by Mark Carver
He whirled around, gazing fiercely at the man groveling on the ground.
“How strong is your faith, my friend?”
****
Patric’s eyes snapped open. He didn’t know long he had been asleep. He jerked his arms up, as if he had been expecting them to be bound with chains. Instead, his bandaged hands flew up and collided with his face. Scorching pain seared through his arms and he cried out in agony.
Sophia flew to his side like a bird, her face tight with concern. “Are you all right, Signore Bourdon?”
Patric blinked away droplets of sweat that trickled into his eyes as he stared up at the ceiling. Before he could control himself, tears began to flow down the side of his face and were absorbed into the bedsheets.
He remembered the relief, the joy, at that moment in the square when he realized that he was going to live, that he had been saved from an agonizing death by mere moments. But now that joy was gone. Despite the presence of Sophia by his bedside, he had never felt so alone in his entire life.
What did he have now? His life with Natasha and their unborn child had been a lie. His half-brother, the fanatical assassin, was dead. So was Christine, and if she wasn’t, she probably wished she was. He had no family, no friends, and no god.
Perhaps it would have been better for him to have burned upon that cross in St. Nero’s Square…
“Patric.”
He sniffed back his tears and opened his eyes. He turned towards the voice and his heart flooded with warmth.
“Father!”
Father DeMarco smiled and his eyes sparkled with tears. He knelt down and gently embraced him.
“How…how are you here, Father?” Patric asked, gingerly hoisting himself into a sitting position. Sophia’s face clouded with concern but she did not try and stop him.
Father DeMarco clasped his hands in front of him and exhaled slowly. “It truly is a miracle, Patric. God’s hand was upon us – you especially.”
He paused and a shadow passed over his eyes. “When the fighting began, I thought we were finished. As I held you in my arms, you slipped into unconsciousness. You had lost so much blood but I was too weak, in my body and in my spirit, to help you. I expected a death blow at any moment. I prayed for one. I no longer wished to live in this world that God had abandoned.”
The priest took a deep breath and glanced at Sophia. “And then…I saw an angel. This wonderful young lady came running through the battlefield with her father, who was not as beautiful, but was no less of an angel.”
Sophia smiled and Father DeMarco placed a gentle hand on her shoulder. “I don’t know how we made it through the chaos. The blood, the screaming. Oh God, how could Your children commit such atrocities?”
The priest turned his face towards heaven and squeezed his eyes shut to keep the tears from spilling down his cheeks. His whole body trembled and his fists were clenched. Sophia and Patric watched him fearfully, afraid that he might collapse in anguish.
But the moment passed, and Father DeMarco looked at them. “I cannot say why, but we were spared, Patric. You and I. It is not a coincidence that this child and her father found us.”
“Why not?” Patric asked.
Father DeMarco looked at the girl. “Because this brave young woman helped me find my way to you.”
“You mean you met her before she saved us?”
Father DeMarco nodded. “This is how I know now that God has not abandoned us.”
Patric couldn’t hide his irritated smirk. “I'm sorry Father, but meeting someone twice in one day does not mean that God – “
Father DeMarco held up his hand and Patric fell silent. “Patric, do you remember when you came to the monastery? When Tourec appeared on our doorstep just hours after you arrived?”
Patric nodded reluctantly. How he wished that he had never gone in search of his brother…
“Patric.” The priest’s voice was low and tense. “Do you know who helped him escape his pursuers so that he could come to us?”
There was a curious gleam in his eye. Patric frowned and shook his head. Father DeMarco looked at Sophia, then back to Patric.
Patric followed his eyes, trying to decipher his meaning. Then he gasped.
“You…” he stammered, fixing his eyes on Sophia, “you helped my brother?”
