

## THE AGE OF APOLLYON

## by Mark Carver

Books by Mark Carver:

THE AGE OF APOLLYON

BLACK SUN

SCORN

INDELIBLE

CYN

_BEAST_ (with Michael Anatra) – coming Fall 2015

_THE JERUSALEM CHRONICLES_ (short story series)

_COLONY ZERO_ (multi-author short story series)

# THE AGE

# OF

# APOLLYON

Copyright 2013 Mark Carver. All rights reserved.

This is a work of fiction. All names, places, locations, and corporate entities are either the product of the writer's imagination or are used in a satirical and/or non-literal manner. Any resemblance to any persons, either living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

**Smashwords Edition, License Notes**

This ebook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This ebook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to Smashwords.com or your favorite retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

In memory of my father

PART I.

Praise you, and bless you the Lord and give thanks to God,

and serve God with great humility.

—St. Francis of Assisi _, Canticle of the Sun_

——————————

Do what thou wilt shall be the whole of the Law.

—Aleister Crowley _, The Book of the Law_

### CHAPTER 1

Florence, Italy

The members of the congregation trembled like withered leaves shaken by the wind.

Father Gregori spread his crimson-robed arms wide, his hands appearing to slice through the quivering audience like blades. His eyes flashed and a supernatural fury filled his soul.

"I look around this sanctuary...and I see liars! Hypocrites! This temple is despoiled by imposters and pretenders! Have you forgotten what is demanded of you? Do you so easily forget the majesty, the grandeur of our Great Lord when he manifested himself upon our world? Do you forget who gives you life?"

A shudder passed through his body and he gasped a wheezing breath, as if inhaling a spirit to fuel his liturgical tempest. His voice exploded through the Gothic nave as statues and gargoyles gazed down upon the cowering flock.

"You say you believe, yet you continue to doubt! How easily are his children led astray! The enemy would have you put your trust in Him, but where is He? Where are the demonstrations of His power? Where are the signs and wonders that were promised?"

Father Gregori's eyes darted across the sanctuary in accusation, challenging anyone brave enough to meet his gaze for even a moment. He slammed his hand upon the pulpit as he poured out his torrent of condemnation.

"Lies! All lies! They call our lord a deceiver, yet it is they who deceive! Do not let their poison corrupt your ears! Do not let the acid dripping from their sanctimonious tongues burn and scorch your soul. Remember whom we serve! He is the supreme lord of this world, the Almighty! Those who swear their life to him shall reap the rewards...those who do not shall suffer torment and anguish!"

The priest's portly frame trembled with valiant restraint, and he raised his clenched fists in the air.

" _Fall down on your knees!"_

With a whimper, the members of the congregation jumped from their seats and knelt down upon the cold sanctuary floor, their penitent voices swirling and twirling together into a chorus of sorrow and shame.

Father Gregori's eyes rolled white and he opened his hands as he began the concluding rite to mark the end of the service. As his ghostly voice soared through the nave, a somber procession of black-robed monks appeared from the side aisles in dual streams that converged at the center aisle. Their deep, haunting chants intertwined with the priest's rapid-fire incantations as the congregation wept and repented.

The hooded monks revealed neither their hands nor their faces. As the dark parade approached the altar, the stream split again, and the monks began to assemble themselves in the choir stalls behind the priest.

With a deep exhaled breath, Father Gregori closed his eyes and clasped his hands in front of his chest.

" _In nomine Satanas..."_

The last monk in the procession lifted his hooded visage just enough to reveal a strong unshaven chin and clenched jaw.

"... _Dominus Terra..."_

The monk's arms, twisted with muscles and emblazoned with tattoos, emerged from beneath his black robes as he walked with slow, measured steps towards the altar. In his hands, he clutched two black automatic pistols.

"... _Dominus Inferi..."_

The assassin raised his weapons.

The priest spread his hands before the congregation.

" _Amen."_

The silenced barrels spoke forth tongues of fire.

Father Gregori's eyes snapped open and his outstretched hands exploded with crimson blossoms. The congregation shrieked and cowered behind the pews.

The assassin brought his pistols close together and stitched two parallel lines down the priest's chest. The inverted golden cross that dangled from his neck shattered like fireworks and his massive, lifeless body was propelled backwards into the altar, sending ancient texts, candles, and unholy icons crashing to the ground.

The black-garbed monks scattered like startled crows in the choir stalls, some sprawling amidst fountains of red as the assassin's bullets cut them down. The screams of despair from the terrified congregation filled the sanctuary like a requiem, while the grotesque carvings of demons and monsters grinned down upon them in fiendish delight.

With a whirl of his black robe, the monk spun about to face the cowering faithful, who were all but invisible behind the pews. He knelt on one knee and aimed his weapons toward the nave walls, unleashing a succession of rapid bursts that exploded two massive suspended lamps. As sparks and glass showered the sanctuary, the monk sprinted towards the rear of the nave, his hood falling back to reveal a shock of disheveled shoulder-length blond hair that gleamed like gold.

He burst through the giant sanctuary doors and the sounds of violence disappeared with him into the dark street, leaving behind a chorus of shock and terror.

****

Limoges, France

"Double."

The bartender nodded, and Patric Bourdon sought out an empty barstool. His silver pentagram necklace clinked against the marble bar top as he leaned forward and took a seat on the cracked leather stool. The double shot slid down the bar and he quickly downed half of it.

The sharp liquor burned his throat and he disguised his instinctive wince of pain by opening his mouth wide in a silent yawn, like a cat awakening from its nap. He glanced around the dismal bar, chastising himself for choosing such a dreary place with hardly any women in it, and certainly no attractive ones.

"Do you know what that thing means?"

Patric turned in the direction of the half-growled, half-wheezed question. A sunken, withered face with wiry white hair creaked towards him. Two listless grey eyes glared at his pentagram necklace and Patric swallowed an uneasy lump of hesitation.

"Of course," he answered as he looked away with annoyance. "Doesn't everyone?"

The rotten visage leaned closer, tendrils of liquor slithering through gaping teeth. "No, you don't. Not like I do."

Patric curled his lips in contempt. "What are you talking about?"

The old man's creviced face drew nearer still. His words were like a moan.

"I was there."

Patric looked confused for a moment, then he gasped and his eyes widened. "You mean at—? "

"Yesss!" the old man hissed suddenly. He tottered dangerously backwards, then leaned close and spoke with a snarl.

"I watched the Dragon appear...I heard the voice proclaiming the Age of Apollyon the Destroyer. I watched the Cathedral of Our Lady fall to the ground, and I watched the legions of hell spring forth from the abyss and enslave the people in the square. I tell you, boy, not a night goes past that I don't awaken from my sleep in a cold sweat."

The old man's skeletal hands were quivering, and his few remaining teeth grated and creaked.

"I watched the damned turn on each other, clawing and gnashing and slashing...then feeding.... I barely escaped the mob, and I fled the city with my mother, God rest her soul. I never went back...no one should have ever gone back...."

Patric didn't know what to say. He wanted to tear his eyes away from the old man's horrifying countenance, but he couldn't. His hands instinctively clasped the symbol dangling from his neck. Then his brow furrowed.

"So what did the Dragon—"

The old man seized his collar with startling strength. Patric gasped and looked around the room for help, but no one was looking in his direction. Against his will, he felt his gaze being pulled towards the old man's eyes, and he was instantly seized by paralyzing dread.

The old man's face twisted with menace and scorn. He brought his reeking lips close to Patric's ear and whispered. Then he flung him away and turned back to the bar to down his shot of vodka. The old man slammed the empty glass on the marble bartop. The glass shattered loudly. The surrounding patrons turned with a start, just in time to see the old man scowl out the door. After he had disappeared, everyone glanced at Patric for a moment before resuming their conversations.

Patric slumped against the bar, feebly motioning for the bartender to fill his glass, even though it wasn't empty. The old man's hoarse whisper echoed in his mind like a deafening bell.

Trouver votre frère.

Find your brother.

****

Brussels, Belgium

The dark-haired man craned his neck to get a better view through the sea of onlookers. Scattered sobs and curses against God arose from the crowd, and this caused his blood to boil.

Heathens.

He gazed up at the Temple of Belial, a magnificent building that had once been a cathedral dedicated to St. Michael and St. Gudula. Now it was a tower of blasphemy, its altar despoiled with satanic icons and its once-sacred walls ringing with infernal chanting every evening.

But there was no chanting tonight.

The man smiled to himself. It was an incredible feeling to be used as a weapon in the hands of God. He and his brethren had bathed the continent in heathen blood tonight. Paris, Cologne, Prague, Florence. And here in Brussels. He had literally felt God's wrath pouring out of him, cleansing the violated cathedral. He cocked his head as memories of that moment rushed over him like warm sunshine.

Had he actually been singing while it was happening?

The crowd gasped and the cries of sorrow intensified as the coroners began wheeling several stretchers out of the temple. Upon each was a human-shaped mass draped under a bloodstained white sheet. The corpses were steered towards waiting ambulances, and the sobbing onlookers reached out pleading hands.

_Save your tears,_ the man thought to himself as he turned his back on the temple and wriggled his way through the crowd. Once he was free from the crush of people, he exhaled gratefully. As he stepped off the curb into the street, he glanced down and caught his reflection in a black pool beneath the street light.

He recognized himself, of course, but there was something different. Something new in his eyes. A fire that hadn't been there before.

The man grinned.

He liked it.

****

Someone had once told Patric that "liquor oiled the gears of time."

This was certainly true, because the hours had flown by like seconds. After a seemingly endless parade of shots, he finally lurched out of the bar, catching the brass door handle just in time to keep himself from sprawling in the street. A light mist muffled the air and a thin film of moisture clung to everything. Patric rubbed his eyes, which ached slightly for some reason. He took a few cautious steps forward, and when he was confident in his ability to walk, he strolled out into the night.

He was a man on a mission.

The glaring lights of the bar sign behind him dissolved away as he skulked into the increasingly narrow alleyways. Shoulders hunched and collar pulled up around his lean face, he blended in easily with the spectral shapes that glided silently past. A low din filtered through the mist, voices of all ages and sexes. Like a garden of nocturnal flowers, the quaint river city of Limoges blossomed once darkness fell, and this was how he liked it. He felt alive in these foreboding hours, surrounded by what his mother would have called "sleaze and filth."

Patric didn't have many defining memories of his life before the Manifestation. He had been about fourteen years old at the time, and his family had maintained a casual faith that only revealed itself on religious holidays. Of course, the majority of the world was also indifferent back then— everyone was just grinding out the day-to-day. Giving thanks for one's daily bread seemed like a mockery of one's hard work to obtain it, and for Patric, supernatural matters didn't really concern him or his family.

The only real religious presence in his life was his half-brother, eleven years his senior. When Patric was still young, his half-brother had left home and journeyed to a monastery in northwestern Italy, near the city of Turin. He only returned once for a visit, about one year before the Manifestation. Yet despite his prolonged absences, Patric's mother spoke proudly of her devout eldest son, often lamenting that his father had not lived to see his son grow up into a man of God. This adoration for someone so far away inspired stirrings of resentment and jealousy in Patric's heart.

Then came the Manifestation.

Everything changed.

Patric had been awestruck as he watched the news reports and amateur videos countless times. Despite a small but vocal group of naysayers who claimed it was a hoax, he had immediately felt a clutching sense of dread and conviction. He wished he could have been there to see the Great Dragon sever the sky and bellow thunderous words of blasphemy and terror across the flimsy Parisian rooftops. He remembered being terrified and excited as the Cathedral of Notre-Dame trembled, then collapsed, melting like an ice sculpture. Even in the chaos and horror of the Possession that followed, he knew that he had witnessed a power that demanded his allegiance.

Along with tens of millions of frightened, confused, and desperate converts, Patric joined the Church of Satan, which sprang up from scorn and obscurity to become the guiding beacon in a world that had just been thrown into a tailspin. The other side resisted and pleaded for the world to turn back to God, and Patric's suddenly devout parents implored him to join them in seeking solace in the Savior. They had even discussed heading east to find his half-brother. Yet like so many rebellious youths who were impatient with waiting for a purpose, he knew that his life was heading towards the darkness rather than the light.

And what light? What counterattack did Jehovah mobilize? One of His greatest portals into man's heart had crumbled like ash before the might of Apollyon the Destroyer, whom He had supposedly created. Yet God remained silent, and His archenemy remained unchallenged. How can the master tolerate the slave's disrespect, unless that slave has conquered his master? This was a message that was easy for Patric to understand. After a few years of struggling against his family, he turned his back on them and their impotent faith and joined the hordes of unshackled youths migrating from their rural hometowns to large urban areas where the presence of darkness was strongest.

Patric was free.

Free to indulge in every manner of carnality that he had previously felt guilty about. Free to silence his already withered conscience, and to kneel before the altar of hedonism without condemnation. There was no penance to be paid, no Hail Marys to be uttered, no false humility and repentance. Just pure, carnal pleasure. Once the terror and mortification of the Manifestation began to fade, people started to pay attention to the words of the Proclamation.

" _I am the Lord of this world. I bring liberation for those who would seize control of their own destinies. Thou shalt swear allegiance to no master save thine own desires."_

Patric could never understand why the other side had always been so insistent on moderation and self-control and abstinence. What use were these virtues in a tooth-and-claw world? Now, things were finally on the right track. No more masks, no more hypocrisy.

And right now, as he drunkenly staggered through the streets, he knew what he wanted, and he was going to get it. He ignored the brazen calls from vendors inviting passers-by to examine their wares: drugs of every kind, books and DVDs that would have been condemned as "obscene" in the previous age, diabolical emblems, symbols, and relics for incantations and summonings. Patric had enough of such things at his dismal flat, most of them purchased to appease Natasha.

He hastily pushed his fiancée out of his mind as he turned a corner and entered a bleak alley illuminated with red light. Beneath the hellish glare, crude pentagram graffiti was splashed across the walls. The bloody light also bathed the lithe, supple bodies milling about, effortlessly seducing the willing victims continually streaming into their clutches. Patric glanced about carelessly, browsing the devilishly delicious vixens like an aimless window shopper.

He wasn't in the mood for street meat. The alcohol boiled in his veins, fueling his passions for something more exotic.

He ascended a sturdy staircase that contrasted sharply with the wilting facade of the building it clung to, and high above a shadowy door blazed a naked neon girl. He stepped inside and was transported to a misty world glowing with an intriguing crimson hue. A tall African goddess wrapped in a translucent robe turned as he parted the beaded curtains.

"Ah, Monsieur Bourdon, welcome back."

" _Merci_...." Patric trailed off as he struggled to recall the madam's name. He settled for _"...ma belle."_

The madam smirked slyly, then took his hand and gently guided him into the selection foyer. He scanned the room, squinting to study the delicacies from all over the world arrayed on velvet couches. He found his attention arrested by one girl in particular, and he leaned forward, unaware of the madam's grip on his arm to steady his balance.

She was Asian, slender and petite yet full-chested. Her graceful figure was sheathed in a black silk dress embroidered with intricate gold patterns, and shimmering black hair framed her soft face. She immediately sensed Patric's fixation on her, and she leaned forward and glanced up at him with a soft, demure expression.

Patric felt a shudder surge through his bones, and he was instantly entranced by the girl's eyes that sparkled with fiendish fire and the smile that beamed with playful innocence.

A hungry grin crept across his lips. He looked pleadingly at the madam, who smirked again and motioned for the girl to get up. The girl slithered over to him, her perfume wafting from her skin like mist. She placed her small, delicate hand on Patric's arm and led him down a dark corridor, past several doors that muffled moans and cries coming from within. Her eyes were locked onto his, wordlessly promising untold pleasure and passion.

She opened a black door and motioned for Patric to step inside.

****

Milan, Italy

Father DeMarco stifled a curse as he swerved to avoid a yawning pothole that laughed up at him from the street. The irritating fog that had outlasted its welcome was now joined by a light drizzle, double dealers of mischief and inconvenience. It didn't help that the car tires were as bald as his own head.

The battered Lancia Y10 screeched into the narrow parking space with a lurch and a wheeze. Hunching his shoulders in futile defiance of the rain, the priest shuffled from his humble automobile into the shadow of the Duomo di Milano, one of the grandest monuments of holy architecture on earth.

His heart felt a twinge of sorrow as he approached the massive west doors that were flanked by armed guards clutching automatic weapons. Their grim faces were lost in the shadows and they seemed as stone-cold as the mournful statues that surrounded them. The priest fumbled in his cracked leather satchel for his clergy pass, which was acknowledged by one of the guards with the slightest nod of his head.

He pushed open the doors and slipped into the shadows of the sanctuary. A silent prayer fluttered from his soul.

" _How long will it be like this?"_

In the early days after the Manifestation, the world had become literally hell-bent on eradicating the Christian church, Islam, Judaism, Buddhism, Hinduism — all of it. The Prince of Darkness had made his presence known upon the earth, and those who were devout followers or simply exasperated with organized religion were seized with a fanatical furor that resulted in millions of "Delusionals," as they were called, being slaughtered in what was essentially religious genocide. Thousands of churches, synagogues, mosques, temples, and cathedrals were ransacked, bombed, or burned.

The final blow came when the Church of Satan, previously an underground cult with hardly any influence or power, rose up in a massive tempest of violence and stormed the Vatican City. St. Peter's Basilica was ravaged, the Pope publicly slaughtered, and in a final act of blasphemy, the Church of Satan placed its own Vocem Satanam — the Voice of Satan — upon the holy throne. It was indeed a black day for the world, and even though the occupation of St. Peter's was merely symbolical, the damage was done.

Satan reigned supreme in the hearts of man.

Father DeMarco couldn't help feeling jealous of the Americans and Australians. Since the New World countries were separated by leagues of ocean from the abominations transpiring in Europe, these places became havens for those fleeing the darkness. This zeal was particularly strong in the United States and Canada, whose history as "Christian nations" became a rallying cry to refugees seeking escape from the wrath that was raining down upon Europe and Asia. He could only dream of one day seeing this sanctuary filled again with hopeful believers who didn't have to cower in fear behind gun-wielding guards.

Milan Cathedral, in the wake of St. Peter's demise, became one of the most important beacons of Christendom in Europe. Its terrifying facade and staggering proportions made it an instantly recognizable symbol of God's might and majesty. Yet the organ was silent, the choir stalls were empty, and with the distant whisper of rain outside, the once-glorious cathedral seemed frail and thin.

Only a few dismal chandeliers provided light for the priest as he pattered down the yawning nave, flanked by oak-like columns and weary statues who seemed as confused and dejected as he did. Their tragic countenances seemed to scream the question that the faithful raised to heaven every day: _Where was God?_

Father DeMarco was surprised to find himself a bit out of breath as he finally reached the altar. It had been quite a while since he had set foot in this grand building, but then again, the Council didn't convene very often.

A rustling sound grabbed his attention. In the shadows behind the altar, three bare-headed monks emerged and wordlessly motioned for the priest to walk with them. He nodded and followed their gestures towards an unassuming but delicately-carved wooden door at the corner of the south transept.

A narrow staircase faintly illuminated with naked electric lights led them into a stark corridor. Strong odors of mold and standing water hung heavily in the air, and the walls gleamed with fungus. In a previous age, Milan's famous crypt would never have been allowed to suffer such neglect, but now the visitors, along with their contributions, had all but disappeared.

Past the tombs of saints and kings lay a small musty room piled high with yellowed books and ancient scrolls. In the middle of the room, thirteen somber old men were huddled around a simple wooden table, their conversations low and tense. No one raised their eyes to see the new arrival, but Father DeMarco was not expecting attention.

When he had taken his seat, an ancient bishop with brilliantly white hair rose to his feet at the head of the table.

"Brethren, let the Council come to order."

The whispers and murmurs died away, and every eye became focused upon Bishop Valenti's grave countenance.

"My friends," he began with a voice that crunched over his words, "I thank you for coming on such short notice. I have received important news that is nothing less than catastrophic."

Everyone at the table stirred nervously.

"What has happened?" one priest asked, making no attempt to hide his fear.

The old bishop swallowed with some difficulty, then spoke. "Earlier tonight, multiple attacks were carried out."

The table immediately buzzed with fret and worry. The din died down as the bishop raised his trembling hands.

"Peace, brothers, peace...the attacks were not upon our flock. The aggression was directed at the Church of Satan."

Gasps of relief, then of horror arose from the assembly of priests. They gazed at the bishop at the head of the table, who looked lost in his own mind, searching for the right words.

"Tell us," said one priest to his right.

The old bishop heaved a silent sigh. "Tonight, within the span of one hour, at least a dozen temples belonging to the Church of Satan in France, Belgium, Germany, and here in Italy, were attacked during their evening services, and several presiding ministers were assassinated, along with other members of the clergy."

The Council erupted with cries and moans of despair. The ancient bishop looked on with helpless sorrow, his heart breaking afresh.

One fiery-eyed priest whipped his gaze across the table. "This will be the end of us! This will start a new war!"

The priests seated around the table murmured their agreement. Bishop Valenti motioned impatiently for the table to be silent, and he cleared his throat to speak.

"Do not fan the flames of fear, my brothers. There is no telling where this will lead, and we must have faith that our Lord will guide and protect us."

"How did it happen?" came the question from the far end of the table.

"The information I have received is inconclusive, as this report is just now making its way to us. The assassins infiltrated the services by impersonating monks or members of the congregation. Firearms were used in all of the attacks, which was a thankful choice, since explosives would have undoubtedly killed several in the pews as well."

"No one in the congregation was hurt?" asked a priest.

"That is what the reports have indicated so far. Only members of the clergy were targeted."

"Were the assassins believers?" asked another.

Bishop Valenti looked at his hands resting on the table. "No one can say, but it seems likely. They could have come from other religions that the Church of Satan has suppressed, but I have a feeling that the assassins share our faith."

"Do you think they were sent by our church?" asked another priest.

The bishop lowered his head for a moment, as if calculating the possibilities. At last he shook his head.

"I do not believe so. Since the wars that followed the Manifestation, our church has assumed the position of defense rather than offense, to overcome evil with good. Of course, there were many that believed this attitude to be a mistake, so it is possible that someone has decided to take matters into their own hands."

"But why now? It has been more than a decade since the Manifestation, and the Church of Satan holds sway over nearly every major country and economy. Such a thing as this seems like a pin-prick in the foot of a giant."

"You speak the truth, Father Bocetta. This is what leads me to believe that this is the doing of a rogue faction operating outside of the church's blessing."

Father DeMarco cleared his throat. "So what does this mean for us?"

Everyone turned and fixed their gaze upon him, and he shrank back in his chair. Yet their eyes did not express scorn, but thankfulness that someone else had asked the question they were afraid to articulate.

The bishop heaved a worrisome sigh. "I fear...I fear that this will galvanize the forces of the enemy, which have grown impatient and slothful since the Manifestation. In the early days, there was such fire and wrath upon our Lord's children, but as the years passed and the skies remained silent, the followers of the enemy turned their attention from our destruction to the satisfaction of their own fleshly desires, which has since kept their energy directed towards themselves and away from us. We have been suffered to dwell in the shadows in relative peace in recent years, but I fear this peace has come to an end."

The table hummed once more with murmurs and grumbles. Glancing about, as if unsure whether to interrupt the incoherence, Father DeMarco cleared his throat. "What are we going to do?"

No one at the table acknowledged his question, so he cleared his throat again, this time loudly and impatiently. The table fell silent, and he spoke with a wavering voice.

"What are we going to do?"

Every face turned towards the bishop, whose eyes remained fixed upon the center of the table, as if conjuring up the appropriate response. He inhaled through wrinkled lips, and said, "We do nothing."

There was a collective gasp and a fury of whispers.

"How can we do nothing?" Father DeMarco demanded. "Our enemy will fall upon us like wolves!"

Bishop Valenti slammed his hand on the table with alarming force, causing the other men to jump. "We will do...what we have always done...we will endure! We will wait and see what will come of this. In the meantime...our flock depends on us, and on our composure. It is up to us to maintain order and faith. We serve a God who is a God of love, not violence...."

"And if the forces of Satan rise up against us, what then?"

The silence in the room seemed to buzz like an electric motor. Everyone knew what the answer would be.

The bishop's voice rolled over the words like a mill wheel grinding stones.

"Then...we will fight."

****

Patric tottered down the creaking iron stairs into the dingy alley that was now tinged red with the blossoming morning sun instead of neon lights. Squinting weakly, he shook his head in denial of the headache that squeezed his cranium. He shuffled out of the alley and onto the sidewalk that flanked the main road, joining the flocks of morning commuters on their way to work and the night owls stumbling out of their drug dens and nightclubs.

What a night....

He knew he made the right choice as soon as he had laid eyes on that girl. From what he could remember about the very brief conversation they had, her name was Su-Something and she was Vietnamese.

Patric couldn't help but smile to himself.

Limoges in the morning was quite a contrast to the mask it wore at night. There was an abundance of pentagrams, temple spires, as well as the neglected ruins of Christian churches which served as public memorials to the Great Lord's power. But in the soft glow of the morning, these frightful images seemed hazy and less material, even though they could be seen with more clarity. Patric had never found the notion of worshipping the devil to be particularly scary, but there was an undeniable mystique and even fearsome majesty in beholding these images by the light of a full moon or streaks of lightning. Yet during the day, it seemed that the demons slumbered and daily life passed by unaware.

As he turned the corner onto the small street where his home lay, he looked up with scorn at the stark, stubbornly Christian church guarding the intersection, its portals in turn guarded by stone-faced mercenaries, hired guns whose 24-hour job was to hold the vandalizing forces of evil at bay. Patric spat through the wrought-iron fence, then continued up the street to his flat building.

The building was painfully non-descript, and what was even more painful was the absence of an elevator. However, on days like today, this was a blessing.

Inhaling and exhaling deep breaths, he shook his head several times, then dashed up the stairs like a madman, sometimes taking three at a time. One flight, two flights, as fast as his legs could propel him.

Five, six, seven, eight....

At the ninth floor, he stopped before a battered wooden door. His chest was heaving and his shirt was thoroughly soaked with sweat. He lifted his arm and was promptly assaulted with a wave of odor. He smiled, confident that any trace of his red light liaison was erased.

Using great effort to slow down his breathing, he fumbled through his keys and unlocked the door.

Natasha looked up from her cooking. "Long night, baby?" She jumped to dodge an exploding grease bubble.

Patric shut the door and rubbed his brow. "Yeah, the guy who was supposed to relieve me at 4:00 didn't show up so the boss asked me to fill in for him. Same boring work, watching the same boring paintings for eight hours instead of four. I wanted to say no, but we need the money, so...."

Natasha left the stove and walked around the counter. She wore a gossamer white t-shirt, which did little to hide her figure from the morning sun streaming through the windows. She gave him a hug and kissed him warmly. "It's okay. I know you work hard for us...."

She glanced down at her bulging stomach and smiled. "All three of us."

Patric smiled back weakly. "It won't be like this forever; I promise."

"I know," she said and kissed him again. "Now go take a shower; you smell like you just ran a marathon."

Patric was only too happy to oblige. He showered quickly, washing away his midnight memories. There wasn't any guilt to wash off; even when he had stepped out the first time, he didn't feel any shame or regret. He was even pretty sure Natasha knew about his liaisons but opted to stay quiet about it. He didn't care. A conscience was just a dusty, archaic relic from a moral world long since dead. Pleasure was king, and as long as Patric felt the urges, he was happy to obey.

As he made his way back to the kitchen, he heard Natasha gasp.

"What's wrong?" he asked.

Her gazed was glued to the television across from the counter. Patric followed her eyes as he eased onto a rickety stool and listened carefully to the news report.

" _So far, none of the suspects have been apprehended, and authorities are conducting rigorous investigations. Though it has yet to be confirmed, sources indicate that the focus of their attention is on militant members of the Christian church, since it is believed that they would have the most likely motive for carrying out such attacks. Authorities are urging anyone with information related to these horrific assassinations to come forward and assist the investigation. The Church of Satan is also offering a generous reward to anyone whose information leads to the apprehension of the perpetrators. This is Andrea Nicolette for VBN 25."_

Patric glanced at his fiancée, who returned his glance, then leaped to her feet when she realized that the bacon was burning. She hastily extracted the strips from the skillet, then slid a plate with bacon, scrambled eggs, and toast over to him.

"Are you all right, _chère_?" he asked quietly.

Natasha nodded. "Yeah." She was silent for a moment, then spoke again. "Do you think this will be the beginning of another war?"

Patric chewed his food as he considered the possibilities. "Perhaps. Who can say?"

Natasha frowned. Patric got the feeling that this wasn't the answer she was looking for. He started to say something to calm her blossoming fear, but she spoke again.

"Why? Why do the Delusionals have to stir things up? Especially after so long? We've been very civil and tolerant of them. What has our church done to deserve such a thing?"

Patric chuckled through a mouthful of toast. "That's what the Delusionals said when the first war began."

"Well, that was their problem," she spat. Her Ukrainian accent became especially prominent when she was upset. "We aren't the ones worshipping a cold and silent deity. They got what was coming to them."

Patric shrugged. She had always been more committed than he was. His view was that Satan had liberated the world from Christian moral oppression, and anything deeper was just asking for trouble. He had never questioned or criticized Natasha for her zeal, though her participation in weekly services always left him with an uneasy feeling in the pit of his stomach, especially when some of the rituals turned aggressive and even violent. Yet she never wavered, and Patric couldn't help but admire her dedication. At least she believed in something more than the next night's sexual adventure or drug trip.

He crammed the rest of the toast down his throat and eased off the stool. "I'm going to get some sleep..." he mumbled as he headed towards the back of the apartment.

"I'm off to work, then," Natasha said.

Patric grunted in acknowledgement.

"Don't forget mass tonight," Natasha called after him.

He grunted again.

_Mass.... We even use the same vocabulary as the Delusionals_.

He dropped onto the unmade mattress and was asleep in seconds. The last image he saw before he closed his eyes was Su-Something and her dangerous, captivating eyes....

### CHAPTER 2

Vatican City

The monk's black robes whispered on the cold marble floors of the Sala Regia. His steps were soft but hurried as he whisked through a massive doorway that opened into the splendid cavern of the Sistine Chapel.

The chapel was dark, illuminated by a few dim chandeliers suspended from the vaulted ceiling and a handful of candelabras placed at intervals along the walls. The rear of the chapel was shrouded in shadow, and a great silver pentagram hovered menacingly in the blackness. Beneath the mighty symbol of Satan was an iron throne surrounded by tables, altars, cups, bowls, and books.

As he entered the vaulted chamber, the monk knelt reverently at the sight of the giant pentagram, then crept into the room, which seemed even more massive in its silence. He looked about in confusion.

Where were the guards and the attendants? And, most importantly, where was —

"How many?"

He whirled to peer into an unlit corner of the room.

His Worship, the Voice of Satan, materialized from the shadows like a photo developing from a negative. The monk felt a tingle shiver through his nerves, though he dared not ask how His Worship had come from a place where there seemed to be nothing.

There were a great many things that he dared not ask.

The Voice approached the monk on invisible feet. His immense robes made no sound as he walked. His angular, intelligent face, which the monk had never seen fully illuminated, wore a perpetual smirk of arrogance and even mischief. His expression exuded a peculiar blend of brightness and shadow, of welcoming warmth and terrifying hostility.

He spoke again with a tense, disturbing softness. "How many?"

Swallowing his nervousness, the monk stammered, "F-final reports indicate that ten temples were attacked. Twelve priests were killed, another three seriously injured. Six assistant ministers and fourteen monks were killed, and another ten wounded. No members of the congregations were hurt, thank Satan."

The pontiff stared into the darkness for a moment, then turned with a sigh.

"Well, I hope the Delusionals enjoy the fruits of their harvest."

He ascended the steps to his throne and sat down upon it, taking an ancient book in his hands and carelessly flipping it open.

"We were the ones who extended the olive branch, were we not? After all the chaos and madness that followed our Master's return, when they were on the brink of destruction, we were the ones who reached out to them and agreed to let them live in peace. And now, more than a decade later, they repay us with violence?"

He looked down at the book and shook his head. "I should have listened to the Circle of Elders.... I see now that we were wrong to interrupt the Darwinian fight for survival. We were seeking to spare our own people from a long, drawn-out religious war, but perhaps it would have been necessary in order to bring peace to future generations."

He rose slowly from the throne and cast the heavy volume into a table, which landed with a loud clap. The monk jumped with surprise, then gazed up at the powerful spectacle that the pontiff presented, standing mightily beneath the immovable symbol of Apollyon's power. He was staring into a distant darkness, thinking.

Or perhaps listening.

For a moment, the great chapel was completely still. Even the candles dared not waver.

Then the pontiff looked down at the monk with fierce eyes,.

"Not this time!" he snapped, descending the steps beneath the throne with shocking quickness.

The monk cowered instinctively as he drew close.

"No, we will end this war once and for all," His Worship continued. "Any attack on our people or places of worship will be answered with hellfire and plague, and we will quench the Delusionals' faith in their impotent God once and for all."

"But-but what if the attack was just the work of a small organization acting outside the Christian church's authority? Members of our order do not think that they would be so foolish to condone or even command these attacks."

The pontiff was silent for a moment. "Perhaps that is true, but it does not mitigate our response. This is what should have been done years ago. I was foolish to allow the Christian church to remain, weak as it was. Tolerance and acceptance are their virtues, not ours, and this time, we shall eliminate them completely. This attack is the perfect catalyst to bring our retribution down upon their heads."

The monk wrung his hands and spoke hesitantly. "You speak the truth, Your Worship. But is it possible that the peoples' opinion of our order will become hostile if we instigate a war?"

The Voice of Satan snorted defiantly. "So let them think what they wish! We fear no one, least of all the fickle minds of the masses. We serve the god of this world, and we are stronger than any corporation, army, or country. We have unlimited resources at our disposal, as well as considerable power in every major government on earth. If anything, I believe that the public will welcome the eradication of the institution that has lied to them for millennia and provided no protection against our might. What right has the church of God to continue?"

The monk bowed in genuine awe. "Of course, Your Worship."

The pontiff clasped his hands behind his back and turned his gaze upon the intricately painted masterpieces that covered the walls. "Whoever the assassins were, they will go down in history as the spark that lit the fuse of their beloved church's destruction."

He turned to face the monk. "Send word to our temples and congregations around the world. Instruct the priests to deliver this message: the Church of God must be removed, by any means necessary. Fear neither the law nor the agnostics, for they will see our Great Lord's true power in our actions and faith. Go, go now."

The monk bowed low again and vanished from the chapel like a puff of smoke from an extinguished candle, leaving His Worship in reflective silence. His simmering eyes turned back to the walls of the chapel, which had once been lovingly adorned with cherubs, saints, and the splendor of creation, and now displayed nightmares of demons and ghouls feasting upon the souls of the weak-willed and deceived. At the pinnacle of the vaulted ceiling, where God once reached out towards His most precious creation, now the terrifying vision of the Great Dragon as he presented himself to the world grinned down upon his servant.

The Voice of Satan closed his eyes and began to sing.

****

Patric jolted awake as a car alarm began blaring angrily outside on the street. He wormed his way out of the crumpled sheets and squinted as he looked towards the window. His squint instantly disappeared when he saw not the glare of afternoon sun but evening's creeping darkness.

He jerked his head around towards the clock mounted on the wall, then leaped out of bed amidst a flurry of curses. Mass was in half an hour, and Natasha would kill him if he was late again. He ignored his grumbling stomach and rushed to the closet, tossing aside shirts and pants to get to the black hoodless robe hiding in the back of the bureau. He threw it over his head as he stumbled towards the door, narrowly missing a fragile glass bookcase in the corner of the living room. He slammed the door shut, then he rushed back inside again and grabbed his keys and hastily locked the door.

Panting heavily and sticky with nocturnal humidity, he reached the temple steps just as a low-toned chant seeped from the stone pores like vapor. He bowed low before the pentagram blazing above the doors, then slipped quietly inside and melted into the pews with the rest of the congregation.

The altar at the end of the sanctuary bore a mountain of candles which made the massive gold pentagram in the center shimmer and ooze like molten lava. In double rows behind the altar were black-robed apparitions, their faces dissolved by black shrouds bound at the neck. From these grave specters arose incantations that chilled one's blood. Patric knew that Natasha was one of these phantoms, but the shrouds made it impossible to determine which one.

He closed his eyes and concentrated on the chants. It was at ominous moments like these that he could sense the Great Lord most keenly, though even he had to admit it was more of a sensation than a direct awareness of his presence. Still, he felt solace knowing that his feeble faith was placed in something that was real beyond question, something the Delusionals could hardly claim.

A deep commanding voice rose above the unholy din, and Patric raised his head to witness a hooded priest emerge from the shadows of the north transept and kneel before the altar. The priest flung the hood back and spread his arms wide. His powerful voice soared over the shrouded choir and sang hymns of praise to the Prince of Darkness.

This mournful dirge continued for several minutes. Patric tried to feel pious, but instead he found himself becoming impatient. Naturally, he considered himself a true believer, but he didn't think that all of this pomp and grandiosity was necessary. It reminded him too much of what the Delusionals espoused, which was exactly what he and the rest of the world ran away from once their Liberator had revealed himself. This — the choir, the robes, the candles — it all just seemed like empty theatrics meant to trick people into feeling artificial reverence. In fact, if the question were ever posed, he would confess that the times he felt closest to the Great Lord was when he was indulging his carnal appetites with total abandon.

After all, what could be more Satanic?

The chanting suddenly stopped in a razor-sharp moment, and Patric quickly raised his head. The priest rose to his feet and turned towards the congregation. His voice was low and thick.

" _Tantum ergo Diabulus veneremur cernui."_

The congregation repeated the incantation, and the priest spoke again. He would pause after each phrase, and the congregation would repeat his words.

" _Genitori Inferi, laus et jubilatio, honor et virtus quoque, sit et benedictio procedenti ab utroque compar sit laudatio."_

The shadow-faced specters remained motionless behind the priest during the recitations. There was a thick, humid silence that filled the sanctuary, and Patric was starting to feel vaguely uncomfortable. Was there an insect swarming about his head? He glanced around in annoyance.

The solemn priest motioned for the congregation to be seated, then waited for a long, heavy moment before speaking.

"My children, you have no doubt heard of the terrible tragedy that has befallen our family. A dozen of my brothers, pillars of our venerable order, were gunned down in cold blood, without dignity or reverence. Although the assassins' identities have not yet been determined, we can all be certain that they belong to the ranks of the Delusionals, those who would gladly see our mighty order demolished and ruined. Yet it is they who cower amongst the rubble and ashes of their fallen empire, for this world does not belong to their so-called 'Heavenly Father' anymore. No, this world is the domain of Apollyon the Destroyer, Prince of the Powers of the Air, and he blesses his faithful with fortune and prosperity. Those who fly his banner high are rewarded, and those who despise it are decimated like the Cathedral of Our Lady many years before."

Patric's neck twitched and he swallowed dryly. A dull hum seemed to be drilling into his skull with a tiny needle. He looked around and tried to pinpoint the source of the irritation, but he could see no insect or any other cause of the invisible sound. No one else seated in the pew seemed to notice it.

"Before the Manifestation," the priest continued with a slowly rising pitch, "the Delusionals espoused peace, love, and meekness. But we know that the world, and the future, belongs to the strong, to the brave, to those that strike back, rather than turn the other cheek. This, my children, is what has made us so strong today, and will continue to do so. The Deluded Scriptures say: 'Love thine enemy.' Well, we are bound by no such folly. We _hate_ our enemies, and we have tolerated their existence too long. We tried to co-exist in civilized indifference, but they have brought the fight to our doorstep, and we shall respond!"

Patric gritted his teeth as the priest's words failed to reach his ears. The hum had ballooned into an almost shrieking buzz. It could have been some sort of audio feedback, but there were no such devices in the sanctuary, and no one else was hearing it. He grimaced and rubbed his ears frantically, trying to exorcise whatever it was from his skull. A few people near him noticed his convulsions and whispered for him to be still.

Patric ignored them as the vibrations inside his head and all around him grew louder and louder. The priest's words were almost inaudible to him above the hellish noise, which was actually starting to cause pain. He moaned silently and shut his eyes tight.

The priest raised his hands to the pentagram suspended above the congregation like a grim, lightless chandelier. "My children, I bid you rise up! All across our world, the faithful are taking to the streets to show those deluded fools once and for all who the master of this world is! Join them! Peace and mercy are virtues that have no place in this world, and those who hold fast to the feeble words of their Savior shall find themselves weeping amidst the flames!"

Patric couldn't bear it any longer. The noise seemed to fill the nave like millions of wasps that only he could hear, and it was driving him mad. He jumped to his feet and opened his mouth to scream.

