by Mark Carver
The angelic messenger’s words echoed in his mind. He had to find Patric, and he had to find him soon. He was dumbstruck that the cynical, heart-broken young man who had only recently been an enthusiastic Satanist had been selected by God for a special purpose, but he was not one to doubt a messenger from heaven.
His skin tingled as he remembered the incredible encounter in the humble chapel. It strengthened him to know that they were not abandoned, that God still worked in the hearts and minds of his people.
And even in the minds of those who were not yet His people.
“Patric,” he murmured as he scanned the crowd with anxious eyes, “where are you?”
After Julian completed the prayer, he opened his eyes and looked up towards heaven. The noontime sky was overcast as usual, but faint rays of light were struggling through small gaps in the clouds. Julian smiled, whispered a prayer of thanks, then looked down at his eager followers.
“My friends, my family, my brothers and sisters in our Lord, I am honored by your presence. Our church is glutted with cowards, those who are afraid to even speak the name of God in public for fear of retribution. But the winds of change are upon us, and the power of the enemy is crumbling before the awesome power of our Lord.”
A great and mighty cheer arose from the crowd, and Julian opened his arms to welcome their applause.
“The fact that we are here now,” he went on, “is a testament to our Lord’s grace and mercy. Only a few days ago, this place where we are now standing belonged to the devil and his minions. Today, it has been cleansed, washed in the blood of righteousness, so that no stain of perversion remains.”
More cheers.
“And just two days ago, the forces of evil were dealt another crippling blow, thanks to the steadfast faith and courage of a valiant sister in Christ. The news media reports her as being killed, but she is alive today, and I present her to you now. Behold, the slayer of dragons, the woman who brought a mighty giant to its knees – Christine Jeraque!”
Gasps of shock rippled through the crowd, then explosive applause filled the square as Christine, dressed in a flowing white robe, stepped out onto the portico and took Julian’s hand. They were like a king and queen, reveling in the adoration of their subjects.
Christine felt like her heart was going to burst. Standing there in the open, a known criminal whom everyone thought was dead, she felt no fear. She looked at the man holding her hand aloft, saw the beaming smile of victory on his face.
This man going to change the world.
The cheers and applause rang out for several minutes, then Julian motioned for quiet. The smile faded from his face, and his eyes grew dark.
“Alas, my brothers and sisters, I come to you with a heavy heart. For I have been deceived most cruelly, as have all of you. There is a man here with us today, a man who claimed to believe in our Lord, a man who sacrificed everything for our faith, a man who was rescued moments before death only by God’s saving grace. But he does not believe. His heart is black as the pit of hell, and it is in fact the devil that he worships. He has been hiding amongst us like a snake in the grass.”
As these words echoed across the square, Father DeMarco’s heart jumped.
Patric!
Julian’s eyes blazed with fury as his voice rang out across the grand columns encircling the square.
“This man was almost a martyr for a faith that was not his own! But today, before all these witnesses, we shall correct that mistake and let him die for the faith he has chosen! Behold the heathen filth, Patric Bourdon!”
At the mention of his name, the audience shrieked with horror. There was not a soul gathered in the square who did not know who he was. In the days since his near-execution, his name had been on the lips of many believers as they prayed, thanking God for Julian’s miraculous intervention when he had been nailed to the cross.
Now their admiration turned to venom as the sanctuary doors opened and Patric’s battered body was dragged out into the square. Curses were hurled at him like rocks, and the square seemed to hiss and writhe as if it were crowded with snakes.
Patric made no attempt to struggle out of his captors’ hands. He hung his head low as the stone-faced brutes hauled him towards the center of the square, where St. Nero’s Obelisk had once stood. The area around the decimated stump had been cleared several meters in all directions, and there was something resting on the ground. Something made of wood…
“No!” Patric screamed, suddenly twisting and writhing in the vice-like hands that encircled his arms. “No!”
Master Ko stood beside the cross, holding a hammer and a fistful of nails.
“Bonjour, Monsieur Bourdon,” he said with a wicked smile. He held up a fistful of the iron spikes. “Time to reopen old wounds.”
****
Father DeMarco’s blood ran cold as Julian mentioned Patric’s name. He stilted himself on his toes but he was still too short to see over the sea of heads stretching out before him. He grabbed Lorenzo’s arm with desperate urgency.
“We have to get closer.”
Lorenzo nodded, then lowered his head like a bull about to charge. He stormed forward, not running, but maintaining a steady pace to keep his momentum. He cleared a path through the crowd like a tractor plowing through a field of corn. Father DeMarco grabbed Donatella’s hand, who in turn grabbed Benito. The rest of their group followed quickly before the path closed back on itself again.
****
Christine also felt her blood run cold. She turned to Julian, her eyes wide with horror.
“Did you say Patric Bourdon?”
Julian pressed a hand to his chest to cover the microphone. “I know, I was startled too. I thought he was a believer like us, but he attacked me and confessed where his true allegiances lie.”
“No!” Christine cried. “He’s not like that! I know he’s not a believer, but he’s not… He’s changed!”
Julian took a step back. “You know him?”
