by Mark Carver
It took him a long time to find his voice. “Why Patric?” he gasped, his voice barely a whisper. “Why does the enemy fear him?”
The quizzical smile returned to Xavier’s face. “I can’t wait to find out myself. I do know that it will be many years before the reason is made clear, but the enemy likes to dig out the seed before it can take root.”
The angel began to glow again, and the priest realized he was leaving.
“Wait!” he cried, reaching out towards the messenger.
The light dimmed, and Xavier stared at him with an unreadable expression. “Yes?”
Father DeMarco thought for a moment, choosing his words carefully. “Can you tell me why all of this is happening? Why God has allowed such darkness to come over us? Believers are being possessed by demons! How is this even possible?”
After a pause, he added, “Has God abandoned us?”
The brilliant hardness in the angel’s eyes vanished, replaced by sympathy, even sorrow. “Father, you know that He has promised never to leave you or forsake you. I am just His messenger, and I cannot claim to know why He has allowed you to be afflicted and persecuted this way. But I do know that if you stand firm in your faith, you cannot be led astray. Do not fear what man may do to you, for it is only your body that can be harmed. Your immortal soul rests in God’s hands, and that can never change. Remember that the kingdom of God is not of this world, and those who seek to make it so are deceived. Set your sights on heaven and the trials and tribulations of this mortal life will fade.”
As if taking a cue from his final word, the angel suddenly radiated light that was brighter than the sun, then vanished in an instant.
Benito burst through the chapel door and screeched to a halt.
“Father…your face! It’s glowing!”
Father DeMarco’s hand crawled along the top of the altar like a spider before gripping the edge tightly and hoisting himself to his feet. He cast a cautious glance at the statue of the Virgin Mother and felt relief that she was still wearing the same ceramic expression as before.
“We must go to Rome,” he said quietly.
Benito gulped lungfuls of air. “Lorenzo said we need to – Wait, how did you know?”
****
Master Ko stopped in front of the door to Patric’s suite. He straightened his robe, took a deep breath, then knocked loudly.
“Monsieur Bourdon?” he called out after there was no answer to his knock. “It’s Father Shen. I’d like a word with you.”
He knocked again, then waited.
“Monsieur Bourdon?”
He reached deep into his robe and withdrew a large ring of keys. He selected one and hastily unlocked the door.
“Monsieur Bourdon, I’m coming in!”
He pushed open the door very slowly, then stuck his head into the room.
“Monsieur – "
He never saw Patric hiding behind the door, never saw the massive book the size of a small tombstone streaking through the air. All he knew was that something extremely heavy had just collided with his head, and there was a bright flash of light, and then darkness.
****
After clubbing the old man over the head with what must have been a priceless tome of ancient wisdom, Patric scanned the hall to make sure no one saw, then quickly dragged the limp body into the room. He knew he took a terrible risk attacking the man before he had even set foot in the room but Patric’s nerves were frayed to the point of desperation.
A frantic search of the priest’s robes revealed the access card that was necessary to gain entrance to the underground lab. He stood up and tucked the card carefully into his pocket, then looked at the old man lying at his feet. He seemed to be sleeping peacefully. Patric felt bad for a moment, but then he remembered the old man’s complicity in the devious plot to enslave the world, and all sympathy vanished. He checked to make sure he was still breathing, then left him lying there on the floor. The old bastard didn’t deserve any comfort, and waking up with a thundering headache was a small punishment for his crimes.
Patric crept out of his room with silent footsteps, glancing down the hall several times before closing the door behind him. He knew he should lock it, but he didn’t want to waste time searching through the priest’s jumble of keys. He also knew that he was being very reckless, that he had very little chance of getting himself and Natasha out of there alive. He didn’t even have a plan, per se. This was just one of those situations where he was going to have to wing it and hope for a massive amount of good luck.
He tried to walk purposefully with a wide, hurried stride, as if he had somewhere important to be. He passed several people who did not seem to notice him, or who gave him nothing more than a momentary glance. The curious feeling inside his head was a near-constant sensation, but he ignored it. He knew this place was brimming with demons and other assorted spiritual strangeness, but he wasn’t interested in any of that right now. His only task at the moment was retracing the path down to the lower levels.
It was several minutes before he recognized any of the landmarks that he had filed away in his memory when the old man had brought him down there before. After finding the first landmark – a massive flower-shaped column made of what looked like ivory, standing in the middle of a large antechamber – it was easy to navigate his way to the foreboding corridors that took him to the first locked door. He was grateful to have inherited his father’s keen sense of direction. He couldn’t imagine what he would have done if he had taken after his mother in that regard.
He met no one as he crept through the dark tunnels. When he arrived at the second locked door, he closed his eyes, breathed a prayer to anyone who was listening, then swiped the card. His heart nearly melted with relief as the door clicked open, revealing the stark metal elevator that looked like the inside of a refrigerator. He stepped inside, glancing around to see if there were any cameras watching. The metal cube was completely bare.
