by Mark Carver
“The world will bow at your feet,” she cooed, “and all will see what you truly are.”
The Voice closed his eyes as a wave of warmth spread over his body, and he couldn’t help smiling at the woman’s words.
Yes, they would.
****
Patric looked up at the sky but kept silent. Tourec articulated his thoughts.
“Looks like it’s going to rain again,” he said, ”but that will be a blessing. The less people on the road, the better.”
Patric gritted his teeth and glanced over at his brother in annoyance. “I hope you realize what a huge risk I am taking being out here with you. I don’t even know why I’m doing this. I should consider you my enemy.”
Tourec winced as the car bounced over a pothole. “Our meeting like this was no accident, brother. God has a plan for all — ”
“Enough!” Patric exploded.
Tourec stared at him with wide eyes.
Patric’s fingers squeezed the steering wheel until they were white. “I am sick and tired of your delusional Christian nonsense! Tell me, what was God’s plan? To have you and your friends pretend to be commandos sent from heaven to murder priests and priestesses? To get you almost killed not once, but twice in the same night? For that family to be hung like horse thieves because a mob needed some way to vent their anger? For this whole world to be turning into a swirling toilet of pain and misery? Is that God’s plan?”
A deep, weary breath exhaled from his lips and his body slouched, his fury exhausted. He focused on the road with a face as dark as the clouds milling overhead.
Tourec stared vacantly out the windshield. “Perhaps…perhaps I was wrong....”
Patric looked over at his brother. “Wrong about what?”
“About all of this. My ‘mission from God.’ I never really stopped to consider if what I was doing was what God really wanted me to do. It just felt so good, and then ‘good’ became ‘right’ in my mind. And the bishop, the one who was killed last night — he believed in this war even more than I did. Maybe it was his path that I was following, not God’s....”
Patric shook his head in frustration, but his voice wasn’t nearly as angry as before. “How could you ever think that being a terrorist was God’s will?”
Tourec looked at his brother with deep, sincere eyes. “The same way that some people swear their allegiance to the most evil being in the universe. Fear, desperation, and a need to believe make people do crazy things.”
A large raindrop smacked into the windshield. Patric licked his teeth. “It’s not a ‘need to believe’ if you know it’s true.”
Tourec nodded. “Yes, you’re right.”
Patric looked at his brother for a moment, then turned his attention back to the road. Raindrops began falling in rapid succession now, and within a few minutes, the drizzle had become a steady shower.
“When was the last time you talked to Mother?” Patric asked.
Tourec didn’t answer for a moment. “Not since I came back to the continent. I spoke with her a few months ago when I was in Jerusalem.”
“How was she then?”
Tourec kept his eyes fixed on the falling rain. “Not good. But I could hear in her voice that her spirit was still strong.” He turned to his brother and seemed reluctant to ask his next question. “What did she tell you about me?”
Patric shrugged. “She was proud of you for joining a monastery; she often boasted about you to her friends. I suppose I was a little jealous…but I was still just a boy, and you were far away from home, so I didn’t really feel threatened.”
“So why did you turn to Satan?”
“Why not? He was more real than God ever was to me. I saw him; I saw his power. God was just an idea, and miracles were just coincidences or anomalies that science couldn’t explain yet. Plus it happened just as I was entering my rebellious teenage years, and maybe it seemed like the fun thing to do. I guess…over the years, my faith became more serious and I found myself really believing, rather than just rebelling.”
“You don’t strike me as very devout, Patric.”
“Heh, you’re probably right. Natasha, my…my fiancée, was always the more dedicated of the two of us. I was a Satanist kind of like my papa was a Christian…I believed it in my head, and some of that belief filtered down to my heart, but it never really sank in. I just wanted to be left alone, to be independent, to live my life and die with a smile on my face.”
Tourec smirked. “Few people of any faith die with a smile on their face.”
Patric smirked as well. “That was my idea, anyway. I just wasn’t really thinking about the future or what my life meant. I saw Satanism as a liberation rather than a restraint. After all, the cardinal commandment was ‘Do what you want.’ How can that be wrong?”
“And what has been the fruit of your life of indulgence? Has it made you happy?”
Patric thought about his response for a few moments. “I don’t know. But perhaps that is just the result of being conditioned against pleasure and hedonism. Perhaps that guilt is so ingrained in all of us that it’s impossible to get out from under that shadow.”
Tourec massaged his bandaged hand. “That is a question no one can answer but yourself. Only you know the deepest reaches of your soul, and only you know why you do what you do. In the end, it all comes down to one question: what do you live for?”
“Well, what about you?” Patric spat back, irritated at his brother’s sermonizing. “What do you live for?”
“For my God, and for my church,” Tourec answered immediately.
“So does that make your life more valuable than mine, since apparently I only live for myself?”
“Patric, that’s not what I — ”
“No, you listen. You think your life is so noble, but you’re the one who lives a selfish life. I have a fiancée and a child coming into the world! I have a family! They are the reason I live!”
Patric was stunned to hear these words coming out of his mouth. He could feel his heart pounding in his throat, and the steering wheel was slick beneath his grip.
