BLACK SUN

Book Two in The Age of Apollyon Trilogy

by Mark Carver

Copyright 2013 Helping Hands Press

PART I.

For where God built a church, there the Devil would also build a chapel.

-Martin Luther

CHAPTER 1

The wind made a crackling sound as it rustled through the raven’s black wings.

The bird angled its left wing upwards and banked sharply to the right, swooping

towards the ground. Moments before impact, it pulled up out of its plummeting dive

and glided effortlessly over the expanse of stones and corpses.

Dark, sinister clouds hovered above the ruins, and they seemed to be pulled up

into a funnel of some kind, as if something massive had just receded into the sky.

The raven’s sharp silhouette sliced through the wind and its oily-black eyes

scanned the desolation stretching beneath it. No sounds came from the mangled,

bloody bodies strewn across the square. The cracks in the square widened as the raven

approached the center of the devastation which yawned into a great chasm where the

Cathedral of Our Lady once stood majestic and invincible.

Now only a crater remained.

The raven flew into the gaping hole, and it emitted a piercing cry that no one

could hear. As it swooped over the broken statues and shattered pillars, a slow,

rippling streak of lightning flashed in the sky above. The ruins were bathed in a harsh

white glow that seemed to twist and lurch, and the bird cackled again. Its squawk was

answered by a snap of thunder that cracked like a whip.

With an abrupt flick of its wings, the raven halted in the air and landed amidst the

stones. Heavy raindrops began to splash down upon the ruins. The bird shook its head

to fling away the falling water, and it began to spring lightly among the shards of rock

as another bolt of lightning split the sky.

The raven hopped through the maze of rubble for a few moments, then stopped. A

nameless saint gazed down at the black bird with lifeless stone eyes. The raven

squawked again, then jerked its head towards the base of the statue.

It stared at another pair of lifeless eyes, but these were not made of stone. Blood

trickled through the gorgeous black hair and seeped over the beautiful face. As the

blood spilled out onto the stones, the rain water quickly washed it away.

The raven hopped closer, leaning forward and peering intently at the girl’s face. A

hand, porcelain white, also protruded from beneath the statue’s crushing weight. The

bird regarded the delicate hand, then stepped forward and pecked it lightly. It waited a

moment, as if expecting a response. Then it pecked again, this time more aggressively.

Lightning seared the swirling clouds and thunder rumbled as the raven’s pecking

became vicious. It gouged and gashed the lovely hand, and blood began pouring from

the savage wounds. The raven shrieked with bloodlust as it stabbed the hand with its

razor-sharp beak again and again and again….

“Isabella!”

Father DeMarco bolted upright, gasping for breath. His chest heaved violently

and he was covered with sweat. His hands clutched the bedsheets in a death grip.

Each breath burst from his lungs and every muscle in his body was tense.

“Father! Be still!”

The voice was gentle but firm. Father DeMarco turned towards the darkness, and

his eyes slowly focused on a face shrouded in shadow.

He was surprised to find himself unable to speak. After several moments, he

managed to whisper, “Who…who are….”

“It’s me. Donatella.”

The priest frowned for a moment, struggling to clear away the fog that smothered

his mind.

Donatella...

Father DeMarco could hear the blood surging through his ears. He forced himself

to take a deep breath and he struggled mightily to slow down his pounding heart.

“Donatella…” he breathed.

“Yes, Father. It’s me. Now please, lie down. You need to rest.”

Suddenly, like the lightning in his dream, a blast of pain raced through the back of

his skull, swarming over his entire body like a wave. The pain was paralyzing, and the

air was literally sucked out of his lungs.

He moaned and collapsed onto the bed. Donatella jumped to her feet and began

dabbing his sweaty brow with a damp sponge.

“Isabella….”

The name escaped his lips like a sigh. Donatella looked down at him with tearful

eyes.

“Shh, Father. Don’t speak. Just close your eyes and rest.”

Father DeMarco stared up at the ceiling that he couldn’t see. The blackness that

nearly swallowed his vision when he was awake began to spread like an infection

over his mind, and everything began to dissolve….

He heard a word. A name.

“Paris.”

Instantly, the black mist vanished, and he sat up in the bed, frightening Donatella.

He jerked his head towards her, even though he could barely see her.

“Tourec…” he gasped.

Donatella swallowed nervously. “Please Father, lie back down….”

“What has happened?” the priest demanded. Sleep was now an impossibility.

Donatella looked over her shoulder at the figures congregating in the next room.

She turned back towards him and placed an insistent hand on his shoulder. “This is

not the time, Father. You need to lie down. You almost died out there.”

“What…has…happened?” Father DeMarco spoke each word through clenched

teeth. A sickening feeling began to churn in his stomach as he struggled to make out

what was being said in the next room. He couldn’t decipher the words but he could

hear from the tones that the news was urgent.

