by Mark Carver
Julian furrowed his brow. “Show him off?”
“Yes, Your Holiness. With the Temple of the Dragon destroyed and your army of clerics overpowering the enemy’s hordes, this might be a good time to show that you have a strong base here at home. The authorities and the military are too cowardly to attack, but it looks like we’re being kept prisoner here, even though it is we who hold them in fear and not the other way around. You are the focal point of this uprising, Your Holiness, and it would enhance your image to make a public appearance with the rescued martyr by your side.”
Julian considered this for a moment, tilting his head slightly to the left.
“All right,” he said with a determined nod, “I will hold a public mass in three days. I will broadcast a message to all the news channels to get the word out, and I will order the cowards encircling us to disperse and let the believers in or I will incinerate them like the others.”
Master Ko bowed low to hide his victorious smile. “Excellent, Your Holiness. I will exert every effort to find this woman, and, if she is still alive, I assure you that I will bring her here. With the rescued martyr and this valiant soldier by your side, you will be unstoppable.”
Julian began pacing in front of the muted television. Images of chaos and destruction flashed behind him, but he was the picture of calm. “I want this to be a statement to the world. We will show the skeptics and those who remain loyal to the enemy that we are not afraid. We, as a church body...not only me. I want my children to rise up on their own faith and courage. Their Father in heaven is the source of their power; I am just a conduit.”
“There’s no need for modesty, Your Holiness,” Master Ko said with a snake-like smile. “Everything that is happening now is because of your extraordinary faith and your acceptance of the incredible calling that God has placed on you. So many men miss their chance at greatness not because they are not chosen by God, but they are afraid to answer when He calls them.”
Julian nodded absently, absorbing the elder’s words. “And now I will anoint all believers. I was once like them, full of fear and doubts. When I took up arms in God’s name, I felt the beginning of that power start to flow through me, but now I know the full potential that we have as believers. We truly can move mountains.”
“And you will, Your Holiness. I beg your leave, Your Holiness, to seek out this woman to bring her to your side and strengthen the message that we will deliver.”
Julian turned suddenly, staring at him with eyes like ice. “That I will deliver.”
Master Ko swallowed and bowed quickly. “Of course, Your Holiness. You alone are worthy to impart God’s word to this dark world.”
The air was still for a moment, then Julian’s hand emerged from his robe and he waved the old man away. “Go, find this girl. Every moment counts.”
Master Ko bowed again and rushed out of the room. He noiselessly closed the door as the serpentine smile returned.
It was very rewarding to watch the seeds of vanity blossom into a mighty tree.
CHAPTER ELEVEN
After retreating from Julian’s presence, Master Ko walked slowly through the corridors of Vatican City. To those around him, he seemed to be wandering thoughtfully, meditatively. But the truth was that his heart was pounding, and he wanted to break out in a run. It took every ounce of self-restraint to pass through the busier parts of the grand complex with all the appearances of a calm, ponderous priest whose mind was on higher things.
But this illusion of pious patience wasn’t intended to impress the nameless minions scrambling about. His measured steps and bowed head were a message to those unseen, to those watching from the shadows and bringing reports to those above them. He was, after all, the most important human element in this infernal circus. Of course, at the top there was her, but she was a bit too sensational to be a normal part of the machine. He was the one holding it all together, the puppet-master who was himself a puppet, but keeping this secret was just one more aspect of his difficult and delicate job.
The fate of his fellow elders weighed constantly on his mind. He didn’t know why he had been spared, but he was glad it was him, and that was good enough. He knew he was on thin ice, and it was essential that he projected confidence and assurance at every moment.
But right now, he was feeling anything but confident and assured.
He made his way into the bowels of the Vatican, deeper into the darkness until he found himself in secret chambers unknown to perhaps no one else still living. His heart was cold with anxiety.
Please let her still be alive…
He suddenly realized that he was praying to someone who would probably have preferred her dead anyway.
It didn’t matter. Bringing that militant young woman under Julian’s wing would be an act of brilliant strategy, and Master Ko found himself feeling the smallest bit excited. The perversity of murder and mayhem in the name of God was so beautifully profane…
In the near total darkness of a long, deep chamber, Master Ko heard a sound behind him.
He turned and peered into the abyss. Nothing.
He turned back and almost shrieked.
Her stone-cold face was less than three inches from his.
He sprang back as if he had touched an electrified fence. “M-M-Mistress!” he stammered. Why does she always do that?
In the dim, ghostly light, her black lips curled into a sinister smile. He could hear her answer in his head.
Because tormenting you is very entertaining.
“What is it?’ she asked in an extremely bored tone which contrasted with her amused expression.
Master Ko took a couple of deep breaths to regain his composure. “His Hol – Julian has been informed of the attack. He is quite pleased, as would be expected. And he has an intriguing request, which, I confess, I am not sure I can fulfill, so I come humbly to beg for your assistance.”
The woman in black gazed down at his bowed head for several moments, then huffed loudly. “What do you want?”
