by Ian Withrow
Everyone watching seemed as frightened and confused as she was. Finally, realizing what was happening, a pair of men stepped forward. They joined her in prying the man away.
The man below her was chanting something, his eyes closed and his face calm despite the increasingly violent actions of the men trying to rescue her. One of the men, a tall, broad-shouldered fellow with thick leather boots gave the man a solid kick, catching him in the temple. The hands holding her went limp for a moment as a deep gash appeared across the man's head, and she jerked her arms back as her second savior pulled off of her attacker.
Everyone was shouting by now, yelling angrily. They seemed outraged at her treatment, pointing at her as well as the man.
The man on the ground lurched suddenly upwards, his wound healed from those last few moments of contact with her. He tried to grab her arm but she dodged him, his hand landing on her left wing instead. As she crawled backwards to escape him, assisted by one of her rescuers, his fingers caught a handful of her feathers and tore them out, sending a light spray of blood across the pavement.
It was excruciating, as though someone had ripped her fingernails out. She stumbled and fell to the ground, crying out. The man's hungry, hateful expression mirrored the wolves of her nightmares perfectly.
The crowd turned violent, Lauren's visible pain leading them to take action. They turned on the man, who had already dropped the feathers and was digging in his jacket for something. The crowd thrust forward, shoving Lauren to the side and blocking her view.
The man who had pulled her away stepped in front of her as she lay upon the ground, his young face full of concern. He had a dark tan, middle-eastern complexion, black hair, and the most startling blue eyes.
He was speaking to her in a familiar language. She didn't understand him, but it sounded the same as the woman from Pakistan. He was pointing at himself, and then at her shawl, and then away from the growing masses. He kept looking over his shoulder at the mob surrounding the man on the ground, and he grew increasingly distraught.
After only a few seconds he grabbed Lauren's arm and tried to drag her to her feet. He was yelling now as he pointed away from the gathering crowd.
Lauren knew he was desperate to communicate something to her, but she was so shell-shocked, and in such horrible agony that she couldn't figure it out. She simply shook her head, trying to see through her watery eyes and clutching her injured wing.
A strangled yell from her would be attacker rose above the crowd in front of her, and suddenly people started screaming and shoving each other to get away from him.
A strange look crossed her savior's face and he knelt before her, wrapping his arms around her. They were eye to eye now, only inches apart. The look on his face was that of grief.
Lauren didn't understand.
The explosion ripped through the crowd like a hurricane. Lauren's vision filled with blinding light as the very world shook beneath her.
She felt a wave of pressure hit her like a freight train, felt her ears crack, pop, and then fall silent. The air was torn from her lungs and she felt several of her bones crack from the impact of the ground behind her as she slammed into it.
Reeling, she tried to stand but couldn't find her balance. Instead she crawled in dizzy circles, trying to make sense of what had happened. Her vision was swimming, everything was hazy and spinning violently. Her ears were still silent but she could feel something, a liquid of some kind, dripping from them. Slowly, her gift began to repair her body.
Her vision was the first of her senses to return fully.
Bodies were everywhere. Pieces of people strewn about like the leftover toys from a child's tantrum. Smoke and cracked stones littered the street. And the blood, blood was everywhere.
On the ground beneath her, between her scraped, dirt-smeared hands, was the blue-eyed face of her rescuer,.The man who had put his body in front of her just before the bomb went off. His eyes were frozen, wide open but unseeing. His body was badly broken, and Lauren could see he was already gone.
Her hearing returned with the sharp, thundering staccato cracks of gunfire. She ducked her head instinctively, hearing bullets zip past and impact on the stone faces of the surrounding buildings.
The screams and moans of agony from the injured and dying were all around her, a chorus of misery.
She didn't know who was shooting, or why, or even at what. A smaller, secondary explosion erupted a few blocks away, rattling her teeth and shaking the pavement below her.