The congregation whipped their heads around. Patric froze. There had been a scream, but it did not come from him. He looked to his right and saw a veiled woman that he had not noticed before. Her neck was arched unnaturally backwards, and her mouth was gaping open so far that it seemed that her cheeks would split. The shrill, aching shriek sliced out of her mouth like a fountain of razors. Even after the agonizing cry died away, the woman remained in that contorted position for several moments.

No one, not even the startled priest, dared to breathe. The air was completely still. With a gasp, Patric realized that the awful buzzing had ceased, but he felt a new terror crawling through his veins.

Everyone in the sanctuary was paralyzed, except for those closest to her, who scurried nervously away. The veiled woman lurched and a sickly rasp gurgled in her throat as she lowered her head to fix her gaze upon the priest before the altar. She glided out of the pew and into the aisle, stabbing the air with an accusing finger aimed at the priest.

"Fiend!" she cried. "Fiend!"

The priest looked bewildered and he dropped his hands. He squinted in the sanctuary's low light, trying to make out the face beneath the dusty veil.

The woman jerked down the aisle, her dirty, colorless dress trailing behind her in tatters. Patric suddenly felt a pang of fear as the woman neared the altar, behind which stood the black-shrouded choir.

Natasha was one of them.

"Fiend!" the veiled woman wailed a third time. She had nearly reached the altar and the priest, who was either too proud or too petrified to move. Her claw-like hands reached towards him, yet before she could touch him, she whirled around to face the congregation and whipped off her veil.

Everyone gasped in shock. The woman's eyes were completely black and reflected no light. Patric felt a surge of bile in his throat, and he gripped the pew for support. He glanced anxiously at the stone-like choir and ached to know which one was Natasha.

Why were they all just standing there like that?

"Here these words!" the woman spat venomously through a salivating grin, while the congregation cowered before her withering, abysmal glare. "In the shadow of the Holy Mother, seven brides shall burn on their blessed day, and this shall be the sign that the Almighty burns with wrath! The church shall be cleansed, and the head shall be smote from the body!"

She arched her neck towards the heavens.

"Damnation! _Damnation...!"_

As soon as the last words left her lips, the woman shrieked again and fell to the floor, writhing and contorting like a wounded animal snared in a trap. The priest recoiled in terror, and the choir suddenly sprang to life as if snapping awake from a hypnotic trance. They poured out of the stalls, circling the wretched woman who lay foaming and gnashing on the stone floor.

Patric tried to push his way towards the altar to be near to Natasha but the press of the crowd prevented him from getting too close. Through the forest of heads and shoulders, he could barely see the woman gasping desperately as she thrashed like an animal near death.

All at once, she lay still, her eyes rolling back and spittle bubbling on her cheeks.

The congregation sucked in its breath in unison, awaiting another explosion of violence, but none came. She lay prone upon the gilded pentagram embedded in the sanctuary floor, her arms stretched out across the points. Her neck was twisted in an impossible angle, and the priest leaned forward for a brief examination, then stood up to announce that she was dead.

With a shriek of rage, the woman seized the priest's robe and pulled him down to his knees.

"Fiend!" she snarled.

He violently resisted her, then she fell back again upon the stone.

The disheveled priest adjusted his glasses with a trembling hand and backed away from the woman, as did the others forming the circle around her. Patric exerted every effort to pierce the crowd and reach Natasha, but he was imprisoned in the crush of onlookers.

The woman on the floor was motionless, as was everyone else. Then, to their amazement, a painful sigh escaped her lips and she rose shakily to her feet. Patric couldn't help but gasp when he saw her face, which now looked at least twenty years younger than before. Her skin was the color of twice-burned ash, and her eyes whipped frantically in confusion.

"What happened?" she whimpered, terrified of the throng surrounding her. "Why are you looking at me like that?" She began to sob like a dejected child.

For a moment, no one moved or said anything. Then, with timid steps, an old woman emerged from the circle and put a comforting arm around her. The crowd parted as the old woman led her towards the rear of the sanctuary.

Patric watched them shuffle off together, then turned back to find Natasha at his side, her eyes wide with fear.

****

The candlelight gleamed softly, illuminating the assassin's hands as he worked. Hebrew script was tattooed across his calloused knuckles, and a Star of David wreathed with a crown of thorns adorned the back of his hand.

He paused for a moment, still clutching the gun tightly, and he regarded his tattoos with flickering eyes.

Those days in Jerusalem had been the best and worst of his life. The slaughter, the fury, the blind hatred...yet the Temple Mount, Church of the Holy Sepulcher, and the Wailing Wall remained. The forces of God had held their ground against the hordes of Satan. There was no glory, no reward — at least not in this lifetime. But that did not matter. The only thing that was important was protecting the most fragile elements of the Christian faith. It was, in a sense, like the Crusades of the Middle Ages — defending sacred and holy sites against defilers and idolaters.

The toll was immense, but the price was justified.

The assassin was not yet an assassin in those days. Back then, he was simply an enthusiastic believer, ready to devote his life in service of the One True God.

Memories of the days and weeks of exhausting training by renegade members of the French Foreign Legion raced through his mind. He remembered the pain and fear and weakness being purged from his body, leaving him a crystallized warrior, a righteous hammer of God. With power from heaven, he had set out to shatter the very soul of darkness that gripped the world like a putrid, inky fist.

He glanced at the Bible next to the candle. A strange sense of urgency pricked his soul as he picked up the heavy volume. He opened the cover, the leather worn smooth by countless openings. His eyes fell upon the words written in delicate script on the dedication page.

" _To my dearest Tourec. With love, Isabella."_

His eyes sparkled.

Tourec....

It seemed like an eternity since she had spoken that that name. His rough fingers traced the beautifully curving lines, reminding him of the raven-black tresses that spilled playfully over her shoulders.

She really had been magnificent....

Tourec started to turn the page to read from the Word of God, but something stopped him. His hand was frozen, holding the page at an angle. He couldn't bring himself to tear his eyes from that graceful handwriting. With smothered fury, he closed the book with a loud thump and slid it across the table, out of the light.

He immediately grabbed an empty magazine and began stuffing it with hollow-point bullets as he stared into the unwavering candle flame. He tried to pray, but there was no spark, no connection, like a severed electrical wire. He rammed another bullet into the clip, then dropped his clenched fists to the table, his breath spurting in violent huffs. The candle danced and swayed, nearly extinguishing itself.

Watching the candle bravely fight extinction caused him to relax a bit. Slowly regaining control of his breathing, he glanced down at the faded rose tattoo that adorned the inside of his forearm. She had loved roses, especially pink ones.

She didn't deserve that....

Tourec lifted his eyes to the defiant candle, then squeezed his eyelids shut. He felt so far away from everything right now.

Most of all, from God.

****

"What do you mean, you don't know what happened?"

"I already told you twice, I don't know! I...I just remember singing the mass, then there was a woman on the floor having a seizure."

Patric glared at her in disbelief. "You didn't hear what she said? You didn't see her screaming and twisting?"

"I don't remember any of that! I'm sorry, but I don't!" Natasha pressed her fingers to her temples. "Please, Patric, I don't feel well. I want to lie down."

"The woman was possessed!" Patric exclaimed, fear and shocking rising in his voice. "There was a demon-possessed woman five meters away and you didn't even move! Aren't you concerned about the safety of our baby?"

Natasha whirled, her eyes flashing. "Oh, so _now_ you're concerned about our baby? Never mind the drunken nights and cocaine binges and who knows what else you do.... When I don't respond to a threat that I didn't even see, I'm the one to blame?"

Her words stung him. He knew she was right. It was just.... His mind was such a swirl of confusion and doubts and disbelief that he couldn't stop his tongue from lashing out, even though his aim was directed at the wrong person. He wilted on the kitchen stool and covered his face in his hands.

He looked up, his eyes pleading with her.

"When I saw that woman, I was so scared. I could hear.... I couldn't get close to you, and you weren't moving, and that woman, what she said...."

He swallowed a lump of rising horror. "I don't want to go back there if this kind of thing is going to happen again."

Natasha moved a step closer to him. "I know you're scared, Patric. I was scared too when I saw that woman on the floor. But you need to have faith in our Great Lord, and trust him to guide us."

Patric recoiled from her touch on his shoulders. "That's just it.... Whatever happened to that woman, our Great Lord was responsible for it. This isn't...this isn't the kind of faith that I want to live my life with — always afraid of ghosts and spirits and demons. I just want us to live our life the way we want, not having to worry about any of that stuff."

Natasha took his hands in hers. "This is our world, Patric. We didn't choose it, but this is what it is. There are some things that I don't like either, but we have to accept them. We cannot let our faith waver. Perhaps there are some things in our Great Lord's kingdom that are frightening and dangerous, but turning our backs on him will be far worse for us. We cannot pick and choose what we like and what we don't."

Patric nodded, trying to calm his quickening breath. Natasha stroked the hair falling over his sweating brow.

"We need you here with us," she spoke softly.

Patric looked deep into her sky blue eyes. He embraced her tightly, and he could feel her melt in his arms. It's such a relief to hold someone you love. Yet he could feel something like a cold black dagger stabbing at his heart. The woman's shrieking words rang in his ear like a fading bell....

A distant explosion slapped against the walls of the building. Natasha jerked out of his embrace and hurried to the window. A dull glow echoed off of the low-lying clouds on the horizon.

"That was St. Étienne's church," Patric said quietly, leaning over her to stare out the window. It was one of the few Christian churches remaining in Limoges.

Natasha embraced herself, sucking in a trembling breath. "We're going to have a war...."

Patric turned away.

"Close the curtains."

****

Father DeMarco was quite troubled as he exited the grand cathedral and stepped into the crisp morning light. Far too troubled to admire the ghastly, terrifying beauty of the western facade of the Duomo di Milano. Too troubled to notice the three gorgeous women, likely off-duty fashion models, laughing breezily in the square beneath the shadow of the cathedral. Too troubled to feel the soothing autumn sun climbing over the rooftops of Milan. Too troubled to notice the ancient Fiat 500 exiting the narrow alley as he shuffled along the sidewalk.

Tires screeched, and the dull, dented fender jerked to a halt three inches from his knees. The driver leaned out of the window and unleashed a flood of curses towards the absentminded priest.

In years past, this kind of disrespect for the clergy would have been unthinkable, but those days were long since dead. The collar and the crucifix wielded no power now. If anything, they attracted contempt and scorn. Father DeMarco lifted his gaze briefly, looked at the rattling car and the red-faced driver, then continued his weary march.

The night had been exhausting. Tensions boiled, tempers seethed, and dread weighed heavily on every soul. Several members of the Council vehemently opposed open conflict, since they feared the might of the enemy would grind them into ash in the face of provocation. Others, including Father DeMarco, believed that their side had already fired the first salvo, and preparations should be made to counter the inevitable retribution.

He licked his dry lips and didn't attempt to suppress a weary sigh. Twelve years ago, he couldn't believe that Hell had actually come to Earth, and in the wake of that terrifying revelation, he was all but certain that the Christian church would fall before the firestorms of Lucifer. Yet faith prevailed, and though it was severely weakened, the church of God had endured that initial scathing and the tumultuous years that followed.

Now, after years of desperate survival, a new scourge loomed on the horizon like a black plague of locusts. The Council had already been notified of several overnight retaliation attacks against Christian targets in France, Germany, Russia, even America. Four priests were killed, along with several churchgoers. There were also reports of attacks on the streets and vandalism of Christian monuments and sacred sites.

The mighty bells of the Milan Cathedral roared with sublime thunder, and Father DeMarco was jolted out of his dark reverie. He turned and beheld the west facade glowing majestically, even arrogantly, in the early morning sun. A soothing warmth caressed his frightened heart and he closed his eyes, letting the powerful metallic chimes strike his soul like a hammer on hot iron. A voice in his heart urged him to be still, and he felt his spirit warmed with the glory of God.

As the bells faded, he thought he heard something.

It sounded like....

He opened his eyes and gasped.

Two trails of smoke streaked like demons over the square towards the cathedral. Paralyzed with horror, he watched the rocket-propelled grenades smash into the ancient stone facade and blast masonry and sculptures across the piazza. A moment later, the concussion punched him in his stomach and he was knocked to the ground. Fear and disbelief constricted his lungs, and he gasped for breath as he begged the Virgin Mother for mercy. His legs felt like jelly, and with enormous effort, he sprinted across the street to the piazza where shocked tourists and citizens wailed and scattered in terror. Several bodies lay bleeding in the square, cut down by jagged shards of shrapnel.

A painful cry of anguish pierced Father DeMarco's ears, and he turned to see two women cradling their friend in their arms. He rushed to them and looked down at their red hands. Blood spouted from numerous gashes in the young woman's lifeless body, and the right side of her once-beautiful face had been demolished by a flying piece of stonework. The women wailed hysterically as the priest knelt down beside them. For a moment, he was mesmerized by their unspeakable grief, and like a massive stone being rolled slowly over his back, all of the sorrow and misery he had felt for lost friends and family surged over him with overwhelming heaviness. The anguish that poured from the two women gouged his heart and it took superhuman effort to restrain a torrent of tears. With trembling hands, he performed last rites for the deceased woman, and his gaze fixed upon the quivering bronze cross he held above the body.

Slowly, he lifted his tearful eyes towards the pulverized church, its nave gaping open like a disemboweled monster, all of its brilliance, glory and sanctity vaporized in an instant. Then he lifted his eyes towards heaven.

" _Where are you?"_ he cried, his heart rending itself with agony.

****

The daylight hours had been tense and quiet. The sounds of marches and protests could be heard in the streets, and the skyline was streaked with smoke from arson fires, but Patric knew the real outrage would manifest now that the sun was going down. The town had had a day to stew and simmer after the initial burst of aggression the night before. The explosion at St. Étienne's was just the beginning....

He had been very reluctant to leave Natasha at home while he went to his job guarding ancient art works at the gallery, and his sense of dread quickened as he made his way through the darkening streets. The news channels were ablaze with reports of numerous attacks on churches, synagogues, and other religious institutions, and that fury burned even now as Patric navigated through Limoges' narrow stone streets.

He hurried past a seething mob marching through a wide alley, feeling strangely afraid of the inverted crosses and pentagrams scrawled in blood across placards and foreheads. He couldn't tell what the mob's intended target was, and he didn't want to know. Nothing would have made him happier than the decimation of the Christian church, but for some reason, now that it seemed to be actually happening, a sick knot of fear twisted in his stomach. This was not the way things were supposed to be.

He quickened his steps and kept his head down, and for the first time in his life, he hoped to reach his workplace as quickly as possible. As the mob disappeared from sight behind ancient stone buildings, Patric was startled to hear shouts and curses and shattering glass. He could make out one phrase in the growing chaos: "Kill the heathens!"

_So,_ he mused wryly _, the Delusionals are deciding to live by the sword as well..._

Hurrying past the violence, Patric silently cursed the fools who had assassinated the priests and started this whole fracas. What had it accomplished? It was merely a pinprick that had awakened a terrible beast, and the only result would be the final destruction of the Christian church and its followers. Christian blood would surely flow more abundantly than that of Satan's loyal legions.

He rounded a corner and felt a warm wash of relief as he spotted the cracked stone steps of the fine art gallery. The distant madness reminded him of the piercing buzz that had bored into his brain during mass last night. This was all becoming too vivid, too... _real_.

This was not the kind of place to raise a family.

His thoughts drifted to Natasha, and he couldn't help feeling a bit guilty leaving her at home, especially since just around the corner from their flat was the Christian church — a tempting target for the mobs. Of course, he was sure there was no actual danger for her or the child, but mobs follow no logic or reason, and the slightest breeze can become a hurricane.

_She's a smart girl_ , he reassured himself, _and besides, she's on their side_. _If anything, she might even join them._

Patric smirked at the thought of his pregnant fiancée storming the church gates with a torch in hand. His smile quickly wilted, and a pang of worry immediately followed.

She might actually do that....

Patric shook his head to clear away these irrational thoughts. Right now, he just wanted to get inside, away from the intrusion of righteous indignation into his quiet, ordinary life.

Dusk was creeping over the city, and as the sunlight died, the fury of the violent mobs began to grow. The sounds of riots and arson hovered over the rooftops, and billows of smoke were gushing towards the sky.

Patric cast a nervous glance behind him at the agitated skyline, then let himself into the gallery via the side entrance. He slipped into the locker room to change into his security uniform, and he replaced a nervous guard at the front desk who seemed a bit reluctant to head outside into the firestorm. Through the soaring gallery windows, faint orange and yellow light pulsated like a frantically beating heart. He felt more than a little uneasy, even though he was safe inside a triple-locked museum housing Limoges _'_ most precious artifacts.

The patrons had left long ago, and Patric doubted that there were even any patrons at all today. For some strange reason, he felt exposed and vulnerable sitting at the front desk, a feeling he had never felt before. He was also keenly aware of how angular and uncomfortable the guard's seat was. Exhaling a low breath, he glanced around for a remedy for his discomfort. After a few moments of searching, he seated himself in a far corner crisscrossed by shadows from the flamboyant tracery on the windows. The paintings and relics mounted on the walls struck no chords in his soul; Natasha was the artistic one. Yet tonight, the vast array of valiant soldiers, coquettish maidens, and wild-eyed horses scattered throughout the great room seemed to twitch and breathe and blink as fiery glimmers splashed across them like rain upon a windowpane.

Patric dropped his gaze and tried to focus on slowing down his heartbeat. He gazed at an empty spot on the wall and breathed methodically, relieved to feel himself becoming calmer. After a few minutes, he relaxed his body and slumped in his chair.

The chaos of anger and aggression seemed to be growing more and more distant. A warm softness was beginning to surround his head, and his eyelids were becoming heavy. He woke himself once with a start, then immediately slipped into a thin, uncomfortable slumber.

****

Something warm and wet touched his ear.

His eyes snapped open. It was completely dark. Was there a power failure? He looked around but could see absolutely nothing, not even light from the windows.

He didn't know why, but his eyes felt funny, as if his eyelids were stuffed with cotton. It took him a moment of intense concentration to realize that they were still closed.

What the...?

With tremendous effort, he lifted his eyelids like heavy garage doors. The red-lit room tilted and twisted, and a violent swirl of shapes made him squint. All around him, like mischievous ghosts, voices laughed, coughed, and moaned, and a blast of pungent liquor aromas assaulted his nose.

He felt the tickling sensation in his ear again, and he slowly turned to identify the culprit. Through the haze and fog, he could make out a lovely face framed by raven black hair, and a pair of playful, enchanting eyes....

A thick surge of happiness oozed through his veins. He tried to speak her name, but there was no sound, but it didn't matter anyway since he only knew half of her name, and the last thing he wanted was to offend her by calling her "Su-Something."

He smiled at her, marveling at how thick and syrupy his lips felt. Su smiled back, and Patric was sure that his heart would erupt through his chest. She was beautifully naked and coiled like a serpent on the black velvet couch, pawing and stroking him as she nibbled on his earlobe. She was apparently lost in the same soporific whirlwind as he was, and he leaned over and kissed her messily.

After a few seconds, or perhaps minutes, Patric needed air. He broke away from her and slumped back on the sofa, his head lolling heavily. All around him was a carnival of indulgence. Nearly everyone was almost or completely naked, every nose was flecked with white, and every eye was red and watering. The air was stifled with smoke of all varieties, and several couples were scattered across the gaudy furniture, writhing and sweating and gasping.

Squinting in a futile attempt to focus, Patric recognized an acquaintance stretched across a couch on the other side of the room, snorting cocaine off of a woman's lower back. Ignoring Su, he stumbled across the room, careful to avoid a frantic couple intertwined on the carpeted floor.

"Is that you, Jacque?" he mumbled, slapping his hand heavily across the man's back.

Jacque jumped with a start and the prostitute fell heavily onto the floor, spilling the cocaine across the carpet. Jacque peered at Patric with shifty eyes that slowly focused, and his ragged, driftwood face broke into a toothy smile.

"Quite the party, isn't it?" he shouted over nonexistent music.

Patric nodded, though it was perhaps simply a consequence of his body rocking with the combination of alcohol and hallucinogens.

"How did I get here?" he slurred.

Jacque looked back at the sofa and an expression of confusion darkened his face, which melted immediately when he saw the hooker asleep on the carpet in her own saliva.

"Patric, you mean you don't remember? I found you on the street. You told me that your shift was over, and the streets were too crowded and dangerous to get home right away, so I brought you here. You don't remember that?"

Patric furrowed his brow, trying to squeeze memories like juice from his mind. He could vaguely recall what Jacque had described, but...he thought had just been dozing at the gallery a moment ago.

Did time really fly so quickly?

"Bébé _,"_ a soft, yearning voice called out.

He turned around and grinned.

Su and another equally naked woman of Arabic descent beckoned him back into their waiting arms.

He made no attempts to resist.

### CHAPTER 3

Almighty God, bless the faithful that have fallen in Your name.

Grant us protection and perseverance as we stand against the trials and tribulations to come.

Encircle us with Your saints so that the enemy may know that we fight not for ourselves, but for You, O Lord.

Search our hearts and see that our will is pure; yet we are fallen, finite creatures, and our feet may sometimes stray from the path of righteousness. But do not let Your wrath burn against us, O Lord, and we ask that You sanctify our actions, for everything we do is in Your name and for Your sake.

Grant us wisdom that we may align our steps with Yours, and let us not waver for any reason. Let us resist fear, complacency, and temptation, and keep our eyes focused on Your glory, and the glory that awaits us in heaven.

Forgive us for the sins that we have committed, and for those we shall soon commit.

In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Ghost.

Amen.

Tourec crossed himself and looked up. Amidst the sea of candles and crucifixes, the Blessed Virgin gazed down at him with soft, sorrowful eyes, and the light radiating from her meek countenance seemed to shimmer and pulse. Her gentle voice was faint and distant, yet her words rang deep within his heart.

You grieve your Heavenly Father.

Tourec felt a chill race through his veins as a heavy hand fell upon his shoulder. He lowered his eyes and his face fell into shadow.

"Are you ready, my son?" spoke a low, crumbling voice.

"I am."

Tourec raised his eyes again to the Virgin Mother. He clenched his jaw as he rose to his feet and withdrew two silenced pistols from his cloak.

God would forgive him. He had to.

Tourec cocked the guns in defiance.

****

Damn mosquitoes.

Patric slapped his ear in frustration as he pried his face away from the bed. He felt a twinge of disgust as a cold, sticky string of saliva tethered his cheek to the sheets. The buzzing around his head did not disappear, and he opened one eye with great effort to locate the aerial villain.

The room was dark, faintly illuminated by a weak bedside lamp that glowed red. Erotic pictures decorated the walls, if the occupants inside needed any additional stimulation. Patric opened the other eye and scanned the room.

Su-Something was standing in the corner, facing the wall and swaying slightly. Feeble rays from the awakening morning sun filtered through the purple curtains and cast a mysterious hue over her slender body. Patric grinned wolfishly and opened his mouth to invite her back to bed, but he winced as the buzzing in his ear increased sharply.

At that moment, Su whipped her head to the left and glared at him with soulless black eyes.

Patric's blood froze. The head-splitting hum immediately grew louder again, and he felt fear grip his heart.

The sound...it's the same as....

With a hellish shriek, Su sprang from the corner like a spider and leaped onto the bed. Before Patric could react, he was pinned beneath her, handcuffed by her fists clenched around his wrists. Despite her small size, she felt twice as heavy as the night before, and he couldn't budge an inch.

Utter terror gripped his soul, and his gaze was commanded by Su's vacant eyes, which were black as the deepest depths of space. Her sweating body heaved violently with each massive, gasping breath, and her mouth was frozen in a half-smile, half-growl. She stared at him with hunger and ferocity, and Patric was too horrified to scream.

With a jerk, Su's head wrenched back and upwards, jutting her chin towards the red-draped chandelier. Her back arched forcefully and her vertebrae cracked. Her body was wracked again and she flung herself down upon Patric, her salivating mouth inches from his face.

"Do not listen to them!" she rasped in a hollow, wheezing voice that seemed to echo in her throat. "Do not believe their lies! Obey your master! The light is a lie!"

"Wha-what are you talking about?" Patric whimpered pitifully.

"The light is a lie!" the delicate Vietnamese girl bellowed. "Find him! You must find him!"

"Find _who?"_

Su roared with demonic fury.

" _Your brother!"_

For a moment, Patric's overwhelming fear gave way to terrified confusion.

"My-my brother? I don't know where he is!"

"Find him! Bring him to Paris! Before the full moon rises, bring him to the Unholy City!"

Patric gasped with pain and surprise. "Paris? Why Paris?"

"Find him!" Su shrieked hysterically as veins popped in her forehead and neck. "Find him or the child dies!"

A strand of saliva trailed from her gaping mouth onto Patric's face.

"Whose child?" he gasped.

Su didn't answer. She just stared at him with a horrifying grin that displayed every single tooth.

Like a splash of cold water to his face, Patric's terror suddenly morphed into anger.

"Don't hurt them!" he commanded, knowing now that he wasn't speaking to Su. "Stay away from them!"

Su lowered her contorted face and stared deep into his eyes.

"Find your brother...!"

Patric could bear no more. Summoning every ounce of his strength, he flung the girl off the bed. She slammed against the wall and crumpled on the floor like a blanket. Squinting through tears, Patric grabbed his clothes and bolted out the door.

He barreled into the African madam, at that moment escorting Jacque to an empty bedroom.

" _Monsieur!"_ she cried.

"Patric!" Jacque called after him as he vanished through the door into the sunlight.

Patric lurched and spun and nearly fell down the iron stairs leading to the alley. He threw on his rumpled clothes as he ran, ignoring Su's pleading cries coming from the second story window.

He flew across the awakening city like a mouse pursued by an invisible cat, dodging cars, carts, pedestrians, and foliage. The violence of the previous night had ceased, though smoking ruins of Christian shops peppered the streets. He didn't notice any of it. A sick, festering fear twisted in his stomach, alongside the shrieking muscle cramp that grew more insistent by the minute.

His feet pounded the cobblestone streets like gunfire.

Please let them be okay....

He didn't know who he was praying to, but at this point, he certainly knew who he was _not_ praying to.

His hair flew wildly as he rounded the corner where the Christian church remained untouched, though several anti-Christian signs and heaps of garbage littered the street, and he burst into the stairwell of his apartment building. He bounded up the stairs three at a time and exploded through the front door.

"Natasha!" he called out in breathless terror.

He waited for a moment, listening.

"Natasha!" he shouted again, stepping into the kitchen. Sweat droplets flew off of his hair as he whipped his eyes back and forth, searching for any sign of life.

"Natasha!" he called again.

He took another step forward and jumped as he saw her crouched on the floor against the stove, hugging her legs tightly.

"Oh, _mon amour,_ " Patric gasped, kneeling down beside her. "Are you all right?"

Natasha's face was streaked with dried tears and her eyes were circled with dark, sleepless rings. She turned slowly towards him, her face tight with accusation.

"Where were you?"

Patric swallowed painfully. "Natasha...."

She slapped his comforting hand away from her face. "You leave me here... _all night_...while the whole city becomes a war zone. You come back now, stinking of liquor and whores, and you ask me if I'm all right?"

A deep stab of guilt struck Patric right where the screaming cramp ached. "Natasha, I...I'm sorry...."

"Sorry?"

Natasha leaped to her feet as her fury exploded.

"You bastard! I was terrified, Patric, terrified that something had happened to you! You didn't call or anything; you just left me here, worried to death! I know; I understand that you have a job to do, but you come home _now_ , pretending to be concerned about my safety — "

"I am!" Patric interjected weakly.

"— And I find that you've been drinking and screwing the night away, without a single thought for me or our child! Is this what kind of man you are?"

Patric raised his hands to plead with her. "Darling, please, calm down; it's not good for the baby...."

"Bastard!" she screamed again, slapping him broadly across the face, then collapsing in a puddle of tears. Her whole body quivered and she sobbed loudly, burying her face in her hands.

Patric's heart ached. He wanted to reach out and comfort her, but something held him back. Dejected, he slumped against the cabinet and stared vacantly at the wall.

"Natasha...I really am sorry."

She sniffed and looked at him with red, watery eyes.

Patric looked at his hands, feeling like utter scum. "You are right about everything. I have not been a good man for you, and I don't deserve you. I...I don't know what else to say."

Natasha sniffed again and stared at him for a long time. Patric couldn't bring himself to meet her eyes.

After a thick, stifling silence, she said, "There's nothing to say," and rose to her feet. Patric watched her leave. He heard the bedroom door close, and he hung his head in shame.

****

"Amen."

Father DeMarco closed the heavy Bible and offered a small consoling smile to the meager congregation. To tell the truth, he was surprised that anyone had come to the service at all. Since the retaliatory violence began, fear blanketed the worldwide Christian church like a mist. There was nowhere the enemy couldn't reach.

The priest scanned his dismal surroundings. He and his congregation had retreated to a dank wine cellar to worship, afraid of violence at their usual church building, despite the presence of armed guards. Only the most faithful and the most fearful had ventured out to lay their cares at the feet of God. Father DeMarco could see fear and worry etched onto the faces of the congregation. Many truly believed that this was the end, the advent of the Abomination of Desolation.

No one knows the future, he had reminded them, but he also urged them to recall the hopelessness and terror that gripped the church many years ago when Satan himself appeared to mankind, and the ensuing chaos that jarred and shook the church, but did not destroy it. This new trial would certainly be formidable, he admitted, but a faith that emerges on the other side of great testing emerges stronger and victorious, and the trial that causes one's faith to be refined should be welcomed, not feared. Satan's return to earth had indeed convinced humanity that a supernatural world existed, and that if Satan was real, then so was God. The Christian church had instantly put aside denominational and cultural differences and had coalesced into a rock-solid fortress against the surging tide of darkness. But in the twelve years since, in the wake of lethargy and indifference by the enemy, the church had also lost its sharpness. Perhaps this new tribulation was the whetstone to restore the edge.

Father DeMarco genuinely believed these words as they rushed from his mouth, but he could see smothering doubt in the eyes of the listeners. They weren't thinking about bolstering their faith and shoring up the defenses of their souls; they feared for their families, their children. They were worried about losing their jobs and their homes. They knew that the Church of Satan was immeasurably strong, and that it had its hands in every government, every corporation, every army. The laws of man could not protect them, even though most countries claimed to be neutral. The Satanic church had unlimited resources, and those who bowed to no god followed the oldest god of all: money.

He felt these worries no less than his flock did. His congregation had been his life's work for more than half a century, and he had vowed before God to defend them as he would his own children. Their pain and torment stung his soul. He offered words of encouragement and vigilance, but he had to confess to himself that this storm might be too strong to weather. Ever since he had witnessed those savage missiles pulverize the beloved Duomo di Milano, he felt weak and crumpled inside. Even his stature reflected his despair; one member of the congregation had approached him before the service and nervously asked if Father DeMarco was hurt, since he seemed unnaturally hunched over. He had tried to walk with a lifted chin and squared shoulders, but the invisible weight bearing down on his soul proved too heavy, and his stooping posture reflected his ailing spirit.

He stepped away from the empty wine barrel topped with an old wooden plank that had served as his pulpit and made his way to the cellar door. He smiled and nodded to those he passed, and as he opened the door and stepped out into the late morning sun, a warmth crept over him. Yet his face was dark. He had felt this same sensation the previous morning, just before God turned his back on Milan and let one of His grandest earthly monuments be ripped open by fiery heathen claws. Father DeMarco likewise turned his back on the sun. He couldn't imagine it would ever truly feel warm again.

As the members of his congregation filed out the door, he clasped their hands and bade them be careful, and told them that the church would offer aid and sanctuary to anyone who needed it. As the people disappeared cautiously into the morning sun, he offered urgent pleas for heaven's protection. He begged God to let him see them again.

After the last person had left the cellar, Father DeMarco slipped inside and closed the heavy wooden doors. He turned and was startled to see one figure remaining amongst the scattered chairs. His hair gleamed with golden brilliance, and he was kneeling in reverent prayer before the makeshift altar erected at the rear of the cellar.

Father DeMarco wrinkled his brow. He did not recognize this man. A hushed voice inside his head told him to be cautious, and he approached the penitent figure with quiet steps.

"Forgive me Father, for I have sinned."

He froze at the voice. The man raised his head and turned around.

Father DeMarco gasped.

"Tourec?"

"I am sorry to disturb you, Father," Tourec said, keeping his head low.

"No, no, it's all right," Father DeMarco blurted as he grabbed a seat and sat beside him. He felt a strong urge to touch Tourec's shoulder, as if to convince himself that he was real, not just a vision. "How long has it been?"

Tourec looked squarely into the priest's eyes. "You know how long."

Father DeMarco started to speak, but the words evaporated on his tongue. He sighed and looked at his hands. "You're right." He looked up again. "But I am glad to see you now."

"Are you?" There was a strange bite in Tourec's words.

Father DeMarco gestured widely. "Of course. You were one of my brightest.... I always knew great things awaited you...."

"I started this war."

Father DeMarco blinked. "What...what do you mean, Tourec?"

Tourec's unwashed blond locks hid his eyes. "I was involved in the assassinations three days ago."

"Involved...how?"

Tourec exhaled. "Florence."

A gasp escaped Father DeMarco's dry lips. "You're one of _them_? Tourec, how could you? After everything I taught you—"

"It wasn't enough!" Tourec snapped, jumping to his feet and knocking over his chair. "Twelve years I've been staggering beneath this weight. When she was...when the Dragon appeared, I did not lose faith like the others, or retreat to the New World. My commitment to the church became stronger than ever, despite my grief. Your words helped me through that, Father."

"We both loved her, my son. But you did not stay....you left us. What happened? Where did you go?"

Tourec paced impatiently before the makeshift altar. "I've always been a man of action, Father, and words were not enough. Our church was being assailed on all sides, and I took up arms in defense of her. I went to Jerusalem, to the heart of the Holy Land, to seek solace in God and defend his holy relics."

Father DeMarco sighed mournfully. "My son, I am truly sorry. I sought to guide you in the way I guide others, but I never realized how unique you were."

"Well, I found new teachers there. They taught me the art of war, and I learned how to apply my skills in the service of our Savior. And I was good, Father, I was really good. You have no idea of the enemy's craftiness and determination in that part of the world. We foiled countless plots and repelled countless attacks. And today, the Temple Mount still stands, mass is heard at the Church of the Holy Sepulcher, and the Wailing Wall is free of blasphemous messages and symbols. For years, I fought in that sacred city, and I learned something there that you never taught me— that evil overcomes good unless good fights back."

"Tourec..."

Tourec ignored him. "In spite of our victories, I knew that defense could only last for so long. I prayed long and hard, and God spoke to me. He told me that when defense begins to give way, the only way to save the ones you love is to go on the offensive. That's what I'm doing now; that's what _we_ are doing. My brothers from the Holy Land and I are taking the fight to the enemy now, on his soil, in his temples. We will not be the victims anymore!"

Father DeMarco leaped to his feet, feeling a surge of righteous anger burn inside him. "We will always be the victims!" he cried. "Don't you see, Tourec, you have angered an enemy far stronger than us. In its slumber, we were allowed to survive. I grant that our church has not flourished in a long time, but at least there is a church! A church ready to help those in need and to comfort those in dejection and darkness. But now all of that is mortal danger because of you and your bloodthirsty friends."

"And whose fault is that?" Tourec growled. "In the past twelve years, what has the church been doing? Burrowing underground like an animal? Cowering behind armed guards stationed at cathedral doors? Fleeing to the New World and forsaking one's brethren here? When I was in the Holy Land, I saw a church that was vibrant and alive. A church that had been under attack not since the Manifestation, but since the days of the Apostles themselves. Romans, Jews, Muslims, Satanists...persecution has been a continuous way of life for the Christians in Jerusalem, and they are strong because of it. The European church is weak because the enemy slumbers, so we slumber too. What does Revelations say about the church of Laodicea? ' _You are lukewarm, neither hot nor cold, so I will spit you out of My mouth_.' What my brothers and I are doing is a vaccine, a shot in the arm to awaken the church's might and power, so that the enemy will quake in fear, not us."

Father DeMarco couldn't believe what he was hearing. His knees wobbled and he collapsed into his seat. He gazed slack-jawed at the crucifix upon the wine barrel altar, then turned back to Tourec.

"Do you really believe this is the way, Tourec?" he asked, his voice low and feeble. "That this is God's will?"

Tourec looked away. "Someone had to do something. What have we become, Father? No more missionaries, no more schools and monasteries, no political or economic influence...we are what _they_ were before the Manifestation. A fringe group, a cult of radicals. Our church is a joke." He turned around and stared at the gleaming crucifix. "I hear no laughing now."

Each breath squeezed Father DeMarco's chest. "Tourec," he panted, "I beg you, don't do this. You will only make things worse for us. Our people will be devastated. I understand what you are saying, and I agree: we have become weak; it is true. But open warfare with the enemy is not the answer. I beg you, for the sake of your soul and for our church family, don't do this."

"I _must_ , Father," Tourec snapped, his eyes flashing. "I am sorry for the pain and misery that will be poured out because of me and I beg God's forgiveness, but an unrighteous action can be sanctified by a righteous heart. I have searched mine, Father, and it is clean. And I believe that if Isabella were here, she would say the same thing."

Father DeMarco winced in actual pain as he heard that name. _"Isabella..."_ he breathed.

With a scowl, Tourec knelt before the altar and lifted a quick prayer to heaven. He rose to his feet and crossed himself, then turned with a rush of his robes and faced the priest.

"Bless me Father," he commanded firmly.

Father DeMarco looked through his tears at the boy he had nurtured so many years ago.

"I...I cannot...."

Tourec's lip quivered slightly, and his eyes flashed fire. He spun on his heel and hurried to the cellar entrance. He burst through the doors and disappeared, leaving Father DeMarco alone in silence.

****

Smoke billowed into his eyes as Patric frantically tried to flip the French toast. He cursed himself for not fixing the kitchen ventilation fan. He finally succeeded in turning over the blackened bread, and he glanced towards the dingy bedroom door.

Natasha had not emerged all morning. Patric had waited in the kitchen as the invigorating sunlight streamed through the window, but he couldn't think of anything to say to repair the damage he had done. As his friend Jacque had told him one drunken evening: _"If a girl is mad at you, don't say anything, because you'll only make it worse. Just do something nice for her. It won't make everything go back to normal right away, but at least she won't become more angry."_

Patric's stomach tightened as he remembered he had run out on Jacque, leaving him in that den of darkness. He shuddered, thinking about how his lascivious fantasy had morphed into a demonic nightmare in the blink of an eye.

He paused and stared into space. Did all of that really happen? Was it just an after-effect of too many drugs? Had Su really become... possessed?

He mulled over her grating words.

Find your brother, bring him to Paris, or the child dies....

It was much too frightening to be dismissed. There was no way Su knew that he had a child. Or a brother, for that matter. He barely knew it himself, and he knew even less where to find him.

What did it all mean?

He furrowed his brow and tried to shake his fear. It couldn't have been real. It was just the lunatic ravings of a drugged-out hooker.

Right?

An inky, hollow feeling in the pit of his stomach disbelieved him, and he paused for a moment.

The sound.

The same sound that he had heard during mass. The sound just before a possessed person delivers a message....

Something urged him to turn on the television. He aimed the remote at the screen and pressed the button, at the same time yelping in despair as he saw the scorched toast hissing in the skillet. He dumped the coal-colored bread onto a plate and breathed a sigh of exasperation.

A deep, soothing voice trickled from the TV. Patric glanced up and gasped.

The Voice of Satan.

The pontiff stood before a black backdrop embroidered with a golden pentagram. He was clothed in red robes, and his piercing eyes glowered from beneath his shadowy brow. His gaze shattered the screen and bored straight into Patric's soul.

Patric was mesmerized.

"My children," His Worship began, "I speak to you with a heavy heart. The attacks on our church have grieved me deeply, and I know that anger burns in the hearts of the faithful. Yesterday, the world witnessed the true fury of our mighty order, and the cowards who hide behind their masks of righteousness were dealt a clear, firm message. However, lawlessness is not to be our course of action. Though our church is strong, we must abide by the laws of man, and we do not wish for social anarchy, as many claim that we do.

"We have shown the weaker religions that we are capable of great violence, but we shall also show that we are capable of much more. Violence is a flame that can burst into an uncontrollable inferno in the blink of an eye, and we do not wish to see innocent individuals or businesses victimized. Our quarrel is not with those who remain neutral, foolish as they may be. We seek to destroy only the church of the silent God, and we have more ways than violence at our disposal.

"Therefore, I implore you, children of Satan: scorn the Delusionals. Humiliate them in public, refuse to conduct business with them, cast their children out of your schools, deny them entry to hospitals, parks, and libraries. Smother them with shame and guilt. Should you choose violence, know that you will be accountable to the laws of man, but your Master administers a greater law, and by this, you shall be judged in the afterlife. By any means available, heap continuous misery upon the heads of those who would deny our Master. Show them that the tolerance and complacency of the past twelve years have come to an end, and all must now choose: bow before the Prince of this World, or spend one's few remaining days in torment."