“Yes!” Christine fumbled with her words for a moment, then said, “I know him very well. My father found Patric beneath the Temple of the Dragon after his brother killed the Voice. He stayed with us for several days, and we learned who he truly was, inside. He’s lost, Julian. He’s not wicked. Please don’t hurt him!”
She placed her hand on his arm, but he wrenched himself away from her grip.
“Do not tell me what do!” he snapped. “Patric Bourdon is a liar and a blasphemer, and he tried to kill me. For this, he will die!”
“NO!” Christine screamed, loud enough for the muffled microphone to carry her voice across the square. Everyone turned away from Patric and looked up at the facade of St. Peter’s. The square fell deathly silent.
Despite his terror, Patric turned his head towards the scream. Could it be…?
“Christine!” he cried out with all his strength. His voice carried across the plaza, and it was barely a whisper when it reached her ears, but she heard his cry.
“Patric!” She leaned forward, reaching out her hand. “Patric!”
“Enough!” Julian roared, his amplified voice exploding like a bomb. He pointed a quivering finger towards the center of the square. “That heathen will die! And if you stand with him, then you will die too!”
Christine whirled around, staring at him with wide, fearful eyes. Then she did the first thing that sprang into her mind: she lunged at him. Julian, caught off guard by her sudden movement, was knocked to the ground, tumbling across the portico in a tangle of robes. The microphone flew away, clattering across the stones.
Christine’s head also smacked against the unforgiving marble, but she barely had time to collect her scattered senses before a powerful hand wrapped around her throat. She felt her body being hoisted into the air as if she were as light as an empty robe.
Her vision was splotched with red as she looked into Julian’s hateful face.
“I can’t trust anyone,” he lamented, his voice sounding almost fragile. He looked down at the
thousands of eyes fixed upon him, staring up at him like cattle watching the farmer sharpen his blade.
His muscles tensed, causing Christine to gag and kick at the air.
“Are there any among you who are faithful?” he roared, holding Christine high and shaking her like a doll. Even without the microphone, his voice carried across the square. “Are you all charlatans and frauds?”
Startled cries and gasps arose from the crowd. Father DeMarco, who was right behind Lorenzo as the large man pushed his way through the field of bodies, stopped and looked up, following the fingers that were pointed towards the sky.
God have mercy...
He watched her descend from the clouds, a putrid mass of decaying flesh, rotting tendons, and threadbare robes caked in filth. The very sight of her caused his throat to fill with bile. But the awestruck crowd did not see a hideous demon; they saw the Blessed Mother descending from heaven. The deluded faithful reached up their hands, as if she were going to float down into their outstretched arms.
Julian dropped Christine, and she crumpled to the ground. Despite her fear, she too was speechless at the sight of the most beautiful woman she had ever seen gliding down on a beam of light.
Patric didn’t see her, but he knew she was there. An invisible freight train barreled through his skull and he cried out in agony. The gorillas who had his arms in a vice-grip released their hold on him and he fell to the ground, just inches away from the rough-hewn wooden cross. He scurried away from it as if it were red hot. No one seemed to notice the small Asian priest drop the hammer and nails and then vanish into the crowd.
The woman in black gazed down at the deluded hordes clustering together beneath her feet. Things weren’t exactly going according to plan and she knew she had to step in, but perhaps it was better this way. She couldn’t wait to see the looks on their faces…
Standing tall on the portico, Julian raised his hands towards her, like a child reaching for his mother.
“Bless me, Holy Mother!” he cried out. “Give me the strength to overcome the torrent of sin and lies that comes against me!”
The crowd saw the Blessed Virgin smile, then reach out her hand. They cried out in amazement as Julian was caught up into the air, drawn towards her as if by an invisible wire. Her brilliant robes flowed around her body like the finest silk suspended in water, and every movement she made was smooth and graceful.
The expression on Julian’s face could only be described as rapturous. His eyes were wide and his mouth hung open, his smile almost idiotic. His arms hung loosely by his side as he floated above the square, soaring over the heads of the faithful as frantic prayers fell from their trembling lips.
He drew nearer to the Holy Mother, and he closed his eyes, ready to be folded into her embrace, ready to touch the face of heaven.
The Virgin Mother reached out both arms, as if to welcome him to her bosom. Then, quick as lightning, she wrapped her hands around his neck and ripped his head from his body. His face was frozen in a mask of disbelieving horror as she wrenched his spine from his torso like a snail being pulled out of its shell. The crowd below shrieked as blood and gore rained down on them. Christine screamed, and Father DeMarco fell to his knees.
In an instant, the Virgin Mother transformed into a repulsive monster, revealing her true face to those who had been so easily deceived. The crowd shrank away, forming an empty space beneath her. She laughed at them, baring her blackened, bloody teeth.
“Fools!” she bellowed, her voice sounding like a thousand voices speaking at once. She flung Julian’s shredded remains to the ground and laughed again. “Here is your savior, your ‘second Christ!’ Maybe he’ll be just as good as the first one! Let’s watch and see if he rises again!”
Despite the screams and chaos, one sound reached her infernal ears: the unmistakable wail of Patric as he lay on the ground, shrieking in agony. Her devious smile grew even wider and she glided down towards the ruins of St. Nero’s Obelisk.
