The Age of Apollyon Trilogy (The Age of Apollyon, Black Sun, Scorn)

by Mark Carver

He stared at the harsh glare of the naked kitchen light.

  O God, what have I done?

  ****

  “Wait!” Patric cried, trying to wrench his hand from the young woman’s incredibly firm grip. “Stop!”

  “We can’t!” she answered, pulling him away from the temple and down a dark, narrow street. “Not until you are safe.”

  “Safe? Safe from what?”

  With a groan of exasperation, the woman pulled Patric into a shadowy enclave. His face was inches from hers. He stared into her dark, mournful eyes. She certainly looked different than he remembered her. She was all grown up now, a flower in full bloom. But her eyes…

  They had the same expression as before.

  Patric couldn’t hold her gaze. He felt a swell of shame, even disgust rise up within him. He gritted his teeth and grabbed her shoulder.

  “What is going on?”

  She looked up at him and her eyes became gentle. “I’m sorry for all of this. But you must believe me. Every moment you were at that temple, your life was hanging by a thread. I had to get you away from there before they found out the truth.”

  Patric tightened his jaw. “What truth?”

  The woman cocked her head and leered at him. “I just told you.”

  Patric coughed. “Yes, I-I know, I just…was hoping…”

  The woman was silent.

  The shadows seemed to loom over them like eavesdroppers. Despite the cool night air, Patric was suddenly feeling very warm. Especially with her so near…

  “What is your name?” he sputtered.

  She looked at him as if he had asked her to surrender a precious secret.

  “Christine.”

  Patric closed his eyes.

  Christine.

  He opened his eyes and looked at her. Really looked at her. She transformed before his eyes, from a darkly beautiful woman with fierce eyes into a fragile teenage girl pulsing with excitement and fear.

  He jerked his head suddenly, flinging away the memories like water. Her name tasted sweet as he spoke.

  “Christine, I don’t know what you know, but I’m not going anywhere with you until you give me some answers.”

  Patric hoped that his voice sounded firm and resolute, because his heart felt like it was weeping.

  Christine stared at him for a long, uncomfortable moment, then she craned her neck and looked over Patric’s shoulder.

  “There is a small cafe not too far from here. I will tell you everything you want to know.”

  Without another word, she slipped past him and marched quickly down the street.

  Patric reached out, then frowned and drew his hand back. Muttering a string of curses, he followed her into the silent, cave-like alley.

  As he rounded the corner, something caught his eye. He stopped and glanced to his right. Peering between the buildings, he spotted flashing blue and red lights. They were heading towards the temple.

  Patric gasped. He ducked his head down and glanced at Christine’s receding figure.

  “Christine!” he whispered as he dashed after her. “Wait!”

  ****

  Master Ko couldn’t restrain his laughter as he shuffled into the dark, dungeon-like room.

  Mistress Alasi pursed her lips as the old man eased himself into his chair. His frail figure nearly disappeared within the folds of his massive robe.

  “What do you find so amusing?” she demanded.

  Master Ko closed his eyes and attempted to control his chuckles.

  “Did you see that?” he asked the silent figures seated around the table. “Did you see that?”

  “Of course we did,” Mistress Alasi replied tersely. “We all did.”

  “They blew it up!” Master Ko blurted, sounding like a child recounting a scene from his favorite movie. “They blew up St. Nero’s Obelisk!”

  “He blew up St. Nero’s Obelisk.”

  Master Ko turned and looked at Master Kwambala.

  “You’re right. He did it. And it was beautiful!”

  One of the elders leaped to her feet.

  “Beautiful?” she cried, her Russian-accented voice seething with indignation. “He destroyed a sacred relic of history! That stone was nearly two thousand years old!”

  “Bah! Sacred?” Master Ko waved her words away. “That’s exactly what we’re fighting against.”

  He rose from his chair and his mirthful tone became grave.