The screen abruptly cut to black, and a blonde-haired reporter appeared, struggling to hide her distress. _"That was His Worship, speaking from the Templum Satanam in Vatican City. Since the assassination of several clergy members of the Church of Satan two days ago, the world has seen numerous retaliatory attacks, directed primarily against Christian targets, though Islamic and Jewish sites have been attacked as well. While not condoning the violence outright, His Worship made it clear that the Church of Satan is targeting the Christian church, and it now looks like we may have a new holy war on our hands. For FRN-27, I'm Celina de la Croix."_

Patric couldn't move. The television arrested his gaze, even after the news program gave way to annoying advertisements.

He didn't even notice Natasha standing by his side.

"We should leave," she whispered fearfully.

After a few moments, Patric nodded. "You're right."

He turned to her. "The Delusionals will fight back. There's no way this will end well." He glanced out the window and saw trails of smoke meandering towards the clouds. "It's already out of control, and it's just getting started."

Slowly, almost reluctantly, Natasha embraced him, and he exhaled in relief. For a few minutes, neither said a word.

Natasha broke the silence. "Where can we go? We have no money, no friends in other countries."

Patric winced as the terrifying words screeched in his brain.

Find your brother, or the child dies....

"I know where we can go," Natasha answered her own question before Patric could speak up. "Let's go north, to Sweden or Norway. The Pagans up there are much more peaceful than the Lucifereans here in Western Europe. They're all about nature and spirits, and much less militant in their beliefs. As long as we don't get into any confrontations, I think they would welcome us, especially if they knew that we fled because we have a baby on the way."

She rubbed her stomach affectionately. Patric watched her, paralyzed.

... _Or the child dies...._

He smiled weakly. "That sounds like a good idea. I'm sure we can find some place that will give us shelter."

Natasha beamed for the first time that day. "Thank you, _cher._ I feel good about this. Let's eat breakfast and then we can start planning. I want to go before anything else happens."

She froze as she saw the black, smoldering bricks lying on the plate like casualties of war. Shooting Patric a knowing smirk, she unhooked the apron from the wall and walked over to the refrigerator.

Patric sat down at the creaking table, feeling strangely numb. His head felt heavy and light at the same time. A gnawing sense of dread crawled through his veins, and he strove to push the murmuring doubts out of his mind, but in vain.

Find your brother, or the child dies....

Natasha smiled at him as she laid strips of bacon in the sizzling skillet. Patric tried to smile back.

****

The Voice knelt in prayer before the massive altar piled high with a melted mountain of candles. A golden statue of the Great Dragon snarled through the flames, and its fearsome eyes seem to glow with the fires of Hell itself. Yet the Voice found such terrifying imagery soothing, even comforting, since it was but the barest shadow of the Great Lord's true power. With a whispered incantation, he opened his eyes and rose to his feet. He took a candle from the undulating altar as if he were plucking a flower, and he held it close to his chest so that it illuminated the pentagram dangling from a chain.

He turned towards a great arching window. Moonlight streamed through the glass, trickling through the tracery and forming ornate and complex shadows on the carpeted floor.

His Worship breathed deeply.

These moments of calm and quiet were few, but he valued them greatly. He smiled to himself, then he stepped forward and pushed the window open, which led out to a grand terrace.

A sea of candles and expectant faces stretched beneath him as he stepped out onto the balcony, still cradling the fragile flame in clasped hands. The size of the crowd assembled in what had once been called St. Peter's Square was nearly triple what it had been the previous month, and the Voice felt his veins surge with warm satisfaction. He surveyed the shimmering expanse for a few moments, then touched his candle to the balustrade in front of him.

With a whooshing sound, the marble rail burst into a trail of flames that sped across the surface and hungrily climbed two poles mounted at the corners of the terrace. The Voice of Satan raised his hands to the night sky and the crowd erupted in cheers and applause as two great pentagrams fixed to the tops of the poles exploded with terrifying fury. An unseen choir belted forth powerful choruses in praise of the mighty Apollyon.

The Voice peered through the flames at the frantic hordes below him, and for a moment, it seemed like they were all writhing in the lake of fire. His eyes turned towards heaven, watching the smoke coil around the stars. He cursed the silent God, challenging Him to show Himself to the throngs of mockers and blasphemers that occupied His once-holy square.

The Voice closed his eyes. Listening, waiting.

Of course, nothing.

The pontiff let his hands fall and waited patiently for the flames to die out. The fire upon the balustrade exhausted itself but the pentagrams above him remained ablaze. He stepped forward and placed his hands on the sizzling marble balustrade and the crowd's fervor increased as they saw their beloved leader standing stone-faced above them. Their cheers and applause continued for several minutes until he quieted them with a wave of his hand.

"Almighty Lord Satan," he shouted with incredible power as he raised his hands above the crowd, "we humbly gather here before you on this night. We pledge our service to you, Lord of the Earth, and we ask that you strengthen our minds and hearts to overcome the lies that assault us every day. We thank you for the liberty you have given us to seek our own prosperity and pleasure in this world, and we gather here tonight to celebrate the freedom that was denied us for too long."

Cheers and cries of joy arose from the vast throngs, and the Voice of Satan clenched his fists.

"Children of darkness!" he shouted. _"You are free!"_

Instantly, the sound of drums exploded across the square, and the teeming hordes were seized with animal fury, tearing off their clothes and leaping upon one another.

The Voice looked out over the heaving sea of flesh, his ears filling with moans and screams of pleasure and ecstasy. His knuckles were white as he gripped the smoldering balustrade, and his gleaming teeth sparkled in the firelight.

****

Patric's eyes snapped awake. He held his breath, listening, focusing....

He had heard it again, that dreaded sound. His wide eyes frantically searched the darkness. The sound was faint, but it was unmistakable. He peered into the shadows, into the corners....

Nothing.

Where is it?

Patric's heart froze.

There.

The bedroom door.

It was masked in shadow, yet standing before it was an even darker shadow, and in its head burned two red eyes.

They glared straight at Patric.

As soon as he locked eyes with the intruder, the buzzing sound grew instantly louder, filling the room like locusts. Patric's thundering heart was just as loud, and he clenched his teeth so tightly that his jaw screamed with pain.

With a jolt, the shadow stepped forward, and Patric shrieked with fear. He bolted upright and switched on the bedside lamp. Gasping violently, he scanned the room, but the intruder had disappeared, and the air was silent.

Natasha, awakened by his outburst, sat up and instinctively pressed herself close to him. "Patric, what's wrong?"

He couldn't answer; he could only stare at the door as his heart pounded in his ears.

"Patric?" Natasha repeated, her voice tense with concern. "Patric?"

Patric looked down at his hands clutching the bed sheets in a death grip. He uttered an exasperated sigh.

I can't keep doing this....

With a deep breath, he turned and faced his fiancée. His eyes were serious, and Natasha held his gaze.

"Bébé _,"_ he began, surprised at how steady his voice was. "I...I had a visitation."

Natasha was silent for a moment.

"A visitation?" Her tone betrayed her skepticism.

Patric winced inside. He knew this was going to be a tough sell. "I know; I never get visited, but this was real."

"Are you sure you weren't just dreaming?"

"No, I am certain I was awake."

"Then why did you scream just now as if you were having a nightmare?"

Patric's mind raced furiously. "Because...because I was scared...."

Natasha folded her arms and looked at him like a teacher waiting to hear an excuse for late homework. "Tell me."

Patric took a deep breath. He pointed towards the bedroom door. "It was there. A dark shadow. I could see its eyes."

"And then what?"

"And then...it spoke. In my head."

"What did it say?"

"It said...." Patric steeled his nerves and chose each word carefully. "It told me that I must go and find my brother."

Natasha's eyebrows rose dramatically. "Your brother? You mean, your delusional hellfire-and-brimstone brother? In Italy?"

Each successive question stabbed Patric with discouragement. "Please, Natasha," he said desperately, "just listen to me."

She leaned back on the pillows and beckoned his explanation with haughty eyes.

"I heard its voice in my head as clearly as I hear my own right now," Patric continued. "It told me that I had to find my brother."

Natasha's brow furrowed, and her cool demeanor softened a little with curiosity. "Why do we need to find your brother?"

Patric shrugged. "I don't know. But I swear, I never felt so afraid in my life. I know our Master shelters those who believe, but I felt a real sense of danger when I saw that...that _thing_. Natasha, I would know if it was a dream, and this was no dream. I don't want to make the mistake of disobeying its command."

She continued to look at him with tight lips.

Patric took another deep breath, then played his trump card.

"It said something else."

"What did it say?" She didn't even try to conceal her irritation.

"It said something about our child."

Natasha sat up with lightning quickness.

"What did it say?"

"It said...it said that we needed to find my brother or our child would not be safe."

Patric's stomach twisted as he spoke. He wasn't being completely truthful, but he wasn't telling a lie, either.

"What does that mean?" Natasha's eyes were wide.

"I don't know. But I think my brother is an important part of what is going on between us and the Delusionals, and somehow it concerns our child."

Natasha's eyes fell away from him, and she wrapped her arms around herself.

"Patric," she said quietly, "do you swear that what you are telling me is the truth?"

Patric swallowed forcefully. "Yes Natasha, I swear. Every word."

She looked directly at him. "So we find your brother, and then what?"

"I don't know," he said as his head filled with a thousand thoughts, "but I do know that I won't let anything happen to you or our child. I haven't been good to you, both of you, but I am making a change, starting with this. I have been chosen for a task, Natasha, one that could be important for the future of our order, and more importantly, for the future of our family. If there is a chance to please our Master and protect you, then I will take it. If we are going to be a family, I need to take responsibility and make decisions, even when they're tough."

Natasha's sternness melted away, and she embraced Patric's neck. "I'm so happy to hear you say that."

Patric returned the embrace. "It's the truth," he said, hoping his voice didn't waver.

She looked at him with an expression of gratitude and determination. "So, how do we do this? We don't have much money."

Patric looked at his hands for a few moments, then an idea flashed in his mind. "I know who can help us."

"Who?"

"My mother."

Natasha's eyes widened. "Your mother.... Patric, you ran out on her when you were a teenager and pledged your life to Satan. She probably hates you!"

Patric exhaled and squeezed her hands. "Maybe, but we have to try."

"Are you going to tell her that a dark angel sent you on a mission to find her eldest child and stop him from doing whatever it is that he's doing?"

A flush crept over Patric's cheeks. "No, of course not...."

Natasha took his face in her hands. "Your Master and your family come first. Those other people are not your family anymore."

Patric closed his eyes and nodded. "I know."

Natasha pressed a soft kiss to his lips. "You know something? I'm glad this is happening to us. You have a chance to show your faith. Tests like these build us up and show our Great Lord that we are willing tools in his hands."

"Yes. I'm glad too."

Patric hoped his smile didn't look as weak as it felt.

As if to punctuate his words, a distant explosion popped the nighttime stillness like a bubble. Patric sprang to the window and parted the curtain.

"Where is it?" Natasha asked quietly.

"It's far," he frowned. "I can't tell what it was. The neighborhood is quiet, though."

Natasha beckoned him back to bed, and she embraced him tightly as they lay down together.

"Patric?"

"Hmm?"

"We're going to be fine, right?"

...Or the child dies....

"Of course, _mon_ ange."

Natasha nuzzled his shoulder and closed her eyes. "Let's leave tomorrow. I don't feel safe here anymore."

"That's a good idea," Patric replied. He glanced warily at the bedroom door and switched off the light. "I don't feel safe here either."

****

Vercelli, Italy

Tourec saw them everywhere. Afraid, forlorn, beaten, downcast. The world labeled them "Delusionals," but these were his brothers and sisters, members of his eternal family.

As he made his way through the city in the fading hours of dusk, his heart cried out to God, pleading for mercy for the weary souls he passed on the city sidewalks, their faces dirty and haggard and bruised. Only a few days ago, these had been doctors, teachers, housewives, schoolchildren, even clergymen...now they were destitute, homeless, scorned by their vicious enemies and a cowardly and indifferent public. Their shock and disbelief was worn on their faces — how could their lives have been upended so quickly and completely? The government, though not officially religious, was fiercely influenced by the Satanic Party, and those responsible for public order turned a blind eye to the robbing, looting, arson, rapes, and murders that had descended upon the church of God like the plagues of Egypt. Now the believers sought refuge in heavily guarded sanctuaries and relief centers, and were clogging the airports and rail stations, all while being spit upon and pelted with garbage.

And it's because of you.....

Tourec scowled beneath his hood. He recognized the voice of the Accuser. Ever since he had begun this crusade, his soul was continually under siege.

"In the name of God, be silent!" he hissed, just before he collided with an absentminded man who wandered into his path. His lightning reflexes gave him balance, but the man collapsed to the sidewalk in a heap. Tourec stooped to help him up, but the man recoiled at the sight of Tourec's black robe and gleaming pentagram medallion. Tourec was dressed as a monk of the Satanic church.

"Don't touch me!" the man rasped, scurrying to his feet and fleeing into the crowd.

As he watched the man run away in fear, Tourec's heart was clutched by a hot fist of pain. He wanted to reach out to his bewildered and terrified brothers and sisters, to admonish them to rise up and defend their faith and families by whatever means necessary, not to huddle together like frightened animals or scatter like fish when a rock is thrown into a pond. God was on their side; what had they to fear?

He felt a surge of anger rising within him, and he had to hurry away from the crowd before his emotions became uncontrollable.

This wasn't the way things were supposed to happen....

He asked God to bless these suffering people, and to give him strength for what was to come. Quickening his steps, he finally freed himself from the throngs of people and emerged onto a small piazza. He startled a flock of grey pigeons that immediately took flight across the square and sailed skittishly over what had once been the Basilica of St. Andrea, though it now bore the heathen name of the Temple of Astaroth. He watched the pigeons' aerial path, then turned to his right and his left as two hooded figures joined him.

"Greetings, brothers," he said quietly as he watched the sun slowly vanish behind the grand bell tower. They stepped forward together, invisible to the crowd beginning to assemble in the piazza. A few disinterested policemen maintained a loose perimeter around a small stage where several grim-faced men were piling Bibles in a heap.

"Blasphemy!" one of Tourec's companions muttered sharply as they passed.

"Silence!" Tourec snapped, glancing warily towards the crowd. "Save your anger."

The three continued across the piazza and walked into the shadow of the temple. Tourec wanted to look up and gaze upon the simple yet worshipful facade that had once enchanted him when he had journeyed here many years ago, but he dared not risk the chance of anyone seeing his face. He felt a sudden urge to cross himself and immediately suppressed the impulse. It would look quite bizarre and, more importantly, very suspicious to see a monk of the Order of Satan crossing himself before a temple's portal.

He exhaled a breath of frustration as he led his brethren around the west facade to the transept on the south side of the temple. A small, dark door was tucked in the corner where the nave joined the transept, hidden in shadows and shielded from the growing commotion in the square by a cluster of small trees. The three men crowded close together, and one of them slipped his hands into the folds of his robe and withdrew a severed thumb. He pressed it to a fingerprint screen next to the door, and there was a sharp click as the door unlocked. With a flick of his wrist, he tossed the digit into a cluster of bushes where it was lost from sight. Tourec started to say something in protest, but his companions had already disappeared into the darkened temple, and he followed them inside.

They found themselves surrounded by empty chapels that once housed shrines to esteemed saints and patrons of God's kingdom on earth. Now, vacant enclaves yawned like hungry mouths, their statues and frescos long since demolished. Tourec took advantage of the relative solitude to solemnly cross himself, as did his partners, as they slipped silently across the cool marble floor towards the choir, located at the east end of the sanctuary. They briefly glimpsed the expansive nave, where several monks were offering pre-mass prayers to the Prince of Darkness. Rage flared in Tourec's soul as he shut his eyes and ears to the blasphemous symbols and heathen incantations. He was only too happy to reach the door leading down to the undercroft beneath the sanctuary.

On silent footsteps, the three shadows crept down the freshly-hewn stairs, which contrasted violently with the drab walls worn smooth by countless people ascending and descending and placing their hands against the wall for stability in the darkness. Though electric lamps illuminated the stairwell and corridor, Tourec squinted to focus his vision, scanning the featureless walls carefully.

All three froze instantly. Ghoulish chants wafted through the air as they came to an intersection. Tourec cocked his head and listened, trying to determine the direction of the sounds. Taking point, he motioned for his partners to follow him and proceeded stealthily down the left corridor. After about twenty meters, they reached the entrance to the crypt, where they stopped again.

A crudely drawn pentagram was splashed in red paint across a once-glorious mosaic of the Garden of Eden. The high priest of the temple was kneeling naked on the floor, his arms spread wide and unintelligible sounds coming from his mouth. His back was towards Tourec and his companions, and he was not aware of their silent approach.

Like frenzied harpies, the shrouded figures pounced upon the man, seizing him by both arms and bending him backwards.

"Blood of Christ!" the priest swore in surprise.

Tourec smacked him roughly across the mouth.

"Do not utter that name, heathen!"

The other two men twisted the priest's arms behind him, causing him to cry out in pain as his back arched sharply. Tourec immediately stuffed a cloth into the priest's mouth to muffle his cries, and the frightened man's eyes bulged with terror.

" _Wha duh yuh wah?"_ he strained through the gag.

Tourec turned his back on the sweating priest and paused to examine the red pentagram scrawled across the wall. He sniffed and wrinkled his nose as he detected faint odor of iron. He reached out and touched the paint, then drew back his hand in horror.

It wasn't paint.

He whirled around and leaned down over the portly, naked man bent towards the ceiling. Tourec pulled back his hood and fixed his blue eyes on the priest's terrified face.

"I am God's holy vengeance," he said with a low voice.

The priest's eyes widened further as he struggled weakly against the men holding his arms with grips of steel.

"But God is also merciful," Tourec said as he looked down upon the vessel of Satan. "I will give you one chance to save yourself."

He tore the pentagram from his neck and cast it to the floor in disgust. He pulled a brilliant crucifix from beneath his robe and clutched it tightly.

"Do you repent of your sins and acknowledge Jesus Christ to be your Lord and Savior?"

The priest's face flushed and his eyes darkened with hatred. _"Fuhh yrr!"_ he wheezed through the cloth.

Tourec exhaled through his nose and his fingers tightened around the crucifix. "Then may God have mercy on your soul, for we will not."

****

"Burn the words of the silent God!"

The crowd that was gathered in the square before the Temple of Astaroth roared and cheered as the flames climbed the night sky and licked the pages of the Bibles like hellhounds. Numerous pentagrams that dangled from necklaces and earlobes flashed in the firelight, and the eyes of the crowd gleamed with excitement. Even the children who were scattered throughout the crowd grinned and clapped their hands with delight, darting bravely towards the fire to pick up books that had fallen off the pile to cast them back into the flames.

The black-garbed circle widened as the fire blazed brighter and the heat intensified. The monks who were overseeing the bonfire looked about nervously, wondering what was delaying their priest's arrival. He was scheduled to lead a procession of out the temple and into the piazza as soon as the fire started, but no one had yet come forth.

With a thunderous clang, the temple bells pealed across the square, and every head in the crowd turned around to witness three hooded monks emerge from the large central portal, bearing a heavy burden. The piazza and facade lights had been dimmed in preparation for the bonfire, making it impossible to make out any details of the figures approaching the crowd. For a moment, everyone forgot about the raging blaze and concentrated on the mysterious new arrivals.

One of the monks attending the blaze stepped forward. "Where is Father Nocetti?" he called out.

The approaching figures made no reply, though as they drew near, they began singing low, haunting melodies. The monk tilted his head to the side and strained to make out the bizarre sounds. He had heard something like this before, many years ago.

It sounded like...Gregorian chanting.

A thrill of imminent danger raced through his nerves, and he raise an accusing finger like a weapon.

" _You!"_

There was a flash, a crack, and the monk dropped like a bundle of empty clothes. The crowd gasped and instinctively drew back. As the circle parted, the three monks sprinted forward with their heavy shrouded burden bouncing on their shoulders. Those nearest to them shrieked in horror. The bundle being carried by the monks was moving, and it reeked of kerosene.

Before anyone could react, the monks screeched to a halt before the blasphemous bonfire and heaved their squirming burden into the flames. Instantly, the chemical fumes ignited with a roar and the writhing shape bound with black cloth twisted and jerked in agony.

For a moment, everyone was petrified with horror; then, like a floodgate being opened, the crowd surged forward. Several hands grabbed nearby fire extinguishers, while others rushed towards the enemies of Satan's church.

His eyes flashing in the flames, Tourec raised his arms to heaven, brandishing two handguns. The attackers stopped dead in their tracks, and Tourec's voice echoed mightily across the piazza.

"Praise be to God!"

As if a giant stone had fallen to the earth, the ground beneath them quaked, and an avalanche of smoke and fire pulverized the defiled cathedral behind them. The crowd watched with shock and horror as their beautiful temple vomited great gouts of flame and stone and glass, and the piazza trembled like a raft upon the sea. Mouths gaped wide and eyes brimmed with tears as one of the glorious bell towers cracked, swayed, and fell upon the sanctuary like a dead body, smashing the roof and gutting the nave with all the gentleness of a fisherman gouging a fresh fish. No one could move, and the wretched soul sizzling and boiling upon a bed of burning Bibles was forgotten.

After several horrific moments, a few people in the crowd slowly came to their senses, and they whipped their eyes to and fro, searching for the perpetrators of this terror.

The monks had vanished.

### CHAPTER 4

Limoges, France

The railway station was in absolute chaos. News about the brazen attack in Italy was screaming from every television across Europe, and the Vatican's command for non-violent yet resilient assaults upon the Christian church was now all but disregarded.

Hovering over the heads of the mob, countless televisions were blaring the French president's angry tirade.

" _Our government strongly condemns these atrocious acts of violence perpetrated in the name of a religion that has historically stood for peace and love. This government defends the rights of all people to worship as they please, but we will not tolerate aggression in the name of any faith. Our hearts and prayers go out to those affected by the tragedy in Italy, and I promise that these Christian terrorists will be stopped at any cost."_

As they made their way through the station, Patric and Natasha dodged and weaved through numerous quarrels and skirmishes. It was quite apparent from the turmoil at the station that the firm hand of the law was not enough, and numerous angry citizens were foaming at the mouth, looking for any chance to deliver their own brand of justice.

"Hold on to my hand!" Patric shouted as he tried to thread his way through a throng of people who were pushing and shoving for a chance to get a ticket to England, a place that was fast becoming a safe haven for those wanting to flee the continent. Close by, several gruff and irritated policemen shoved vengeful Satanists away from a group of Christian travelers, who unleashed a torrent of curses and threats of God's wrath. The entire station was swarming like a beehive, and the police presence was barely noticeable in the melee.

Patric felt Natasha's fingers slip away, and he looked behind him in panic. Protecting her stomach with one hand, Natasha elbowed two arguing men aside and grabbed Patric's arm again as she panted for breath. He managed a comforting smile, though his stomach was in knots.

This is impossible....

His eyes fell upon Natasha's abdomen, and he felt his nerves strengthen. There was no other option. He _had_ to find a way.

Natasha yelped, and Patric instinctively pulled her towards him before he could even see what was going on. Behind her, two men were locked in a struggle on the ground, one of them growling, "Heathen! Don't touch my family!"

Patric squeezed Natasha to his side and led her away from the fracas. "Come on, let's try and get a ticket."

Natasha nodded, pressing herself against his chest. They huddled together as they moved away from the bustle and noise of the trans-continental ticket windows to the less crowded domestic rail lines. There were still dozens of hopeful travelers lined up at the ticket windows, and Patric reluctantly left Natasha on a bench to join the mob.

As he waited in the queue, shuffling his feet a few inches every time the line moved forward, he glanced around nervously, trying to determine if anyone around him was a Christian. He wasn't interested in confronting anyone; he just wanted to be prepared if someone else decided to make trouble in his vicinity. He stilted himself on his tiptoes and cast an anxious look towards Natasha, who was sitting meekly on the wrought iron bench.

He exhaled and moved forward. This was all happening like a bad dream playing at double speed. So much had happened in the past few days— less than a week ago, everything was normal, even lethargic. Of course, the imminent arrival of the baby had always been in the back of his mind, but there were enough daily distractions to sweep that reality under the rug until the time came.

But now....

Someone jostled him from behind and he lurched forward with a grunt.

" _Pardonne moi_ ," a thick voice said with unusual friendliness.

"Not a problem," Patric replied, glancing up at the man, and his eyebrows jumped with surprise. "Jacque?"

His friend's craggy face broke into a smile. "You were going to leave without saying goodbye?"

Patric coughed and shifted his feet. "Um, yeah, well, I, uh...I really wanted to get Natasha away from all of this. You know, with the baby and everything...I just wanted to take her somewhere quiet and peaceful."

"Oh, is that so?" Jacque said, his voice laced with a tiny hint of suspicion. "And where are you two going that is so quiet and peaceful?"

A frantic debate raged in Patric's mind, whether to tell Jacque the truth or to lie about his destination.

"We're going to Vizille, near Grenoble _._ I have some relatives there, and we'll stay with them until things quiet down here."

"Oh, that sounds nice. A little getaway in the countryside will help you forget all of this unpleasantness." The way he pronounced the "s" reminded Patric of a snake's hiss.

A strange light flashed in his eyes, and he leaned closer to Patric. "But you shouldn't have left without saying goodbye. You've already done that to me once before."

There was a dark undercurrent in his tone that disturbed Patric, who coughed again to buy time for a response. "Well Jacque, you, uh...you saw me that night, you saw how messed up I was. I just had a bad trip, and...I just needed to get out of there fast."

Jacque's face was motionless for a moment, then split into his trademarked toothy grin. "Of course, of course.... We all have moments like that. Moments when we just want to run away from our troubles, turn our back on our responsibilities, just lose ourselves in the swirl...."

Suddenly, the air buzzed with an awful humming sound. Patric's heart jolted and every muscle in his body tightened. His breath froze in his throat as his eyes fixed on Jacque's face.

The station intercom crackled and the buzzing noise vanished. Patric nearly collapsed with relief. An impatient voice announced that there were no more tickets to Berlin or Amsterdam. A chorus of groans erupted from the tumultuous crowd.

Patric glanced at his feet in embarrassment and wondered if Jacque had noticed his terror. He looked up and gasped.

Jacque's eyes were black as coal, yet his skew-toothed smile remained plastered on his face. The air suddenly vibrated with the sound of a million insects.

Patric trembled as Jacque leaned closer and whispered in his ear, "We have eyes and ears everywhere, my friend. Don't forget that."

He turned and walked away.

Patric's breath spurted from his mouth like a machine gun, and his veins felt like they were going to pop. Only his eyes could move, and he followed Jacque until he had vanished into the crowd. Then, like a gunshot, his paralysis snapped as the buzzing sound disappeared. With an anxious glance over his shoulder, he stepped forward and was surprised to find that he was next in line for a ticket.

Natasha looked up and smiled at him as he approached the bench where she was sitting. "Patric, I think I saw your friend Jacque. Did you see him?"

Patric instinctively whipped his head around, scanning the crowd. "Um, no, no I didn't," he stammered. "I wonder what he's doing here."

Natasha shrugged, oblivious to his anxiety. "Did you get the tickets?"

He held up two plastic cards. "The train leaves in twenty minutes."

They made their way to Platform Twelve, avoiding trolleys stacked with suitcases and passengers jostling for position. It wasn't hard to spot the Christian refugees— they were usually huddled together, their faces gaunt, tired, and fearful. Poisonous feelings of contempt and scorn arose within Patric, and he felt the urge to spit on the cowering fools. Was his brother really one of these cowards? They truly were the meek, though they weren't going to inherit anything except pain and rejection. Patric had had little contact with Christians since the Manifestation, but he could see now that they certainly deserved the title of "Delusionals."

It was quite an ordeal getting on the train, which was full to capacity despite its less popular inland destinations. Tickets for trains heading to coastal areas were the most sought after, but it seemed that everyone wanted to leave, no matter the destination. Patric suddenly felt uneasy as he realized that most of these people were probably Delusionals.

His suspicions were confirmed almost immediately after he and Natasha squeezed into their seats. Directly across from them sat two elderly women with crosses around their necks. He grimaced at the sight of the impotent symbols, but as he looked up at their faces, he was struck by how calm and gentle their expressions were. One of them even smiled at Natasha, acknowledging her bulging stomach with her eyes. Natasha, noticing the dangling crosses, looked away.

Patric glanced at his watch impatiently. It was almost noon, and they had a three hour ride ahead of them. He masked a scowl as he studied the old women. _I swear, if one of them starts talking to me...._

The conductor sounded the final call, and a minute later, the train lurched forward on grinding wheels. Patric glanced over at Natasha, who was looking a little pale.

"What's wrong?" he asked with concern.

Natasha shook her head. "Just feeling a little sick...."

"Do you need to go to the toilet?"

She shook her head again, and her face wore an expression of weary concentration as she stared into space and willed her breakfast to stay down. "I just think I need some water."

Before Patric could answer, one of the old women smiled and said, "I've got some water, dear."

She pulled a bottle of water from her travel bag and offered it to Natasha. With a smirk, Natasha regarded the water for a moment, then reluctantly reached out and took it. The old woman offered another bottle to Patric, who dismissed it with a wave of his hand. Her smile still unwavering, she turned to an elderly man seated across the aisle. "Would you like some water, Father?"

Patric turned in surprise and stared hard at the old man. He certainly didn't look like a priest; he wore no vestments or collar, not even a cross. He looked extremely tired, though most of his face was hidden by a heavy gray beard. The old man returned the smile and said, "No, thank you, Sister," then turned back to his newspaper.

The train began to pick up speed and the turmoil of the station seemed to melt away. The clacking of the wheels and the rhythmic swaying motion lulled the passengers into an artificial calm. Natasha, apparently feeling better after sipping the water, began helping herself to a sandwich, which she shared with Patric.

As he ate, Patric studied the priest in the adjacent seat, who took no notice of his attention. After perhaps half an hour, the priest coughed and rose to his feet, slipping a package of cigarettes out of his pocket as he made his way to the rear of the car. Patric licked his teeth, then got up after a moment and followed the old man.

He found him lounging in the smoking compartment of the rail car, sucking on the cigarette and staring listlessly out the window. His face was a bit red, which betrayed his habit of enjoying frequent glasses of wine. Patric smiled to himself and drew a flask from his pocket as he stepped up to the window next to the old man.

He took a sip of whiskey, then offered it to the priest. The old man looked at him as if he had offered him a poisonous snake. Patric's eyes narrowed in contempt.

"What, God doesn't allow his children to enjoy simple earthly pleasures now and then?" he asked with a sneer. "I see you're enjoying one right now yourself."

The priest looked down at the cigarette, then reluctantly accepted the flask. He took a draught that was slightly longer than etiquette allowed, then wiped his lips.

Patric smirked again. "Looks like you needed that...."

The priest nodded, and smiled in spite of himself. "It's been a rough few days."

He eyed Patric's pentagram necklace with suspicion. "But I'm sure you know that."

Patric nodded. "I do. But, if it's any consolation, I haven't taken up arms against your church. I'm more of a passive resister."

"Oh?"

"I enjoy everything that your church tells us is wrong. That's how I fight."

The priest took another puff of the cigarette. "Well, I hate to break this news to you, my son, but that's something even the holiest of men do every now and then."

Patric's satisfied smile faded. "What do you mean?"

The old man huffed wearily. "My boy, holiness isn't in your actions; it's in your attitude. Take that whiskey, for instance. If I take a drink to calm my nerves after a demanding sermon or a hard days' work, that is not a sin. But if I drink because I want to rebel against the church or society, then that is a sin— not because of what I do, but why I do it. In this way, even a 'righteous action' like charity can be a sin if it is done for the wrong reasons, such as selfishness."

Patric's eyes narrowed as he mulled the priest's words. He then took a dismissive swig from the flask and turned his attention to the tranquil countryside racing past. "Well, that's all fine for you, Father. I'll enjoy my sin any way I want."

The old priest smiled politely and finished his cigarette. He stubbed it out in the ashtray mounted on the wall and turned to go.

"Father?"

The priest stopped and turned around. Patric had heard the desperation in his own voice and wished he could take it back, but it was too late. Yet something compelled him to go on.

"Father, I have a question that maybe you could help me with."

The priest was surprised. "Are you sure I'm the person you want to talk to? After all, we're on different sides of the equation."

Patric looked around uncomfortably. "Yeah, well, sometimes it helps to get an outside opinion."

The priest stepped closer. "What is troubling you?"

The flask trembled in Patric's hands. Jacque's demonic warning hissed in his ear.

We have eyes and ears everywhere....

He swallowed nervously and looked over his shoulder and behind the priest to make sure they were alone.

The priest frowned at Patric's paranoid behavior. "Are you all right, son?"

Patric nodded absently. "Yeah, yeah, I just...I'd like to...."

His brain seemed to freeze for a moment, then he heard himself blurt out, "Does your Bible say anything about Satan being able to see the future?"

He was as shocked to hear himself say these words as the priest was to hear them. For a moment, neither man moved, staring into each other's bewildered faces. Finally the priest cleared his throat and glanced at the floor, as if looking for an answer that had fallen out of his pocket.

"That's a troublesome question, my son. Church tradition holds that he cannot, except what has been revealed to angels or to man. I would say that Satan knows the fate that awaits him in the lake of fire, as it is written in the Scriptures. But as to what will happen tomorrow, I would venture to say that he does not know for sure."

A small bead of sweat traced down Patric's temple. "And can he see us wherever we are? Does he know what anyone is doing at any time?"

The priest shook his head.

"Satan is not omniscient; only our Father in Heaven has that ability. But Satan also has plans, and since his intellect far surpasses our own, he can predict and manipulate events with much greater dexterity that any man could."

He squinted at Patric and cocked his head to the right.

"Why do you ask these questions? And why do you look so distraught?"

Patric sniffed nervously and put on a weak masking smile. "I'm just...I'm curious to see what the other side think of...thinks of what we believe."

" _Do_ you believe?"

Patric started. "What?"

"Do you really believe? Because it sounds to me that you are a very doubtful young man."

Patric didn't know how to answer. He felt his lips move and sounds come out, but it felt as if he wasn't speaking. "Of course I believe. I would be a fool not to."

The priest smiled warmly and nodded. "I believe too. That's one misconception that Satanists often have of us 'Delusionals'— that we don't believe in Satan's power. We most certainly do. We know that he is strong, dangerous, and above all, the enemy of God and all things holy. My faith in him is as certain as it is in God above. But you, my boy...I do not question your faith, but I have talked with many doubters in my life and I recognize the ring of that bell in your voice."

Patric could do nothing but take another drink from the flask, and his hand trembled as he offered it to the priest. "Father...are you afraid of God?"

The priest froze in the middle of his sip. He brought the flask away from his lips and his eyes narrowed severely.

"Young man, God is the creator of the universe, even of Satan. He can smite entire worlds with a mere thought. The descriptions of His wrath in the Scriptures are unspeakable. I fear God more than I fear anything, even death. But I believe that His love is greater than His wrath, and I choose to accept the love that He offers. That is one crucial difference between your god and mine, my boy. My God is wrath, but He is also love. Your god has no love. Just wrath."

Patric leaned against the wall of the rail car and closed his eyes. He and the old priest swayed as the rail car jerked and jolted, and neither spoke for a few minutes. Then he pocketed the whiskey flask and looked directly at the old man.

"Can Satan kill people?"

The priest fixed upon Patric. "Young man, are you in trouble?"

"Can he?" Patric repeated.

The priest's answer was simple yet cryptic. "This world belongs to the devil."

He coughed and closed his mouth tightly. Patric's eyes fell away from the old man's face.

"Thank you for your time, Father," he said quietly and stepped out of the compartment.

The priest said nothing.

Patric made his way back to Natasha and collapsed in the seat next to her. She was sleeping and looked surprisingly peaceful. Patric rubbed his temples and closed his eyes. He felt like he had just climbed a mountain.

A few minutes later, the old priest returned to his seat. He glanced at Patric but remained silent, and his face bore no expression. He eased into his seat and picked up his newspaper. Patric watched him for a moment, though he wasn't sure why. Then he nestled deeper in his seat and tried to fall asleep.

****

Marseille, France

President Nicholas Merdans fell heavily into the gigantic leather chair and massaged his aching brow. He shut his eyes and tried to concentrate on the patient ticking of the grandfather clock in the corner, or on the distant sounds of life outside the window — anything to take his mind off of the events of the last few days. His hand dropped onto the birchwood desk and he exhaled wearily, like a deflating hot air balloon. Ever since France had elected him president three years earlier, he had regretted his job at least once a day.

Now it was at least once an hour.

Merdans' stomach felt a slight stab of pain, and he was surprised to realize that he was still clenching his abdominal muscles since this morning's televised tirade against the Christian terrorists. He was usually a soft-spoken man (at least compared to some of his contemporaries in politics), but he had shocked even himself with the venom that boiled inside of him as he delivered the remonstrance. The violence in Italy had genuinely frightened him, even though similar attacks had already occurred in France.

But this new violence...it wasn't just terrorism, it was sadism. He felt the taste of bile in his mouth as he recalled the gruesome television footage of the Vercelli attack. He hoped that such horrors would not infect his beloved France.

With a growl of frustration, he gave up trying to massage away the headache blossoming between his eyes, and he rose to his feet and walked over to the expansive Gothic window at the east wall of the presidential office. He forced his stomach muscles to relax as he surveyed the distant skyline. His shoulders instinctively loosened as well as he noted with satisfaction that the horizon was thankfully clear of smoke from burning churches and synagogues. Of course, France was no stranger to public turmoil, but this was far more serious than racial tension or a labor dispute.

"Damn them all to hell," he muttered.

The phone chirped and he jumped. He impulsively glanced out the window in case anyone saw his embarrassing reaction, which was quite foolish considering that the window was five stories up and looked out upon the gardens, which were designed by King Louis XIV himself, according to popular tradition.

The phone rang a second time and Merdans jabbed the intercom button.

"Yes, Madeleine?"

"She's here, sir."

Merdans swallowed a lump of fear. He dared not pray. After all, he didn't know who was listening....

"Send her in," he said, looking around for his copy of the Satanic Bible. He found it at the bottom of a drawer, and he placed it near the corner of his desk just as the mahogany door to his office opened with a whisper.

Madeleine peeked into the office. "Sir?"

Merdans tried to position himself causally in his leather chair, which felt like it was going to swallow him whole. "Please," he said with a beckoning wave.

Madeleine opened the door wider to allow the visitor to enter. Nearly everyone in the country agreed that Merdans' secretary was one of the prettiest in the country, but as the visitor stepped into the office, Madeleine's beauty seemed to fall under a shadow.

The visitor could have been considered more striking than beautiful, but she clearly dominated the room as she stepped inside. She seemed to radiate seductive darkness, if that was possible. Her hair, her eyes, her clothes were all as black as a raven's feathers, and her poise and stature enhanced the aura of mystery and danger that shrouded her like mist.

Merdans rose to his feet and waved his hand again, and Madeleine closed the door with a blush and a bow. The spectral woman remained motionless in the middle of the office, and the president stared at her not with enchantment, but with fear.

"I come on behalf of His Worship, _Vocem Satanam_ ," the woman said.

Her voice was like frost.

Merdans nodded. "Please...sit down."

The black-clad woman did not move.

Merdans waited for a moment, then coughed uncomfortably. "So what can I do for His Worship?"

The woman regarded him with scornful eyes. "The Christians are leaving France. The few Muslims and Jews that remained after our Master's manifestation are leaving as well."

"Yes, I am aware," Merdans said as he sat down. His mother, God rest her soul, had been a devout Catholic, and she would have been mortified to see her son at this moment.

The woman tilted her head back and regarded the president with chilling eyes. "His Worship wants you to mobilize the police and army reserves to shut down and seize the Christian churches, starting in larger cities, then later in the suburban and rural areas."

Merdans jumped to his feet.

"Are you mad? It's bad enough that I stand by and let the mob drive the Delusionals out like rodents, but I swear to you, the entire Christian world will take arms against us if we attack their holy places."

The woman smiled wickedly, and Merdans' mouth fell open.

"Is this what you want?" he accused. "Is that what His Worship really wants to happen? For France to become ground zero for Armageddon?"

The woman's face was made of stone.

Merdans could feel the anger rising within him again. "This is _my_ country! I will not sacrifice it for yours or anyone else's religion. You can hold the battle of Armageddon somewhere else!"

In the blink of an eye, the woman lunged at Merdans and seized his throat, hoisting him in the air like a broom. He clawed frantically at her arms as he gasped and choked for the smallest breath of oxygen. The woman's eyes simmered as she glared at her helpless prey.

"You do not command us, _ver_. You obey."

Merdans was turning blue.

