by Tal Bauer
“He’s the only person who’s even remotely cared in years. Who hasn’t looked at me like I’m…” He trailed off, trying to gesture to all of the ritual detritus surrounding them. “I wanted that once. Someone… someone like him.”
Alain slumped against the wall. His head hit stone. “I screwed up. And now I’ll have to push him away.” He closed his eyes and knocked back his head, once, twice. “I just don’t want to.”
Silence. Lotario slid off the desk, his shoes hitting the worn throw rug with a soft sigh. “Maybe you don’t have to.”
Alain groaned. “Not you too.”
“It’s been twelve years. When are you going to accept that you can’t do this forever?”
“What about you?” Alain glared at Lotario. “How long has it been for you?”
“Longer than your time. But I don’t get to choose my successor. One day the Vatican will replace me, and that’s if I live long enough to see retirement. After all this, I’ll be whisked off to my former monastery and I’ll never see humanity again.” Lotario looked away. Alain studied the lines of his face, the exhaustion hidden in his deep furrows, the lean planes of his cheeks hiding years of secrets and silence. “You have more of a future than I do, but you work so hard to ignore it.”
“What happened the last time I tried to have a life, Lotario?” His words turned cutting, barbed and filled with bitterness. “What happened the last time I wanted something for myself?”
“That wasn’t all you.” Lotario squinted, staring into the middle distance. His Adam’s apple rose and fell, a slow, heavy swallow. “We did what we had to do.”
“I made a vow that night.” Alain stalked forward, pressing into Lotario’s space. He stared Lotario down, all the long years of buried anger and loss pushing past the ironclad grip he had on his soul. “And I will not break it. Not if there’s any chance of someone getting hurt. Of losing everything. Not again.”
Closing his eyes, Lotario turned his face away. A muscle in his cheek twitched.
“Can we get back to business?” Alain asked. “We have a ghoul to catch.” He sidestepped Lotario, circled his desk, and grabbed an open file folder spread over his keyboard.
Just before midnight the night before, Angelo had called them out with reports coming in of a ghoul attacking tourists at the infamous Campo Dei Fiori. The Campo, a square in Rome’s tourist section of the capital, had for millennia been a meeting place for those with mischief, mayhem, or murder on their minds. By day, the Campo was an open-air market, a tourist trap, and a bustling hub of humanity. As night fell, the tourists and locals flocked for drugs, crime, and sex, and the ring of clubs surrounding the Campo and up and down the side streets pushed those hungers hard.
Like clockwork, shadowy forces appeared, feasting on humans flirting with their own dark natures.
Normally, it was hungry ghosts and wraiths and, every once in a while, a rogue vampire feeding on stragglers and drunks and horny bargoers stumbling into back alleys. Ghouls didn’t travel near humans, not unless they were trailing a vampire and scavenging off the fresh kill and the desiccated corpse. They stayed by graveyards and deep underground, hiding in the sewers and the tunnels and catacombs beneath Rome. A ghoul inside of Rome’s heart, in one of the most populated places of the capital, had to have been drawn there.
Lotario stayed quiet as Alain read over the notes they’d taken the night before. “Angelo responded, on callout from the polizia, to a distraught woman behind Club Mood, not far from the Campo. She was shrieking, saying she’d seen a monster eating a man. The polizia wrote her off as being high or intoxicated and they transported her to hospital. Angelo called us.”
“No sign of a body, but we did find a nasty pool of blood behind a refuse bin off one of the alleys behind the Campo,” Lotario said. “Fresh blood, too. Still warm. But not enough for it to have been a ghoul’s full meal.”
“And, ghoul tracks leading from the nearest sewer manhole to the alley. But we lost the trail underground.” Alain wiped at his temple, at the grime still stubbornly fixed to his skin.
“Why would a ghoul be this far inside Rome?” Lotario rolled his neck, cracking joints with a sigh. “What would bring it out of the tunnels?”
“Where there are ghouls, there are vampires. Are we sure the blood pool didn’t come from a vampire’s kill?”
