A Time to Rise_Second Edition

by Tal Bauer

  God, he’d wanted Alain to see him out there. He’d wanted the man to see he could, in fact, be somebody worth being proud of. That he could do something right.

  Too bad he wasn’t worth Alain’s attention. What could have come up that would break his promise? What was so captivating to Alain that it yanked him from Cristoph, time and time again? A new file to pore over? A pickpocket in St. Peter’s Square he had to liaise with the gendarmerie over?

  Dammit, Alain had promised.

  Guess his word didn’t mean that much.

  He always did have a knack for wanting the wrong guy. It was practically his superpower at this point.

  Cristoph came back to himself as Battistini patted his hand. The old bishop had been retelling Cristoph’s highlights, describing each goal, each barbaric charge down the field. How he’d dove for the ball, stealing it from the legs of the fire brigade’s star striker. Cristoph smiled weakly.

  “Would you like to come up for a drink?” Battistini winked. “I have more than communion wine in my apartment.”

  Cristoph nodded and let Battistini lead him through the Palazzo San Carlo doors and into the turn of the century elevator. Brass gates closed, and a hand lever moved the car at an agonizing pace up the levels of the Palazzo. Battistini stopped at the floor second from the top, gesturing to a door down the hall.

  Battistini, like most of the residents of the Vatican, left his door unlocked. Crime amongst the five hundred—mostly clerical—residents was low. Cristoph held Battistini’s door open and waited as the bishop shuffled inside. He made his way over to an eighteenth-century velvet sofa tucked beneath a bay window overlooking the Vatican gardens.

  The apartment was decked out in French revolutionary style, eighteenth- and nineteenth-century wooden tables sharing space with hand-carved rocking chairs and sideboards. An original oil canvas dominated one wall, a Slavic painting from centuries past. Jesus, barely covered in a red cloth, lay back against a naked angel, his head nestled against the angel’s taut, muscular chest. One of the angel’s arms wrapped around Jesus, and his other brandished a club, as if to protect his sleeping charge.

  Cristoph’s gaze lingered on the firm lines of the shockingly nude angel’s body.

  On a table next to the sofa, a crystal decanter filled with plum wine breathed. “Grab two glasses for us, please?” Battistini asked, directing Cristoph toward the kitchen at the back of the apartment.

  The kitchen was clean, tidy, cramped, and dominated by dark wood and old appliances. Two wine glasses sat on a shelf, and he snatched them before heading back to the sitting room.

  Beaming, Battistini poured a glass of wine and then gestured to the painting. “Do you like it?”

  “It’s interesting. I don’t remember this scene from Sunday school.”

  Battistini handed one full glass of wine to Cristoph, keeping the other. “It was considered too provocative for public display. I asked to keep it here. I enjoy the aesthetics of the piece.”

  Cristoph took a deep swallow of the wine to cover his sudden nerves, grasping the wine glass to hide the shaking of his hands. Alain had told him there were more men like them than he realized, but he somehow hadn’t expected to meet anyone who owned up to it. Certainly not ancient Bishop Battistini. “The angel is, uh, buff,” he finally said.

  “Not as strong as you are, my boy.” Battistini winked over the edge of his wine glass. “You truly are a sight to behold.”

  Cristoph’s hands went slick as his mouth dried. He could hear his pulse pounding in his ears. “Thanks.” He fidgeted. “I… I think I should be going.”

  “So soon?” Battistini frowned.

  “I don’t feel...” Cristoph reached out, trying to put the wine glass down on the sideboard. He missed by five feet, staggering sideways, and the glass fell to the ground, shattering. The world spun, sounds blending together, the floor rising up as the painting smeared from the wall, colors bleeding backward and forward. He blinked, but the world seemed to spin faster.

  “Oh! Be careful!” Battistini’s hands landed on his shoulders, steadying him as he stumbled. “You need to sit down.” Gentle pressure turned Cristoph until he was facing the couch. “Sit.”

  He fell forward, feet tripping, and landed in a pile of arms and legs across the couch. Cristoph tried to grab on to the sofa, tried to stop the world from somersaulting. “Wha’s happenin’…”

  “I will take care of you, my boy.”

  Hands grabbed his hips, pulled on his shorts. He jerked, tried to twist away. Bright lights burned into his eyes. He screwed his eyes shut.