"This is _not_ your country," she continued. "This is _his_ country. Do you think it was random chance that Paris was selected as the stage for his grand appearance? And so it shall be again. On the next full moon, His Worship will hold a great and glorious mass and our Master shall usher in the next age. And you are going to help us."

She dropped Merdans on the floor in a heap, and the president clutched his neck and coughed violently. The woman stood to the side and made no move to help him. She waited patiently for him to regain his breath and struggle to his knees.

Merdans hung his head as he rose on unsteady feet, and he croaked, "Okay....Okay, I will do it. But I warn you: this will tear France into pieces, and probably the rest of Europe too. They will go to war with us."

The woman laughed mirthlessly. "Are you joking? Have you seen the mayhem and chaos taking place in the airports and train stations? They are all running like beaten dogs. There are a few who stand up against the mobs, but most of them flee like frightened children. Many of the churches have already been abandoned."

Merdans stumbled to his desk chair and sank into it, still rubbing his bruised throat. "It is one thing when the Satanists take over a church; it is another when the government does it."

"The Christian church has long been impotent. You fear a toothless old dog, Merdans. It has no power, no influence, and best of all, no public support. Even those who have been reluctant to join our church see the Christians as a nuisance, a relic, a dusty antique to be tossed out with the rest of the useless things."

With trembling hands, the president cracked open a cigarette case and put one to his lips. "What about the assassins roaming Europe and dispatching your holy men? There were three new attacks, including the one at Vercelli _._ They are becoming bolder, and that kind of brashness inspires others."

The woman snorted with contempt. "They will be dealt with soon. In the meantime, you will do as I say. Remember who put you here, and to whom you owe your allegiance. I remind you: _this is not your country."_

A strange, echoing vibration rumbled in the woman's throat as she spoke these last words, and a chill seared Merdans' heart. He nervously fumbled with the lighter and after several unsuccessful clicks, he threw it on the table in disgust and ripped the cigarette from his mouth.

"Are we finished?" he demanded in exasperation.

The woman's black lips curled in a feline smile. "We are never finished."

She turned and wrenched the door open with alarming force, then disappeared. A moment later, Madeleine's head poked through the doorway.

"Are you all right, sir?"

Merdans' teeth were chattering.

****

Something above Patric's head chirped, and a soothing female voice said, "Now arriving at Vizille."

Patric wearily rubbed his eyes, then patted Natasha's head resting on his shoulder. "Hey, wake up. We're here."

Natasha mumbled something, then bolted upright with wide eyes. She looked around in a panic, then breathed a sigh of relief and turned to Patric.

"That was quick," she said with a sleepy smile.

Patric returned the smile, but it came out as more of a smirk. He glanced at the empty seats in front of him. The water-toting nuns were gone, as was the elderly priest. Patric instinctively brushed his pentagram necklace, reassured that it was still there.

As the train slithered to a stop, Patric and Natasha rose from their seats and collected their small bags from the overhead compartment. The train braked with an unexpected lurch, and Natasha yelped and clasped her stomach. Patric looked at her with worry, but she just nodded.

"I'm okay."

They were the only passengers in their car getting off at Vizille, and only a handful of people on the entire train stepped out onto the platform. With a rush and creak, the train sped away down the snaking iron tracks and was soon lost from sight.

Patric squinted as he looked up, expecting to see bright sunshine. To his surprise, the sky was clotted with heavy gray clouds milling like aimless giants, and he let his eyes relax. He took Natasha's hand and led her through the nearly vacant terminal and out to the road, where several idle taxis waited.

A chubby middle-aged man, leaning against an ancient taxi and reading a newspaper while smoking a hand-rolled cigarette, spotted the couple as they emerged from the terminal. He quickly approached them.

"Where to, sir?" he asked politely, stooping to take Natasha's bag.

Natasha coughed in annoyance, and the man hastily threw his cigarette away.

"The Hospital of Saint Camillus," Patric said.

Natasha's head snapped around. "Your mother is in a hospital?"

Patric didn't say anything. The driver opened the trunk of the car and Patric stuffed their bags inside. He walked around the vehicle and opened the rear passenger door, climbing in the car ahead of Natasha. He slumped on the worn leather seat and stared straight ahead.

Natasha slid in next to him and shut the door. As the driver started the car, he secretly regarded his passengers in the rear view mirror. Patric's eyes met his, and the driver looked away in embarrassment. With a nervous cough, he engaged the clutch and guided the shuddering car out onto the road.

Despite the clouds, Natasha's eyes sparkled as she looked out the smudged window. The houses were quaint and charming, some well-tended and some neglected, but the gardens and trees were vivid with autumn palettes. They passed a shy little church with a graceful steeple nestled in a grove of trees, and Natasha was suddenly struck by the realization that they hadn't passed a single temple since they had arrived. She felt a stirring in her soul, a twang of discomfort as she thought of how far she was from her spiritual home. The idea of being in a charming countryside town that was ruled by Delusionals did not sit well with her.

She couldn't deny the tranquil beauty and serenity that flitted past them, and every flourishing tree seemed to stroke her restless spirit with a warm, invisible hand.

"It's lovely here."

Patric made no reply. Natasha turned towards him. His eyes were still fixed straight ahead, glued to the road rushing underneath them. Far in the distance, thunder rumbled impatiently.

Natasha opened her mouth to speak, then closed it, and turned her attention back towards the scenery outside.

Patric seemed lost in a trance; even his eyes forgot to blink. Yet despite his frozen facade, his mind was a flurry of memories. It had been so long since he had seen his mother's face, even looked at a picture of her. He could still piece together her eyes in his mind — that was something he could never forget. Those eyes that wrinkled so pleasantly when she laughed, or wilted so mournfully when he had abandoned his family. Those eyes had haunted his thoughts as he had read her handwritten letter informing him of his father's death, and as the funeral date had come and passed without Patric in attendance, those unseen eyes glared at him with shame and disappointment. Even when he had received a letter from the Hospital of Saint Camillus to inform him of his mother's condition, her eyes had peered at him across time and space, wordlessly expressing her heartbreak that his name was missing from the hospital visitor's logbook.

He was dreading seeing those eyes again.

The taxi driver steered the car off of the main road and up a lazily sloping road that meandered through a sparse forest dotted with houses. Natasha noticed Patric looking through the window with her, watching the trees and foliage with vacant interest.

Her hand sought out his and clasped it tightly.

"Have you been here before?" she asked.

"Yes," he answered after a moment. "We used to come here when I was a little boy."

"What is special about this place?"

Patric craned his neck to stare at a passing cemetery. "This is where my mother was born."

The taxi's nearly bald tires crunched over gravel as the car turned onto a long, narrow driveway that followed a disappearing path through a cluster of massive poplars with fiery leaves. Natasha peered at a worn but regal sign: _Hospital of Saint Camillus de Lellis_. At the end of a cul-de-sac encircling a dry angelic fountain stood a once-majestic building built in the Neo-Gothic style. The roof jutted heavenwards like a spear, and the lower windows were pointed at the top, some crowned with remaining bits of ornate tracery twisting within the chipped window frames. Despite its faded glory, the hospital building was still quite an imposing structure, made even more ominous with the swirl of storm clouds overhead.

Patric and Natasha piled out of the car and paid the driver after he had helped them unload their bags from the trunk. The taxi ambled down the hill, and Patric felt a sinking feeling as he looked up at the worn but stern facade.

His mother, whom he hadn't seen in nearly ten years, was inside.

Dying.

Natasha tugged at his arm. "What are we doing here, Patric?"

He gazed at some wilting flowers beside a post supporting the portico.

Find your brother, or the child dies....

His decisive step forward was his answer, and Natasha followed him, though somewhat reluctantly. She glanced around with anxious eyes as they stepped through the massive double doors into an ornate but dismal foyer.

They approached a large desk, behind which sat a round woman staring intently at a computer screen. She turned and smiled mechanically at the visitors.

"May I help you?"

Patric cleared his throat and glanced at the cross hanging from the woman's neck. If she noticed his pentagram necklace, she made no visible sign.

"We're here to see Caroline Bourdon," Patric informed her.

"Do you have an appointment?"

"No."

The woman looked back at the computer screen for a moment and her fingers danced over the keyboard. "Can you please tell me your name?"

"Patric. Patric Bourdon."

The woman's fingers fluttered over the keys for a few seconds, then she hit the last stroke with an authoritative tap. "You are her emergency contact," she said with surprise. "To be honest, Mr. Bourdon, it's rather rude of you to have waited this long to visit your own mother."

Patric shied away from the woman's disapproving scowl. "I've...been busy...."

The receptionist looked over at Natasha's protruding belly. "I can see that."

A flush of impatience colored Patric's cheeks. "Can I see my mother, please?"

The woman pursed her lips, nearly losing them within her fleshy cheeks. "Visiting hours don't start until the afternoon."

Patric's shoulders slumped and he glared at her with annoyance.

"But..." she continued with more than a hint of exasperation in her voice, "since it's been _so long_ since you've seen her, and your wife looks like she needs to sit down, I can let you go on upstairs."

Patric nodded and smiled politely. "Thank you."

The receptionist smirked and waved a male orderly over to the desk. "Take Mr. and Mrs. Bourdon to 203."

"I'm not—" Natasha began, but Patric shot her a silencing glance. She rubbed her stomach as she walked beside him up the wide, creaking staircase. They entered a long, well-lit corridor lined with closed doors. Above each doorframe hung a crucifix, each different than the others. Patric and Natasha exchanged uneasy looks and kept their eyes ahead.

The orderly stopped in front of a grey door with cracking paint. Without a word, he gestured robotically towards the door, then left them alone in the hall. Patric looked up at the number 203 and the image of the crucified messiah hovering above it. He took a deep breath, then turned the copper doorknob.

The bed was empty, and immaculately made. A large machine stood beside the bed like a sentry, its unused wires draped over a hook. A massive overstuffed chair was nestled in the opposite corner with a brown blanket thrown carelessly upon it.

Patric and Natasha scanned the room, but could find no indication that anyone lived there. Patric's heart shrank with the sudden fear that his mother was dead, but he countered himself with the rationalization that the receptionist had simply given them the wrong room. He turned to head out of the room, but Natasha grabbed his arm. He followed her wide eyes to the brown blanket crumpled on the easy chair.

It was moving.

A skeletal foot slipped out and sought out the floor like an antennae. The blanket was weakly thrown aside and a disheveled head of blonde hair emerged. Squinting like a waking child, Caroline peered around the room. She saw them. Her mouth fell open and her eyes widened, elongating her face into a ghoulish expression of shock.

"Patric!" she croaked.

Patric felt his knees shake, and he clutched Natasha's hand tightly. He couldn't speak. He could only stare, oblivious to the tear that fell from his eye.

Caroline pushed herself into a sitting position and extended a toothpick arm.

"Patric, come here."

Her voice was stern yet infinitely soft.

Patric let go of Natasha and slowly stepped towards his mother. He reached out and took her frail hand.

"Hello, Mother."

With a tearful smile, she placed her other hand on top of his. "Patric."

Patric's heart thundered like a freight train.

_Say something,_ he commanded himself. _Anything._

He turned back to Natasha, his eyes pleading for help. Sensing his panic, Natasha approached the chair.

"Madame Bourdon, I am Natasha."

Caroline turned towards her with a jerk, as if just now realizing that Patric wasn't alone. She smiled politely, and the smile twitched but did not waver as she spied Natasha's pregnant stomach.

"Pleased to meet you," she said with genuine warmth. She looked back at her son. "I am so happy to see you, Patric. It's been ages."

Patric's mouth gaped open, and he waited stupidly for the words to come out. They finally did.

"Mother, I'm sorry that I didn't come earlier. I...."

Caroline stroked his black hair. "It's all right."

Patric wiped a tear from his eye. "I didn't know that you were...were...."

"Nothing lasts forever," his mother said. "When your father died, I poured all of my energies into our church and I neglected my health, and now I'm paying the price."

Patric licked his dry lips but it didn't help. "So, what do the doctors say?"

"They say my kidneys are failing," Caroline sighed, "and finding a donor is nearly impossible with the way things are going these days...."

"I'll get my blood checked," Patric blurted.

Caroline smiled again. "No, Patric. You need to take care of yourself." Her eyes gestured towards Natasha. "Things are too far gone now anyway. I've accepted what's coming."

Patric looked down at his mother's hands, which remained cold despite being clasped in his. He looked up at her, and he saw it. That _look._ He felt a thick wave of sorrow ooze over his heart, but he made no outward expression. He didn't know what to say, so he said nothing.

After a few moments of uncomfortable silence, Natasha cleared her throat and spoke up. "Um, I need a bit of fresh air; I'm going to step out onto the porch. You two have a lot of catching up to do...."

Patric looked uneasy, but Caroline nodded. "Don't stay too long, my dear. I would love to get to know the mother of my grandchild."

She looked down at Patric and smiled.

Natasha folded her hands. "Okay then, I'll be back soon."

After hesitating a moment, she turned and left the room.

Patric watched her leave and suddenly felt nervous about being left alone with his mother's eyes. He looked at her hands still resting in his. The question was burning inside him like a piping kettle ready to boil over.

"Are you angry with me, Mother?" he asked her hands.

There was no answer. Patric waited for several seconds, his heart quickening with each passing moment. Finally, with great effort, he turned his eyes upwards to her face.

His mother wasn't looking at him. Her gaze was directed towards the window, where sparse but heavy raindrops had begun pattering against the ancient glass. Her eyes were absent, though, and Patric knew that she was as uncomfortable as he was. She eventually wrenched her eyes away from the tranquility of the rain-streaked window to look at her child who had abandoned her and her family so many years ago.

"I was," she answered quietly, and her voice trembled. "I think I still am, but it's not anger anymore."

She sighed and squeezed his hands. "You will always be my son, Patric, and I will always love you. And even though you don't believe it, God loves you too. I think that's what pains me most; you turned your back on everyone who loves you. I've spent the last ten years wondering why."

A needle dipped in anger, guilt, shame, and contempt pricked his spirit, and Patric took a deep breath to steel his nerves.

"I left," he began with a very steady voice, "because I couldn't follow something that I didn't believe. I know God is real, Mother. I know He is real because I know Lucifer is real. But there are many things that are real that do not touch our lives." He paused, searching for the right metaphor. "It's like this: if a star suddenly winked out, it would have no impact on our life whatsoever. That's what God is now. He's not the sun; He's a distant star, and He doesn't touch the world anymore. When the Great Dragon appeared, that was the sign that I had been looking for. Not only was it real, but it was _here._ I could see Satan, I could feel his presence on earth. God was just a shadow then, and even more so now. His church is being wiped out, Mother, and He isn't doing anything."

Caroline smiled with sympathy and touched Patric's hair again, and he could feel affection in her touch.

"Oh my son," she said softly, "God touches the world every day, though _us._ Every act of kindness, every sacrifice, every action that goes against our animal instinct and 'survival of the fittest' mentality is God's fingerprint upon the world."

Patric shook his head. "I'm sorry Mother, I can't believe that. What you say is a sacrifice, someone else would say is simply the collective good outweighing the individual good. Any 'moral' action can be spun either way. I don't want to live my life by faith, Mother; I want to live it by facts. I _saw_ the Dragon; I _heard_ him speak. Perhaps I'm wrong, and maybe one day God will return to the world to judge us heathens, but I don't want to life my life on maybes and what-ifs."

A tear sparkled in Caroline's eye, and Patric felt ashamed. He rubbed her hand gently. "No matter what I believe, Mother, that doesn't change who I am. I'm still your son."

Caroline sniffed and turned back towards the window. The rain was becoming heavier.

"Why did you come here, Patric?"

Patric cocked his head, surprised at the question. "What do you mean?"

Caroline looked at him through her tears. "Why now? Your 'Great Dragon' is making war with my family and suddenly you show up here, without a call or letter or anything? Why?"

"I...I wanted you to meet Natasha, and let you know what we're going to have—"

"Don't lie to me," Caroline snapped. Her face flushed with embarrassment, and her tense body relaxed. "I'm sorry, Patric. I'm not feeling well these days."

Patric nodded and looked down at her hands.

"Please," his mother implored, "tell me why."

Patric sucked on his teeth. He spoke each word carefully and deliberately. "It is very important that I find Tourec. I need you to tell me where he is."

Caroline suddenly pulled her hands away from his. "Tourec? Why on earth do you want to find him?"

Her horrified reaction startled Patric. "Please Mother, don't be upset. It's just...I really need to find him...."

Caroline stared at Patric's bowed head for a long moment.

"No," she answered.

"Mother, please!" he begged. "Please tell me where I can find him!"

She whipped her eyes back to the watery window.

"There is something you're not telling me, Patric. I never liked secrets, especially when they are in my own family. Either you tell me exactly what is going on, or you and your fiancée can leave right now."

Patric's chest heaved with anguished breaths, and even though she wasn't looking at him, he could feel her eyes piercing his soul.

****

Natasha rubbed her arms and suppressed a shiver, even though the air was still warm. She watched the drops pooling on the ground beneath the leaking gutters and she listened to the rhythmic creak of the chair as she rocked back and forth. This place wasn't safe. She could feel it deep within her, like a faint moldy odor that was barely perceptible but impossible to deny.

She turned around when she heard the door open and exhaled with relief as she saw Patric emerged onto the porch. To her surprise, he was carrying their travel bags. She rose to her feet and look at him quizzically.

"Are we leaving?"

Patric looked out into the curtain of water. "Yes."

Natasha's face wilted with worry. "But...but your mother.... Didn't she want to—"

"She's resting now."

Natasha bit her lip, and looked down at the piece of paper Patric clutched tightly in his hand. "What is that?"

"A cheque."

Natasha paused for a moment, then her eyes widened. "Did she tell you where—"

"Yes."

"Where?"

A rattling, jittery van sloshed to a stop in front of the porch, and the driver hurried out, brandishing a large umbrella.

"Let's go," Patric said flatly. "The van will take us to the station."

Natasha's eyes widened further. "We're going _now?_ In this weather? _"_

Patric glared at her with stony eyes, and Natasha swallowed her reluctance. Ducking under the driver's cavernous umbrella, she descended the steps and disappeared into the van's back seat. The driver returned to the porch for Patric, who slipped the cheque into his coat pocket before venturing out into the rain. He flopped onto the seat next to Natasha. She desperately wanted to say something but held her words back with great effort. As the van slipped and slid down the driveway, Patric gazed up at the hospital, which towered above them like a stern headmaster.

Or mother.

PART II.

I trust in the grace of Jesus Christ, who shall free you

from every bond.

—Ignatius of Antioch, _Letter to the Philadelphians_

——————————

Say unto thine own heart, "I am my own redeemer."

—Anton LaVey, _The Satanic Bible_

### CHAPTER 5

The distant rumbling of thunder sounded like an army of warhorses pounding the earth, bearing down upon the Council cowering in their secret enclave.

Or perhaps Father DeMarco was just letting his imagination getting the better of him.

"Be still, my brothers," said Bishop Valenti at the head of the table, one that was far less grand and storied than the table buried in the rubble of the collapsed crypt at Milan. Two members of the Council were immured there along with it, their decimated bodies abandoned to the hungry bowels of the earth since there had been no time to recover them after the attack. Fearing for their lives, the Council had abandoned the church like a battered ship upon a reef, but they vowed to return soon and restore her glory, though everyone present knew that dream would never come true.

The threat of further violence was what had driven the Council to this dismal cellar, and as Father DeMarco scanned the weary faces, he couldn't fight the feeling of despair that fell over his heart.

Oh God, I beg you....please give us strength....

The clergymen fell silent and took their seats, directing their attention to their leader. For a long, terrible moment, there was a deathly silence. The old bishop gazed at the candle shimmering on the table as if in a trance, and the other brethren had no power to speak up. The timid flame in the center of the room seemed to suck all of their energy into it, burning away their faith.

"Let us pray," the bishop finally said, and those around the table bowed their heads.

Bishop Valenti lifted his palms towards heaven and began the prayer. "O Heavenly Father, grant wisdom and perseverance to your children in this hour of great tribulation. May the Blessed Virgin give us serenity and peace, and may Michael and his angels surround us with your holy might. Amen."

"Amen."

Bishop Valenti considered the candle flame a moment longer, then gazed at the brothers with stern, flickering eyes.

"What are we going to do?" he asked simply.

Those seated around the table suppressed groans of despair. Usually it was they who asked the questions; it was not a good sign that the leader of the Council was at a loss at the very start of the meeting.

After a moment of hesitation, one small-voiced priest piped, "I have been poring over the Revelation to John and other end-times prophecies and I can find nothing that correlates with current events. The Manifestation was a shock to textual scholars, but this new resurgence of persecution isn't foretold anywhere...."

"What about Matthew chapter 24?" another chimed in. "Hewitt at Oxford Theological Seminary states that—"

A third priest broke into the fray. "Hewitt? He's a heretic! Do you forget that he claims—"

Voices erupted from every corner of the table.

"What about the reference to Satan in Revelations chapter 12? Couldn't it be applicable to what's happening today?"

"That's exactly what Hewitt would say, which of course makes it wrong!"

"Couldn't Revelations 12 also be referring to the Manifestation? And what about the verses in—"

The bishop smashed his gnarled fists down upon the table.

"Silence!" he roared.

All words ceased immediately, and the candle flame trembled.

He glared at the childish rabble circling the table, and his lips curled beneath his beard.

"I don't give a _damn_ about this prophecy or that reference. How will that help us protect our flock and continue God's mission? Our church is teetering on the brink of extinction, and the flames of hell lap at our doors like hungry dogs. This is the end, gentlemen, unless we do something besides bicker about feeble and useless interpretations!"

The eyes of the brethren fell to the floor in shame; none could meet the bishop's withering gaze. Father DeMarco, who had been caught up in the ecclesiastical scuffle yet had not lent his voice to the commotion, found his thoughts flitting back to Tourec. He kneaded his hands, unsure if he should broach the matter to the Council.

As he opened his mouth, he was interrupted by a priest across the table.

"Bishop Valenti is right. Theological debates won't help us, and even if we did find correlations between our times and biblical prophecies, that won't put food on our tables or feet in the aisles. We all know that whoever lives by the sword shall die by the sword. I also know this, my brothers: I am not willing to live like this, and I would rather die than see my church ravaged by heathens, and if that death comes because I take up the sword, then I will consider myself blessed."

Father DeMarco was as stunned as the others. The brethren assembled around the table murmured to each other, and the prevailing sentiment was that the outspoken priest was right. Now was the time to defend the church not only with faith, but with force.

Bishop Valenti watched the chaotic discourse in silence. After a few minutes, he raised his hands and quieted his brothers.

"Gentlemen, we need to lay out a specific and targeted course of action, but first, we must all be in agreement about the trajectory of our church. While it pains me to lend my support to the violent defense of our flock, I do not see any other alternative. The enemy has brought this war upon us, and we have only two options. I do not believe that our Heavenly Father would want us to turn the other cheek when it is not a hand that strikes us, but a sword."

His eyes whipped across the table. "So, my brothers, let us take a vote. This vote must be unanimous, for the decisions we make today will affect the entire European church, and beyond. If there are any grievances, they will be heard."

The bishop exhaled deeply, then continued.

"Those in favor of declaring open war upon the forces of Satan and countering their attacks with armed resistance, raise your right hand."

No one moved, not even the candle flame. Eyes shifted to and fro, with no one daring to be the first to open the floodgates of war. Every heart knew what had to be done, but the dreaded weight of that choice nailed every hand to the table.

Slowly, meekly, a hand, calloused and scarred by decades of labor in the sun and in the sanctuary, crept upwards. Father DeMarco was shocked at himself for being the first one to endorse such a grim strategy, but his words with Tourec the day before impressed in his mind that this course could not be altered. The longer the church resisted the inevitable, the weaker and more fractured she would become.

Bishop Valenti set his jaw and nodded towards the priest. Like timid flowers pushing up through the soil, the weathered hands of the Council members rose up in support of war. Several eyes sparkled with tears, and one priest wept silently. Father DeMarco could barely keep from crying himself, and he immediately questioned his fateful choice.

O God, what are we doing?

"It is decided, then," Bishop Valenti announced, his voice low and hollow like a funeral bell. "The Council had elected that we shall oppose the fires of hell head-on, and with God before us, at our side, and at our backs, we shall prevail."

"Amen," the brethren said together.

Bishop Valenti eased slowly into his seat. "Now, my brothers, my friends, we must lay down a foundation for our resistance. We know that this persecution shall only accelerate, although the Evil One seeks to deceive our governments by advocating 'non-violent' means of suppression. This doubletalk shall surely be exposed for the fraud that it is, for we have seen the forces of Satan running rampant in the streets, attacking members of our church and vandalizing our sacred buildings while the law remains idle or even complicit in these deeds. We cannot depend on anyone but ourselves. This world belongs to the devil, and those who put their trust in men are quickly dashed to pieces. The only language that these mongrels understand is force, and I sincerely believe that if we make our congregation feel safe again, they will come back to us and our church will become stronger. The weak and half-hearted will flee, and those that remain will be the true sons and daughters of God."

These words pierced the souls of every man at the table, and now Father DeMarco felt compelled to speak up.

"What of the assassins who have already begun attacks on the church of Satan?"

Bishop Valenti grumbled quietly in his beard. "These men are partially, or maybe even completely, to blame for these recent events, but perhaps this was the vaccine that our church needed."

"Do you support their actions, Bishop Valenti?" Father DeMarco asked, hoping his tone wasn't too accusatory.

The bishop met Father DeMarco's gaze for a moment, then huffed. "Murder is murder, regardless of the mask it wears. But I believe that from this sin can come a righteous reawakening of the church, even under the threat of impending persecution. I do not know where this group resides or who leads them, but I will exert every effort to find out. They shall be brought before the Council and we will decide what course of action to pursue. In the meantime, we must bring word to our flocks, that they are blessed by God to take up arms to oppose the forces of evil."

"What arms?" a priest asked. "This isn't America or the Outback, and I can count on one hand the number of men in my congregation who know how to use a gun, and even then, just for duck hunting."

A sly smile crept across Bishop Valenti's bearded face, a smile that sent chills through Father DeMarco's veins.

"Do not fear, my brother," the bishop said as he rose to his feet. "The church has many hidden resources that can be called upon in times of need. In addition, there are several methods of warfare that can be considered 'unconventional,' but are effective nonetheless."

The full meaning of his words slowly seeped in Father DeMarco's mind like water soaking the soil. "You mean... _terrorism_?"

The members of the Council gasped in horror.

"This is madness!"

"This is blasphemy!"

"Sending God's children to hell...!"

"This cannot be allowed!"

"God will pour his wrath out upon us!"

The ancient bishop tried to quell the storm brewing around the table. "Please, _please,_ my brothers. No one said anything about sending our women and children into the markets with bombs beneath their coats. Like you, I abhor the thought. But we must be realistic, gentlemen. We are not warriors; we are husbands, wives, brothers, sisters, farmers, laborers, teachers, doctors. If we are to fight, we must do so by whatever means we have available. And make no mistake, brothers, people die in war. We shall not emerge unscathed. _But we must unite!_ This Council is the only organized body of church leadership left in Europe. It is up to us to motivate our church to action, to instill courage where there is fear. Perhaps this band of rogue assassins is the spark that this fire needs."

Father DeMarco couldn't believe his ears. He leaped to his feet and stabbed the table with his finger. "You want our church to _support_ these murderers? You want them to be the example that our congregations should follow? Are you insane?"

Bishop Valenti's eyes smoldered. "Brother DeMarco, did you not just raise your hand in support for this measure?"

"To defend our church, yes. To endorse the unprovoked assassinations of—"

The bishop's fists crashed down upon the table.

" _Unprovoked?"_ he bellowed. "What has happened to your church, Brother DeMarco? What is happening even now to members of your congregation? Who sits upon the throne in the Vatican? Our church has been provoked since Jesus ascended into heaven and commissioned the Apostles. Our faith has been assailed without relief for _two millennia_ , my brothers, and now we face worldwide extermination. There are no methods that are off the table, and whoever opposes the Evil One _in any way_ shall be honored and blessed."

Father DeMarco and the rest of the brethren were silent. Bishop Valenti's frail shoulders heaved with labored breaths, and he fell wearily into his chair, fitfully stroking his beard. Still standing, Father DeMarco scanned the frightened faces seated around the table, and every eye fell away from his.

"I know one of them..." he said with a humble voice. Everyone turned towards him with surprise, and Bishop Valenti sat upright.

"Who?" he demanded.

The priest stared into the candle flame. "He was a former pupil of mine in the monastery at Susa _._ He left to defend Jerusalem after the Manifestation, and now he has banded together with his brothers to terrorize the church of Satan."

"He told you this himself?"

"Yes."

"What else did he say?"

Father DeMarco was a bit surprised at the harsh edge on the bishop's voice. "Our conversation was brief. I tried to dissuade him but he was resolute. I do not know where is now."

Bishop Valenti glared at him for a moment longer, then coughed and leaned forward. "Let me be clear. Speaking for myself and for our church, we do not condone these violent acts. But the fact remains that they have occurred, and we have been given a unique opportunity to rally God's children. Our people are beyond reassurance; they need to see something happen. When they see that the church has risen up against the powers of darkness with more than just words, they will take heart and our church will triumph. After all, we have God on our side."

Father DeMarco had a sickening feeling that the last sentence was spoken with an almost sarcastic undertone. His brethren remained silent, waiting to see how this would play out, and Bishop Valenti simmered at the far end of the table, awaiting Father DeMarco's response. All eyes were upon him, and he could feel his pulse quicken and a tightness clenching his chest. He drew in a resolute breath, and spoke with a steady voice.

"I withdraw my vote of support for this course of action. I am not blind to the fact that violence is on our doorstep, but my conscience will not allow me to embrace assassinations and terrorism in order to preserve our church."

He exhaled heavily, then continued. "If my decision is unacceptable to this Council, then I shall forfeit my seat at this table."

The heads of the brethren swiveled in unison towards Bishop Valenti. The candlelight flickered over his creased and weathered face, which wore a curious expression of sorrow. "Dear brother," he began with a weary voice, "you are a valued member of this Council, and no one here wishes for you to depart. Please, sit down, and let us discuss these issues with clear—"

"I am through with discussions," Father DeMarco replied. He looked around the table, gazing firmly into the eyes of every priest. "My brothers, my friends, think about what this means. Do you really think this is what God wants? Is our faith in His providence so weak that we should take matters into our own hands, and cast aside our convictions and morality? We must resist the enemy, but not like this. Please, I beg you, not like this...."

There were several inaudible whispers and murmurs, but no one responded directly to his impassioned plea. One priest finally stood up and cleared his throat, looking at Father DeMarco but unable to hold his gaze for long.

"Bishop Valenti is right," he said slowly and softly. "Our church cannot overcome this persecution with open warfare, and we must use whatever means and resources we have, even if they are contrary to our convictions. Allowing our beloved church to be brutalized is far worse than laying aside our strict sense of morality in defense of her. War is terrible, and we did not choose this, but this is where we are now, and we have to act."

The priest leveled his eyes at Father DeMarco, then sat down. The others in the room were silent. The bishop rested his chin upon steepled fingers, a mixture of disdain and sadness glimmering in his eyes. Father DeMarco looked down at the rough-hewn table, then slowly, as if pulled down by unseen hands, he sat down in his seat. He spoke in a voice that seemed as feeble and meek as the candle flame.

"I give my support and obedience to the will of this Council," he said, keeping his eyes upon the table surface, "and ask that God guide us and bless us in our holy mission."

He looked up and stared across the candle at Bishop Valenti's shimmering expression of surprise and satisfaction.

"Thank you, brother," the bishop replied. "We all understand your fears, for we share them with you. But that is why we have God, my brothers: to soothe our fears and lead us towards the righteous path. Do not doubt His power, and He has promised in His Word that He will protect those who follow Him. He did not promise an end to suffering and persecution, but He did promise endurance to bear all trials. He also gave us hands and minds to defend ourselves if necessary, and that is what we shall do."

He rose to his feet, as did the other priests. Father DeMarco got up slowly, like a prizefighter who has just suffered a crushing defeat.

Bishop Valenti scanned the frightened but resolute faces. "This is the beginning of the fight for our lives, gentlemen. We shall win. Make no mistake. _We shall win_."

A Bible lay open before him and he slammed it shut like the crack of a gavel. "We shall meet again soon. You will all be contacted with the location. In the meantime, I will endeavor to contact the assassins, and you, my brothers, must instill confidence and perseverance in your flock at all costs. It is the weakness in man's heart that is our greatest enemy."

With dutiful nods, the priests filtered away from the table and began exiting through the door.

"Brother DeMarco."

Father DeMarco stopped, and turned around. Bishop Valenti stared at him with steel-cold eyes. "I would like a word with you."

The priest swallowed roughly and left the ranks of the brethren. "Yes, Your Grace?" he asked as he approached his old friend, who motioned for him to sit down.

When the other priests had left and the door was shut, Bishop Valenti leaned forward and gazed long and hard at the other man. "Are you sure you are not keeping anything from me regarding these assassins?"

Father DeMarco instinctively leaned back and raised his hands in defense. "I swear, Bishop; I only know what I have just told the Council. I was completely surprised by his visit, and he left just as suddenly as he appeared."

"And you do not know where he is now?"

"I have no idea, Your Grace. He could be in another country by now, for all I know."

Bishop Valenti exhaled impatiently, then leaned back in his chair after a moment of contemplation. "If he or anyone else from his rogue band attempts to contact you, you must inform me immediately. It is very necessary that these men be brought before our Council to answer for their deeds."

Father DeMarco nodded contritely. He regarded his hands as he addressed the bishop not as a clergyman, but as a friend.

"Benicio, are you really so certain that we can win this war?"

Bishop Valenti's eyes sparkled with indignation, then softened. "I am frightened, just as you are, Stefano. We do not know the future of our church, but we do know that if we do not have faith, we are surely lost. It is our greatest weapon, and it has served our church well in the past. Think of all the trials that we have endured, and yet here we are, still alive. We shall arise from the ashes once again, I promise you."

Father DeMarco raised his head and looked deep into the bishop's eyes. "Our church has tested God's patience a great many times in the past. Frankly, I am surprised that He has allowed us to survive this long, considering the innumerable horrors that our church has perpetrated in His name. I love the church, my friend; you can be sure of that. But I love my God and His commandments more, and I fear that we may strain His mercy too far."

Bishop Valenti's face squeezed into a joyless smile. "My brother, God is on our side. Our pure hearts sanctify our actions, and He will bless us. Have faith, my brother, that the path we walk is the right one."

The candle flame shimmered and nearly evaporated but continued to dance atop the glowing wick. Father DeMarco gazed at the courageous little flame. "I will pray," he said softly, "for God's guidance."

Bishop Valenti nodded. "As will I. There is no better antidote for a wavering heart. You must believe, my brother," he said as he rose to his feet, "that God will give you the strength to endure any trial and test."

With these words, he left Father DeMarco alone in the room.

A sharp breath of wind from the closing door extinguished the candle with a whisper.

****

The windshield wipers swished back and forth with a hypnotizing rhythm. Natasha followed them aimlessly, though her mind was a bustle of worry and emotions. She glanced over at Patric, who was staring sullenly at the rain. Her hand reached out and rested on his, but he made no response. She huffed in frustration, then leaned forward and tapped the driver on the shoulder.

"Please stop the car," she said firmly.

The driver jerked his head in surprise. " _Excuse moi, madame?"_

"Stop the car right now!"

The brakes screeched and the van lurched to a halt on the side of the road.

Before Patric could react, Natasha seized him by the face and pulled her towards him. She stared directly into his eyes, and she spoke with a low, measured voice.

"You are going to tell me what is going on here, Patric, or I will get out of this van and walk back to Limoges; I swear to God."

Patric threw a fearful sidelong glance at the driver, who returned his glance with equal concern. He looked back at Natasha, who was positively enraged. Slowly, like a trainer approaching a cornered tiger, he reached up and brought her hands away from his face.

"All right," he answered quietly. "I will tell you everything when we get to the station."

Natasha's eyes glowered.

"I promise," Patric insisted.

Natasha breathed fiercely through her nostrils for a moment, then relaxed back in her seat. "Okay," she said.

Patric exhaled, then took her hand in his. This simple gesture warmed Natasha's heart.

The driver glanced in the rearview mirror and saw that the storm had passed, and he took this to be his cue to continue down the road. No one spoke during the remainder of the trip to the train station, and once he had helped Patric and Natasha unload their bags on the curb, he sped off into the rain.

The two of them stood there like statues while raindrop bombshells pounded the glass roof above them. Natasha turned to Patric with anxious, expectant eyes, and Patric couldn't meet her gaze.

"Let's sit down inside," he said as he stooped to pick up the bags. He hurried inside without waiting to see if she was following him.

The station was virtually empty, and there were no lines in front of the ticket windows. Patric spied a local branch bank at the other end of the station and he slipped his mother's cheque out of his pocket. Motioning towards the bank, he said, "I'm just going to — "

Natasha seized his arm.

"No," she commanded as she pulled him to a cluster of benches. "Let's talk first."

Patric surrendered to her insistent grasp and slumped down upon the bench next to her. "What do you want to know?" he asked.

"Everything. Why is it so important that we find your brother, someone you barely even know, and a Christian, no less? And why are we rushing off again, right after visiting your mother whom you haven't seen for ten years, and whom I've never met? What did you tell her that convinced her to give you that money?"

Patric opened his mouth to reply, but she interrupted him.

"I don't doubt that you've had a visitation," she continued, "but I know you well enough to know that you're not telling me everything. Tell me the truth, Patric. All of it."

The majestic clock above their heads struck 3 o'clock. Patric looked up for a moment, then sighed.

"I don't know why all of this is happening," he said cautiously, keeping his eyes on the clock. "I've been too afraid to tell you the truth. I'm afraid even now."

Natasha's brow furrowed. "Afraid of what?"

Patric looked down at the pentagram around his neck, then back to Natasha. "Afraid of our Great Lord."

Natasha's lip curled in a bewildered sneer. "Patric, everyone's afraid of him; that's who he is. He's not Jesus hanging on a cross, dressed in white robes, weeping for the world."

Her eyes narrowed. "Tell me why you're afraid."

Patric swallowed a sharp lump of guilt and fear. Despite the soothing breeze filtering through the open station, his forehead was beginning to sparkle with sweat. He glanced around at all the backs turned towards him, half-expecting one of them to whirl around and reveal a mouth full of fangs and ink-black eyes.

"Patric!"

Natasha's voice cracked like a whip, and Patric turned towards her. She held his gaze firmly.

"Tell me why you are afraid."

"He threatened our baby!"

With a gasp, he immediately clasped his hands over his mouth, and Natasha's eyes bulged. She grabbed him by the shoulders, her fingers digging into his flesh.

"What are you talking about?"

Patric's chest heaved with anxious breaths. "That night, when I said I had a visitation...it was true, but it wasn't the first. I've been seeing things. Seeing... _demons_. They all tell me the same thing: 'Find your brother, or the child dies.'"

He reached out to embrace her. "I'm so sorry, _chère_ _...."_

Natasha slapped his hands away. A black cloud of rage darkened her face, and she rose to her feet like an executioner.

"Do you expect me to believe this?" she exclaimed furiously. "That demons are going to hurt our baby unless you find your brother? Do you hear how insane that sounds?"

Patric raised his hands pleadingly. "Please, Natasha, I know it sounds crazy, but I swear it's the truth!"

"How many?"

Patric blinked. "What?"

"How many visitations have you had? And where were you when they happened?"

Patric swallowed again. "Well, there was that night that I told you about, and...again at the station...I met Jacque, and he—"

"Jacque? Your friend, Jacque? Possessed by a demon?"

Patric could tell from her tone that her disbelief was swelling dramatically. "Yes, yes, his face changed, and his eyes became black, like the woman at the church—"

"So you say...."

Patric halted, then winced as he remembered that she had no recollection of the woman's fitful possession. "Well, it doesn't matter. He told me the same thing as—"

He stopped. Natasha's eyes prodded him to go on.

"As whom?" she asked impatiently.

Patric's eyes fell to the floor.

_The time has come_.

"The same thing that a prostitute told me, that night that I didn't come home."

Natasha was frozen for a moment, then threw up her hands in exasperation. "So while you were snorting coke and screwing a whore, she turned into a demon and threatened our baby."

Patric couldn't bring himself to look at her. His shame felt like a lead blanket, suppressing whatever willpower he had left. "Natasha, I...I...."

"Is this what you told your mother?'

"Yes, I did."

"And she believed you?"

"She wouldn't have given me the money if she didn't."

"And did she tell you where your brother is?"

Patric exhaled wearily. "She doesn't know exactly where he is, but she gave me the location of the monastery where he was educated. Someone there might know where he is."

Natasha's eyes were fierce. "Go cash the cheque."

Patric looked at her with surprise. "W-what?"

"We are going to forget about your brother," she said evenly, her boiling rage buried beneath incredible self-control, "and we're going to Scandinavia, where we should have gone in the first place."