Satisfied that he wasn’t being watched, he pressed the “down” button. The elevator jerked, and his heart jumped into his throat, even though he had anticipated the jolt. The humming noise of the machinery around him made him think of the painful buzz that had become a frequent part of his life. He wondered if he would ever find out the reason for his extra sense.
The elevator jolted again, like a car slamming on the brakes. Patric’s thoughts were wrenched back to the task at hand. Natasha. She was only one door away, strapped to a bed while a child – a “candidate,” the Asian priest had said – was growing in her womb. He didn’t want to think about the practicality of hauling a pregnant and probably unconscious woman out of the Vatican while a supernaturally powerful lunatic was pacing around upstairs.
First things first. The elevator door slid open, and Patric took off at a brisk jog down the dimly lit tunnel. One right, two lefts. He froze.
The door lay before him, a cold steel slab sandwiched between ancient, mossy stones. The access pad shone with an icy blue light on the right side of the door. It made Patric think of a menacing eye.
His heart was beating so loudly, it seemed to echo through the cramped corridor. This is it, he told himself. Do or die. Don’t think about the consequences or what could go wrong. Get in there, get her safe, then figure out what comes next.
Patric shook his head, appalled at how reckless he was behaving. But he knew he had no choice. He remembered his promise to consider the heavenly side of things if he managed to get Natasha and himself out safely, but that was now out the window. He never wanted to set foot in any religious building again as long as he lived.
Exhaling slowly, he swiped the card and stepped back. The doors made a slight popping sound, then hissed like an airlock being released. They slowly slid open and Patric’s muscles tensed.
Julian whirled around, a look of shock bleaching his face.
“Monsieur Bourdon! What are you doing here?”
The tension Patric had stored in his limbs leaked out like water from a broken pipe. He
stepped through the pressurized doors, staring around in bewilderment.
There was no medical lab, no blindingly sterile white room. There was no sheet of glass, no chamber containing rows of beds with unconscious pregnant women sprouting tubes and wires that connected to quietly humming machines.
There was no Natasha.
The room Patric had entered looked like a museum. Curious artifacts were arranged on pedestals and spotlighted with gentle illumination. Glass cases rose out of the ground, containing books that looked like they would crumble at the slightest touch. Julian was holding such a book, which he inadvertently shut at Patric’s sudden entrance, causing several parchment-like pages to flutter to the ground like feathers.
Patric took another step forward, as if he were walking on an alien planet. A thousand thoughts collided in his mind. He was sure he had followed the right path; it was too coincidental that all three locked doors were exactly where he had expected them to be. He hadn’t gotten lost once, and the route was fairly simple to follow.
So why was he here, in what looked like an antiquities museum? Where was the lab? Where was Natasha?
Julian set the book on a stone table and leveled his gaze at Patric.
“Monsieur Bourdon,” he said firmly, “I asked what are you doing here?”
Patric stared around the room, oblivious to Julian’s question. Was there a secret door, or perhaps the rooms were on a revolving wheel…
“Monsieur Bourdon!”
With a wild shriek, Patric hurled himself at Julian. They fell to the floor in a heap and Patric seized his robe.
“Where is she?” he shouted hysterically. “Where is she?”
Julian’s face twisted with rage as he gripped Patric’s wrists and tried to fling him away. “What are you talking about? Get off me!”
“Tell me!” Patric snarled, spittle dripping from his mouth. “What have you done with her?”
With a grunt, Julian tossed Patric against a pedestal supporting an ancient vase. The vessel tottered and crashed to the floor, scattering dusty fragments everywhere. Julian’s eyes bulged with horror.
“No!”
Patric didn’t give a single thought to the demolished object. He seized a large, sharp fragment, brandishing it like a knife.
“Tell me where she is, or I swear to God I will kill you!”
Julian snorted incredulously. “Have you lost your mind? What is wrong with you?”
“Tell me!”
“Who?” Julian begged, holding out his hands. “Who are you talking about?”
Patric knew he was no longer in possession of his senses but he didn’t care. He let the hysteria consume him, and he launched himself towards the liar.
Julian’s training as an assassin kicked in and he easily avoided Patric’s lunge, slamming his fist into his neck as he flew by. The blow propelled Patric into a heavy bookcase which tottered for a moment on its edge, then toppled to the floor with a mighty crash. Patric felt a dozen slivers of glass lacerate his skin, though none of them penetrated too deeply. He lay there on the bed of glass, leather, and parchment, trying desperately to suck some air back into his lungs.
He heard quiet footsteps behind him, then powerful hands seized him by his clothes and lifted him up in the air. He barely had time to cry out as Julian flung him bodily against the wall. Patric groaned as he felt at least two ribs crack. He crumpled to the floor, leaking blood, tears, and saliva onto the ground.
He heard Julian approach, but he didn’t lift his head. He just waited for more pain.
Instead, Julian knelt down beside him, staring down at him with a cold, victorious expression.
“I am a fool,” he said quietly. “I have been so consumed with my calling that I never stopped to think what attacks the enemy might bring against me in my own house.”
He leaned forward, so that his face was just inches from Patric’s.
