Vigil: An Urban Fantasy Thriller

by Russell Newquist

  “You realize we’re going after the dragon?” Conor asked him.

  “Yes,” the man replied simply. “We didn’t come for that. We came for mass. It has been too long since we’ve had a proper mass. Our priest has been… indisposed. And we came to pray. To pray for our village. To pray for our people. To pray for your success.”

  “We can’t guarantee your safety,” Gabriel warned.

  “We didn’t come here to be safe.” The Frenchman spat the word out. He held his weak frame proud and tall as he gestured to the people around him. “Besides, we can help. We have altar servers, and… how do you say in English? The people who read the scripture.”

  “Lectors,” Gabriel supplied.

  “Yes, lectors. And a choir. And we have candles. For the procession.”

  “And a deacon.” A large man stepped forward, thrusting a hand out. “Daniel,” he introduced himself as Peter accepted his handshake. Daniel’s beard had almost grayed enough to match the ring of hair that remained around his smooth head. Only a hint of his former darkness remained in the front. His eyes twinkled with energy that belied his age, as did his powerful grip. A pair of rectangular spectacles sat perched on his nose. His large face made the spectacles, tiny to begin with, seem even smaller.

  “You’re not French,” Peter noted.

  “American,” the deacon noted. “Touring old churches around Europe – and too foolish to listen when they warned us off this one.” Even when he smiled, Daniel seemed serious and solemn.

  “It’s going to get bad in there,” Conor noted.

  “Worse than ‘Nam?” Daniel asked.

  “Maybe.”

  Daniel’s face hardened into a look of resolve. “The Lord sends us where we are needed.”

  The Irishman nodded; one veteran to another.

  “Let them stay,” Stefan said softly.

  Conor shot him a sharp look. “A vision?”

  The Friar answered with a grave nod.

  “If we’re going to do it, I guess we should do it right,” Conor gave in. “Welcome to the party, Deacon.”

  “Call me Dan.”

  Adrienne managed to scrounge up some vestments for the American deacon. The faded old garments fit poorly, but they could manage no better for his powerful frame.

  “They’ll do,” the large man declared.

  Stefan moved his way through the crowd of newcomers, providing each of them with a blessing for protection. Peter had already received his earlier, as had his compatriots. He didn’t know if it would help, but he felt certain it couldn’t hurt. He waited patiently for the friar to finish.

  Peter studied the locals. Only a few dozen had joined them. The rest, he supposed, either feared the dragon too much or feared the Lord too little. He couldn’t blame them. The villagers who had arrived wore their terror openly. Truth be told, he was scared to death, too.

  But he kept the mask up, because they studied him just as closely. They may not know its origins, but now they’d seen the Sword in action. He felt their expectations weighing on him. Clearly they viewed him as some sort of savior.

  Lord, help me live up to their faith.

  A pudgy, middle aged French woman approached him. Like the others, she eyed the blade at his hip. But she also studied Peter. Eventually she spoke to him directly, in English. “They say you are here for a girl.”

  Peter thought about it for a moment. In all honesty, though, he would have followed the dragon here if it had captured anybody. Nobody’d given him a manual when he took the job of Knight of the Sword, but he felt pretty strongly that saving people kidnapped by dragons ranked high on the priority list.

  “I guess so,” he acknowledged.

  “Then she is a lucky girl.”

  Peter smiled. Faith had spent most of the previous fall trying to catch his interest. He’d spent most of that time pushing her away. It wasn’t her poor looks. Quite to the contrary, he found Faith Palmer stunningly attractive. Well, except for that ridiculous blue hair. But given her age and the crowd she’d run with, he’d assumed she led a wild lifestyle that he wanted no part of. The crazy hairdo only heightened the impression.

  He’d found out otherwise, at least partly, when they’d learned Abigail Covington’s motives for abducting the young girl. The sorceress needed virgin blood for a sacrifice, so she’d kidnapped her friend Faith to fill the role.

