Faustus Resurrectus

by Thomas Morrissey

  He spread his hands. The table was set with a lace tablecloth and his best dishes and silver. His wine bucket—something he believed every bartender should have—was chilling a bottle of La Grande Dame.

  “—tonight.”

  “I gave my shift away. Surprise.”

  Her eyes went wide, showing how the gold flecks brightened. “What’s this?”

  “I guess I’m jealous that they got to have dinner with you last night and I didn’t.” He gestured up towards the loft kitchen. “Mushroom-stuffed filets and lobster tails, when we’re ready. First, the salad.”

  She saw the plates and smiled. “Blue cheese croutons?” She touched a finger to the dish, then raised it to her lips. “Champagne vinaigrette? Glad to see you were paying attention during that cooking class.”

  “It was tough, taking my eyes off you…”

  “This is amazing.” She slid her arms around his neck and pulled his lips to hers. “Thank you, baby. I’m very impressed.” She looked at the table and grinned. “Everything will keep for a bit, won’t it?”

  “I guess. I—”

  She pulled him towards the bedroom.

  ***

  At a little after ten they finally made it to the dinner table. Donovan had pulled on a pair of jeans and a t-shirt while Joann, freshly showered, wore his fluffy white robe.

  “So let me get this straight: this ritual exists…but it doesn’t exist?” She tilted her glass so he could pour the Grande Dame. “Is this one of those philosophical word games?”

  “Kind of.”

  “I don’t understand.” She sipped her champagne. “‘Resurrectus maledicat’? That’s what you think Valdes wants to do? That’s what all this has been about?”

  “It’s our best guess at this point.”

  “Cursed Resurrection? Resurrect who?”

  “Does it matter?” Donovan asked. “I doubt very much it’s possible for anyone to pull it off, much less an ex-office manager, or whatever Valdes was.”

  “I know he couldn’t actually do it. I’m not talking literally. If I could trace how he found out about it, though, it would be another thread tying him to everything. Knowing as much as I can helps me build a case.”

  “Good point. Okay, here’s what we have:

  “‘Les Penitents Tenebreux,’ The Dark Penitents, existed from the end of the eighth century to the fifteenth. They were formed out of the schism in the Church at the time and influenced by aspects of the Byzantines. Firm believers in and practitioners of the theology of the Holy Roman Empire. ‘Dark’ because they were not averse to using certain unapproved methods in their rituals, ‘Penitents’ because they were a penance cult.”

  “Penance cult?”

  “People who believe they can get closer to God by offering physical penance, like monks who whip themselves and wear hair shirts. Anyway; begun in France around 814 A.D., they arose out of a fear that the country would fall apart in the wake of Charlemagne’s death. They created the ritual resurrectus benificus, a ‘benevolent resurrection,’ to bring him back and continue his rule.” He paused to drink champagne. “Of course it couldn’t work. Attempting to resurrect someone, no matter how good or how noble the purpose, is indefensible in Christianity. It’s an affront to the resurrection of Christ.”

  “But obviously someone did better?”

  “We found references to two other attempts, both in France: in 1407 when, after the Burgundians murdered Louis, Duke of Orleans, Les Penitent Tenebreux attempted to resurrect him to defuse a movement towards a civil war. Ended up murdering a dozen noblemen. They were exterminated when they attempted to murder a dozen maidens to resurrect Joan of Arc at Rouen in 1431.”

  “But they both failed?” Joann speared a couple of radicchio leaves. Donovan nodded. “If they never made it work, why do you think Valdes would try?”

  “Les Penitents Tenebreux didn’t make it work. A Russian group, the Sect of the Flagellants, may have. Their most famous member was Rasputin. Those times he was supposed to have died? He may actually have on more than one occasion. Apparently, the Flagellants realized the key to the ritual was ‘cursed,’ and affronting Christ, resurrecting the damned, was the way to make it work. Their success was supposed to have been so impressive,” Donovan said, leaning forward, “that Lucifer himself reportedly took the ritual for one of his grimoires.”

  She also leaned forward, feeding his enthusiasm. “What’s a grimoire?”