“Thank you, Mistress,” the elder said with another deep bow. “It seems the attack in Paris was carried out by a group of Delusionals who were led by a young woman, whom I have never seen before. Julian wishes to have her here by his side, to inspire the rest of the Delusional mob. Of course, this is all predicated on her being alive and in custody of the authorities, which is what I am hoping – "
“Yes.”
Master Ko was caught off-guard. “Yes, Mistress?”
“Yes, she’s alive and in police custody. She and fourteen of her companions were apprehended close to the temple just minutes after the attack.”
Master Ko’s face brightened. “Oh, praise Satan! Where is she now? Is she unharmed, relatively speaking?”
The woman in black nodded slowly. “Her capture has not yet been made public, and I am intrigued by this plan our little puppet king has come up with, so she will be reported as being killed in the attack. I will have her brought here tomorrow evening.”
Master Ko wanted to clap his hands for joy. “Thank you, Mistress, thank you! This is wonderful news. That fool upstairs will be so pleased when I tell him this. He thinks I can do anything…it helps to have the ‘Virgin Mother’ on my side.”
She looked at him with eyes of black steel. “Are you trying to be amusing?”
“No, no, of course not,” Master Ko sputtered with a nervous cough. “I was just…”
He bowed once more. “I shall inform Julian at once and make preparations for our new guest’s arrival.”
He paused, then leaned forward slightly. He was clearly hesitant to speak but he did so anyway. “If I may ask, Mistress, what will happen to the fourteen other Delusionals who were apprehended with the young woman?”
“They will also be reported as dead,” was the terse answer.
Master Ko tapped his fingers together. “And…are they?”
The woman in black kept her eyes focused on him, but she cocked her head a little to the right, as if she was listeni
ng to something.
After a few moments, her head and neck realigned.
“They are now.”
Master Ko gulped, then slowly started backing away.
“I am forever in your debt, Exalted Mistress.”
Once again, he had to command himself to walk, not run.
****
Lorenzo’s face was the color of ash as he burst in on the group as they were setting out plates, cups, and silverware for the noon meal. Everyone looked up at him and several people gasped. It was unusual to see a man of Lorenzo’s size look like he had just seen a ghost.
“Lorenzo,” Donatella said as she stepped towards him, “what is it?”
Lorenzo pointed towards the door he had just entered through. “I just saw…on TV, the false prophet, he…where is Father DeMarco?”
Donatella set down the stack of plates she was holding and placed a comforting hand on his chest.
“Calm down, my love. What was on TV?”
Lorenzo’s face returned to its normal color and his eyes regained their dark, piercing intensity.
“We need to go to the city. Where is Father DeMarco?”
The people in the room looked around, as if just now realizing that he wasn’t among them. Lorenzo clenched his fists in frustration.
“Where is he?” he asked again, his voice rumbling like a hungry bear’s.
“He’s in the chapel.”
Lorenzo craned his neck and saw Benito coming from the kitchen, balancing half a dozen plates of steaming food on his arms. He gingerly set them on the nearest table and breathed a sigh of relief.
“What is he doing there?” Lorenzo asked.
Benito shrugged. “Praying, I guess. That’s what people usually do in the chapel.”
Lorenzo glared at him like a bull ready to charge. “Go get him. Now.”
****
It had been a long time since Father DeMarco had been alone with God. The days following his expulsion from the church had been quite busy. Exhausting, even.
But he had never felt more alive, even though his heart was weighted down with sadness. He found himself in the midst of a holy war, but it was a war that was being won with faith and love, not with violence and bloodshed. He and his band of true believers had started out beneath a shadow of scorn, but now their numbers were growing each day, each hour. While the clergymen who had been ensnared by Julian’s deception stormed through the streets and churches, attacking Satanists and police forces alike, Father DeMarco and those who followed him did not lash out against their enemies unless forced to, and even then, they would often not resist. Many of their number were captured and imprisoned, and a few paid the ultimate price, but if Father DeMarco or other stout-hearted believers could get near the maniacal clerics, near enough to lay their hands on them, then the power of darkness would yield before the light and the bonds that bound them to their false leader were broken.
When news reached the authorities that this splinter group of non-violent Delusionals were actually subduing the uncontrollable maniacs that Julian had unleashed, they commanded their forces to stand down and not intervene unless there was a clear and present danger. Everyone had heard about what had happened in Paris and every city, town, and village was on edge. Churches, cathedrals, and temples alike were either abandoned or fortified with heavily-armed security, but this did not deter either side.
This Christian “clean-up crew” as the media had dubbed them did not all congregate together. Father DeMarco sent out teams of men and women who were ready for anything. And the story was the same with every violent congregation they encountered. The priest, bishop, or even cardinal who led them seemed to be possessed, forsaking all principles of Scripture and commanding their congregations to overcome their Satanist oppressors in whatever savage means they saw fit. When Father DeMarco’s anointed soldiers were able to seize them, the evil spirit would flee and the congregation would snap back to their former selves, as if coming out of a violent trance.