  “Don't you understand? There is nothing ‘sacred.’ Nothing! Sacraments belong to the Delusionals. Our Great Lord is a god of perversion, blasphemy, and corruption. If something is sacred, we must tear it down, burn it, spit on the ashes. Nothing can be sacred to us, and if we fall into such foolishness, we should be the ones to destroy it before the Delusionals do.”

  Master Ko sat down again, and the table fell silent. The seated figures might as well have been made of stone.

  Master Winston finally spoke.

  “Master Ko is right. We like to think that we have sacraments and rites and icons, but we must remember whom we serve. Our Great Lord has no use for such things. Sacraments represent bondage and weakness.”

  “Thank you, Master Winston,” Master Ko said with a nod of his head. “Our history, our ‘saints’ – none of it matters. The only thing that matters is bringing Satan’s kingdom to this world. Anything we lose or destroy in the process is not a sacrifice; it is our duty.”

  The others seated around the table fidgeted in their seats. Despite their unwavering allegiance to the Prince of Darkness, they were still human, and the advantages that came with power were enticing temptations.

  Suddenly, the ornate candelabra that stood in the center of the table swayed momentarily, and several hands reached out to catch it. But it didn’t fall.

  A shadow appeared to loom over the chamber, making the darkness even darker and deeper. Strange sounds seemed to rise and fall in the air, but they could have just been wisps of wind slithering through unseen cracks.

  The elders seated around the table exchanged wary glances. For a moment, the air felt oppressively thick, almost too thick for breathing. Then, like a receding tide, something withdrew from the room. The members of the circle, including Master Ko, unconsciously relaxed their tense muscles. They all stared at the candles, but the flames were still and tranquil.

  Commanding his pounding heart to be calm, Master Ko folded his hands and addressed the others.

  “We must guard ourselves against emotional attachments. You all know that St. Nero’s Obelisk was just the beginning. We must soon surrender this entire facility to the Delusionals.”

  Mistress Alasi shook her head. “I can’t believe the Great Lord has chosen that madman to lead them.”

  The Russian elder curled her lip in contempt. “You would dare question our Great Lord?”

  Mistress Alasi sunk lower in her chair. “I didn’t mean…”

  “Enough.” Master Ko stood up and glanced warily at the ceiling, its horrific mosaics concealed in shadow. “Our pettiness surely wearies our master. We are his servants, and we obey without question. And we know that the rewards for our obedience has been, and shall continue to be great.”

  The members of the circle couldn’t help but smile. The Great Dragon had indeed been generous, indulging their every appetite and lust, no matter how perverse or outlandish. The blood oath that each had signed had isolated them from the outside world, but it was a small price to pay. The dark and deep caverns beneath the Vatican had been host to all manner of indulgence and depravity, unknown even to the Voice of Satan as he had sulked and scowled on the floors above.

  Master Ko smirked as the face of that pompous figurehead flashed through his mind.

  "The Voice of Satan" indeed… A voice so self-important and petty. A voice guilty of the outrageous folly of thinking itself equal with the speaker.

  A nervous sigh escaped Master Ko’s lips. Though he conveyed confidence and steadfast obedience to his master’s wishes, a small seed of doubt tried to penetra
te the soil of his mind with its poison roots.

  Were they making an even bigger mistake with this new plan? Manipulating a Christian powder keg, intending to hand him to keys to the kingdom, expecting him to inadvertently quench the Delusionals’ fire with his insanity?

  Icy claws seized his heart, and Master Ko’s eyes suddenly grew wide.

  Do not doubt me, worm.

  He couldn't breathe.

  Yes, my Lord. Please…forgive my weakness…

  The terrifying grip inside his chest vanished, and the others turned with surprise as he slumped over the table.

  “Master Ko? Are you all right?”

  He instantly righted himself, concealing his discomfort with a casual cough. “Of course, of course. Just some stomach irritation.”

  The others looked at him skeptically but said nothing. Master Ko coughed again and straightened his black robe.

  “We must fan the flames,” he declared, hoping the others didn’t notice his trembling hands. “This fanatic is poised to lead, but he needs a willing army. The Delusionals have started attacking temples, but this is just the beginning.”

