by Mark Carver
The candle flame shimmered and nearly evaporated but continued to dance atop the glowing wick. Father DeMarco gazed at the courageous little flame. “I will pray,” he said softly, “for God’s guidance.”
Bishop Valenti nodded. “As will I. There is no better antidote for a wavering heart. You must believe, my brother,” he said as he rose to his feet, “that God will give you the strength to endure any trial and test.”
With these words, he left Father DeMarco alone in the room.
A sharp breath of wind from the closing door extinguished the candle with a whisper.
****
The windshield wipers swished back and forth with a hypnotizing rhythm. Natasha followed them aimlessly, though her mind was a bustle of worry and emotions. She glanced over at Patric, who was staring sullenly at the rain. Her hand reached out and rested on his, but he made no response. She huffed in frustration, then leaned forward and tapped the driver on the shoulder.
“Please stop the car,” she said firmly.
The driver jerked his head in surprise. “Excuse moi, madame?”
“Stop the car right now!”
The brakes screeched and the van lurched to a halt on the side of the road.
Before Patric could react, Natasha seized him by the face and pulled her towards him. She stared directly into his eyes, and she spoke with a low, measured voice.
“You are going to tell me what is going on here, Patric, or I will get out of this van and walk back to Limoges; I swear to God.”
Patric threw a fearful sidelong glance at the driver, who returned his glance with equal concern. He looked back at Natasha, who was positively enraged. Slowly, like a trainer approaching a cornered tiger, he reached up and brought her hands away from his face.
“All right,” he answered quietly. “I will tell you everything when we get to the station.”
Natasha’s eyes glowered.
“I promise,” Patric insisted.
Natasha breathed fiercely through her nostrils for a moment, then relaxed back in her seat. “Okay,” she said.
Patric exhaled, then took her hand in his. This simple gesture warmed Natasha’s heart.
The driver glanced in the rearview mirror and saw that the storm had passed, and he took this to be his cue to continue down the road. No one spoke during the remainder of the trip to the train station, and once he had helped Patric and Natasha unload their bags on the curb, he sped off into the rain.
The two of them stood there like statues while raindrop bombshells pounded the glass roof above them. Natasha turned to Patric with anxious, expectant eyes, and Patric couldn’t meet her gaze.
“Let’s sit down inside,” he said as he stooped to pick up the bags. He hurried inside without waiting to see if she was following him.
The station was virtually empty, and there were no lines in front of the ticket windows. Patric spied a local branch bank at the other end of the station and he slipped his mother’s cheque out of his pocket. Motioning towards the bank, he said, “I’m just going to — “
Natasha seized his arm.
“No,” she commanded as she pulled him to a cluster of benches. “Let’s talk first.”
Patric surrendered to her insistent grasp and slumped down upon the bench next to her. “What do you want to know?” he asked.
“Everything. Why is it so important that we find your brother, someone you barely even know, and a Christian, no less? And why are we rushing off again, right after visiting your mother whom you haven’t seen for ten years, and whom I’ve never met? What did you tell her that convinced her to give you that money?”
Patric opened his mouth to reply, but she interrupted him.
“I don’t doubt that you’ve had a visitation,” she continued, “but I know you well enough to know that you’re not telling me everything. Tell me the truth, Patric. All of it.”
The majestic clock above their heads struck 3 o’clock. Patric looked up for a moment, then sighed.
“I don’t know why all of this is happening,” he said cautiously, keeping his eyes on the clock. “I’ve been too afraid to tell you the truth. I’m afraid even now.”
Natasha’s brow furrowed. “Afraid of what?”
Patric looked down at the pentagram around his neck, then back to Natasha. “Afraid of our Great Lord.”
Natasha’s lip curled in a bewildered sneer. “Patric, everyone’s afraid of him; that’s who he is. He’s not Jesus hanging on a cross, dressed in white robes, weeping for the world.”