  He figured that if they ever made it back to Georgia he’d take her out on that date she wanted. Maybe she’d prove to be just as wild as he’d suspected. Or maybe he’d judged her poorly all along. It wouldn’t hurt to find out.

  “It’s not like that,” Peter insisted.

  The woman smiled back. “Then she is a very lucky girl. I hope she has the sense to recognize it.”

  Unsure how to take her words, Peter made a polite noise and extracted himself from the conversation. Stefan finished the last blessing and made his way over to rejoin them.

  “Are we ready?” Peter asked.

  “As ready as we’re going to be,” the Friar replied.

  “Then let’s get this show on the road,” Gabriel declared.

  One of the villagers produced a sack and fished candles out for everyone. They passed them around and formed up around the bonfire. A strange calm settled over the congregation. To Peter, it felt like the calm before the storm.

  Stefan crossed himself and knelt. The others copied his motion. He led them in prayer.

  “St Michael the Archangel, defend us in battle. Protect us against the wickedness and snares of the devil. May God restrain him, we humbly pray. And do thou, O Prince of the heavenly host, by the power of God, thrust, down to hell, Satan, and with him the other evil spirits who prowl through the world seeking the ruin of souls."

  Chapter 6

  “In nomine Patris, et Filii et Spiritus Sancti,” Stefan began.

  “Amen,” the crowd chorused. The Friar had chosen the older form of the mass. It somehow felt appropriate for the evening. After Stefan blessed the fire, one of the servers brought forth the large white candle that would serve as the parish's Paschal candle for the year. The friar called out more prayers as he prepared the candle, cutting a cross and other markings into it. Finally, he dipped the top of the candle into the fire.

  “Ut in lucem Christi resurgentis gloriam discute tenebras sensus et corda nostra.”

  Light of Christ dispel the darkness, indeed, Peter thought. The priest passed the candle to Deacon Dan. A procession formed behind him as he led the small congregation into the church. The small crowd followed behind them, unlit candles in hand. The doors stood open wide and the parade entered quietly. At the entrance to the sanctuary, they paused. The deacon lifted the candle high.

  “Lumen Christi!” he sang out.

  The light of Christ, Peter translated in his head.

  The deacon turned to light Stefan’s candle from the giant white pillar he carried, and the procession continued to the middle of the sanctuary. Again, the deacon sang out. Dan turned to light the candles of the parishioners nearest him, and they in turn passed the flame to their neighbors. Soon the entire procession, carried in the light.

  Even in the dim candlelight, the gothic construction of Église Notre-Dame des Marais, “The Church of Our Lady of the Marsh,” filled Peter with awe. He’d listened with Gabriel, Conor, and Stefan as Adrienne gave a brief but proud overview of its history while they planned the assault. The locals had built the original chapel on dried swampland in 1366. As Peter now knew, they’d constructed it to trap the hairy dragon beneath.

  A century later, the bishop elevated the church to a full parish. With financial aid from King Charles VII, the villagers began expanding it. Two more French Kings had continued the expansion. Like so many great medieval churches, construction didn’t so much finish as it just tapered off over the decades. Today, the pointed arches of the nave stretched nearly seventy feet above the gathered crowd.

  The polished marble floor clacked beneath Peter’s feet. The massive
pipe organ dated from the fifteenth century. It had been rebuilt a few decades ago, but it still carried the original parts laid in 1535. Giant, ornate stained glass windows from the fifteenth and sixteenth centuries lined the choir ahead of him.

  One window in particular stood out to Peter. The angel of colored glass carried a pair of scales in his right hand. His left carried a long staff, topped with a golden cross. Long, blond locks flowed out over the green cloak that draped his shoulders. Saint Michael the archangel wore a diadem of pearls instead of the traditional halo, but large, white, feathered wings completed the image.

  Peter gave his patron a nod and pulled his mind back to the task at hand. If all went well, he could come back and experience the beauty of the church properly. He had to survive the night first.

