by Mark Carver
How long does this corridor go on? Patric wondered wearily, though he realized that the longer this passage was, the farther away they were from the death and destruction behind them. Christine had finally given up struggling and bounced limply on his shoulder, nearly unconscious. Drops of blood fell from her fingertips onto the concrete floor.
A searing cramp started to burn in Patric’s side, and he was seriously considering taking a moment to rest when the delicious smell of mountain air wafted through the tunnel. He began jogging faster, and although he could only see darkness, the scent of trees and water grew stronger.
“Christine,” he said, giving her buttocks an urgent pat, “do you smell that?”
Christine moaned, and Patric realized that his shoulder felt slick. He stopped and slid her down to the floor beneath one of the light bulbs.
“Oh my god...”
He peeled the bandage away from her arm. It was utterly soaked with blood. The entire left side of her body was smeared with red, as was Patric’s shoulder. Her head lolled left and right and her eyes flickered like an old TV set.
A knot of guilt twisted in Patric’s stomach. He knew he had been too rough with her, but he reasoned that she had given him no choice. The muffled thud of a distant explosion made his heart jump. They weren’t safe yet.
“Christine,” he said, pressing his hand against the wound in her shoulder. “Christine, look at me. Can you hear me?”
Her eyes rolled wildly and cold beads of sweat sparkled on her forehead.
“I’m really thirsty,” she rasped.
Patric nodded. “I know. We’re almost out of here. I can carry you, but it’s going to hurt. Can you hang on for just a little while longer?”
Christine’s eyes focused and she stared at him with a curious expression. It was a mixture of hatred and gratitude that pierced deep into Patric’s heart. He couldn’t look into those eyes, and he turned away.
She reached out a bloodstained hand and touched his face.
“Let’s go.”
Patric looked at her, confused and angry by the flood of emotions washing over him. He clenched his teeth as he slipped his arms underneath her and hoisted her up to his chest. She clung to him tightly, and for the smallest fraction of a moment, he was struck by the softness of her hair against his face.
He started jogging towards the scent of trees and water, feeling infinitely lighter in his soul even though he couldn’t see an end to the darkness. Christine was shivering in his arms, and blood trickled from Patric’s fingers, despite his best efforts to keep pressure on the wound.
A door appeared. He screeched to a halt just before he collided with the solid iron surface. There was a small opening cut into it at about eye level, and the slat was surrounded by rivets. The door was set back deep within the shadows so that it looked just like a rectangular black void, and only when it was viewed up close could one see the faintest glint from the lights reflecting off of the grimy metal.
Patric reached out and touched the cold, clammy surface, feeling for a door handle. He couldn’t find one.
“Christine, how do we open it?”
Christine raised her head and looked sleepily towards the door. She reached out her hand and pressed the rivet at the upper right corner of the window. The door sprang open with a shrill clang.
Patric stared in amazement. He couldn’t really see anything for a few moments, but the smell of fresh air was delicious and invigorating. He crept forward cautiously into the darkness, feeling in front of him with his feet and holding tightly onto Christine.
A few yards out of the door, the ground dropped away and a flight of concrete stairs descended into a dark ravine. Patric turned around and looked up.
The sky behind them was lit with a sickly glow, and he could smell the putrid stench of chemical smoke mingling with the scent of the forest. He looked down at Christine and was relieved to see that she was unconscious. He didn’t want her to see this.
His hand was totally drenched in her blood, and he cringed. She needed proper medical attention, and soon. Yet as far as he knew, they were out in the wilderness and this compound was the only haven of civilization. And now it was up in flames.
Patric heaved a weary sigh. He looked down into the blackness stretching beneath them.
There was no other choice.
Please, please, let there be something. A car, a bicycle, anything...
He jerked as if someone had pricked him with a needle.
Did he just...pray?
He hoisted Christine into a better position in his arms, and he started down the stairs.
There were a lot of them. He guessed they had gone down at least one hundred steps when the ground finally leveled off. He paused, squinting his eyes against the darkness.
He saw something moving. Something...flickering.
And the sound. It was unmistakable.
Water. A small river, or, most likely, just a tiny creek.
At least they could wash Christine’s wound.
He was about to set her down, but then he stopped. He looked down at the stream flowing in front of them, then at Christine’s sleeping head.
He was no doctor, but he knew that water needed to be sterile if it was going to be used for any medical purposes. He had contracted a nasty case of dysentery as a teenager from drinking creek water.
Her blood felt very warm compared to her cold skin. Patric looked up at the starless sky, feeling utterly exhausted. His knees started to wobble, and his legs buckled. He and Christine fell down in a pile on the grass that grew along the bank.
Christine moaned but didn’t awaken. Patric gathered her in his arms again and laid his head against hers.
This wouldn’t be a bad place for her to die, he thought. Quiet, peaceful...
He raised his head and froze. Listening.
He heard it again. The sound of wood scraping against rocks.
He turned to his left, summoning all of his visual strength to pierce the darkness.
