The Age of Apollyon Trilogy (The Age of Apollyon, Black Sun, Scorn)

by Mark Carver

  To make matters worse, the Brotherhood had degenerated into a theater of sadistic cruelty. Julian was not opposed to public assassinations of Satanic monks and priests, but he could never condone torture and barbarism. A bullet to the brain was quick and made its point. It would certainly be traumatic for those who watched the execution, but that was their punishment for subscribing to the doctrines of Satan in the first place.

  These new dramatics turned Julian’s stomach. The brethren were hacking and skewering Satanic ministers in full view of their congregations, and Tourec Beauchamp, the unofficial leader of the Brotherhood, had participated in the public immolation of a priest in Vercelli. As his brothers began descending into madness and savagery, Julian started distancing himself from the group, essentially cutting off all contact with the other assassins.

  Then, one night in the shadows of Florence, Julian had a dream. Perhaps it was even a vision, since Julian was certain he was awake when it had happened.

  He saw the Blessed Mother, weeping as she gazed down at her hands. They were covered in blood. As Julian had looked in her sad, angelic eyes, she reached out with her bloody fingers and touched Julian’s face. Her fingertips burned his skin, but the painful sensation felt oddly comforting, even cleansing.

  The Virgin Mother then reached down and picked up a sword, which she handed to him. He took it, shocked at how light it was. The Virgin Mother motioned with her right hand towards Vatican City, and Julian felt the sting of hatred burning within his heart.

  His mission was clear, and he took a step forward.

  Immediately, his way was obstructed. Not with guards or soldiers, but by his own brothers-in-arms. They glared at him with cold eyes, their backs towards the blasphemous throne of the Satanic Church.

  Julian was quite surprised, but he prepared for combat. Nothing was going to keep him from reclaiming the throne of St. Peter’s for his Father in heaven. Then there was a blinding flash of light, and Julian found himself in the dingy room that was his home for the night. There was no Blessed Mother, no sword, no brethren.

  He was alone.

  Soaked with sweat, he groped for a chair and sat down, panting with exhaustion. The meaning of his vision was immediately clear. His brothers-in-arms were a hindrance, standing in his way of purging this evil from the Holy City.

  His conscience raised no objection as he formulated a plan. He would contact the local police, claiming to have information on the whereabouts of the band of assassins that had confounded authorities, but he would also demand to be put through to the Vatican. He would insist on speaking to a ranking member of the Order to discuss compensation for the information he was about to divulge. Specifically, he would demand an audience with His Worship. Julian knew he would never be able to sneak a bomb or a weapon into the meeting; he just wanted to gain entrance into the fortress behind the Vatican walls. Julian’s eye for floorplans and architectural design was impeccable, and he knew that just a few moments inside would give him plenty of information to use in anticipation of a future attack.

  He made the call, and everything went smoothly, to his great surprise. He did feel a dull, aching sense of guilt as he essentially signed his brothers’ death warrants, but their sins and the ineffectiveness of the Brotherhood had crushed Julian’s soul. They had made their choices, and now he was making his. Perhaps, if his plan actually worked, they might even be considered martyrs in a roundabout way.

  He had spoken with a fellow who seemed to have some clout at the Vatican, and had managed to wrangle an agreement to meet with His Worship when he returned from the grand ceremony in Paris. This was enough for Julian. He couldn’t be sure if the man on the phone was making an empty promise or not, but Julian decided it was worth the risk. Besides, his killer instincts were razor sharp, and he was confident that he could fight his way out of a double-cross if he had to. Julian had to admit one thing to himself: he was good at killing.

  He was very good at killing.

  But now as he stalked through the streets of Rome, the bile of frustration and disappointment began to churn in his stomach. The Voice had indeed met his demise, but it was not by Julian’s hand. Tourec Beauchamp had somehow found a way to penetrate the Temple of the Dragon in Paris during mass and had miraculously slaughtered the pontiff in full view of the congregation. Only yesterday, Julian had found himself standing dumbfounded before the gargantuan television screen in Piazza Farnese.