  As Stefan, Dan, and the attendants approached the altar, the rest of the congregation made their way to the pews. But Peter, Gabriel, and Conor had another mission. Without a word they made their way to the fissure in the middle of the floor. Each of them withdrew a green glow stick, activated it with a quick snap, and dropped it into the chasm.

  They aimed their large flashlights below, the beams following the chemical lights. Even the combined illumination revealed little.

  “About forty-five feet,” Conor declared quietly. Definitely too far to jump. Thankfully, they’d expected that and had come prepared. In addition to his combat gear, Conor carried a large olive bag. He dropped it next to the fissure and unzipped it to reveal a set of climbing gear, complete with a long rope and three harnesses.

  As the deacon began chanting the Exsultet – the Easter proclamation – Peter and Gabriel secured one end of the rope around a nearby support column. They wrapped the cord around a nearby pew, using it as a makeshift pulley. The three men gave it a test push. When the pew refused to budge, they looked closer. Heavy bolts held it fast to the floor. They decided that would suit their purposes just fine.

  The mass continued around them as Peter slipped into his climbing harness and attached it to the other end of the rope. He flipped on his headlamp and checked his gear one last time.

  “Stay put once you’re down,” Conor reminded him. “We’ll follow right after you.”

  “God go with us,” Gabriel whispered. The three men crossed themselves one last time.

  Peter knelt down and swung his legs into the dark opening. He lowered himself as far as he could. For a moment he dangled by his fingers, hanging over a dark, empty space.

  “We’ve got you,” Conor assured him.

  Peter took a deep breath and let go. True to their word, his comrades held him fast. They lowered him into the darkness inch by inch. Even as his eyes adjusted to the darkness, he struggled to make out features around him.

  The descent seemed to take forever, but Peter forced himself to calm down. He knew the dangers of going any faster when they could see so little. Still, his heart raced throughout the descent.

  At last his feet hit solid ground. He scrambled to find his footing as the rope slackened around him. He quickly disconnected from the rope and slipped out of the uncomfortable, limiting harness.

  Peter gave a sharp tug on the rope, the predetermined signal to notify his friends above that he’d safely detached. A flash of bright light and a sharp thunder-like pop caught him by surprise. He closed his eyes and covered his ears. A moment later, the rope hit him on the top of the head.

  He knelt and examined the severed cord. The jagged nature of the frayed end implied tearing, not a cut, but he found no clues as to the cause. He turned his gaze upward to signal the team.

  Peter’s headlamp went out. He fished a spare set of batteries out of a pouch on his vest and swapped them out. The exercise proved pointless. His lamp still didn’t work. He dug out his backup light. He clicked the light on.

  Nothing happened.

  He clicked the switch on and off a dozen times without result

  Peter had never liked caves, even though he’d been spelunking a few times with the Boy Scouts. Unlike this one, most caves were small, tight, cramped spaces. Peter didn’t suffer from claustrophobia, but large people like him didn’t fit well in tight areas. However, those caving trips he’d hated had taught him to prepare for this contingency. Getting caught in a cave without light could mean death. He’d brought another set of spare batteries, spare bulbs, a second flashlight, and even a candle. Surely one of them would work. He fished through his gear to find one.

  Then the glow sticks died, plunging him into total darkness.

  Chapter 7

  As Faith watched the little priest quake in his boots, she almost felt bad for him. Then she remembered his general cowardice and the way he cooperated with the dragon. Her pity dissolved into nothingness.

  “He’s here, just like you said,” Father Quentin reported. “This Peter. And he brought his friends.”

  Her heart soared at the name. After all this time, could it really be true? But when she considered her appearance she wanted to cry all over again.

  Her hair had grown three inches since her capture, leaving it half blonde roots and the other half a faded blue. Her fingernails needed trimming, and a good cleaning to remove the caked dirt. She couldn’t recall the last time her legs had met a razor. Her infected nose had swollen to twice its normal size. She’d finally caved and removed the nose ring more than a month ago. It had helped, but not much.

  The thought of Peter seeing her like that drove her to an even deeper despair. She’d had a hard enough time catching his eye before. He’d never be interested in her like this.