Tourec breathed slowly and toyed with the bandage swathing his wounded hand. “So where are they now?”
Large raindrops splattered onto the windshield and Patric blinked instinctively, surprised to find that his eyes were wet as well. He quickly wiped away the tears before they could emerge from his eyelids and he silently commanded his voice to hold steady.
“They’re safe,” he said firmly, as much to convince himself as to answer Tourec’s question.
“And what about me? Why did you come looking for me?”
Patric’s mind raced. There was no way he could tell his brother the truth, but Tourec wasn’t going to agree with staying in the dark forever.
“I already told you: we need to go to Paris together.”
“Why, Patric?”
“You’ll think I’m crazy.”
Tourec made no reply. He waited.
Patric coughed to clear his rough throat. “I was told to bring you there.”
“Who told you this?” Tourec’s voice was stern.
“I think…I think it was a spirit.”
Tourec frowned. This was certainly an unexpected answer. “A spirit? You mean you had a vision?”
Patric shook his head. “No. It was real.”
“You mean, like an angel? Or a demon?”
Patric swallowed hard. “I don’t know. But the message was clear: that I had to find you and bring you to Paris before the next full moon.”
Tourec squinted at Patric. “And what happens if you don’t?”
Patric watched the rain impact on the windshield. “I don’t know. But I knew that it wasn’t a request. So I came here, and by the grace of God, the power of Lucifer, or an unbelievable coincidence, I found you. So now we’re going to Paris, and whatever comes next is out of my hands.”
Tourec was silent for a moment. “You’re right. That does sound crazy.”
“Don’t you
think I would have made up a better lie if I could? You think I want to tell you this? You think I want to be here at all? As far as I was concerned, you were just a memory and a photo. We have different fathers, we follow different gods, we have nothing in common except a mother who feels ashamed of both of us. I was perfectly happy with my life, and then it all comes crashing down because you had to exchange your Bible for a gun.”
“Listen, enough with the blame game,” Tourec grumbled. “Whatever is happening is the culmination of eons, not a storm that brewed overnight. I don’t deny my part in stirring the pot, but I’m not going to listen to this all the way to Paris.”
Both brothers fell silent. The only sound for a few miles was the pattering of rain. Then Patric furrowed his brow and glanced up at the roof of the car.
“Why did you change your mind about Paris?”
“What?”
“Earlier you said you weren’t going anywhere with me. Then this morning, you seemed almost eager to go. Why did you change your mind?”
Tourec shifted in his seat and he pressed his hand to his injured ribs. “I…I prayed for guidance this morning, and I felt God leading me to trust you. Besides, with all the trouble I’ve stirred up here, I’m itching to get out of Italy.”
Patric shot a sharp glance at his brother. “Really? It doesn’t have anything to do with the ceremony taking place tonight?”
“Perhaps,” Tourec answered, exhaling heavily. “I…I want to see what I’m fighting against.”
“Fighting?”
Tourec smiled awkwardly. “I may have laid down the sword but I am still at war.”
“So that’s it? No more killing?”
Tourec stared into his brother’s searching eyes. “Yes. I think God’s message to me was clear last night. He has set me on a different path, and if that path takes me into the heart of the enemy, then I will go forth in boldness.”
Patric snorted and regarded him with a look of contempt and puzzled admiration. “How poetic. Is that in your Bible somewhere?”
Tourec chuckled. “Keep your eyes on the road, little brother.”
****
Father DeMarco couldn’t help smiling to himself as he navigated his way through the gravestones while huddling beneath his umbrella. How could one night bring such a kaleidoscope of tragedy and miracles?
His feet crunched on the gravel driveway. He paused for a moment and looked down past the road, his eyes sweeping over the autumn-kissed trees and the rooftops and spires that tenaciously clung to their medieval mystique. The Cathedral of San Guisto, though it was now branded as the Temple of Set, was still a church as far as Father DeMarco was concerned. It had been built in honor of the One True God and had been dedicated to the memory of a venerable saint, and a simple name change could never erase that. He scanned the other monuments just visible through the rain and mist, and the sight of numerous distant pentagrams pricked his heart.
One day, all of them shall fall.
Setting his jaw with this resolution, he started down the graveled driveway towards the road that would take him into town, where he was planning to purchase some items for the Assantes’ funeral service.
He stepped out onto the street, and he heard the roar of an engine and tires screeching behind him. He almost had time to turn around before an empty wine bottle smashed into the back of his head, sending him sprawling. His temple slammed against the jagged edge of the curb and a scorching sensation seared through his body.
As the blood pooled around his head and mingled with the muddy rainwater, he heard cackling laughter. A drunken voice called out, “Better hope that Jesus saves!”
Father DeMarco’s eyes fixed upon the hazy temple spire in the distance, then the world dissolved into blackness.
****
“Here we go....”
Tourec instinctively crouched a little lower in his seat. The windshield wipers batted away the rain and Patric stared through the sheets of water at the string of red taillights in front of them.
“France has always been too paranoid,” Tourec muttered.
“Well, in these circumstances, I’d say it’s justified,” Patric replied. “After all, there is a known terrorist cell that has declared war on the Church of Satan.”
