by Gilliam Ness
…for this reason, traumas in our past relationships can be part of the reason why we keep attracting selfish jerks into our lives. We feel compelled to fix the things that went wrong the last time, and this can happen over and over again until we finally become aware of the cycle…
Natasha applied solvent to a tiny deposit of paraffin lodged in the tabernacle’s base, nodding in agreement the whole while. As she listened, she thought bitterly about her disastrous love life, and the seven months she had just wasted on her ex-boyfriend. She had recently discovered that he was married, and she found herself wondering how she could be so adept at finding the tiniest flaws in artifacts when she was so blind to the most blatant flaws in men. Or maybe she was aware of their flaws, and simply thought that their imperfections were something that could be removed if she was meticulous enough, like stripping dirt from an old tabernacle.
“He really was a jerk…” she whispered, blowing a lock of hair out of her eyes as she worked.
It was a dark chestnut colour and fell thick and curly over her shoulders.
“And it is true. I really did try to fix him.”
Natasha’s accent was Italian, but three years at Harvard had tempered it nicely. She ran through her positive affirmations, feeling another wave of depression coming on.
I am strong and powerful. My thoughts and actions create my destiny.
Christmas was approaching, and Natasha was dreading it. There would be all the parties and church functions she would have to attend, and she would be alone the entire time. It seemed to her that she was always alone, even if she happened to be dating someone. The only time Natasha ever felt truly sociable was when she was dancing, but even her love of the ballet had brought her disappointment of late. Natasha’s challenging little role in this years’ production of The Nutcracker Suite had disappeared when the show was cancelled due to poor ticket sales. Months of grueling practice had been lost in the blink of an eye.
Looking out through the panes of her shop front window, Natasha could see the little piazza outside. Its stalls were uncharacteristically quiet for a mid-December afternoon. Christmas in Florence was normally a magical time, but this year had been very different.
After a devastating terrorist attack in Los Angeles, the U.S. economy had suddenly collapsed like a deck of cards. Italy had been thrust into a severe economic depression as a result, along with the majority of the planet. It had left the streets of the Renaissance city bereft of tourists and holiday shoppers alike.
Natasha had been more fortunate than most. Seemingly unaffected by the global crisis, the Vatican had continued business as usual, proceeding with its museum renovations and inundating Natasha’s little restoration shop with dozens of artifacts needing to be catalogued and cleaned. It was a tedious job, but one that was constantly reenergized by the small chance that something new might be revealed as the layers of carbon and paraffin were stripped away.
It was this act of revealing, and her strong passion for it, that had inspired Natasha to work in artifact restoration to begin with. Having grown up surrounded by religious relics, it seemed a natural extension to the doctorate she held in theology. With her combined skills, she could not only delve into the mysteries of the spiritual world, but also into those of the material. It was the perfect marriage of knowledge and skill, and one that she had found to be very rewarding over the years.
Natasha laid down her tools and rose from her chair, stretching herself as she did so. Across from her a sixteenth century mirror reminded her of how many hours she had been working.
“I look horrible,” she whispered, the tips of her fingers automatically arranging her bangs to cover the pale, dime-sized scar at the centre of her forehead.
It had been there for as long as she could remember; the remnant of abuses she had suffered in an orphanage as an infant. There were other burn marks on her body as well. Plastic surgery in her late teens had made the scars almost imperceptible, but they still haunted Natasha nonetheless. They were ghosts of an evil that had touched her before her earliest memories. They made her feel malformed and inadequate, despite her rational knowledge that they were practically invisible. Although everyone had always insisted that Natasha was a beauty, she had always felt a little like a fraud. She thought her soft brown eyes were far too big for her face, and that her body was far too skinny.
Continuing with her stretching, Natasha approached the windows in time to see a mass of heavy cloud swallow the sun. The bright afternoon was transforming into an ominous grey, and within moments, heavy drops of rain began to spatter the cobblestones outside. Following a particularly violent barrage of thunder and lightning, Natasha turned to find that her computer had shut down, along with all the lights in the room. Outside, the storm exploded into a deluge.
“I forgot to save that scan…” she said gloomily, and then her eyes darted to the front door.
A powerful gust of wind had just blown it open, bringing with it a spray of torrential rain. Natasha wasted no time. Priceless artifacts were getting wet. She arrived at the breach in seconds, reaching up to take hold of the outer door and slamming it down with a crash. The workshop plunged into darkness. It was only then that a distinct and irregular banging could be heard coming from the back room.
“What is that?”
A wave of fear ran through her. Natasha was not one to be easily frightened, but she could not deny the eerie feeling that accompanied the sounds she was hearing. She dispelled her fears and made her way into the darkness. The banging would have to be seen to.
For almost one hundred years, the back area of the workshop had been used as a storeroom; a place that Natasha rarely ventured into. It was cluttered with thousands of religious artifacts, and bric-a-brac of every kind, its few naked bulbs never providing enough light to dispel the fears she had held for the place since she was a child. Even still, she now found herself venturing into its depths, groping through cobwebs with nothing but a flashlight to illuminate her way.
