by Tony LaRocca
Debris of Shadows Book II:
The Forgotten Cathedral
* * *
by Tony LaRocca
Copyright © 2017 by Tony LaRocca
Cover and book design by Tony LaRocca
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means including information storage and retrieval systems, without permission in writing from the author. The only exception is by a reviewer, who may quote short excerpts in a review.
Manufactured in the United States of America
First Printing, November 2017
www.EgotisticalProductions.com
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Table of contents
* * *
Part I
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Part II
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Part III
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
About the Author
Other Works
To all of my friends and family who have given their love and support over the years, especially Jen, Joe, and Amanda.
Part I
Chapter 1
Asher knelt on the floor of his cell. Its stone slabs felt hard and rough beneath his knees, though they were calloused from years of theatrical humility. A chilly draft snuck in through the cracks around the door. He pulled the cloak of his own flesh tighter around his shoulders. As thick as it was, he could still sometimes feel the bite of the cold.
He stroked his cowl, savoring its leathery texture. His skin had taken a lifetime of teasing and stretching to perfect, to craft into a mantle that was tough, yet also smooth and pliant. Twenty–three years of clips, hooks, and ratcheted springs. Twenty–three years of sacramental binging and purging to help create more luxurious folds. How many nights had he spent epilating every follicle, and scouring any blemish? No one else in the fourth circle had such epidermal trappings, and they knew it. No matter what misery and childish nonsense Asher had to put up with within the walls of the monastery, he would always have the refuge of his own cloak. He would never let the sanctimonious bastards take that away from him.
His light globe hovered above his shoulder, illuminating the scrolls spread before him with an amber glow. It was an annoying necessity, a mocking reminder of his mediocre station. Those within the seventh circle and above did not need artificial light. Their skin was interwoven with rivulets of fat, which burned with a smoky, violet flame. To walk among the lower circles, to see envy on their pink, babyish faces as they basked in the radiance of his flesh… He bit his lip, and smiled. Someday, oh yes.
He caressed the scrolls of San Domenico, their raised scripts tickling his fingertips with tiny, static jolts. Each glyph flooded his mind with a different sensation. The overly sweet taste of chocolate mixed with rum, a baby’s wail (Oh God, I need to sleep, I need to sleep, will that kid just shut up?), the acrid smell of a burnt cigarette filter between singed fingertips, the feel of an open hand connecting with a soft cheek, the sting of a slap, seeing fear, pain, and tears welling in the corners of formerly insolent eyes. And didn’t that feel so good — the towering sense of power, of ownership? Holy Ophanim, if only he could strike Abbot Dinah that way. It would be so delicious, to make her feel fear and shame for once, to show her how —
Asher tore his hand away, his breath heavy and fast. He licked his lips. The feeling of rage had been so… succulent.
At the twitch of his finger, the lamp globe drifted in front of his eyes, and dimmed. He focused on its beige glow. He took slow, even breaths through his nose, letting the air flow down the back of his throat. The abbot would love to see him that way, wouldn’t she? All riled up and aroused with empathic discordance. Then she would shake her pious, tattooed head, and take his city away from him.
He relaxed his muscles, and tried to clear such thoughts from his mind. There was only the light, and his breath. “Lead me not into temptation,” he muttered. “Lead me not into temptation.”
San Domenico was his responsibility, and his secret devotion. Everyone and everything that defined the city had been inscribed within the living fibers of its parchments. One glyph represented a mother of three, pregnant with one more. She told her friends that she had once dreamed of being an actress, but that was a lie. The truth was, she had never dreamed of being anything. Asher felt the soreness in her feet as she trudged from the subway station to spend yet another night trapped behind a cash register. Every few seconds, she snuck a drag of Tangerine from a joint hidden between her fingers.
Another sigil belonged to a boy, aged thirteen. Most of his thoughts were consumed with hockey: the slap of his stick against the puck, the rhythmic pumping of his legs as his skates glided across the ice. But he had a secret. After practice, the other boys liked to go to a teammate’s house, sneak online, and look at pictures of naked girls. But deep down, he really wanted to look at boys, especially the ones on his team. It was a minor and common secret so far as the Church was concerned, but to him, it was everything.
Everyone in the city had their own shameful secrets, and each would deny their existence with their dying breaths. Most of them involved sexual desires, money, or the fear of loneliness. Asher did not care so much about the secrets themselves, it was the terror, rage, and desire that fueled them that gave him rapture. That was his own secret, and one that he had to keep hidden.
A month had passed since he had joined Abbot Dinah’s parish. It was true that she had had no choice, and she made sure he knew every day that she found him unworthy, but none of that mattered. The only thing that mattered was that San Domenico was his.
His hand brushed the parchment again. Here was a tower, a twisting skyscraper of additive diamond that pierced the sky like a serpent of flowing crystal. Asher traced its glyph until he touched the soul of its architect, Daniel Wisecarver.