“Yes, on the Church of Satan, not the nation of France.”
“A lot of people in the world don’t see the difference.”
“Are you kidding? When did those lines get blurred?”
“Ever since the Satanic Party gained seats in the Parliament. Before the Manifestation, that would have been unthinkable, a joke in poor taste. But no one is laughing now.”
Tourec was silent.
Patric took a deep breath. “This ceremony will only cement this idea in people's heads: that France is a Satanic nation.”
“You should be excited. Aren’t you in favor of something like this?”
Patric’s eyes followed the creeping lights in front of them. “Well…yeah, in a way, I suppose. But…I don’t know…I think that the Church of Satan is in danger of committing the same crimes that the Christian church did.”
“Which are…?”
“Becoming a corporate entity. Becoming a political powerhouse. Becoming a legal steamroller. Religion is supposed to guide people's lives, not control it. That’s the reason I joined the Satanic Order in the first place: not out of fear, like a lot of people. I just saw a way to throw off the shackles that Christianity had used to enslave the world, and I don't want to see my freedom turn into shackles of a different color.”
Patric glanced over at Tourec and was confused by his brother’s expression.
“What?”
Tourec offered a crooked smile. “I’m impressed. That’s pretty insightful.”
Patric waved his brother’s compliment away as if shooing a fly. “Hey, I’ve always spoken my mind. No one tells me what to do or what to think.”
The car jerked to a stop at the checkpoint, and the border guard motioned for Patric to roll down his window. He peeked his head into the car and peered closely at the brothers. Water dripped from the brim of his cap onto Patric’s arm.
“Identification,” he commanded.
Patric and Tourec fished their identification booklets out of their pockets and handed them to the guard, who leaned further into the car to avoid getting rain on the ID booklets. The stream from his cap shifted onto Patric’s leg.
The guard glanced at Patric’s photo, then at Patric. Apparently satisfied, he turned his attention to Tourec. He grunted when he realized that Tourec’s identification was simply a clerical license and a scowl darkened his face.
“You!” he barked at Tourec. “Look at me!”
Tourec turned towards the guard, who was startled to see his bruised and battered face.
“Who are you?” the guard sputtered after taking a moment to regain his surly demeanor.
“Ricardo Patrelli,” Tourec mumbled. There was no need to fake the pain he was feeling.
“Why is there a Christian priest in your car?” the guard asked Patric.
“He’s my half-brother,” Patric answered, barely disguising his annoyance at the stream of water falling from the guard’s hat. “He overstayed his welcome in Susa and I’m bringing him home.”
“Where’s home?”
“Limoges.”
The guard eyed the brothers for a moment, then exhaled in irritation. “Move along,” he growled, casting one more hostile glance towards Tourec.
Patric was about to mutter a “thank you,” but he froze.
He could hear it.
That sound.
It wasn’t the rain....
Patric’s breath turned to ice in his throat. He was paralyzed; he couldn’t even raise his hands to cover his ears. He couldn’t —
“Border Crossing 1-2-12 checking in.”
Patric whipped his head towards the guard, who had just released the comm button on his shoulder-mounted radio. He sneered with surprise and amusement at Patric’s as
hen face staring up at him through the open car window.
“Move along,” the guard repeated firmly.
The sound was gone. Embarrassment crept over the terror Patric felt. He pressed his foot against the accelerator as he shot one last glance at the crossing guard.
The man’s eyes were coal black, and his gaze was fixed on Patric.
Smothering a yelp, Patric rammed the accelerator to the floor. Fortunately, the car didn’t have enough torque to pick up speed very quickly, and the car sped off without attracting any extra attention.
Tourec, however, noticed his brother’s panicked reaction, and he sat up in his seat.
“Patric, relax. We made it through. No one’s chasing us. It’s just a straight shot to Paris from here.”
Patric’s heart, which had been pounding like a jackhammer, began to slow down.
“Paris…” he said to himself.
“Paris,” Tourec echoed.
The two brothers exchanged nervous glances, then settled in their seats and watched the road scrolling beneath them.
****
They ate lunch on the road, approaching Paris in the mid-afternoon. The rain had slowed to an irritating drizzle, and through the mist they could just barely see the ominous skyline looming in the distance. A few kilometers away from the cluster of skyscrapers in the city center arose a colossal black spire, the crown of the Temple of the Dragon, resting upon the ruins of the decimated Cathedral de Notre-Dame de Paris.
Patric suddenly wrenched the wheel to the right.
“What are you doing?” Tourec asked in surprise.
Patric didn’t answer as he steered the car into the vacant lot of an abandoned gas station. He turned off the car and gripped the wheel firmly, as if bracing for a crash.
“Patric, are you all right?”
Patric nodded and inhaled a deep breath, struggling to hide his sudden panic attack. “I…I need to use the restroom.”
Tourec glanced outside. “This place is a dump.”
“I’ll go around back.” Patric jumped out of the car before Tourec could raise an objection. He jogged around the rusted gas pumps to the rear of the creaking building. His heart thundered in his chest and he leaned against a stack of tires for support. He scraped his face with his fingers and stared out at the patch of wild trees that stood behind the station with limbs bowed by the rain.