And terrible.

Donatella started to say something but she was cut off by an approaching figure.

Father DeMarco squinted up at the man, trying to make out his face. All he could see

was the faint outline of a beard.

“Nice to see you awake, Father,” a deep voice said with warmth and sympathy.

Yet the voice also quivered with fear, perhaps even terror.

Father DeMarco recognized the voice. Lorenzo, Donatella’s husband. He kept his

gaze riveted to the man’s shrouded face and he asked, “What is going on?”

The man placed his hand on the priest’s shoulder as Donatella had done, but his

gesture was much more forceful, and Father DeMarco had no choice but to lie down

on the bed.

“Easy, Father,” Lorenzo said. “Someone assaulted you outside the monastery.

Donatella stitched you up. It’s a miracle you survived.”

Father DeMarco’s hand instinctively reached to the back of the skull. He winced

as his fingertips brushed over the fresh stitches.

“What has happened?” he asked again, the sinking feeling in his stomach growing

deeper and blacker.

Lorenzo glanced back towards the room full of agitated people, then exhaled

heavily. “There was an attack. In Paris.”

Father DeMarco’s heart lurched into his throat.

Paris. Tourec…

He must have spoken the name, because Lorenzo nodded his head. “His face is all

over the news.”

Father DeMarco swallowed roughly. “Let me see.”

Casting a doubtful glance towards Donatella, Lorenzo left the room and returned

after a moment with a small television. He plugged it into the outlet and connected the

satellite cable, then switched it on.

The bright glare from the TV set burned Father DeMarco’s eyes and he shielded

his face with his hand. The words coming from the television seemed distant and

hollow, and he leaned forward to catch what was being said.

“…Thousands of mourners are gathering around the Temple of the Dragon as the

city of Paris struggles to quell the violence that has claimed at least a dozen lives and

appears to be spreading towards the fringes of the city. Riots and arson have flared up

across the city as supporters of the Satanic church have taken to the streets following

the gruesome murder of the Voice of Satan, who was killed in the middle of a

ceremony intended to usher in a new age for the Satanic Order.”

The sick feeling suddenly multiplied and the priest doubled over with pain.

“Father!” Donatella cried.

He waved her away, gasping for breath as he concentrated his attention on the

broadcast.

“Authorities are still trying to determine how a Christian assassin made his way

into the sanctuary undetected and shot His Worship as the pontiff was about to begin

a consecration ritual. The Voice was thrown into a pool of burning oil, which quickly

consumed the pontiff and the seven girls who were to take part in the ritual, as well as

several members of the congregation who were unable to flee in the chaos that

followed.”

Father DeMarco watched in horror as the news broadcast showed the Voice of

Satan, the most powerful man in the world, standing frozen with his back towards the

congregation. Seven girls were bound in front of him, and they were all looking up at

him with fear in their eyes.

Then there was a loud crack, and the pontiff twisted and fell into the burning pool

of oil beneath him. The flames washed out over the girls’ robes and they shrieked with

agony as the fire consumed them. Like a demon bursting from the flames of hell, the

Voice of Satan sprang up from the fiery pool and tumbled towards the congregation.

Screams of terror arose from the audience, and the platform that supported the camera

tipped and crashed to the ground.

Just before the camera jerked towards the vaulted ceiling of the temple, the

broadcast froze the image. Father DeMarco peered through the painful haze that was

swarming over his eyes.

There, behind the girls that blazed like torches, a man in a white t-shirt was

preparing to flee. His features were blurred, but his face was unmistakable.

Tourec.

Father DeMarco felt his spirit crumble within him.

The news anchor spoke in a dark, almost angry voice. “This is the man who

perpetrated this horrific deed. He was killed in a vault beneath the temple by police

forces as he was attempting to flee the scene.”

Father DeMarco gasped. The television displayed Tourec’s body sprawled out on

the cold stone floor, the front of his shirt soaked with blood. The camera focused on

the vivid cross tattoo etched onto his forearm.

“The assassin’s identity is unknown, but authorities are convinced that he was a

member of the terrorist organization that paralyzed Europe in recent weeks before a

raid in northern Italy effectively decimated its ranks. Yet despite their best efforts,

authorities were unable to prevent this man from entering the Temple of the Dragon

and killing His Worship, the Voice of Satan, in cold blood.

“In response to this tragic event, Satanists around the world have taken to the

streets, and several major cities have been rocked with violence, looting, and arson.