  “The knight.” The dragon spat out the last word as if it left a sour taste in his mouth. “They're in the church? Now?”

  Quentin shook with terror, but he managed to force out a nod.

  “I left them the records,” the priest spat defiantly. “About the mass. They’ll stop you! They’re here to perform the binding ritual. They’ve brought another priest with them. And an entire congregation!”

  Cruel laughter rang out around them. Faith watched Quentin cower in fear.

  “As unfaithful to me as you were to your Lord, eh? You think I fear you now that you’ve brought this knight here to fight me? You have nothing, priest. Nothing except your own shame. Your friends will provide a mild diversion, nothing more.”

  Faith watched the ashen, pale color spread across the little Frenchman’s face. Clearly he’d expected a different reaction from the dragon. To be honest, she had, too. But help had arrived. Peter had come. She refused to let the dragon’s reaction dampen her spirits.

  “Why won’t you just let me go?” Quentin pleaded.

  The laughter ceased.

  “You know why you’re here. You know your sins.”

  “I have too many sins to count,” the man acknowledged.

  “Not your sins against God. Your sins against me.”

  The priest quivered in terror.

  “You’re mine now,” the demon reminded him. “Never forget that.”

  “I never forget.” Quentin hung his head in shame.

  “Whom do you serve?”

  He choked up.

  “Whom do you serve?” it asked again, angry this time.

  “I serve you.” The words came out in a barely audible whisper.

  “Swear it. Swear to me.”

  “I did swear to you!”

  “Swear it again! Right here! Right now!”

  “I swear it!” He sobbed.

  “Give the pet a treat,” the beast called out into the darkness. A skittering noise rang out in the dark and one of the small, impish creatures that attended the dragon brought out a sack to the haggard priest. They filthy creatures disgusted Faith, but at least they generally left her alone. She just wished she knew how they got in and out of the pit. She'd never managed to catch one of them at the task.

  “I believe the going rate is thirty pieces of silver,” the dragon added coldly. “Now go!”

  The strange little goblin led the cleric away into the darknes
s. Faith strained her eyes, but once more she couldn't see how they managed to leave. Her hairy captor laughed at her. He liked to laugh at her. She met his gaze defiantly. It only seemed to amuse him more.

  “So your boyfriend showed up after all, did he? Don't get your hopes up, dearie. He couldn't kill me before; he won't kill me now – not even with my cousin's blade. When Michael cast us out of Heaven above, I survived – I thrived! When Noah denied us entry on his ark, my mate perished. But I survived the great deluge! Thousands of knights have tried to slay me. I enjoyed gnawing on their bones.”

  He bent forward and pressed his face close to Faith's. Nicolette shrieked and hid under Faith’s dress. Strangely, Faith felt no fear. Her parents had named her for a virtue she’d never lived up to. Maybe she’d found some faith for Peter. Or maybe she'd just internalized her need to stay strong for her new ward. Either way, she held her head straight and met her captor's gaze without flinching.

  “If Abigail of all people could control you, why do you think you stand a chance against Peter?” She kept her voice soft and sweet, full of mock concern. But she'd chosen her words carefully. The beast flew into a rage, stomping all over the cavern, smashing rocks and smacking at its pile of treasure.

  Faith wanted nothing more than to cower into a corner and hide until his rage died down. Instead, she held her ground. The dragon stormed around her, but he wouldn’t risk hurting her and cutting off his own food supply.

  Eventually he calmed down and returned to his prisoner.

  “That woman child got lucky,” It seemed to Faith that he protested too much. He gave her an animal stare, trying to force her to back down. “And she had aid from powers beyond your comprehension.”

  Faith refused to budge.

  “So does Peter,” she whispered.

  This time the hairy dragon took a deep breath and stopped rampaging. It huffed twice. Then it laughed again.

  “Foolish girl. Even now, he's walking into a trap. Do you think the little ceremony upstairs will accomplish anything? I knew that sniveling coward would tell them everything. I want them to perform that mass! I need that ritual!”