The Devil's Bible

by Dana Chamblee Carpenter

  “We must work harder to preserve our treasures,” he said as he closed the album.

  “The Bishop heads the pope’s Commission for Sacred Archaeology,” Angelo explained. “The pictures are for a book to help raise money to restore some of the less-cared-for basilicas.”

  “They are powerful pictures, aren’t they, Your Excellency?” Mouse asked. She meant to make the Bishop give Angelo the praise he deserved. Despite her childhood in the abbey, Mouse had never learned naked reverence or blind obedience, but she was surprised by the flame of defiance that fired now in Angelo’s defense. She had thought herself long dead to pride, even if it was for someone else.

  Her boldness did not seem to surprise Bishop Sebastian, and Mouse sensed displeasure underneath his benevolent smile.

  “You appreciate our young deacon’s gifts.” It was not a question, but Mouse decided to treat it as if it were.

  “Yes, Your Excellency. Don’t you?” She offered him his own polite smile in return, but her eyes sparked. If this man wanted to make her an enemy, so be it. Angelo shifted in his chair.

  Bishop Sebastian cut his eyes toward Angelo. “He does indeed take pretty pictures, though I fear his hobby has rather gotten in the way of more important things, has it not, my son?”

  “Please, Father, let’s not go over that again.” Angelo sounded wary.

  “No, no, of course not. What is three months out of a life’s calling, after all? But now the project is nearly done, there is no more reason for delay. I’ve already spoken with Cardinal—”

  “Angelo’s work is more than a hobby, Your Excellency, and his pictures are more than pretty.” Mouse wasn’t smiling anymore. She hated the man’s patronizing tone, talking about Angelo as if he were a child or a belonging, and she hated his easy dismissal of something Angelo held so dear.

  “Of course. He is quite gifted. In many things.” The Bishop studied her for a long, quiet moment. “I believe Deacon Angelo said you were Catholic?”

  “I was raised Catholic, Your Excellency.”

  “You have left the Church, then?”

  “Not exactly.”

  “So this is what you have been doing, my son? Working to bring this lost sheep back to us?” Bishop Sebastian turned his attention to Angelo, but he didn’t wait for an answer. “You know that our Angelo is to be ordained soon, yes? If he does not put it off again, that is.”

  Mouse appreciated the Bishop’s directness, and she knew she could quickly settle his fears on her account—she had no intention of being a stumbling block to Angelo’s calling. Yet Mouse found she didn’t want to give Bishop Sebastian the satisfaction. He was just another ambitious father driving his wayward son toward a vicarious victory; she’d been there before when Ottakar’s father had convinced his son to marry a woman who would advance Bohemia’s position in the world. Mouse had nothing to offer but herself. This was why Ottakar had cast her aside—to satisfy his father’s ambition. So little had changed in all these years. She had no doubt the Bishop would get his way, too, with a celibate son to serve his God. But Mouse grinned at the idea that she might make him squirm a little.

  She looked up from her tea and held Bishop Sebastian’s gaze. “Angelo did tell me he hasn’t taken his vows yet, Your Excellency, but he didn’t say when he would.”

  Angelo cleared his throat.

  “I see,” the Bishop said. “I’m sure Angelo also told you how he came to us?”

  Angelo’s mouth was pressed into a hard line when she turned to look at him.

  “I assume he was called by God.” Echoes of yesterday’s conversation in Monster Park about Angelo’s vocation played in her voice. “Isn’t that how it always happens? But I believe he said you were rather influential in making that decision for him.”

  “Ah, quite so.” His voice was clipped and deeper. He was on his guard and enjoying the game he seemed intent on playing with her. “God calls us all in different ways—though not always in such dramatic fashion. It is quite the story! But it is Angelo’s to tell if he wants.”

  Mouse felt the sting of his message and looked again at Angelo, who kept his silence. So there was more to his story. Clearly he had his secrets, too, and he didn’t trust her enough to share them.

  Bishop Sebastian took a slow sip of his cooling tea. “When do you return to—” He turned toward Angelo. “Where is it she is from? I don’t remember you saying.” Angelo opened and then closed his mouth; he had no answer.