There it was, about ten yards away. A small wooden boat was tethered to the shore by a stake.
Patric looked up at the sky. He didn’t care who was listening. He just had to say it.
Thank you.
PART III.
We must remember that Satan has his miracles, too.
- John Calvin
CHAPTER 9
Mistress Jalevaya glared at Master Ko. Her cold eyes did not reflect the candle flickering on the table. When she spoke, her tone was heavy with skepticism.
“So what now?”
Master Ko folded his hands in front of him and looked at each member of the Circle of Elders.
“The words of our dark mistress were clear. After the seed has been sown, which I have done, she will raise an army that will follow our Great Lord’s commands.”
“And what will his commands be, exactly?”
Master Ko turned towards Master Kwambala. “Reclaim the Vatican.”
“How can you be so certain this will work?” Mistress Jalevaya said. “How do we know he will follow your prodding and go down this path which you have so carefully laid out for him? How do we know he won’t go traipsing off into the countryside and become a wandering preacher?”
“Pride.”
The word hovered over the table like a mist. Even the candle did not stir.
“Pride?” one of the elders asked.
Master Ko stared at the motionless candle flame as he spoke. “I saw it in his eyes. We sat in that monastery for hours. I slowly filled his mind with subtle flatteries and admiration, and I watched his face grow brighter and brighter with each word. He was putty in my hands, just like our mistress said he would be. She is, after all, an excellent judge of character.”
Mistress Jalevaya pursed her lips. “Well you might be convinced, but I’m not. And even if he does give in to your manipulation, are we just going to surrender the Vatican to this Delusional and his mob like that?”
She snapped her fingers.
Mistress Jalevaya bristled at Master Ko’s challenging tone.
“Don’t lecture me about our purpose here,” she spat. “I do not doubt our master. I doubt the fools that he suffers to remain on this earth.”
The door to the darkened room burst open and an icy wind slithered across the floor.
“You are right,” a cold voice said. “They are fools.”
The members of the Circle trembled as they searched the room for the owner of the ghostly voice. The candle flame vanished, and the room plunged into darkness.
For a moment, there was total silence.
Then, like simmering coals, two red eyes appeared above the table. Light from an unseen fire grew stronger and stronger, and a black figure materialized in the air. For a moment, it was shapeless, with long black tendrils stretching out, then recoiling. The pulsating shape then gathered itself into the shape of a tall, slender woman wearing a long black dress that swayed and shimmered like water. The darkness melted away from her face, revealing startling white skin. Her eyes continued to smolder like fire.
She hovered above the table for a few moments, gazing down in utter contempt for the decrepit wastrels cowering beneath her. Only Master Ko was able to look upon her without trembling.
A chilling smile stole across her lips, and she vanished in the blink of an eye. A collective gasp sounded from around the table, which turned to startled shrieks as the candle exploded to life again, shooting a flame two feet high into the air.
“Fools, indeed.”
Every head whipped to the far side of the room.
The woman in black slithered towards them, gliding on invisible feet. None of the elders moved a muscle, but their eyes were riveted as she approached them.
She drew near to the table, and Master Ko bowed low.
“Exalted Mistress,” he said in a quiet, humble voice.
As if awakening from a trance, the others snapped to attention and did the same. The woman in black regarded them sternly, but her face did not lose the sly smile.
“Come, come,” she cooed, gesturing upwards with her hands. “It is not me you should be bowing to.”
Master Ko took a cautious step forward, like a man approaching a viper. “Mistress, that was a very…dramatic entrance.”
The smile widened to reveal her gleaming white teeth, and she began pacing around the table.
“Indeed. It was to prove a point.”
“What point?” Mistress Jalevaya asked, a bit too curtly. She gasped and immediately clamped her mouth shut. Her wide eyes darted back and forth like a cornered animal.
The woman in black glared at her for a moment, then chuckled dryly. “That human beings are impressed by spectacle. They are drawn to what they perceive is a display of power because they are inherently weak, like children seeking an adult’s guidance. You humans yearn to be in awe of someone.”
The elders shifted their feet. They didn’t like being reminded that they were, deep down inside, just like everyone else.
“This childlike reverence for spectacle can be used to one’s advantage,” the spectral woman continued, “and has throughout the centuries.”
She stopped and stared at all of them.
“So it shall be again.”
“What do you mean, Exalted Mistress?” Master Ko asked.
The woman in black did not answer right away. She let the silence fill the room until it was pressing on every ear.
“This Delusional,” she said finally, speaking in a low, heavy voice, “this puppet pope shall gain the awe and fear of the entire world.”
Everyone waited for an explanation, but the woman in black stood in silence.
Master Kwambala gulped nervously and spoke up.
“How will he do that, Exalted Mistress?”
“A sign. A miracle.”
Murmurs circled around the table.
“A miracle?”
“What kind of miracle, Mistress?”
The woman in black turned her back to them and began floating towards the door.
Master Ko reached out his hand.