  “A book of rituals and spells. Lucifer is said to have inscribed the resurrectus maledicat into the Vade Mecum Flagellum Dei, a grimoire that contained spells so powerful one could literally punish God with them. Legend says the only people who can actually see it are those who are willing to endanger their souls. The only ones who can read it are the damned. In both cases, people have to make their own choice—free will—to use it.”

  “Flagellum Dei; hmm.” A sly grin crept across her face. “Are you serious? You really believe all this?”

  “Serious? Absolutely. Believe?” Donovan sat back, and considered everything that had happened so far. “I believe weird things exist. I believe weird things happen; reality is flexible. Are they happening now…?”

  A rustling came from across the apartment, breaking his train of thought. Someone was trying to insert a menu under his door. Donovan looked towards the sound, a savage grin forming. He put a finger to his lips and crept quietly over.

  Someone is going to wish they had a different job.

  In the fraction of time between the brain accepting the signal and translating it to a command to the muscles—

  In the split-second before action is taken—

  Donovan’s instincts screamed: slipping a piece of paper under a door shouldn’t cause that much noise!

  He couldn’t stop himself. He pulled the door open wide—

  Valdes was kneeling, holding a Chinese menu. Coeus stood above him.

  Donovan stared. “Shit.”

  FIFTEEN

  “GOOD EVENING, MISTER GRAHAM”

  Coeus’s arm shot out. He seized Donovan’s throat and slammed him into the wall.

  “Good evening, Mister Graham. I think you remember Coeus?” Valdes sidled around them to enter the apartment. Smiling, he wagged a finger. “He remembers you.”

  “Let him go!” Joann snatched a steak knife.

  “Ah, Ms. Clery.” In one motion, Valdes pulled a taser from his belt and fired it. The twin electrodes shot out and pricked her chest. She gasped. He squeezed the trigger, cutting her scream short as the voltage paralyzed her nervous system. “Pleasure to see you again.”

  Donovan snarled and dug his fingernails into the back of Coeus’ hand.

  “I’ll get our Vessel, Coeus.” Valdes was now quick, businesslike. “Mister Graham is all yours.”

  With a snarl the giant flung Donovan from the foyer. Donovan hit the couch, bounced off the wall and cracked his head on the glass coffee table. He staggered upright. Coeus hooked a forearm hard into his chest, pinning him back against the wall. Donovan kicked wildly. One bare foot struck the giant’s stomach; it was like kicking a tombstone. The pain shocked him and his toes went numb. He hammered both fists into the inside of the giant’s elbow. Coeus’s arm slipped across and off him. His feet touched the couch but his injured toes made him stumble when he launched himself. He collided with the giant’s chest and carried them both over the coffee table to the floor. The glass top cracked under the impact. Donovan snatched a handful of the giant’s t-shirt and twisted it tight around his fist, bouncing the giant’s enormous head off the floor. Coeus lurched upright. Donovan’s feet left the floor. The giant balled two fists and thrust them forward, into Donovan’s stomach. Donovan gasped. The force flung him through the air and he crashed into his office’s double doors.

  Coeus stomped over and seized his head. Donovan clawed desperately at the cigar-fingers as they squeezed his skull. He wrapped his hands around the giant’s index fingers and pulled. The bones broke with an audible snap. Coeus roar
ed and let go. Donovan rolled out under him and dashed to the bedroom. The ASP collapsible baton he’d picked up at an Army-Navy store on Eighth Avenue was the only weapon he had, and it was next to his bed. The giant thundered after him. Donovan slammed the door in his face but Coeus exploded through it, blowing wooden shrapnel into the room. Donovan felt a piece gash his neck. Blood dripped down his back; he ignored it and dove across the bed. The giant slapped him flat with an open palm. Donovan scrabbled at the edge of the bed and touched his keys on the bedside table. He snatched them and stuck them between his fingers like brass knuckles. Before he could use them, Coeus seized a handful of his t-shirt and threw him at the window next to the fire escape. Donovan crashed through it, his t-shirt and the skin beneath it sliced by a million shards of glass and wood. His arms snatched wildly to stop him from plummeting four stories to the sidewalk. The metal blinds slapped at his fingers. He dropped his keys and desperately clutched at them. The moorings tore away and he thought he was a dead man until the steel supporting rod banged across the sill and held. He careened off the side of the building, barely hearing the debris clatter to the street above the pounding of his pulse. The fire escape was a foot away.

