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

by Mark Carver

  Father DeMarco had heard the story of how Julian had strode into the midst of a violent confrontation that had erupted in the square, planted explosives on the obelisk and destroyed the ancient monolith, killing several Christians and Satanists in the process. The man was clearly unique and possessed extraordinary power beyond any reason or scientific explanation. Why Satan had chosen him for this heinous scheme was not important. The priest turned around and looked at the brilliant facade rising behind him. It seemed to be carved from a single, gigantic stone.

  And it was ugly. Father DeMarco wrinkled his nose as another breeze brought the scent of smoke wafting across the square. The light and glory of St. Peter’s Basilica was gone. The grand building was more odious and profane than any he had ever seen. That demonic fiend and her blind puppet had poisoned the entire complex.

  He found himself praying words that he had never imagined he would pray.

  Oh God, destroy this wretched place…

  His eyes fell to the ground and he continued walking. As he neared the towering columns that circled the square, several searchlights suddenly blinded him. He squinted against the glare and raised his hands to cover his eyes.

  “Stop!” a gruff voice called out. “Identify yourself!”

  Father DeMarco did not stop. “I am Father DeMarco. I am coming out.”

  “Stop where you are! You cannot come out until you have been searched.”

  Father DeMarco kept walking towards the light. He could not see anything beyond the glare but he heard the stamp of heavy boots and orders being relayed.

  “This is your final warning!” the voice announced. “Stop or we will use force!”

  Father DeMarco quickened his pace. He stared in the light, defiant, fearless. A shot rang out, sending up sparks a few inches from his feet. He didn’t flinch and his steps didn’t falter.

  He had almost reached the perimeter of the square when another shot cracked through the air like a whip. He froze. Every nerve in his body went cold.

  Beyond the glare of the searchlight, he heard a sound, like a heavy sack of wheat falling to the ground and something metallic clattering across the stones. The air fell deathly still.

  He squinted in the harsh light, then took a cautious step forward. Nothing happened. He took another, then another. He passed between two colossal columns and reached the perimeter the police had set up around the square. He was met with terrified faces. Sprawled out on the stone beneath the searchlight was the body of a policeman, his weapon lying a few feet away. A black pool of blood slowly spread out from a hole in the dead man’s head.

  Father DeMarco swallowed in a futile attempt to lubricate his parched throat. He resisted the urge to glance behind him, to scan the rooftops for whomever had fired the shot. He didn’t know why Julian had spared his life, but he had the feeling he wouldn’t be extended the same courtesy twice.

  “I am Father Stefano Dmitri DeMarco,” he announced again, stepping up to the fence that barred his way. “Let me pass.”

  A man holding a megaphone pushed his way to the barricade. His face was creased with anger, terror, and confusion.

  “I am Police Chief Alonzo Petrano. We cannot allow you to leave until you have been searched.”

  Father DeMarco looked down at the corpse, drawing Chief Petrano’s eyes downward as well. The police chief licked his dry lips, then looked up at the priest again.

  “Help us, Father,” he said in a low, desperate voice. “He is making us look like fools out here. Why are you leaving? Are you not on his side?”

  The priest’s eyes flashed with fury. “No, I am not. I serve God, not the devil, and that man is a liar and a fraud.”

  “Then please help us,” the police chief begged. “Tell us anything that we can use to take him down. What are his defenses? How many are inside?”

  Father DeMarco stared at the man for a long moment, then placed his hands on the police barricade, as if threatening to throw it aside.

  “Let me pass.”

  The police chief looked dejected, then jerked his head towards two burly officers who rushed forward and moved the fence, making a loud scraping sound. With a curt nod to Chief Petrano, Father DeMarco passed through their ranks towards the anxious horde outside the square.

  As soon as he was through the police barrier, a swarm of people rushed forward and surrounded him. He cringed and drew back reflexively, but he found himself surrounded on all sides.

  Someone leaned close to his ear.