Sophia nodded. “He was wounded and broke into our pharmacy. I discovered him and brought him to my father. We fed him and dressed his wounds, but the police followed his trail and came to our home. My father gave him the keys to his car and he escaped just before they broke down our door. Luckily I had already cleaned up the food and the bandages, and I’m sure they suspected us of helping him escape but they had no proof. And since most of the police force was involved in the raid that killed Tourec’s friends, they couldn’t spare any men to interrogate us, so they threatened us, saying that we would be prosecuted if they found out that we had helped him, and left.
“When they had gone, my father took all of our money from the safe and told me to pack a bag. We left our home that night and came here to Rome. We thought we could disappear in a big city, but when we heard about what was happening in St. Peter’s Square… Well, my father has a kind heart, and he told me that it is a doctor’s duty to help those who are suffering, no matter what. When we arrived, everyone was fighting and killing each other. I was terrified and I begged my father to go, but he wouldn’t leave. It was as if he was drawn to you, the two of you, lying in the middle of the square. I was sure that we would be killed, but God protected us and helped us get you out of there in one piece. We brought you here, and you are both safe, thank God.”
Patric stared at the girl in disbelief. He wanted to reach out and strangle her, but his bandaged hands were useless for anything more than swatting.
“You helped my brother escape from the police?” he growled, clenching his teeth. “This…this nightmare that I’ve been through could have all been avoided if you had just looked the other way!”
Sophia was startled by Patric’s anger. “We saved your life!”
“I wouldn’t need saving if you and your father had just minded your own business!”
“Patric!”
Father DeMarco’s hand pressed firmly down in his shoulder and Patric felt himself surrender. He was puzzled by the priest’s face, though. He looked like he was in great pain.
“No one is at fault here,” he said sternly, looking at both of them. “Sophia and her father did what was right in the eyes of God. What Tourec did was his responsibility alone. The blame could just as easily rest with us, Patric. We also helped him.”
Patric glared at Sophia for a moment, then collapsed on the bed. “So what now?”
Sophia’s mouth was a grim line. “Ask my father,” she snapped as she left the room.
Father DeMarco watched her leave, then turned back to Patric. His eyes were darkened with frustration.
“These people saved our lives, Patric. We can’t judge them for what they have done in the past, and personally I can find no fault with their actions. I would have done the same thing in their position. No one can see the future, and we can never anticipate the repercussions of our actions.”
Patric exhaled through his nose. He knew the priest was right. He just needed someone, anyone, to blame.
Because you can’t blame yourself, can you?
He ignored his conscience and swung his legs over the edge of the bed.
“Fine,” he muttered, locking eyes with Father DeMarco. “I am grateful. So what do we do now?”
Father DeMarco looked out the dark window and sighed. “I don't know, Patric. There is no light in the world anymore.”
Patric was growing tired of the old man’s spiritual reflections. “I mean what is happening out there now? What will happen to us?”
“Who knows?” the priest said with a shrug. “The news says that they have the Vatican surrounded but they have not yet made any attempts to drive out that maniac and his followers. I don’t know w
hat’s stopping them, but I know there are forces at work beyond what we can see with our own eyes.”
Patric knew exactly what he meant. He squeezed his eyes shut, trying in vain to keep that demonic woman’s face out of his mind.
“You saw them too?” he asked quietly.
Father DeMarco nodded. “I don’t know why no one else recognized those monsters for what they truly were. Everyone thought they were seeing angels…”
He shuffled towards a bookshelf and absently examined the titles. Patric watched him for a few moments, then spoke like a guilty man confessing a crime.
“I can hear them, Father.”
The priest turned and looked at him keenly. “What do you mean?”
Patric’s mouth was dry. “I…I can hear demons,” he said. “When they’re close.”
Father DeMarco’s eyes narrowed. He walked back to Patric’s bedside and sat down on a creaky wooden chair.
“What do you hear?” he asked, leaning forward and peering at Patric as if he were examining a patient with a curious disease.
“It’s like a hum, a buzzing sound, inside my head. I guess I don’t really hear it; I feel it.”
“Have you always had this ability?”