A group of men in dark masks and fatigues were piling out of an old van a few dozen feet away. They were well armed, and fired into the crowd of onlookers.
Her wing still burned with pain, but it was a dull throbbing now, she didn't bother to look at it. Instead, she crawled among the fallen, trying to find people who she could still save.
She proceeded with laser-like focus, trying to push out the sirens, the screams, the sounds of the madness raging around her.
Pushing aside some rocks she saw a child, he couldn't have been more than four. He had curly, jet-black hair. Lauren pulled up short, stopped by her baby brother's dust and dirt covered face.
“Gabriel!”
Lauren screamed, shaking the boy and blinking back tears. He wasn't moving. Lauren sat back, wiping her eyes. Gabriel's face was gone, replaced by the ruddy features of the unfamiliar child before her. She shook her head, it was still ringing so badly, and tried to process the carnage around her. She'd made a mistake by losing her focus, by pulling back. Looking around she was frozen in shock and dismay at the bloodshed and violence erupting around her.
Police had arrived and pushed back the gunmen. Several nearby buildings were burning, and distant explosions echoed across the city as the scars of a long-buried war tore violently open.
“Lauren!”
Dustin's voice.
He was nearby. Lauren stood unsteadily, turning in a slow circle and searching for him like a storm-bound ship seeks a lighthouse.
There.
Dustin and two of his fellow agents were running towards her, guns drawn, long black coats flapping in the wind as they came. The other two were covering the vehicle amidst the chaos, twenty feet distant.
She was safe.
Relief flooded her, freeing her momentarily from her paralyzing anxiety. She ran towards them, her wings tucked tightly behind her and her head down.
When Dustin and his companions reached her, he scooped her up in his arms and spun nimbly, carrying her body back toward the vehicle's flashing lights. As soon as the doors slammed shut the tires spun on the slick, dirty ground and they were off like a rocket.
“Lauren, are you injured?”
His tone was serious, filled with concern, and as he spoke he looked her over for damage.
She knew he'd asked a question, but a strange sort of paralysis was coming over her. Her mind was slowing down, senses and sensations dulling as the ramifications of what had happened started to sink in.
All those people had died because she was there.
That man, and his bomb, were meant for her. She had landed among innocent men, women, and children. She had condemned them. Committed them to the grave as surely as if she had set the trap herself.
“Lauren!”
He was shouting, only a few inches from her face. She felt her heart rate spiking and dropping erratically and her breathing becoming more rapid, more shallow. Her body's betrayal only served to further her anxiety and she started to shiver uncontrollably.
“Multiple... throughout the city... well-coordinated... need to re-route to the...”
Dustin's voice was fading in and out and she felt suddenly tired, completely drained of energy.
His lips were still working, still moving, but his voice was jumbled like a poorly tuned radio station. She felt her head start to dip forward as darkness overcame her.
Lauren woke with a start to the dull roar of aircraft engines. For a moment she stared upwards at the curved ceiling and tried
simply to calm herself.
Her nightmares had taken on new horrors; the faces of the wolves changed and shifted now. They morphed into the victims of her latest failure and then returned to savage, toothy maws. Her face and pillow were wet and she knew she'd been crying.
What have I done, she murmured softly to herself, blinking away visions of the broken bodies she'd left behind in Sarajevo.
As she lay there, she noticed a shadow on her left wing. Stretching it out she looked more closely. A patch of her feathers, those that had been ripped out, seemed to have grown back in pure ebony.
They were so dark they seemed almost to absorb light. A patch of night amidst the bright white of her wings. Reminded uncomfortably of her nightmares, she looked around for something to distract herself.
Dustin was asleep, his back against the door at the foot of the bed and a pistol in his hand. His chin was tucked to his chest, resting on a thick, bulletproof vest he wore outside his customary button-up shirt.
Her throat was terribly dry, and she knew she must have screamed herself hoarse several times while unconscious, as she did every night.