  “I’m on leave from a teaching position in London, Your Excellency.” Mouse grit her teeth. She felt Angelo’s eyes on her as he learned this for the first time as well. Though she easily gave the lie to the Bishop, she felt guilty that Angelo would believe it, too. A few minutes with Bishop Sebastian had almost fully eroded whatever foundation of trust they had built. He was playing a nasty game—and he was very good at it.

  “Ah, and when do you return?” Bishop Sebastian asked.

  Mouse had one more salvo. “I haven’t decided yet. I may stay for . . . an extended period.” She took a small bite from one of the sandwiches and let her eyes flick to Angelo’s face, but he was staring into his tea.

  “Angelo, I notice that Ms. . . . or is it Professor, I suppose?”

  Mouse nodded.

  “Professor Lucas is obviously struggling with a bad ankle. I do not know how you could have been so inconsiderate, my friend, but surely she would enjoy the sights of our wonderful home more ably if she were in a wheelchair? There are some at the entrance, you know.” Bishop Sebastian continued to smile at her pleasantly as he spoke.

  “She didn’t want one, sir.” Angelo’s voice was cool.

  “Well, we must all accept help in our times of need. Perhaps this is meant as a lesson for our friend here, a reminder about the sin of pride.” He smiled at her and turned back to Angelo. “You go collect one of those wheelchairs for Professor Lucas, and I’ll keep her engaged here until you can come whisk her around our glorious art.” It was a clear dismissal, and neither Mouse nor Angelo saw a way out of obeying the Bishop’s command.

  Angelo rose awkwardly, clearly angry, and rounded the table to kiss the Bishop’s ring again. Mouse turned to watch him go. When she turned back, Bishop Sebastian was staring at her, his smile gone.

  “We haven’t much time, so I will be direct,” he said. “I know who you are, and I will not let you interfere with Angelo.”

  So it was as she suspected. He was worried that she was going to tempt Angelo away from the priesthood. She relaxed as she anticipated an awkward but straightforward conversation to assuage the Bishop’s fears for Angelo’s sake.

  “I don’t intend to interfere with him, Your Grace,” she said. “Angelo’s vocation is his to claim or not. Neither you nor I have anything to do with it. And I assure you—”

  “You misunderstand me,” the Bishop said. “I know who . . . perhaps I should say I know what you are.”

  Mouse felt her heart crawl up her throat.

  PODLAŽICE MONASTERY,

  BOHEMIA

  1278

  A loose stone crashed to the floor as Bishop Andreas shoved Mouse aside so he could get into the cell and see his book. He dropped to his knees beside the giant manuscript. As the Brothers stepped closer to peer inside, Mouse closed her eyes against the light from their lamps. She had grown accustomed to the dim candlelight.

  Blinded from the glare, she put her hand out, feeling for the wall, anxious to be on her way, when someone grabbed at the sleeve of her habit.

  “How did you do so much with such little time, Brother Herman?” the bishop asked her.

  But Mouse was still working to keep her mind full of the mundane in case her father came calling in her head again. She silently catalogued names in her mind—everyone she’d ever met, any name she had written—and she counted the letters in them. But so much busyness made it difficult to talk.

  “A miracle,” she said to the bishop.

  “Where did these come from?” He pointed to the floor.
r />   Mouse squinted down at the ornate inkpots and exotic quill feathers she’d left in the cell. She carried nothing with her but the small bag of belongings she’d initially brought to the monastery. She would take nothing from her father.

  “A miracle,” she said again.

  The bishop shook his head. “Someone had to help you write this book. Someone had to bring these—I have never seen feathers like these.”

  “Who then?” she asked.

  He looked at her with the beginnings of awe. “I gave orders. Not another living person has come down to this crypt but me. And I did not bring them.”

  “Who then?” she asked again.

  “Who are you that God would send you a miracle?”

  “God never would.”

  Shaking, the bishop laid his hand on the tower of parchment. “I feel something,” he said, his voice quivering as he yanked his hand back, staring at her. “I feel power.”

