by Ian Withrow
Other news channels were playing similar programming, with some variation depending on the source. On American news, politicians debated whether or not an attack on Lauren constituted an attack on Christianity at large, and what the political implications were.
“... is clearly an Angel and an instrument of Jesus Christ and the Holy Father. Any attempt to harm her should be taken by the Christian community as an act of persecution...”
One of the men, a representative from Kentucky, argued.
“... to assign a particular extant religion to this woman is absurd. She would have certainly been more proactive in spreading ‘the Word’ if she was truly an instrument of the Christian God, any god for that matter. Maybe she is god. If she is, then she acts by her own divine right and we should not be deciding a course of action when She has yet to speak on Her own behalf...” argued his counterpart, a Chicago politician who was recently re-elected on his support of a non-specific religious interpretation. He favored the idea that she was a divine being worthy of following on her own.
A physicist, and self-professed atheist was even being interviewed on one channel about how likely it was that she was in fact an extraterrestrial, stranded here and simply taking the form of a creature from ancient human mythology as a matter of protection.
By the time the aircraft started to slow down Lauren was nearly hyperventilating.
The body count in Sarajevo, according to various news agencies, was already nearing one thousand as extremist organizations from every major religion flooded the city with violence.
Dustin was characteristically quiet, her silent guardian once more. She found herself wishing, not for the first time, that he would talk to her.
“Dustin... I need your help.”
She had his attention instantly.
“What's wrong, are you ok?”
“Yes. No. Well, I'm ok but I'm worried about my dad.”
He nodded soberly.
“I've already made an inquiry. There are people from the department looking for your parents.”
“And?”
“And it's going to take time. I haven't been able to learn anything regarding your father, and I lost track of your mother about a month after she... left.”
“You saw my mother?”
What the hell! Why hadn't he told her before?
“She was seen in Chicago. You should get ready, Lauren, we will be disembarking very shortly.”
Lauren opened her mouth to question him further, but Dustin's tone allowed for no argument.
“I'm going to check with the pilot, but I expect we'll be on the ground within thirty minutes. We need to be ready to move as soon as we land.”
The aircraft was met on the runway by a convoy of armored vehicles. Beside each vehicle stood a number of men in subdued blue uniforms, all carrying compact machine-guns and wearing thick body armor. Also present were two men in bright crimson robes. They bowed deeply as Lauren walked down the stairs to the tarmac.
“Greetings, Your Grace, I am Cardinal Roberto Fafoglia, and this is my friend and fellow Cardinal, Eugene Figlio de Sangue. I apologize on his behalf - he does not speak English very well.”
Lauren felt awkward and shy before these two men, each easily double her age, if not triple. They spoke to her with reverence and respect, unwilling to meet her gaze even indirectly. She wasn't sure what to say, but she thought back to her conversation on the plane.
“Th-thank you, may peace be with you,” she said, stumbling a little over the unfamiliar phrase.
The men were overjoyed, and Dustin gave her the slightest nod from the corner of her eye.
“And also with you, Your Grace.”
Giordano and Mr. Restrepo joined the conversation and were greeted warmly by the two cardinals. While they spoke, Lauren took the chance to whisper quietly with Dustin.
“Who are these soldiers with guns?”
“They're the Swiss Guard. The bodyguards of the papacy. They are here for your protection.”
Lauren shot him a startled look.
“Do we really need thirty people with machine-guns?”
He was silent for a moment, and she thought back to Sarajevo and shivered.
“I don't know.”
It was hardly the reassuring answer she had hoped for. She found herself scanning the horizon compulsively for signs of danger.
“...Grace... Your Grace?”
Shit, he had been talking to her.
Lauren blinked at Figlio like a deer in headlights. She knew he had asked her a question from the way he was waiting patiently, but she had been so absorbed in her own mind that she hadn't the faintest idea what it was.
Opting for a non-committal answer, just to be safe, she nodded slightly and smiled.
He returned her smile, and her nod.
Crap.
“Thank you, Sir. As Lauren's head of security, I would also prefer she not ride in the first vehicle. I agree with you that we should be in the third, and we would love to accept your invitation for an early dinner.”
Dustin spoke up, rescuing her and simultaneously filling her in on what she had missed. She let out her tensely held breath in relief and followed him as he stepped off towards the third SUV in the column.
“Thank you,” she whispered.
He didn't respond, but she knew he had heard her.
As the pair approached their vehicle, the cardinals split off towards the vehicle directly behind it.
A man about her age opened the door for them as they approached. It was massive, at least four inches thicker than any car door she'd ever seen.
After they had settled themselves inside, never an easy feat with her cumbersome wings, he climbed into the passenger seat.
“Your Grace, I am named Wachtmeister Kaspar von Silenen. I will be, ah, protection for you while you visit here. Please, if you need a thing to ask me.”
He smiled broadly at her, unabashedly staring at her wings and clearly mesmerized. He had a funny accent. It was like nothing Lauren had ever heard before, she assumed it must be Swiss. His accent aside, his English was decent and his meaning clear.