A bottle of water and a pair of large cough-drops in a cup were waiting for her on the bedside table with a note that simply had a large arrow pointing to the medicine and the letter “D” scribbled on it.
Thoughtful as ever. Despite her aggression, her irresponsibility, her emotional outbursts. He had yet to truly lose his temper with her. On the contrary, he had been a vigilant caretaker despite her best efforts.
She tried to move quietly, but her rustling wings woke him. Unlike Lauren, Dustin woke up like some kind of large, apex feline. His eyes snapped open to full alertness and his muscles coiled, ready to respond to any situation.
“Lauren.”
With this single word her stoic friend spoke volumes.
“I'm... ok,” she managed a weak smile, but knew he wasn't fooled. He never was.
“Are you, ok? Do you have any ringing in your ears, headache, nausea?”
Physically she felt fine, certainly still a little nauseous, but only when she thought about the consequences of her unscheduled tour of the city.
She nodded, sniffling and tearing up again at the thought of all those people.
He shifted awkwardly on the floor, her tears always made him uncomfortable.
“Drink some water,” he motioned to the bottle. “And take those drops, they'll help.”
She did, silently following his instructions.
“How did you find me?”
She knew the answer. It would have been hard to miss the explosion. She felt stupid for asking as soon as the words left her lips. Her face must have shown it because he didn't answer aloud, he only nodded.
“I'm sorry, Lauren.”
His words took her by surprise. What did he have to be sorry for?
“I'm sorry I lectured you. You are, in fact, an adult. Capable of making decisions for yourself.”
He seemed relieved to have gotten the words off his chest, and lapsed back into silence. She couldn't convince herself he was right.
“My decisions got people killed. Again.”
She stated it matter-of-factly, they both knew it was true.
“I chose this assignment you know. Volunteered for it.”
Again he surprised her with an unexpected confession.
“Would you like to know why?”
She nodded again, looking at him with great interest, trying in vain to interpret his unreadable face.
“I believe very strongly, in you.”
He looked like he was ready to continue, to say more, but a soft tap on the door stopped him. He froze and put a finger to his lips, indicating silence.
Turning quietly and rising, He tapped back an odd pattern.
A whispered word made it through the door, though not to Lauren's ears, and he relaxed. Holstering his weapon he cracked the door inward. Lauren couldn't see who was on the other side of the door at first, but after a brief conversation an elderly priest and a young, sharply dressed man in a suit were allowed to enter.
The men moved past Dustin to the foot of the bed. The door was promptly shut, and Dustin again put his back against it. Lauren gave him a confused, inquiring look. His only response was a small but reassuring nod.
The priest, an older man, bowed deeply to Lauren and held this posture long enough for Lauren to become uncomfortable.
“Please, sir, you don't have to do that.”
The younger man, who had also bowed, though not as deeply, said something to his elder which prompted them both to rise. The language was lyrical, Italian maybe?
Flushed in the cheeks she stared at her visitors until the old man spoke. It was the same language that the young man used, and she realized he must be a translator. Sure enough, the old man's flowery Italian speech was converted to English, albeit with a thick accent.
“Your Grace, it is with great honor that we meet with you in the name of his holiness the Pope.”
What?
“Um, you're welcome. I mean thank you. Uh, the pleasure is mine.”
Lauren was unsure how to respond. She hated these awkward, overly eager sorts of conversations. She preferred to visit among the people, help as many as she could, and then retreat to the peace of her solitude. Entertaining strangers with a language barrier while sitting unkempt in bed was definitely not her idea of a good time.
“We would like to invite you to the Vatican City, to meet his Holiness and discuss a way forward together in faith.”
“I'm sorry, I don't understand. A way forward? What does that mean?”
The old man seemed confused at her misunderstanding. He had a quick, untranslated conversation with the younger man, who shrugged and gestured at her.
“We would like you to meet to discuss God's will. His Holiness has many questions and wishes to speak to you about the coming days.”