Christian churches and individuals are being targeted in retaliation for the pontiff’s

assassination, and authorities are struggling to restore order. The Satanic Order in

Vatican City has not yet made a statement, but it is believed that the church will

address the public soon. Meanwhile, millions across the globe struggle to make sense

of this tragedy, and authorities and citizens around the world are bracing for what

will certainly be the spark that ignites a full-scale war between the Christian and

Satanic churches.”

The air in the room seemed frozen. Father DeMarco stared at the flickering

images of horror, but he saw and heard nothing.

How... In the name of God, how...?

A second man entered the room and stood beside Lorenzo. “It was him, your

friend, wasn’t it?”

Father DeMarco turned and looked at the man, whose name was Antoni, and his

eyes sparkled with tears.

“Yes,” he breathed.

Antoni’s face was grim. “I recognized him almost immediately. When he told us

he was going to Paris, I had no idea he was planning something like this.”

Father DeMarco lowered his gaze to the floor. “None of us did...”

“We have to leave, Father.”

Donatella’s voice was urgent, and her kind face was creased with worry. “You

heard the news... The whole continent is going to explode. Christians all around

Europe are rising up now that the Voice is gone. They are not fleeing anymore; they

are taking a stand against the heathens. But the enemy is also on a rampage. It will be

a war, Father, perhaps one that will spread throughout the entire world.”

“If that is so,” Father DeMarco said as he took her hand, “where can we go that

will be safe?”

Donatella gazed into his shimmering eyes for a few moments, then sniffed back

her tears. “I don’t know...”

Lorenzo stepped forward. “No one is going anywhere until you have recovered,

Father. Now please, lie down and get some rest. We are safe for now, but who knows

how long it will last.”

Father DeMarco nodded reluctantly and eased himself down onto the crumpled

sheets. His soul was seething with rage, sorrow, and perhaps a flicker of joy, but his

body felt as if he had just tumbled down a rocky mountain. He knew Lorenzo was

right; he didn’t want to be a burden if it became necessary to flee.

After the priest obeyed his command, Lorenzo left the room with Antoni.

Donatella smiled at Father DeMarco with eyes that shone with fear but also with

hope.

“Get some sleep, Father.”

Father DeMarco nodded and closed his eyes. He heard Donatella’s footsteps

shuffle out of the room and the door closed behind her.

In the blackness of his mind, he saw the raven again, thrashing the hand of his

beloved child Isabella. Gritting his teeth, he pushed this image from his mind, and a

new picture took his place.

The Voice of Satan bursting from the oil and fire. The screams of terror. The

seven maidens writhing and twisting as the flames lapped at their robes. Tourec

turning to flee.

Father DeMarco’s eyes snapped open.

Tourec.

Tears flowed from his eyes, spilling down his face and onto the bed. He made no

sound as he sobbed, but he felt as if his heart was cracking like glass.

“Oh, my son,” he whispered to the darkness, “what have you done?”

+++++++++++

Vatican City

St. Nero’s Square was in chaos.

The circular plaza was completely packed with people, and the pitifully small

police force was powerless to stop the crowd from burning crosses and effigies of

Christ, despite the safety hazard. The anguished mourners huddled around the base of

St. Nero’s Obelisk, begging their Great Lord to ascend from the depths and punish the

Delusional cowards.

Their leader was dead, and they craved the blood of vengeance.

Julian Rosa Monte stood on the fringes of the melee, watching the crowd ebb and

throb like a giant black wave of grief and rage. It was a miracle that they didn’t tear

down the grand colonnade that circled the square which had once been dedicated to St.

Peter, but now bore the name of the bloodthirsty emperor who crucified Christ’s

closest disciple on an inverted cross. Julian peered across the sea of bodies at the

towering obelisk, the same stark monument that had stood in the arena where St. Peter

was executed.

There had been a time when Julian would have accepted the same fate, had his

God demanded it. He would have gladly given up his life for his faith, and in fact, he

had taken many lives in service of that faith.

The problem was that it had all been a mistake.

Julian felt the weight of the pistol tucked beneath his coat. He had always

preferred the lightweight ceramic construction of the Glock handgun instead of the

heavier designs favored by his former brethren. Julian himself was a bit short and

unassuming, despite the ominous figure he presented: dark brow, eyes hidden in

shadow, black coat whipping around him with the wind of the approaching storm.

Perhaps on a different day in a different city, people would have taken notice of him.

But here, today, he was just another black-clad phantom, presumably here to honor

the beloved Voice of Satan.

He buttoned his coat tightly around his torso, exhaling a frustrated breath through

his nose. He had indeed come here because of the Voice, but he had expected to find

him alive and well. In fact, he had been expecting a private audience with the

venerable leader, since it was Julian who had provided the authorities with the

location and time when the Brotherhood would convene in Bussoleno. Julian’s friends

and brothers, assassins in the name of God, had been slaughtered in a firefight with

police.