  “Ha-ha-ha-ha!”

  Coeus leered over the sill. He brought a fist up and sledgehammered it down on the rod. The steel snapped like a pencil and the blinds collapsed in on themselves. Donovan lunged for the bars of the fire escape railing, squeezing them until the metal bit into his palms. Coeus snarled and climbed out the bedroom window. Donovan swung his feet towards the escape’s rail one flight down. The giant was quicker, bending and locking his massive hands around Donovan’s throat. Donovan snatched at the giant and tore his t-shirt down the front, exposing part of the tattoo Wissex had described. Scrabbling for a handle, his left hand flattened against it. A flash of otherworldly fire blinded him as pain seared his palm. He screamed. Startled, Coeus loosened his grip. Donovan gritted his teeth and pulled his seared flesh free. A piece of his skin stayed stuck, sizzling until only smoke remained. With a grimace he punched the giant. Coeus dropped him. Donovan hit the third floor fire escape, missed grabbing it with his blistering palm, crashed into the second floor and fell onto a pile of garbage bags stacked against the side of the building.

  Coeus shouted, rattling the rail in frustration. Donovan lay stunned, instincts fighting to keep him lucid. He rolled off the bags to the sidewalk, vaguely aware of the giant pounding down the fire escape.

  Weapon…

  Construction materials from city roadwork lined 48th Street but there was nothing useful. His motorcycle was parked at the curb, the Cobra Links chain looped through the back tire. He snapped aware.

  Keys!

  He scrambled off the garbage bags and to the sidewalk. The keys lay in the gutter a few feet away. He grabbed them. Coeus rode the final ladder to street-level, landing hard enough to shake the concrete. Donovan jabbed the key frantically into the lock. The giant lunged. Donovan freed the chain and whipped it around like he was swinging a baseball bat. Coeus caught the twenty-pound, chrome steel links full in the face. They smashed his jaw and rocked his head back. Donovan swung again and let go. The links wrapped around Coeus’s shins, entangling him. Blinded by pain and staggering, the giant pitched forward, skinning both hands raw.

  Faces appeared in windows. Donovan cocked his head. Sirens howled, far off but drawing nearer. Relief coursed through him but he didn’t hesitate. He bolted for the fire escape. Coeus grasped the chain in both hands and pulled. The inner cable holding it together snapped; links ricocheted everywhere. One glanced off the back of Donovan’s head. He stumbled, his arm slipping between rungs on the ladder. Like a linebacker the giant plowed into him, tearing him down and hurling him to the sidewalk. Breath burst from Donovan’s lungs. Coeus rocketed a fist at his face. Donovan rolled and felt the air concuss when the fist missed him and hammered the sidewalk. The giant screamed, spraying Donovan with a mist of blood from his broken mouth. The sirens were getting closer. Donovan rolled to a crouch, feinted and lunged. Coeus snatched the scruff of his neck. Wriggling in his grip, Donovan saw Valdes emerge from the building, dragging Joann with him. With a scream of pain, Coeus lifted and threw him towards the construction site. Donovan crashed through a wooden barricade and kept going, down into a trench, down into darkness…

  ***

  Valdes had an arm hooked around Joann’s waist as he dragged her still-stunned form to Ninth Avenue. An SUV cab sat at the corner, the driver reading a newspaper. Valdes yanked open the back door and dumped her in. The driver glanced back.

  “Hey, I don’t want no drunks puking in my cab.”

  Valdes walked around to the driver’s side, pulled out the taser and shot him through the open window. The driver jerked and danced in his seat, then slumped over the wheel. Valdes opened the door and let him tumble out to the street.

  “Coeus.”

  The giant staggered out of the darkness, both hands squeezing his jaw as though if he let go it would fall apart. His right hand was swollen and angry tears streaked his reddened face. He shoved Joann out of the way and clambered in, the cab sagging under his weight.

  “Come along, my boy,” Valdes said, climbing into the driver’s seat. “Let’s get home and take care of—”

  He heard a snuffling, rumbling sound from the back seat. He glanced over his shoulder and saw the giant hunched forward, face buried in his hands, massaging his injuries. Valdes watched, fascinated, as Coeus straightened and wiped his eyes dry. His face was healed with no sign of damage.