Lotario shook his head. “Vampires wouldn’t take the body. A ghoul would devour the corpse and leave behind a pile of mess and filth. That’s why so many ghoul kills are unsolved missing persons cases.” He jerked his chin to the file in Alain’s hand. “Almost like what we have here.”
“Ghouls will follow behind a vampire and eat their kill.” Alain busied himself with straightening the papers on his desk, setting them at perfect right angles. He wouldn’t meet Lotario’s gaze. “Could we be dealing with vampires?”
“After all this time?” Lotario looked away. “I didn’t sense any vampiric energy in the blood. I could have missed it. But vamp energy is very specific.” He frowned, staring at the extracted vampire fang on Alain’s shelf. “You know what I mean.”
“Like grave dirt is choking the back of your throat and your blood has turned to dust, and all you can see is fog.” It was like snakes slipping over skin, flypaper thin and drier than a desert. And ancient, as if all of time were pressing down, choking the breath out of a person. He closed his eyes. “It’s not something I think you’d miss.”
“Do we head out there tonight? Stake the Campo out?”
He smiled, sadly. “I have a football game to go to tonight. But yes, after.”
Lotario grinned. But, he so rarely looked happy, and his attempt at an honest smile fell short. He needed more practice.
Alain knew what Lotario wanted him to say. “I’m only going to go this one game. His first. And then—”
Sadness hung on Lotario’s words. “You really don’t have to do this.”
“I can’t risk losing everything again. This ends tonight.”
Chapter Eight
At least once a week, every member of the Swiss Guard was required to attend Mass at St. Anne’s chapel, the chapel built into the Vatican walls directly across from the guards’ barracks. Chaplain Weimers ran the chapel, ministered to the guardsmen, and served as their confessor. He also took roll, obsessively counting to make sure each of the guards maintained their attendance.
Cristoph attended once each week, in between his shifts and his practice and his—thankfully now complete—punishment details. Just off his shift at the Arch of the Bells, he slipped in for his devotions and Mass. He was early, and he sat in one of the pews at the back. He let his head fall forward, elbows balanced on his knees as if he was praying. His aching feet throbbed. He curled his toes inside his boots, trying to stretch.
Inside St. Anne’s, the white stone walls rose high with only narrow windows breaking up the cold interior. A small dome hovered over the chapel’s nave and a simple stained-glass panel glittered behind the altar. Worn wooden pews sat in rows, pushed slightly out of line by the weight of the men rising and kneeling throughout the day. Tattered Bibles peeked out of the pew racks, the original Latin Vulgate. A simple stand of votive candles sat beneath a painting of Saint Sebastian tied to a tree and pierced through the neck with an arrow. Saint Sebastian the Martyr, one of the patron saints of the Guard. They were supposed to pray on Psalm 118 while contemplating Saint Sebastian.
Sighing, he tugged one of the Bibles free and flipped to the Psalm. His eyes caught on the first line.
O give thanks to the LORD, for he is good;
his steadfast love endures forever!
He slammed the Bible shut, the air cracking with the force of the delicate pages smacking together. Eyes closed, he tried to breathe. Tried to calm his heart.
Tried to stop the flood of memories suddenly running wild in the darkness of his mind.
He exhaled, his breath shaking.
Behind the altar, tucked inside the vestment room where Chaplain Weim
ers readied for each Mass, the sound of silver crashed to the ground, shattering the stillness of the empty chapel. Cristoph straightened, his spine cracking, as raised voices bellowed from behind the altar.
“I’ve told you before! I don’t want your kind in here! Get out!” Weimers thick accent barked.
“I’m not here to cause trouble. I’m trying to talk to you about—”
“I don’t want to hear it!” Another crash, and Cristoph heard the sound of silver rattling and scraping over stone, as if it had been kicked. “You’re not welcome here!”
“You’d let one of your flock go? You’d let a man who needs your prayers be left to wither? You’d turn away a sheep, leave him for the wilds?”
“I will not let your darkness seep into this house of God!” Weimers burst from behind the nave, bustling half in his vestments toward the altar. He slammed down the chalice and the flute of wine.
