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

by Mark Carver

  “What is your plan?” Master Kwambala asked, an edge of impatience sharpening his voice.

  The old man stopped, then smiled wickedly.

  “Subjects crave a leader. We shall give them one.”

  The table buzzed with murmurs.

  “But...but you just said that – "

  The old man stepped forward. His dark form towered over the Asian woman, who seemed very frail and timid beneath the old man’s shadow.

  “I was not speaking about us,” he hissed. “I was talking about the Christians.”

  The eight seated members of the circle gasped in unison.

  “What do you mean?” one asked.

  “We shall not make the same mistake again by electing a leader to represent our Order,” the old man answered. “Our Great Lord has made it clear that it is chaos and fear that he desires, not rituals and chants. Our Order must evolve and adapt to our Great Lord’s wishes, and we must lay aside any feelings we have in the matter.

  “However, the delusional Christians are forever seeking an earthly leader for their impotent religion, something they have long been without. We shall give the Christian church the leader they so desperately crave: a pope.”

  Several elders leaped to their feet. “You mean...give back the Vatican?”

  The ancient elder wore a grave expression. “We are not giving back anything. We, the Ordo Satanum, shall control this new pope, and through him, we shall infect the Christian church and the entire deluded world with the darkness that our Master brings. The world shall see the glory of God restored, but they will not suspect that within it lies a poisonous seed that will rot the deluded church from the inside out.”

  “This is preposterous,” Master Kwambala muttered under his breath.

  The old man glared at him with fierce eyes. Master Kwambala stiffened like a board. Every muscle in his body was tense to the point of shattering like over-tightened violin strings. His eyes bulged and sweat gushed from his skin. As the circle of elders watched, a shadow passed over Master Kwambala’s face, as if a bird had flown overhead.

  Unspeakable fear flashed in his eyes and his paralyzed muscles quivered with tension. Then, like a bowstring being snapped, he groaned and collapsed to his knees, panting and gasping. His fellow elders stared at him with surprise and horror, but more importantly, contempt. Everyone knew it was foolish, even dangerous, to question Master Ko. He was, after all, the oldest among them. He had been serving the Great Lord longer than any of them.

  A tall, stone-faced elder spoke with a Spanish accent. “What does our Great Lord command?”

  Master Ko kept his punishing glare fixed on Master Kwambala for a moment, then turned to address the towering elder.

  “We must first select a suitable candidate. Someone who does not know of the evil and corruption lurking within his own heart.”

  “But where can we find such a man?” Master Winston asked.

  “Leave that to me,” Master Ko answered. “It’s all quite simple, really. We are going to stage our own deposition. The Christians shall storm the Vatican and reclaim their Holy City in the name of their God, and the man who leads them shall be exalted to St. Peter’s throne.”

  “And what will that do to our Order?” the tiny woman asked. “The faithful will be devastated, and they will think that the Delusionals have prevailed over us.”

  “Perhaps at first. But do not forget, Mistress Jalevaya, that our Order does not need sermons and church services to flourish. Humanity exulting in its own carnal excesses is all the penance and supplication that our Master requires, and the Christian church will be too busy rallying around their new leader to pay much attention to their ‘heathen’ neighbors. And when the poison has been planted deeply, the Christian church shall wither and die from the cancer rooted within, which will be far deadlier than any external assault that we could muster.”

  Master Winston exhaled and hung his head. “Is this truly our Great Lord’s command, Master Ko?”

  The old man raised his chin and peered at Master Winston. “It is. It was delivered to me by the Dark Mistress herself.”

  Master Winston glanced around the table at the circle of elders. “Are we all in agreement?”

  Every head, including Master Kwambala’s, nodded slowly.

  Master Ko closed his eyes and began to chant in a chilling, alien tongue. The other members of the circle joined him, and the haunting sounds drifted towards the once-glorious ceiling of the Sistine Chapel, where the Great Dragon now gazed down.

  Its eyes glowed red.