“Thank you, Mr. Wachtmeister-”
Dustin nudged her gently with his elbow, whispering so low that only she could hear him.
“Wachtmeister isn't his name, it's a rank, a position. It's something like sergeant.”
Lauren glared at Dustin, her cheeks red once more with embarrassment, and started again.
“I, uh. That is, thank you very much, Mr. um, Kaspar.”
The last part of her sentence rose almost high enough to be considered a question.
Dustin nodded again. Good, she thought.
Kaspar seemed enthusiastic about her informal address, and took it upon himself to point out various highlights of the city as they cruised past. Within the vehicle all outside sounds were eliminated. It was like being in a coffin, silent but for the company she had.
From her seat she saw the faces of hundreds of unconcerned, unknowing people. Each passerby living a normal day in a normal life, oblivious to her presence.
She was invisible again.
Unfortunately, she was unable to fully enjoy the sights around her. She couldn't let herself relax, couldn't let herself soak in the beauty. On every passing face she saw the lifeless expressions of the people she had failed to save that morning. The streets and sights of Rome flashed past, a blur to her thousand-yard stare, all accompanied by the cheerful and informative ramblings of Kaspar.
Eventually though, he fell silent. Perhaps recognizing that she was heeding little if any of what he said.
The ride took nearly an hour, even with vehicles moving out of the convoy's way.
Eventually they pulled up to a large gate, guarded by more of the Swiss Guard. These men had colorful outfits of bright gold and deep purple, like something out of a Renaissance fair.
The garish outfits snapped Lauren from her dark contemplation. As they passed through the gates onto empty streets wi
nding between towering, beautifully carved stone structures she found herself in awe of the magnificence that was Vatican City.
When the vehicle finally stopped, it was in front of a short, three-story stone structure. The building itself was rather plain, rust-red brick with symmetrical, white-trimmed windows. The sun shed a fiery orange glow over the entire area as it set on the city, casting beams of light between the buildings.
A small greeting party was waiting outside, a half dozen or so men in various religious garments, a woman in a nun's habit, and another pair of Swiss Guards as well.
“You ready, Lauren?”
Dustin's question mirrored her own thoughts.
I hope so, she thought to herself.
Kaspar left the vehicle first, rushing to get to Lauren's door before she opened it. Thankfully, she saw him moving and resisted the urge to get the door herself. She waited patiently, thanking him when he took care of the door for her.
The group all bowed low as she stepped from the SUV, leaving her awkwardly taller than everyone but the guards.
“Please stand, you don't need to bow,” she said quickly.
An elbow from Dustin reminded her of her manners.
“B-but thank you, very much.”
When Roberto and the other cardinals joined them, she was ushered into a large, beautiful foyer.
Lauren was awestruck. For all its simplicity on the outside, the building was a museum of priceless, beautiful treasures inside. Paintings and frescoes from the hallowed halls of history decorated every wall. Gilt crosses and shrines to the various Saints and archangels dotted small alcoves, and votive candles burned before small altars.
The guards remained outside, reducing the size of the party considerably, and making Lauren feel far less claustrophobic.
“It's so beautiful,” Lauren marveled aloud. It took her breath away and stifled her worry and stress for a brief moment as she lost herself entirely in the splendor.
“These are the papal apartments, Your Grace. The earthly home for his Holiness,” explained Fafoglia. The group wandered through hallways and down corridors lined with immaculate, priceless art before finding themselves at a large staircase.
“His Holiness lives on the third floor, in a modest suite. We will be dining with him there, Your Grace.”
Lauren was too busy admiring the artwork to be bothered by all of the ‘Your Grace’ business. For once she was just a young woman swept away by the beauty of timeless art.
“If it please Your Grace, we will leave you to get settled before dinner.”
Again they bowed, waiting for Lauren to reply. But she was enchanted, soaking up the beauty around her, and their words fell on deaf ears.
Dustin nudged her foot with his own.
“We're very grateful for your hospitality. We look forward to seeing you at dinner, right, Lauren?”
“Yes! Yes, thank you so much. Cardinals I- we look forward to dinner.”
She blushed furiously as the men left. Within moments she was mesmerized again by her surroundings.
A huge fresco topped the archway before her. It showed an angelic figure rescuing a man from a jail cell. As she studied the piece she could see that it was divided into three distinct sections. In the first, a man lay in a cell guarded by soldiers. The second scene had an angel beside the imprisoned man, and the guards were asleep. In the final portion the man and the angel were nowhere to be seen, leaving only the confused guards. It was like nothing Lauren had ever seen before. She was spellbound by the subtle details of the piece, at its classic beauty.
“It's the Deliverance of St. Peter.”
Dustin's voice was hushed, reverent.
“Do you know the story?”
Lauren could only shake her head no.
“St. Peter was imprisoned by a King named Herod. The night before his trial an angel came to him and led him safely from captivity.”
“Excuse me, Your Grace,” a nun broke into the silence. She spoke softly and with a delicate French accent.
“In case you would like to refresh yourself before dinner, we have prepared a selection of clothing and a warm bath for you.”