  Master Winston leaned forward, steepling his fingers and trying to conceal his anxiety with a serious expression.

  “Forgive my interruption, and please do not misconstrue my curiosity, but don't we run the risk of galvanizing the Delusionals into a legitimate power against us? What if they truly unite and become the unified church that the Enemy desires?”

  Master Ko tried to suppress his laughter but his efforts were futile. After a moment, the other members sitting around the table joined in the mirth. Master Winston, however, couldn’t figure out what was so amusing.

  “I do not see the humor in this situation,” he pouted, which only prompted more laughter from those ringing the table.

  “Master Winston,” Master Kwambala answered, “do you not see? The Delusionals becoming an ‘army of the Lord’ by slaughtering Satanists in their own temples, and committing acts of terrorism like what we saw tonight? Nothing could be more ridiculous!”

  “It will be like the Inquisition!” piped another.

  “Or the Salem witch hunts!”

  Master Ko let out one more robust chuckle. “Indeed. This will be the Christianity that our Great Lord has always envisioned: fanaticism, violent bigotry, fighting tooth and claw for sticks and stones while the world crumbles around them. It will be music to our master’s ears.”

  Master Winston’s face reddened with shame. “Our master is a skilled conductor.”

  “Nothing pleases him more than watching the ‘children of God’ pervert the name of their God,” Master Ko declared. “We shall sacrifice some pawns in this war, but in the end, our king shall be glorified, not theirs.”

  Master Kwambala leaned forward, his face glimmering like oily gold in the candlelight.

  “So what happens now?”

  Master Ko looked down at the table, then at the assembly.

  “We wait and let the simmering pot come to a boil. When the time is right, our master shall make his will known to us, and to the world.”

  A cold wind slithered through the room like an invisible serpent, sending chills down every spine.

  “Well,” Master Ko said with a hasty clap of his hands, “this assembly is concluded.”

  Everyone was only too happy to leave the room.

  ****

  “In here.”

  Christine ducked into a doorway and disappeared. Patric prepared to follow, then stopped. This certainly didn’t look like a cafe. There was no sign, no menu, nothing. It was just a dark door in a grimy brick wall.

  Christine’s disembodied head peeked out of the shadows like a magician’s trick. “Come inside.”

  The tone of her voice made it clear that this was an order, not an invitation.

  Patric took a deep breath, feeling a cold knot of worry twist in his stomach, then slipped into the darkness.

  Immediately, several rough hands seized him, pinning his arms against his sides.

  “Hey, what the – ?”

  Another unseen hand clamped over his mouth, muffling his words. Patric’s eyes were wide with fright, but he couldn’t see anyone. He let out a smothered scream as he was literally hoisted off the ground and carried down the black corridor, then through another door.

  The room was dimly lit, but before he could get a look at his captors, he was bundled into a chair and a strong pair of hands belonging to someone standing behind him clamped his face in a vise grip, keeping his gaze forward. He gritted his teeth as he struggled against the fingers digging into his temples, but it was no use. The hands holding his head in place also exerted a downward pressure on his neck and body, keeping him pinned to the chair. He had never encountered strength like this before.

  His senses scrambled madly to figure out where he was and what was around him. He could see that he was in a small, dingy room, likely a storage unit judging from the broken wooden pallets stacked against the cracked plaster wall. An industrial light gently swayed overhead, and numerous flecks of dust frolicked in the harsh glare. Beyond this, he could see and hear nothing. He knew there was at least one person behind him, but it was useless trying to see who it was.

  Some movement in a dark corner caught his eyes. He stared at the shadow as it slowly materialized into a man. Patric’s wide eyes grew even wider.

  “What…?”

  Claude Jeraque stepped into the light, hands clasped behind his back and a humorless smile on his face.

  “Bon jour, Monsieur Bourdon.”

  Patric’s fear instantly turned to red hot anger.