  ****

  Patric could feel his voice choking in his throat, but there was no way he was going to start crying in front of her. He valiantly fought the onslaught of emotions and commanded the drugs racing through his veins to slow down enough for him to get a grip on his thoughts. Maybe coming to a brothel wasn't the best idea...

  “What was her name?” the woman asked as her fingers lazily brushed through Patric’s sweat-soaked hair.

  “Natasha,” Patric said, feeling the softness of the woman’s thighs against his cheek. His hand stroked her lower leg, noticing its softness. Just like Natasha's...

  Patric found his brain faltering again, and another surge of tears rose in his eyes like a swelling tide.

  “Natasha…” the woman repeated. Her whiskey voice was low and soothing, but Patric cringed as she spoke that name.

  “She was a fool to turn her back on a prize like you,” she said.

  Patric rolled over and looked up at her. “You mean that?”

  The woman’s face beamed, though her eyes remained glassy and unfocused. “Of course! Look at you. Catch of the week, you are. Especially in this day and age. Hard to believe there are any decent men left.”

  Patric turned over again and hugged the woman’s knees. “I gave up everything for her. My home, my job, my friends, my life. I even got my brother – "

  He stopped.

  The woman continued running her fingers through Patric’s hair. “What about your brother?” she asked carelessly.

  Patric’s eyes darkened.

  “Nothing.”

  The woman immediately sensed the change in his mood.

  “I have an idea,” she said, changing her voice from husky to silky with ease.

  “What?” Patric asked with a sullen tone.

  “What color is Natasha’s hair?”

  Patric frowned. “Blonde.”

  The woman leaned across the bed and yanked open a dresser drawer. A tangled profusion of human hair jutted out, and for a moment, Patric felt disgusted. The woman pulled out a wig made of wavy blonde hair and dumped it on her head.

  Patric frowned again as he realized what she was trying to do. “Hey, look, I don’t need you to -"

  The woman whisked a few stray locks away from her forehead and gazed at Patric with fetching eyes. He couldn't help but stare back. She was at least ten years older and far less pretty than Natasha, but she knew how to stoke the fires of his imagination, and for a moment, he could imagine that it really was Natasha sitting in front of him, coiled like a viper ready to strike.

  “If I were Natasha,” the woman cooed, slinking towards Patric like a cat, “what would you do to me?”

  Patric’s heart was thundering, and he felt the black sting of anger mixing with his arousal. A fire ignited in his soul and he glared at the woman with blazing eyes.

  “I would punish her.”

  The woman’s face flushed and she smiled mockingly.

  “Oh you would, would you?”

  “Yes, I would. I would punish her for everything she put me through, for everything I lost.”

  He clenched his fists, and the woman’s arrogant expression melted away. She looked timid, even frightened, and her fear inflamed his ego. She gazed up at him like a field mouse cowering beneath a swooping hawk.

  “You should punish me,” she purred, her voice soft and meek. “I did a bad thing. I’m a bad girl.”

  Patric loomed over her
like a mountain.

  “Yes, you are.”

  The door burst open and the woman yelped, rolling across the bed and covering herself with a sheet. Patric yanked on his boxer shorts as an unshaven, soot-stained man scowled into the room. His shifty eyes darted back and forth like a bloodthirsty predator. He had obviously been drinking, and, from the looks of his dirty, tattered clothing, he had also been enjoying the looting and arson.

  Patric remained still as the man snorted like a wild boar and continued glancing across the room, as if he were searching for something. His eyes finally descended upon the woman huddled at the far end of the bed. His dry, meaty lips curled in a hungry sneer, and he took a step forward.

  “Stay back, Raoul!” the woman shouted.

  The man stopped immediately. He looked stunned and a bit confused. Then his face darkened again.

  “Don’t tell me what to do, whore!” he snarled as he took another step forward.

  Two women wearing robes and heavy make-up dashed into the room and seized the man by his bulging arms.

  “Monsieur, please!” one said, “Anabella is with a client now. You must wait!”

  Raoul backhanded her and flung the other woman off of him as if he were shooing away a mosquito. The women fell to the floor and Raoul took another staggering step towards the bed.