  News of His Worship’s death drew shocked and horrified reactions from the crowd, and then venomous cheers arose as images of Tourec’s bloody corpse shone brightly in the twilight. Julian felt the breath vanish from his lungs as he stared at the cross tattoo, the same one that was splayed across his own forearm, which was thankfully covered by the black coat he was wearing.

  He knew his heart should have rejoiced. The Voice of Satan, that scourge of the earth, was dead, and it had apparently been quite a painful death as well. The Church of Satan was in turmoil, and the Circle of Elders were no doubt huddled within the bowels of the Vatican, scheming and plotting how to save their blasphemous religion.

  But Julian’s heart did not rejoice. As he stared at the images of Tourec’s body, he felt only one thing.

  Jealousy.

  As the rest of the crowd watched the broadcast with riveted attention, Julian had skulked away into the shadows, the black teeth of envy gnawing at his soul.

  How could God choose that heretic as his sword of vengeance?

  Julian had felt sadness and even a bit of shame at the news of the attack on the Brotherhood’s meeting place, but he never felt that what he had done was wrong. In fact, he knew in his heart that it was right. They had become madmen, drunk with their own power, reveling in their vicious cruelty. This was the reason why the Christian church did not rally behind them. They had squandered a glorious opportunity to reignite the fires of righteous retribution, but all they had accomplished was stirring up a storm of persecution.

  Julian alone had remained faithful. He alone had kept his eye on the ultimate goal. It should have been him to silence the Voice, to watch him cower on the ground beneath him, just before Julian put a bullet through that heathen skull….

  The whirling bile proved too much for his stomach to handle, and he had vomited into an ancient fountain. No one had noticed, however, and Julian had found himself staring through his tears up into the starless sky.

  Well, if God didn’t need him after all, then there was no point in continuing this fight. God seemed to have everything under control, so Julian figured he would forge his own path.

  Now, as he stalked away from tumult in St. Nero’s Square, he found his thoughts drifting again towards the gun hidden under his arm. It was a great comfort knowing it was there.

  Julian looked back at the teeming plaza. Just because God didn’t need him in his holy war didn’t mean that he had to lay down the sword. There were still plenty of people in this world who needed a hollow point through their brain.

  ****

  Patric Bourdon felt a thousand icy needles pierce his chest. He tried to breathe, but each breath felt like broken glass. Through the smothering darkness, he could hear warped, echoing voices, and a feeble light tried to penetrate the black mist.

  He jolted awake, sputtering and choking as his nerves began to process the sensations that came from having a bucket of icy water splashed onto his body. His eyelids snapped open and he winced in pain as scorching light stabbed his retinas.

  Voices - voices all around, but he couldn’t understand them. Were they speaking French? Everything seemed to be off-balance, and Patric felt as if he were going to topple over. He tried to move his hands to brace himself but they were bound behind him.

  A surge of fear replaced his vertigo, and he realized that he was tied to a chair. He jerked his arms against his bonds but he could barely move. The ropes around his wrists were fastened extremely tight and had constricted even tighter with the cold water. Patric twisted and strained, but it was useless, and
he slumped in his seat, fighting a growing wave of panic.

  “Ah, he’s awake.”

  Patric raised his head at the sound of the voice, which spoke in French. He squinted against the harsh glare and saw the figure of a man leaning forward, bringing his face close to Patric’s. As his vision began to clear, Patric could see that the man was about fifty years old with a dark beard speckled with gray.

  The man smiled jovially, though his eyes were as friendly as cold steel. Patric’s fear and disorientation collided in a swirl of frantic energy and he gritted his teeth as he struggled against the ropes that held him to the chair. This seemed to amuse the large man, and he chuckled as if Patric were a wounded dog trying to escape.