  Mouse knew there was power in the book—hers and her father’s—because she had felt it, too. She never thought that anyone human would be able to feel it. But she didn’t have time to worry about consequences.

  The bishop’s hand snaked out again to touch the book. He was already a hungry man, but as he traced his fingers slowly along the text, Mouse watched his desire grow gluttonous and bloated.

  “Where does the power come from? Who helped you make this book?” he demanded.

  “You do not want to know, Father.” She turned to leave.

  “You will come with me. You will answer my questions,” he ordered as he gave a nod to the Brothers who stepped closer to Mouse.

  She knew she should be angry, knew she would normally have belittled this arrogant man who thought to control her, but her new emptiness held her aloof.

  “If you do not wish to meet my benefactor face-to-face, I suggest you let me go,” she said simply.

  The Brothers backed away. The bishop ducked his head like a frightened dog and whispered his prayer of protection against evil and then turned lustily back to the book Mouse had given him.

  As she took a silent step toward the stairs leading up and out of the monastery, Mouse listened to the scratch of the bishop’s skin slowly stroking the parchment.

  CHAPTER TWELVE

  Bishop Sebastian’s words rang in Mouse’s head like church bells. I know what you are.

  “What do you mean?” Her voice shook despite her efforts to appear calm.

  Father Lucas, Mother Kazi, and her father—they were the only people who had ever known Mouse’s secret. How could this man, whom she’d only just met, know anything about her?

  Bishop Sebastian laughed. “This is the heart of the Church.” He waved his hand to mean the place, the Vatican. “Did you think I would leave it unprotected?”

  “I don’t—”

  “We have excellent security, you see.” He walked toward his desk and swiveled one of the computer screens so she could see the string of tourists as they filed through the metal detectors. “But we also have the means of checking for . . . other dangers.” He bent to open a drawer and removed a metal case. He walked back to the table and sat in the chair beside her, their knees almost touching. Mouse pulled back. He put the box in front of her.

  “Not many people believe in actual evil anymore—not even in the Church. We live in a world that embraces relative truths and morality as the modern Church prepares itself for a figurative battle for souls. But some of us have been preparing ourselves for a much more literal battle of Armageddon between very real forces of evil and those of good.” He fingered the box on the table. “We have some resources left to us from old days when people still believed that darkness walked among us. Those old rituals and spells shield this place from creatures that do not belong among the holy.” He leaned back in his chair. “Until now.”

  “I don’t know what game you’re playing, but I’m—”

  “There’s no need for games. I knew what you were the moment you crossed the threshold.” He cocked his head and Mouse could hear his heart start to race. “That’s normally where it ends. A demon runs up against the spell at the entrance and it simply can’t go any farther. It triggers a silent alarm up here in my office, though the creature is always gone by the time we get there. But you waltzed over more than a dozen protection spells and not one of them stopped you. You’re something special.” His voice vibrated with awe. “I have been looking for you for a long time.”

  Mouse nearly choked trying to swallow, her mouth was so dry. She commanded her hand to bring the cup of tea to her mouth and willed herself to drink. It was bitter.

  “You know, I love old things,” the Bishop continued. “I’ll sometimes spend hours down in the Vatican archives. It’s like rummaging through the largest and most fascinating old attic, and you sometimes uncover unexpected treasures.” He nodded at the box on the table again. “Open it.”

  Mouse lifted the heavy lid from the box and saw parchment inside. It crackled as she unrolled it. She knew the handwriting immediately.

  “Father Lucas?” Mouse felt like she was unraveling.

  “So I am right.” He was quiet for a moment but recovered his arrogance quickly, smiling as he turned to her again. “You know, he was quite thorough in his notes.”

  “You’re lying! He would never betray me.”

  “I never said he did.”

  Mouse’s temper flared. She had taken the Bishop’s bait and confirmed his suspicion, though at this point his own fervor seemed enough to convince him of his rightness.