  “Are you all right?”

  The giant grunted, not sounding entirely human. His face held a cast of almost demonic light for an instant, then was gone. Valdes raised his eyebrows, feeling a chill that passed as quickly as Coeus’ demeanor change.

  Hmmm.

  He shifted into “Drive” and headed off.

  ***

  Wet. Blood? Water.

  Donovan’s eyes snapped open. Agony washed through him, cresting in his left palm, where he’d touched the tattoo. “Joann!”

  An Asian man’s face appeared above him. “Holy shit! You all right? Hey, there’s somebody down here!”

  They brought him up into the sea of Midtown North squad cars that flooded 48th Street. Donovan twisted free of the helping hands. “Joann! Where’s Joann?”

  “Who?” The Asian man, a paramedic whose nametag read “Kwan,” shook his head. “There’s no one up there now.”

  Donovan gazed up at his building. It wasn’t a place to live; all he could see on the structure’s façade was a skull face scarred by the fire escape, his bedroom window an empty eye socket. “Then they do have her.”

  “Take it easy,” Kwan soothed. “Let me patch you up, okay?”

  Fullam was conversing with a young Spanish man whose growing bald spot made him look older than he was. He foisted the Spanish man off on a uniform and came over. “I hope you’ve got renter’s insurance.” He grabbed a patrolman’s arm. “Listen, can we get a shirt over here for Mister Graham?”

  “Yessir.”

  Fullam glanced around at the activity. “When I heard there was a disturbance at this address, I told them to send the cavalry.” He shook his head. “Too late, I guess.”

  Donovan shifted impatiently as the medic assembled his supplies. “Valdes showed up with Coeus, and they took her.”

  “Hell of a burn you got here.” Kwan wiped Donovan’s hand clean and reached into his bag for bandages and salve. “That’s going to leave one unusual scar.”

  “I don’t care.” Donovan’s palm was already blistering, the shape of the five-pointed star and circle clearly visible. Great. Marked for life. He shrugged into a sweatshirt and leaned against a squad car while Kwan wrapped his left hand. His fingers jutted out of the sterile dressing and he flexed them, loosening the bandages enough so he’d be able to grip the handlebars of his motorcycle. “Valdes and Coeus. They took her.”

  Fullam frowned. “They showed up, beat the crap out
of you and kidnapped Joann?”

  “I opened my door, they were there. We fought; the last thing I saw before Coeus threw me into the ditch was Valdes hustling her away, towards Ninth Avenue.”

  “How did they know where you live? How did they know Joann was there?”

  “No idea.”

  The sergeant looked at him, eyes matter-of-fact. “We’ll get her back.”

  Donovan seemed not to hear. “He was definitely here for her. He said, ‘I’ll get our Vessel, Coeus’ before he tasered her.”

  “‘Vessel’?”

  “I have to figure this out.” Donovan started for the building door. “I’ve got to call Father Carroll.”

  “Hey!”

  Donovan finally looked at the sergeant. Fullam glanced around, reached into his jacket and unclipped a holster from the small of his back. Keeping it lowered, he pressed it into Donovan’s hand. Leather straps held a Glock .40 in place.

  “Next time, give Coeus my regards. Right between the eyes.”

  Donovan stared at the weapon, looking for answers. After a moment he spoke. “I never should have opened the door.”

  “Not without your x-ray specs,” Fullam said. “Not your fault.”

  “Sure.”

  As Donovan opened the door to the building, the balding Spanish man jogged over. He was the building super, Alfredo Campanio.

  “Damn, vato. Why you got to make work for me this late?” The force of Donovan’s stare made him stop short. He took a step back and looked up at the shattered window. “You went through there?”

  “Yeah. And my bedroom door, too.”

  “Really? You okay?” Alfredo’s eyes shifted to Donovan’s face, to the gun Fullam had given him, and back to Donovan’s face. “Vato loco. Give me a few minutes. I’ll bring some plywood up, patch it until I get someone to come out tomorrow.”

  At the moment repairing the window wasn’t the highest priority Donovan had, but in Hell’s Kitchen he knew it had to be done, and quickly. “Fine. I’ll be upstairs.”