by Lincoln Cole
Niccolo nodded. “Good.” He let out a groan and started coughing again. Arthur handed him a glass of water and he took a sip. His mouth tasted like ash and smoke.
He was thoroughly exhausted, barely able to keep his eyes open. He closed his eyes and let out a yawn. “I think I’m going to go back to sleep.”
“Good plan. I’ll be back to check on you,” Arthur replied, patting him on the arm.
“Sure thing,” Niccolo said.
It only took seconds for Niccolo to fall back into a quiet slumber.
◆◆◆
Arthur waited impatiently for the fire department to finally clear out the blaze. They radioed in trucks from every nearby precinct, and by the time it was over with it was well into the next morning.
The hospital was still smoldering but the flames were out. About half of the building was damaged by the fire, but the other half was mostly untouched except for some smoke damage.
As the sun came up Arthur combed through the wreckage. Niccolo was probably right and Jeremy was dead, but he needed to be sure. He couldn’t afford to tell the church the wrong thing.
Niccolo’s assessment was confirmed, however, after only a while of combing through the rubble. They found the burnt remains of a child in the basement. They couldn’t verify an exact age or identity so early into the investigation, but Arthur knew exactly who it was.
Frieda arrived with Abigail only a short while later. She looked wary and a little bit afraid, but he assumed she was just surprised at how things went down. She left Abigail in the car and came out to meet him.
“It wasn’t me,” he said, smiling at her as she approached.
She didn’t smile back. “What happened?”
He explained what went down as best as he could recall. Frieda listened to him patiently. “Operatives will be arriving in a few hours to clean the story up and smooth everything over,” she said. “But for all intents and purposes it is over with.”
“We lost Jeremy.”
“The church will understand.”
“What about the other children?”
“Most of them are already rounded up. A few more on the loose but we haven’t had any new reports in about a day.”
Her tone surprised him. “What’s wrong?”
Frieda hesitated. She glanced over her shoulder. “We need to talk.”
Frieda explained what had happened to her back in Minnesota. Curtis was an empath, and whatever Abigail had done to him, she hadn’t meant to do it.
“What are you thinking?” he asked once she was finished.
“If he tells the church —”
“There’s nothing to tell,” he interrupted, defensive. “You said so yourself.”
“Arthur,” Frieda said gently, reaching out and touching his arm. “I’m with you on this. All I’m saying is that if he tells the Church what happened, there will be questions. Right now, though, the Church has bigger fish to fry in cleaning up this mess. As long as Abigail isn’t with me, I can honestly say I don’t know anything.”
“What are you saying?”
“I’m saying: you’re her father, and her guardian. It’s your job to answer questions…and, if you are busy and difficult to track down…”
“They approved the adoption?”
“Yes. I already ran the paperwork and put it in the system. You are her father now.”
He nodded, a little awestruck. The words made him feel like he was in a daze. “Alright. Is she ready to go?”
“We abandoned most of our stuff, but you can take her on a shopping trip to get caught back up.”
“Alright.”
“Are you going to take her home?”
Arthur hesitated, and then shook his head. “No. When I went back, it wasn’t as bad as I expected, but I still won’t raise her there. That was another life.”
“Your cabin, then?”
“Most likely. How is she handling things?”
“Well enough. Better than me. I’ll finish cleaning up this mess and get Niccolo’s story. I think its best that you get back on the road and lay low for a while. Take my car, and I’ll call you when I have another job.”
Arthur nodded. “Thank you, Frieda.”
He knew she was going out on a limb to do this. She should be reporting this information to the Council and the Vatican, not to him. The fact that she was willing to risk her career and her life took him a little by surprise, but he definitely appreciated it.
She started to turn away, but stopped. She turned back and gave him a quick hug, squeezing him close.
“Take care of her,” Frieda said. “She needs you.”
Then she headed off. Arthur watched her go with mixed feelings. His entire body ached and his back was throbbing from being tossed into the car, but the biggest thing he felt right now was trepidation.
Arthur watched her go and then turned back to the car where Abigail was sitting. She was staring at him with her big eyes and a hesitant look on her face. He was going to be a father again.
The idea terrified him.
◆◆◆
“Will he be alright?”
George Castinella gave the man a sharp and disapproving look. The man was bald, dirty, and disgusting to look at. His smell was a lot worse. The entire salvage yard smelled terrible, in fact. Rancid and rotten.
“He will be fine,” he said, if only to shut his underling up. The truth was that George wasn’t sure if Jeremy would survive. The arrogant little boy had inhaled a lot of smoke in that basement before they were able to pull him out, and he had been unconscious for the last two days. George had started the fire as a distraction, but it all had taken longer than he would have liked.
Jeremy was young, though, and children were resilient. He would more than likely recover, and when that happened George would be ready. He had bound his wrists and blindfolded him. If he couldn’t see anyone, he couldn’t control anyone.
The boy was lying on a cot in the backroom of the office, and he had been unconscious for the last day. He was covered in soot and dirt, a modest amount of which had already been washed away. He was still breathing, though, which was the important thing.