  “You! What do you want?” he shouted through clenched teeth.

  Claude paced in front of him like an impatient lion waiting for its meal. “I apologize for the rough welcome. I’m afraid you wouldn’t have come otherwise.”

  “You’re damn right!”

  Claude smiled with genuine amusement. “I appreciate your honesty. Let me reciprocate.”

  He waved his hand towards the shadows and Christine appeared, looking slightly ashamed beneath her cold, yet still beautiful expression. She drew close to Claude, and the large man put a benevolent arm around her shoulder.

  The realization hit Patric like cold water in his face. He could see it in their eyes.

  “You…you are…”

  “Christine is my daughter,” Claude confirmed.

  Patric’s anger faded, replaced by a fear that was even stronger than before. Claude must have seen it in his face, because his eyes spoke loudly even though his lips were silent.

  I know everything.

  He raised his chin and began to pace again. Christine’s eyes remained fixed on Patric.

  “Leave us, Philippe,” Claude commanded.

  Patric turned around as the gorilla hands squeezing his head disappeared. The rest of Philippe certainly matched the strength of his hands, and the gargantuan soldier left the room.

  After the door clicked shut, Patric turned towards Claude and Christine. His mind was a flurry of emotions, none of them comforting. He was starting to fear for his life.

  “What do you want from me, Claude?” he demanded, trying to hide his terror by sounding outraged.

  Claude didn’t stop pacing, though he did throw a glance in Patric’s direction.

  “You know what’s happening out there, don’t you?” he asked.

  Patric didn’t know how to respond, so he kept quiet.

  Claude answered the question for him. “Satan’s power is weakening, thanks in large part to your brother. That was the spark, and now the flame is lit. Without a leader, the Church of Satan is like a fish out of water, flopping around in the sun.”

  An ember of indignation began burning in Patric’s heart. “Well hallelujah. What does this have to do with me?”

  With a snap of his boot, Claude turned and glared hard at Patric. “You are going to help our cause.”

  “Ha!”

  Claude stepped back, as if Patri
c had spit in his face. He glanced at Christine, who returned the glance but said nothing.

  Patric furrowed his brow and curled his lip with disgust. “Why would I help you? You’re my enemy, remember?”

  “So you claim allegiance to the Church of Satan?” Claude asked with a raised eyebrow.

  Patric opened his mouth to reply, then stopped. Claude seized upon the moment of hesitation, leaning forward and placing his hands on the armrests of the chair. He brought his face very close to Patric’s and peered into his shifting eyes.

  “Say it,” he demanded. “I want to hear you say it.”

  “I…I…” Patric felt an invisible hand on his throat, choking his words.

  Say it, you idiot. Just say it!

  He tried to throw out the words, just a few simple words. But he couldn't. His face darkened with confusion, and Claude stood up straight, standing over him like a conqueror.

  “I remember our last conversation,” he said, turning and resuming his pacing. “I remember the chance I gave you to see the error of your ways. You refused. That was a mistake. I hope this time you can realize that.”

  “And if I don’t?”

  Christine stepped forward impatiently. “Papa, please, let me talk to him. Alone.”

  The fear and distrust that flashed across Claude’s face spoke his answer, but Christine interrupted his words.

  “He won’t hurt me, Papa. Besides, you know he couldn’t even if he wanted to.”

  She shot a cold glance towards Patric, who bristled at the challenge. Yet there was something in her voice that convinced him that she was right.

  He held her gaze for a moment, then looked up at Claude. “Let her speak.”

  Claude inhaled deeply through flaring nostrils, then clasped his hands behind his back. “All right. Five minutes. I will be outside.”

  He fired a piercing glare at Patric that promised immense physical pain if he dared to even rise from that chair. He then turned and left the room, closing the door loudly behind him.

  Patric turned his attention to Christine, who had moved directly beneath the bright overhead lamp. The glare cast long shadows over her face and obscured her eyes beneath her brow, making her look elegant. Regal, even. And he was terrified of her.