Patric was huddled on the ground, his hands over his ears, wracked with more pain than he had ever felt in his entire life. His screams of agony turned into screams of surprise as he felt himself being lifted off the ground by unseen hands. He looked up and felt his body turn to ice.
She was right in front of him, darkness swirling around her like a cloud of flies. He could only stare in wordless horror as he was pulled closer and closer to those ferocious teeth. Then he felt himself being spun around, and his arms were jerked outwards and held firm in the air, as if he was being crucified against an invisible cross.
“Behold this sinner!” the woman in black snarled as bile dripped from her fangs. “This outcast, this perversion! His agony will soon be your own!”
The scars in Patric’s hands burst open like corks and blood began gushing from the gaping wounds. He screamed, arching his neck towards the churning clouds above him.
“Your church is a lie!” the demon roared, staring down in contempt at the cowering wretches beneath her. “Your savior is a lie! You all belong to Apollyon the Destroyer! Your God has abandoned you, just like you have abandoned this pathetic wretch! Are there any among you who would claim this vermin?”
A small voice arose from the speechless crowd.
“Yes! I claim him!”
She snapped her head around and stared at the tiny figure who had stepped into the open space beneath her. Her black eyes narrowed as she recognized the priest, the fool who thought he could stem the tides of hell.
Father DeMarco looked up at Patric with the same expression of pity and sorrow as when Patric was nailed to the cross several days before. Then he looked at the monster with fierce, cold eyes.
“I claim this young man in the name of God! He is destined for great things and he will batter down the gates of hell!”
The demon grated her teeth with rage, then reached out towards Patric’s head.
“We’ll see about that, priest!”
Her fingers closed over his skull and Patric cried out with his last remaining strength. This was finally going to be the end…
A blinding flash seared the sky, followed immediately by a deafening clap of thunder. Everyone looked up and watched as the clouds were pierced by beams of light like daggers penetrating flesh. But the spears of light were not directed towards the ground. They shot out like lasers, obliterating black shapes that fluttered through the air like startled bats. As soon as the light rays touched these dark forms, they exploded in clouds of black dust, then were gone.
The woman in black screamed, and Patric fell from the sky. Father DeMarco gasped in horror as he watched his friend fall and knew he would never catch him in time. Then something large rushed past him; Lorenzo dove through the air and snatched Patric into his arms just before he hit the ground. The two men rolled across the hard stones, then slid to a halt. The priest yelped with triumph and rushed over to them.
Shaking his head like a football player after taking a hit, Lorenzo staggered to his feet and looked down at Patric, who lay unconscious. It was probably for the best, since the wounds in his hands were seeping blood and the pain had to be unbearable. Donatella knelt down beside him and hurriedly set about swathing his hands.
As the beams of light destroyed her minions, the woman in black spun around in the air, searching for a way to flee. Then she froze.
The clouds above the square opened up and a gigantic figure floated down. It looked like a man dressed in shimmering silver robes, but it was at least twice as large as a normal man. It had three pairs of wings, though they did not move.
Father DeMarco’s heart nearly stopped. Now that is an angel…
The woman in black tried to move but she was held in place, as if she were trapped in ice. The angel hovered directly in front of her, staring at her with eyes that made her scream with terror. It said nothing as it reached out and touched her face.
Her ear-piercing shriek was cut short by an incredible explosion of light, and the demon was hurled backwards into the glorious fac
ade of St. Peter’s church. The building folded in on itself, then erupted in a catastrophic ball of flame. Stones, smoke, and dust showered the square, and those close to the destruction dropped down to their knees and shielded their faces.
After several horrifying moments, there was silence. The cries of terror and the sounds of falling debris slowly faded away. All eyes turned towards the majestic figure hovering above the ruins of St. Nero’s Obelisk.
The angel opened its mouth, and its voice was like the sound of every waterfall on earth rushing together.
“He who has an ear to hear, let him hear. The age of darkness has ended; bend your knee and repent before the Living God, whose mercy is as great as His wrath.”
In an instant, everyone in the square obeyed. Every head was bowed, and every mouth confessed their wickedness and begged for deliverance. Patric, awakened by the angel’s earth-shaking voice, blinked wearily as he looked up.
He couldn’t believe what he saw.
“Patric!”
He turned and barely had time to wince as Christine flung herself upon him. “Patric, you’re all right!” she cried, hugging him tightly.
Patric couldn’t find his voice, so he just nodded. Christine tore her gaze away from the angel above the square and glanced back at the pulverized building. “I got out of there just in time,” she said with a shudder. “The blast threw me to the ground.” Then she looked up again. “I can’t believe this…”
Patric smiled with relief as he stared at her dust-caked hair and soot-streaked face. Then a fresh pang pierced his heart as he realized that Natasha was gone forever. Perhaps she had perished in the explosion, or perhaps she was never there to begin with, but she was gone.
He stared up at the majestic figure hovering above the square like a brilliant star. Then he looked at Christine, and she looked at him. He held her gaze as he saw the truth in her eyes.
