A Time to Rise_Second Edition

by Tal Bauer

  Luca dangled by his throat, held aloft by the midnight demon. His fingers clawed at the demon’s grasp, scratching at its wrists as he struggled for breath. The second demon tumbled flames from its fingers, curls of fire snaking toward Luca.

  “No!” Alain charged forward. In his hand, he gripped the blade he’d taken that morning.

  Both demons turned, heads snapping to Alain.

  “Alain, stop—” Luca wheezed.

  A shriek, like metal shredding against metal, like glass shearing in two, burst through the garrison. Light streaked over everyone as they grabbed at their ears and buried their faces in the debris-strewn floor. Screaming shattered the air, a lingering wail that curdled blood in veins.

  And then, it was over.

  * * *

  Cristoph leaped to his feet, kicking away ceiling tiles and crumbled brick as water rained down on him from the sprinklers. He ran toward the center of the office, vaulting over splintered furniture, destroyed computers, and shattered glass. His torn uniform snagged on bits of wood and shorn metal.

  He whirled, searching for Alain. “Alain! Alain, where the fuck are you?”

  Alain was gone.

  But he had been there, just a moment ago. What—

  Something gleamed on the floor, a glint of silver. He reached for it.

  Another hand grabbed it first.

  Cristoph looked up. Luca’s confused gaze met his. Luca rubbed his throat as he plucked Alain’s blade from the debris, staring down at the sword with an expression Cristoph couldn’t read.

  He didn’t have time for this. Those things, those creatures—demons—must have taken Alain. He didn’t have time to fight with Luca. Not when Alain’s life was in danger. Not when he had to find him, had to save him, and he had no idea how to begin.

  “Lotar—” He spoke before he turned, shouting for the asshole priest who had become, inexplicably, his mentor. Maybe was starting to become a friend.

  But Lotario wasn’t there. He was gone. Vanished, like Alain.

  “My God!” A new voice broke through the devastation as the gendarmerie captain arrived, the camerlengo in tow. “Major Bader? Major, are you in here? Are you all right? We’ve brought medical aid!” the elderly camerlengo cried. The wail of sirens and the deep horn of ambulances and fire engines echoed, the Vatican fire brigade on scene.

  “We’re here!” Luca hefted himself to his feet and tried to hide a wince that Cristoph caught. His hand closed around the blade, drawing it behind his back. “My people need medical attention! Please hurry!”

  Firefighters and medics rushed in, darting through the destruction and the smoke. Captain Ewe already had a few of the guards up, guiding them free of the destruction as they held bleeding limbs and broken bones.

  The camerlengo picked his way to Luca’s side, mouth agape at the rampant destruction. “Major—” he started, crossing himself. “Commandant,” he corrected. “His Holiness requires your presence. Immediately.”

  Chapter Twenty

  Cristoph, bedraggled in his filthy, damp uniform, jogged alongside Luca, refusing to leave his side as they followed the camerlengo up to the Holy Father’s private apartments.

  Across the Vatican, sirens wailed, ambulances, fire engines, and gendarmerie vehicles all trying to render aid and set up a protective perimeter, keeping onlookers and bystanders away from the destruction of the Swiss Guard garrison. The carabinieri were setting a perimeter outside the Vatican, helping to push back the crowd of gawking civilians, and in St. Peter’s Square, a line of halberdiers began to slowly push out the tourists and pilgrims praying outside the Basilica. The Vatican was closing ranks.

  Luca never said a word, not to Cristoph, and not to the camerlengo. He still held Alain’s sword, but he’d shifted the hilt, holding it like a dagger against his forearm.

  I need to get that back. What would Alain say if he knew that fucking Luca had his blade? His eyes darted over the major. God, how was he supposed to do any of this? They needed to fight back, strike the demons that had attacked them. Find Alain and Lotario. But how was he supposed to do that if Luca stood in his way?

  They skipped the cordoned-off elevator inside the Apostolic Palace. Yellow gendarmerie crime scene tape blocked off the private elevator. Inside, Commandant Best’s headless body still lay on the floor, covered with a sheet. There hadn’t been time yet to take him to the clinic, to the small morgue in the back.