  “You’re mine, remember baby?” he slurred, his eyes murky and unfocused. “You said so yourself.”

  Anabella clenched the sheets to her chin and her face twisted with hate. “That was a lie. You are a dog, nothing more!”

  Raoul flinched, and he bared his teeth, just like the dog that Anabella said he was.

  Patric stepped off of the bed and put his hand on Raoul’s chest. “That’s enough, my friend. You need to go somewhere else.”

  Raoul turned his eyes from Anabella to the young, dark-haired man standing before him in his underwear. He jutted out his bristly chin, then wrapped his greasy hand around Patric’s face and tossed him aside. Patric crashed into a bookshelf and several books fell on top of him. He leaped to his feet, seized a particularly heavy volume from the floor, and launched himself at the intruder.

  Snarling with rage, he brought The Complete Illustrated History of Parisian Architecture down on Raoul’s head. The three women screamed. Raoul slumped forward, his chin landing on the mattress. He bounced up again and tumbled onto the floor, groaning and shielding his eyes from the glare of the bedside lamp.

  Patric stood over him, his chest heaving. “You need to leave. Right now.”

  Raoul squinted as he hoisted himself into a sitting position. Then he stopped, holding his mouth open at a funny angle. A trickle of blood spilled from his lower lip onto his dirty denim jacket. He touched his mouth gingerly, then looked at the blood staining his fingertips.

  Raoul’s eyes suddenly became clear as crystal. With a savage growl, he hurled himself at Patric’s legs. Patric was caught by surprise and the two men fell to the floor in a heap. Patric’s head snapped against the wooden floor and the world burst into stars. His vision cleared quickly and he saw Raoul’s frightfully ugly face and his bloody mouth hovering above him.

  “You need to learn some manners, voyou,” Raoul snarled, reaching down for Patric’s neck. His weight was enormous, crushing him against the floor.

  As soon as Raoul’s grimy fingers touched his neck, something snapped inside of Patric, something deep inside him.

  Tourec.

  Natasha.

  Satan.

  A demonic roar burst out of Patric’s throat, and he hurled Raoul off of his chest as if he were made of paper. Raoul crumpled against the wall, stunned by Patric’s fury.

  Sweat poured down his forehead into his burning eyes as Patric rose to his feet and seized Raoul by the collar. He raised his fist high above his head and brought it down against the side of the other man’s face. A torrent of blood spurted from Raoul’s mouth, along with two teeth. Patric’s knuckles ripped open but he didn’t feel a thing.

  The frightened women gazed in horror as Patric pummeled Raoul again and again. The large man was soon unconscious, but Patric’s blows continued to rain down. Raoul’s face was gushing blood and purple bruises covered every part of his face that his bristly beard did not.

  Patric’s face was a mask of rage and hate as he tightened his grip on Tourec’s collar. He felt nothing except a dull, jarring thud every time his fist smashed into his brother’s face. Tourec was out cold, but Patric didn’t care.

  He’s the reason for all of this mess. It’s all his fault...

  Patric didn’t feel the hot tears streaming down his face until one of them landed on his arm. When the droplet came into contact with his skin, he flinched, then blinked rapidly, as if waking from a turbulent dream.

  He looked down at the man he had beaten senseless. It wasn’t Tourec. He stared at the man’s bloody, battered face, then at his own hand. The knuckles were entirely stripped bare and streams of blood seeped between his fingers.

  He turned slowly and saw the women weeping on the floor. Anabella trembled on the bed. Patric saw fear in their eyes, but strangely, he also saw sympathy. Sympathy for the poor wretch who lay groaning on the bloodstained wooden floor.

  Patric looked down at him, and like a sinkhole opening in his heart, he felt it too.

  Sympathy.

  Why?

  Patric blinked away his tears and wiped his nose with his bloody hand, leaving a red smear across his face. He gingerly stepped around the women on the floor and gathered his clothes, which were piled in a heap on a chair next to the bed. He turned to leave, then stopped. Digging his hand into his crumpled trousers, he fished out a few bills and placed them on a small table.