George stared at him with a slight smile curling his lip. Jeremy had been allowed his fantasy of redemption: George had done his part even though he knew it was a foolish plan, and now he would finish what he had started so many months ago when he first began working with the Bishop.
George’s plan, which he’d spent weeks convincing the Bishop to support, was much more targeted and would result in greater impact. None of the children, Jeremy in particular, would have been wasted on such a pointless endeavor.
Now, he would train Jeremy as a weapon, something he could use to serve the cult’s purpose. Together, they would bring the world to its knees.
This time around, though, Jeremy wouldn’t have a say in the matter.
“He’ll wake up,” George said. “And, with him, we will set the world on fire.”
About the Author
Lincoln Cole is a Columbus-based author who enjoys traveling and has visited many different parts of the world, including Australia and Cambodia, but always returns home to his pugamonster, Luther, and wife. His love for writing was kindled at an early age through the works of Isaac Asimov and Stephen King, and he enjoys telling stories to anyone who will listen.
The World on Fire Series
Raven’s Peak
“Reverend, you have a visitor.”
He couldn’t remember when he fell in love with the pain. When agony first turned to pleasure, and then to joy. Of course, it hadn’t always been like this. He remembered screaming all those years ago when first they put him in this cell; those memories were vague, though, like reflections in a dusty mirror.
“Open D4.”
A buzz as the door slid open, inconsequential. The aching need was what drove him in this moment, and nothing else mattered. It was a primal desire: a longing for the tingly rush of adrenaline each time the lash licked
his flesh. The blood dripping down his parched skin fulfilled him like biting into a juicy strawberry on a warm summer’s day.
“Some woman. Says she needs to speak with you immediately. She says her name is Frieda.”
A pause, the lash hovering in the air like a poised snake. The Reverend remembered that name, found it dancing in the recesses of his mind. He tried to pull himself back from the ritual, back to reality, but it was an uphill slog through knee-deep mud to reclaim those memories.
It was always difficult to focus when he was in the midst of his cleansing. All he managed to cling to was the name. Frieda. It was the name of an angel, he knew. . . or perhaps a devil.
One and the same when all was said and done.
She belonged to a past life, only the whispers of which he could recall. The ritual reclaimed him, embraced him with its fiery need. His memories were nothing compared to the whip in his hand, its nine tails gracing his flesh.
The lash struck down on his left shoulder blade, scattering droplets of blood against the wall behind him. Those droplets would stain the granite for months, he knew, before finally fading away. He clenched his teeth in a feral grin as the whip landed with a sickening, wet slapping sound.
“Jesus,” a new voice whispered from the doorway. “Does he always do that?”
“Every morning.”
“You’ll cuff him?”
“Why? Are you scared?”
The Reverend raised the lash into the air, poised for another strike.
“Just…man, you said he was crazy…but this…”
The lash came down, lapping at his back and the tender muscles hidden there. He let out a groan of mixed agony and pleasure.
These men were meaningless, their voices only echoes amid the rest, an endless drone. He wanted them to leave him alone with his ritual. They weren’t worth his time.
“I think we can spare the handcuffs this time; the last guy who tried spent a month in the hospital.”
“Regulation says we have to.”
“Then you do it.”
The guards fell silent. The cat-o’-nine-tails, his friend, his love, became the only sound in the roughhewn cell, echoing off the granite walls. He took a rasping breath, blew it out, and cracked the lash again. More blood. More agony. More pleasure.
“I don’t think we need to cuff him,” the second guard decided.
“Good idea. Besides, the Reverend isn’t going to cause us any trouble. He only hurts himself. Right, Reverend?”
The air tasted of copper, sickly sweet. He wished he could see his back and the scars, but there were no mirrors in his cell. They removed the only one he had when he broke shards off to slice into his arms and legs. They were afraid he would kill himself.
How ironic was that?
“Right, Reverend?”
Mirrors were dangerous things, he remembered from that past life. They called the other side, the darker side. An imperfect reflection stared back, threatening to steal pieces of the soul away forever.
“Reverend? Can you hear me?”
The guard reached out to tap the Reverend on the shoulder. Just a tap, no danger at all, but his hand never even came close. Honed reflexes reacted before anyone could possibly understand what was happening.
Suddenly the Reverend was standing. He hovered above the guard who was down on his knees. The man let out a sharp cry, his left shoulder twisted up at an uncomfortable angle by the Reverend’s iron grip.
The lash hung in the air, ready to strike at its new prey.
The Reverend looked curiously at the man, seeing him for the first time. He recognized him as one of the first guardsmen he’d ever spoken with when placed in this cell. A nice European chap with a wife and two young children. A little overweight and balding, but well-intentioned.
Most of him didn’t want to hurt this man, but there was a part—a hungry, needful part—that did. That part wanted to hurt this man in ways neither of them could even imagine. One twist would snap his arm. Two would shatter the bone; the sound as it snapped would be . . .