“You were never with me, were you?”
Patric did not answer.
“Were you?”
The room practically quaked with Julian’s fury, which in turn ignited Patric’s anger.
“No!” he blurted, jerking himself upright and falling back against the wall. “I was never with you! I was never with anyone here! I don’t even follow your silent God! I follow no god! I don’t care about any of this…I just want her back!”
Julian rose slowly to his feet, looking down at Patric as if he were an insect he was about to crush. “You aren’t a believer?”
“Of course not!” Patric spat, blood trickling down his chin. “Until recently, I belonged to the Satanic Church. But you saw what those sons of bitches did to me. But you are no better! You’re a liar and a fraud! Do you even know that this place is crawling with demons?”
Julian’s foot lashed out like a viper and caught Patric square across the cheek. He toppled over and lay on the cold floor, gasping for breath.
“Silence!” Julian roared. His whole body trembled with rage. He stared up at the vaulted ceiling and looked like he was going to burst into tears. “Oh God, forgive me.”
He looked down at Patric again, his face a mask of murderous contempt. “You say you follow no god, but if you do not follow the one true God, then you still belong to the devil.”
Bending down low, he brought his mouth close to Patric’s bleeding ear.
“And I will make your last days on earth feel like the hell that awaits you.”
Patric could only take one more bloody breath before he slipped into unconsciousness.
****
Christine squinted in the blinding glare of the setting sun, then relaxed as the SUV drove into an underground parking structure, enveloping the vehicle in darkness. She glanced at the stone-faced men who were accompanying her on her journey, who had remained by her side ever since she had been hauled out of the Parisian jail cell, practically tossed into a seat on a private jet, then found herself flung again into a dark BMW X5, with four identical vehicles surrounding it. No one had spoken to her, and she hadn’t resisted, knowing that wherever she was going, it was better than where she had been.
Something strange had happened to her that fateful day as she had crept up the steps towards the Temple of the Dragon. All thoughts of her father had vanished. Her thirst for vengeance, once so powerful that she could almost taste its metallic flavor in her mouth, dried up like a stream in the desert. Even as the American militia fighters that had blended in with the tourists suddenly revealed themselves and stormed the security forces guarding the portals, she felt a sense of calm. Of peace. She knew she was about to perpetrate a horrific act of destruction, one which could possibly injure or kill many people, and that she and her comrades would have little chance of escape.
But it was all right. She didn’t feel any doubts, or regret, or hesitation. She didn't mourn the life she would probably lose, or the fact that many of her American allies, or even Private Chevallais, would probably be captured and subjected to horrendous pain and then death. She didn’t even wonder what her father would have said if he could have seen her at that moment.
She just knew that she wanted the temple gone, like a black smudge across an otherwise spotless glass table. It was a blight upon the earth and it needed to be erased, pure and simple.
And so it was.
After clearing out the temple, her American friends had slapped dozens of plastique explosive wads against the mammoth columns supporting the roof. She was no demolitions expert, but she knew they had armed more than enough to bring down a building twice its size. But this wasn’t a controlled demolition.
This was an execution.
She hoped everyone had gotten out of the temple before it had blown. As she and her fellow executioners had fled through the panicking crowd, she let loose a quick prayer for there to be no innocent victims caught in the blast. What she meant by that, only God could decide.
When she had practically run straight into the arms of the startled police, she made a show of resisting, but the truth
was, she was ready. Ready to to be judged by a lost and blinded world, ready to die, ready to be reunited with her father.
But that wasn’t what had happened. After being roughed up a bit, she was tossed into a solitary cell and neglected for more than a day. The thought of dying like this scared her, and she was angry with herself. No suffering on earth could diminish what awaited her in the next life.
Still, she was afraid. When the men in dark suits flung open the door to her cell, they found her cowering in the corner, her grimy face streaked with tears. The first thing she felt when they hauled her out of there was relief – at least she was going to die in the presence of others. She had never thought of herself as a martyr, but perhaps that was her destiny.
Her relief turned to confusion as she was dragged from her prison cell into a waiting van, and then unceremoniously dumped into a sinfully soft airplane seat. No one had spoken to her directly, and looking at her rescuers’ stone-cold faces, she got the feeling that any questions she had would be ignored anyway.
And now as she found herself descending into the bowels of the most awe-inspiring building in the Christian world, at least one thing became clear: she was now under the protection of the church. Putting two and two together, she supposed that her brash actions in Paris had caught the attention of someone high on the totem pole, and she was being summoned for a face-to-face interview.
But what did they want from her?
****
Patric didn’t know how long he lay bruised and bleeding on the floor of that dank, moldy dungeon. It was indeed a dungeon – the walls were made of rough-hewn stone and the door was a massive wooden slab with only a tiny portal to let in air and light. There were no windows, no furniture. A small hole in the corner of the tiny stone cube acted like a drain of sorts, and this is where Patric had to drag himself to relieve his aching bowels. The cell quickly became rank with the stench of waste that mingled with the stale, moldy air already hanging over everything like a wet blanket.