Daniel had been seventeen when the tower’s ground was broken, a prodigy celebrated and envied by the artistic elite. His face had been plastered on the covers of magazines and newspapers. Crystal Cavé herself had lured him into the ladies’ room at the grand opening ceremony, and he had schtupped her good and hard against a pink stall door, the less–than–glamorous death of his virginity taking a whopping twenty–five seconds. Now, six divorces later, and at the age of seventy–nine, the thought of it made him want to barf. Every design of his since had been unflatteringly compared to the Wisecarver Tower, and, for a few years following a Too Late Comix host’s monologue, “to Wisecarver” became synonymous with being a one–hit–wonder.
When the Shadows came, he had been living with his daughter, whom he knew was just waiting for him to die. His chest felt petrified, as if the decades of disappointment had calcified the blood in his heart. He had been half–sitting, half–lying in bed, sipping cheap whiskey that burned his throat in the hope that it would help him sleep —
The tolling from the belfry shattered Asher’s contemplation. It was time for breakfast. He had to admit that he was hungry, but sweet Ophanim, it was so hard to tear himself away. The souls of San Domenico needed him. Committing them to memory was more than just a sacred t
ask. Without him, they would remain piles of Life Sands in the great wastes of WesMec, dead and pulverized. But the act of memorization, the actual reading…
Every night at vespers, he would sing alongside his brothers and sisters, weaving the litany with technical precision, if no real devotion. They would sing for the Ophanim to caress them with Her light of love, to fill their hearts, to keep their ambitions pure. The light of the moon, Her light, would shine upon them through the stained–glass ceiling, its pale luminescence complementing the glow of the chapel’s candles. Her light gave their song purpose, and their purpose was the holiest of sacraments, resurrection. He used to live for that communion, it was the only time he did not feel alone and unwanted. But now, it was all pretense. His true love was here, within the scrolls of his city. Deep inside, all he wanted was to be by himself, tasting his charges’ loves, lusts, terrors, and dreams.
Get your ass to breakfast, a voice spoke from the back of his mind. Obsession is one of the greatest sins for a resurrector, and you know that bitch will just be waiting for any excuse to declare you unworthy. Then, someone else will bring the Sands back to life.
He sighed, and pushed himself to his feet. He lost his balance for a moment, teetering on legs that stung with pins and needles. How long had he been kneeling? He would have to take it easier next time. He groaned, staggered to the door, and pulled it open.
Brother Kish stood in the hallway, his fist raised in mid–knock. His mouth hung open. He snapped it shut, his teeth clacking together. Asher was not sure, but to him, the novice could not have been older than fifteen. A mountain range of whiteheads still covered his forehead, for the Ophanim’s sake. The boy opened his mouth again, his fist still in the air. “Brother,” he said, “Mother Dinah says for you to — I mean, I was told…” He looked at his hand as if just noticing its existence, and scratched his head with it. “It’s time to eat.”
“She sent you?”
“Yes. I mean, no.” Kish raked the back of his neck with jagged fingernails as his words tripped and tumbled off the edge of his tongue. “I just came by to see if you wanted any company. I’m fascinated by the whole scripture–reading thing. I thought maybe we could talk about it on the way.”
Asher looked up and down the corridor. “Get in here, then,” he said.
Kish bit his lip. “The abbot said —”
“Do you want to see, or don’t you?” Asher asked. “Come on, just for a second. We’re not late, the summoning bell only rang a minute ago. Come on.” He crooked his finger.
The boy backed away from the door. “I can’t, I’m not allowed to.”
“Not allowed to what?” Asher pointed at the scrolls. “I thought you wanted to learn about resurrection. Well, get in here, because you’ll never get a chance like this again.”
Kish stared at him with wide–eyed panic. “A chance for what?”
Yes, thought Asher, a chance for what? Hazing novices was always fun, and the pimply ass–kisser’s obvious bullshit had pissed him off, but what if the kid had actually done it? He was in the fourth circle now. To be complicit in a novice touching a scroll before receiving the sacrament of scriptures… His lips cracked into a thin smile. He coughed. “Good job.”
Kish swallowed. “What?”
“The others said that you wouldn’t hold out, but I told them you would.”
“You did?”
“Yes.” Asher nodded, his eyes solemn. “You truly have the calling.”
Kish stood up straight. “Oh,” he said.
Asher held up his thumb. “No word to the others, right? No need to brag.” Kish shook his head. Asher pulled his immaculate cowl of flesh over his bald crown. “Come on,” he said, “let’s not be late.”
They walked across the courtyard to the dining hall. The oily film of the shield above diffracted the rays of the rising sun into a ruddy violet. The harshness stung his eyes, making him squint. Someday soon, all of the cities would be resurrected, and the shields of WesMec would be dismantled. Through the will of Her Holiness, he would one day feel the true warmth of sunlight against his face.
None of the others looked up from their tables as the tardy duo entered. Their bared heads were all bowed in grace. Did they really feel it, Asher wondered, or were they just as sick of pretending as he? He pulled back his hood as well, and looked to the floor. After a quick glance, Kish did the same.