A symphony rivaling Tchaikovsky.
The second guard—the younger one that smelled of fear—stumbled back, struggling to draw his gun.
“No! No, don’t!”
That from the first, on his knees as if praying. The Reverend wondered if he prayed at night with his family before heading to bed. Doubtless, he prayed that he would make it home safely from work and that one of the inmates wouldn’t rip his throat out or gouge out his eyes. Right now, he was waving his free hand at his partner to get his attention, to stop him.
The younger guard finally worked the gun free and pointed it at the Reverend. His hands were shaking as he said, “Let him go!”
“Don’t shoot, Ed!”
“Let him go!”
The older guard, pleading this time: “Don’t piss him off!”
The look that crossed his young partner’s face in that moment was precious: primal fear. It was an expression the Reverend had seen many times in his life, and he understood the thoughts going through the man’s mind: he couldn’t imagine how he might die in this cell, but he believed he could. That belief stemmed from something deeper than what his eyes could see. A terror so profound it beggared reality.
An immutable silence hung in the air. Both guards twitched and shifted, one in pain and the other in terror. The Reverend was immovable, a statue in his sanctuary, eyes boring into the man’s soul.
“Don’t shoot,” the guard on his knees murmured. “You’ll miss, and we’ll be dead.”
“I have a clear shot. I can’t miss.”
This time, the response was weaker. “We’ll still be dead.”
A hesitation. The guard lowered his gun in confused fear, pointing it at the floor. The Reverend curled his lips and released, freeing the kneeling guard.
The man rubbed his shoulder and climbed shakily to his feet. He backed away from the Reverend and stood beside the other, red-faced and panting.
“I heard you,” the Reverend said. The words were hard to come by; he’d rarely spoken these last five years.
“I’m sorry, Reverend,” the guard replied meekly. “My mistake.”
“Bring me to Frieda,” he whispered.
“You don’t—” the younger guard began. A sharp look from his companion silenced him.
“Right away, sir.”
“Steve, we should cuff…”
Steve ignored him, turning and stepping outside the cell. The Reverend looked longingly at the lash in his hand before dropping it onto his hard bed. His cultivated pain had faded to a dull ache. He would need to begin anew when he returned, restart the cleansing.
There was always more to cleanse.
They traveled through the black-site prison deep below the earth’s surface, past neglected cells and through rough cut stone. A few of the rusty cages held prisoners, but most stood empty and silent. These prisoners were relics of a forgotten time, most of whom couldn’t even remember the misdeed that had brought them here.
The Reverend remembered his misdeeds. Every day he thought of the pain and terror he had inflicted, and every day he prayed it would wash away.
They were deep within the earth, but not enough to benefit from the world’s core heat. It was kept unnaturally cold as well to keep the prisoners docile. That meant there were only a few lights and frigid temperatures. Last winter he thought he might lose a finger to frostbite. He’d cherished the idea, but it wasn’t to be. He had looked forward to cutting it off.
There were only a handful of guards in this section of the prison, maybe one every twenty meters. The actual security system relied on a single exit shaft as the only means of escape. Sure, he could fight his way free, but locking the elevator meant he would never reach the surface.
And pumping out the oxygen meant the situation would be contained.
The Council didn’t want to bring civilians in on the secretive depths of their hellhole prison. The fewer guards they needed to hire, th
e fewer people knew of their existence, and any guards who were brought in were fed half-truths and lies about their true purpose. How many such men and women, he’d always wondered, knew who he was or why he was here?
Probably none. That was for the best. If they knew, they never would have been able to do their jobs.
As they walked, the Reverend felt the ritual wash away and he became himself once more. Just a man getting on in years: broken, pathetic, and alone as he paid for his mistakes.
Finally, they arrived at the entrance of the prison: an enclosed set of rooms cut into the stone walls backing up to a shaft. A solitary elevator bridged the prison to the world above, guarded by six men, but that wasn’t where they took him.
They guided him to one of the side rooms, opening the door but waiting outside. Inside were a plain brown table and one-way mirror, similar to a police station, but nothing else.
A woman sat at the table facing away from the door. She had brown hair and a white business suit with matching heels. Very pristine; Frieda was always so well-dressed.
“Here we are,” the guard said. The Reverend didn’t acknowledge the man, but he did walk into the chamber. He strode past the table and sat in the chair facing Frieda.
He studied her: she had deep blue eyes and a mole on her left cheek. She looked older, and he couldn’t remember the last time she’d come to visit him.
Probably not since the day she helped lock him in that cell.
“Close the door,” Frieda said to the guards while still facing the Reverend.
“But ma’am, we are supposed to—”
“Close the door,” she reiterated. Her tone was exactly the same, but an undercurrent was there. Hers was a powerful presence, the type normal people obeyed instinctually. She was always in charge, no matter the situation.
“We will be right out here,” Steve replied finally, pulling the heavy metal door closed.
Silence enveloped the room, a humming emptiness.
He stared at her, and she stared at him. Seconds slipped past.