  “Don’t be afraid, Father! We are here to protect you.”

  Like a leaf tossed on the wind, Father DeMarco found himself rushed through the crowd, past clusters of people singing, chanting, shouting, and weeping. In the darkness, he couldn’t identify who was on whose side, and he didn’t know who was spiriting him away at that moment, but he knew he had no choice.

  All he could do was pray.

  PART III.

  “We must fight against the spirits, the spirits that swarm around us.”

  - Pope John Paul VI

  CHAPTER NINE

  Patric awoke with a start. He spun around like a top, eyes wide with panic. After a moment of terror, he relaxed.

  But only a little.

  The room was small, less than fifteen square meters. The furnishings were sparse – only a bed, desk, chair, nightstand, and bookshelf adorned the room. A tiny lavatory lay behind a flimsy wooden door, though Patric had only briefly peeked inside it. The ceiling was quite high, and three narrow arched windows allowed the dim morning light to filter into the room. Patric swallowed roughly, wincing at the sour taste that clung to the inside of his mouth. He grabbed a pitcher of water from the nightstand and poured a glass for himself, which he drained in three gulps.

  His heartbeat began to slow, though his muscles were still tense, as though he was preparing to escape at any moment. In fact, this thought took root and grew in his mind. He was a prisoner. He hadn’t been told as much, but he knew it in his heart. After Julian had escorted him to this room, he had locked the door behind him, leaving Patric alone with the shadows. The room seemed like a crypt, silent and musty. A faint aroma lingered in the air, but Patric couldn’t identify it.

  It had taken him hours to fall asleep. No matter how hard he tried, he could not stop his fitful mind from replaying the surreal events of that evening. Father DeMarco’s forlorn face haunted his thoughts, and he deeply regretted his decision to abandon the kind-hearted priest who had risked so much to help him.

  Being locked in this comfortable yet austere cage only deepened his regret.

  His mind rambled down a trail of “what ifs…” What if he had rejected Julian’s invitation and sided with Father DeMarco? Would Julian have withdrawn his healing power from Patric’s hands and crippled them once again? Would he have ordered both of them killed?

  The thing that baffled Patric most was Julian himself. The man seemed to sincerely believe that he was anointed by God. He wasn’t like the Voice of Satan in this respect; he didn’t openly acknowledge the dark power that commanded him, or even recognize that it was Satan and not God that pulled on his strings.

  Patric frowned in the darkness. How could they all be so blind? Julian, the clerics...men brought up in the church and educated in all things that exist beyond this world, and they didn’t even realize when they were in the presence of a strong and terrible demon.

  He must be mad. There was no other way to explain it. This man who called himself the second Christ was clearly a lunatic who had happened to find himself handpicked by the devil to poison the church from the inside.

  It was a brilliant scheme, Patric had to admit. And he wouldn't have any problem with it except that once the grand plan had run its course, the world would be under the rule of Satan once more. Patric had had quite enough of religions and their endless squabbles and self-serving wickedness. If there was any chance, he resolved to do whatever he could to bring this wicked empire crashing down.

  But first, he needed to find
out the truth about Natasha.

  His heart ached, as if an old wound that was just on the verge of healing had been ripped open again. He didn’t know why he still cared about her – she bore another man’s child and had abandoned him in the clammy undercroft of the Temple of the Dragon. The terror he had felt when she was taken, the love that drove him to betray his brother…she had thrown it away and surrendered herself into the clutches of that vile woman in black.

  But the old priest, the one that Father DeMarco allegedly assaulted, implied that it was possible for Patric to see her again. He knew in his heart what drove him. It was the same thing that drove him here, into the lion’s den.

  He had to know the truth.

  Frustration began to boil inside him, like magma churning beneath the surface, threatening to erupt. Judging from the feeble light outside, it was still quite early in the morning, but he was wide awake. And hungry.

  It was all Patric could do to keep from pounding on the doors and demanding to be let out. His mind was buzzing with questions, and he needed answers soon or he would go insane.