  His mocking laughter only enraged Patric even more. A vicious, almost canine snarl rumbled in his throat and his eyes blazed.

  “Let me out of this!” he hissed.

  The large man scratched his beard and regarded Patric closely. “In a little while. First, I want to ask you some questions.”

  “Who are you?” Patric blurted.

  The man smirked and stepped back. “I just said that I will be asking the questions. Do you understand?”

  Patric gave his bonds one more futile jerk, then stared at the man with furious impatience.

  The man paced for a moment and straightened his clothes. He was wearing a uniform of some kind, something that an elite police team member might wear. A lot of black and blue, with very heavy boots.

  He stopped and turned on his heel, as if an idea had just struck his brain.

  “What is your name?”

  Patric glared at his captor. He made no reply.

  The man took a step forward.

  “What is your name?”

  Patric remained silent.

  A massive fist crashed into Patric’s cheek. Searing white hot pain raced through his skull.

  “What is your name?”

  “Where is Tourec?” Patric spat through his tears.

  The man stepped back as if Patric had struck him instead.

  “How do you know that name?” he asked.

  Patric clenched his teeth as salty tears trickled into his mouth. “Where is he, you bastard? Where is his body?”

  The man frowned as he stared at him in bewilderment. “We don’t have it.”

  Patric’s shoulders wilted and he hung his head. His wet hair swooped over his eyes in stringy locks.

  He felt as if he were being buried beneath an avalanche. Everything flooded through his mind: the assassination…Tourec’s death…Natasha….

  Natasha...

  The dam burst. Tears and saliva dripped onto his lap and his body convulsed with each wrenching sob. He could only think of one thing that could possibly ease his pain.

  He wanted to see his brother’s body.

  And smash it into a bloody pulp.

  The uniformed man seemed quite taken aback at this emotional outburst. He glanced around uncomfortably, even though they were alone in the dark room illuminated by a single lamp.

  Patric’s anguish began to diminish, though his heart was clutched by a hopeless, infinite sorrow.

  Natasha...the baby...

  He had been so hesitant to accept responsibility for his new family, but in the last few days, he had found a wellspring of love and hope within him that he never dreamed possible. Then Natasha took all of that away, even as she pulled the trigger that had saved Patric’s life.

  “You are not the father...”

  The torment, the hell that Patric went through to bring his brother to Paris had all been for a lie. No, worse than a lie. He had merely been a prop in a demonic puppet show that was staged for the sole purpose of removing the Voice of Satan from this world, a once great and powerful man who lived his life in total devotion to his dark master. A master that had repaid his servant’s loyalty with Tourec’s bullet and a fiery death.

  Patric’s soul felt like a giant tree that had been whittled down to a frail toothpick. Such betrayal was too much for one man to absorb. In the span of a few moments, he had been betrayed by love and faith, leaving no answers, only a gaping void.

  He slowly raised his head and stared up at the large man as tears shone in his eyes.

  “Please...kill me.”

  The man cocked his head, unsure if he had heard correctly. “Young man, we aren’t going to kill you. I just want some information.”

  Patric shook his head weakly. “I don’t have anything to say.”

  The man knelt down so that his eyes were level with Patric’s. He spoke with a surprisingly gentle tone. “How about I ask you just a few questions, and we’ll help you on your way. Okay?”

  Patric made no response, but he didn’t refuse.

  The man set his jaw and rose to his feet.

  “Right. What is your name?”

  Patric licked his salty lips. “Patric. Patric Bourdon.”

  The man nodded, pleased that they were making progress.

  “Well Patric, I am Claude Jeraque. I am part of the Emergency Tactical Response Team with the Paris Police Department Public Defense Directorate.”

  Patric looked up and studied the man’s uniform more carefully. He remembered being hauled out of the temple by a group of men wearing this uniform.

  He opened his mouth to ask a question, but Claude held up his hand. “Answer my questions first, then I will answer yours.”