Julian felt no remorse or guilt at the news of his brothers’ demise. They were,

quite simply, fools. He had been like them once, even recently. He could still hear the

screams of horror as he had slaughtered the clerics in the temple in Brussels, could

still see the red mist spraying from their bodies, spattering the altar and candles. He

had truly felt God’s power coursing through his veins, infusing him with invincibility.

It was intoxicating, and he had never felt more alive.

Of course, that was before the deal.

Julian hunched his shoulders against the oncoming wind. He felt tired, deflated.

His thoughts drifted back to his brothers-in-arms.

It had all been a lie. Their “mission from God,” as that pompous bishop had

called it, had been a waste of time. The Christian church didn’t rise up as he had said;

in fact, just the opposite happened. The churches became empty and the congregation

fled like rats abandoning a sinking ship.

As quickly as it had ignited, the fire that burned inside of Julian’s soul was

snuffed out. He loathed the refugees that cowered in the airports and train stations,

holding them in even greater contempt than the servants of Satan who fell before his

gun.

In Jerusalem, it was different. In that turbulent land, the Christian church was

vibrant and invigorated to face the enemy in combat. The battles weren’t fought

simply for land and sacred sites. The chapels and relics were merely symbolic; the

violence dealt from their hands was an expression of the righteous anger that burned

in their hearts. As they were battered by and repelled the enemy’s attacks, the flames

of their faith grew brighter and hotter.

When Julian and his comrades had returned to Europe at Bishop’s Valenti’s

bidding, they were more eager than ever to bring the fight to the devil’s doorstep. In

Jerusalem, they had merely been fighting the symptoms. Now they were going after

the source.

But what good is a strong immune system within a body that is weak and

despondent? Instead of rising up and standing with them, the Christian church

rejected the Brotherhood as terrorists, and the few who took up arms were labeled in

the same category and shunned. Some even went so far as to adopt a favored practice

of the Islamic fanatics that had paralyzed the world decades ago: suicide bombing.

Julian felt anger rising inside him at the very thought. How in God’s name is

blowing yourself up a useful combat tactic? It was cowardly, a cop-out. Those who

employed this method were simply saying, “We don’t have the strength for a

prolonged fight, so we’re just going to pour all of our feeble energy into one

self-destructive action and hope it takes out a few heathens as well.”

To make matters worse, the Brotherhood had degenerated into a theater of sadistic

cruelty. Julian was not opposed to public assassinations of Satanic monks and priests,

but he could never condone torture and barbarism. A bullet to the brain was quick and

made its point. It would certainly be traumatic for those who watched the execution,

but that was their punishment for subscribing to the doctrines of Satan in the first

place.

These new dramatics turned Julian’s stomach. The brethren were hacking and

skewering Satanic ministers in full view of their congregations, and Tourec

Beauchamp, the unofficial leader of the Brotherhood, had participated in the public

immolation of a priest in Vercelli. As his brothers began descending into madness and

savagery, Julian started distancing himself from the group, essentially cutting off all

contact with the other assassins.

Then, one night in the shadows of Florence, Julian had a dream. Perhaps it was

even a vision, since Julian was certain he was awake when it had happened.

He saw the Blessed Mother, weeping as she gazed down at her hands. They were

covered in blood. As Julian had looked in her sad, angelic eyes, she reached out with

her bloody fingers and touched Julian’s face. Her fingertips burned his skin, but the

painful sensation felt oddly comforting, even cleansing.

The Virgin Mother then reached down and picked up a sword, which she handed

to him. He took it, shocked at how light it was. The Virgin Mother motioned with her

right hand towards Vatican City, and Julian felt the sting of hatred burning within his

heart.

His mission was clear, and he took a step forward.

Immediately, his way was obstructed. Not with guards or soldiers, but by his own

brothers-in-arms. They glared at him with cold eyes, their backs towards the

blasphemous throne of the Satanic Church.

Julian was quite surprised, but he prepared for combat. Nothing was going to

keep him from reclaiming the throne of St. Peter’s for his Father in heaven. Then

there was a blinding flash of light, and Julian found himself in the dingy room that

was his home for the night. There was no Blessed Mother, no sword, no brethren.

He was alone.

Soaked with sweat, he groped for a chair and sat down, panting with exhaustion.

The meaning of his vision was immediately clear. His brothers-in-arms were a

hindrance, standing in his way of purging this evil from the Holy City.

His conscience raised no objection as he formulated a plan. He would contact the

local police, claiming to have information on the whereabouts of the band of assassins

that had confounded authorities, but he would also demand to be put through to the

Vatican. He would insist on speaking to a ranking member of the Order to discuss

compensation for the information he was about to divulge. Specifically, he would

demand an audience with His Worship. Julian knew he would never be able to sneak a

bomb or a weapon into the meeting; he just wanted to gain entrance into the fortress

behind the Vatican walls. Julian’s eye for floorplans and architectural design was

impeccable, and he knew that just a few moments inside would give him plenty of

information to use in anticipation of a future attack.