Lauren's heart almost skipped a beat with excitement at the prospect of a hot bath, but the reality of her massive wingspan had her immediately doubting the reliability of such an offer. Still, she felt grimy and sweaty. Besides, any delay in dinner seemed preferable to facing one of the most powerful men in the world and telling him he had it all wrong.
“God yes, I'm dying to clean up,” she said emphatically, realizing a little too late that that was probably a poor choice of phrase.
To her great credit, the nun kept her facial expression neutral and simply gestured for Lauren to follow her. Working their way through the maze of hallways, they quickly found themselves in front a a large wooden door.
“Here we are, Your Grace.”
Dustin turned to face his charge.
“I'll be back before dinner. Don't leave this suite with anyone but me, alright?”
Dustin's face may have been calm, but Lauren could tell he was worried.
“I won't.”
With that, he turned on his heels and headed down the hallway. The nun waited expectantly for Lauren to enter the large, well-appointed guest suite.
Lauren was awed by the decorations here, as well. Everywhere she looked she found priceless murals and unparalleled tiling on the walls and floors of a moderately sized living room.
The suite was, frankly, opulent. It's only sacrifice was the generally smaller room sizes. Lauren didn't mind at all. It lacked the hollow, empty feeling of the embassies and hotels she'd been sleeping in recently.
“A bath has been drawn for you, Your Grace,” the nun informed her softly.
“I am Sister Johanna. Myself or Sister Renee will be at your service while you are here. If you require anything, if you have need of us, please ring the bell.”
At this she gestured to an intercom system on the wall, hidden amongst the antiquities.
“Will there be anything else, Your Grace?”
Lauren shook her head, trying to convey her gratitude through more than just her words.
“No, I'm ok. Thank you very much, Sister Johanna.”
“Of course, Your Grace. Dinner will be in an hour and we will send someone to guide you.”
With that the nun left Lauren to her own devices, the door softly clicking closed behind her.
Lauren let out a long, tired breath.
Alone, finally.
She let her shoulders droop and her head hang low. Sarajevo was a maddening contradiction in her mind. It felt like a lifetime ago that she had been there, on that street. At the same time, the faces of the dead were still raw in her mind. As though her eyes were closed, and if she just opened them their faces would be right in front of her.
She tried to clear her head, shaking off the building pressure in her chest and trying to turn her anxiety away with distractions.
She wandered through the suite, taking stock of her accommodations until she eventually found the bathroom. True to her word, sister Johanna had in fact drawn a bath. Steam was rising from a large porcelain tub that looked at least a hundred years old, and with it came the scents of essential oils. The bath screamed at her to get in, to enjoy the soak she so desperately craved. Lauren knew she wouldn't fit, and sighed disappointedly before turning on the shower instead. She slipped out of her grungy clothes and stepped into the steaming water.
The water washed loose dirt and gravel from her hair and feathers. Worse, the water was streaked with dull, rust red. Lauren tried shutting her eyes, wishing she hadn't seen it. Wishing she could forget that she was still covered in the blood of innocent people. That those people were now dead because of her.
Her anxiety spiked again, her breathing turning shallow and rapid. The now familiar feeling of a panic attack was building in her chest.
Lauren turned the water as hot as it would go. She scrubbed and scrubbed herself in t
he scalding water, wearing away at her skin until it was pink, raw, and painful. Still she could feel them, feel their deaths clinging to her like dirt under her fingernails.
Unable to rid herself of the horrors of the morning, she buried her face in her hands. Bitter tears mixed with the water running down her cheeks as she finally let herself grieve. She sobbed quietly, shoulders shaking, for a long, long time.
The water began to cool, drawing Lauren back to the real world. Back to problems she couldn't put off any longer. She stepped out onto the deep green tiles of the bathroom and pulled a pair of fluffy towels from a nearby rack. Wrapping herself in soft cotton she dried off, pausing a moment to linger on the faint remnants of scars on her arm and on her chest. Her thoughts turned to Erin, wishing for the thousandth time to see her again.
She would know what to do.
But thinking of Erin was still too painful, she couldn't face it. Not yet. Maybe not ever. She shook her head clear of broken dreams and continued exploring the apartment, coming next to a spacious bedroom.
The bedroom was subdued, at least compared to the rest of the rooms. It had a large, burgundy covered bed, a bookshelf, and a small vestibule for candles and praying, as well as the usual amenities.
Lauren's eyes were focused mainly on the bed, however, where four of the most elegant evening gowns that she had ever seen were lying. A ball gown, a sheath dress, a mermaid, and a flute. As a girl accustomed to leggings, shorts, or jeans, they were breathtaking to Lauren's eyes.
They looked like something a queen or a princess might wear. Mountains of tool, brocade, and perfectly tailored silk, all in stunning ivories and creams. Erin would have teased her mercilessly for wearing any one of them. But, Lauren thought to herself sadly, as soon as she'd picked one Erin would have been the first to tell her she looked beautiful, too. Lauren was a bit overwhelmed by the ball gown and the mermaid, they looked like they would require assistance to lift, let alone wear. The other two dresses were harder to choose between.