Her eyes narrowed. “Tell me why you’re afraid.”
Patric swallowed a sharp lump of guilt and fear. Despite the soothing breeze filtering through the open station, his forehead was beginning to sparkle with sweat. He glanced around at all the backs turned towards him, half-expecting one of them to whirl around and reveal a mouth full of fangs and ink-black eyes.
“Patric!”
Natasha’s voice cracked like a whip, and Patric turned towards her. She held his gaze firmly.
“Tell me why you are afraid.”
“He threatened our baby!”
With a gasp, he immediately clasped his hands over his mouth, and Natasha’s eyes bulged. She grabbed him by the shoulders, her fingers digging into his flesh.
“What are you talking about?”
Patric’s chest heaved with anxious breaths. “That night, when I said I had a visitation…it was true, but it wasn’t the first. I’ve been seeing things. Seeing…demons. They all tell me the same thing: ‘Find your brother, or the child dies.’”
He reached out to embrace her. “I’m so sorry, chère....”
Natasha slapped his hands away. A black cloud of rage darkened her face, and she rose to her feet like an executioner.
“Do you expect me to believe this?” she exclaimed furiously. “That demons are going to hurt our baby unless you find your brother? Do you hear how insane that sounds?”
Patric raised his hands pleadingly. “Please, Natasha, I know it sounds crazy, but I swear it’s the truth!”
“How many?”
Patric blinked. “What?”
“How many visitations have you had? And where were you when they happened?”
Patric swallowed again. “Well, there was that night that I told you about, and…again at the station…I met Jacque, and he—“
“Jacque? Your friend, Jacque? Possessed by a demon?”
Patric could tell from her tone that her disbelief was swelling dramatically. “Yes, yes, his face changed, and his eyes became black, like the woman at the church—“
“So you say....”
Patric halted, then winced as he remembered that she had no recollection of the woman’s fitful possession. “Well, it doesn’t matter. He told me the same thing as—“
He stopped. Natasha’s eyes prodded him to go on.
“As whom?” she asked impatiently.
Patric’s eyes fell to the floor.
The time has come.
“The same thing that a prostitute told me, that night that I didn’t come home.”
Natasha was frozen for a moment, then threw up her hands in exasperation. “So while you were snorting coke and screwing a whore, she turned into a demon and threatened our baby.”
Patric couldn’t bring himself to look at her. His shame felt like a lead blanket, suppressing whatever willpower he had left. “Natasha, I...I....”
“Is this what you told your mother?’
“Yes, I did.”
“And she believed you?”
“She wouldn’t have given me the money if she didn’t.”
“And did she tell you where your brother is?”
Patric exhaled wearily. “She doesn’t know exactly where he is, but she gave me the location of the monastery where he was educated. Someone there might know where he is.”
Natasha’s eyes were fierce. “Go cash the cheque.”
Patric looked at her with surprise. “W-what?”
“We are going to f
orget about your brother,” she said evenly, her boiling rage buried beneath incredible self-control, “and we’re going to Scandinavia, where we should have gone in the first place.”
A sleepy voiced announced an incoming train, and a sharp whistle sounded a moment later. Patric looked around in a panic.
“Natasha, please. I don’t know what is going on, but I won’t risk disobeying our Great Lord.”
The shackles restraining her fury shattered like twigs.
“You’re taking orders from a demon-possessed whore!”
Several nearby passengers glanced in their direction but quickly looked away.
Patric tried to place his hands on her shoulders, but she shrugged out of his embrace. “I can keep this baby safe, Patric. And why would anyone want to hurt it? What possible reason would our Great Lord, whom I serve wholeheartedly, have to threaten our child? And what is so special about your brother? Is he Jesus Christ? Or Michael the Archangel? I’ll tell you what he is, Patric: he’s none of our concern. We’re going to get on a train and leave all of this nonsense until it is safe to return. And we are going to forget this meaningless detour ever happened.”