  He locked eyes with Anabella, and despite his monstrous display, a small part of him hoped for some expression of gratitude. He saw only contempt in her eyes. His gaze fell to the floor, and he ducked out of the room like a child expelled from school. He dressed in the narrow, dingy hallway, then stumbled past a handful of empty rooms until he reached a beaded curtain hanging in front of the door to the outside. The beads clacked happily as he brushed past them and opened the door.

  He stepped out onto the slick sidewalk that had just been sprinkled with a hesitant rain shower. The distant sounds of sirens fluttered over the square, achingly bland buildings in Le Marais. He was some distance away from the burning church and the center of the madness, but he could still see trails of smoke stretching towards the dismal sky.

  Most of the shops and restaurants on this street were closed. It had been at least a full day since the Voice was slaughtered in front of the world, and the entire city was brimming with rage. Patric could feel it in the sharp wind that blustered down the cheerless stone street, stirring up vagrant pieces of paper that lay scattered about.

  Patric started at the desolate storefronts for a moment, then his eyes dropped to his bloody hands. He didn’t recognize himself back there, mercilessly pummeling that man whose only crime was rudeness...

  He spat onto the ground and looked around again. He needed to leave. He didn’t know where or how, but he needed to get out this city.

  Now.

  As he trotted down the sidewalk, he looked up at the overcast sky. He prayed, but not to Tourec’s God.

  Damn you, Satan. Damn you and your lies and tricks and double-talk. You want to destroy the world, fine. But I won’t be a part of it. My life is mine and no one else’s.

  The wind rustled through the dry, cracked leaves on the trees that lined the sidewalk, and Patric felt someone laughing in his soul. He recognized the voice, but he knew it wasn’t his own.

  Finally, now you understand...

  CHAPTER 3

  Marseille, France

  “Sir?”

  President Nicholas Merdans rubbed his temples in a slow, circular motion. His eyes were clamped shut.

  “Sir?”

  The headache wasn’t going anywhere, he knew that. He had a sickening feeling that he wasn’t going to feel he
althy and refreshed for a long time to come.

  “Sir!”

  “What?” he barked.

  Madeleine pursed her lips and folded her arms, looking down at her boss like a mother scolding her child.

  “The media is waiting, Mr. President. You need to say something to them.”

  Merdans groaned and opened his eyes, staring at the gleaming wood surface of the presidential desk.

  “I know, I know,” he grumbled, yanking his hands away from his temples in exasperation. “But what can I say? What do they want to hear?”

  Madeleine gestured towards the door. “I can ask Secretary DeJourdain and her writing team to come down to – "

  “No,” Merdans said with an impatient wave of his hand. “I’m not going to spin this or weave a tapestry of glossy sound bites to be dissected and scrutinized.”

  “Well, sir, you are the president of France. Everything you say is dissected and scrutinized.”

  Merdans heaved another groan. “You’re right. But this is different. Damn that woman!”

  Madeleine jumped at his sudden outburst. The despair and resignation that had wilted his face was instantly replaced by hatred and anger. He rose to his feet, clenching his teeth.

  “Sir?” Madeleine asked cautiously. “Are you all right?”

  Merdans glowered at her. He pointed a finger right at her face. “You know what? I’m tired of being pushed around. I laid down before, did exactly as she asked, went along with her devious plans, and look where it got us. Maybe it’s what she wanted, but not me. This is my country! I don’t care what she says!”

  Madeleine knit her brow and peered at her boss. “Sir, what are you talking about?”

  Merdans didn’t hear her. He rounded the corner of the desk and marched boldly out of the presidential office, leaving Madeleine alone with her confusion.

  Out in the hall, Merdans found himself immediately flanked by a platoon of secretaries, lawyers, bodyguards, and other anonymous suits. He paid no attention to them as he strode down the maze of hallways. The streams of words that gushed from their mouths fell on deaf ears, and as he neared the press room, the noise and chatter began to die down.