  Battistini kneeled over him, his black cassock spreading around Cristoph’s shins as his gnarled hands pulled down Cristoph’s shorts.

  “Stop…” He tried to bat Battistini away.

  “Hush, don’t say a word. I’ll take care of you.” Battistini’s hands reached for his crotch. “I’ve got you…”

  Cristoph jerked, grabbing Battistini’s frail arms with shaking hands. He couldn’t breathe, struggled to drag in gulps of air to his burning lungs. “I don’t want to hurt you,” Cristoph pleaded. “Please, stop.”

  Battistini’s hands squeezed. “Shhh,” Battistini cooed. “It will be all right.”

  Cristoph felt the fragility of Bishop Battistini beneath his grip. “Please,” he pleaded one last time. “Stop. I don’t want to hurt you.”

  One of Battistini’s hands dragged Cristoph’s shirt up over his belly. The old bishop’s tongue snaked out, licking a long line from his crotch to his belly button.

  Cristoph bucked, using all of the strength he could muster in his weakened state. He rolled, hoping he was rolling off the couch, and grabbed Battistini, pulling him into his arms. They fell to the floor, Battistini crying out as his hip hit the ground. A sharp crack burst through the room. Battistini’s cassock flew up, and the bishop’s flypaper-thin skin dragged across Cristoph’s thighs, dry as ancient parchment. Cristoph shuddered. He shoved Battistini back, throwing him to the floor.

  Everything still swam, and the lamps around the room bled light in rainbows as the walls and floors rolled over and around each other as if he was caught inside a hamster’s ball. He grabbed his shorts, pulled them up, and staggered to his feet, hands spread wide for balance.

  “You can’t leave me!” Battistini wailed. “You’ve broken me!” Battistini lay on the floor, grasping his hip, his face twisted with anguish.

  “I’ll get help,” Cristoph gasped. Fear iced through him. “I’ll get help… I’m sorry.” He shook his head. The world rang like a bell. Everything turned neon, then flipped upside down. He blinked, long and hard. “You drugged me!” Anger replaced his fear, white hot.

  Battistini stared back at him. “You’re such a beautiful boy.”

  He was going to puke. Fire roiled in his belly. Cristoph staggered for the door, ignoring Battistini’s pleas. He bounced off the bishop’s walls, missed when he tried to grab the door handle. Finally, he fell head first into the hallway.

  Blessedly, the main hallway was silent.

  A ding by the elevator. Someone was coming.

  God, they couldn’t find him like this. He had to run.

  He tried to stand, but only managed a crawl. Moving as fast as he could, Cristoph headed for the stairwell at the end of the hall. The dings behind him grew louder as the elevator rose, closer to their level. Panting, he reached the door to the stairwell, but he fought with the door handle, trying to get it open. He cursed as spit fell from the corners of his lips. God, why this? Why now?

  The door finally unlatched, flying open, and Cristoph fell onto the stair landing. He rolled in and kicked the door shut behind him. He had to keep moving. He dragged himself to his feet. His legs shook, and he put most of his weight on his arms, clutching the railing with white knuckles.

  He took a step, down one stair.

  He fell.

  Cristoph tumbled, rolling and somersaulting down four flights of turns and twists in the stairwell. He felt something in hi
s ankle pop, a tear, and he let out a tiny grunt as he rolled the rest of the way down, all the way to the bottom.

  He lay motionless, heaving shaking breaths, for a long, long time.

  Chapter Nine

  The nuns always moved the zip baggies.

  Grumbling, Alain rifled through another drawer, coming up with aluminum foil and parchment paper, but no bags. Blood dripped onto the counter, and he wiped it away with his sleeve before sucking his torn bottom lip into his mouth. More blood rained from the ragged tear across his cheek.

  Finally, he spotted the tattered cardboard box stuffed with baggies on a shelf over the metal sink. Why they were there, he didn’t know, but he grabbed a handful and headed for the fridge. The fridge held enough food to feed one hundred and thirty Guardsmen three meals a day. Alain grabbed a cup and plunged it into the ice bin, filling it before dumping the ice into the baggie. He zipped it up and pressed it to his bloody, swollen eye, sighing.

  In the canteen, a wooden chair scraped across the floor, followed by a muffled curse. A grunt of pain.