A sleepy voiced announced an incoming train, and a sharp whistle sounded a moment later. Patric looked around in a panic.

"Natasha, please. I don't know what is going on, but I won't risk disobeying our Great Lord."

The shackles restraining her fury shattered like twigs.

"You're taking orders from a demon-possessed whore!"

Several nearby passengers glanced in their direction but quickly looked away.

Patric tried to place his hands on her shoulders, but she shrugged out of his embrace. "I can keep this baby safe, Patric. And why would anyone want to hurt it? What possible reason would our Great Lord, whom I serve wholeheartedly, have to threaten our child? And what is so special about your brother? Is he Jesus Christ? Or Michael the Archangel? I'll tell you what he is, Patric: he's none of our concern. We're going to get on a train and leave all of this nonsense until it is safe to return. And we are going to forget this meaningless detour ever happened."

She turned her back on him. He reached out to grab her, but stopped himself. Every word she spoke had crashed down on him like a heavy stone, and he realized that she was right. What were they doing? Sent on an errand by lunatics?

Patric's eyes darkened and he clenched his fists. She was right. This was insanity. He felt like a fool for even coming this far.

Natasha's shoulders were trembling. He tried to think of something comforting to say, but no words formed in his mouth. He finally managed to sputter, "I'll go cash the cheque. Wait here; I'll be back in a moment."

Natasha nodded, still keeping her back towards him. As Patric started off towards the bank at the far end of the station, he looked back and saw her cautiously easing herself onto the bench. She looked frail and strong at the same time.

The train whistled again, making Patric jump. He slipped inside the tiny bank office and handed the cheque to the clerk, who eyeballed it casually at first, then more intently after noticing Patric's pentagram medallion. With a huff, the clerk finally handed him several large bills and some smaller ones, then stared at him down the end of his nose. Patric mumbled his thanks and shuffled out of the bank.

The bench was empty.

Patric stuffed the money into his pocket and rushed over to the vacant seat. Their bags were on the ground beside the bench, right where he had put them, but Natasha was gone.

The train whistled once again. Panic crashed into Patric's heart like a wrecking ball. He whirled around, frantically searching the station.

"Natasha!" he called out, craning his neck to peer over the heads of those milling about. Then, like a cool breeze, a sudden thought soothed his anxiety.

She's just gone to the restroom, you idiot. She's pregnant, after all.

Patric nearly laughed out loud with relief, and he collapsed on the bench. He glanced down at the bags, and he felt a little worried. It was a bit strange that she would leave these bags unattended, rather than wait two or three minutes for him to return. Pangs of fear pricking his brain. He started gnawing his lip as he looked towards the women's restroom on his left. He waited for a few minutes, then nervously rose to his feet. The simmering waters of worry began to boil again.

Turning around, he tapped the shoulder of a middle-aged man sitting on the bench behind his.

" _Pardonne moi, monsieur,_ " Patric said, trying to keep his voice steady, "did you see a woman sitting here?"

The man raised his head, which was topped by a small brown hat, and folded his newspaper and set it on his lap, but he didn't turn around. Thinking that perhaps the man hadn't heard him clearly, Patric tapped the man's shoulder again.

With a startling jerk, the man whirled around, and Patric's hands flew over his ears as an ear-splitting buzz filled his head. He groaned in pain and his eyes grew wide with terror.

The man gazed up at him with coal-colored eyes. Keeping his black stare fixed on Patric, he rose slowly to his feet. The agonizing hum grew louder, and Patric fell heavily upon the bench, still clutching his ears in vain. The man leaned forward and whispered in a metallic, echoing hiss.

"When we tell you to do something, _Patric,_ you do it. Remember who your master is."

Patric gritted his teeth against the chainsaw splitting his cranium. "Where is she?" he moaned in agony.

"She is not your concern," the man snarled. "All you need to think about is finding your brother and bringing him to Paris. Anything else is a waste of time."

"If you hurt her or the baby," Patric growled, summoning his remaining strength, "I'll — "

The man seized his collar and wrenched him to his feet. An impossibly wide smile split the man's face. "You'll what? Kill me?"

The man threw him to the ground and sped off towards the nearest track, his pounding footsteps echoing throughout the terminal. Petrified with horror, Patric watched him fly through the station, and he gasped as the humming in his ears suddenly ceased. Coattails flapping, the man let out a piercing shriek as he flung himself under the screeching wheels of a train just arriving at the station. There was a sickening crunch and several passengers standing on the platform cried out in shock.

Patric was frozen, stunned by what he had just seen. Then, like an electric jolt, the icy claws of fear grabbed his heart again, and he spun around, frantically scanning the terminal for Natasha. As security personnel and horrified onlookers swarmed the platform to get a better view of the grisly scene, Patric scooped the bags into his arms and dashed towards a security kiosk.

The guard inside was craning his neck, hoping for a better look but was confined to his post because of his low rank. Patric breathlessly rushed up to the kiosk and pounded on the window.

"Please, _monsieur,_ I need your help!"

The security guard pursed his lips impatiently and reluctantly gave Patric his attention. "What do you want?"

Patric dropped the bags on the floor and clutched the window frame. "My fiancée has been kidnapped. She was sitting on a bench over there, and I left for just five minutes, and when I came back out she was gone!"

The guard stretched out his neck one more time, then sat down in exasperation.

"How do you know she was kidnapped?" he asked impatiently. "Maybe she just went to get something to eat."

Patric's heart began racing even quicker. "I know she was kidnapped! That man — "

He bit his tongue. The guard looked at him with an irritated expression. "What man?"

Patric's eyes fell to the ground. "No one...."

He glanced around nervously and turned back towards the guard. "You're right, I'm sure she's around here somewhere...."

Satisfied with this answer, the guard resumed his futile mission of trying to catch a glimpse of the drama on the platform. Patric picked up his bags and walked away in a daze. He jumped aside as a team of paramedics rushed past, then made his way back to the empty bench. Turning his back towards the scene of the accident, Patric buried his face in his hands. The station was bustling with noise, but he didn't hear any of it. A tear sparkled in his eye, and he looked up towards the vaulted terminal ceiling. He spoke quietly, though he was not addressing God.

"Don't hurt them, and I'll do whatever you want."

His eyes fell back down and his gaze came to rest on the pentagram around his neck. A dangerous thought flew through his mind: _Maybe my mother was right._ He really had no idea what he was getting into so many years ago when he joined the legions of Lucifer. Now he was in the thick of it, and he had nowhere to go.

Except forward.

He dried his eyes and made his way to the ticket window. The clerk inside was in the same predicament as the security guard: painfully curious but trapped in a box. She looked at Patric as if he were a stray animal, then she blinked rapidly.

"Where to?"

"Are the trains still running?" Patric asked urgently.

The woman smirked. "If we stopped the trains every time a lunatic threw himself on the tracks, we would be backed up for days." She didn't notice Patric's frown of disbelief, and her lips smacked as she asked again, "Where to?"

Patric glanced behind him, swallowing a lump of disgust as the paramedics hoisted a bloodstained sheet draped over a shapeless mass onto a stretcher, and several policemen shooed away morbidly curious onlookers. He turned back towards the ticket window and slapped several bills onto the ledge.

"One ticket to Susa, Italy."

****

Caroline Bourdon regarded the phone for a long time. She didn't move; she hardly seemed to breathe. The rain outside was a solid mass of sound, and the world inside the dull little room seemed to be frozen in contemplation.

She blinked twice, and like a rusty machine awakening after ages of neglect, she slowly reached out and lifted the ancient receiver off of its cradle. Her hand trembled as she dialed the number, and her quickening breath became louder than the pattering of the rain against the window.

There was a ring, hollow and impatient. Another, and another. Four, five, six.

Please...please, answer the phone....

Ten rings. Eleven. Twelve.

Her hand trembled and the receiver clacked against the cradle as she hung up. She hugged her knees against her chest as her heart cried out to heaven.

Keep my boys safe. And please...forgive them.

Caroline tilted her head to the side. She thought she had heard something, like a low humming sound, faint but insistent.

Of course, it could have just been the rain.

### CHAPTER 6

Vatican City

The Voice of Satan wiped the sweat from his brow as he made his way through the great halls and foreboding corridors. He treasured these moments of relative solitude, though there were guards stationed at every door and monks and priests bowing in respect as he passed, but he didn't really see them. These moments after attending mass with the Vatican elite were always pregnant with reflection and reverence, especially considering the monumental vision he had experienced during the final incantation.

Two guards in gleaming black armor clacked their halberds against the floor as they snapped to attention, and His Worship passed between them and opened the doors to his chambers with a grand flourish. As he stepped inside, one of the guards immediately reached in and swung the doors shut.

His Worship glided into the anteroom, which served as his lounge and office. It was a cavern of infernal atmosphere. Candelabras shimmered, casting flickering light across the Satanic icons and leather-bound volumes scattered around the room. Moonlight slithered through the slender, soaring Gothic windows, and darkness hung in the air like a black fog. The Voice glided over to an intricately carved table and set his bundle of books upon it, then spun around

There was nothing, only a slight breeze that stirred the curtains. The Voice frowned and glanced sideways. All of the windows were closed, yet the curtains continued to rustle. There was a whisper, and the Voice turned back to the table. Suddenly, he gasped as he felt something pierce his chest and seize his lungs like a fist.

I can see in your heart that you have doubts about my plan.

He choked and gasped for breath as his arms stretched out and his spine arched towards the ceiling.

"My Lord, please...please..." he wheezed, his eyes bulging. "I do not doubt you, my Lord; I just...I am just a man. I am weak."

The grip inside his ribs tightened and the pontiff grimaced in pain.

Yes, you are weak. You should count yourself fortunate that I have exalted you above the rest, and I expect unquestioning loyalty in return.

"You have it, my Lord," the Voice gasped desperately. "I swear by the fires of Hell; I am loyal to you alone."

Then why do you doubt what I have shown you?

A wave of relief washed over him as the fiery talons clutching his lungs relaxed their grip, and he bent over coughing and hacking. When he had composed himself, he straightened his posture and gazed into the darkness with an attempt at dignity.

"I do not doubt your plan, my Lord; I doubt the will of the masses. The coming of the new age will bring quite a lot of disruption and turmoil to our order and our world. We are all frail, my Lord, and we have grown accustomed to the way things are now. Change is often...painful."

The curtains swirled again with the sound of someone or something inhaling an impatient breath. _The world will see the might of Lucifer again, and all will bow before me. Do not trouble yourself with the will of the people; leave that to me. You are simply my voice in this world, and you will speak what I command._

His Worship bowed low before the darkness. "Yes, my Lord. I am your humble servant."

The room seemed to exhale, and he felt a presence dissipate. His shoulders slumped and he suppressed a sigh of relief, seeking out a chair to fall into. He rubbed his brow and he absently fingered the pentagram around his neck. Serving this master was certainly no easy task....

A short, abrupt sound came from his bedchambers, and he bolted out of the chair. He stalked to the door and opened it quietly. All was dark within, yet he was certain he could hear breathing. He steeled his nerves for another encounter, then paused as he heard someone laughing in a soft yet scornful chuckle.

He stepped into the room and closed the door. At the same time, a candle flickered to life, then another, then another.

The woman in black blew out the match and turned her eyes towards the pontiff. She spoke with a smooth syrupy voice as she made her way around the corner of the colossal bed.

"For such a great man, you can be quite stupid sometimes."

The Voice bristled at this accusation, but the flame of his anger was quickly extinguished by her body's slithering curves as she approached.

"I carry a great burden," he said after a few moments.

"Indeed," she answered as she drew close to him. She pressed her body against his and draped one arm loosely around his neck. "As I said, you are a great man," she cooed, stroking his stern face. Her eyes flashed, and a sly smile curled her black lips. "Will you do as he says?"

His Worship sucked in his breath, realizing that she had heard the exchange in the next room. He glared at her. "What do you think?"

The woman in black smiled again and twined her other arm around him.

"I think that you know whom you serve."

His Worship raised one eyebrow and wrapped his arm around her waist. "Indeed."

****

The news anchorwoman wore a grave expression as she stared into the camera and read the scrolling teleprompter with a solemn tone.

"The country continues to be ravaged by religious strife as today, a Christian priest was hanged from a bridge in Milan. This follows a night of restless protests and scattered arson attacks throughout Italy and other European countries. Despite a call from the Vatican for Satanists to wage an economic and psychological war against the Christian minority, violence continues to flare up across the continent, with both sides being active participants. As of yet, there has been no formal statement from the Christian church, whose leaders are believed to be in hiding."

The anchorwoman glanced to her left, then returned her gaze to the camera. "We have some breaking news for you now: a video has just been released on the Internet, featuring several persons who claim to be 'Christian vigilantes.' We will show you the video now."

Tourec's eyes glowered through his mask as he glared at the watching world beyond the television screen. Behind him were several brethren, shrouded and somber, assembled in front of a grand altar piled with icons and crucifixes. Tourec spread his arms wide, and the golden cross around his neck gleamed majestically.

"We are the soldiers of God," he announced. "We vehemently oppose Satan, the Prince of this World, and we stand against all of his followers. All praise and glory be to God the Father and his Son, Jesus Christ."

" _Amen,"_ chanted the hooded figures.

"We claim responsibility for the attacks in recent weeks," Tourec continued, "and we promise that such attacks will continue as long as members of our faith are assaulted and persecuted. We have committed our lives to love and peace, but we will not stand idly by while our brothers and sisters are trampled and brutalized. We do not fear what man can do, and we do not fear the eternal fool Lucifer, who thought he could overthrow Jehovah, the Creator of Heaven and Earth.

" _Glory to God in the highest,"_ the monks chanted again.

Tourec paused a moment, letting the anger seethe in his heart. His eyes shot fire through the air and wires, penetrating the hearts of the audience on the other side of the camera. He inhaled deeply, then delivered the conclusion to his message.

"Brothers and sisters in Christ, I urge you: _rise up!_ Resist the devil and his hordes, and do not fear to use force when you must. These are not peaceful times; these are times of terror and violence, and we have been called now to live by the sword, and die by it if necessary. But above all, do not waver! Keep the faith, and God will protect you."

His eyes and his voice darkened, and he continued, "And to the minions of the Deceiver, we say this: though our numbers are few, our might is infinite, for we wield the sword of God, against which no man or angel can stand. Repent, or fall beneath his righteous hammer of judgment! Amen."

" _Amen."_

The video faded to a black screen emblazoned with a simple white cross, then the anchorwoman reappeared. She looked visibly disturbed, and for a moment, she seemed at a loss for what to say next.

"Well, it seems...we have just witnessed a very...we have a panel of experts standing by to give us their commentary." She was quite relieved when the cameras cut away to two men and one woman waiting expectantly at a table across the stage. They all nodded politely towards the camera, and the anchorwoman used this brief respite to regain her composure.

" _Signori, signora_ ," she said, "please give us your thoughts about what we just saw."

A thin-faced man with dark eyes dramatically cleared his throat as a graphic below his chin identified him as a professor of religious studies at the University of Siena _._ "This is terrorism, pure and simple. It is no secret that the church of Satan is directly opposed to the church of Christ, but until now, it has allowed the Christians to worship as they pleased. Now the Christians have struck first, unprovoked, and against civilian targets. We have seen this scenario played out in countless religious and ethnic disputes throughout history, and each side always claims to be the victim, but in this instance, the aggressor is clear."

The anchorwoman nodded in agreement, then turned to the woman seated between the two men. "Signora Bianco, you have written several books and given countless lectures on the irrelevance of Christianity in our modern world, especially since the Manifestation. Why are these 'vigilantes' so adamant in defense of their, according to your view, antiquated faith?"

Mrs. Bianco adjusted her massive glasses and settled her equally massive frame into the comfortable studio chair. "Since the Manifestation, the world's religious demographic has experienced a colossal upheaval. It was a revelation to the world that was even more dramatic than Jesus and His miracles in Jerusalem. But God has remained silent since Satan made his presence and existence known, and this only serves to intensify the desperation that the Christians have as they cling to their increasingly flimsy faith. Now they have taken to the streets to antagonize the sleeping bear in a pathetic attempt to justify the persecution they crave. It's pitiful."

The anchorwoman coughed uncomfortably, then turned to the last gentleman at the table. "Dr. Costanzo, you are a professor of early Christian studies at  the University of Parma _._ From the tone of your lectures, and your numerous books on the subject, it can be inferred that you sympathize with the Christian church. Is this the case?"

Dr. Costanzo's eyes shifted nervously behind his spectacles, and he flashed an anxious and toothy smile. "Well, I wouldn't say I _sympathize,_ per se, since that would sound like I endorse these vigilantes — "

"Do you?" the anchorwoman demanded outright.

Dr. Costanzo huffed and squirmed in his chair. "Of course not. I do not support terrorism in any form, even if it's for a righteous cause — "

"You think what these men are doing is _righteous?_ " Mrs. Bianco demanded incredulously.

"What? That's...that's ridiculous!" Dr. Costanzo cried. "I just said that I _don't_ support — "

"So you're against them?" the rival professor asked scornfully.

Dr. Costanzo glanced at the camera and attempted another smile, but it came out as an idiotic slack-jawed expression. "Listen, I feel like I'm being singled out here...."

The anchorwoman swiveled in her chair and looked at the camera like a mother about to apologize for her unruly children. "Christians continue to flee the country in droves, and the border crossings, airports, and sea ports are clogged with refugees seeking to distance themselves from the conflict. Popular havens are the Americas, the British Isles, and Australia, which have been Christian strongholds since the Manifestation. In light of this video message, we will wait and see what the government's official response will be, though an accelerated crackdown is to be expected as Premiere Bertonelli scrambles to restore social order and unity to our country."

Father DeMarco pressed the remote button and the television screen winked off with a whisper. He turned and stared out the window, letting his gaze fly over the rolling hills and tranquil groves of trees. In the distance, black clouds swarmed like scouts sent out in advance of a fearsome army, and the priest did not doubt that a storm was coming. Even here, in his little retreat in the hills, he could feel the ground rumble with the approaching torrent of doom.

He squeezed his eyes shut and clasped his Bible to his chest. With trembling lips, he prayed feverishly to a God that he hoped was listening, and commanded that the small yet insistent voice of doubt within him be silenced.

An image of Tourec flashed in his mind. He had recognized Tourec's voice immediately on TV, and even if he hadn't, those eyes were unmistakable. There had once been so much love in those eyes, love for his Heavenly Father, and for....

He clutched the Bible tighter, and his eyes glimmered with tears. _How much longer, Lord?_ his heart cried in anguish. _Time doesn't make it easier...._

The blackening sky quaked and rumbled, and a cold breeze slithered through the open window. Father DeMarco placed the Bible on the table, then got up and shut the window with excessive force.

****

The train blasted into a tunnel and scorching white lights zipped by like dimensionally-warped stars. Several dozing passengers jolted awake and grumbled to themselves, then nestled back into their seats, hoping to resume their dreams that took them anywhere but on a train.

Patric didn't flinch, and he didn't sleep. He stood in the smoking compartment between the cars, staring straight ahead, his gaze slicing the rushing darkness like the scythes of light punctuating the tunnel walls. He wasn't actually seeing anything, since the vision center in his mind was arrested by one immovable image.

Her face. _Her eyes._

At first, Patric had been horrified to find that his mind was imprisoned by thoughts of his mother rather than Natasha, but eventually, he accepted the fixation. He couldn't get that look out of his head, and it was even more indelible after he had spilled the truth in her small room at the hospital, and she had said something that resonated in his heart.

" _Patric, why do you follow your god?"_

Even now, speeding away from her, from Natasha, from home, his mind couldn't assemble an answer from the countless dogmatic fragments floating in his brain.

_Why?_ He clutched at his hair and hung his head down. Why him? Why all of this? Why was his god doing this, to one of his own children?

The train burst out of the tunnel, and the darkness was replaced with a sickly overcast light as the rain resumed its assault on the windows.

Suddenly, like a lightning bolt searing his heart, he had a revelation.

Why _should_ the devil love him? Patric was a pathetic example of a Satanist. He claimed Lucifer as his master, but he was really on his own side. Even though the Proclamation granted unlimited freedom to all who wish, Satan could not be expected to help anyone who did not return the favor. This was the way of the world, after all.

A crackle of thunder outside mingled with the clattering of the train car's frantic wheels, and Patric said a prayer as fingers of cigarette smoke drifted over his eyes.

I know I have been disobedient. I have questioned you and your power and your forgiveness. I have placed my own life before your master plan, and now I surrender myself to your will. I ask that you keep Natasha and our child safe, but your wisdom is greater than mine, and I know that I can do nothing for them now, so I will devote myself completely to the task that you have given me. I will find my brother and bring him to Paris, as you have commanded. Purge me of my weakness and give me the strength to endure whatever trials lie before me.

A flash of lightning split the sky, and Patric felt a surge of strength scorch his nerves.

This is what he had needed all along. He sucked in a deep lungful of smoke and exhaled slowly. He had been a fool to question and resist this mission; he should have considered it an honor to be commissioned by the Prince of Darkness in this war. His thoughts flitted back to Natasha, and that lingering sense of dread and worry seeped away, replaced by a strange sense of calm. They would certainly be safe...after all, Natasha had even greater faith than he did.

He inhaled smoke again.

_Faith._ That's what he had been lacking for so long. Of course, he knew the Great Dragon was real — everyone did. But not everyone knew that the Great Dragon had a plan for this world, and all were a part of it. It was on this uncharted sea that Patric found himself now, and he saw the futility of lamenting the fact that he couldn't see where the ship was going. The captain was none other than the Prince of Darkness, and Patric's part in all of this was simply to carry out the task that had been given to him, and trust that his loyalty would aid the ship in some small way in reaching its destination.

At least his master had the bravery to make his will made known loud and clear, rather than speaking through esoteric texts with a thousand interpretations. Patric swore that he would rather give allegiance to a brazen and bold master, though he be harsh and even dangerous, than to a supposedly "loving" God who remained distant and silent.

Patric straightened his back and squared his jaw. He promised himself that he wouldn't fear that awful humming or those pitch-black eyes; after all, they were servants of Satan just as he was. Only Delusionals and non-believers feared the power of Apollyon, and indeed he was worthy of fear.

He heard approaching footsteps behind him and a mumbling voice asked, "Hey friend, bum a smoke?"

Patric paused for a moment, then fished in his pockets for the crumpled cigarette pack. He offered one to the passenger, a middle-aged man with earth-tone clothing and a heavy beard.

"Thanks," the man said as he lit the cigarette with his own lighter. He took a grateful drag, then glanced up with murky eyes. He spotted Patric's pentagram necklace, and a smile that was almost lost inside the beard widened his face.

"You know," he said, pointing at Patric with the cigarette, "I know you don't believe it, but Jesus loves you, brother."

Patric seized the man's head and smashed it against the wall. The cigarette exploded against the floor like fireworks.

"No, he doesn't," he hissed into the man's ear, tightening his grip on the shaggy mat of hair. "And if he was any kind of god, he wouldn't love you either."

He released his grip and stepped back. The man pried himself away from the wall and panted heavily as he stared at Patric in bewilderment. For a moment, Patric felt himself consumed by burning anger, but chills of shame began to brush against his soul. His eyes fell away, and he licked his dry lips.

"And I'm not your brother," he muttered, turning and leaving the man in the heavy mist of cigarette smoke.

****

"Look at this bloody mess," the sergeant grumbled as he kicked a smoldering piece of timber out of his way. "Serves the bastards right for living in a stone fortress with an interior built completely out of wood. You know they were just asking for it, with all the geriatrics in there and their oxygen tanks and what-have-you...."

The two policemen wound their way through the maze of ash and rubble, and the young rookie who had patiently listened to his superior's incisive hindsight commentary had to turn away as the firefighters extracted another charred, twisted skeleton from the ruins and bundled it into a white sheet.

They walked a wide-arcing path, circumventing the chaos of flashing lights, weeping nurses, and clusters of firemen overturning blackened timbers. The rookie followed the sergeant like an obedient dog, and they approached several other middle-ranking officers wearing raincoats and lounging around their cars.

"Bloody mess," the sergeant repeated to no one in particular, and everyone agreed. The rookie stepped closer, but backed away after receiving a stern look from his superior.

"So what's the word?" a portly officer asked.

A third flipped through a notepad, trying to shield it from the rain with moderate success. "A nuclear bomb. Just like that." He snapped his fingers to punctuate his statement. "Everyone inside, done, _kaput._ The only ones left are some maintenance staff and a few nurses who were out on various errands. But everyone inside was toasted faster than you can cook an omelet."

The sergeant narrowed his eyes and planted his hands on his hips. "Now how is that possible? You've seen the windows on this place— couldn't someone throw a chair and let at least someone escape? And what about the doors?"

The officer flipped through several pages of his notepad, then sucked on his lips. "We're still looking into that. But our preliminary investigation indicates that the blaze tore through the facility so quickly that no one had a chance to escape. And remember, nearly everyone inside was old, infirm, or both. Falling out one of those windows would have killed them just as quickly as the fire did."

"Less painfully, though," the rookie murmured.

The three officers glared at him, but their faces reflected their agreement.

"And what about the doors?" the sergeant asked.

The officer wiped his smudged glasses as he shuffled through his notebook again.

"Yeah, that's the strange thing...."

He slapped the notebook closed and looked at his colleagues.

"The handles were made of stainless steel, and they were all melted shut, like they'd been welded or something."

The sergeant licked his teeth. "Well, there was a fire, after all...."

The officer with the notebook shook his head and gestured towards the scorched ruins up on the hill. "That fire was over in a matter of minutes, and it was mostly fueled by wood, which doesn't get much hotter than a thousand degrees. I checked the door handles, and all of them, every one, were melted shut. The handles were made of stainless steel, and I used to be a metal worker, and I know for a fact that stainless steel doesn't start to melt until you reach at least 2500 degrees Fahrenheit."

"So what are you saying?"

"I'm saying that that fire wasn't hot enough to melt those door handles."

The sergeant coughed and glared at the other man. "Are you telling me that something _else_ melted those doors closed?"

The officer glanced down at his notebook. "We strongly suspect that this was a case of arson. Electrical failure is also a possibility, but if it was arson, then perhaps someone wanted to make sure there were no survivors."

"So how could someone weld the doors shut without anyone inside knowing about it?"

The officer shrugged and leaned against the hood of the car. "I don't know, all right? I'm just repeating the facts."

The sergeant turned to his eavesdropping subordinate and gestured for him to follow. The rookie fell into step behind the sergeant, hunching his shoulders against the rain.

"What do you think, sir?"

"About what?"

The rookie glanced at the other two officers conferring back at their cars. "You know, what he said about the door — "

The sergeant whirled and jabbed a dripping finger in his face. "You keep what you heard back there to yourself, do you understand?"

The startled rookie nodded rapidly.

The sergeant lowered his finger and straightened his raincoat. "Until we've finished our investigation, I don't want talk of this getting out. Who knows what wild, hysterical ideas might pop into people's minds if...."

He trailed off, then shoved his hands in his pockets and continued trudging up the hill. A weary fireman approached them, withdrawing a small notebook from a pocket.

"Final count, sir. Our initial estimates were correct: no survivors. Twenty-seven patients, thirteen staff. We're pretty much finished here — just poking around, making sure all the cinders have been extinguished. I'll give you a full report in the morning."

The sergeant saluted carelessly, gazing up at the gaping ruins. _"Merci."_

The fireman returned the salute and sloughed off through the mud.

The sergeant stared at the decimated building for several moments, then turned to go.

"Saint Camillus de Lellis."

He turned around and peered at the rookie.

"What?"

The young officer motioned to a relief carved into the scorched wall, next to one of the arched window openings. It depicted a man with a halo holding another person draped in a blanket.

"He was the patron saint of nurses, doctors, and patients."

The sergeant couldn't help but chuckle mirthlessly. "Well, a lot of good he did these people."

****

Susa, Italy

Father Domingo of the Temple of Set, formerly the Cathedral of San Guisto, glanced warily at the flickering horizon as he lit a cigarette and took a long, grateful drag. In the gathering dusk, the distant lightning illuminated the jagged underbellies of the menacing clouds, which looked like stalactites clinging to a cavern ceiling in the dying light. He straightened his jet-black frock and took another puff of smoke, mentally checking off a list in preparation for tonight's mass.

It was going to be quite an important service. The city was already in an uproar over the terrorists' Internet video message, which had more or less the desired effect on the world. There were reports of Christians banding together and staging demonstrations in several big cities, which were usually followed by scuffles with Satanists, or worse. One unconfirmed report told of a napalm attack on a group of Christian demonstrators in Prague, though Father Domingo doubted if it was actually napalm that was used. More likely, it was just a Molotov cocktail thrown by a brave teen attempting to impress his friends.

Personally, he didn't care too much for these violent tactics, and demonstrations by either side seemed counter-productive. History brimmed with examples of violent oppression backfiring on the oppressors, though Father Domingo doubted this pressure would galvanize the Delusionals into a hardened fighting force.

He couldn't help but smile to himself as he flicked away a stub of ash from the cigarette. He had personally seen the airport and train station packed with bleary-eyed refugees fleeing like cockroaches when the kitchen light is switched on. The foolhardy batch of thugs going on television in ski masks, slinking into temples, and killing clergymen in the shadows were superfluous and, quite frankly, hypocritical. Father Domingo had studied plenty of Christian theology and he knew that if God actually cared about this world anymore, He would never allow such actions from His loyal herd.

This fact was going to be the main point of his sermon tonight, since it was obvious from their desperation that the Delusionals had been abandoned by their God and had to resort to cowardly guerilla tactics to justify their antiquated faith. After the congregation was whipped into a frenzy, Father Domingo was going to unleash his powerful concluding weapon: the announcement that Italy was going to follow in France's footsteps and seize any and all churches suspected of plotting violence or insurrection. He had been personally assured by a high-ranking friend in Parliament that the bill would be quietly voted on and passed the following week. In return, Father Domingo, with the support of several prominent clergymen around the country, had promised to purchase the impounded properties from the government for very agreeable prices. If all the pieces fell into place, he estimated that more than 75% of Italy's remaining Christian cathedrals and churches would be dedicated to Lucifer before the end of the year.

"Father Domingo."

The priest whirled around in surprise, his cigarette flying from his fingers onto the stone pavement. He was both startled and mesmerized by the woman's cold, striking beauty.

He was also baffled by how she could have stepped out onto the terrace behind him through the ancient wooden door, which always emitted an irritating creak when opened, but he had heard nothing.

Squinting at her in the dissolving twilight, he stammered, "Y-yes, can I help you?"

The woman offered a crooked smile and her eyes sparkled, although there was no lightning in the sky at that moment.

"I wonder if I might have a word with you. Inside."

She opened the groaning door and motioned into the church with her black-sleeved arm.

Father Domingo frowned and formed his mouth to speak, then blinked his question away. He stepped inside and the woman in black followed him. They entered the north transept and they walked past unlit chapels towards the nave crossing.

"May I have your name, _signorina_?" he asked, wanting to study her face but afraid to do so.

The woman smirked again, her long dress rustling with each silent step. "My name is not important. But I can tell you that I come on the highest authority."

"The Vatican?"

As they approached the altar, the woman's smile broadened, revealing her gleaming teeth.

"Higher."

The woman raised her eyes above the altar, and Father Domingo followed her gaze.

His heart leaped into his throat.

"Blood of Christ...."

****

The crowd assembled outside the Temple of Set milled about impatiently, murmuring to each other. The temple doors were still closed, and there was a storm approaching. One particularly impatient fellow ventured up to the heavy oak doors and pounded on them.

"Let us in!" he shouted, and his demand was echoed by the crowd.

The doors obediently creaked open, and the man looked back at the crowd in confusion. Everyone appeared just as puzzled as he was, so he shrugged and led the way inside. The congregation shuffled into the sanctuary, which was dimly lit except for the blazing altar at the far end of the nave.

"What is that?" several voices whispered. The congregation crept closer, then shrieks of terror broke out across the crowd.

Father Domingo's lifeless eyes looked down upon the congregation from his elevated perch, his arms thrown wide in a ghastly embrace. His hands and feet were nailed to the large wooden pentagram that rose above the altar in a blasphemous crucifixion. Two mistresses of the temple, Father Domingo's consorts, were similarly crucified behind the priest, impaled to the wooden choir screen. All three were stripped naked, their throats slashed and blood seeping down over their bodies. Below them, upon an intricate tapestry depicting Lucifer's rebellion against God, were large words scrawled in blood: "Judgment awaits."

The members of the congregation were too stunned to move; they could only stare at the gruesome scene like frightened children. After several moments of horrified stupor, a few members of the crowd regained their senses. Some began to weep, others whispered to one another.

A voice broke out above the din. "Where are the others?"

Several people reluctantly fanned out, peeking behind statues and beneath the pews. One brave soul cautiously looked behind the choir screen upon which the two priestesses were splayed out, and he yelped with fright.

"I-I found them..." he stammered, covering his mouth with his hands.

A fresh wave of gasps and sobs arose from the congregation, and the fervor of anxious murmuring increased.

"What do we do now?" many asked.

Every eye turned towards their beloved priest and his consorts. Then they reached into their pockets and drew out their cell phones. They raised them as if giving an offering to the dead, and the sound of clicking cameras filled the sanctuary.

****

The train lurched to a stop, wrenching Patric out of his slumber. He opened his eyes, then bolted upright, glancing around him. He was alone. He felt a stab of sadness, in spite of his new-found resolve. Before he could stop himself, he offered up a short prayer: _Please don't hurt them._

He glanced around nervously, as if he was afraid that someone heard him. When the attendant announced the train's arrival, Patric rose to his feet and gathered his bag from the overhead compartment. He had left the other bags in a locker in the Vizille train station. He wondered if he would ever be back to collect them again.

To his surprise, no one else from his car got up to disembark, and several people looked at him strangely. His eyes shied away from theirs, and he hurried off the train and onto the platform, stumbling into a man walking along the tracks.

" _Scuzi,"_ the man blurted.

Patric mumbled an apology and the man straightened his coat and continued on his way, though after several meters, he glanced over his shoulder and glared at Patric with sinister eyes. Patric gasped, then blinked in confusion as he saw the man spread his arms wide and embrace a little boy who came sprinting across the platform.

_You're paranoid, and you're seeing things,_ Patric chastised himself as he clung to his small luggage bag and proceeded to the exit. Before he reached the station door, a scowling security officer raised a rough hand in his face and commanded him in Italian to spread his arms and surrender his bag to be searched. He didn't comprehend what the guard was saying but his gestures were quite clear. He quickly obliged, glancing up at the television while his body was scanned with a handheld metal detector.

" _A shocking scene today at the Temple of Set in Susa,"_ the anchorman announced, _"as Father Domingo, the temple's charismatic high priest, and two priestesses were found crucified in the sanctuary last night just before evening mass. No suspects are currently named but the prevailing opinion points to the mysterious band of Christian terrorists who have been assaulting Satanic clergymen around Europe for the past several days."_

Patric's blood ran cold.

He was standing in Susa Station at this very moment. Susa was where his mother had told him to seek out his brother.

His brow furrowed with confusion as a thousand conflicting thoughts battered his brain. He glanced up at the television and flinched in disgust as uncensored, high-resolution images of the slaughter flashed across the television screen. The security guards finished their search and motioned for Patric to be on his way, but his eyes were glued to the screen, and the guards simply shrugged and left him alone.

The anchorman continued. _"While these unprovoked attacks have unfortunately become a familiar occurrence in recent days, this gruesome massacre was far more vicious and gratuitous than previous attacks. Premiere Bertonelli was outraged, holding an emergency press conference early this morning at his villa in Milan."_

The news program cut to Bertonelli's angular visage, and he appeared to be greatly fatigued. His face was flushed with anger and his eyes flashed as he spoke.

"This is the final straw!" he fumed. "These...these...Christian _animals_ have just signed their own death warrant. At the behest of the Satanic Party, and with the full backing of Parliament, I am authorizing our police and military forces to seize and shut down any and all Christian churches that are suspected of supporting or contributing to these terrorists and their cause. We will not tolerate such heinous acts in our country, and we will take any measures necessary to ensure that our citizens can worship in peace and security. I am making the apprehension and punishment of these terrorists my top priority, and I encourage anyone with knowledge that would preserve our national security to contact the local authorities. Report anything that you think might be useful, and I promise you: we will bring these deluded monsters to justice."

As the conference exploded in a flurry of questions, the program returned to the anchor desk. _"Bertonelli's new referendum mirrors a similar directive issued by French president Nicholas Merdans only days before. Since the order was given, over 150 French churches and other Christian facilities have been seized by the French government and closed until further notice. Meanwhile, evacuations continue as thousands of Christians, Jews, and Muslims flee their...."_

Patric shook his head in disbelief and shuffled towards the exit. That terrible crime had happened _here,_ just hours before he had stepped off the train. Something inside him urged him to head to the temple to pay his respects, but he knew he could waste no time on detours. He had a mission to accomplish first.

He pushed his way through the revolving door and jumped back as a violent crack of lightning seared the sky, followed almost immediately by a deafening clap of thunder. Rain gushed from the clouds like a fountain, and the streets of Susa flowed like rivers. He looked around helplessly, then cried out as he spotted an umbrella vendor cowering in a corner of the building. His feet splashing in the puddles, he hurried over and hastily purchased a black umbrella. He hoisted it over his head with relief, smearing away the wet strands of hair that stabbed his eyes.

With his feet planted in a deep puddle, he stared out at the city that held the key to finding his brother. There were no modern buildings to be seen— only quaint, classic constructions crammed together in semi-regular rows. Above the humble rooftops arose the grand and ominous Temple of Set.

Patric shuddered as he gazed at the fearsome spire atop the temple tower. A seam of scorching electricity split the clouds behind the grim, almost menacing tower, and a deep, shuddering bell rang out in unison with the pounding thunder. Patric's heart trembled with the powerful sounds, and he set his teeth firmly in determination.

Where are you, you bastard?

### CHAPTER 7

"Tourec!"

Tourec rubbed his eyes and turned around with an impatient glare. "What is it?"

A young man named Adrien approached the table where Tourec was sitting. "Have you seen the news?"

Tourec's fingers migrated from his eyes to his temples. "Yes, Adrien, everyone has seen the news."

"Well...."

"Well what?"

Adrien shifted his footing. "Do you think it was one of us?"

"Don't be stupid," Tourec scoffed. "Something that sadistic and theatrical could never have been carried out by one of the brethren. Our attacks are supposed to be quick, clean, and above all, not blasphemous, and I can't think of anything more blasphemous than crucifying a priest on a pentagram."

Adrien shifted again. "You think burning the heretic priest in Vercelli wasn't theatrical?"

Tourec stared at the table with cold eyes. "That was...."

His voice trailed off as the priest's tortured screams echoed in his mind.

"That was a statement," he declared firmly. "In fact, all of the men we execute deserve such a fate. Those who receive quick, clean deaths are receiving mercy."

There was silence for a moment, then Adrien cleared his throat. "Of course, brother. Thank you for putting my mind at ease."

He left without saying anything more.

After Adrien's footfalls had dissipated down the hall, Tourec glanced around the room, studying the bleak, clammy walls and stacks of books and furniture. He didn't know why, but he felt uncomfortable, perhaps even anxious. Of course, this was the first time the brethren were convening since this war had ignited, though not all members of their order were able to be present. God had indeed blessed their endeavors, and thus far, none of the brethren had been killed or captured. He was actually a bit surprised how easy it had been to carry out their attacks, given the state of paranoia that gripped the continent. There were security checkpoints everywhere, surly-faced policemen patrolled the streets in droves, and all major Satanic temples and facilities were fortified with guards. Yet despite these obstacles, the brethren continued to pour out God's wrath and vengeance upon the heathens with little resistance.

Tourec scowled. So why didn't his heart rejoice? The blasphemous shepherds leading their flocks astray were being culled like dead branches, and the Christian faithful who did not flee were becoming emboldened, according to reports of increased demonstrations and protests. There were even unconfirmed accounts of congregations barricading themselves in their sanctuaries and refusing to leave when the authorities came with eviction notices. This was what he and his brethren had hoped to achieve, and now it was becoming a reality.

Tourec clenched his fists and closed his eyes. He recognized the heaviness weighing down his heart: the unbearable weight of sin. He felt it shrouding his soul from the light of God. In fact, this burden had been with him since he had returned from Jerusalem, though he had stubbornly denied it until now.