“Hello? Is anybody there?”
A crack of thunder sounded as if in response.
Natasha bit her lip and made her way into the maze of cluttered shelves, stepping around obstacles with grace despite her fear. She swallowed slowly. She could feel the little hairs on her arms and neck standing on end. It was as if something had invaded her workshop; something paranormal; something demonic. She reminded herself how ludicrous this sounded, but she frowned in confusion nonetheless. All Natasha’s instincts were telling her to flee, yet there was something else drawing her forward despite her fear.
It was not long before Natasha found the source of the banging, and she breathed a sigh of relief. The same gust of wind that had blown open the front door had opened the back door as well. She could see it swinging to and fro in the dim light of a gas lamp outside, banging the old door frame at irregular intervals. Its rusted latch had obviously given way under the jolt of wind.
Natasha looked down suddenly and swallowed hard. There was a tattered street dog crouching in the shadows of an antique cabinet, its eyes glowing coldly in the reflected light. It stood as if ready to pounce and Natasha felt her body going limp with fear.
It must have come in when the door blew open.
Natasha knew the way of animals. She knew that if she were to escape this situation unharmed, she would have to conquer her fears and emit a feeling of tranquility. She moved to sit down as slowly as she could, but stopped herself halfway. The dog was not growling at her, but rather at something else; something behind her.
Natasha jerked her head around, the dog lunging forward as she did so, but there was nothing there. Looking back at the dog, she saw that it was pacing around nervously, the hair on its back still on end. Animals could see things that humans could not, she knew this, but what had it seen? Her mobile phone rang suddenly just then, the shrill tone of it startling the dog. With a loud bark he bolted, rushing through the back door and vanishing into the storm.
“Pronto?” she
said, bringing the phone to her ear.
She was hurrying to the door now, wanting nothing but to close it. Outside a sheet of lightning lit up the sky.
“Is this Natasha Rossi?” said a crackling voice on the other end of the line.
It spoke in English, but bore a heavy Spanish accent.
“Yes.”
“Miss Rossi, this is Sergeant Alberto Martinez of the Spanish Civil Guard. I am afraid I have some very distressing news, señorita.”
“Yes, I am listening,” said Natasha, a sick feeling growing in her stomach.
She closed the door and locked it shut. Darkness engulfed her.
“I am so sorry, señorita. A private plane chartered yesterday by Professor Agardi Metrovich and Father Franco Rossi has crashed in the mountains southwest of Santander. All including the pilot have been killed. Father Franco was your legal guardian, no?”
“What have you done with him?”
“We managed to land a paramedic to see if there were any survivors, señorita, but there were none. Their plane is very high in the mountains, and it is in a very dangerous position to access due to the high winds. We have been unable to retrieve their bodies. This might not be possible until the coming spring, señorita.”
“I see,” said Natasha, lost in a daze. “Thank you, Sergeant.”
Natasha sank to the floor, the musty storeroom plunging into blackness as the light from her mobile phone went out. Father Franco had cared for her since she was a little girl, and if those at the church orphanage in Rome had been her family, Father Franco had been her father. Now he was gone, and her heart burst open with grief.
Natasha’s thoughts went to Father Franco’s lifelong friend, the Bishop Marcus Di Lauro. He lived close to the orphanage in Rome, and had been like an uncle to Natasha all her life. He and Father Franco had been inseparable since they were young students.
How can I tell him what has happened? He is too old. The shock will kill him.
Suddenly, from within the inky hollows that surrounded her, the sinister presence that Natasha had felt only moments before, returned. It seeped over her like fetid flood water.
“Oh, God,” she moaned. “Make it go away.”
But the evil remained. In her sorrow she almost welcomed it.
CHAPTER 3
Boston, Massachusetts.
Dr. Gabriel Parker tilted the bottle and watched as the golden liquid tumbled over the ice in his glass. It was shimmering in the halogen light of his bedside lamp. He threw himself back onto the oversized pillows, bringing the glass to his lips and inhaling deeply before downing its contents in one gulp.
Gabriel looked up to see a beautiful young blonde working her way into a pair of tight jeans at the foot of his bed, and then watched expressionlessly as she strapped a lacy bra over her perfect breasts. A second later she was back on the bed, straddling him, and giving him a deep and sensual kiss.
“Yum,” she said, pulling away and savouring the whiskey on her lips. “You taste like a man.”
Gabriel’s hands explored her curves, travelling over her body and down to her buttocks.
“I taste like whiskey,” he said, giving her bottom a squeeze.
The girl kissed him again. When she pulled away Gabriel noticed she was pouting.
“What’s wrong now?” he asked, stretching over to refill his glass.
“What’s wrong with you, Gabriel?” she said, her eyes downcast and sultry.
Her fingers were tracing over a dime-sized scar at the centre of his chest. It had always fascinated her. Gabriel took a gulp of scotch and then lifted her chin to have a look at her.
“Nothing’s wrong,” he said. “I’m just tired.”
She raised an eyebrow.