“Amen.” Abbot Dinah’s voice echoed throughout the hall. The other monks repeated the word, more or less in unison. Asher strode to an empty seat amongst the mid–circles and took it, while Kish ran off to join the other novices in the kitchen. The splintered bench scratched the backs of his legs, and he leaned to one side to make himself comfortable.
“So,” said the abbot, not looking at him, “you feel that your young advancement gives you the privilege of tardiness?”
Asher bowed his head in humility, trying to force a flush of shame to his cheeks. “Please forgive me, Mother.” He focused his gaze on the plain green tablecloth, his eyes wide with penitence. “I had a stomach virus last night, and it carried through to this morning.”
“Yet Brother Kish found you in your cell, not in a bathroom.”
He pressed his lips together, forcing his expression not to change. How the hell had she known that? “The dehydration made me a little disoriented,” he said, “and I returned to my cell before coming here.” One of the postulants brought around glasses of water. He swallowed the contents of his in one gulp, and let out a sigh of satisfaction. “Again, I ask forgiveness. I promise it won’t happen again.”
Abbot Dinah said nothing. Her perfect, olive–colored skin glistened in the sunlight. Though she was ninety–seven, she had the appearance of a woman in her twenties. It was one of the privileges awarded to those in the fifth circle. She glared at him with eyes the color of ice until Kish put a plate before her.
The squid was fat and buttery. It probably really would give him the shits. He took a slice, and made a sandwich of it with his toast. He took slow and deliberate bites. When he got back to his cell and his scrolls, he would find a glyph of something delicious. Roast pork and mei–fun, perhaps, topped with Parmesan. One of his charges had had a predilection for that, and it had been surprisingly satisfying, the sweet and sour sauce complementing the saltiness of the grated cheese. He looked up.
All the faces around the table were staring at him. Sweet Ophanim, did his longing show that easily? He focused on the rancid tang in his mouth, the pungent smell of the cephalopod, the texture of the stale bread like sandpaper against his tongue. He swallowed, but a few crumbs went down his windpipe. He coughed and sputtered until his throat was clear.
“Too much for you?”
Asher turned his expression of wide–eyed innocence towards Brother Leo. He was much older, possibly the oldest fourth–circle in the history of the Church. His gray hair was stringy and matted, and hung about the folds of his spotted cowl. The other monk met his gaze with bloodshot eyes, holding it while he chewed his squid with an open mouth.
“This is delicious,” said Asher, his voice hoarse. “My compliments to the kitchen staff.” He waved at Kish, and raised his empty glass. The pimple–ridden turd rushed over, and filled it. Asher tilted it towards Brother Leo in a salute, and drank. He caught Sister Theresa glaring at him out of the corner of his eye, and winked. The envy of others had a satisfying flavor all its own.
“Have you found the ones in mid–coitus yet?” Leo asked.
Asher stopped drinking. He saw Theresa’s pale face turn pink. The abbot glanced at him. “Yes,” he said, “I seek them out every chance I get, especially the infirm, the elderly, and the gerbils. Why, are you asking me to share?”
A few chuckles rang out from around the table, but Abbot Dinah stopped them with a heavy rap of her knuckles on its wood. Everyone’s faces returned to their food.
“Perhaps your holy charges are a filthy joke to you?” she asked.
“Not at all,” said Asher. “I apologiz
e. I was merely pointing out the filthiness of the question, and that it was inappropriate for the breakfast table.” He cut another piece of squid, and chewed on it. He smiled. “I beg your forgiveness, Brother.”
“You took offense where none was given,” said Leo, “and you didn’t answer the question. Perhaps your response was reactionary, eh? It must feel miserable, knowing you can never join in. Perhaps if they sewed your little lust–grapes back on?”
“Would you stop talking like that?” Brother Jacob cut in. Asher looked at his squid, trying to hide his annoyance. He did not need anyone to stand up for him, he could deal with failures like Brother Leo on his own. “Come on,” said the elder monk, “I’m trying to eat, here.”
The brothers and sisters continued their breakfast in silence. The sun, glistening through the window, had risen higher in the sky. It shone through the swirling film of the shield, casting long, ghost–like shadows from the glasses of water. Brother Leo burped, and wiped the butter from his beard.
“Oh, don’t pretend you’re offended too,” he said. “We’re all resurrectors here.” He turned back to Asher. “So how do you feel about current events, now that you’re a part of the club?”
Asher sighed. “Is this really necessary?”
Leo shrugged. “Give us the benefit of your… fresh perspective.”
Asher put down his fork. “I think the will of the Ophanim will always be done,” he said, and smiled. The abbot stopped eating, and gazed at him. She considered his face for a long moment.
“Really?” Leo asked. “You think it was the will of the Holy Ophanim that the Sands were poisoned? Life Sands?”
Something twisted inside of Asher’s stomach. He stared at the disapproving faces around the table. “What?”