by Mark Carver
An interesting reversal of roles…
Christine assumed the same no-nonsense stance as her father, and the family resemblance was more apparent than ever. She didn’t say anything.
Patric waited for several moments, then leaned forward, as if she had spoken too quietly.
“Well, what do you want to say?”
Christine raised her chin and looked down at him, then exhaled, letting her shoulders relax. “You know, there were so many things I wanted to say to you, to all of those men. Now that I have my chance, I don’t really want to say anything.”
Patric looked up at the ceiling in exasperation. “But you just told your father that you wanted to speak to – "
She stepped forward out of the blinding cone of light, into the soft shadows of the room. Instantly, her fierceness faded, and Patric saw that fragile girl again, the girl who had willingly ascended the cold marble steps to the altar, to surrender herself to the Church of Satan…
A consecration service, witnessed by all members of the congregation. Patric stood by the altar, one of six black-robed young men, all panting with excitement, eager to fulfill their solemn duty to their church. As she was led to the altar by the priestess, Patric and the others watched her as wolves watch a sheep. She cast a helpless glance over her shoulder, her eyes sparkling with fear. Patric’s heart felt a prick of compassion, and doubt began to seep into his mind.
Then the priestess wrenched the white robe from Christine’s body, and the audience gasped. Patric, too, was stunned by her beauty, and the flames of lust quickly ignited, burning away any tenderness he felt. She trembled as the priestess lay her down upon the altar, and the stone-faced priest scattered incense over her naked body. Patric and his five companions were chomping at the bit like racehorses. He didn’t hear the priest’s incantations, he didn’t see the tears fall down the side of Christine’s face. He was a ravenous beast, seething with hunger…
Christine took another step forward, and Patric’s mind was yanked back into the present moment. He stared up at her, and though she still had that same delicate, fearful expression, her eyes burned.
As she drew closer to him, Patric felt anxiety crawling through his skin. He had absolutely no idea what she wanted to do or say, and the tension was gnawing at his nerves. When she was only one step away from him, she stopped and knelt down.
She looked straight into his eyes and said, “I want to thank you.”
The room was so quiet, Patric could hear the blood rushing through his arteries.
“W-what?” he stammered.
“I want to thank you. For helping me see the darkness that I was heading towards, and for spinning me around and throwing me in the other direction. Towards the light.”
That irritating obstacle materialized again in Patric’s throat. He felt the words bottle-necking behind his mouth like a traffic jam. Finally, with incredible effort, he managed to sputter, “Why on earth would you thank me for that?”
Christine rose to her feet. “I was young. Foolish. I wanted to rebel against my father, against his God, against all the rules and laws that kept our world in a religious prison. I joined the Church of Satan, as many did, simply because it seemed like the ‘cool’ thing to do.”
She paused and looked down at her shoes.
“I had no idea how serious the commitment was. After the consecration service, I ran away from the church. I don't think you would have noticed, but that was my last night as a member of the congregation. I never went back there. I ran back home, to my father, crying my eyes out, begging his forgiveness.”
Her cold eyes fixed their gaze on Patric, and her voice quivered with restrained anger.
“I never told him who all of you were. I didn’t even know your names. For years, I kept that memory buried, locked far, far away, somewhere I never wanted to visit again. Then I saw your picture on my father’s computer. He had taken it after he found you in Paris.”
She swallowed painfully, and her voice began to break. “When I saw your face, all of it came back to me. My father saw me crying, and I told him who you were. I’ve never seen him so angry. I think if he knew when he had you tied up in that chair, he would have killed you.”
Does he still want to kill me? Patric wondered, but he kept his mouth shut.
Christine sniffed back her tears, trying to regain her composure. “He has calmed down quite a bit since then, but he is still very, very angry. So am I. But we have the power to forgive. That is something that your god can never teach you.”
“I have no god,” Patric muttered under his breath.
Christine stepped back, studying him. “My father thought as much. Though he doesn’t believe you.”
Patric looked at her, trying to read her expression.
“Listen, Christine, I am sorry for what happened. For what I did. I didn’t mean to hurt you. It was just…you know, in that place….”
He couldn’t finish his thought. There was no way to justifying violating a seventeen-year-old girl on a Satanic altar in front of hundreds of witnesses. That was just sick.
Evil.
At that moment, Claude burst through the door and stormed towards him like a grizzly bear. Patric instinctively winced, bracing for a punch to the face.
Claude didn’t strike him. He just hovered over Patric like a storm cloud.
“Did she tell you?”
Patric nodded weakly.
Claude folded his arms. “Good. You should thank God that I didn’t know when I had you the first time, because I would be wearing your teeth as a necklace right now. But the fact remains that you and your pig brethren violated my daughter, and since you’re the only one here to represent your little gang, you are going to be the one to pay the price.”
Patric winced again. “What price?”
Claude moved next to Christine and put a protective arm around her. “Tourec’s body has been identified by the Paris police. They are going to announce it to the world in the morning. They also know that you are his brother, and they are looking everywhere for you.”
Patric recalled seeing the police cars speeding towards the temple just after Christine pulled him away.