It was wonderful to see the power of faith in action, as well as witness miracles that had not been seen since the times of Christ, but Father DeMarco’s heart was not rejoicing.
It was breaking.
Great tears of sorrow streamed down his weathered cheeks as he knelt before the altar in the small, humble chapel. He looked up at the Virgin Mother, though he could not see her face very clearly through the sheen of tears over his eyes. When he spoke, his voice quivered like a bowstring about to snap.
“Oh God, please hear me. I beg You to tell me why… Why have You allowed so many of Your children to be led astray? I have watched my colleagues, my friends – men I have known for many years, men who have sacrificed everything for You and have been loyal to Your word and Your church – I have watched them fall like wheat before the enemy’s sickle. Why have You removed Your hand from us? I am grateful that You have spared me from this horror but I beg You, for the sake of my brethren and for all of Your children here on earth, to anoint us with Your blessing once more and end this madness…”
A fresh burst of tears gushed from his eyes like a fountain. He lowered his head until his brow rested on the altar, and he sobbed with every ounce of pain he had ever felt.
Something felt different. The air…it seemed warmer somehow. He raised his head and gasped. The room was filled with a bright light, but it wasn’t coming in through the narrow windows.
It was coming from behind him.
Heart pounding, he slowly turned around, unsure of what to expect. Immediately, he raised his hands to shield his eyes. When he lowered them, he saw a man standing a few meters away.
The stranger looked ordinary, dressed in a simple gray robe. His hair was a bit long, and he had no beard. His handsome mouth wore a small, curious smile. But his eyes… Father DeMarco had never seen eyes like that before.
His heart threatened to burst out of his chest. He was glad he was already kneeling, because he knew he wouldn’t be able to stand on his own power.
“Who…who…” His voice trembled like a teetering top.
The stranger’s smile widened, and there was kindness in his face. “Do not be afraid, Father. I have been sent to deliver a message to you.”
“Sent? By whom?”
The stranger clasped his hands in front of him and tilted his head. “By our Father in heaven.”
Father DeMarco couldn’t breathe. He reached out, like a dying man grabbing for a morsel of food that lay just beyond his reach.
“You…you’re an angel?”
“I am a messenger.”
The priest licked his dry lips. He shouldn’t be so shocked, he reasoned with himself. He had seen plenty of demons in the last few weeks; why should an angel be that surprising?
“What is your name?” he asked, finding his voice again.
The angel smiled as if he had asked a silly question. “I am afraid it would impossible for you to hear my name and still retain use of your ears. But for the sake of friendliness, you can call me Xavier.”
Father DeMarco gasped.
“He was your boyhood friend, was he not?” the angel asked. “Your best friend, before his tragic passing.”
The angel saw the next question forming on the priest’s lips, and he held up his hand.
“I am not Xavier, Father. As I said, I am a messenger sent by God, with something very important to tell you.”
Father DeMarco struggled to maintain control of the emotions racing through his head. After almost a minute, he decided it would be safe to speak again. The angel was waiting very patiently.
“Yes,” Father DeMarco said, “please tell me your message.”
Xavier’s smile disappeared, and his eyes, which had gleamed with a superhuman brilliance, flared like prisms.
“You must return to Rome,” he said. His voice seemed to echo like it was coming from a vast cavern. “You must return to the Vatican. The one who brings abomination will unleash a terrible darkness such as the world has never seen before.”
>
Father DeMarco was dumbfounded. “And you…you want us to stop him?”
Xavier shook his head. “There is nothing you can do to stop him.”
“Then what do you want us to do?”
“You must save the boy.”
“Boy?” Father DeMarco frowned. “What boy?”
The angel stared at him with piercing eyes. “The boy that you have prayed for every day since you met him. The boy whose heart once belonged to the darkness, but is now being drawn towards the light.”
“Patric? You mean Patric?”
Xavier nodded.
“What will happen to him? Is he in danger?”
The angel nodded again.
Father DeMarco looked down at the ancient stones beneath his knees. He felt the sting of betrayal, like an old scar that hadn’t healed properly.
“Why?” he asked. “Why do I need to save him?”
Something about the angel softened, and he seemed to speak from himself, rather than deliver a message from the mouth of God.
“Father, has Patric said anything about being able to sense when demons are close? Pain or discomfort of some kind?”
The priest nodded. Xavier nodded as well.
“When we learned of the enemy’s interest in Patric Bourdon, he was given protection. A guardian, if you will. This guardian has been working tirelessly within Patric’s soul, attempting to steer him away from the darkness and towards the light. Sometimes Patric chooses well; other times he does not. The hold the enemy has on him is very strong, but we also know the enemy fears him greatly. This is why we took the very unconventional step of dispatching a guardian to watch over a man who professes his loyalty to the enemy. And this is why Patric is warned every time he is close to unholy spirits. The guardian cannot directly affect Patric’s actions, but he can use every method of persuasion at his disposal.”
The priest fell back against the altar. His chest felt tight and in a panic, he wondered if he was having a heart attack. But the terror passed and he was simply left speechless.