“No. It only started a few weeks ago. There was…an incident at my temple. A woman was possessed, and I heard the noise all around me. Like a swarm of mosquitoes inside my head.”
“Hmm.” Father DeMarco leaned back in his chair and regarded Patric for several moments. “Interesting.”
Patric’s shoulders sagged. “Interesting? That’s all you can say? Father, I hear demons!”
“I believe you, Patric. Forgive me for my surprise. It’s just…”
His eyes glassed over as he looked deep into his memories.
Patric leaned forward. “What?”
The priest blinked, as if remembering where he was. “I don’t want to startle you, Patric. It’s just that this isn’t the first time I’ve heard about something like this.”
“What do you mean?”
As the priest opened his mouth to answer, Patric’s heart suddenly sank like a stone.
Don’t say it. Please don’t say it…
“Your brother,” Father DeMarco said.
Patric clenched his fists.
“In the days following the Manifestation,” the priest continued, oblivious to Patric’s reaction, “when Tourec was still a postulant at the monastery, he became agitated. We all were, of course, but with Tourec, it seemed to go deeper than for the rest of us. It was partly due to the…to the death of my daughter. Tourec went through a period of extreme anger, pain, and doubt, but he emerged with a greater spiritual sensitivity and awareness.”
Father DeMarco sighed and looked at his hands. “Perhaps too sensitive. In those terrible first days, there was chaos and destruction everywhere, even in our small town. We suddenly found ourselves fighting a battle in the community, but we had been used to a life of quiet meditation in the hills. We were not very active in ministry, I am ashamed to say. We kept to ourselves, and the town left us alone. But when hell came to our world, we had no choice but to go out amongst the people and fight them with God’s power. Most of the brethren were too afraid or inexperienced for such a task, but Tourec…he was a warrior. I wouldn’t have believed it if I hadn't seen it with my own eyes, but…”
“But what?” Patric demanded, barely concealing his irritation.
“Tourec…he knew which people carried demons. He would walk among the people in the street, then suddenly grab someone, throw them against a wall, and expel the demon from their body. And he was right, every time. Those days were full of fear and madness, and demons roamed the earth like locusts. Now I believe they are more selective and strategic in their attacks.”
Patric’s thoughts flickered back to that horrific moment in the Temple of the Dragon. He saw Tourec, his hand holding a gun pointed towards the Voice of Satan, his eyes staring back at him.
Soulless, coal-black eyes.
“So Tourec could hear demons too?” he asked quietly, his head bowed.
Father DeMarco shook his head. “I don’t think he could hear them, per se. But he had a special kind of sight that only God can give. We believe that everyone has a spiritual gift, Patric, and one of these gifts is the ability to drive out demons.”
It was obvious that the priest didn’t know about the driving force behind Tourec’s insane actions, and Patric had to choose his words carefully. “Do you think he still had this ability when he returned from Jerusalem?”
Father DeMarco shrugged. “I only spoke with him twice after his return: once, when he showed up at my church unexpectedly, and that night when he came to the monastery. He never said anything about it, and I didn’t think to ask him. But I knew the moment I saw him that something was different.”
“Different?”
“Yes. It was his eyes. They were harder, somehow. His eyes had never been soft, but in those early days, his eyes shone with zeal and passion. And faith. But when he came back…”
Father DeMarco held out his hands, as if he had just lost his words. “I don’t know what had replaced it, but the light was gone. Or, rather, it was a different kind of light. A harsh light. A light of anger and judgment, not of love. I don’t know how or when it happened, but the change was unmistakable. And we all know what the consequences were.”
Patric didn’t know what to say. The two men sat there, eyes lowered, painful silence yawning between them.
They jumped when Dr. Rosetta rushed into the room with surprising speed for a man of his size. His eyes were wide and his moustache trembled.
“What is it?” Father DeMarco asked, rising cautiously from his chair.
Dr. Rosetta looked at both men, then at his daughter who appeared beside him.