She turned her back on him. He reached out to grab her, but stopped himself. Every word she spoke had crashed down on him like a heavy stone, and he realized that she was right. What were they doing? Sent on an errand by lunatics?
Patric’s eyes darkened and he clenched his fists. She was right. This was insanity. He felt like a fool for even coming this far.
Natasha’s shoulders were trembling. He tried to think of something comforting to say, but no words formed in his mouth. He finally managed to sputter, “I’ll go cash the cheque. Wait here; I’ll be back in a moment.”
Natasha nodded, still keeping her back towards him. As Patric started off towards the bank at the far end of the station, he looked back and saw her cautiously easing herself onto the bench. She looked frail and strong at the same time.
The train whistled again, making Patric jump. He slipped inside the tiny bank office and handed the cheque to the clerk, who eyeballed it casually at first, then more intently after noticing Patric’s pentagram medallion. With a huff, the clerk finally handed him several large bills and some smaller ones, then stared at him down the end of his nose. Patric mumbled his thanks and shuffled out of the bank.
The bench was empty.
Patric stuffed the money into his pocket and rushed over to the vacant seat. Their bags were on the ground beside the bench, right where he had put them, but Natasha was gone.
The train whistled once again. Panic crashed into Patric’s heart like a wrecking ball. He whirled around, frantically searching the station.
“Natasha!” he called out, craning his neck to peer over the heads of those milling about. Then, like a cool breeze, a sudden thought soothed his anxiety.
She’s just gone to the restroom, you idiot. She’s pregnant, after all.
Patric nearly laughed out loud with relief, and he collapsed on the bench. He glanced down at the bags, and he felt a little worried. It was a bit strange that she would leave these bags unattended, rather than wait two or three minutes for him to return. Pangs of fear pricking his brain. He started gnawing his lip as he looked towards the women’s restroom on his left. He waited for a few minutes, then nervously rose to his feet. The simmering waters of worry began to boil again.
Turning around, he tapped the shoulder of a middle-aged man sitting on the bench behind his.
“Pardonne moi, monsieur,” Patric said, trying to keep his voice steady, “did you see a woman sitting here?”
The man raised his head, which was topped by a small brown hat, and folded his newspaper and set it on his lap, but he didn’t turn around. Thinking that perhaps the man hadn’t heard him clearly, Patric tapped the man’s shoulder again.
With a startling jerk, the man whirled around, and Patric’s hands flew over his ears as an ear-splitting buzz filled his head. He groaned in pain and his eyes grew wide with terror.
The man gazed up at him with coal-colored eyes. Keeping his black stare fixed on Patric, he rose slowly to his feet. The agonizing hum grew louder, and Patric fell heavily upon the bench, still clutching his ears in vain. The man leaned forward and whispered in a metallic, echoing hiss.
“When we tell you to do something, Patric, you do it. Remember who your master is.”
Patric gritted his teeth against the chainsaw splitting his cranium. “Where is she?” he moaned in agony.
“She is not your concern,” the man snarled. “All you need to think about is finding your brother and bringing him to Paris. Anything else is a waste of time.”
“If you hurt her or the baby,” Patric growled, summoning his remaining strength, “I’ll — “
The man seized his collar and wrenched him to his feet. An impossibly wide smile split the man’s face. “You’ll what? Kill me?”
The man threw him to the ground and sped off towards the nearest track, his pounding footsteps echoing throughout the terminal. Petrified with horror, Patric watched him fly through the station, and he gasped as the humming in his ears suddenly ceased. Coattails flapping, the man let out a piercing shriek as he flung himself under the screeching wheels of a train just arriving at the station. There was a sickening crunch and several passengers standing on the platform cried out in shock.
Patric was frozen, stunned by what he had just seen. Then, like an electric jolt, the icy claws of fear grabbed his heart again, and he spun around, frantically scanning the terminal for Natasha. As security personnel and horrified onlookers swarmed the platform to get a better view of the grisly scene, Patric scooped the bags into his arms and dashed towards a security kiosk.