_Why?_ he cried out to heaven. _I have helped cleanse the earth of the scourge of Satan's shadow and faithfully defended Your name and Your church for many years. I have not given into the temptations of lust, pride, or complacency, and I have been merciful when I felt Your leading._

Tourec threaded his fingers together and pressed his clasped hands to his forehead. _So why do I feel no peace in my heart? I know it is not the violence and the killing, because I felt Your divine comfort during the battles in Jerusalem. But now, in this hour of crisis for our church, I have had to take more drastic actions, but my motivations have remained pure. I only seek to exalt Your name and be Your hand of wrath upon the earth to punish those who would blaspheme against You, and I have upheld my commitment without compromise._

I ask that You set my soul at ease, O Lord. I know Your grace is sufficient to provide for any need and overcome any challenge, for myself and for my brothers and sisters who are going through such tribulation. Please, show me Your will, for I know that by following Your path, I will find peace.

Tourec opened his eyes and stared at the table surface. He heard and felt nothing. The gaping void deep within his heart stretched wider and blacker than before. An ember of frustration began glowing inside him, and he gritted his teeth.

God remained silent.

The door behind him creaked open, and Adrien peeked into the room. "Everyone is here."

Without a word, Tourec rose to his feet and followed Adrien out into the hallway.

They descended a rusting staircase that led down to the warehouse floor. Holding a secret meeting in a sprawling abandoned industrial building seemed a bit cliché to Tourec's sensibilities, but he was grateful that the "secret" part had been preserved thus far.

They made their way across the oil-stained concrete floor to a dark corner of the building, where several dark-clad figures stood around a rickety wooden table. Adrien slipped in amongst the group, while Tourec slowly marched around the table, taking his place at the head.

A single cone-shaped light cast a scorching white glow upon the faces of the brethren, all of whom fixed their eyes on Tourec. There were about twenty of them, and he looked at each one in turn, then closed his eyes.

"Our Heavenly Father, please anoint us with Your grace. Guide our hands and feet, and may we never waver in our commitment to Your kingdom. Amen."

"Amen," the brethren echoed.

Tourec raised his eyes to the smoldering bulb above them. "Brothers, I don't know what to say. We have followed the Lord's leading and brought the fight to the enemy, and persecution began to rain down upon our church, as we knew it would. Many, if not most, have fled, which we also knew would happen. And now, the governments of Italy and France, and undoubtedly more soon, have passed laws that threaten our church properties, though we know that the church of Christ resides in our hearts, not in stone and mortar."

"Amen," many of the brethren said.

Tourec exhaled. "But I fear that our mission is failing. From what I have heard, many churches are becoming invigorated by our boldness, but it seems that for every believer who rises up, ten recede into the shadows. Christian leaders have disappeared behind closed doors, and the only ones left carrying the banner are the members of the congregations, but they have no leadership."

A low, heavy voice spoke from the shadows.

"That is about to change."

Tourec whirled around, and the rest of the brethren craned their necks to get a better look at the robed figure quietly approaching.

"Bishop Valenti?" Tourec exclaimed.

The bishop stepped into the light. "Yes, Tourec. I am sorry to show up unannounced like this, but in these difficult times, utmost secrecy is a necessity."

Tourec squinted in surprise, then stepped aside and motioned for the bishop to take his place at the head of the table. Bishop Valenti studied the nervous and confused faces of the brethren who were all whispering anxiously among themselves.

He rapped insistently on the table, and the murmuring ceased. Tourec stood by his side, clearly uncomfortable with this unanticipated interruption.

"My brothers in Christ," the bishop began, "I want to thank you for your steadfast commitment to our Lord and our church. The blood of the heathen priests is a sweet smell to our Father in heaven, and I know you shall be richly rewarded in the everlasting kingdom."

A few among the brethren smiled to themselves.

Bishop Valenti opened his mouth but kept silent for a moment, mulling his words carefully. "But, as brother Tourec just said, our mission is faltering. We have angered the enemy, but our church has shown that it lacks the boldness of the men around this table. We know that time is short and the end is upon us, but our church remains fearful, and we must purge this sin from our congregation. This is why I have come here today. It is time to bring this order out of the shadows, and into the light."

The brethren gasped, and Tourec's eyes grew wide. "What do you mean, Your Grace?"

Bishop Valenti glared at them with piercing eyes. "The world has labeled you as terrorists, and thus far, you have behaved like them. You kill in secret, with a few exceptions; your identities are a mystery; you make public statements through grainy Internet videos. But that is all going to change. I have already met with the Council and discussed this with them."

"Discussed what, Your Grace?"

"A blasphemer sits on the throne in Vatican City! For ten years, we have stood by and tolerated this abomination. Well, no more. You, all of you, are going to take back the Vatican in the name of God."

The men couldn't believe their ears. Tourec's heart was pounding, and his veins surged with excitement and terror. "Can it really be done?"

Bishop Valenti turned to him with flashing eyes. "It _will_ be done, my son."

A terrifying concussion shook the floor, and the doors to the warehouse exploded as great gouts of smoke gushed into the building. Machine gun fire rattled like jackhammers and the air filled with whizzing bullets, some of them tearing through the brethren before they had a chance to react. Tourec didn't fall, and he leaped like a rabbit as soon as the doors blew in, grabbing Bishop Valenti by the collar and sprinting across the warehouse floor towards an exit.

The other men scattered like mice, and once they had sequestered themselves in nooks and shadows, they drew their weapons and began firing upon the unseen enemy. The warehouse, though broad and expansive, quickly filled with smoke and the air was choked with the sounds of gunfire and the ricochets of bullets.

Tourec clutched his pistol tightly as he and the bishop crouched at the foot of a flight of stairs, warily eying the door they had just come through.

"What's happening?" Bishop Valenti gasped, his eyes wide with horror.

"I don't know," Tourec growled, rising to his feet and lifting the bishop as well. "Someone obviously found out about our little rendezvous."

He glanced again into the large room where his brothers bravely squared off against the attackers, and he offered up a prayer for their safety.

"We have to get you out of here, Your Grace," Tourec said, seizing Bishop Valenti's arm and pulling him into a dark corridor.

"What about the others?"

Tourec swallowed his guilt. "God will protect them. You are my priority now, bishop. You are much too important to risk. Now stay close to me."

They crept down the dank, moldy corridor, and the sounds of battle began to grow faint. The way was illuminated by naked light bulbs, and Tourec was dismayed to discover that he could only see about thirty feet ahead or behind them. He took comfort, though, as he realized that his enemies would have the same problem.

The corridor split, leading to the right and to the left, but the left branch was punctuated with a glowing red "Exit" sign. Tourec and the bishop fled down the hallway, then stopped suddenly.

"What is it?" Bishop Valenti hissed.

For a moment, Tourec did not move a muscle. Then, as silently as a shadow, he crept back to the fork, sliding against the moist wall and clutching his gun to his chest. Bishop Valenti was frozen in terror, except for his lips which trembled with silent prayers.

Tourec inhaled deeply and soundlessly through his nose, though his heart seemed to boom and echo through the halls like a sledgehammer. Every ounce of his concentration was dedicated to listening: water dropping, the bishop panting, the creak of his leather boots. He sucked in an action breath and his spine stiffened.

He heard the footsteps approach, then stop just before the hall forked. There was a rustling sound just around the corner, then silence. Tourec blinked away a drop of sweat that streamed into his eye. His fingers clenched the pistol grip, and his teeth tightened. An infinite moment passed, the silence roaring like a howling wind.

The devil-red exit sign flickered, and Tourec whipped the pistol out with lightning quickness, ejecting the magazine around the corner. It bounced once on the ground, and there was a crack of gunfire and the magazine jumped across the floor. Tourec flung himself around the corner with his gun held out, one bullet in the chamber. The assailant had just a fraction of a second to stare into Tourec's pistol barrel hovering in the air. There was a bright flash, then a burst of red against the wall. Tourec crashed against the opposite wall and fell to the ground in a heap, while the other man's lifeless body crumpled like a marionette.

His shoulder screamed with pain, but Tourec wasted no time in gathering the magazine, which thankfully wasn't damaged, and rounded the corner again to find a quivering Bishop Valenti crouching against the wall in frantic prayer.

He gasped when he saw Tourec. "Is he — ?"

Tourec nodded once and yanked the bishop to his feet. "Someone will have heard that. We need to leave, _now._ "

Bishop Valenti quickly crossed himself and followed Tourec down the corridor, his feet flailing wildly. Distant voices filtered down the corridor and chased them like ghosts.

" _Hurry, Your Grace!"_

Tourec pulled the terrified bishop like a reluctant dog. A glowing red light burned like a sinister eye about twenty meters ahead, and Tourec gave Bishop Valenti another commanding yank.

"There's the exit!"

"Praise God!" Bishop Valenti panted as he struggled mightily to keep up with Tourec. The voices behind them became louder, echoing crazily like bullets.

Tourec crashed into the metal doors, but they were locked. He flung his shoulder against them again, and he snarled in pain, but the doors remained adamantly shut.

"Get behind me, bishop!" Tourec commanded as he aimed his pistol at the door handle. Bishop Valenti gasped and crouched on the floor, covering his head with his hands.

Tourec squinted and aimed his pistol.

Please, God.

He fired three rapid shots into the locking mechanism, then barreled into the door again. It broke open with a loud crash, and Tourec grabbed the bishop.

"Let's go!" he shouted as they fled through the open doors into the darkness outside. Tourec hadn't even considered whether there might be men and guns waiting on the other side of the door, but thankfully, only the crisp night air confronted them.

Gunfire erupted at their backs, and Bishop Valenti cried out.

"Tourec!"

Tourec turned, then felt the ground vanish beneath him. Both men fell headlong down a dew-slick grassy hillside, tumbling and bouncing over brush and stones. Every impact sent jarring knives of pain screaming through Tourec's muscles, and he heard one or two sickening cracks. They crashed into a dense thicket at the foot of the hill and lay amongst the brambles, moaning in agony.

After a long moment, Tourec found the strength to roll onto his side. White-hot pain seared through his body. He winced through gritted teeth and clawed his way through the brush to the bishop. Shouting voices sounded above them at the top of the hill, and he crouched low as jittery flashlight beams scratched through the leaves and briars, then disappeared.

Bishop Valenti was lying a few meters away from Tourec, and he wasn't moving.

"Your Grace!" Tourec breathed.

Bishop Valenti feebly raised his hand, and Tourec scrambled by his side and took his hand.

"Your Grace," he repeated, grimacing as he coughed painfully. "Can you move?"

Bishop Valenti's eyes gazed through the leaves at the starless sky above them, and his lips spoke silent words. Tourec hoisted the bishop into his arms, then gasped as he pulled his hand out from beneath him. It was slick and warm with blood. He looked in horror at the bishop, who turned his head like a creaking gear.

"Tourec..." he rasped through bloody teeth.

With tears in his eyes, Tourec glanced up at the hilltop as agitated voices reached his ears. "Your Grace," he whispered, "we have to get you out of here."

Bishop Valenti smiled and shook his head.

"I'm finished, Tourec. I'm...."

He coughed abruptly, spewing blood over the front of his robe and silver crucifix.

Tourec cradled his head. "Don't speak. Just be still."

Bishop Valenti coughed again, desperately clinging to Tourec. "It's okay, my boy," he wheezed, clasping Tourec's hand with surprising strength. "You must leave me here. There's nothing you can do for me. You have to go; you have to complete your mission. You must silence the Voice."

Tourec sniffed back a heavy tear. "But how? Our brotherhood is finished. I don't even know if anyone else is still alive."

Bishop Valenti closed his eyes, then opened them again. "God will guide you."

Tourec set his jaw and squeezed Bishop Valenti's hand. "I know He will."

Bishop Valenti smiled, then slumped in Tourec's arms. Tourec exhaled heavily and crossed himself. He closed Bishop Valenti's eyes and laid his head down gently, then crept out of the brush as silently as he could.

Shouts continued on the hilltop above him, and in the murky darkness he could make out a few figures cautiously inching their way down the hill. Pressing his hand to his throbbing ribs, Tourec scurried into the nearby forest and disappeared among the trees.

****

Patric flinched as lightning crackled overhead, splashing the gates of the monastery with a ghoulish glow. He stared through the pouring rain at the rusty iron bars that flickered in and out of existence. This was where his mother had told him to go, but all he saw was a sprawling hulk of ruin and decay. Another bolt of lightning flashed, illuminating the shattered and boarded windows, the spires topped with broken crosses, and the front door chained and padlocked.

The massive raindrops pounded the umbrella with defeat. Patric turned to look out upon the city below. He jumped as a slithering streak of lightning struck the tower of the Temple of Set. A crack of thunder followed and a surge of excitement thrilled his heart.

The temple.

He shook his head in disbelief, then started down the narrow road that led down to the city.

He walked for almost twenty minutes, meeting no one. The town might as well have been a cemetery. A few lights peeked out through narrow windows but Patric did not see a single sign of life as he navigated the winding streets and alleys, continually looking up to the black tower for guidance.

He finally emerged from the maze of stone and found himself confronted with the imposing north end of the former cathedral. Rivulets of rain streaked like oil over the stonework and windows. Without knowing why, he felt a brief shock of fear as he gazed up at the massive structure, then he hunched his shoulders and crouched under his umbrella as he circumnavigated the transept and made his way around to the west end of the building.

He stopped and stared in surprise at the metal police barriers erected around the front of the temple, barring the way to the entrance. There were no policemen or anyone else in sight, and Patric glanced around helplessly. He looked up at the sky, heedless of the raindrops splashing in his face.

Help me.

Out of the corner of his eye, he saw some movement to his left, and he peered through the raindrops streaking downward like laser beams. About thirty or forty meters away from the building, a dilapidated cemetery surrounded by a wrought iron fence was nestled amongst the sagging branches of ancient trees. Patric could see something moving in the cemetery, though he couldn't make out what.

He glanced around to make sure that there was no one else around, then he peered again into the necropolis. Yes, there was definitely someone there, and they looked like they were standing on something. Hunching his shoulders, he began walking slowly towards the graveyard, keeping his eyes fixed on the movement within the trees.

He neared the iron gate and stepped through the crumbling stone archway, and as he drew closer, he could see a man standing on one of the gravestones. The figure leaned forward and was holding onto something suspended from the branches of a gnarled tree. Patric stepped carefully among the scattered stones, and soon he was just a few meters away from the other person.

A streak of lightning washed the entire cemetery with white light. Patric recoiled in horror.

A man and two women, all naked and bloodied, dangled from the tree's hulking branches. The man standing on the gravestone was struggling to get close enough to cut one of the corpses down with a saw affixed to a pole. As the lightning bolt flashed overhead, he suddenly turned and glared at Patric, who froze in silence.

Father DeMarco clutched the wooden pole fiercely, valiantly struggling to keep his balance on the narrow gravestone.

"What do you want?" he demanded angrily in Italian.

Patric stared up at him, his face betraying his incomprehension. Father DeMarco squinted at the stranger through the rain, then spoke again in French.

"What do you want?" he shouted, wincing at the soft tone the French language gave to his hostile question.

Patric looked at the old man, then at the clumsy weapon he yielded.

"Do you need some help?" he asked.

Father DeMarco frowned, then lowered the pole saw.

****

The third body slumped to the ground, slapping the soggy earth and rolling over into a puddle.

"Okay," Father DeMarco called out, "you can come down now. Be careful."

Patric peered hard at the ground, which was nearly completely hidden in darkness, even though it was less than a meter away. Holding the pole saw like a tightrope walker, he leaped out and landed heavily on the soaked grass. He stood up and handed the pole to Father DeMarco, then looked down at the naked bodies lying in the water like giant fish.

"What about them?" he asked, panting for breath.

Father DeMarco wiped his eyes, an entirely futile action. "I don't know," he sighed. "Honestly, I hadn't thought that far ahead."

"Who were they?" Patric asked. "And who hanged them here?"

The priest stabbed the pole into the soft ground. "Don't you know what happened here last night?" he asked coldly.

Patric looked back at the stark temple as a flash of lightning illuminated the police barriers and fences. "Yes," he said. "It was a vile, disgusting thing what those — "

"They didn't do it," Father DeMarco snapped, gesturing to the three bodies on the ground. "But they paid the price for it."

Patric frowned in confusion. "Who are they? And who are you?"

Father DeMarco stiffened and stared at him sternly. "It's none of your business who they are or who I am. Thank you for your help, young man; now please be on your way and leave me to take care of this by myself."

"I just cut them down out of a tree," Patric declared to Father DeMarco's back.

The old priest stopped, then turned around.

Patric's eyes were insistent. "I have a right to know why they were up there in the first place."

Father DeMarco heaved a weary sigh, then looked down with sadness at the three bodies. "That man was Mr. Roberto Assante. That woman over there was Mrs. Amanda Assante, his wife, and that one there was Francesca, their daughter. They were very vocal members of the local Christian community, and when the temple priest and priestesses were executed, a mob marched up to their home, dragged them down here, then brutalized and hanged them. They had nothing to do with the atrocity the other night, but that didn't make a difference. Those people were out for blood, and they got their fill."

Distant thunder rumbled. Despite the darkness and rain, Patric could see that the man's eyes were wet with tears.

"And who are you?" he repeated.

The old priest straightened his shoulders, as if facing a firing squad.

"I was their priest," he said proudly.

Thunder cracked again, this time much nearer. The two men faced each other in the rain, surrounded by headstones like a captive audience watching a drama.

In spite of the water all around them, Patric's mouth was dry. He swallowed roughly and asked, "So why didn't anyone come out here to help you?"

Father DeMarco's shoulders slumped, and an even greater sadness clouded his eyes. "There aren't many of us left. The Assantes were some of the most committed people I've ever known, and now they've paid the price. After what happened here last night, most Christians left in a panic. I don't know what we will do now...."

The iron hardness that sheathed Patric's heart softened a bit, but he inhaled quickly, smothering his sympathy with indifference.

"Well, they got what was coming to them," he grumbled. "If they had any sense, they would have left with the others, rather than stay here and defend the name of a God that has abandoned them."

"How do you know He has abandoned them?" Father DeMarco asked with surprising gentleness in his voice. "Right now, they are basking in the glory of heaven, while we are here, in all of this...."

Patric looked around, surveying the rain falling in curtains over the mossy gravestones. He couldn't remember ever being in a place so bleak and forsaken, and the smallest part of his soul wondered if the priest was right.

"And who might you be?" Father DeMarco demanded curtly, his fingers curling around the pole saw.

Patric eyed the old man's hand clenching the staff.

"Patric," he answered.

Father DeMarco did not relax his grip. "Well Patric, I am grateful for your help, but I must ask what you are doing here, at this hour and in this weather."

The pounding rain thundered like a freight train. Patric kept his eyes fixed on Father DeMarco while he weighed his options. Lightning flickered across the sky, and his gaze was drawn to the sleek white bodies sprawled in the mud.

"I'm looking for someone," he said, perhaps a little too loudly.

Father DeMarco's expression did not change. "Who?"

Patric glanced at the dripping crucifix around the priest's neck. "A Del...a Christian."

Father DeMarco's hand fell from the pole. "As I said before, there aren't too many of those left around here. Who are you looking for?"

"My brother."

The words tasted like vomit in Patric's mouth.

"Well, your brother. A Christian, as you say. I gather from that item around your neck that you do not share his religious sentiments."

Patric's eyes fell to the rain-spattered soil. "No."

"That must make for interesting family get-togethers."

Patric flicked dripping strands of hair out of his eyes.

"This is a waste of time," he said angrily as he turned to leave. "Sorry about your friends there."

"Wait," Father DeMarco said, reaching out and placing his hand on Patric's shoulder.

Patric stopped and remained still. Bitterness boiled inside of him and he scolded himself for admitting even the vaguest details of his mission.

"Perhaps I can help you," the priest said. "I know every Christian around here. If your brother is here, I can help you find him."

Patric exhaled slowly, then turned around.

"On one condition..." Father DeMarco added.

"What?"

"You help me get these three into the car."

Patric glanced over his shoulder at the corpses, and he sighed with resignation. "Okay."

Father DeMarco stuck out his hand. "I am Father DeMarco."

Patric shook it briefly. "Pleasure."

Father DeMarco motioned for Patric to follow him and they stepped under the tree where the male body lay.

"Grab his feet there," he grunted as he hooked his hands under the large man's shoulders.

Patric winced and turned away as he seized the man's slick, fleshly ankles. He muttered a string of curses as he and the priest lifted the body up off the ground.

"The car is next to the church," Father DeMarco said with a jerk of his head to indicate the direction. Patric's shoulders wilted as he mentally gauged the distance that he would be hauling not one, but three bodies.

"So tell me, Patric," Father DeMarco asked through gritted teeth as they weaved gingerly through the gravestones, "what's your brother's name?"

"He's my half-brother, actually," Patric replied, leaning backwards to counter the corpse's heavy weight.

"What's your half-brother's name?"

"Tourec Beauchamp."

The dead man fell into the mud with a sickening smack.

****

Tourec winced as glass lacerated his elbow. He stretched his sleeve over the wound to absorb the blood and hastily reached through the jagged hole in the window to unlock the door. He knew the silent alarm must have been tripped, but he wasn't too concerned about being caught by the police, since virtually the entire force was either hunting him or hovering over the corpses of his brothers-in-arms.

As he stumbled among the shelves of medicine in the dark, his heart was suddenly seized by grief. His knees felt weak, and he put his hand against the wall to brace himself as he vomited rapidly. After a moment, he straightened his posture and ignored his swirling headache. His elbow was starting to burn, though the pain was negligible compared to the screams of anguish coming from his bruised (perhaps broken) ribs and shoulder blade.

He combed through the pharmacy, quickly locating some ice packs, strips of gauze, and painkillers. Bundling them into his arms, he rounded a corner and froze.

"Put your hands on your head," a young woman commanded. She cocked the gun she held with authority.

Tourec stared into her eyes. She was indeed young, likely in her late teens, though her face bore the unmistakable expression of maturity through pain and struggle. She wore a simple white t-shirt and jeans, and she was pretty — on the verge of beautiful — but the deadly seriousness in her eyes chilled Tourec to his bones.

"Okay," he answered softly, dropping the first aid supplies and grimacing as he raise his arms and put his hands on his head.

The girl kept the gun trained on him with remarkable steadiness. She had the air of a stone-cold gunslinger but Tourec saw youthful uncertainty flash in her eyes. She didn't know what to do next, and Tourec seized this moment.

"Young lady," he said as gently and firmly as he could manage, "I am very sorry to break in here like this. I wouldn't do it unless I absolutely had to. I assure you, I do not want to hurt anyone. I—"

"You're one of them, aren't you?"

Tourec's mouth hung open for a moment, then snapped shut.

"They're looking for you everywhere," the girl continued. The gun didn't move a millimeter.

Tourec couldn't muster the strength to feign ignorance. "I suppose they are," he admitted.

Though her face maintained the cold expression of an executioner, the girl suddenly lowered the gun. "Come upstairs. My papa can help you." Without another word, she turned and walked out of the room.

Tourec was too stunned to move. The girl peeked around the corner, her black hair falling over her eyes.

"Hurry!" she whispered with irritation.

In a frantic scramble, Tourec gathered the supplies into his arms and followed her. At the foot of a flight of stairs, he noticed a flashing keypad that read "Alarm Deactivated." He glanced up just in time to see the girl through a doorway. Offering up a prayer of thanks and a plea for protection, Tourec hoisted himself up the creaking staircase.

The doorway opened to the right at the top of the stairs, and like a mouse poking its head out to see if the cat was gone, Tourec cautiously craned his neck and looked inside the room. Only a few lamps were on, casting a feeble light that barely reached the corners of the tiny rooms. The apartment was sparsely furnished, and everything inside was the color of old. The yellowing wallpaper, the dingy upholstered furniture, the ragged carpeting— it looked like a poorly-preserved specimen of a quaint family home two generations ago.

Tourec took a careful step inside and he sucked in his breath through his teeth as the floor creaked loudly. The girl, who was attempting to awaken a large man sprawled out in a reclining chair in front of a blinking television, turned and looked at Tourec. Her father bolted upright and glared at Tourec from beneath impossibly thick eyebrows.

The girl leaned forward and whispered something in her father's ear, and he cried out with surprise.

"And you brought him up here?" the large man demanded, his unshaven cheeks flushing deeply.

The girl stepped back and looked again at Tourec as if he were a stray animal that had followed her home and had now gotten her into trouble. Tourec stood just inside the doorway, cradling the medical supplies like a refugee clutching his food rations. The girl hissed something inaudible to her father, who hissed back amidst a flurry of gestures and wildly dancing eyebrows.

Finally, the girl's father sighed loudly, intending for Tourec to hear it as well. He shook his head and rose to his feet, pastry crumbs rolling off his belly and onto the floor, where they were promptly licked up by a white cat. The large man lumbered towards Tourec, one eyebrow raised like a black willow tree.

"Is it true, what my daughter says?"

Tourec looked at the girl, who stood behind her father, her hands folded dutifully in front of her. He looked back at the man and squared his shoulders.

"Yes sir, it is."

The man stuck out his chin, which caused his heavy moustache to arch downward. "And you are hurt?"

Tourec nodded again. "Though not seriously," he added. "I think I may have cracked a few bones but I'm able to get around fine. I really am terribly sorry for all of — "

The man raised a beefy hand and Tourec immediately closed his mouth.

"I will help you," the man said with a low, stern voice, "and then you will go."

Tourec nodded once more. "Thank you," he said, glancing curiously at the girl. She still wore a mask of impenetrable coldness, but her eyes had softened considerably.

Her father motioned to a simple wooden table in the kitchen. "Please, this way."

"Thank you," Tourec said again as he piled the boxes he was carrying onto the tabletop.

"Sophia!" the man called over his shoulder.

"Yes, papa?"

"Bring me scissors, alcohol, a bowl of hot water, some small towels, and some ointment."

Tourec heard the girl's feet patter away. He looked at the man and was surprised to be greeted with a smile.

"I am Dr. Rosetta," he said.

"Tourec Beauchamp."

" _Enchanté_ ," Dr. Rosetta said fluently, and Tourec couldn't help but smile back.

Sophia returned with the items her father had requested, and she stood by his side like an anxious nurse. Dr. Rosetta took up the scissors and told Tourec to put his hands on the table. He obeyed, and he felt Dr. Rosetta lift his shirt off of his back and start to cut, then stop.

"Sophia, go to your room."

"But...I want to help."

"Go now, young lady."

Sophia threw a confusing glance towards Tourec, then walked sullenly out of the room. Dr. Rosetta shook his head as only a father could do, then resumed cutting Tourec's shirt. Tourec winced as dried blood peeled away from numerous small lacerations that he hadn't noticed before, and he yelped as Dr. Rosetta pried a large thorn out of his skin.

"You have quite an impressive art collection, my friend," the doctor said as he began washing Tourec's back and shoulders, which were covered with tattoos.

Tourec didn't know what else to say except "Thank you." He noticed a flash of movement to his right, and a quick glance revealed Sophia peeking around the corner, unbeknownst to her father.

"Turn around," Dr. Rosetta said. Tourec obeyed, and the doctor began washing his chest and abdomen.

Dr. Rosetta squinted, then clucked in disapproval. "There is serious discoloration around your ribcage," he announced, dabbing the bruised area gingerly with the hand towel.

Tourec's heart sank, and he was almost too afraid to ask about his shoulder blade.

"Your shoulder's fine," Dr. Rosetta said with a dismissive wave of his hand. "A little bruised but nothing broken. But here...."

He motioned to the ribs and shook his head. "This might hurt a little."

Tourec inhaled stiffly and winced as Dr. Rosetta poked the ribs on his left side. He felt two stabs of lightning-hot pain, and Dr. Rosetta stepped back.

"Mm-hmm," he said thoughtfully. "Two cracked ribs. You will have a hard time sleeping for the next couple of weeks, my friend."

"Is it serious?" Tourec asked.

Dr. Rosetta shook his head. "No, but you must be careful to avoid injuring yourself any further, or you could puncture a lung. The only way to heal them is time and rest." He shook a bottle of painkiller pills. "And lots of these." He poured a few into his hand and offered them to Tourec, who downed them quickly with a glass of water.

"I can give you some numbing cream for the bruised area," Dr. Rosetta continued as he leaned forward to inspect the damage. "And you must remember to cough or take a very deep breath about once every hour. This will hurt, but it can help stave off pneumonia."

Tourec nodded gratefully and reached for the roll of gauze. Dr. Rosetta grabbed his hand.

"You don't need that," the doctor said.

"Why not?"

"I just told you, you need to be free to breathe deeply. Wrapping your chest will squeeze your ribs and prevent you from doing this."

Tourec reluctantly placed the roll back on the table, then looked at Dr. Rosetta.

"Why are you helping me?" he asked bluntly.

Dr. Rosetta shot a quick glance at Sophia, who started to duck back behind the wall but stopped as she realized she was caught. She emerged from the hallway and stood next to her father.

Dr. Rosetta's moustache swooped upwards in a hidden smile, and he pulled down the neckline of his sweat-stained undershirt. Tourec narrowed his eyes and peered closely at the faded cross tattoo that was almost lost in a forest of curly black hair. Tourec looked at Sophia, who looked at her father, who kept his eyes on Tourec.

Slowly, and a bit painfully, Tourec turned his head and looked down at an identical cross emblazoned on his own left forearm. He unconsciously touched the bold, solid lines, then raised his eyes to meet Dr. Rosetta's.

"You were in Jerusalem."

"Yes. Briefly."

"What happened?"

Dr. Rosetta paused a moment before asking, "Are you hungry?"

Before waiting for Tourec's response, he turned to Sophia. " _Figlia_ , I think Mr. Beauchamp would like some vermicelli."

He looked at Tourec with a glint in his eye. "I should warn you: it will be the best vermicelli you have ever tasted."

Tourec didn't know what to say in reply, so he scooted the chair away from the table and sat down.

****

Detective Shapiro watched the coroner's van speed off down the dark, oily road, then turned back to the pulverized warehouse. Smoke sighed upwards into the sky through the jagged teeth of the exploded doorway, and feebly rays of light peeked through the dozens of bullet holes that pockmarked the industrial-strength windows. He exhaled heavily and motioned for an approaching officer.

"Talk to me," he said, taking a deep pull from his cigar.

"Eighteen confirmed casualties," the officer declared. "We're still sweeping the building, but we don't expect to find any more of them."

"How many escaped?"

The officer stuffed his hands into his pockets. "Hard to say. At least two, perhaps one or two more. We have units out combing the area and patrolling the streets. It's a small town, and there aren't too many places to hide."

Shapiro grunted his agreement.

"Do you want me to check with local hospitals?"

Shapiro shook his head with distracted impatience. "No, none of them would be stupid enough to go to a hospital if they were wounded. Check out local clinics and drugstores. Look for signs of a break-in; I doubt any of these guys would risk asking for help, so they'll probably grab some supplies and find a hole to hide in. And maintain a keen presence around all of the bridges that lead out of town, especially near the shallowest part of the river. The water's cold, but these guys are pros, and I could stand a few minutes in cold water if it meant my freedom. Go, move."

The officer nodded and scurried away. Detective Shapiro drew a great swirl of smoke into his mouth and blew it into the air, cursing every deity he could think of.

****

Tourec's fork clattered against the empty plate and he wiped his mouth with a napkin. He groaned as he looked down at the clean white shirt that Dr. Rosetta had given him to wear. It wasn't clean anymore— it was speckled with red drops of marina sauce that reminded Tourec of blood.

"I'm sorry, I am not usually this messy," he explained as he turned to the doctor and Sophia. Their mouths were open wide and their eyes were even wider.

Tourec was puzzled. "What?"

Dr. Rosetta cleared his throat. "Forgive us; it's just that we've never seen anyone eat three plates of vermicelli in less than seven minutes."

Tourec frowned and looked behind him at the dusty clock on the wall. "Seven...?" His face flushed in embarrassment. "I suppose I was very hungry."

Dr. Rosetta waved the apology away. "Entirely understandable. Though I wouldn't recommend stuffing yourself like a Christmas goose in the future with those two broken ribs."

Dabbing at his mouth again, Tourec brushed a hand across his bruised side. "It aches but the pain isn't too sharp."

"That's good. The breaks may just be fractures."

Tourec turned to Sophia and smiled. "That was _magnifique_ , young lady."

Sophia beamed and glanced at her papa. "It was my mother's recipe. She taught me when I was very young."

" _Very_ young," Dr. Rosetta added. Sophia's glowing smile faded and her eyes fell to the table.

There was a moment of thick silence, then Dr. Rosetta pushed himself away from the table. "Mr. Beauchamp, I am afraid that it is not safe for you to stay here much longer."

Tourec looked again at Sophia, who seemed quite sullen. "Of course, doctor," he replied as he stood up.

"Before you go," Dr. Rosetta added, turning to a cupboard behind him and extracting a bottle of wine, "I would like to have a few words with you first. Will you join me in a drink?"

Tourec looked up at the ancient wall clock. "I suppose I can spare a few minutes. I would really like to hear about your experiences in Jerusalem."

Dr. Rosetta motioned for Tourec to follow him into the living room, and he gestured to a humble wooden chair beside his own recliner.

"Please close the curtains, child," he asked Sophia, "and turn off the light in the kitchen."

He reached into a small chest next to his chair and pulled out a frequently-used candle and lit it as the house went dark. Sophia retreated to a chair in a shadowy corner. Dr. Rosetta's black moustache and eyebrows seemed to stretch farther over his face in the shimmering, ghostly light, and his eyes sparkled with gentleness and severity.

Tourec glanced warily at the shrouded window. "Tell me about Jerusalem."

Dr. Rosetta poured two glasses of wine and handed one to Tourec, who took a ginger sip.

"Jerusalem...." The doctor pronounced the word like a sigh. "I was a member of a peacekeeping force in Syria, though we did much more fighting than peacekeeping. When the Manifestation took place, the entire region exploded. Everyone was terrified, thinking it was the end of the world. Lootings, rape, riots...though I guess it was the same everywhere in the world. But in the Middle East, it was different. In that part of the world, religion is part of the social and political fabric more strongly than anywhere else, and to have the Enemy physically appear on the earth was like dropping a match into a barrel of oil. Atheists attacking Christians, Christians attacking Muslims, Muslims attacking Muslims, Jews attacking atheists— everyone was blaming everyone for bringing this scourge upon our world. Of course it was our faith that took the heaviest toll, since the devil had chosen a Christian landmark to decimate as a demonstration of his power. Had it been a synagogue or mosque, things would have been a lot different for us."

Tourec took another sip of wine. "So what did you do?"

Dr. Rosetta shrugged. "I did what any man of faith in my position would have done. When I saw the atrocities happening in Jerusalem, the desecration of holy sites and relics, I abandoned my post in Damascus and made my way to the Holy City. I joined the Brotherhood, like yourself, and defended the churches and chapels from the heathens."

"But you said you were only there for a short time...."

"Yes," Dr. Rosetta said, looking absently into his wine glass. "When I was deployed to Syria, I left my wife and dear child behind. Sophia was only four when I left home, and I was stationed in Damascus for almost two years. I was then in Jerusalem for just over a year when I received news that Sophia's mother had died suddenly, and I returned to take care of my daughter."

He cast a quick glance at the corner where Sophia was sitting, but the chair was empty. His eyes gleamed with sadness in the candlelight, and he took a small sip of wine.

"Do you regret any of it?" Tourec asked after a few moments of silence had passed.

Dr. Rosetta looked up at the ceiling and frowned. "I didn't, until I returned home and I saw my darling Sophia, so full of life but so distraught after losing her mother. After all, I had been gone for more than three years, and she knew me more as an idea than as a father, just someone in the pictures with her as a tot. Her mother was her real family. While I was away, I believed that my reasons for leaving them behind were noble. But when I came back, I felt an immediate sense of regret."

He leaned forward and glared hard at Tourec. "I had left my family, my own flesh and blood, to fend for themselves in this vile, devil-ruled world while I was hundreds of miles away, defending things and places that I had only read about in books. More than regret, I felt shame. There is nothing in all of Christendom that is sacred enough to justify a man forsaking his family, especially in these dark days."

Tourec's eyes met the doctor's for a moment, then drifted slowly to the floor. "Doctor, do you think what I am doing now is right?"

Dr. Rosetta recognized the piercing doubt in Tourec's voice. He inhaled and stared at the flickering candle. "I am sure you are familiar with the passage in the Scriptures that says: 'Do not be overcome by evil, but overcome evil with good.' How can the murder of men of the cloth, even those who worship the devil, ever be good?"

Tourec regarded his wine. "So you disapprove."

"Mr. Beauchamp, when you were in Jerusalem, did you feel the hand of God guiding you?"

Tourec looked at the doctor for a long moment. "Yes, I truly did."

"And do you feel His hand now?"

Tourec's eyes became murky, and he cleared his throat. "I don't know."

"Then why are you doing this?"

Tourec bit his lip and swirled the wine in his glass. He looked up at Dr. Rosetta, his eyes sparkling with tears. "I had to do _something...._ "

Both men jumped to their feet as the door downstairs exploded with a crash and incoherent shouting rang out.

Dr. Rosetta seized Tourec by the shoulders.

"They've found you! Quick, out the back window." He grabbed a set of keys from a hook on the wall and pressed them into Tourec's hand. "Take my car, the green Volkswagen. Go to the lake and find dock number 23. The red key starts the boat."

The commotion downstairs grew louder, and Sophia rushed out into the living room.

"Papa!" she cried.

"Shh!" Dr. Rosetta hissed. He turned to Tourec.

"Go!" he ordered. "Go out the bedroom window onto the roof. The car is in the garden. Go, go!"

"What about you?" Tourec asked breathlessly.

"We'll be fine," Dr. Rosetta whispered as footsteps pounded on the stairs. "Go!"

Tourec cast a grateful glance at Sophia, who held his eyes for a painful moment, then he dashed into the back bedroom. He flung the window open as angry fists began pounding the living room door behind him. He paused for half a second, struggling against his instincts to remain behind and fight, but he knew that would simply end in death for all of them. Grimacing in pain, both in his body and in his spirit, he scrambled onto the roof, trying to keep himself as low as possible. He tiptoed across the roof like a cat, then eased himself onto a terrace, which allowed him to jump a couple of meters into the garden.

It wasn't actually a garden; it was more of a wooden fence enclosing a patch of waist-high weeds and grass sheltering a run-down Volkswagen coupe. Tourec flung open the fence gate and leapt inside the car, wincing as the driver's door creaked loudly. He jammed the key into the ignition and turned it forcefully. The engine grated and groaned but didn't start.

Tourec's heart pounded frantically, each beat like a baseball bat crashing into his ribs.

"Come on, come on," he snarled furiously, turning the key again. The engine coughed and sputtered twice, but again failed to awaken.

Please, God....

He glanced in the rearview mirror just as a figure stepped into the driveway behind the car. Tourec's heart froze, and he cranked the car once more. It roared to life with surprising robustness just as the shadowy figure aimed his gun. Tourec rammed the shifter into reverse and floored the accelerator. The gun went off and a bullet blasted a neat hole through the rear windshield and whizzed past Tourec's ear before exiting through the front windshield. Tourec didn't flinch and the car slammed into the shooter, sending him flying into a parked car on the other side of the narrow street.

Tourec shifted into gear, and he could hear shouts and revving engines behind him, but he didn't wait to find out what kind of pursuit force he was dealing with. Forsaking any ideas of slipping stealthily into the night, the Volkswagen blasted through the winding streets.

Frantically wiping streams of sweat from his eyes, Tourec looked again in the mirror and saw flashing blue and red lights echoing off of the buildings behind him. Despite his dire situation, his turbulent thoughts paused for a moment on Dr. Rosetta and Sophia. His heart sank as he thought of what would certainly happen to them once the police realized that they had been harboring him and helped him escape. A seething pang of guilt enveloped his heart, and he gritted his teeth in anger. He started to pray for their safety, but something stopped him.

_You don't get to pray for them,_ his conscience commanded. _You are the reason for their strife, and you have no right to intercede on their behalf._

Tourec felt a flame inside of him blow out like a candle. Tears began to stream down his face as he wrenched the wheel to left, sending the vehicle careening down a bumpy cobblestone street. The flashing lights behind him disappeared in the maze, but he didn't slow down.

_You bring nothing but death and pain to this world,_ the voice inside him continued, and he didn't have the strength to silence it.

He knew it was right.

What have you accomplished? What has all of this been for? Everything is your fault!

A police car blasted out of the side street and pulverized the passenger side of the Volkswagen. Tourec's head crashed against the window as the car spun wildly, smashing through a flimsy metal barrier and tumbling into the rushing river below.

### CHAPTER 8

"Venite adoremus...venite admoremus...."

His Worship, the Voice of Satan, raised his hands towards the gleaming gold statue of the Great Dragon, shadowed by a grand iron canopy and capped with a silver pentagram. His eyes rolled back in his skull, and his voice reverberated in his throat like an echo chamber.

"Venite adoremus...venite admoremus...Domini Satanas."

There was a sound behind him. His eyes snapped back.

For a moment, they were inky black, then faded back to their usual icy gray color. He lowered his hands and they disappeared inside of long, swooping sleeves. Slowly and mechanically, he rose to his feet and turned around.

