a dangerous, almost threatening tone in his words.
Patric pulled his arm out of her grip. “Why? Why should I come with you?”
The young woman stepped forward and her face was illuminated by the cold glow emanating from the temple windows. Patric stared at her for a moment, transfixed by her dark, exotic beauty.
He remembered.
“You!” he exclaimed, taking a step back.
The woman stared at him coldly. “I didn’t think you’d remember me.”
Patric backed against the iron banister. “Wha…what are you doing here?”
The woman looked over her shoulder. “There’s no time. We need to leave, now.”
“Why?” Patric pleaded.
She pursed her lips and looked straight into his eyes.
“Because they know.”
Ice cold terror pierced Patric’s chest. “Know what?”
“That Tourec Beauchamp killed the Voice. And that you are his brother.”
****
Julian Rossa Monte stared up at the towering obelisk, a monument to St. Nero in honor of his torch-light banquets and musical prowess. The gray stone pierced the dismal sky with what Julian imagined to be Nero’s defiant finger, denouncing the Christians as the cause of Rome’s blight. Julian had heard the theories claiming that Nero himself was to blame for the conflagration and had singled out the Christian population as a convenient scapegoat, but in the end, Rome never rose to greatness again.
Julian closed his eyes. He could feel the heat of the fire on his face and screams of agony echoed in his ears. The stench of smoke and smoldering flesh filled his nostrils.
He opened his eyes and gazed at the ancient stone.
So it was. So it shall be again.
Julian turned his eyes upwards, and though the sky was clotted with heavy clouds, the light of heaven penetrated the gloom and shone upon his heart. Soothing warmth seeped through his limbs and he felt rejuvenated, even purified.
A small smile stole across his lips. His heart and mind had been gripped by dark and oppressive thoughts ever since he had liberated the Christians trapped in the crypt beneath the Temple of the Legion. His smile widened as he recalled the congregation’s shocked expressions as he led a troupe of dirty, naked, starving Christians out into the sanctuary. In the ensuing confusion, it had been very easy for him to slip away, but after discarding his disguise, he rejoined the crowd as a spectator. He watched the Christians huddle together, ringed by the crowd. He remembered the fear he saw in their eyes, as if they expected to be seized and thrown to the lions in the Colosseum.
Julian’s smile wilted. That’s what would have happened in Nero’s day...
He felt anger surging through his muscles. For one red hot moment, he wanted to push the blasphemous obelisk to the ground with his bare hands. He felt like he could do it too, despite the stone’s immense size. The wrath of God pulsed through his veins, and he felt mighty enough to move mountains.
Someone jostled him from behind. He turned around angrily, prepared to berate the careless individual.
He looked at the wall of people, all of them shouting, hoisting signs of their heads, pumping their fists in the air. No one took the slightest notice of Julian, and it was impossible to tell who had bumped into him.
He sighed and turned back to face the obelisk. Behind him, curses and shouts of anger sliced through the air like arrows, returned with equal hatred by the mob standing on the other side of the stone monument.
Julian glared at the furious throng of damned souls. Blasphemy poured from their lips like froth from a rabid dog’s mouth. He did not raise his voice or his fists; he simply stared at the devil’s minions, imagining them poised over the brink of hell, eager to leap into the flames.
The angry mob was crowded close around St. Nero’s Obelisk and filled only a small portion of the square. Yet to Julian and the others standing in the midst of the melee, the crowd seemed massive, and indeed it was growing. People streamed into the plaza, some joining the shouting match, others simply curious.
One thing was certain: this was going to get ugly, and soon. Julian could sense the rage and fury straining at the bit, ready to snap the reins at any moment.
He was counting on it.
“Burn in hell, heathens!” a voice bellowed over the fray.
“After we burn you here, Delusional sheep!” came the wrathful answer.
A flash caught Julian’s eye, and he looked up to watch a half-empty wine bottle sail through the air towards the Christians. It struck a young woman full in the face, ripping open her cheek. She collapsed as blood spurted between her fingers, and the Christians’ bloodlust was instantly ignited.
