by Mark Carver
They simply could not suffer this madman any longer.
But this was not Father DeMarco’s concern at the moment. He prayed daily, even hourly, for the destruction of the evil forces that were choking his beloved church to death, and right now he and his people had some housecleaning to do.
He stood before the looming facade of the Church of St. Angelo, staring at the large men barring the door. Lorenzo, Donatella, Benito, and a number of believers stood behind him, struggling against their fear and praying for faith.
Father DeMarco stepped forward.
“We have come to cleanse this church!” he declared.
The sentries exchanged glances, and then one scowled at the small priest.
“It has already been cleansed,” he said, pointing towards the bell tower. Several bodies dangled from ropes tied to the limbs of statues.
Father DeMarco swallowed roughly, but his voice did not waver. “You profane this house of the Lord with violence and bloodshed! We are commanded in the Scriptures not to overcome evil with evil, but with good.”
The sentries chuckled. “Go try that at another church,” the other one said. “See where ‘being good’ gets you.”
Father DeMarco took another step forward, as did the men and women behind him.
“Stand aside.”
“Or what?” the first sentry growled. “You’ll – “
He didn’t get a chance to finish as several men from the group behind him launched themselves up the church steps and slammed into the large guards. Their combined weight and surprise attack threw the guards off balance. The doorway was clear. With a mighty yell, the group crashed through the doors and swarmed into the sanctuary.
Those sitting in the pews leaped to their feet and immediately charged towards the invaders. Father DeMarco’s congregation carried no weapons and they fought only to defend themselves, but those who occupied the church seemed possessed with an unholy savagery. The scuffles became vicious and the stone floor was soon spattered with blood.
Father DeMarco ignored the violence surrounding him. His eyes were on the priest standing in front of the altar, Father Rafael Bizetti. The priest, alarmed by the intrusion, leveled his eyes as Father DeMarco stormed down the center aisle.
“You!” he roared, pointing a rock-steady finger at the advancing priest. “You were excommunicated! How dare you show your face here!”
Father DeMarco broke into a run, surprised at the strength surging through his feet. Inhaling through clenched teeth, he hurled himself through the air and slammed into the startled priest. Both men tumbled to the ground, crashing against the altar and knocking several icons to the floor.
“Fool!” Father Bizetti snarled, rolling on top of Father DeMarco and wrapping his fingers around his neck.
Father DeMarco’s eyes bulged as Father Bizetti’s fingers squeezed with strength that was impossible for a man who was nearly eighty years old. He stared at the enraged priest and his vision started to swim. He could feel the life starting to slip away from his oxygen-starved body, and he summoned his last remaining strength.
With a desperate cry, he wrapped his hand against Father Bizetti’s forehead and rasped, “By the power of Christ, I cast you out!”
Father Bizetti cried out as if he had been struck. His fingers relaxed a little, giving Father DeMarco enough room to inhale a delicious breath of air before speaking again.
“By the power of Christ, I cast you out! By the power of Christ, I cast you out!”
Father Bizetti released his hold on his neck and fell to ground, writhing and gasping like a man dying of thirst. Father DeMarco kept his hand pressed against the priest’s forehead and he spoke with escalating power.
“I cast you out! Unclean spirit, by the power of Christ, I cast you out!”
With a final breathless gasp, Father Bizetti slumped to the ground. Feeling like a deflated balloon, Father DeMarco also fell back, staring at the man with whom he had spent many afternoons arguing theological principles.
The bruised and bloodied combatants suddenly ceased their struggles, and like curious children, they made their way to the front of the sanctuary and crowded around the two exhausted men.
Father Bizetti’s eyelids fluttered and he sat up, looking every bit of his eighty years.
“What…what happened?” he croaked, pressing his hand to his temple.
Father DeMarco’s chest heaved like a bellows. He was too exhausted to answer, but his soul was singing.
I can’t believe that actually worked…
****
There was a stillness in the air that Patric found unsettling. Following his conversation with Julian, his quarters had been moved upstairs one level to a much more comfortable apartment. The window was still too high for him to see through but at least it was big and let in more light. The room needed it, since it was quite large.
But he still felt like a prisoner. For nearly three days, he was kept under lock and key, with his only human contact being at mealtimes, and on each occasion, a different person brought him his food. Aside from this, he saw and heard no one. There were a few instances when the strange tickling sensation would manifest inside his head, then quickly vanish, as if an unholy spirit was passing through the corridor. Yet even when his unexplained awareness was dormant, he still felt a sense of impending doom. Despite his sumptuous surroundings, relaxation was impossible.
He passed his lonely hours formulating all kinds of plans to liberate himself and Natasha from this demonic carnival. Of course, it all hinged on his ability to get the mysterious priest alone and then overpower him, take his key card, navigate his way through the maze down to the secret medical laboratory buried beneath the Vatican, smash through the seemingly impregnable glass wall that kept Natasha and the other “vessels” cut off from the rest of the world, and find a way to haul her out of the compound and to…what? Freedom? Capture? Imprisonment?
Execution?