  Squinting in the lamp’s razor-sharp glare, Patric mulled the man’s command, then nodded weakly.

  Claude began pacing again. “How did you know the man beneath the temple?”

  “He was my brother.”

  Claude gasped. “Your brother?”

  “My half-brother.”

  “Why were the two of you down there?”

  The pistons in Patric’s mind quickly ignited. He couldn’t possibly tell Claude the truth, about Natasha and the woman in black. He hoped that Claude didn’t notice his moment of hesitation before he spoke.

  “I was trying to stop Tourec from killing the Voice. Obviously, I failed.”

  “Did you kill Tourec?”

  “Yes.”

  “You killed your own brother?”

  Patric sat up straight. “My brother was an assassin. He killed the Voice of Satan. I am glad he is dead.”

  Claude bent down, bringing his face just inches from Patric’s.

  “So if you killed Tourec, why were you lying unconscious on the floor next to him?”

  Patric’s mind was too weak from pain and confusion to come up with a coherent answer. “I was...I...”

  Without a word, Claude stepped behind Patric and drew a large knife. The steel blade emitted a rasping screech as it was pulled from the sheath in Claude’s belt. Patric’s heart leaped into his throat, then he fell forward.

  The severed ropes dropped away from his wrists. Patric remained frozen for a moment, then he bolted out of the chair, whirling to face his captor. With a stone-cold expression, Claude drew a black handgun from his holster and tossed it to Patric, who caught it as if he were catching an egg.

  “Use it,” Claude commanded.

  Patric stared at the weapon in his hands with wide-eyed horror, then the weight of all the pain from the last twenty-four hours bulldozed through his fear. If he couldn’t take out his anger on Tourec’s lifeless corpse, then Claude would have to do.

  With a snarl of rage, he pointed the gun at Claude and pulled the trigger. But the trigger didn’t move. Patric’s body tightened with the futile action, lifting him onto his tiptoes. He stared at the gun in frustration, then gave the trigger another squeeze.

  Nothing.

  Claude stepped forward and wrenched the gun from Patric’s hand. He pointed towards the large and very obvious safety switch, which was turned on, rendering the weapon inert.

  Patric wilted beneath Claude’s gaze like a student who had been caught cheating. Claude holstered the gun and shoved Patric down onto the chair. He turned his back to the lamp and folded his arms.

&nbs
p; “You don’t know the first thing about shooting a gun. And Tourec was an excellent soldier. There is no way that you overcame him.”

  Patric said nothing. He just stared at the man in childish defiance.

  Claude let out an exasperated sigh. “Lie to me all you want. It doesn’t change the truth. And the truth is that Tourec killed the Voice, and now Tourec is dead.”

  “Where is he?” Patric demanded.

  Claude looked down at his boots and Patric thought he saw a glint of shame in the man’s eyes.

  “We gave his body to the authorities,” he said.

  Patric jumped out of the chair. “What? Why?”

  “It wasn’t an easy choice. Tourec and I were friends for many years. We fought together in Jerusalem, though I had no idea that he was part of this group of assassins.”

  “How did you know we were down there? How did you get there before the police?”

  Claude chuckled. “We are the police, Patric. Not everyone in Paris is a devil-worshiper. We were on site in case an attack was made, though we weren’t officially on duty. Every one of us would have put a bullet in the Voice if we had the chance, but we didn’t have any such plan. I am still amazed that Tourec pulled it off by himself...”

  Patric frowned. He had help.

  Claude shook his head to clear away his reverie. “Anyway, when all hell broke loose in there, we were first on the scene, because we suspected that someone would need extraction. We were already suited up and no one questioned us when we came barging in. While we cleared the sanctuary and set up a perimeter to keep other units out, we found the dead security guards at the rear of the sanctuary. We went down into the undercroft and found the two of you.”

  “So why did you take me and leave Tourec?”

  “We didn’t know who you were, though we quickly realized that you weren’t an assassin. Or a Christian.”