They surged past Julian, snatching necklaces and chains from their necks and wrists, swinging them above their heads like whips. The wave of righteous fury crashed into the wall of Satanic anger, and St. Nero’s Square became a battlefield.
Nails slashing, chains flashing, cries of wrath and agony – all was chaos.
Julian stood on the fringes, watching as the policemen who had been idly presiding over the war of words now sprang into the scuffle and found themselves battered to the ground with no regard for their position of power. Both sides fought as if they were possessed, and Julian wondered for a moment if this is what the Possession had looked like on that terrible day when Lucifer opened the skies above Paris. Men and women were no longer such; all he could see was blind animal fury in the name of God and Satan.
He angled his body to the left to avoid a rock that hurtled through the air. He glanced up at the obelisk standing contemptuously above the bloody crowd and he could almost hear Nero laughing at them from his reeking crevice in hell.
A dark shadow fell over Julian’s eyes. It was time to silence that laughter. His heart cried out to heaven, pleading for strength. He closed his eyes as divine power flowed through him. He felt invincible.
He sucked in a deep, strong breath, then reached into his billowing black coat and pulled out two misshapen lumps of what looked like gray-colored clay. The chaos and violence surrounded him like a shield, and he was invisible as he vaulted over the fence that surrounded the obelisk, slapping the lumps of putty against the stone surface. He reached into his coat again and quickly pressed more lumps against the ancient monument. His heart pounded and he expected a heavy hand to fall on his shoulder at any moment.
Then he heard a voice rise up within him, chastising him for his fear.
You are a servant of the Living God, and you are His hand on earth. No one can harm you if He does not wish it.
Julian clenched his teeth and stood up straight. With a slow, steady movement, he affixed the final lump to the obelisk, then turned to look out upon the battlefield.
The crowd had grown quite a lot since the scuffle began, and the violence was becoming increasingly vicious, even sickening. Several individuals lay bleeding on the ground, unconscious or worse. Julian watched fists, ch
ains, glass, and stones rain down upon fragile flesh and brittle bones.
He hoisted himself back over the iron fence into the battle zone, walking with easy, measured steps. His arms were extended like Christ on the cross, and his face was tilted towards the sky.
Like Moses parting the Red Sea, the enraged protesters moved aside without interrupting their combat, affording Julian a clear path through the plaza. He glided through their midst like a dark angel, untouched and unconcerned with the violence exploding around him.
When he was about thirty or forty yards from the base of the obelisk, he stopped and turned to face the mob. A small pang of guilt flashed through his conscience, and he offered up prayers of mercy for those righteous souls who were about to enter heaven. For the unrighteous, he suggested the darkest depths of oblivion.
His hand reached once more into the folds of his raven-black overcoat.
“In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost.”
His finger pressed the detonator.
“Amen.”
The base of St. Nero’s Obelisk exploded, pulverizing the fearsome lions upon whose backs the monument rested. Boiling gouts of flame enveloped those close to the obelisk, and a deadly hail of stone fragments ripped through the crowd, sending dozens to the ground, clutching their faces in agony.
Those who were uninjured in the blast immediately stopped fighting and looked up at the ancient monument. Julian held his breath, his eyes glued the obelisk.
Come on, he whispered, his mind seizing imaginary chains and pulling hard.
Groaning like a dying beast, the giant stone creaked and swayed. The stunned combatants stared up at the wobbling monument, then shrieked with terror, scattering like field mice beneath the claws of a swooping hawk. With an ear-splitting crack, the obelisk broke free from its decimated foundation and smashed to the ground like the tail of a mighty dragon, crushing several people as it shattered into rubble.
Julian gasped as he stared through the smoke and dust. For a moment, there was only silence. Then, as if following the commands of an unseen conductor, a chorus of wails and sobs ascended from the crowd. The wounded lay writhing and squirming on the ground, and those pinned beneath the rubble cried out for help. The exhausted and bloody policemen struggled to their feet and began helping whomever they could, while uninjured onlookers streamed into the square to lend a hand.