  Alain whirled, staring at the darkened doorway leading out to the canteen. It was the middle of the night. The canteen was closed. He should be alone.

  He strode for the door, clicking on the lights.

  Cristoph raised one arm against the sudden brightness and stumbled, crashing into a wooden chair again and falling to the floor.

  Alain dropped his ice pack and ran to him. He grabbed Cristoph, sinking to his side and rolling him in his arms. “What happened?” Bruises dotted Cristoph’s jaw and arms, and a split lip stared back at him. Cristoph breathed fast, and his hands grasped Alain’s arms.

  “Hurt my ankle,” Cristoph finally breathed. “I… fell.”

  Alain took in Cristoph’s disheveled state. He was covered in dirt, and suspicious purple stains on his white shorts looked like spilled wine. Sweat beaded off his forehead even though he was shivering, trembling in Alain’s grasp. And he still hadn’t opened his eyes.

  “I’ve got you,” Alain said.

  Cristoph jerked, pushing away from Alain as if he wanted to escape. He pummeled him with his fists. Uncoordinated, his blows landed on Alain’s shoulders instead of his face, but they were still hard, almost full force. As if Cristoph were fighting for his freedom.

  “Whoa!” Alain managed to grab Cristoph’s hands. “What’s going on?”

  “He said… he said… he said…” Cristoph repeated, almost hyperventilating. “That’s what he said…”

  Realization hit Alain with the force of an exorcism. All the air left him, drilled out of his lungs, as he stared at Cristoph. “Jesus Christ...” He closed his eyes. His hands dropped and squeezed Cristoph’s shoulders.

  He trembled, raw fury closing over his mind. A curse, dark and depraved, hovered on the tip of his tongue. If he knew who had done this, he’d speak the curse and damn the man’s soul in a moment.

  No. Cristoph needed him now. He softened his voice. “Cristoph, it’s Alain. I’m going to pick you up now. I need to see what happened.”

  “He grabbed me.” Cristoph groaned as Alain lifted him, but he rolled his head against Alain’s chest. “I fought him off. God, I hurt him—”

  “Shhh. He’s gone. I’ll take care of you.” Alain carried him into the kitchen and laid Cristoph on the giant stainless-steel island in the center of the room. He started at Cristoph’s head, taking in the bruises and the cuts as Cristoph trembled. He moved his hands down Cristoph’s body, his fingers fluttering over the bruises on one arm. Nothing broken. Nothing swollen. Until he saw Cristoph’s ankle.

  Alain swore. “Your ankle is badly hurt. Maybe a torn ligament. It might be broken. I’m going to check you out, all right?”

  Cristoph nodded, his eyes squeezed shut.

  Alain undid his football boot and peeled it off, wincing as Cristoph winced. Swelling around the joint. Gently, Alain took Cristoph’s foot in hand and flexed it. Cristoph strained, but he didn’t cry out, and Alain didn’t feel any bones grinding. Not that he was any authority on mortal, bodily injuries. His expertise ended at self-sewn stitches into cuts disinfected with vodka. “I don’t think it’s broken. But we’ll need an x-ray to make sure.”

  “It was my first game…”.

  Alain grabbed his discarded ice bag and rested it on Cristoph’s ankle. “I’m going to clean you up.” He wet a rag with warm water and leaned over Cristoph, gently wiping his cheek.

  Finally, Cristoph opened his eyes. He blinked, slow and bleary, and Alain watched Cristoph take a full minute to focus in on him, inches away from his face. Alain stared into his gaze. Cristoph’s pupils were blown wide, his eyes nearly black, not even a sliver of brilliant blue left in his irises. He’d been drugged.

  “Who did this?” Alain whispered. “Someone here in the Vatican?”

  Cristoph rolled his head away. He blinked fast and bit down on his lip hard enough to bruise. Alain swiped his thumb across Cristoph’s lips, urging him to let go.

  “You said you’d be there tonight.”

  Guilt grabbed hold of Alain’s heart and took a swan dive. “I’m sorry.” Alain finished wiping Cristoph’s face and moved to his arms and his hands. “I am sorry, Cristoph.” His head throbbed, his swollen eye pounding. Before he got back to the Vatican, he hadn’t thought the night could have gotten any worse. “I got called out again. We thought we had a lead, and we were tracking… something bad.” He shook his head. “I really wanted to see you tonight.”