He made the call, and everything went surprisingly smoothly. He did feel a dull,

aching sense of guilt as he essentially signed his brothers’ death warrants, but their

sins and the ineffectiveness of the Brotherhood had crushed Julian’s soul. They had

made their choices, and now he was making his. Perhaps, if his plan actually worked,

they might even be considered martyrs in a roundabout way.

He had spoken with a fellow who seemed to have some clout at the Vatican, and

had managed to wrangle an agreement to meet with His Worship when he returned

from the grand ceremony in Paris. This was enough for Julian. He couldn’t be sure if

the man on the phone was making an empty promise or not, but Julian decided it was

worth the risk. Besides, his killer instincts were razor sharp, and he was confident that

he could fight his way out of a double-cross if he had to. Julian had to admit one thing

to himself: he was good at killing.

He was very good at killing.

But now as he stalked through the streets of Rome, the bile of frustration and

disappointment began to churn in his stomach. The Voice had indeed met his demise,

but it was not by Julian’s hand. Tourec Beauchamp had somehow found a way to

penetrate the Temple of the Dragon in Paris during mass and had miraculously

slaughtered the pontiff in full view of the congregation. Only yesterday, Julian had

found himself standing dumbfounded before the gargantuan television screen in

Piazza Farnese.

News of His Worship’s death drew shocked and horrified reactions from the

crowd, and then venomous cheers arose as images of Tourec’s bloody corpse shone

brightly in the twilight. Julian felt the breath literally being sucked from his lungs as

he stared at the cross tattoo, the same one that was splayed across his own forearm,

which was thankfully covered by the black coat he was wearing.

He knew his heart should have rejoiced. The Voice of Satan, that scourge of the

earth, was dead, and it had apparently been quite a painful death as well. The Church

of Satan was in turmoil, and the Circle of Elders were no doubt huddled within the

bowels of the Vatican, scheming and plotting how to save their blasphemous religion.

But Julian’s heart did not rejoice. As he stared at the images of Tourec’s body, he

felt only one thing.

Jealousy.

As the rest of the crowd watched the broadcast with riveted attention, Julian had

skulked away into the shadows, the black teeth of envy gnawing at his soul.

How could God choose that…that heretic as his sword of vengeance?

Julian had felt sadness and even a bit of shame at the news of the attack on the

Brotherhood’s meeting place, but he never felt that what he had done was wrong. In

fact, he knew in his heart that it was right. They had become madmen, drunk with

their own power, reveling in their vicious cruelty. This was the reason why the

Christian church did not rally behind them. They had squandered a glorious

opportunity to reignite the fires of righteous retribution, but all they had accomplished

was stirring up a storm of persecution.

Julian alone had remained faithful. He alone had kept his eye on the ultimate goal.

It should have been him to silence the Voice, to watch him cower on the ground

beneath him, just before Julian put a bullet through that heathen skull….

The whirling bile proved too much for his stomach to handle, and he had vomited

into an ancient fountain. No one had noticed, however, and Julian had found himself

staring through his tears up into the starless sky

Well, if God didn’t need him after all, then there was no point in continuing this

fight. God seemed to have everything under control, so Julian figured he would forge

his own path.

Now, as he stalked away from tumult in St. Nero’s Square, he found his thoughts

drifting again towards the gun hidden under his arm. It was a great comfort knowing it

was there.

Julian looked back at the teeming plaza. Just because God didn’t need him in his

holy war didn’t mean that he had to lay down the sword. There were still plenty of

people in this world who needed a hollow point through their brain.

++++++++++++

Patric Bourdon felt a thousand icy needles pierce his chest. He tried to breathe,

but each breath felt like broken glass. Through the smothering darkness, he could hear

warped, echoing voices, and a feeble light tried to penetrate the black mist.

Suddenly, he jolted awake. He sputtered and choked as his nerves began to

process the sensations that came from having a bucket of icy water splashed onto his

body. His eyelids snapped open and he winced in pain as scorching light stabbed his

retinas as sharply as the cold water had stung his skin.

Voices, voices all around, but he couldn’t understand them. Were they speaking

French? Everything seemed to be off-balance, and Patric felt as if he were going to

topple over. He tried to move his hands to brace himself but they were bound behind

him.

A surge of fear replaced his vertigo, and he realized that he was tied to a chair. He

jerked his arms against his bonds but he could barely move. The ropes around his

wrists were fastened extremely tight and had constricted even tighter with the cold

water. Patric twisted and strained, but it was useless, and he slumped in his seat,

fighting a growing wave of panic.