  They were led to the stairs, Cristoph taking them two at a time while Luca helped the older camerlengo up. Impatient, Cristoph fidgeted at the top landing. The urge to run, to act, to do something, anything, nearly made him scream. He clenched his hands and tried to breathe.

  The camerlengo guided them down the Holy Father’s private hallway. Marble floors gleamed and the smell of beeswax hung in the air. One wall facing out over the courtyard was solid glass, a perfectly unobstructed view of the Vatican and Rome beyond. On the opposite wall, vivid frescoes and maps of antiquity stared them down. Seas and the continents of the Old World, the corners marked with mythical beasts and monsters that warned travelers of the perils of exploration off the edges of the map. The frescoes had been painted onto the Vatican’s walls by the Renaissance masters themselves, and even hundreds of years old, the colors were still striking and brilliant. The weight of history lingered, mixing with the scent of candles and incense.

  Cristoph spared a glance for the paintings and kept on, staying at Luca’s side all the way to the gold door at the end of the hall. A silent, pale Swiss Guard stood his post outside the golden door, his jaw clenched so tight the tendons in his neck bulged. The sound of his teeth scraping together echoed down the hall.

  Luca rested his hand on the guard’s shoulder and leaned in, speaking softly in his ear. The guard’s eyes slid closed. A single tear rolled down his cheek. He nodded once.

  The camerlengo reached for the door handle. His gaze darted over Luca—his dark eyes raging, a tumult of confusion and fury, his uniform burned, a bruise blooming around his throat in the shape of a perfect handprint—and then Cristoph—his torn uniform dirty and wet, and probably looking like a dog about to bolt at any moment. “His Holiness is waiting for you inside.”

  Cristoph heard Luca’s inhale, a rush of air hissing through his bruised throat.

  The door opened. Cristoph stepped in, shoulder to shoulder with Luca.

  In the center of the Holy Father’s sitting room, praying with his face turned to the heavens, was His Holiness, Pope Clemente. Elected by conclave only the year before, he was younger than his predecessors, in his late sixties, and even though he was Italian, the world welcomed him as a breath of fresh air, a reformer of the church for the modern age.

  Luca strode forward as Cristoph froze, stuck suddenly in place. Luca dropped to one knee before Clemente, genuflecting and bowing his head. He grasped the Holy Father’s hand and pressed a lingering kiss to the papal ring. “Holy Father,” Cristoph heard Luca whisper. “Holy Father… we need your guidance.”

  Clemente caressed Luca’s cheek. Soot from Luca stained his pale fingers and dusted onto the front of his white cassock. “Commandant,” he said carefully. “My heart is with you this terrible hour. Rise, my son.”

  Cringing at his new title, Luca rose stiffly, staring at the carpet. “Holy Father,” he began, his voice gruff and grinding over his words, “I’m…” He skipped his new title. “Luca Bader. And this is—” Luca’s gaze met Cristoph’s. He tried to speak, but no words came out. He shook his head. “This is Halberdier Cristoph Hasse.”

  “I know who you are, Luca Bader.” Clemente smiled, his eyes crinkling at the edges. “You, though.” Crossing the sitting room, Clemente stopped before Cristoph. “You, I don’t know.”

  God, what should he do? Should he drop to his knee, genuflect and kiss the ring like a proper Catholic? Was he even a proper Catholic anymore? After Africa, he hadn’t known what he was, and he’d run for the Vatican on a whim. Going through the motions with the Swiss Guard was one thing
, but face-to-face with the Holy Father was entirely another. What did he believe?

  And what did any of his beliefs mean cast against the new reality he’d been thrust into, where vampires and demons and dark creatures existed? There was evil in the world, he’d always known that, but he had thought it had just been human evil. Evil from men’s hearts.

  What did it mean that evil, pure evil, existed in the universe? What did that mean for God?

  Clemente’s smile widened as Cristoph faltered, struck dumb with indecision. Jesus, the fucking pope was waiting on him to decide what to do and he was standing there like a moron.

  Warmth radiated from Clemente, a gentle wave of peace and acceptance that lapped at the edges of Cristoph’s soul. He seemed to shine, to glow just faintly, as if there was something under his skin that couldn’t quite be contained. Alain seemed like that sometimes, when he smiled. When they were together. And, just like with Alain, Cristoph wanted to step forward, bury himself in Clemente’s robes and wrap his soul up in that feeling. His breath hitched.