A very nervous monk stood at the far end of the chamber, wringing his hands with anxiety. He licked his teeth, then breathed out through his nose and descended the steps to the chamber floor. He glided across the marble like a robed ghost, and the monk's anxiety grew rapidly as his master approached.

The Voice stood before the monk, and he smiled benevolently.

"Speak."

The monk visibly relaxed at the pontiff's gentle tone. "I am terribly sorry to interrupt you, Your Worship, but you gave instructions to inform you at once about any news of the campaign against the terrorists."

His Worship waited for a moment, and his right eyebrow rose slightly. "...Yes?"

The monk swallowed and smiled weakly. "Acting upon information provided by an informant among their ranks, police conducted a raid in Bussoleno in Turin less than hour ago. It is believed that this was a gathering of the top leaders of this organization, and the reports indicate that nearly all of them were killed in the ensuing firefight."

An expression of vengeful satisfaction creased His Worship's brow. "Were any taken prisoner?"

The monk shook his head. "It doesn't appear so. They fought tenaciously and the police had to use extreme force to overcome them. Some may have also taken their own lives."

The Voice angled his head backwards, peering at the monk down the bridge of his nose. "Did any escape?"

The monk swallowed again and his hands resumed their fidgeting. "Well, there are unconfirmed reports that one or two may have escaped," he answered, hastily adding, "but even if that is true, they are so weakened now that they can hardly be considered a threat."

The Voice of Satan narrowed his eyes. "I see. That will be all."

The monk opened his mouth but said nothing. The Voice could see that he had something more to say.

"Out with it," he snapped.

The monk bowed his head and said, "Your Worship, the informant who betrayed the terrorists has expressed his wish to come to the Vatican, and he requests a private audience with Your Worship."

The Voice clasped his hands behind his back and turned to consider an ancient tapestry on the wall.

"No," he answered simply. "Execute him when he arrives."

The monk bowed low. "Yes, Your Worship."

He scurried out of the chamber, then rushed back and closed the doors with a profusion of bows.

His Worship turned back to the shrine of the Great Dragon, and he snorted contemptuously.

Fools.

He crossed the chamber floor and knelt again at the altar. He dipped his hands in the bowl of blood that rested amongst a garden of yellow candles, then he whirled around, flinging blood across the marble floor.

The woman looked down at her blood-spattered black dress, then smirked.

"'Covered by the blood' doesn't work for me," she purred coldly.

The Voice rose to his feet, wiping his hands on a silk cloth. "What do you want?" he demanded, immediately regretting his hostile tone.

The woman's terrifyingly beautiful face did not betray any emotion as she began to pace in a wide arc. "I came here to discuss the topic your little lapdog was just blathering about."

His Worship cocked one eyebrow. "Oh?"

The woman in black gazed at him but her eyes seemed to look through him rather than at him. "Were you aware of the traitor within their midst and the plan to track them down?"

His Worship shrugged. "I was aware of it but I wasn't informed of the details. I leave such matters to those best suited for the job. The fine print doesn't interest me; all I care about is the result."

The woman's black eyes flashed violently, and she took a menacing step towards him. "Do you realize what you may have done?" she snarled, her hands quivering with restraint.

His Worship drew back in surprise. "What are you talking about?"

The woman's head suddenly jerked to the right, and then snapped back. "Forgive my outburst," she hissed like a penitent snake, tilting her head back with barely-veiled condescension. "I was simply stating that with the terrorist threat gone, there will be little resistance to the work of our order."

The Voice leered at her suspiciously. "And...that's what we want, isn't it? With this band of renegades dispatched, there will be no one left to inspire the delusional masses that insurrection against our order is possible. The church of God will wither and die."

"Yes, that is true," the woman said as she resumed her discomforting pacing. "But think of it another way: for millennia, those who follow our Great Lord have been seen as the aggressors, the antagonists, if you will, while the Christian church, though it has played the part of the villain as well, has historically been viewed as benevolent and peaceful. But with this group of insurgents, that image has flipped, and gives our side more momentum than ever."

"I see your point," the Voice said impatiently, "but the fact remains that those assassins were killing clergymen in their own sanctuaries in front of hundreds of witnesses and skipping off into the night without any retribution. That could not have been allowed to continue, even if it was good for our 'public image.' And on top of that, their methods were becoming even more brash and extreme. Look what happened in Susa for God's sake."

The woman nodded as she came to a stop behind him. "I suppose you are right. At any rate, it doesn't matter now. They are all dead, or on the run, and cannot pose a serious threat anymore."

The Voice turned around and waved a finger in her face. "Oh, don't make that mistake, _signora_. Too many battles have been lost, kingdoms fallen, and fortunes destroyed because someone underestimated a weakened enemy. No, I will maintain a state of vigilance, both here and at our temples throughout Europe. We have seen the damage even one man can do, and these men, unfortunately, are quite good at what they do."

The woman nodded. "Yes, that is probably best." The black folds of her dress rustled like ash as she began to walk away.

"I am considering postponing the mass in Paris," the Voice called after her.

"No!" she snapped viciously, spinning around to glare at him with demon eyes. She bared her teeth like a wolf, and this time, she made no attempt to hide her fury.

She began walking towards him, each step punctuating her words. "Do not, under any circumstances, alter this plan. It is imperative that this ceremony takes place."

She came to a halt mere inches away from him.

"Do I make myself clear?"

The Voice of Satan held her gaze, and his nostrils flared with offense. "I understand," he said through clenched teeth. "Now kindly leave; I am in the midst of my devotions."

The woman in black smirked, then spun on her heel, smearing the blood splattered across the floor.

"We shall speak again soon," she said as she blew through the chamber doors like a black wind. They closed behind her with a deafening rumble, and His Worship looked up in despair at the face of the Great Dragon.

How long must I endure this?

****

Patric slurped the final spoonful of soup into his mouth, then leaned back in his chair. Father DeMarco peered at him through the candles, which were for necessity rather than ambiance since the forsaken wine cellar beneath the ruined monastery didn't have any electrical outlets. The candlelight cast a melancholy, wispy light across the room and danced over Patric's sullen features.

"How long was my brother here?" he asked, keeping his eyes on the table.

Father DeMarco rested his chin on his steepled fingers. "About seven years. He came to us when he was quite young."

"He was seventeen."

Father DeMarco blinked in surprise. "That's right."

Patric nodded absently. "I remember when he left home to come here. I was only about six or seven, but I remember the look on my mother's face after he was gone. Her expression...she looked like she had lost her only son, even though I was standing right by her side."

Father DeMarco felt something pluck his heartstrings. "Did you resent him after that?"

Patric made no reply for a moment, then shrugged. "Perhaps...."

"And why do you seek him now?"

Patric raised his eyes and stared into the candles. An image flashed through his mind, of Natasha standing in the kitchen, the light filtering through her gossamer nightdress, that warm smile that she gave him every morning that outshone the rising sun....

Patric felt a stirring deep within his soul, and he knew, perhaps for the first time, that he loved her. He suddenly ached for her to be near him, and he felt a surge of sorrow washing over his heart.

"Patric?"

Patric looked up, and a tear fell from his face onto the table. He didn't even know that he was crying.

"Patric?" Father DeMarco asked again with a gentle voice. "Are you all right?"

Patric nodded and hastily wiped his eyes. "I...I'm...."

"It's okay," Father DeMarco said with a reassuring smile. "I could see from the first moment that you bear great sorrow."

Patric looked into the candles and swallowed hard. "I need to find Tourec because he can help someone I love."

"Is someone in trouble?" Father DeMarco frowned.

Patric batted away another tear in frustration. "Listen, Father, I just need to find my brother. I can see that he's not here, and if you can give me any help or ideas where he might be, I would greatly appreciate it and be on my way."

"Patric," Father DeMarco began with a sigh, "your brother...after he left this monastery, he chose a path that few have traveled."

Patric squinted at the priest. "What do you mean?"

Father DeMarco rubbed his brow nervously and sighed again. "Patric, your brother is a very devout Christian. Perhaps _too_ devout. When he was here, he was a brilliant student, but he was on the verge of fanaticism. He would get into passionate arguments with other pupils and even teachers about trivial points of faith, and I saw him descending a slippery slope into self-righteousness. Of course, his heart truly belonged to God, but his zeal was...uncontrollable."

He paused, and Patric's eyes pleaded with him to go on.

"There was...an event that was a critical turning point in Tourec's life."

Now Father DeMarco's eyes began to glisten, and an almost imperceptible trembling entered his words.

"You may not know this, but when pupils join a monastic order, they forsake the world and all of its comforts. Wealth, status, love.... But we have all read the stories, and we know that the human heart is a reed swayed by the slightest wind. Tourec's heart was no different."

"What happened to him?"

Father DeMarco exhaled slowly. "Before I became a monastic priest, I was a common minister at a humble church. I also had a family. When my wife died, I was devastated, and I fled to the monastery to retreat from the world. But I was not alone in the world. I still had my daughter, Isabella. She was divine, and that is no exaggeration. She did not live here, but she would often come to the monastery to visit me and bring cakes for the monks and pupils. Of course, she always caused quite a stir when she would arrive, but everyone took their vows seriously and made no advances towards her.

"Except Tourec. I don't know how it happened, but the two of them fell in love. Of course it was just puppy love, but when you are young, any stirrings of the heart feel strong enough to move the universe. It was more of a courtship actually, a love by correspondence, since they barely saw each other face to face. They wrote to each other frequently and formed quite a close bond."

He gnawed on his lower lip for a moment. His eyes darted across the table at Patric, and he chuckled with embarrassment.

"I was so absorbed in my work at the monastery that I wasn't even aware that all of this was happening right under my nose. Then one day, I discovered a cache of Tourec's letters to Isabella. Of course I was furious at both of them, and I sent Isabella to a convent in France."

"How did Tourec react?"

Father DeMarco shook his head. "He was quite angry with me, but more so with himself, for he knew he had violated his commitment to God and to the church. He shut himself away for a couple of weeks, immersing himself in books and crying out to God to forgive him."

"And Isabella?"

"I forbade her to contact Tourec again, and I believe she respected my wishes."

"Where is she now?"

Father DeMarco's eyes flashed and his face seemed to wilt before Patric's eyes. He spoke in a low, croaking voice.

"Two months after I sent her to the convent, she and several sisters went to Paris to sing at the Cathedral of Our Lady. That day, the...."

His eyes glared accusingly at Patric.

"... _Your_ master appeared in the sky and brought the cathedral down upon everyone inside. My daughter perished beneath the stones."

A cold wind brushed past them and the candles flickered. Patric remained still, unable to speak.

"After Isabella's death," Father DeMarco went on, "Tourec's heart collapsed. I have never seen such anger boiling in any man, such _hatred._ But, to his credit, he directed all of his hatred at the devil, rather than at me or worse, at himself, though I am certain he felt guilt for what happened to Isabella. And I am sure that he blamed me as well. I saw it in his eyes."

The priest drummed the table and shifted in his chair. "Well, as you saw yourself, the whole world was in chaos in those days. People flocked to our chapel, seeking protection and answers, while many left our order to be with their families or simply fled out of fear. Tourec...well, he only stayed about two weeks, then announced to me that he was going to Jerusalem to defend the holy relics there. I was quite puzzled at this decision, but later I realized that he was looking for an outlet to channel his grief and anger. I should have recognized it long before but for some reason I never did: there is tremendous violence within Tourec's soul."

Patric frowned. "But...the Jerusalem battles are over. Where is Tourec now?"

Father DeMarco shook his head as he looked at his hands. "Patric, I wish there was an easier way to say this: Tourec is one of the assassins targeting Satanic clergymen."

The room was silent. Even the candles seemed to be holding their breath.

"That's impossible," Patric said flatly.

"I'm sorry, but it is the truth."

Patric leaned forward, his brow dark and heavy. "How could my brother, a devout Christian man as you say, become a terrorist? That doesn't make sense."

Father DeMarco looked around, searching for an answer. "I wish I knew. But I know it is true. I spoke with him less than a week ago."

Patric fell back in his chair, feeling like someone had just punched him in the stomach. "He was _here?_ Where did he go?"

"I do not know."

"Then thanks for nothing!"

Patric leaped to his feet, jarring the table and knocking over one of the candles.

"Please, Patric," Father DeMarco pleaded, quickly righting the toppled candle and wincing as scalding drops of wax splashed onto his skin, "don't be angry at your brother; he's just woefully misguided."

"Misguided!" Patric cried. "You tell me that my brother is one of the most wanted men in Europe, that he's going to temples and assassinating unsuspecting priests and priestesses during mass, and you say he's _misguided?"_

Father DeMarco took a step forward, but Patric backed away.

"You Delusionals are all fools!" he spat. "You devote your life to a dead God, and my brother even kills for Him! Are you all insane?"

"Patric, please sit down," Father DeMarco insisted, motioning towards the chair. His voice was gentle but firm.

Patric leered at the priest as if he were a viper poised to strike, then he crept along the wall and sought out the chair in the dim light. Father DeMarco nodded gratefully and took his seat as well.

"Patric, I want you to listen to me. I too am appalled by what Tourec and his brethren are doing. Perhaps it is even possible to blame them for the persecution that has fallen on our church. But I see the sincerity of his heart, and I know that he will see the error of his ways. Right now, all we can do is pray."

Patric clenched his teeth with fury. "You don't understand, old man. I _need_ to find him. I need to...."

Father DeMarco cocked his head. "Need to what?"

Patric opened his mouth, but no sound came out. What could he say?

An archaic phone hidden in a shadowy corner crowed like a metallic rooster. Father DeMarco jumped from his chair and answered the call in a hushed voice. He hunched his shoulders and pressed the receiver to his ear, listening intently. Patric could hear the priest speaking in low, agitated tones, but he couldn't make out any of the words.

After a few minutes, Father DeMarco placed the receiver back in its cradle and faced the wall.

Patric stared at his back, wondering if he should say something. Finally, after a very long silence, the priest turned around and shuffled back to the chair, sinking heavily upon it. His face was a mask of utter dejection.

"I know where your brother is, at least until recently." His eyes were vacant and listless.

Patric waited impatiently. "Yes?"

Father DeMarco exhaled with leaden lungs. "Several of the assassins were having a secret meeting in Bussoleno a few hours ago. It's a small town not too far from here. The police received a tip about the meeting and raided the location. There was a violent gunfight and nearly all of the assassins were killed, along with a bishop. A close colleague of mine."

"Bussoleno," Patric repeated.

Father DeMarco nodded.

"You said nearly all of the assassins were killed. Was Tourec one of them?"

"We don't know. The bodies are in police custody now, and I expect they're working on identifying them now." The priest rubbed his weary brow. "I am sorry to tell you this."

Patric's veins felt cold.

Bring him to Paris, or the child dies....

He shook his head. "No, no, he can't be dead. He must have escaped...."

"Patric — "

" _No!"_

Patric leaped to his feet, knocking the chair back against the wall. He felt an impossibly heavy weight of grief smothering him, and he collapsed to his knees.

"No...please, no...."

He fell to the floor, burying his face in his hands as his body was wracked with sobs. Father DeMarco knelt beside him and placed a comforting hand on his shoulder.

"I am sorry, my son," he said.

"You don't understand," Patric wept, his voice muffled by his palms. "They are going to die now."

"Who? Who is going to die?"

Patric didn't answer; he just kept shaking his head as tears flowed through his fingers. Father DeMarco gave his shoulder a squeeze and rose to his feet.

"There is a spare bedroom up the stairs, if you would like to stay the night," he said. He paused a moment, then scooped up one of the candles from the table and shuffled out of the room. Patric remained huddled on the floor, feeling like his heart was ripping apart, vein by vein. Through his sobs, he was shocked to find himself praying.

To God.

Please...let him be alive....

There was no answer.

****

Father DeMarco's hand trembled as he poured some wine into a small glass, spilling a few drops on the ancient table worn smooth by centuries of study and prayer. A solitary candle illuminated the room, which was a combination of office, library, and storeroom. The east-facing window, which had once invited the morning sun into the room, was now boarded up, as were nearly all of the portals in the ruined monastery.

His heart fluttered as lightning sliced the sky, pushing slivers of ghoulish light through tiny cracks in the masonry and stones. Distant thunder gurgled, then cracked sharply.

Father DeMarco took a sip of wine and peered down at the 19th century copy of the New Testament lying open upon the table. Every page was painstakingly hand-copied, making the book quite a rarity, and the ornate Latin text was bordered by intricate filigree around the page edges. Yet these treasures were lost on the priest, whose eye fell upon a small passage in the middle of the page.

If ye endure chastening, God dealeth with you as with sons; for what son is he whom the father chasteneth not?

Father DeMarco slammed the Bible shut. The wine glass teetered and toppled over onto the sacred book. The priest yelped with horror and leaped to his feet, swiping the Bible off the table and desperately trying to shake out the wine that was rapidly soaking into the pages. He snatched a cloth from a chair and dabbed away the red liquid, but the damage was done. Sinking helplessly into the chair, he felt like a house of cards that had just collapsed. He glanced at the fallen wine glass lying on the table, and he poked it with his finger. It rolled towards the edge of the table, then fell and shattered on the ground.

" _Father!"_

The startled priest jumped up and rushed to the window before he realized it was boarded shut. Placing his hands against the wall to steady himself, he hung his head low and listened with all of his might. It wasn't the storm, it wasn't the wine playing tricks with his senses.

He had heard it, he was sure of it....

Like the clanging of a bell, three powerful blows sounded against the wooden doors outside. The voice cried out again, followed by a deafening peal of thunder.

"Father!"

Father DeMarco dashed out of the room, flying down the corridors like a raven. He burst into the decaying foyer of the great hall and skidded to a stop as blows rained on the doors again, though with less force than before.

He rushed up at the heavy, looming doors and seized the massive chain that belted them shut. He looked around for any kind of tool to use against the chains but saw nothing that could be useful.

He pressed his face to the thin gap between the two doors. "Stay there!" he shouted into the darkness. "I will come out to you!"

There was no reply, and the priest strained to peer through the tiny space, barely a centimeter wide. Lightning flashed, but he could only see the weed-choked garden and crumbling tombstones.

Heart pounding, he flung himself away from the doors and scurried out of the foyer and into an adjoining corridor. He nearly tripped over his own feet as he rushed down the rickety wooden stairs into the cellar.

Patric was asleep in the chair, his arms spread out across the table and his cheek pressed against the wood. The remaining candle burned feebly, having nearly exhausted its wax.

Father DeMarco grabbed his shoulder and shook it violently.

"Patric! Patric, wake up!"

Patric jolted awake and peered up at the priest with bleary eyes. "What...."

Father DeMarco's eyes were wide as he shook Patric again. _"_ È un miracolo! Your brother! He's here!"

His words were like a splash of cold water in Patric's face, and he bolted out of the chair. "Impossible!"

Father DeMarco shook his head breathlessly. "He's here! God has brought him here!"

Flinging Patric aside, he rushed to the cellar entrance and clumsily unlocked the door.

"Hurry!" he called to Patric as he rushed out into the wind and rain. "We must get him inside!"

Without waiting, he disappeared around the corner, leaving Patric stupefied inside the cellar. A streak of lightning snapped the sky and Patric's wits returned, and he lunged out into the rain, cursing profusely.

He saw no sign of the priest, but he had seen him turn to the right after he had rushed out into the darkness, so that was the direction that Patric took. He stumbled up a slick, muddy hill that brought him around to the front of the rotting building. The rain was falling in torrents, and Patric looked around with difficulty through the streams of water pouring into his eyes. He turned towards the wide, sprawling terrace that opened before the main doors of the monastery, and he saw Father DeMarco leaning over a figure splayed out on the wet marble.

He rushed towards them, tripping over the toppled ruins of an ancient gravestone. He looked down at the man in Father DeMarco's arms, and his heart lurched.

"Tourec..." he breathed, sinking to his knees.

His brother was battered and bruised, and watery blood streamed from numerous wounds. His left hand was badly mangled, and one eye was swollen shut.

Tourec slowly turned towards Patric and smiled weakly, revealing an empty space where a tooth had recently resided.

"Patric," he whispered faintly, then coughed and doubled over in pain.

Father DeMarco winced as if the pain was his own. "We must get him inside!"

Patric couldn't move. He stared at his brother as if he were an archeological mystery that had been buried for millennia and was now finally coming to light.

"How is he here...?" he asked in bewilderment.

"Patric!" Father DeMarco shouted, hoisting Tourec's arm over his shoulder. "Help me get him inside!"

Patric jerked out of his trance and eased his brother's other arm over his own shoulder, and the three of them stumbled across the slippery grass, down the hill, and around the back of the building to the cellar entrance.

"Get him to the table," Father DeMarco ordered as he rushed to a cluttered corner and returned with several candles, which he quickly lit using the feeble flame of the existing candle. He then hurried off in search of first aid supplies

Tourec moaned and coughed violently as Patric laid him upon the wooden table. The candlelight grew bolder, and Patric gasped as he saw his brother clearly for the first time. Tourec saw Patric's reaction to his injuries and smiled again.

"Don't worry; it's not as bad as that time at the windmill."

A distant memory echoed in Patric's mind, then roared to the forefront of his thoughts, and he couldn't help but chuckle.

"You're right," he croaked.

Tourec grimaced and his chest rose and fell in spasms. "Didn't expect to see you here," he wheezed, seizing Patric's hand.

Patric instinctively started to pull away, but stopped himself and clasped Tourec's hand firmly. "Don't talk," was all he could say in reply. He couldn't meet his brother's eyes.

Thankfully, Father DeMarco quickly returned with an armful of medical supplies, which he dumped on the table in a heap.

"Let's get him cleaned up," he said to Patric as he poured alcohol on swabs of cotton and began cleaning the lacerations that covered Tourec's face.

Patric stared at his brother in astonishment, and his gaze fell upon the swarm of tattoos that covered Tourec's bloody arm. One design caught his eye: a sword-like cross, capped by an esoteric Latin inscription.

Patric clenched his jaw and looked up at the priest.

"What can I do?"

****

François du Gaulle set his jaw as he glared at the heaving doors before him. Shouts and clanking machinery sounded outside the church, and the doors bellowed inwards again like a great lung being inflated. A solitary drop of sweat streamed down François' forehead and he locked arms tightly with the other members of the congregation.

A breathless young man rushed into the room. "Brother François," he panted, "the news is reporting that the resistance fighters have been killed, all of them!"

The doors swelled with another blow from outside, and François looked at his wife by his side. She looked up at him, tears sparkling in her eyes but determination etched on her face.

François turned back to the young man. "Our prayers are with them, but we must hold fast." He looked to his left and to his right at the ranks of the faithful standing with him. "We must all stand fast!"

"Amen!" was the enthusiastic response.

A chainsaw roared to life beyond the doors and the jagged, whirling blade slid through the gap like a metal tongue. François winced as the blade made contact with the heavy wrought-iron lock, and sparks flew wildly.

Antoinette du Gaulle began to sing a hymn, her soft, angelic voice almost completely drowned out by the metallic grating. François glanced at her and smiled, then joined in the song. The rest of the congregation also raised their voices up to heaven as the wooden doors splintered and cracked under the pummeling blows from the battering rams.

With a mighty crash, the doors exploded inward with a shower of splinters. Piercing beams of light sliced through the darkness, stabbing the eyes of the congregation locked arm in arm, their faces grim and resolute. A swarm of shadows burst into the sanctuary with the word "Police" blazing on their black chests. The erratic beams of light glinted off of their riot helmets and batons. One faceless figure raised a megaphone to his mouth.

"By order of the Ministry of Security of the Republic of France, we are seizing this property on suspicion of being used by persons in collusion with terrorists to attempt to harm public safety and welfare. All citizens herein are being placed under arrest. Do not resist."

The officers surrounded the congregation, whose voices were still joined in melody and their arms still locked together.

"Arrest them!"

The officers surged forwards, painfully twisting the arms of the resisters and separating them from each other. The song ceased abruptly, and François was wrenched away from his wife.

"C _hère_ _!_ " he cried out, reaching out to her as she disappeared amidst a sea of Kevlar vests.

Antoinette stretched out her hand in vain as tears streamed down her face. The policemen quickly subdued the members of the congregation and began dragging them outside into the harsh glare of police vehicle headlights.

The officer kept François' arms pinned tightly behind his back and he grunted in pain as the vest he wore beneath his shirt stabbed him in his ribs. François looked to his left at Luc who had assumed the duties of assistant minister when the man who had actually held the office had fled with the others. Luc nodded grimly, and François turned his eyes to the starless heavens.

"Our Father, who art in Heaven, hallowed be thy name...."

"Shut up!" the arresting officer growled, but François only raised his voice.

"...Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on Earth as it is in Heaven...."

The other believers heard François' prayer and joined him, pronouncing each word with power and conviction.

"...Give us this day our daily bread, and forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us...."

"Get in there!" the officer commanded, throwing François roughly into the back of a police van. The other brothers and sisters were also tossed into the back of waiting vans, but the communal prayer continued.

"...And lead us not into temptation, but deliver us from evil...."

The doors slammed shut, and François closed his eyes.

"...For thine is the kingdom and the power and the glory, forever and ever. Amen."

The police van erupted in a ball of flame and shrapnel, and the decimated shell lurched forward, crashing into a second police car. A moment later, two other vans exploded, hurling white-hot shards of metal and glass that sliced through the crowd.

Antoinette's lips trembled as she sent a silent prayer to heaven. Then she wrenched her arm away from the distracted officer and pressed her elbow to an invisible button beneath her blouse. The officer stared at her in horrified surprise, and Antoinette exploded, the blast shredding the bodies and faces of the policemen around her.

Giant fingers of flame curled around the decimated police vans, and the courtyard of the small, ancient church was littered with bodies and limbs. Only a few had escaped the carnage unharmed, and they clambered through the wreckage in a daze. There was nothing left of the suspects.

One officer stumbled into a police car that was only partially destroyed, and he clutched at the radio with a bloodied hand.

"Dispatch, come in, this is Squad Three-Four-Zero. Come in...."

"This is dispatch, over."

The officer coughed a stream of blood onto the car seat. "Send...all available units to the Chapel of St. Michael. Officers down...multiple casualties...."

He coughed again. "The bastards blew themselves up!"

****

It was clear from the rigid expression on the news anchor's face that she was barely restraining her anger. She pursed her lips and folded her hands on the glass desk.

" _The band of insurgents who have been terrorizing Satanic temples around Europe engaged Italian police forces in a fierce gun battle earlier last night. Reports indicate that nearly all of the suspected terrorists were killed, and while there are unsubstantiated rumors that some escaped, police believe that they have neutralized the terrorists' capabilities to carry out any more attacks. However, governments around Europe are urging caution among worshippers and clergy members attending temple services, saying that until they are certain that all of the insurgents have been captured or killed, the threat of violence remains._

" _News of the insurgents' demise has created shockwaves of turmoil and despair in the Christian community, which has largely been driven underground in the wake of public outcries against Christianity and its followers. The recent decision by France and other European nations to seize and confiscate Christian churches and other property has been met with strong and sometimes violent resistance from Christian congregations. There have been at least five reports of suicide bombings in France alone, as well as several other reports in other countries, particularly Italy, Germany, Spain, and Portugal. These desperate acts of violence against police forces and the general public have only strengthened European governments' resolve to subdue these fanatics as quickly as possible. A brief study conducted by the Inter-European Institute for Social Progress shows that over 90% of the population favors the prohibition of the Christian faith and its practices._

" _Wolfgang Gilmach, public secretary of the Church of Satan, held an early morning press conference, where he expressed his gratitude to the Italian security forces who conducted the raid on the terrorists' hideout."_

Wolfgang Gilmach smiled coldly as he glowered into the camera. "We congratulate those who bravely put themselves in harm's way to neutralize this band of renegade delusional fanatics. The Church of Satan is mighty and immovable, and let there be no mistake: there are none who can stand against the will of our Great Lord Satan, and all who rise up against him shall fall beneath his merciless hand. The glory and power of our Great Lord shall be revealed once again to the world when His Worship, the Voice of Satan, holds mass in Paris tomorrow night when the full moon rises. Hail Satan!"

The anchorwoman appeared again on the screen. _"The city of Paris, and indeed the whole country, has been in a state of excitement since news of His Worship's pilgrimage to Paris was announced last week. The city of Paris will be quite a sight to behold as His Worship pays his first visit to the sacred city since the consecration of the newly-constructed Temple of the Dragon seven years ago. We will bring you updates on this breaking story as more information becomes available."_

PART III.

But God is truth itself....

—St. Thomas Aquinas, _Summa Theologica_

——————————

Satan, whose word is Chaos.

—Conrad Robury, _The Black Book of Satan_

### CHAPTER 9

Father DeMarco quietly closed the door and slipped silently into the corridor. Using the candle to light his footsteps, he made his way to the storeroom where Patric was waiting, his head buried in his hands. He looked up as Father DeMarco entered and eased the door shut.

"He just needs a few hours of sleep," the priest explained as he set the candle upon the desk. "He's been through quite an ordeal."

"How did he get here?" Patric asked as he rubbed his tired eyes.

"He told me that he was caught in the police raid earlier tonight in Bussoleno. He sought refuge at a Christian family's home, but was discovered and escaped in a car, which crashed into the river. He managed to free himself and swim to shore, where he was able to steal a small fishing boat. The current in that river is quite strong, and it brought him here in just a few hours. He said he saw patrols searching the river, but by the grace of God, the eyes of the enemy were blinded and he slipped past them."

Patric couldn't help but snort in contempt. Father DeMarco pretended he didn't notice.

"It really is amazing, even miraculous," he continued, "no matter what one believes."

Patric smirked. "What you call miraculous, I call an uncanny coincidence."

Father DeMarco peered at Patric with searching eyes. "Son, your brother, whom you haven't seen since childhood, appears on our very doorstep, on the one night you also arrive, hundreds of miles from home. That is far more than a coincidence."

Patric shrugged and looked away.

Father DeMarco frowned. "Don't you believe that God still moves this world?"

"I believe he did. But not anymore. His silence for so long indicates more than just a lull in His attention."

"I don't understand...."

" _He's ignoring us,"_ Patric declared forcefully. "He allows His enemy to run rampant in this world, unchallenged, except by His church which, pardon me, Father, has become quite impotent."

Father DeMarco cleared his throat as he gazed down at his folded hands. "I admit that you are right, at least in part. The Christian church has become quite impotent. It was meant to be God's hand of justice and mercy upon the earth while we awaited His return, but fear and internal strife tore it apart, and the only challenges we can muster are sporadic acts of violence like those your brother has perpetrated."

"So why do you continue in this way? Clearly, your God has abandoned you; why not abandon Him?"

Father DeMarco gazed firmly at Patric and spoke in a low, measured tone. "Because if I give up God, I am left with my own emptiness, and I have experienced the abyss of aimless existence, long before I took my vows. The other alternative is to swear allegiance to your master, and that is quite plainly out of the question."

Patric met his gaze as he leaned back in his chair. "I don't want to offend you, Father, but it looks like my side is winning. You may not have a choice soon."

Father DeMarco smiled dryly. "My son, there is always a choice."

Patric shifted in his chair. "We'll see."

The storm outside had dissipated, and the room was starting to feel stuffy.

"What happens now?" Patric asked, eager to change the topic.

"I have contacted some brothers and sisters who live close by. They will come at dawn with some food and other supplies, and they can take both of you where you need to go." Father DeMarco coughed uncomfortably. "They will also help me bury the bodies."

Patric had almost forgotten the horrific event that had brought him to this monastery. The image of the pale, glistening bodies lying in the mud flashed through his mind.

Father DeMarco tilted his head, his eyes lost in the shadows as the candlelight flickered across his weathered face.

"You still haven't told me why you came here looking for your brother."

Patric heaved a weary sigh. "I'm sorry Father, but that is my business. Coming here was an act of desperation anyway."

"One that God saw fit to bring to fruition."

"I don't care how it happened; I'm just glad that my brother is alive, and we're going to leave together."

" _We_ aren't going anywhere."

Patric and Father DeMarco looked up in surprise. Tourec's figure formed a dark shadow in the even darker doorway, and his eyes shimmered with the glow of the candle.

"Tourec," Father DeMarco said as he rose to his feet and moved towards the door, "you shouldn't be up. You need to rest and recover your strength."

Tourec took a step forward and masked a grimace of pain. "I'll live."

He looked down at his half-brother, and there was harshness in his eyes that contrasted sharply with the grateful, even warm expression on his face when he first saw Patric. He gingerly stretched out his arm and brought a chair close and sat heavily upon it.

Seeing that there was no way to convince Tourec of the necessity of bed rest, Father DeMarco returned to his seat next to the desk. For a few moments, the three men sat in silence, their shadows twisting and jerking on the walls.

Patric glanced sidelong at Tourec, and his eyes fell on his brother's bandaged left hand. The white bandage was fresh yet it was already stained with blood. Tourec looked at Patric and saw where his eyes were directed, and he tucked his hand under his right arm.

Father DeMarco regarded the two brothers for a moment, then cleared his throat. "Would you like something to drink?" he asked Tourec.

"No, thank you," Tourec answered, still looking at Patric.

Patric exhaled, causing his necklace to sway against his chest. He looked down at the gleaming pentagram, then back at his brother.

"What are you doing here, Patric?" Tourec demanded coldly.

Patric licked his dry lips and said nothing. Father DeMarco immediately sensed his discomfort and excused himself.

"I'm sure you gentlemen have a lot to talk about, so I will leave you two alone."

He lit a second candle and slipped noiselessly out of the room.

The silence in the air was so thick that the flickering candle flames seemed to shout. Patric kept his eyes on the floor, while Tourec kept his eyes on Patric.

"What are you doing here?" he repeated.

His icy words hung in the air like a chilling fog. Patric locked his fingers and straightened his spine.

"I came looking for you."

Tourec's face transformed into an expression of complete surprise. "Looking for me?"

Patric nodded simply.

Tourec looked about the room in bewilderment. "We haven't seen each other or spoken in years. Why would you suddenly want to find me?"

"We need to go to Paris."

The room was silent again, and the candle flames trembled.

"Paris?" Tourec blurted loudly. "What are you talking about?"

"I can't explain it right now. But it is very, _very_ important that you come with me to Paris."

Tourec's eyes narrowed. "Why? What's in Paris, besides sin and death?"

Patric looked at his feet. "I'm not sure," he replied quietly.

Tourec peered at him in utter confusion. "I don't know what is going on, Patric, but you had better give me some answers."

Patric stared into the candle flame.

... _Or the child dies...._

"Someone told me to bring you to Paris."

"Who told you this?"

"I don't know." The lie stung Patric's tongue.

Tourec slapped his knees and rose to his feet. "This is ludicrous. If you don't tell me the truth, I'm not going anywhere with you."

He turned and wrenched open the door, then stopped and looked back at Patric. "Why did you come here?" he asked sharply.

Patric shook his head, his eyes still resting on the floor. "I told you, I came looking for — "

"Why did you come _here,_ to this monastery?"

Patric looked up at his brother. "Mother told me."

Tourec slowly closed the door and sat down again. "You saw Mother? When?"

"Two days ago. Just before...."

Patric caught himself before he said too much. Tourec leaned closer.

"Before what?"

"Nothing."

"So how is Mother?"

"Sick. And disappointed, in both of us."

Tourec stiffened with indignation. "I wasn't the one who turned my back on our family's faith and pledged my soul to the King of Hell."

A quarrelsome fire roared to life in Patric's heart. "And I'm not the one leaping into temples during mass and slaughtering priests in front of their congregations!"

The brothers glared at each other, fuming in silence. Then, as quickly as it had flared, Patric's fighting instinct wilted, and he hung his head.

"When I saw the look in her eyes, that _look,_ I almost felt ashamed of my faith." He looked up at Tourec. "But I make no apologies for what I believe. I chose this path, and I may not like where it has taken me, but I have no choice but to continue."

Tourec frowned. "What do you mean?"

Patric sniffed and gazed at the candles in silence. Then he looked up at Tourec. "So what happened to you? Why...why all of _this?"_

Tourec exhaled in a slow, measured breath. "When I came here many years ago, I was so full of zeal; I wanted to be more than just a scholar or minister. Father DeMarco can tell you what a hard case I was."

Patric smirked. "He did." He was silent for a moment, then added, "He also told me about Isabella."

Tourec stifled a gasp. He looked at Patric with sorrow in his eyes. "Well, then I guess you know what sent me over the edge. After she...after that day, my anger, my _rage_ was so intense, I had to unleash it somewhere, on someone."

"Jerusalem," Patric said quietly.

Tourec nodded. "The things I saw there...I lost myself in that place. But I knew my mission was righteous."

His eyes flickered with a glint of accusation. "Those animals I fought were your compatriots."

"Listen, I claim no loyalty with them," Patric replied. "Just because we are on the same side does not mean we are alike. I just wanted to live my life in freedom and indulgence; I never wanted to hurt anyone who didn't share my faith, and I certainly didn't want any kind of war like we have now."

His last sentence returned Tourec's accusatory tone. He looked at his brother and narrowed his eyes. "Why did you come back to Europe, and what the _hell_ made you start this terrorism nonsense?"

Tourec didn't know how to respond at first, and his mouth gaped open but no words came out. He looked at his hands like he was reading a book, and his reply was robotic, as if he were rehearsing lines for a play.

"I could no longer defend a distant land while my home was falling to ruin and decay under — "

"Oh, don't give me that nonsense!" Patric cried. "Why did you start _murdering priests?"_

"Because they deserve it!"

Patric recoiled at his brother's outburst. Tourec's face was a mask of primal, savage fury, and his eyes flashed with murderous fire.

"They all deserve it!" he roared. "You go to those services; you've see the debauchery, the filth, the mutilations and lewdness, and you all love it! I know; I've seen it with my own eyes! I saw them...." His voice vanished, and he turned away.

Patric leaned forward cautiously. "What did you see?"

Tourec hastily wiped his eyes, hoping Patric didn't notice. "In Jerusalem, I attended a Black Mass service. I wanted to see what exactly I was fighting against, so I disguised myself and joined the congregation inside the temple. It was...a consecration service."

Patric had witnessed several consecration services, in which a virgin pledges her body to the church of Satan. He had even once taken part in the ceremony, and though Natasha never said anything about it, it was clear from her mood afterwards that she was clearly uncomfortable with his participation.

"I saw them bring the girl to the altar," Tourec went on, "and those...those _animals_ , climbing over her, violating her again and again...it was horrifying. After it was all over, the girl came down from the altar, bleeding, humiliated, ashamed. I could see it in her eyes. And then, I swear to my dying day, she looked right at me. Her eyes bore so much sorrow; I couldn't stand it, and I left. After that day, I knew my efforts had been directed at the wrong targets. It wasn't enough to stand guard at the foot of Golgotha or fight off pillagers at the Church of the Holy Sepulcher; I knew I had to cut off the source of this evil: the temples. This is where the ideologies come from, and that is what inspired those heathens to attack us and our holy places."

He glared at Patric, proud and unapologetic.

Patric kept his eyes level with his brother's gaze.

"So what happened?" he asked.

"I met an Italian bishop and conveyed my wish to take the church of Satan head-on. He told me that he was assembling an elite force for just such a task. I was taken to a training camp and was taught the art of combat by retired members of the Foreign Legion. Then we made our way back to Europe, and now here we are."

Patric snorted in contempt. "Well, great job you did. You only succeeded in bringing down the guillotine on the neck of your precious 'Body of Christ.' Did you honestly think the Christian church was going to rise up against the forces of Satan and prevail against us in some kind of grand Armageddon? You started a war, Tourec, and you are going to lose, and your God doesn't even care."

"If there is any fault, it is with us, the believers. God's will is always perfect, but He entrusts His will to us, and sometimes, perhaps often, we distort it or simply screw it up. But He does care, Patric. I can feel Him in my heart, always, wherever I go. He hasn't abandoned His children."

"Then why hasn't He done _anything_ to help you?"

Tourec stared directly into his brother's eyes. "He will."

The door creaked open and Father DeMarco timidly poked his head into the room. "Sorry to interrupt you gentlemen, but I figured since Tourec was up and about, I would fix us a bit of a midnight snack. If you're hungry, please join me in the cellar for a bite."

He glanced at Tourec. "I imagine we have a lot to talk about."

The brothers looked at each other for a cold moment, then rose to their feet and followed the priest out of the room.

****

The Voice closed the book of incantations and gazed solemnly out upon the assembly of monks, priests, priestesses, and other assorted clerical nobility.

"My friends — tomorrow, I, and several of you, embark on a sacred pilgrimage to the birthplace of our faith. Many have asked, 'Why now, especially in these turbulent times?' To such questions, I say, 'What better time than now?' What better time to show the strength of our order than to journey, in the open, defiant against any threat, to that hallowed city from whence the chasm of hell opened and spewed forth Satan's fury and wrath upon a complacent and docile world? Ah, what a day, what a glorious day that was! My skin trembles at the memory, watching the monument to the Delusionals' folly crumble like melting snow before the blazing sun! The legions of hell swarming over the masses, turning men into maniacs, in a glorious symphony conducted by our Great Lord — may his wrath consume the nations! May the hearts of the proud and the self-righteous wither before the flames of damnation! Let him who boasts, boast not of his wisdom, or riches, or strength, or status, but let him boast that he is a servant of the Almighty Dragon, who subdues the kingdoms of man!"