  “Oh, the journals are his, but he hid his work from the Church. These were confiscated and sent here, but it seems no one took them seriously. It was purely happenstance that I came across Father Lucas’s old notes sloppily filed away with other dismissed mystical texts.” He paused for a moment and then let a slow smile spread across his face. “Or perhaps it was providence that I found them, if you believe in such things. I surely do. I have the proof of it sitting right in front of me. God delivers.”

  Mouse didn’t even blink as she held his gaze.

  “At first I was exhilarated by what I read in those old parchments. I never imagined that such a thing as you might exist. But your Father Lucas was so cautious in his notes—just the nature of your origin. No mention of your mother. No names. No clear descriptions—not even if you were male or female.” He lifted his hands and raised his eyebrow as if she shared his frustrated curiosity. “Apparently there were others back then who also wanted to know what your Father Lucas knew. I found letters written by a Bishop Bansca, I believe. I understand that the good Father was quite stubborn despite the unseemly techniques they used trying to get the truth. He must have loved you very much.” Bishop Sebastian leaned forward a little, studying her.

  “You tortured him to find out about me?” Mouse went still with anger.

  “Not I. I certainly was not alive back then. As I said, I could not imagine the Church now doing such things—they don’t understand that we are heading for war. But I understand and soon, maybe . . .” He closed his eyes a moment. “In times of war, we must use every means to defeat the enemy. We must win whatever the cost.” Bishop Sebastian shrugged. “But, oh my, what violence! And still they got nothing from your Father Lucas. Nothing that would lead to you. Nothing that even proved you were real. So everyone forgot about you.” He lifted his hands in dismay. “Until I found his notes. And though Father Lucas’s work was disappointingly vague in regards to you, the rest of it was magnificent. All those spells he discovered in such remote places and references to the most obscure and profane texts . . .” The Bishop smacked his lips in appreciation. “After poring over all his work, I knew. I knew you were real.”

  Mouse sat coiled on the edge of the chair.

  “But we must return our focus to the present before young Angelo returns. Unless, of course, you want to include him in our discussion? He is special, too, you know. How odd that Fate has put you together. Then again, maybe it was providence that my Ange
lo would bring you to me. As I say, God—”

  Mouse leaned into the Bishop’s space, her voice sharp and tight like a sliver of glass. “How do you know it was God who sent me?”

  Bishop Sebastian’s eyes widened a moment and then he laughed. “I think you give yourself more credit for your acting ability than you deserve. Please don’t take offense—I do not underestimate your capabilities. I am not so old or foolish as to judge you based on how you look.” He ran his eyes down her body. “But I am very good at reading other signs. Shall I tell you what I see?”

  Mouse tilted her head with a feigned confidence.

  “I see a hobbled girl who is wounded by what I’m telling her about someone who loved her. Someone she loved. Already you are not what I expected.” His eyes flicked down to her bandaged wrist. “I see a troubled girl looking for a way out. Out of what, I wonder? Maybe I should ask Angelo.”

  Mouse launched herself at the Bishop, slamming into him and pinning him with her knee. She wrapped her fingers in the back of his hair, pulling his head back to expose his neck. “You leave Angelo out of this. Do you understand me?”

  There was no fear in his eyes. “I would say the same to you. I do not want him hurt. He is one of mine.”

  “You killed Father Lucas.”

  “The blame for his death does not rest at my feet, my dear.”

  Mouse fought the urge to rip his throat out, but he was right and the truth of it sobered her. There was no one alive to blame, no one except her. She backed away from the Bishop slowly and sank back into her seat.

  Bishop Sebastian stood and walked casually to the desk behind Mouse and collected a book. He spoke softly as he thumbed through the pages and paced.

  “You know, despite all the assumed conflict, religion and science actually share a fundamental understanding of the nature of the world. Scientists speak the language of action and reaction, matter and antimatter, while we tend to talk in stories, the narratives of good and evil, the characters of God and Satan.” He sounded like he was having a comfortable conversation with a colleague, but he couldn’t take his eyes off Mouse. “It all amounts to the same idea. Our Father created the world on a model of opposites, absolutes—a force on one end in continual conflict with a force on the other.”