  “Cristoph Hasse. I do not know you yet.” Clemente’s eyes were soft. “Tell me, my son. What do you need?”

  It all came tumbling out, words crowding in his throat and fighting for freedom. “God— Shit, Holy Father, I don’t even know where to begin—” He shook his head. Behind the Holy Father, Luca’s dark eyes fixed on Cristoph.

  I report to the pope.

  “I work with Alain Autenburg,” Cristoph blurted out. “He’s training me. Him and Father Lotario Nicosia. I’ve been helping with their hunt. This, right now, what’s happening. It’s vampires. A vampire killed a woman who was spying on Cardinal Nuzzi, and then more vampires killed Cardinal Nuzzi. The woman was trying to find out information on the hunters in Rome. On the knights. Someone, something, was trying to track them all down, I think. She had Commandant Best’s file. I think they’re trying to kill all of the knights. All of the hunters. And then there was the attack on the garrison just now, and they took Alain. And Lotario.”

  Clemente’s quiet exhale shook the crystals dangling from the gilded chandelier.

  Cristoph chanced a glance at Luca. His dark eyes had narrowed to slits, disbelief scrawling across his twisted features.

  “Oh, my son,” Clemente breathed. He grasped Cristoph’s hand, squeezing. “What took them? And how?”

  He fumbled for words, starting and stopping as he shook his head. “It wasn’t vampires.” He shuddered, a wracked inhale shaking his chest. Dark creatures, one flaming, the other with gleaming, mad eyes. “I don’t know,” he whispered. “God, I don’t know. I’m sorry.”

  “We’ll find them.” Clemente’s hand squeezed again. “We will. We have to.” Clemente turned back to Luca. He straightened his spine, squared his shoulders. “There are things you need to know now that you are the commandant.”

  “What is all of this, Holy Father?” Luca’s voice trembled. His chin jutted toward Cristoph. “What does he mean?”

  Cristoph looked down.

  “You’re the first commandant who hasn’t also spent time in service as a knight of the Secret Order of the Resurrected Knights Templar. I am very sorry that you have to learn this way, my son.” Clemente spoke as he crossed the room toward Luca. A quiet exhale, and then he was explaining everything as he took Luca’s hand in his own, raising the curtain of secrecy on the existence of demons, of vampires and ghosts and wraiths and revenants, of ghouls and shape shifters and witches and zombies, of nightmares that were real and walked the Earth.

  Luca paled, and his breath came fast and weak, but he held his ground, staring at Clemente.

  “Our world is divided from the rest of creation by the Veil. It separates the world of the supernatural from our existence. The realms of the holy and the damned. Sometimes a demon’s essence can sneak across the Veil. Minor demons, like incubi and succubae, can filter through. But the major demons can only cross through a portal.”

  “A portal?” Luca’s gruff voice broke on the question.

  “A bloody gate made of suffering and sorrow and horror. The Knights Templar found a portal when they found the Well of Souls, and they were the first to discover the Veil and cross over to the other side. What they found… Well, they’ve never revealed in full to any outsider. But they closed the portal and sealed the Veil, and their Order was founded on the vow of those knights to protect our world from the other side. Their true mission was kept from the world, and even after they fell, they lived on, continuing in secret, passing on the mysteries of the knights and the Order every generation. The Swiss Guard is the current incarnation of the Knights Templar, though the true number of knights has dwindled through the centuries.” Clemente sighed. “Alain Autenburg is the current knight, given his knighthood from his predecessor, Commandant Best, and my predecessor.”

  Luca looked away, blinking fast as his jaw clenched.

  “And this young man,” Clemente gestured to Cristoph, “is Alain Autenburg’s recruit. We’ll take our lead from his knowledge. Tell me, my son, how long have you been in training?”

  Cristoph swallowed. Luca’s dark gaze fixed to him, melting his spine. “A day,” he managed to stutter.

  Clemente blinked.

  “And a night,” he added quickly.

  “Oh my Lord.” Pacing, Clemente moved across the living room, his white cassock shuffling softly across the carpet. His hand rose, covering his mouth as he stared out the bay window overlooking the back dome of St. Peter’s Basilica. “We must find out what happened,” he finally said. “And where our knight has been taken. And why.”