  He tried to calm himself by taking deep, slow breaths. He wasn’t regarded as an enemy. That much was certain. He wasn’t sure if his Satanic allegiances were known but his gut told him that he was perceived as a Christian believer, due to his relation to Tourec and his public crucifixion at the hands of the Satanists.

  Patric smirked mirthlessly. These people were so naive…

  He cursed himself for not being in the habit of wearing a watch. His stomach rumbled again, and he tried to calm it with another glass of water, but it didn’t work. He needed food.

  To hell with courtesy.

  He raised his fist, ready to pound on the door, when it opened and an unfamiliar face stared at him in surprise. Patric blinked, then quickly lowered his arm.

  The servant, a young woman, lifted a platter of food. It smelled delicious.

  “Your breakfast, Monsieur Bourdon,” she said in French. Her voice was emotionless, almost robotic.

  Patric took the platter, and the young woman gave a quick nod, then clasped her hands in a gesture of impatience. Patric’s shoulders slumped as he comprehended her meaning. He took a step back and the door closed quickly in his face, followed by the sound of a key turning in a lock.

  He looked down at the food in his hands. Orange juice, a cheese omelet, bacon, marmalade on toast.

  Just like Natasha used to make.

  He set the platter down on the nightstand and looked down at his trembling hands.

  Then he jerked his head up. That servant, the woman. She seemed…normal. Patric shook his head, as if something wasn’t functioning properly. No buzzing, no earaches, no chainsaws ripping through his skull. Not even the curious tickle that he had felt when the strange man appeared to escort the clergymen from the sanctuary last night.

  Patric didn’t know why, but he had expected this place to be crawling with demons. Perhaps it was; maybe they slept during the daytime...

  He pursed his lips, annoyed with himself. This wasn’t the time for guesses and suppositions. He would deal only in facts and make decisions based on truth alone. Emotions and intuition would only get him into more trouble.

  No one was going to help him. He was on his own, and there was no one he could count on but himself.

  Strangely, he felt it was better this way.

  He reassured himself with a nod of his head, then began devouring his breakfast. The plates were scraped clean in less than ten minutes, and Patric felt a momentary sense of satisfaction. It passed quickly, however, when he remembered that he was still locked in this tiny room and he had no idea when he would be let out, or even when he would get a visitor.

  Summoning his previous boldness, he strode towards the door as if it had insulted his mother. He balled his hand in a fist, taking a moment to savor the strength he had regained thanks to Julian’s black magic, and banged loudly on the door.

  “Open this door!” he shouted. “I demand to speak with the pope!”

  He waited. There was no response. He hammered on the door again.

  “Let me out! Let me out now!” A hint of fear and desperation crept into his voice but he didn’t care. He just wanted to get out of this functionally-furnished prison cell.

  “Let me out! Let me out!”

  The door suddenly flew open and Patric nearly slammed his fist into Master Ko’s face. The elder flinched but Patric was able to arrest his hand just inches from impact.

  “Monsieur Bourdon,” Master Ko said, a bit disconcerted with his brush with injury, “what is the matter?”

  The old man’s gentle tone made Patric flush with embarrassment, but he quickly reminded himself that he had been locked in a small room for an entire night with no explanation.

  “I refuse to be cooped up in here,” he said, squaring his shoulders and clenching his fists. He narrowed his eyes and stared at the old man. “You mentioned Natasha. Why?”

  Master Ko’s nostrils flared just a tiny bit but his face registered no other reaction. “Yes, I did. But this is not the time or place to discuss this.”

  “Then what am I doing here? Am I a prisoner?”

  “No, no, of course not.” Master Ko held up his hands in supplication. “You are our guest. But you must understand that these are…delicate days, and we are not able to be as transparent as we would like.”

  Patric sighed wearily. “But why am I here? I’m not a priest… I’m nobody. My half-brother has a notorious reputation but it has nothing to do with me.”