“Ah, he’s awake.”

Patric raised his head at the sound of the voice. He squinted against the harsh

glare and saw the figure of a man leaning forward, bringing his face close to Patric’s.

As his vision began to clear, Patric could see that the man was about fifty years old

and wore a dark beard speckled with gray.

The man smiled jovially, though his eyes were as friendly as cold steel. Patric’s

fear and disorientation collided in a swirl of frantic energy and he gritted his teeth as

he struggled against the ropes that held him to the chair. This seemed to amuse the

large man, and he chuckled as if Patric were a wounded dog trying to escape.

His mocking laughter only enraged Patric even more. A vicious, almost canine

snarl rumbled in his throat, and his eyes blazed.

“Let me out of this!” he hissed.

The large man scratched his beard and regarded Patric closely. “In a little while.

First, I want to ask you some questions.”

“Who are you?” Patric blurted.

The man smirked and stepped back. “I just said that I will be asking the questions.

Do you understand?”

Patric gave his bonds one more futile jerk, then stared at the man with furious

impatience.

The man paced for a moment and straightened his clothes. He was wearing a

uniform of some kind, something that an elite police team member might wear. A lot

of black and blue, with very heavy boots.

He suddenly stopped and turned on his heel, as if an idea had just struck his brain.

“What is your name?”

Patric glared at his captor. He made no reply.

The man took a step forward.

“What is your name?”

Patric remained silent.

A massive fist crashed into Patric’s cheek. Searing white hot pain raced through

his skull.

“What is your name?”

“Where is Tourec?” Patric spat through his tears.

The man stepped back as if Patric had struck him instead.

“How do you know his name?” he asked.

Patric clenched his teeth as salty tears trickled into his mouth. “Where is he, you

bastard? Where is his body?”

The man frowned as he stared at him in bewilderment. “We don’t have it.”

Patric’s shoulders wilted and he hung his head. His wet hair swooped over his

eyes in stringy locks.

He felt as if he was being buried beneath an avalanche. Everything was flooding

through his mind: the assassination…Tourec’s death…Natasha….

Natasha...

The dam burst. Tears and saliva dripped onto his lap and his body convulsed with

each wrenching sob. He could only think of one thing that could possibly ease his

pain.

He wanted to see his brother’s body.

And smash it into a bloody pulp.

The uniformed man seemed quite taken aback at this emotional outburst, and he

glanced around uncomfortably, even though they were alone in the dark room

illuminated only by a single lamp.

Patric’s anguish was beginning to diminish, though his heart was clutched by a

cold fist that seemed like a hopeless, infinite hunger.

Natasha...the baby... He had been so hesitant to accept responsibility for his new

family, but in the last few days, he had found a wellspring of love and hope within

him that he never dreamed was possible. Then Natasha took all of that away, even as

she pulled the trigger that had saved Patric’s life.

“You are not the father...”

The torment, the hell that Patric went through to bring his brother to Paris had all

been for a lie. No, worse than a lie. Patric had merely been a prop in a demonic

puppet show that was staged for the sole purpose of removing the Voice of Satan from

this world, a once great and powerful man who lived his life in total devotion to his

dark master. A master that had repaid his servant’s loyalty with Tourec’s bullet and a

fiery death.

Patric’s soul felt like a giant tree that had been whittled down to a frail toothpick.

Such immeasurable betrayal was too much for one man to absorb. In the span of a few

moments, he had been betrayed by love and faith, leaving no answers, only a gaping

void.

He slowly raised his head and stared up at the large man as pitiful tears shone in

his eyes.

“Please...kill me.”

The man cocked his head, unsure if he had heard correctly. “Young man, we

aren’t going to kill you. I just want some information.”

Patric shook his head weakly. “I don’t have anything to say.”

The man knelt down so that his eyes were level with Patric’s. He spoke with a

surprisingly gentle tone. “How about I ask you just a few questions, and we’ll help

you on your way. Okay?”

Patric made no response, but he didn’t refuse.

The man set his jaw and rose to his feet.

“Right. What is your name?”

Patric licked his salty lips. “Patric. Patric Bourdon.”

The man nodded, pleased that they were making progress.

“Well Patric, I am Claude Jeraque. I am part of the Emergency Tactical Response

Team with the Paris Police Department Public Defense Directorate.”

Patric looked up and studied the man’s uniform more carefully. He remembered

being hauled out of the temple by a group of men wearing this uniform.

He opened his mouth to ask a question, but Claude held up his hand. “Answer my

questions first, then I will answer yours.”

Squinting in the lamp’s razor-sharp glare, Patric mulled the man’s command, then

nodded weakly.