“Something has happened,” he said, his voice choked with terror.
CHAPTER TWO
Butterflies fluttered in the stomach of Lieutenant Vincenzo Paganini of the Polizi di Roma. No, not butterflies. Bats. Giant, frantic, homicidal bats intent on clawing their way through his stomach wall. He was grateful that he hadn’t eaten anything for several hours. There was no way he would have been able to keep it down.
Lieutenant Paganini did not want to be standing on the roof of a Special Forces van, shouting through a megaphone into the darkness until his face turned red. It was all he could do to keep from flinging himself down to the pavement and running until he collapsed from exhaustion. He still couldn’t believe what he had witnessed that afternoon. This had to be the end of the world. First Satan, and now a Christian freak who darkens the sun and stirs an entire mob into a bloodthirsty hurricane. They were inside the temple now, doing who knows what to who knows whom. As chief negotiator, it was his job to try and end this debacle peacefully.
Truth be told, he hoped they never came out.
Lieutenant Paganini didn’t really align himself with either side in this religious conflict. He supposed Satan was more real than God was, simply because he had seen him in his lifetime. The transformation that raced across the world was shocking to him, and even distasteful at times, but as long as public order was more or less maintained and he and his family were left alone, he didn’t really mind. God, the Devil, Caesar, Mussolini…they were just distant representations of power. Lieutenant Paganini was more concerned with the drug dealers and pimps lurking on the street corners.
But as fate would have it, his job and his position found him exposed in the middle of St. Nero’s Square, demanding that the fanatical mob inside the temple surrender before anyone else got hurt. Inwardly he cringed at the thought of an assault. Who knew what that freak was capable of? In addition to commanding the sun to vanish, the leader of the mob had made six armed men burst into flames without even touching them! And the Holy Mother herself, or some kind of angelic being, had descended from heaven in front of countless witnesses and blessed him.
This was not a man to be trifled with.
Sweat poured
down the lieutenant’s neck, despite the brisk wind blowing across the square. His mind was a flurry of doubts and questions as he continued bellowing threats into the megaphone.
What if the madman actually surrendered? The lieutenant knew he certainly wouldn’t be arresting him. He would order some of the underlings to take him into custody. But would they obey? He couldn’t see the men’s faces in the dark but he guessed they were just as frightened as he was.
In front of him, the Templum Satanam loomed like a giant sleeping beast. A beast that pulsed with terrifying power, a power that could erupt at any moment and blast every one of them into oblivion.
Lieutenant Paganini blinked away the rivers of sweat trickling into his eyes. He wished he knew who to pray to.
Movement. He gasped and dropped to his knees, straining his eyes to see more clearly.
The glare of the floodlights cast a pale, cadaver-like glow across the temple facade, and a massive door opened like a black mouth. The lieutenant could feel his heart pounding against his ribs. He should have been relieved, but he wasn’t.
He spoke into his shoulder-mounted radio, wincing at the sound of his wobbling voice. His men were probably ready to turn tail and run and it didn’t help that their superior was quaking in his boots. Swallowing his fear, he clambered down the ladder that was bolted to the side of the truck and planted his feet firmly on the pavement.
He couldn’t see them, but he knew numerous pairs of eyes were fixed on him.
Deep breath. Ignore the sirens and sounds of chaos crashing through the air like frightened birds. If order was to be restored, it had to happen here first. If he could bring some sort of resolution to this standoff, perhaps the rest of the city would ease back into calm.
The door to the temple stood open like a gateway to a black abyss. Then a figure emerged. A man wearing a dark robe and hood.
It took all of the lieutenant's courage to march forward instead of retreat behind the bulletproof truck. He kept his eyes glued to the approaching figure, a specter that seemed to glide instead of walk across the plaza. The lieutenant instinctively brushed his fingers against the Beretta holstered against his hip. He then realized with dismay that he was still clutching the megaphone.