The guard inside was craning his neck, hoping for a better look but was confined to his post because of his low rank. Patric breathlessly rushed up to the kiosk and pounded on the window.
“Please, monsieur, I need your help!”
The security guard pursed his lips impatiently and reluctantly gave Patric his attention. “What do you want?”
Patric dropped the bags on the floor and clutched the window frame. “My fiancée has been kidnapped. She was sitting on a bench over there, and I left for just five minutes, and when I came back out she was gone!”
The guard stretched out his neck one more time, then sat down in exasperation.
“How do you know she was kidnapped?” he asked impatiently. “Maybe she just went to get something to eat.”
Patric’s heart began racing even quicker. “I know she was kidnapped! That man — “
He bit his tongue. The guard looked at him with an irritated expression. “What man?”
Patric’s eyes fell to the ground. “No one....”
He glanced around nervously and turned back towards the guard. “You’re right, I’m sure she’s around here somewhere....”
Satisfied with this answer, the guard resumed his futile mission of trying to catch a glimpse of the drama on the platform. Patric picked up his bags and walked away in a daze. He jumped aside as a team of paramedics rushed past, then made his way back to the empty bench. Turning his back towards the scene of the accident, Patric buried his face in his hands. The station was bustling with noise, but he didn’t hear any of it. A tear sparkled in his eye, and he looked up towards the vaulted terminal ceiling. He spoke quietly, though he was not addressing God.
“Don’t hurt them, and I’ll do whatever you want.”
His eyes fell back down and his gaze came to rest on the pentagram around his neck. A dangerous thought flew through his mind: Maybe my mother was right. He really had no idea what he was getting into so many years ago when he joined the legions of Lucifer. Now he was in the thick of it, and he had nowhere to go.
Except forward.
He dried his eyes and made his way to the ticket window. The clerk inside was in the same predicament as the security guard: painfully curious but trapped in a box. She looked at Patric as if he were a stray animal, the
n she blinked rapidly.
“Where to?”
“Are the trains still running?” Patric asked urgently.
The woman smirked. “If we stopped the trains every time a lunatic threw himself on the tracks, we would be backed up for days.” She didn’t notice Patric’s frown of disbelief, and her lips smacked as she asked again, “Where to?”
Patric glanced behind him, swallowing a lump of disgust as the paramedics hoisted a bloodstained sheet draped over a shapeless mass onto a stretcher, and several policemen shooed away morbidly curious onlookers. He turned back towards the ticket window and slapped several bills onto the ledge.
“One ticket to Susa, Italy.”
****
Caroline Bourdon regarded the phone for a long time. She didn’t move; she hardly seemed to breathe. The rain outside was a solid mass of sound, and the world inside the dull little room seemed to be frozen in contemplation.
She blinked twice, and like a rusty machine awakening after ages of neglect, she slowly reached out and lifted the ancient receiver off of its cradle. Her hand trembled as she dialed the number, and her quickening breath became louder than the pattering of the rain against the window.
There was a ring, hollow and impatient. Another, and another. Four, five, six.
Please…please, answer the phone....
Ten rings. Eleven. Twelve.
Her hand trembled and the receiver clacked against the cradle as she hung up. She hugged her knees against her chest as her heart cried out to heaven.
Keep my boys safe. And please…forgive them.
Caroline tilted her head to the side. She thought she had heard something, like a low humming sound, faint but insistent.
Of course, it could have just been the rain.
CHAPTER 6
Vatican City
The Voice of Satan wiped the sweat from his brow as he made his way through the great halls and foreboding corridors. He treasured these moments of relative solitude, though there were guards stationed at every door and monks and priests bowing in respect as he passed, but he didn’t really see them. These moments after attending mass with the Vatican elite were always pregnant with reflection and reverence, especially considering the monumental vision he had experienced during the final incantation.