“But…but I’m innocent. I had nothing to do with the Voice’s murder.”
“It doesn’t matter. You are the closest kin to the perpetrator of the crime of the century. They are going to throw you to the wolves. The public likes live meat for a spectacle of judgment, and Tourec’s already dead. Even if you managed to convince everyone that you are indeed innocent, what kind of life could you lead? You would be ostracized, a marked man everywhere you went. Believe me, it would be better for you to be dead, like Tourec.”
Patric felt anger rising with his fear. “You don’t scare me!”
With a roar, Claude leaped towards Patric, a massive fist poised above his head, ready to crash down.
“Papa, don’t!”
Claude’s fist quivered in the air, like a piece of steel caught between two magnets. Patric cracked his eyes open and looked at Christine. Genuine fear was written on her face. Claude remained frozen for a moment, then lowered his fist.
Patric’s heart thundered in his chest. Sweat trickled down his face and into the corners of his mouth.
“What is my other option?” he asked breathlessly, keeping his eyes fixed on Christine.
Claude took a couple of deep breaths, then straightened his uniform. “You are going to help us by revealing yourself to the world.”
“Wait, you just said – !”
Claude held up his hand. “We want you to make a public statement on video that we will post on the internet. No one will know where you are.”
Patric mulled his words for a moment. “So you’re saying that unless I help you, you’ll throw me out into the streets, even though you know that I had nothing to do with what happened?”
Claude nodded. Then he wagged his index finger knowingly.
“Of course, we both know that you had something to do with what happened. Otherwis
e you wouldn’t have been in that vault, lying next to your brother, the assassin.”
Patric met Claude’s icy glare for a moment, then his eyes fell away. Claude inhaled a patient breath, knowing that Patric wasn’t going to reveal the truth of that night. The details were irrelevant, anyway.
“But aren’t you Del…aren’t you Christians?” Patric pleaded, knowing he sounded pathetic. “If you leave me out in the cold, you know what will happen to me. How can you live with that on your conscience?”
Claude and Christine stared at him with utterly cold expressions. Patric looked at their faces, hoping for the smallest spark of compassion.
Nothing.
“I live with much worse on my conscience, Mr. Bourdon,” Claude declared. “And frankly, the way I see it, you would be getting exactly what you deserve.”
Patric gulped. He looked around, as if searching for a way out of this dilemma. His mind raced frantically for a few moments, processing the options laid out for him.
He was innocent, that much he knew. Convincing the world of it was another matter. He was certain that witnesses or, more likely, surveillance cameras would place him at Paris, and simply being in the same city as his murdering brother would be more than enough to convince a seething public hungry for blood.
Of course, he could run. But how far would he get? It was a ridiculous idea, made even more impossible by the razor-alert security forces swarming the streets. The continent had virtually become a police state, and Patric knew he would be spotted before he could even board a train.
So what was his other option? Stay here with these psychotic zealots and help them wage war against the Church of Satan? He didn’t even know how useful he could be to them. As Claude knew well, Patric would be useless in a combat situation, though somehow he knew that wasn’t what they were planning for him.
He didn’t know anything about Claude and the operation he was running, but it seemed to be strict, disciplined, and most importantly, invisible. And as much as Patric hated to admit it, that was a virtue that he was in sore need of at the moment.
With a sigh, he looked down at his wrists. He felt as if they were strapped tightly to the chair.
He knew this was going to be the biggest mistake of his life.
“Okay. I’ll do whatever you want.”
Claude smiled stiffly.
“Wonderful.”
He extended his hand, and Patric took it after a moment’s hesitation.
“Do not feel like you are our prisoner, Patric. I know you are confused and afraid, but believe me when I say that our only goal is a better world. A world of light, not of darkness.”
Patric released Claude’s hand and rose to his feet. “Yeah, fine, whatever. So what happens now?”
Claude motioned towards the door like a waiter ushering a dinner guest. “Let’s have some wine.”
CHAPTER 6
“Authorities were shocked at the savagery and viciousness of the attack, which caught the victims completely by surprise. The suspects had fled just before police arrived at the temple, and local authorities are combing the area, searching for the perpetrators of this horrific crime.”
“Benito! Turn that off!”
Benito stared at the flickering television, ignoring or unaware of Lorenzo’s stern command. He was transfixed by the uncensored images of carnage flashing across the screen. It was so strange, watching the aftermath of something that he had been a part of, yet he was unable to reconcile those images of horror with the glorious experience of cleansing God’s holy church.
He didn’t hear the heavy footsteps stomp angrily into the room, and he jumped to his feet as Lorenzo switched off the television.
The large man scowled wordlessly down at the boy, daring him to raise an objection. Benito stared at him in silence for a moment, then lowered his head and slipped out of the room.
Donatella watched him sulk past, and a heaviness weighed on her heart. She, too, was furious at the boy, though she did not believe he had acted out of wickedness.
But how could one be so deceived to think that such a terrible crime could be righteous?
She shook her head, resigning herself to the fact that this world is full of mysteries that she would never understand, and she finished bundling the food into the basket. Lorenzo entered the kitchen and placed his hand on her shoulder.