Patric’s fingers clawed at the velvet armrests. It didn’t matter what the consequences of his plan were. He wasn’t going to stay here, and he wasn’t going to be Julian’s puppet on a string, to smile and wave and endorse this madman while riding on the coattails of his brush with martyrdom for a faith that wasn’t even his own.
It was all going to end here, and soon.
****
“Your Holiness!”
Julian jerked his head up from the desk. He had been in the middle of writing an insulting and sarcastic reply to an invitation to a summit of Europe’s leaders. Even a delegation from Australia and a few semi-important American suits would be there.
Why, how could he resist?
“What?” he snapped, annoyed at being interrupted in the midst of scribbling a particularly scathing piece of withering contempt. “What is it?”
The man, a nondescript face perched above a shapeless robe, knelt before the desk, crossing himself and panting heavily. He remained in his crouched position, awaiting Julian’s response.
“Get up,” Julian groaned, motioning impatiently. Did people fawn over the previous popes like this?
The man leaped to his feet, nodding his thanks and keeping his eyes low to avoid looking at Julian directly.
“There have been more attacks by the rogue priest and his followers. They have overrun half a dozen churches in the last three days and have managed to convert the presiding clerics to their cause. The priest openly defies you in public, stirring up rebellion against you.”
Julian waved the news away like candle smoke. “A minor nuisance. I knew he would stir up trouble when I sent him away. He’s lucky there were sharpshooters on the rooftops that night he defied me; I wanted him to live. I wasn’t expecting him to just fade away, but how many churches have we seized? Three dozen? Four? And we’re just getting started. Soon all of Europe will know the power of our church. Even those arrogant wimps across the oceans will know that we are the true church, and we do not run from our enemies.”
The man nodded again. “
Yes, Your Holiness.”
Julian dismissed the man with a sweep of his hand, but as he was leaving, another man who looked remarkably similar appeared in the doorway. He seemed equally as breathless as the first man when he had come in.
“Your Holiness!”
Julian rubbed his aching forehead. “Yes,” he groaned, drawing the word out like a sigh. “What do you want?”
The man did not enter the room, but knelt in the doorway and crossed himself. Julian clicked his tongue.
“Rise!” he snapped. Imbeciles…
The man rose and glanced at his comrade, who was apparently waiting for the news as well.
“Your Holiness, I think you need to come with me. There is something you must see.”
Julian looked up at the ceiling, as if begging heaven for an explanation. He shoved himself away from the desk and stood up.
“Lead the way.”
He was taken to a small room with a cushioned chair sitting in front of a large flat screen television. The TV was turned on, broadcasting indecipherable images of smoke, fire, and pandemonium.
The man who had brought the news motioned for Julian to enter the room. Julian sat down in a huff, glancing at the TV screen with disinterest. It seemed to be just another news report about the sudden and forceful reclamation of another cathedral. Since dismissing the assembly of clerics, the news channels had been flooded with images of the Satanists’ defeat as empowered clergy and emboldened believers stormed the gates and barricades that tried in vain to keep them from entering the houses of God. Pitched battles were being fought in the streets as well, and while the losses on both sides were quite heavy, the army of heaven was prevailing. Julian knew it was only a matter of time before the Satanists were stamped out like vermin.
“Your Holiness,” the robed man said in a shaky voice, “please watch the television.”
Julian turned a bored eye towards the TV. His blood ran cold. The first thing to catch his attention were the words splashed across the bottom of the screen.
Paris: Temple of the Dragon Destroyed in Terrorist Attack.
He watched breathlessly as the frazzled reporter tried to deliver her report in the midst of the chaos.
“- is expected to continue to rise as authorities attempt to restore order to begin searching through the debris. The outlook is grim, however, as you can see behind me, the temple is almost totally destroyed.”
The camera zoomed past the reporter to focus on the smoking wreckage. The mighty Temple of the Dragon had been gutted like an enormous fish. Both towers on the west facade were still standing but the portals were demolished. The sanctuary itself was a gaping shell, with the shattered arches pointing towards the sky like giant black ribs. The roof had caved in, along with most of the support pillars. It was difficult to make out any details due to the cameraman’s unsteady hand, but it was clear to see that it had taken a massive explosion to create such devastation.
The reporter reappeared in the picture as she attempted to smooth her hair away from her eyes. The sound of sirens and screams was like a discordant symphony behind her.
“Authorities are saying that this attack was the concerted effort of a large terrorist operation. Many eyewitnesses have come forth, and there is also an abundance of photos, surveillance footage, and amateur video as well. This video, obtained by our news channel, was taken outside the temple just before the attack.”
The broadcast cut to a shaky video taken on a cell phone. It showed three voluptuous young women in low-cut tops posing together in the temple square, about one hundred meters from the building. The girls were laughing and making obscene gestures when a volcano of flame erupted through the west portals. The ground shook violently and the camera shook with it. The young women gasped and turned around just in time to watch the roof collapse onto the sanctuary. The person holding the camera shouted, “C’est quoi ce bord – “ before the video cut off.
The reporter appeared once more, and she looked like she was struggling to keep her emotions under control.