  Glass shattered next to Clemente as the window burst inward. Clemente fell back, stumbling and throwing his hands up, trying to shield himself from the shards of wood and window flying through the air. Luca roared and leaped for Clemente, trying to reach the pontiff and shield him with his body. He raised the blade in his hand, twirling and brandishing it toward the creature who’d swooped inside. Cristoph crashed to the ground, staring at the hulking creature that had broken through the Holy Father’s top-floor window.

  Luca dropped to one knee in front of Clemente and pointed Alain’s blade at the invader. “Halt!” he bellowed. “Don’t dare take one more step!”

  Dark eyes opened. Yellowed irises sat deep in a harsh, lean face, sallow skin stretched over angular bone. Sigils and runes were carved and scarred in a line reaching from his temple to the long cut of his pointed jaw. Angled ears stretched along his skull, and bits of bone and gold rings jingled along his earlobe. His lips pulled back, revealing a full set of fangs, hooked and razor sharp, curving over his teeth.

  “Vampire,” Cristoph breathed. He scrambled to his feet. “Vampire!” he shouted. Running, he crossed the Holy Father’s sitting room in four strides and launched himself at the vampire before he could strike Luca or Clemente.

  The vampire hissed and backhanded him, swatting him to the carpet. He tumbled in midair and crashed to the floor.

  Luca swallowed and jabbed the point of Alain’s sword toward the vampire. He stayed down, shielding Clemente as the Holy Father clutched his shoulder and crossed himself.

  Groaning, Cristoph dragged himself to his feet, swaying. His hands came up, loose fists in front of his face.

  A dry laugh bubbled out of the vampire. “I am not here to fight you,” he hissed. His voice sounded like the deep embers of a roaring forest fire, like a bellows filling and a thunderclap, all rolled into one. “I am here to help you.”

  Eyes squinting, Cristoph stared at the vampire. Luca didn’t move, but his eyes darted to Cristoph, then back to the vampire. He didn’t drop his blade.

  It clicked for Cristoph a moment later. “Jesus Christ,” he mumbled, dropping his fists. Clemente glared sidelong at him. “You’re the lone vampire. You turned against the nest.” He shook his head. “You killed the girl. The spy.”

  The vampire nodded.

  “You’re helping us?” Cristoph watched Luca slowly rise and help Clemente to his feet. “Why? Wh
y turn against your nest?”

  The vampire snarled like a lion under challenge, fangs bared. Cristoph’s blood iced over, but he stood firm.

  “The alpha made an infernal deal,” the vampire growled. “He believed those blackened spirits would truly ally with him. He was a fool, and he has paid the price for his foolishness.”

  “He’s dead?”

  “The entire nest is. The demons, Asmodeus and Temeluchus, slaughtered them to cast open the portal.” The vampire turned to Clemente. “You described it thusly. A portal made of blood and sorrow. Two demons crossed through one cast at dawn’s light. It’s closed now, but they will open another one.”

  Clemente stepped around Luca’s protective cover. Luca protested, but Clemente silenced him with a touch to his shoulder. He squared his shoulders as he faced the vampire. “What is your purpose here?”

  “I know what it is they plan. I know where they have taken your knight and kin.” He nodded to Cristoph. “We must stop them before they slay your knight and release the noumenon.”

  “The what?” Cristoph spoke before Clemente could.

  “The secrets you spoke of,” the vampire rumbled, turning back to Clemente. “What has passed through the centuries from knight to knight is not just a simple blessing. There’s a power there, holy, sacred, and profane. Power that gives the knight the ability to combat the darkness, but is tainted with the shadows of its own form. For darkness calls to darkness and knows it as its own kind.”

  Alain’s gentle words—had it only been that morning?—and his smiling recollections, his story of his knighting and the blessing from Commandant Best, the passing on of the knightly superpowers as he’d teasingly called the indescribable power Alain had mentioned, came back to him. Alain had said it felt warm and beautiful.

  That he’d ripped the blessing from his lover and had taken it as his own.

  Whatever it was, Alain had it deep inside him, and the demons wanted it. “What the hell is it? What is inside of Alain?”