“Is he going to be all right?” Donatella asked, her voice laced with worry.
Lorenzo stared at the door through which Benito had disappeared. “I don’t know. I don’t know anything anymore.”
“Do you think we’ll see them again?”
The others had fled almost immediately after Benito’s return, fearing for their lives. No one thought ill of them. Everyone knew that survival was the priority now.
Lorenzo paused for a moment. “I hope so. They knew it would be easier splitting up rather than traveling as one large group. We’ll just have to entrust their safety into God’s hands, just like ours.”
Donatella nodded and turned away. Lorenzo frowned as he saw her shoulders trembling. He embraced her gently.
“It’s all right. We’re going to be fine.”
She sniffed and nodded again “Well, that’s the last of the food. Should be enough for a few weeks.”
She looked up suddenly. “Where’s Father DeMarco?”
They found the priest outside, sitting on an ancient tree stump beside the chicken coop. His back was turned to them, and he seemed to be squeezing his head with his hands.
Lorenzo approached him cautiously.
“Father?”
The priest whirled around, his eyes blind with tears of pain. Donatella gasped and rushed forward.
“Oh my…! Father, what’s wrong?”
Father DeMarco clenched his eyes shut and gritted his teeth. “The headaches…they’re getting worse. I started getting dizzy about half an hour ago, and I had to sit down…”
Donatella looked up at Lorenzo, her plump face lined with anxiety. Lorenzo’s stern expression spoke exactly what was on his mind.
We need to go. Now.
“Father,” Donatella said softly, turning back to the priest, “do you think you can travel? It’s not safe for us here, and we need to get on the road as soon as we can. They’re going to come looking for Benito…”
At the mention of the boy’s name, Father DeMarco suddenly sat up straight. “Benito…”
He whipped his head around, looking straight at Donatella. He seized her shoulders. “Where is he?”
Donatella instinctively tightened her muscles, surprised by the priest’s outburst.
“Well, he…he stepped out of the house just a minute ago.”
She craned her neck, searching the bleak landscape. She turned back to Father DeMarco.
“Didn’t you see him? He must have walked right past you. I thought he was out here with the car.”
Father DeMarco shook his head. “I didn’t see him. I didn’t see anything.”
Something was wrong. Fear scratched at his soul.
“You and Lorenzo get everything in the car,” he said to Donatella. “I’ll go find Benito.”
“Are you sure you’re all right?” Lorenzo asked.
Father DeMarco rose to his feet and drew himself to his full height. “Go. There’s no time to argue. Get everything ready. I’ll be back soon.”
Lorenzo and Donatella exchanged nervous glances, then obeyed the priest’s order and headed back into the house. Father DeMarco closed his eyes. His lips moved in silent prayer for a moment, then he looked up. In the deepening twilight, he saw skeleton shapes of leafless trees standing sentry on the small hill that rose up behind the house.
He could feel the presence as clearly as if he could see it with his eyes. He glanced around, praying for guidance. Something pulled him towards the left side of the hills. Wrapping his coat tight around his body, he started walking, grimacing as each step sent crackling electric pain through his skull.
About ten minutes l
ater, he stood at the crest of the largest hill. He looked up and gasped.
He saw Benito, standing beneath the sprawling oak. A radiant figure in a brilliant white dress stood next to him. They seemed to be talking.
Father DeMarco squinted his eyes, trying to discern the mysterious figure’s glowing features. An alarm was screaming in his soul, and he instantly felt that Benito was in grave danger. The wind blustered around him as he cautiously made his way down the hill and started trudging up the second hill towards the great oak tree.
As he drew nearer, he could see Benito’s face illuminated by the creature’s radiant light. He looked entranced, even peaceful. The mysterious being stood with its back towards the priest, and he couldn’t see its face. He scrambled up the hill, calling out to Benito. The young man didn’t move.
“Benito!” he panted. “In God’s name, what are you doing?”
The figure in white suddenly whirled around, and Father DeMarco stopped dead in his tracks. For the briefest moment, he saw a woman’s face, cold and strikingly beautiful. The next moment, the face transformed into a hideous demonic mask. The creature opened its mouth, revealing its rotten, razor-sharp teeth, and its eyes were the color of the blackest night. With an agonizing screech, the monster raised its arms and vanished in a swirl of light and smoke.
Father DeMarco fell upon the dying grass, his heart frozen with shock.
“God have mercy…” he breathed.
He looked up at Benito. The boy stood as motionless as a tombstone.
“Benito!” he cried out, scurrying to his feet. “Benito!”
The young man blinked as if waking from a dream. His eyes focused on the priest’s face, and he smiled drowsily.
“Did you see it, Father? Did you see the angel?”
Father DeMarco’s breath turned to ice in his lungs. For a moment, he couldn’t move or speak. He reached out a trembling hand and touched the young man’s arm.
“Benito…” he whispered, his voice trembling as if he were on the verge of tears. “My boy…we need to go now.”
Benito looked around, as if searching for a token left behind by his otherworldly companion. He nodded to the priest, and the two of them walked down the hill in silence.