Behind him, the lanky priest from Alain’s office stood, his eyes narrowed, one hand clutching the strap of a messenger bag slung over his shoulder. “Alain Autenburg—”
“Enough!” Weimers whirled around. He crossed himself, glaring at the priest, and clenched the altar with one hand, his knuckles going white. “Leave this house of God. Sergeant Autenburg’s soul—and your own—need more than I can give.” He trembled. “You would ruin me,” he whispered.
Cristoph stared, his mouth open, frozen in his pew.
The lean priest snorted. He pushed past Weimers, clapping him on the shoulder. “Always a pleasure seeing you again, Hauke,” the priest grunted. He thundered down the altar, and as he hit the center aisle, his eyes finally caught on Cristoph. A tiny hitch in his step was the only sign he’d noticed Cristoph at all.
The priest strode out of the chapel without a backward glance, pushing both wooden doors open and striding into the afternoon sunlight.
Weimers braced himself against the stone altar, whispering prayers as he crossed himself three times.
Slowly, Cristoph stood. He cleared his throat.
Weimers jumped. His panicked gaze finally settled on Cristoph, and the chaplain exhaled, grabbing his crucifix hanging around neck. “My son, you scared the Holy Ghost out of me.”
Cristoph tried to smile, quirking his lips. “I apologize.”
“Did… did you any of hear that?”
He nodded once.
“Listen to me, young man,” Weimers said, his voice shaking. “You must not associate with that man. Or with Sergeant Autenburg.”
“Alain is my mentor.”
Weimers made the sign of the cross over his chest again. “You must ask the commandant to reassign you. You must! Immediately!”
“Why? Sergeant Autenburg has been nothing but kind to me. And I don’t even know who that man is. Who is he?”
Weimers’ jowls shook as he clenched his jaw tight. His nostrils flared. “That man you saw,” he breathed, “is in league with the Devil. He and Sergeant Autenburg both.”
“He’s a priest…”
“He’s no Christian brother of mine.” Weimers spread his hands over the altar. He exhaled slowly. “Now, why don’t you come and help me with my Mass this afternoon?”
Shaking his head, Cristoph stumbled out of the pew, backing away. He had to run. He had to get out of there. Crumbling frescos glared down at him, the eyes of saints painted onto ancient stone scraping him raw. Beams of sunlight pierced the chapel like an archangel’s sword. He watched Weimers’ face fall as his back hit the door.
He scrambled behind him, pushing at the wood until he fell onto the cobblestone roads of the Vatican. He gasped, breathing in the exhaust of Rome, and stared up at the dome of St. Peter’s Basilica.
* * *
He didn’t have another guard shift until the next day. He could have fled, and part of him screamed to run, to tear out of the Vatican and into Rome and lose himself in the crowds and the frenetic energy of the city. Park himself in a bar and drink until the shrieking in his mind stopped and the dark crack in his soul was covered up again with hastily piled mountains of bullshit and anger.
But fleeing had always been his default option. He’d fled so many things in his life, it was easier to count the times he’d stayed, had stuck around and seen something through. The Swiss Guard, in fact, had almost been an exercise in cutting losses and making a run for it.
How was he even still there? Five months of training before swearing in, and through it all, he’d been a giant target for Major Bader’s wrath. Then he was thrown together with Alain, and his fumbling efforts to try to straighten Cristoph out. To reach him. When everything had seemed to go to Hell, when he was ready to just throw it all in and call the whole thing a mistake, Alain had started to pry Cristoph out of that dark funk he’d wallowed in ever since Africa.
And somewhere in all of that, he’d gone and decided he wanted to make Alain proud of him.
It wasn’t hard to figure out why. After a lifetime of being everyone else’s bother, Cristoph knew himself well enough to know his one giant weakness.
Alain may be a complete nerd who stayed locked up in a stale office collating reports all day long. He may not know proper military decorum if it slapped him in the face. He was undoubtedly a loner. But he was a funny, fit, and kind nerd, and he treated Cristoph like he was worth knowing.