“You’ve never been tired before…”
The girl ran her fingers through his shaggy brown hair, and then traced them over the stubble on his chin. He had a strong jaw; perfectly at home with his rugged features. Hidden behind the stubble on his throat she found the other scar, and then pushing aside a thick lock of hair, she traced her thumb over the one on his forehead.
“Are you getting tired of me?” she asked.
Gabriel put down his glass and sat up.
“Listen, Mica—”
“Mica’s my working name,” said the girl, pouting. “You know that. I’m Mary.”
“Mary— “ began Gabriel, but she cut him off.
“You still haven’t told me about these scars,” she said, kissing the one on his forehead.
Gabriel felt the usual pang of discomfort at the mention of the scars, and it annoyed him as always. He was thirty-two years old. Should he not have got over this nonsense by now? A recurring scene played itself out in Gabriel’s mind.
“Hey, Ashtray!” cried one of the bullies who surrounded him. “Has daddy been using you to butt out his smokes?”
“Ashtray did it to himself!” said another. “Faggets love pain!”
The group of boys exploded into laughter.
“Ashtray’s gay! Ashtray’s gay!”
“Earth calling Gabriel…” said Mary, looking down at him intently. “The scars…?”
Gabriel drained his glass and then feigned severity.
“Electrode torture marks from the Iraqi prison.”
She slapped him playfully.
“You’re never going to tell me, are you!”
Gabriel reached over and poured some more scotch into his glass. Time, and his general hairiness, had made the scars almost imperceptible, but it had not been like that when he was a boy. Back then they had stood out starkly; like bumpy red cigar burns. Gabriel told himself that the mysterious scars had made him strong, but the truth was they had only made him proud. As a boy, the pain of the constant taunting had turned into apathy, which in turn became arrogance; a defensive trait that still plagued him to this day.
“Tell me,” whispered the girl, nibbling at his ear. “You know how much I love you.”
Gabriel forced himself to be patient. He hated hearing this kind of thing. It was not necessary.
“You don’t love me, Mary,” he said. “I’m a regular customer who treats you well.”
Mary smiled naughtily, her pretty hands finding his crotch.
“You treat me very well.”
Gabriel gave her a gentle shove that sent her tumbling to the other side of the bed with a squeal. He got up and pulled on a pair of baggy brown pants and a sleeveless undershirt, securing his belt as he made his way to a nearby table. Gabriel had a flat stomach and strong arms, his legs, back and shoulders shaped by a lifetime of deep sea diving. He took hold of the battered leather duffel bag that lay on the table before him, opening it slowly and double checking the things he had packed inside.
He was not having a great day, or a great month for that matter. Something in Gabriel ached with emptiness, and he knew it was not entirely due to the recent death of his father. Gabriel was feeling a general weariness with the world, as though everything were losing its meaning. He could not understand what was causing it. Nothing had changed. He had been happily living like this for a decade now; lecturing at the university, researching and locating sunken ships and lost treasures, entertaining beautiful women in every port, and getting together with his friends and colleagues on a regular basis. Life was full and exciting. Even still, Gabriel could see that something was not right. He would be turning thirty-three soon. Something was changing in him, even if he could not say what it was.
“Where are you going this time, Gabriel Parker?” asked Mary, her voice sounding timid as she came up behind him. “Take me with you. I hate Boston.”
Gabriel turned around and looked at her, forcing himself to smile. It was not difficult. The girl was riveting. Her blonde hair was falling like satin over her perfect, suntanned shoulders, making the silky strands almost glow in contrast. Gabriel took her by a belt loop and pulled her to him, giving her an assertive kiss. When he was done he opened her hand and gave her a roll of banknotes, carefully closing
her fingers around it.
“You don’t have to pay me this time, Gabriel,” she said quietly. “We haven’t done anything.”
He walked her to the front door, producing his phone as he did so. It was buzzing. His electronic boarding pass had just come in.
“I’m sorry to kick you out,” he said, opening the door for her, “but I’ve got a plane to catch.”
CHAPTER 4
Rome, Italy.
To anyone else, the distant knocking would have been impossible to hear, but even in his eighty-third year of life, Fra Bartolomeo’s hearing had remained as acute as it had been when he was a boy.
“A blessing and curse you have given to me, Father,” he prayed aloud.
His accent was thickly Italian, but years spent in the service of a British-born Bishop had made English his habitual tongue.
“Where is Suora when one needs her?”
The old Christian brother gave a long sigh of resignation. He was in the kitchen’s pantry, attempting to extricate a box of tea biscuits from the back of a cluttered shelf. The distant knocking was persistent, and he knew that it was coming from a rarely used service door located at the back of the rectory.
“Nobody ever knows which door to use.”
He made his way along ancient hallways belonging to what had once been a small monastery, centuries before. Located in the centre of Rome, it was now the private residence of the retired Bishop Marcus Di Lauro, a man whom despite his advanced age was still very active in church matters, especially those pertaining to the paranormal.
Fra Bartolomeo accelerated his pace, arriving at the door just as the knocking stopped. Opening it, he saw a delivery man walking away.