“Wait, Mistress!”
She stopped, then slowly turned around.
Master Ko stood up straight and squared his shoulders.
“Please, tell us. What kind of miracle?”
A playful gleam sparkled in her eyes.
“And spoil the surprise?”
****
Pain sliced through Father DeMarco’s skull like a lightning bolt, instantly transforming the darkness of sleep into blinding white light.
He bolted upright and was jerked back by an iron ring clamped around his neck. Confusion seized his mind, and his hands reached out to grasp a rusty chain leading from his neck to the wall.
He sputtered and gasped, clenching his eyes against the onslaught of pain. His throat felt as dry as sand, and he couldn’t summon any saliva to soothe his parched tongue. He clawed angrily at the ring encircling his neck, grimacing as the rusted edges cut the skin above his collarbone.
It was dark, very dark. A distant electric light was the only source of illumination, but Father DeMarco didn’t need to see to know where he was. He knew it by the smell.
Bones. Dust. Death.
A crypt.
He had spent enough time in crypts to immediately recognize the musty, brittle scent. It wasn’t exactly unpleasant, but it felt oppressive and stale.
A sound to his left startled him, but he made sure not to move too quickly. In the faint light, he saw a human form lying on the ground beneath a wall of open tombs. After a few moments, his vision had adjusted well enough so that he recognized the person.
“Benito!” he whispered hoarsely, reaching out his hand. The chain around his neck prevented him from touching the boy, and he spoke his name again.
Benito stirred with a groan, then sat up quickly.
“No, don’t - !” Father DeMarco cried.
Benito gagged as his iron collar squeezed his neck, and he doubled over, coughing violently. Despite the agony scorching his skull, Father DeMarco felt pity for the boy, and he reached out his hand again.
“Benito, are you all right?”
The boy rubbed his neck and squinted in the dim light. “Yeah, I’m fine. But I’m really thirsty.”
His chain clinked as he looked around.
“Where are we?”
Father DeMarco sighed. “We’re in a crypt. I’m guessing it’s beneath the church.”
Benito pulled on his shackles, then slapped the ground in frustration.
“Where are the others?”
Father DeMarco closed his eyes as he rubbed his temples. The pain was getting worse.
“I’m not sure. I haven’t seen or heard anything since they split us up.”
“So what are we going to do?”
The pain became an inferno.
“We can’t do anything!”
Benito jumped back, startled at the fury of Father DeMarco’s outburst.
The priest bared his teeth like an animal. “We’re prisoners here, in this dungeon, Benito! And it’s your fault! You stupid, stupid boy!”
Benito fought the tears welling in his eyes. “My fault? My fault?”
“Yes! You let yourself be led astray by that...that...monster! You put all of our lives in danger, and we are forced to run away like mice fleeing the house cat. You say we should go to Rome and like an idiot, I let you lead us, because I thought that if the devil wants you to go to Rome, then that is exactly where we need to be to fight against him. But now we’re not going to Rome, and I don’t know if Lorenzo and Donatella are alive or dead...”
There was a moment of silence, thick and hostile. Then Benito drew himself up as straight as he could, and he pointed a finger in the priest’s face.
“Now you listen, old man. I know I made a big mistake, many mistakes. And I don’t know who or what that woma
n was, and if I let myself be deceived by an evil spirit, then I will answer to God for that. But you cannot stand on your pulpit and condemn me for my weakness. You have a great failure on your conscience too.”
Father DeMarco looked up suddenly. “What...what are you talking about?”
Benito glared at him. “That woman, that monster, as you say...she told me things. Things that no one else knows.”
Father DeMarco’s skull felt like it was splitting apart.
“What did she tell you?”
Benito breathed out through his nose, then leaned back against the wall. “She told me about Tourec.”
Father DeMarco sucked in his breath and his eyes fell to the ground. “Tourec...”
He looked up again. “What did she say about him?”
“She said that he was your pupil, and that you did nothing to stop him from killing the Voice of Satan.”
“That’s not - !”
As quickly as it had flared, the angry fire within Father DeMarco died down. He felt as if his very soul was deflating. With a weary sigh, he fell back against the wall. He didn’t even care about the pain hammering against his head.
“Tourec. Yes, he was one of mine. Brilliant, zealous...and misguided. He came back to me, just before he went to Paris. He was half-dead, and I took care of him. Dressed his wounds, gave him food. And the crazy thing...”
He swallowed again, then continued.
“The crazy thing is that his half-brother…a Satanist, if you can believe that… came to my monastery just the day before, looking for Tourec. When Tourec showed up, I knew it was a miracle from God.”
He fell silent and looked at his hands.
“I had no idea what he was planning to do. Or what would happen after.”
He raised his eyes and looked at Benito.
“But I did not bless or encourage his violent acts. I knew of his assassinations across Europe, and I tried to dissuade him, but he wouldn’t listen to me. Perhaps...perhaps he was listening to someone else.”
Shame flickered in Benito’s eyes.