Claude began pacing again. “How did you know the man beneath the temple?”

“He was my brother.”

Claude gasped. “Your brother?”

“My half-brother.”

“Why were the two of you down there?”

The pistons in Patric’s mind quickly ignited. He couldn’t possibly tell Claude the

truth, about Natasha and the woman in black. He hoped that Claude didn’t notice his

moment of hesitation before he spoke.

“I was trying to stop Tourec from killing the Voice. Obviously, I failed.”

“Did you kill Tourec?”

“Yes.”

“You killed your own brother?”

Patric sat up straight. “My brother was an assassin. He killed the Voice of Satan. I

am glad he is dead.”

Claude bent down, bringing his face just inches from Patric’s.

“So if you killed Tourec, why were you lying unconscious on the floor next to

him?”

Patric’s mind was too weak from pain and confusion to come up with a coherent

answer. “I was...I...”

Without a word, Claude stepped behind Patric and drew a large knife. The steel

blade emitted a rasping screech as it was pulled from the sheath in Claude’s belt.

Patric’s heart leaped into his throat, then his body lurched forward.

The severed ropes fell away from his wrists. Patric remained frozen for a moment,

then he bolted out of the chair, whirling to face his captor. With a stone-cold

expression, Claude drew a black handgun from his holster and tossed it to Patric, who

caught it as if he were catching an egg.

“Use it,” Claude commanded.

Patric stared at the weapon in his hands with wide-eyed horror, then the weight of

all the pain from the last twenty-four hours bulldozed through his fear. If he couldn’t

take out his anger on Tourec’s lifeless corpse, then Claude would have to do.

With a snarl of rage, he pointed the gun at Claude and pulled the trigger. But the

trigger didn’t move. Patric’s body tightened with the futile action, lifting him onto his

tiptoes. He stared at the gun in frustration, then gave the trigger another squeeze.

Nothing.

Claude stepped forward and wrenched the gun from Patric’s hand. He pointed

towards the large and very obvious safety switch, which was turned on, rendering the

weapon inert.

Patric wilted beneath Claude’s gaze like a student who had been caught cheating.

Claude holstered the gun and shoved Patric down onto the chair. He turned his back to

the lamp and folded his arms.

“You don’t know the first thing about shooting a gun. And Tourec was an

excellent soldier. There is no way that you overcame him.”

Patric said nothing. He just stared at the man in childish defiance.

Claude let out an exasperated sigh. “Lie to me all you want. It doesn’t change the

truth. And the truth is that Tourec killed the Voice, and now Tourec is dead.”

“Where is he?” Patric demanded.

Claude looked down at his boots and Patric thought he saw a glint of shame in the

man’s eyes.

“We gave his body to the authorities,” he said.

Patric jumped out of the chair. “What? Why?”

“It wasn’t an easy choice. Tourec and I were friends for many years. We fought

together in Jerusalem, though I had no idea that he was part of this group of

assassins.”

“How did you know we were down there? How did you get there before the

police?”

Claude chuckled. “We are the police, Patric. Not everyone in Paris is a

devil-worshipper. We were on site in case an attack was made, though we weren’t

officially on duty. Every one of us would have put a bullet in the Voice if we had the

chance, but we didn’t have any such plan. I am still amazed that Tourec pulled it off

by himself...”

Patric frowned. He had help.

Claude shook his head to clear away his reverie. “Anyway, when all hell broke

loose in there, we were first on the scene, because we suspected that someone would

need extraction. We were already suited up and no one questioned us when we came

barging in. While we cleared the sanctuary and set up a perimeter to keep other units

out, we found the dead security guards at the rear of the sanctuary. We went down into

the undercroft and found the two of you.”

“So why did you take me and leave Tourec?”

“We didn’t know who you were, though we quickly realized that you weren’t an

assassin. Or a Christian.”

His eyes indicated Patric’s pentagram necklace. Patric clutched the medallion

tightly.

“Why did you bring me here?”

“We had to find out what you knew,” Claude answered. “You were the only one

who knew what really happened down there.”

And I will never tell you, Patric thought to himself.

Claude smirked knowingly, as if he had heard Patric’s thoughts. “You were a free

radical, a variable that had be removed from the scene as quickly as possible.”

“Why?”

“So that everyone would think that Tourec had acted alone. That’s why we left

him there. While some of us brought you here, the rest of my team secured the crime

scene and sacrificed Tourec as the perpetrator. We wanted it to be very clear that a

Christian had killed the Voice, but that Christian was dead, killed by us, the police, as

he was trying to escape. One gunman, acting alone.”

Patric snorted arrogantly. “Oh, so you think that’s it? That everyone is going to

declare ‘Justice has been served’ and go on with their lives? This is going to bring the

fires of hell down on every church, every Christian in the world. You think it was bad

before? This will be the end of your religion.”