  “Nothing?” Master Ko raised one eyebrow as he looked down at Patric’s hands. Patric hid them behind his back.

  “That was a misunderstanding,” he offered weakly.

  “Indeed?” Master Ko's tone was almost mocking. He leaned forward and spoke in a whisper. “We both know there is more to your story than you admit, Monsieur Bourdon. And we both know you have certain…insights into what is happening here that the rest are not privy to.”

  He stepped back and moved his shoulders, as an arthritic would to loosen the inflamed joints. A sense of dread crawled over Patric’s skin and he hoped the old man didn’t notice the perspiration beading across his brow.

  Master Ko seemed to be deep in thought, but his eyes were focused squarely on Patric. After several long moments, he said, “Monsieur Rossa Monte does not know of this, but I want to make a deal with you. It concerns Natasha and her continued well-being.”

  Every muscle in Patric’s body jerked with an electric spasm. “If you’ve hurt her…”

  “Save your threats, young man. She is completely safe, and she will stay that way, as long as you do what I ask.”

  Fire raced through Patric’s nerves. He wanted to reach out and throttle this arrogant little man. It would be an interesting way to test the full strength of his restored hands…

  But he knew he wasn’t going to do anything. He felt helpless, like a bottle violently shaken but with no way to release the pressure. He met the elder’s gaze and clenched his teeth.

  “What do you want?”

  “Your silence,” Master Ko said simply. “I know that you can see things for what they really are, but you are to keep this information to yourself. This is going to be quite easy, since you are going to be confined for the majority of your time here.”

  Patric opened his mouth to protest but he held his tongue.

  “Why?” he asked after a pause.

  “That is not your concern. All you need to know is that as long as you play nice and go along with the show, Natasha will live. If you try to follow your foolhardy friend and disrupt what we have set in motion, she will die. And then you will die, only much, much slower.”

  “I want to see her.”

  “What?”

  “I’m not agreeing to anything until I see her. I want to see her now.”

  Master Ko regarded him with a curious look. “What if I simply threaten to kill you?”

  Patric stuck out his chest, as if inv
iting him to plunge a knife into his heart. “You would be doing me a favor.”

  The elder licked his lips. A playful glint flashed in his eyes. “All right, Monsieur Bourdon. I will take you to see Natasha. She’s here in the Vatican, as a matter of fact. But if you try anything, your short life will be a prologue to the hell that awaits you.”

  Patric said nothing. Master Ko glared at him for a moment, then turned on his heel. “Follow me.”

  Patric fell into step behind him. The elder led him through dark and empty corridors that were shielded from the awakening sunlight, and seemed to grow darker and more empty as they went on.

  “Father Shen?” Patric asked.

  “Yes?” the elder said, irritated.

  “How did you get that bruise on your head?”

  Master Ko whirled around, eyes blazing. Patric stepped back.

  Then, as quickly as the fire had ignited, it dissipated, and the elder’s face resumed its usual calm demeanor.

  “I was not paying attention when I came round a corner,” he said, as if he were making an excuse for a frayed hem on his robe. “One must be careful in this place…surprises can come out of nowhere.”

  Patric didn’t answer, though his eyes narrowed slightly. “I have a feeling the Vatican holds more surprises than any of us realize.”

  Master Ko smiled. “Perhaps. But after all, life isn’t fun without a little mystery, right?”

  With a sly glance, he turned back around and proceeded to shuffle down the cavernous corridor. Patric followed close behind, trying to remember the landmarks they passed.

  His face was set hard as stone, but his stomach was churning like the ocean in a hurricane.

  ****

  Christine yanked on the straps of her backpack, then looked up at Corporal Baker. He smiled a warm, gentle smile that reminded her of her father.

  “Are you ready for this?” he asked.

  She inhaled an unsteady breath and returned the smile. “We’ll see.”

  Corporal Baker patted her shoulder, then turned to his men. “You all know what to do?”