Lauren balked, now she was supposed to give spiritual advice to the Pope?
“Absolutely not,” she blurted out without thinking.
The young man looked surprised, but dutifully translated for his partner. The priest was stunned.
Dustin gave a slow head-shake from behind the men, eyes wide. He was definitely in disagreement with her word choice.
“I, um. I mean that I am very, uh, taxed from the events of the day. I cannot meet him right now, I need to rest.”
Her words rang true, as the men could both clearly see she was tired.
“Yes, of course your Grace. It is still several hours until we reach Rome. We will leave you to your privacy until then. Please allow us to fulfill any needs you may have. May peace be with you.”
The men seemed to be waiting for something.
“Um, yes, thank you,” she said, unsure what they were looking for. Dustin was giving her a funny look, almost like he wanted to smile.
“Your Grace,” the men said again.
They bowed low before exiting the room, chatting rapidly in their native tongue once more.
As soon as the door clicked Dustin cracked a huge smile.
“You definitely weren't raised Catholic.”
Lauren threw a pillow at him.
“What's that supposed to mean? Who the heck are those guys, and why did you let them in here! I looked like a moron!”
Lauren was hissing loudly at him, trying to whisper and shout at the same time.
He easily caught the pillow as it flew through the air, and responded in his typical, deadpan fashion.
“When they said may peace be with you, you were supposed to say and also with you,” at this Lauren buried her face in her hands, cheeks red with embarrassment.
“They are Cardinal Giordano Bruno, and his translator, Mr. Restrepo, representatives from the Vatican. Since this is their plane, I thought it wise to let them in,” Dustin continued.
“Why are we on the Vatican's plane!”
Dustin was quiet.
“Dustin?” she pressed with increasing co
ncern. “Why aren't we on the plane we arrived in?”
“I... couldn't be sure it was still safe. The conditions in the city were such that we needed to get you out as quickly as possible.”
Lauren fell quiet as well, wondering just how bad it had gotten.
“How many-” she began, but he interrupted her.
“Don't.”
A lot, then.
Chapter Twelve:
Lauren spent the remainder of the plane ride watching the news. Lauren's crew was substantially reduced, many of the “non-essential” personnel had either been recalled by the department or had been unable to make it to the plane in time. Sarajevo had turned into a warzone as decades of tensions between the major religious groups in the city ignited.
Reporters speculated about the man who had detonated the vest. Pundit after pundit crossed the television screen, each arguing over who was at fault for the horrific incident.
Within an hour an extremist group known as the Armiya Sveta, “Warriors of Light,” had claimed responsibility. The group, a militant organization in southern Chechnya, had been implicated in a variety of terrorist activities over the past decade. They had become famous for their unusual zealotry, believing that Lauren was a qarin, an evil jinn sent to tempt men away from God.
A solemn British journalist was reading the latest developments for the BBC in London.
“... We'll go ahead and play the video, released to us just about thirty minutes ago...”
A swarthy, full-bearded man appeared on a grainy video clip. His speech was thickly accented, and had been subtitled in English..
“... Lauren Corvidae. To follow this woman is Bid'ah, it is forbidden. All true followers of Allah and of the prophet will seek to destroy her. In Bid'ah there is only damnation...”
The video continued in similar vein for another minute or so before turning to a group of captive men and women. As she watched, a number of heavily armed men forced the group up against a wall and the video cut out.
“... as you can see, it is a very, very disturbing video. Our sources in Washington have indicated that the large number of individuals you saw there were executed on suspicion of believing in what the group calls 'the false messenger,' Lauren Corvidae. The name refers to the deeply held Islamic belief that Muhammad was the last and final messenger, or prophet, of God. During the next hour we will be speaking with Mr. Qadir Ibn Hazm al-Hajar, a leading Sunni scholar on the subject of jinn and their place in the Muslim faith...”