  Cristoph wouldn’t look at him.

  Alain finished with the cuts on his hands, his scraped knees. He wadded up the towel and threw it in the trash. Inside himself, he was screaming, fury and guilt warring with each other, tearing Alain to shreds. He should have been there. He should have been at the game. He would have come up with some kind of pathetic excuse to spend time with Cristoph after, and then this wouldn’t have happened.

  Dammit, he’d promised Cristoph. And now this.

  “You need to call the emergency line,” Cristoph whispered. “Bishop Battistini… fell. He broke his hip.”

  Alain nodded. Fury rose within him again, a cresting wave. He clenched his hands, trying to still their shaking. He had his culprit now.

  Stay with Cristoph. After everything, you should at least stay with him now. Alain’s breath hitched. If he wants anything at all to do with me ever again. “I’ll call it in after I take you back to your dorm.”

  Cristoph cringed. “No, not there. Not like this.” He struggled his way into a sitting position, even though he was panting, wincing with every move his body made. “I can’t go back there like this.”

  “You need to rest. Do you want to go to hospital? I can take you over to the clinic—”

  Mute, Cristoph shook his head. “The bishop will be there after you call it in.”

  “Good,” Alain blurted out. His lips twisted, pressing together. “Good,” he growled. “You did the right thing, fighting back. Whatever you did to him, he deserved it. And more.”

  Cristoph stayed silent. He swayed dangerously forward, almost falling face first into Alain. Alain steadied him, grabbed his shoulders.

  “Just take me to the chapel. I’ll spend the night there.”

  “No.” Alain frowned. Letting Cristoph out of his sight tonight was no longer an option. Not with the guilt sliding down the inside of his chest, dripping down his ribs. “No, you’re coming with me. You can stay in my apartment.”

  If anything, Cristoph looked worse after Alain spoke, cringing again and glaring down at the ground, his face twisted into a rictus of pain and unshed anger.

  He’d always been a fool. And everything he touched turn to ash. Push it all down.

  “C’mon. I’ll carry you up. You’re still drugged and I don’t want you falling again, hurting yourself worse.” Alain passed the ice bag to Cristoph.

  Cristoph closed his eyes as Alain wrapped his arms under Cristoph’s knees and around his shoulders and hefted him up. Cristoph stayed stiff, muscles
clenched, still trembling from head to toe as Alain headed out of the canteen and crossed the courtyard. The looming barracks rose into the night, some windows open, some lights on, gentle laughter and the sounds of snores and pop music and video games mixing with the Vatican night. Alain moved quickly, slipping into the officers’ barracks, and punched the elevator call button.

  It took a few minutes, but Cristoph eventually relaxed in his arms. His head rested against Alain’s shoulder. Warm breaths puffed over Alain’s neck as they rode up to the fourth floor. Alain kicked open the brass gate, squeezed through, and padded down the hall past Major Bader’s apartment.

  “The single officers live on this floor,” he muttered. It was just him and Luca.

  Cristoph grunted.

  Alain shouldered into his apartment and carried Cristoph down the narrow hallway to the back bedroom. He kept his home purposely sterile. Nothing personal.

  Bookshelves dominated the walls of his study, filled with ancient manuscripts, forbidden tomes, and tools of his trade. Bone blades and scrying glass and witches’ ladders confiscated from the Inquisition sat next to runes and hex bags and carved idols. Bones etched with sigils and seals shared space with herb bags and vials of blessed oil and holy water. Alain kept Cristoph’s back to his shelves as he carried him into his bedroom.

  He deposited Cristoph in the middle of his tattered bed, laying him down in an unmade nest of white cotton sheets and a plaid duvet. Alain’s stomach clenched. He’d had dreams since the last time he’d done laundry. The evidence was still there, ground into the sheets, if Cristoph looked. At the least, the faint smell still lingered. His cheeks burned.

  Cristoph rolled instantly on Alain’s bed, burying his face in his pillow. Whether it was to hide his face or to get away from Alain, Alain couldn’t tell. He fussed with the ice bag, pulling two couch pillows from the study for Cristoph’s ankle and set the ice bag back on his swollen joint.