Why then, was everyone saying Alain was the darkest secret in the Vatican? That there was something sinister and terrible about him? That Cristoph should flee and not look back?
No. He knew what he had seen and what he had experienced. Alain had been the one good thing about coming to the Vatican. The only good thing so far. He wasn’t going to let that go. Not because of rumor and gossip.
He headed for the roof of the barracks and gazed out over Rome and the Eternal City. Hope churned inside him, alien and unfamiliar. It was almost too much, the frenzied excitement that Alain would be at the game that night.
Maybe… maybe after the game, they could grab a drink. Or talk. Or do something, anything, together. Something outside of the punishment closet, outside of the gym. He just wanted to see Alain again, spend time with him. Spending time with Alain, even just the little bit that they had, had been better than any of the times he spent with Muller and Zeigler, with his roommates or his fellow recruits, or with the others from the team. He wanted more.
Hours later, Cristoph joined in on a short afternoon practice before the game, and then the team piled into the canteen together, devouring pounds of pasta and eggplant parmesan. Other guardsmen off shift joined in, cheering the team on before the game had even begun.
Muller and Zeigler bracketed Cristoph, talking nonstop around mouthfuls of pasta and breadsticks as if nothing had happened that morning. He ignored them both, silent between their arguments and chatter.
When the rest of the team sat down, Captain Ewe came around to pump everyone up, grinning and cheering and pumping his fists with the rest of them, all for the pre-game rush.
His eyes strayed toward the canteen doors every few minutes. Commandant Best wandered in, along with Major Bader. Captain Ewe leaped on top of a table and led the team—and the rest of the Guard—in a rousing rendition of the Schweizer Nati football chant, stomping on the tables and slapping each of the players on the head.
For the first time in the months since his swearing in, a part of Cristoph wanted to feel settled. He knew this—military camaraderie, teammates shouting and cheering, hands pumping through the air, and a brotherhood binding them all together.
Why, then, did it feel as if something was missing?
Why was he searching for Alain, turning to look back at the doors every time they banged open?
Zeigler caught him after the twentieth time. “Forget him!” Zeigler shouted into his ear, over the rising chant of Olé. “We’re heading out to the fields in a bit. Get your head in the game!”
The team jogged through the Vatican gardens. In the far corners of the Eternal City by the Holy See’s radio tower, there was enough of a fl
at space for a rough soccer field to be chalked out and for orange cones to be set up as goals. The fire brigade was already warming up when they arrived, and one of the younger Congregation for the Clergy priests, who officiated at the football games at one of the local Catholic high schools, was stretching in the center of the field.
The Guard officers showed up just before kickoff, along with the off-duty guardsmen and fire fighters. Cristoph strained to see through the crowd, but he couldn’t find the rumpled black suit and messy hair he was looking for.
Zeigler stayed silent. He elbowed Muller when Muller opened his mouth.
Bishop Battistini hobbled up the grassy hillside, leaning on a walking stick. One of the guards raced away, returning with a wooden chair taken from the nearby Ethiopian Seminary. High backed and etched with carvings, the chair stood out in the gardens, but the bishop patted the young man’s cheek with a smile and settled down for the game.
At kick-off, Alain was nowhere to be seen.
* * *
“You are truly a magnificent sight to behold on the field!” Bishop Battistini walked arm in arm with Cristoph, heading back to his rooms in the Palazzo San Carlo, one of the gilded residences within the Vatican walls. “You played like you had the Holy Spirit inside your soul.”
Cristoph tried to smile. He’d channeled his disappointment and his anger onto the field, taking his ridiculous emotions out on the ball and the other team. He’d earned himself a yellow card, but also three goals. The team had rallied around him, and they’d pulled off an upset, ending the fire brigades domination over the Swiss Guard.
Alain had never shown up.
Cristoph kicked himself inside. He had cared too much, and he’d been exposed as a fool.
So what that Alain had skipped the game? Even though he had promised he’d be there. So what? They weren’t anything to each other, other than mentor and mentee. He tried to shake off the funk that had settled around him like a pall.