Claude’s stony expression cracked momentarily. “We shall see, my friend.”

Patric looked around, suddenly feeling very small. “So what happens now? Are

you going to kill me, now that I know your big secret?”

“You knew it already, no matter what we or anyone tried to do. You were there,

remember?”

Claude’s words sounded like an accusation. Patric shied away from his gaze.

Claude stood up straight and looked at the scorching light. “We’re not going to

kill you, Mr. Bourdon. We’re not those kinds of people.”

Patric felt relief and then a sinking feeling in the pit of his stomach. “So what are

you going to do with me?”

“That is up to you,” Claude answered simply. Before Patric could say anything in

reply, Claude marched through an unseen door and disappeared.

“Hey!”

Patric dashed towards the darkness that had swallowed Claude like a sea of oil,

and his fingers clasped around a battered doorknob that smelled of copper. He pulled

on it with all of his strength but it refused to budge.

A hot wave of rage burst out of Patric’s soul and he screamed every vicious curse

he could think of. He lashed out at the lamp standing like a silent sentry and it crashed

to the floor. The light went out, and the room went black.

Patric’s fury instantly dissipated, and he stood frozen in the midst of the darkness.

His panting breaths spurted from his lips and his heart thundered in his ears, but he

could hear nothing else.

“Hey!” he called again, his eyes darting across the impenetrable blackness. “Let

me out! Let me out!”

He heard the sound of a door being opened, but it did not come from the part of

the room where Claude had disappeared. The sound came from behind him. Patric

whirled around. A thin ribbon of light stretched across the floor, leading him to the

open door like a glowing path. He leaned forward, waiting. He did not see or hear

anyone.

He crept forward cautiously, and he was surprised to find himself remembering

his fear as he had stalked his brother through the sewers beneath the temple plaza,

though he had been unaware that it was his brother he had been hunting. A shudder

passed through his body as horrible memories surged through his mind, and he

quickly pushed those thoughts away.

He stepped through the open door and found himself in a narrow corridor. The

walls were made of stone, and there were no other doors. He glanced around, his

muscles tense. He heard nothing, and he took a fearful step forward, as if afraid that

his step would activate a spring-loaded trap. Nothing happened, and he began walking

down the corridor with silently, cat-like footsteps. The corridor turned to the right, and

Patric peeked around the bend.

His eyes narrowed. Was that...?

He stalked into the small room, and in the dim light, he could make out the shape

of a cross. The room was a chapel of some sort. He stepped inside, his eyes darting

warily over the icons and tapestries that adorned the room. The air smelled musty and

heavy, and Patric suspected that this building was very old. He couldn’t hear anything

within the chapel or outside, and the only light came in through extremely slender

cross-shaped windows.

Patric approached the altar and gazed up at the surprisingly ornate brass cross.

Dozens of golden light rays radiated from the center of the cross, and despite his fear,

Patric couldn’t help but be struck by the icon’s beauty and craftsmanship.

He heard something behind him and he whirled around. He saw Claude standing

in the doorway, still wearing that unsettling smile.

“It’s beautiful, isn’t it?”

He nodded towards the cross behind Patric, who glanced over his shoulder.

“Sure, I guess,” Patric answered, scanning the room like a rabbit waiting for a

pack of wolves to pounce.

“It once sat in the chapel of Pope Clement V at Avignon, when the papacy

temporarily relocated to France in the 14th century. I saved it from a museum in Paris

just after the Manifestation, when thugs and hooligans were running rampant,

destroying anything that reminded them of the light.”

Patric wasn’t interested in a history lesson.

“What do you want?” he demanded impatiently.

Claude’s eyebrows rose at Patric’s tone, but his smile betrayed his empathy for

Patric’s frustration. “I serve a God of mercy, young man. I won’t pretend to know who

you are or what you have done, but I do know that you do not belong to our Father’s

kingdom. So I will give you a chance to see your error. The choice is yours. I am

asking you to leave your darkness behind and surrender your heart to the light. You

will find the rest that your soul hungers for, and you will find a place in our Father’s

holy family, in heaven and here on earth.”

Patric could hear the earnestness in Claude’s words, and he turned around to look

at the gilded cross. It truly was beautiful, and even though it was barely a meter tall, it

seemed like a towering pillar, pointing the way to heaven.

Patric looked back at Claude. “No thanks.”

Claude did not move for a moment, then his shoulders heaved with a silent sigh.

With his head lowered, he turned to leave, absently waving his hand as he did so.

Patric frowned at this curious action, then gasped as a wet cloth was clamped over his

mouth by unseen hands. His eyes bulged with fear, then the fumes overpowered him.

+++++++++

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