“This horrific attack was perpetrated by a group of Christian terrorists led by this woman.”
The TV screen flashed with an enlarged photo of Christine Jeraque, a savage expression on her face as she brandished two handguns. The photo was apparently taken inside the temple before the attack by a security camera. Several rough-looking men were on either side of her. One of them had a clumsy-looking splint on his left hand.
“According to eyewitnesses,” the reporter continued, “this woman and her accomplices disguised themselves as tourists visiting the temple. In the wake of recent instability involving temples across Europe, security was on high alert, and anyone wishing to enter the temple was subject to a bag and body search. However, this woman, along with a large group of heavily-armed men, shot several security officers before storming into the sanctuary, firing several rounds into the air. They ordered everyone inside to leave immediately, and they slaughtered the security guards stationed inside the temple. It was only a matter of moments before the last occupants fled the sanctuary that a succession of bombs detonated and caused the sanctuary to collapse on itself. Several people gathered outside the temple were cut down by flying debris, with the official death count standing now at seven, and authorities expect that number to rise as they continue to search through the ruins for bodies, as well as any survivors that might have been unlucky enough to have still been inside.
“The whereabouts of the perpetrators is still unknown. Authorities are not sure exactly how many people were involved in this attack, nor are they sure whether the terrorists were still inside during the blasts or if they escaped through another point of exit. Paris police have cordoned off the area within a two-kilometer radius of the attack site, and they are confident that they will apprehend the suspects within a matter of hours. Reporting live from the Temple of the Dragon, I’m – “
The man pressed the “mute” button on the remote and looked at his master.
Julian was trembling. An impossibly wide grin split his face.
“Praise God!” he shouted, leaping out of the chair and raising his hands to the ceiling.
“Your Holiness?”
Julian whirled and stared at the man, his face beaming with joy. “This is what I’ve wanted all along! Don’t you see? Their final symbol of power is gone. Erased! The Vatican belongs to us, the churches they stole are being reclaimed, and now, the last bastion of Satan’s power on earth is a pile of stones! Ha! Just like he made it twelve years ago…”
He turned his eyes back to the television. The muted broadcast displayed a blurry image of Christine’s face again. Julian pointed at the screen.
“That woman…”
He looked at the man, who quickly lowered his eyes.
“Find Father Shen!” Julian commanded. “Bring him here, now!”
Six and a half minutes later, Master Ko shuffled into the room, trying to appear calm. The truth was, his mind was whirling like a top. His dark mistress had informed him already of the attack in Paris, and while she seemed positively giddy about it, he couldn’t help but feel a deep sense of loss.
After all, building the Temple of the Dragon on the site of the former cathedral had been his idea.
In his heart, he secretly wondered if his mistress was too sadistic for her job. Of course, they both served a lord of chaos, but did everything have to be utterly destroyed? Couldn't some things be left to flourish in the darkness?
There was no use in fretting about it now. The temple was a ruin and Julian was certain to be in a rapturous mood. When he opened the door to the small room, he nearly shrieked as Julian lifted him off the ground and squeezed him in a bear-hug.
“The temple has fallen!” Julian cried, spinning around the room with the small man still clasped in his arms. “Praise God!”
“Yes,” Master Ko sputtered, feeling his lungs begin to burn, “it is wonderful news, Your Holiness. Can we please celebrate from a more stationary position?”
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“Sorry, Father.” Julian set Master Ko on his feet, and the elder tottered dangerously. He saved himself from crashing to the floor by gripping the back of the chair.
“What temple are we talking about?” he asked, feigning ignorance.
Julian pointed towards the television, a broad smile on his face. “The temple, Father! The Temple of the Dragon! They blew it up!”
Master Ko stared at the images flashing on the screen. He had to restrain himself from lunging at the television and hurling it to the ground. “Who is ‘they,’ Your Holiness?”
Julian’s face grew serious. He clasped his hands behind his back and assumed the regal bearing that had become increasingly natural to him. “That is what I want you to find out, Father. I know you have influence and power far beyond these walls, and I want you to find out who did this. In particular, I want her.”
Master Ko followed his gaze towards the screen, which displayed a grainy photo of a rather attractive girl. She was hoisting two handguns into the air and her face was filled with rage. The elder struggled to hide his smile. He liked this girl already.
“Find out if she’s alive or dead,” Julian said, “and if she’s alive, find out where she is. I suspect that she will have been captured by the authorities by now; Parisian security has been on high alert since I sent the clerics out to take care of business. I don’t think they expected an attack like this, though. I certainly didn’t…”
He rubbed his jaw thoughtfully. “You must find her, Father. A woman like that would be perfect for our team here. Why, with her here, along with the rescued martyr, we could – "
“I’m sorry, Your Holiness,” Master Ko interrupted, “but about the ‘rescued martyr…’”
“What about him?”
Master Ko shifted his feet. “Well, I am just speaking from supposition, but he’s been kept out of sight for several days now, and I would suspect that he is getting restless. Perhaps feeling neglected, unimportant. If it pleases Your Holiness, it might be time to show him off, so to speak.”