" _Ave Satanas!"_ the congregation responded.

Blood pumped furiously through His Worship's veins and he couldn't help but smile as he gazed out across the soaring sanctuary, every seat filled with black-robed servants of the Most High Master of Darkness. He closed his eyes, soaking up the energy rising throughout the great hall.

"My brothers and sisters, we shall go to Paris and declare to the world that the Jesus Christ is dead! He raised not a finger, He spoke not a word, to help His deluded children in their adversity. Even now, we mock His name, and no judgment befalls us! What manner of God is this, whose impotence becomes more apparent with each passing day?"

The Voice of Satan picked up a silver crucifix from the pulpit and held it high for the congregation to see. The assembly hissed like a brood of vipers, and the Voice grinned, his gleaming teeth like fangs. He turned the cross upside-down, to cheers and applause. He then raised his eyes towards heaven, and after muttering an unintelligible prayer, spit upon the crucifix.

The cries emanating from the crowd increased dramatically. Fists rose in the air, and the name of God was blasphemed in countless ways. Holding the crucifix like a dagger with which to stab the earth, His Worship closed his eyes and dropped the silver cross into a shallow red pool that lay beneath the altar. Blood splashed upon the steps, and great cheers arose from the assembly.

His Worship spread his arms, welcoming the adoration of the congregation.

"My friends," he proclaimed, "my family, we go to Paris to proclaim the second age of Lucifer. Let the black sun rise upon the Kingdom of Hades, and let the doubters tremble with mortal terror. This world belongs to Satan, and we are his children."

" _Ave Satanas! Veni, Agio o Infernus!"_

Immediately, the sanctuary was filled with a low, droning sound, like the hum of a giant machine. The great chandeliers looming above flickered momentarily, then dimmed. The members of the congregation began whispering amongst themselves, then gasped as their eyes turned towards the Voice standing with his arms spread above the altar.

His eyes were black as oil and blood streamed from his fingertips, falling in large drops upon the pristine marble floor. As if tethered together by one giant leash, the congregation knelt in unison, some uttering whispered prayers to their Prince of Darkness. Their heads were bowed, but their curiosity overcame them, and they timidly glanced up at the pontiff, who was crucified against the air.

His mouth opened, and a voice came out that was not his own.

" _The proud shall fall, and the mighty shall weep. Woe, woe unto those who hear but do not hear. The temple shall be cleansed with blood and fire, and the damned shall reap the harvest of their own deception. Woe, woe unto those who hear but do not hear."_

Several bulbs in the chandeliers exploded in a shower of sparks, and the congregation gasped and hid their faces. The buzzing sound quickly vanished, and the light returned.

The Voice of Satan felt as if his body had been hurled down a mountain. His knuckles were white as he clutched the pulpit for stability. He looked out over the congregation with wide, terrified eyes.

A flash of movement at the rear of the sanctuary caught his attention. He leaned forward, peering across the massive hall.

The woman in black smiled coldly, then opened the colossal doors with ease and disappeared into the darkness.

****

Patric felt himself begin to slip out of sleep. He was on the verge of waking, as if emerging from a mist-shrouded path. A strong hand gripped his shoulder, and his eyes snapped open and he jerked upright in his chair.

"What — !"

Tourec smiled and put a finger to lips. "It's all right, brother. It's morning, and Father DeMarco says that some friends of his will arrive soon. We must get ready to leave with them."

Patric rubbed his eyes and nodded blearily. He was shocked that in spite of his wounded state, Tourec had not only awoken before him, but seemed quite refreshed and energetic.

"Yeah, okay..." he mumbled, fighting away the last foggy tendrils of sleep.

Tourec gave his shoulder another squeeze, then left the room. Patric watched him leave, studying his measured steps and his stocky, stiffened shoulders. His arms were perpetually cocked like weapons ready to be used. This image contrasted sharply with his childhood memories of his brother as a lanky teenager with searing eyes.

Well, at least the eyes hadn't changed.

Patric rose to his feet and swayed dangerously on wobbly legs. He looked down in confusion, then winced as the blood began rushing through the lethargic blood vessels in his legs and a thousand fire ants scurried through his muscle tissue. He put one hand on the table to steady himself and he gritted his teeth, enduring the pain in silence. After a few moments, the worst had passed, and he took a few ginger steps. After assuring himself that his legs were functional again, he followed Tourec's path out of the room.

He found himself in a dark corridor which he had not seen before. The air was dank and musty, and there was no sign of Tourec. He called out his brother's name, but there was no answer. He frowned, feeling confused, then proceeded down the dimly lit corridor. He searched for any sign of a door, but saw none.

"Tourec!" he called out again, feeling bewildered at his brother's seemingly magical disappearance.

Finally, at the end of the corridor, he spotted a slender wooden door almost completely hidden in shadow. Cautiously, he pushed the door open, its hinges creaking in complaint.

Tourec whirled around but did not rise. Patric stepped into the dingy chapel that somehow still exuded a sense of serenity and perhaps even warmth. Tourec was kneeling in front of an embarrassingly simple cross and an icon of the Blessed Virgin. A single arched window allowed the cloudy morning light to filter in, and the room was bare except for a few tables that lined the walls, their surfaces entirely covered with melted wax and the corpses of expired candles. A few candles burned at the feet of the Virgin, and an ancient Bible was spread out on the altar.

"What are you doing here, Patric?" Tourec asked without hostility.

Patric glanced about the room and stifled a sneeze. "What is this place?"

Tourec looked up at the melancholy statue. "I used to pray here every morning when I was a pupil at this monastery." He gestured at the wooden cross standing erect upon the altar. "I carved that myself."

Patric stepped forward and examined the cross. "What did you use, a butter knife?"

Tourec smirked. "I'm no artist, but my heart was in it. Honestly, I was a bit shocked to see that it's still here."

Something compelled Patric to kneel next to his brother, and a flicker of surprise flashed across Tourec's face, though it vanished quickly.

Patric looked up at the cross and the Madonna behind it. His eyes narrowed, studying the statue's expression.

"You know, I always wondered why she always looked so sad. She doesn't seem to have the 'joy of the Lord' you Christians are so fond of talking about."

Tourec followed his brother's gaze and chuckled. "You're right. I don't know...I think she feels the weight of the sins that her son will soon bear. How could any mother smile with knowledge like that?"

"Hmm," Patric shrugged. He instinctively fingered the pentagram dangling from his neck.

Tourec noticed the gesture.

"Is there anything you need to pray about?"

Patric stared at the cross in silence. "No," he said firmly, then rose to his feet and turned to leave.

"Patric."

Patric turned around and gazed steadily at his brother.

"God doesn't hate you," Tourec said.

Patric looked at the statue of the Virgin for a moment, then back again at Tourec.

"He should," he said as he opened the door. "And He should hate you too." He slipped out of the chapel and closed the creaking doors.

Tourec exhaled slowly, keeping his eyes fixed on the door. His heart felt heavy as a stone as he raised his eyes to the statue. It looked down on him with sorrow and comfort.

And forgiveness.

Tourec lowered his head and began to pray.

****

As the morning sun attempted to pierce the blanket of clouds that stretched across the horizon, the crunch of tires on gravel was heard outside of the monastery. Father DeMarco peeked through a shattered window, then hurried down the corridor into the cellar where Patric and Tourec were waiting together in silence.

"Our friends are here," he announced.

The brothers rose to their feet as a dismal, battered van backed up close to the open cellar door. Two gruff-looking men with heavy beards got out, along with two stocky women. A second car pulled up behind the van and another equally formidable man stepped out. Their faces all bore mournful expressions, and Patric was soon reminded of the reason as the men ducked into the cellar and disappeared around a corner without a word, then reappeared hoisting a body-shaped burden covered in a bloodstained sheet.

Tourec watched the gruesome work with keen eyes, but Patric had to turn away. Father DeMarco stepped close to Tourec and whispered, "They are martyrs; they paid for a crime that was not their own. A priest and two priestesses were executed in horrific fashion at the Temple of Set yesterday.... I know that you were not involved, but please tell me that your brethren did not commit that vile deed."

Tourec turned to the priest with cold eyes. "No. It was not us."

Father DeMarco smiled gratefully.

The van doors closed, and the two women presented Father DeMarco with a basket of food.

"Thank you, Father," one of them said. "After we bury my sister and her family, we will be leaving. I have some relatives in Austria...it is not safe here anymore. Please...please come with us, Father."

Father DeMarco smiled warmly and clasped her hands. "Thank you for your invitation, Donatella, but I must remain here. There are still some believers left in the town, and even if everyone is gone, I will continue to be God's light in this dark place. But it is wise for you to leave. Gather together with other believers; keep each other strong, and encourage one another. When the time is right, the Lord's hand shall wipe this stain from our continent and we shall have nothing to fear again."

"I fear it is going to get worse before it gets better," one of the men said as he sauntered over.

"What do you mean?" Father DeMarco asked.

"The Voice of Satan's pilgrimage to Paris. He is on his way now. He will hold a special mass tonight to usher in a 'new age' for the Church of Satan."

Tourec looked thoughtful.

"Paris...."

The man looked at Tourec. "Yes, Paris. Many people in the Christian underground think the Church of Satan is going to declare Paris a 'Mecca' of sorts. Their occupation of the Vatican has always been more of a slap in the face of Christianity rather than a statement of faith, but Paris holds special significance for them. The city is already a cesspool of filth — the perfect place for them to set up their 'Mecca.' Many believe that the Voice is going to declare Paris as the new throne of the Satanic Order."

Tourec glanced at his brother, and Patric saw a curious light flash in his eyes.

Father DeMarco gestured at the two brothers standing behind him. "Forgive me. These are my friends, Patric and Tourec. Tourec was a pupil of mine here at the monastery many years ago."

The bearded man extended a ham-sized hand and Tourec shook it firmly. The man eyed his tattoos warily but did not say anything. His face froze, however, as he shook Patric's hand and noticed his pentagram necklace. The women also noticed the ornament, and one of them gasped softly.

Father DeMarco immediately detected the change in the room's climate and he cleared his throat loudly. "Patric helped me bring the Assantes here last night. I am very grateful to him." He patted Patric's shoulder to emphasize his point.

The bearded man grunted and released Patric's hand, though he still stared at him with piercing eyes.

"The father tells me that you two are in need of transportation," he said, his voice tinged with reluctance. "Where is it that you would like to go?"

"Paris," Tourec answered.

Patric stared at his brother in surprise. "Tourec — "

Tourec silenced him with his eyes. "I trust you, Patric." He turned back to the man and the women. "I know you cannot take us all the way to Paris, but we will greatly appreciate any help you can give us in getting there."

The man's eyes narrowed. "Do you have identification documents with you?"

Patric nodded, but Tourec shook his head.

The man frowned. This was going to be a problem.

Father DeMarco perked up. "Wait here — I have an idea!" He fled out of the cellar with startling swiftness and vanished up the stairs.

The two bearded men approached the group, and the five of them lined up in front of the brothers. Patric felt as if he was being sized up by a family of bears who were deciding if he was meaty enough to feast upon.

Thankfully, Father DeMarco returned after only a couple of minutes, waving a small, dusty booklet which he pressed into Tourec's hand.

"I knew you reminded me of someone when I saw you again, but I couldn't put my finger on it until now." He snatched the booklet out of Tourec's grasp and flipped it open with excitement. "Look!"

He pointed at a faded picture of a smiling face that bore a strong resemblance to Tourec, who scratched his head in surprise.

"Father Patrelli," the priest explained. "He came after you left and was only with us for a short time. He died almost three years ago, God rest his soul. His personal identification was given back to his family but his clerical documents remained here. It isn't much, but it should be enough to get you through checkpoints. With your scarred face, you can explain that you barely escaped a riot and lost your identification in the process, and now you are fleeing the province. From what I hear, security forces are so eager to push the Christians out, they barely give a second glance at people's identifications."

Tourec held the booklet gingerly as his stomach twisted, but he looked at Father DeMarco with grateful eyes. "Thank you, Father. If it is God's will, this will be my key."

Father DeMarco smiled slyly. "Rahab was rewarded for lying, so it has to be forgivable in some circumstances, right?"

"What about him?" one of the men asked, carelessly gesturing towards Patric. "Won't people be suspicious if someone carrying a priest's ID is found in the same car with a Satanist?"

He spoke the last word with venom, but Patric ignored his tone. "I will tell them the truth. I will say that I've come to collect my brother and that I'm taking him to a safer place. After all, family is more important than faith."

He looked at his brother with determination, and Tourec nodded. "It's our only chance. Besides, they're in such a hurry to get us all out of here, they won't pay too much attention anyway. Having my brother with me actually gives credibility to our story."

The others did not look convinced but raised no objections. One of the men fished a pair of keys out of his pocket and handed them to Tourec. "He'll need something to wear," he said to Father DeMarco.

The priest glanced at Tourec's decorated arms. "Right!" he declared as he spun around and hurried off in search of monastic apparel for Tourec to disguise himself.

Tourec looked down at the keys in his hand. "What about your car?" he asked the man, who shrugged.

"It was a loaner from the father anyway. It's been rusting in my garden for six months now; the wife's glad to get rid of it."

One of the women shot him an icy glare.

Father DeMarco returned with a dingy robe reeking of mildew, and he apologized for the undesirable state of the garment.

"It's fine," Tourec said as he slipped the robe over his head and secured the belt around his waist.

Patric raised an eyebrow. "Wow, you really look like a priest, instead of — "

Tourec looked at him. "Instead of what?"

Patric realized that the others didn't know Tourec's true vocation. "Instead of...my brother."

Tourec smirked. "You'd be surprised how easily I fit into any disguise."

He turned to Father DeMarco and clasped the old priest by his shoulders. "I'm afraid we must be off, Father. We have troubled you long enough."

"Not at all, my son," the priest replied. He took some food from the basket on the table and handed it to Tourec. "Seeing you again has brought me hope that things can change. No one is lost, no matter how far from God they think they might be."

Tourec nodded affectionately, then embraced him. "Thank you, Father."

The priest looked deep into Tourec's eyes. "Go with God, my son."

He then turned to Patric and offered his hand, which Patric took. "Thank you again for everything."

Patric tried unsuccessfully to hide his discomfort. "Um, well, I am glad to be of service," he stammered.

Father DeMarco looked at each brother in turn. "Take care of each other."

The brothers exchanged glances. "We will," they answered in unison.

Father DeMarco nodded and took a step back.

The brothers thanked the men and women for their assistance, then squeezed past the van and stepped out into the morning sun. Tourec let out an ironic chuckle.

"What?" Patric asked.

"Nothing," Tourec said as they ducked into the Volkswagen. It was the same make and model as the one Tourec had crashed into the river less than twelve hours earlier.

Patric turned the key and the car sputtered to life. Tourec grimaced.

"Are you all right?" his brother asked.

"Yeah," Tourec grunted, pressing his hand carefully against his side. "Feels like a mule kicked me in the ribs."

Patric shook his head. "Maybe now you'll think twice before pretending to be 'God's Assassin.'"

Tourec fastened his seatbelt and stared grimly through the windshield. "Perhaps."

Patric shifted the car into gear and guided the vehicle up the driveway that coiled around the side of the monastery, then drove out onto the road. He pressed the accelerator firmly and the car sped down the hill towards the town. He was very eager to get away from that ruined building.

### CHAPTER 10

The plane shuddered violently, then a swelling sensation of calmness washed through the cabin as the aircraft pulled away from the clutches of the earth. Rays from the rising sun stabbed through the cabin windows but quickly vanished as the plane penetrated the bank of clouds that hung low over the horizon. The sickening shaking resumed and the Voice of Satan clutched the leather armrests.

The woman in black smiled crookedly to herself. "Flying is the safest mode of transportation in the world," she said in an oily tone. "There are a thousand other ways to die that could sneak up on you at any moment."

"Thank you for that reassurance," the Voice muttered as he stared out at the wall of clouds.

"Are you sure everything has been arranged?" he asked after a moment. "This whole trip has been so rushed because of the terrorist threat...I'll be heading directly from the airport to the temple without a moment to catch my breath."

The woman smiled. "Do not worry, Your Worship. Everything has been planned to the utmost detail. The security, the routes, the transportation, everything. Paris is filling with pilgrims as we speak. You will receive quite a grand reception."

"Well, I certainly hope so. This is not the time for last-minute mistakes."

The woman sat back in her chair and crossed her long legs. "Worry is unbecoming of a man of your position."

The Voice glanced around, even though the two of them were alone in the jet's private chamber. "You know, sometimes I get the feeling that you don't respect my position."

A look of confusion with a trace of hurt came over the woman's face, though the Voice couldn't decipher whether it was real or feigned.

"Your Worship," she said with a tone of surprise, "I have the utmost respect for you, as a man and as the head of our order. If I sometimes seem aloof, it is simply because I still see human weakness peeking through your armor."

The pontiff bristled at her frankness, but he couldn't deny that she was right. After all, he was just a man, though a man cloaked in the mystery and power of the Prince of Darkness.

"We are all works in progress, are we not?" He smiled coolly and sipped his wine.

The woman raised one eyebrow. "Indeed."

The Voice set the crystal glass down and peered at her closely. "So tell me what awaits me in Paris."

The woman's other eyebrow rose. "I do not understand."

The Voice narrowed his eyes at her. "I know this is not going to be an ordinary ceremony. I can feel it in my bones. What is going to happen?"

The woman opened her mouth to reply, then closed it again. Finally, she said, "I am not omniscient. I am simply a messenger, same as you."

The Voice frowned. He knew there was something she wasn't telling him. "You've been very insistent that this ceremony take place at this specific time. Why now, why this full moon?"

She didn't answer; she just stared at him in silence. The Voice cocked his head and leaned forward. His voice was low and urgent.

"Is our Great Lord going to appear again?"

An expression of genuine shock came over the woman's face. "Are you serious?"

Her reaction made the Voice feel somewhat embarrassed. "I...I was just...just wondering, since it's been so long since he...." His words trailed away and he slumped back in his chair like a disappointed child.

The woman continued to stare at him but her icy expression softened. "I do not know what will happen, but I can tell you that the world will never be the same after this full moon passes."

His Worship looked away, his face still clouded with annoyance. The woman in black slid out of her chair and sank to her knees in front of him. She placed her hand on his knee and her claw-like fingers slid over his legs.

"The world will bow at your feet," she cooed, "and all will see what you truly are."

The Voice closed his eyes as a wave of warmth spread over his body, and he couldn't help smiling at the woman's words.

Yes, they would.

****

Patric looked up at the sky but kept silent. Tourec articulated his thoughts.

"Looks like it's going to rain again," he said, "but that will be a blessing. The less people on the road, the better."

Patric gritted his teeth and glanced over at his brother in annoyance. "I hope you realize what a huge risk I am taking being out here with you. I don't even know why I'm doing this. I should consider you my enemy."

Tourec winced as the car bounced over a pothole. "Our meeting like this was no accident, brother. God has a plan for all — "

"Enough!" Patric exploded.

Tourec stared at him with wide eyes.

Patric's fingers squeezed the steering wheel until they were white. "I am sick and tired of your delusional Christian nonsense! Tell me, what was God's plan? To have you and your friends pretend to be commandos sent from heaven to murder priests and priestesses? To get you almost killed not once, but twice _in the same night?_ For that family to be hung like horse thieves because a mob needed some way to vent their anger? For this whole world to be turning into a swirling toilet of pain and misery? Is that God's plan?"

A deep, weary breath exhaled from his lips and his body slouched, his fury exhausted. He focused on the road with a face as dark as the clouds milling overhead.

Tourec stared vacantly out the windshield. "Perhaps...perhaps I was wrong...."

Patric looked over at his brother. "Wrong about what?"

"About all of this. My 'mission from God.' I never really stopped to consider if what I was doing was what God really wanted me to do. It just felt so good, and then 'good' became 'right' in my mind. And the bishop, the one who was killed last night — he believed in this war even more than I did. Maybe it was his path that I was following, not God's...."

Patric shook his head in frustration, but his voice wasn't nearly as angry as before. "How could you ever think that being a terrorist was God's will?"

Tourec looked at his brother with deep, sincere eyes. "The same way that some people swear their allegiance to the most evil being in the universe. Fear, desperation, and a need to believe make people do crazy things."

A large raindrop smacked into the windshield. Patric licked his teeth. "It's not a 'need to believe' if you know it's true."

Tourec nodded. "Yes, you're right."

Patric looked at his brother for a moment, then turned his attention back to the road. Raindrops began falling in rapid succession now, and within a few minutes, the drizzle had become a steady shower.

"When was the last time you talked to Mother?" Patric asked.

Tourec didn't answer for a moment. "Not since I came back to the continent. I spoke with her a few months ago when I was in Jerusalem."

"How was she then?"

Tourec kept his eyes fixed on the falling rain. "Not good. But I could hear in her voice that her spirit was still strong." He turned to his brother and seemed reluctant to ask his next question. "What did she tell you about me?"

Patric shrugged. "She was proud of you for joining a monastery; she often boasted about you to her friends. I suppose I was a little jealous...but I was still just a boy, and you were far away from home, so I didn't really feel threatened."

"So why did you turn to Satan?"

"Why not? He was more real than God ever was to me. I saw him; I saw his power. God was just an idea, and miracles were just coincidences or anomalies that science couldn't explain yet. Plus it happened just as I was entering my rebellious teenage years, and maybe it seemed like the fun thing to do. I guess...over the years, my faith became more serious and I found myself really believing, rather than just rebelling."

"You don't strike me as very devout, Patric."

"Heh, you're probably right. Natasha, my...my fiancée, was always the more dedicated of the two of us. I was a Satanist kind of like my papa was a Christian...I believed it in my head, and some of that belief filtered down to my heart, but it never really sank in. I just wanted to be left alone, to be independent, to live my life and die with a smile on my face."

Tourec smirked. "Few people of any faith die with a smile on their face."

Patric smirked as well. "That was my idea, anyway. I just wasn't really thinking about the future or what my life meant. I saw Satanism as a liberation rather than a restraint. After all, the cardinal commandment was 'Do what you want.' How can that be wrong?"

"And what has been the fruit of your life of indulgence? Has it made you happy?"

Patric thought about his response for a few moments. "I don't know. But perhaps that is just the result of being conditioned against pleasure and hedonism. Perhaps that guilt is so ingrained in all of us that it's impossible to get out from under that shadow."

Tourec massaged his bandaged hand. "That is a question no one can answer but yourself. Only you know the deepest reaches of your soul, and only you know why you do what you do. In the end, it all comes down to one question: what do you live for?"

"Well, what about you?" Patric spat back, irritated at his brother's sermonizing. "What do _you_ live for?"

"For my God, and for my church," Tourec answered immediately.

"So does that make your life more valuable than mine, since apparently I only live for myself?"

"Patric, that's not what I — "

"No, _you_ listen. You think your life is so noble, but you're the one who lives a selfish life. I have a fiancée and a child coming into the world! I have a family! They are the reason I live!"

Patric was stunned to hear these words coming out of his mouth. He could feel his heart pounding in his throat, and the steering wheel was slick beneath his grip.

Tourec breathed slowly and toyed with the bandage swathing his wounded hand. "So where are they now?"

Large raindrops splattered onto the windshield and Patric blinked instinctively, surprised to find that his eyes were wet as well. He quickly wiped away the tears before they could emerge from his eyelids and he silently commanded his voice to hold steady.

"They're safe," he said firmly, as much to convince himself as to answer Tourec's question.

"And what about me? Why did you come looking for me?"

Patric's mind raced. There was no way he could tell his brother the truth, but Tourec wasn't going to agree with staying in the dark forever.

"I already told you: we need to go to Paris together."

" _Why,_ Patric?"

"You'll think I'm crazy."

Tourec made no reply. He waited.

Patric coughed to clear his rough throat. "I was told to bring you there."

"Who told you this?" Tourec's voice was stern.

"I think...I think it was a spirit."

Tourec frowned. This was certainly an unexpected answer. "A spirit? You mean you had a vision?"

Patric shook his head. "No. It was real."

"You mean, like an angel? Or a demon?"

Patric swallowed hard. "I don't know. But the message was clear: that I had to find you and bring you to Paris before the next full moon."

Tourec squinted at Patric. "And what happens if you don't?"

Patric watched the rain impact on the windshield. "I don't know. But I knew that it wasn't a request. So I came here, and by the grace of God, the power of Lucifer, or an unbelievable coincidence, I found you. So now we're going to Paris, and whatever comes next is out of my hands."

Tourec was silent for a moment. "You're right. That does sound crazy."

"Don't you think I would have made up a better lie if I could? You think I want to tell you this? You think I want to be here at all? As far as I was concerned, you were just a memory and a photo. We have different fathers, we follow different gods, we have nothing in common except a mother who feels ashamed of both of us. I was perfectly happy with my life, and then it all comes crashing down because you had to exchange your Bible for a gun."

"Listen, enough with the blame game," Tourec grumbled. "Whatever is happening is the culmination of eons, not a storm that brewed overnight. I don't deny my part in stirring the pot, but I'm not going to listen to this all the way to Paris."

Both brothers fell silent. The only sound for a few miles was the pattering of rain. Then Patric furrowed his brow and glanced up at the roof of the car.

"Why did you change your mind about Paris?"

"What?"

"Earlier you said you weren't going anywhere with me. Then this morning, you seemed almost eager to go. Why did you change your mind?"

Tourec shifted in his seat and he pressed his hand to his injured ribs. "I...I prayed for guidance this morning, and I felt God leading me to trust you. Besides, with all the trouble I've stirred up here, I'm itching to get out of Italy."

Patric shot a sharp glance at his brother. "Really? It doesn't have anything to do with the ceremony taking place tonight?"

"Perhaps," Tourec answered, exhaling heavily. "I...I want to see what I'm fighting against."

"Fighting?"

Tourec smiled awkwardly. "I may have laid down the sword but I am still at war."

"So that's it? No more killing?"

Tourec stared into his brother's searching eyes. "Yes. I think God's message to me was clear last night. He has set me on a different path, and if that path takes me into the heart of the enemy, then I will go forth in boldness."

Patric snorted and regarded him with a look of contempt and puzzled admiration. "How poetic. Is that in your Bible somewhere?"

Tourec chuckled. "Keep your eyes on the road, little brother."

****

Father DeMarco couldn't help smiling to himself as he navigated his way through the gravestones while huddling beneath his umbrella. How could one night bring such a kaleidoscope of tragedy and miracles?

His feet crunched on the gravel driveway. He paused for a moment and looked down past the road, his eyes sweeping over the autumn-kissed trees and the rooftops and spires that tenaciously clung to their medieval mystique. The Cathedral of San Guisto, though it was now branded as the Temple of Set, was still a church as far as Father DeMarco was concerned. It had been built in honor of the One True God and had been dedicated to the memory of a venerable saint, and a simple name change could never erase that. He scanned the other monuments just visible through the rain and mist, and the sight of numerous distant pentagrams pricked his heart.

One day, all of them shall fall.

Setting his jaw with this resolution, he started down the graveled driveway towards the road that would take him into town, where he was planning to purchase some items for the Assantes' funeral service.

He stepped out onto the street, and he heard the roar of an engine and tires screeching behind him. He almost had time to turn around before an empty wine bottle smashed into the back of his head, sending him sprawling. His temple slammed against the jagged edge of the curb and a scorching sensation seared through his body.

As the blood pooled around his head and mingled with the muddy rainwater, he heard cackling laughter. A drunken voice called out, "Better hope that Jesus saves!"

Father DeMarco's eyes fixed upon the hazy temple spire in the distance, then the world dissolved into blackness.

****

"Here we go...."

Tourec instinctively crouched a little lower in his seat. The windshield wipers batted away the rain and Patric stared through the sheets of water at the string of red taillights in front of them.

"France has always been too paranoid," Tourec muttered.

"Well, in these circumstances, I'd say it's justified," Patric replied. "After all, there _is_ a known terrorist cell that has declared war on the Church of Satan."

"Yes, on the Church of Satan, not the nation of France."

"A lot of people in the world don't see the difference."

"Are you kidding? When did those lines get blurred?"

"Ever since the Satanic Party gained seats in the Parliament. Before the Manifestation, that would have been unthinkable, a joke in poor taste. But no one is laughing now."

Tourec was silent.

Patric took a deep breath. "This ceremony will only cement this idea in people's heads: that France is a Satanic nation."

"You should be excited. Aren't you in favor of something like this?"

Patric's eyes followed the creeping lights in front of them. "Well...yeah, in a way, I suppose. But...I don't know...I think that the Church of Satan is in danger of committing the same crimes that the Christian church did."

"Which are...?"

"Becoming a corporate entity. Becoming a political powerhouse. Becoming a legal steamroller. Religion is supposed to guide people's lives, not control it. That's the reason I joined the Satanic Order in the first place: not out of fear, like a lot of people. I just saw a way to throw off the shackles that Christianity had used to enslave the world, and I don't want to see my freedom turn into shackles of a different color."

Patric glanced over at Tourec and was confused by his brother's expression.

"What?"

Tourec offered a crooked smile. "I'm impressed. That's pretty insightful."

Patric waved his brother's compliment away as if shooing a fly. "Hey, I've always spoken my mind. No one tells me what to do or what to think."

The car jerked to a stop at the checkpoint, and the border guard motioned for Patric to roll down his window. He peeked his head into the car and peered closely at the brothers. Water dripped from the brim of his cap onto Patric's arm.

"Identification," he commanded.

Patric and Tourec fished their identification booklets out of their pockets and handed them to the guard, who leaned further into the car to avoid getting rain on the ID booklets. The stream from his cap shifted onto Patric's leg.

The guard glanced at Patric's photo, then at Patric. Apparently satisfied, he turned his attention to Tourec. He grunted when he realized that Tourec's identification was simply a clerical license and a scowl darkened his face.

"You!" he barked at Tourec. "Look at me!"

Tourec turned towards the guard, who was startled to see his bruised and battered face.

"Who are you?" the guard sputtered after taking a moment to regain his surly demeanor.

"Ricardo Patrelli," Tourec mumbled. There was no need to fake the pain he was feeling.

"Why is there a Christian priest in your car?" the guard asked Patric.

"He's my half-brother," Patric answered, barely disguising his annoyance at the stream of water falling from the guard's hat. "He overstayed his welcome in Susa and I'm bringing him home."

"Where's home?"

"Limoges."

The guard eyed the brothers for a moment, then exhaled in irritation. "Move along," he growled, casting one more hostile glance towards Tourec.

Patric was about to mutter a "thank you," but he froze.

He could hear it.

That sound.

It wasn't the rain....

Patric's breath turned to ice in his throat. He was paralyzed; he couldn't even raise his hands to cover his ears. He couldn't —

"Border Crossing 1-2-12 checking in."

Patric whipped his head towards the guard, who had just released the comm button on his shoulder-mounted radio. He sneered with surprise and amusement at Patric's ashen face staring up at him through the open car window.

"Move along," the guard repeated firmly.

The sound was gone. Embarrassment crept over the terror Patric felt. He pressed his foot against the accelerator as he shot one last glance at the crossing guard.

The man's eyes were coal black, and his gaze was fixed on Patric.

Smothering a yelp, Patric rammed the accelerator to the floor. Fortunately, the car didn't have enough torque to pick up speed very quickly, and the car sped off without attracting any extra attention.

Tourec, however, noticed his brother's panicked reaction, and he sat up in his seat.

"Patric, relax. We made it through. No one's chasing us. It's just a straight shot to Paris from here."

Patric's heart, which had been pounding like a jackhammer, began to slow down.

"Paris..." he said to himself.

"Paris," Tourec echoed.

The two brothers exchanged nervous glances, then settled in their seats and watched the road scrolling beneath them.

****

They ate lunch on the road, approaching Paris in the mid-afternoon. The rain had slowed to an irritating drizzle, and through the mist they could just barely see the ominous skyline looming in the distance. A few kilometers away from the cluster of skyscrapers in the city center arose a colossal black spire, the crown of the Temple of the Dragon, resting upon the ruins of the decimated Cathedral de Notre-Dame de Paris.

Patric suddenly wrenched the wheel to the right.

"What are you doing?" Tourec asked in surprise.

Patric didn't answer as he steered the car into the vacant lot of an abandoned gas station. He turned off the car and gripped the wheel firmly, as if bracing for a crash.

"Patric, are you all right?"

Patric nodded and inhaled a deep breath, struggling to hide his sudden panic attack. "I...I need to use the restroom."

Tourec glanced outside. "This place is a dump."

"I'll go around back." Patric jumped out of the car before Tourec could raise an objection. He jogged around the rusted gas pumps to the rear of the creaking building. His heart thundered in his chest and he leaned against a stack of tires for support. He scraped his face with his fingers and stared out at the patch of wild trees that stood behind the station with limbs bowed by the rain.

A sickening swirl churned in his stomach. Sweat mingled with the rainwater trickling down his face, and he looked down at his trembling hands.

What am I doing here? Am I just going to drive up to the Temple, kick my brother out of the car and say, 'Here he is, now give me back Natasha?'

Squealing tires interrupted his anguished thoughts. He leaped out from behind the building just in time to watch the rattling car speed away.

"Tourec!" he shrieked, sinking to his knees in despair. A strong gust of wind whipped through the station, toppling an empty rubbish bin. The container crashed onto the pavement, startling Patric to his feet.

Bring him to the Temple, or the child dies....

Patric fumbled around in his pockets and pulled out his mobile phone and a wad of cash. Fortunately, he still had his identification with him as well. He heaved an exasperated sigh as he walked closer to the road. Several cars zipped past, but he knew that no one would stop to pick him up if he attempted to flag down a ride. People were far too suspicious of one another these days, and this attitude had made hitchhiking a distant memory.

Patric flicked his wet hair away from his eyes and squinted as he peered down the road. There were several low-lying buildings about half a mile away. If he was going to find a ride to Paris, that would be his best chance. Just as he took a step forward, a crushing thought dropped on his soul.

_Tourec was gone._ If Patric couldn't bring his brother to the temple, what was the point of even continuing?

An idea jolted his brain and he froze in his tracks. If Tourec thought it was necessary to flee, then he must have some nefarious plan in mind. Patric raised his gaze to the distant, mist-shrouded silhouette of the Temple of the Dragon.

That's where Tourec was going. He was going to attack the ceremony.

Patric inhaled sharply. He didn't need to bring Tourec to the temple; he was heading there himself. The only thing that Patric had to worry about was getting there before Tourec did.

His face darkened with determination, and he started down the road towards the cluster of buildings.

****

Tourec watched his brother sink to his knees in the rearview mirror and his heart felt squeezed with sadness.

"I'm sorry, Patric," he whispered as he turned his attention back towards the road. He took care to drive within the speed limit and obey the traffic rules; he didn't want to attract any unwanted attention. As he approached the city limits, the road quickly filled with cars, and soon the traffic pace had slowed to a crawl. Tourec glanced around nervously, searching for a way out of the congestion.

An off-ramp appeared and he hastily drove onto it, freeing himself from the snarl of vehicles. He quickly found himself lost in a morass of dilapidated buildings and the rusting hulks of abandoned cars. The streets were nearly barren of people, except for a few downtrodden souls cowering in doorways and huddling under crumbling porticos. Tourec caught the eyes of a few of them as he passed, and he recognized the lifeless gleam of drug addiction.

He navigated the rubbish-strewn streets with caution, his worry growing as he lost sight of the towering silhouette of the Temple of the Dragon.

_Please show me the way_.

He screeched to a stop as a spectral figure in a soiled grey overcoat shuffled in front of his car. The figure turned at the sound of Tourec's squealing brakes and glared at him with cold black eyes peeking out above a surprising clean red scarf. Tourec gripped the wheel tightly. His arm twitched as his instinct told him to reach for his gun, but his mind reminded his nerves that he had no weapon now. He locked eyes with the dismal mass of fabric and wiry hair obstructing his path, unsure of what to do next.

The figure raise its arm and pointed a filthy finger towards the scorched hulk of what used to be some sort of retail store but had recently been devastated by fire. Tourec stared at the ruins for a moment, then turned back towards the mysterious guide, who had disappeared. Tourec scanned the road and saw a bundle of grey and brown hobble down the sidewalk and vanish into an alley. He glanced again at the burned-out building, his fingers tapping the steering wheel. With a groan of resignation, he drove the car into the barren parking lot and stepped out.

Keeping his head low, he surveyed his surroundings. When his parents had brought him to Paris as a child, he had stared in shock and horror at some of the ghettoes they had passed, but this was worse than anything he had seen before. He couldn't believe that he was even in Paris.

The only movement on the streets came from aimlessly shuffling drunks or drug addicts lurching towards their next score. No one seemed to notice Tourec, but he didn't lower his defenses. He cast a wary glance at the abandoned building behind him, then stalked across the weed-populated lot and into the shadow of the shattered doorway.

As soon as he ducked under the shelter, the rain began to fall again, sending the ghosts on the street scurrying for cover. Tourec thanked God for the added protection, then turned his attention to the door. It was made of safety glass that had long since been shattered, and the entrance was now covered with cracked but solid wooden planks that had been placed over the door after the fire.

Tourec searched around his feet for any object he could use for prying, and he spotted a rusted length of rebar. He rammed the iron bar between the board and the door frame and heaved with all of his strength. His injured ribs cried out, as did his shattered hand, but he ignored the pain and exerted all of his force on the rebar. After a few moments of resistance, the board cracked, then split open. Tourec was able to get a firm grip on the planks and rip them off the door one by one.

He was immediately hit by a blast of mildew and the stench of smoke, and he muffled his nose with his arm. Inside was pitch black, except for a few streams of light that fought through the boarded windows.

"Hello?" he called out. "Is anyone there?"

Silence answered. Tourec proceeded forward with caution, his feet crunching on the charred remnants of what looked like tools and hardware accessories.

_There's nothing here,_ he chided himself, feeling like a fool to follow the directions of what was likely an addict strung out into delusion. He spun on his heel and took a step towards the door.

Something creaked and groaned behind him. He turned just as a rickety shelf collapsed, sending up a cloud of ash and dust. He immediately crouched down, smothering his mouth with his sleeve and shutting his eyes tight. After a couple of minutes, he cracked his eyes open, straining to peer through the haze of dust. In the midst of the scattered rubble, he saw something, a familiar shape.

He crept forward, keeping a wary eye out for other potential falling objects. Squinting in the feeble light, he knelt down and began sweeping away the rubble.

Suddenly, he jumped back. A blackened skull grinned up at him from the ashes, its wide, toothy smile seeming to mock Tourec for his curiosity. Tourec took a few deep breaths to compose himself, then continued excavating the corpse. He knew it was a long shot, but perhaps the body contained money that might have miraculously survived the fire. He was surprised to discover, as he cleared the wreckage off of the body, that the corpse's torso and legs seemed to have suffered less damage than its face. He figured that the man had been buried by falling debris, leaving only his neck and face exposed to the flames. Tourec shook his head in sympathy, reflecting on what unimaginable horrors this poor soul must have suffered before he died.

Having cleared away most of the rubble, he looked down at the scorched body. The man's shirt was almost completely burned away, but the jeans, which looked to be heavy and sturdy, were nearly intact. Taking a deep breath to steel his nerves, he hoisted the body up and rolled it over onto its stomach. With a sickening crack, the charred head broke away from the neck and rolled across the floor.

Tourec shut his eyes against the cloud of ash that rose up around the dead body, and he was grateful that the stench of charred rubble partially covered the smell of decay that emanated from the corpse. Turning the body had made a bit of noise, and Tourec glanced around anxiously, but saw no one. He looked down at the corpse and gasped with surprise.

Tucked into the dead man's belt was a silver handgun, a Beretta 92. Petrified with wonder and confusion, Tourec stared at the weapon that gleamed like a diamond in the midst of coal. He reached out and touched the cold metal, then clutched the pistol grip and pulled the weapon out of the blackened belt. The polished chrome barrel shone even in the faint light, and he couldn't help but utter a whistle in amazement. It had apparently been shielded from the flames by the dead man's buried body, but it was indeed a miracle to find it in such pristine condition.

Gripping the gun tightly, Tourec glanced around again, unable to believe that finding this weapon was sheer luck. In fact, he knew it wasn't, since the phantom on the street had directed him here to this very place.

He rose to his feet, hefting the weapon in his hands. It felt so comfortable, so familiar. He ejected the magazine and was even more amazed to find a full clip of bullets. Looking down at the now-headless corpse, Tourec breathed a prayer for the dead man's soul, then turned towards the door. He emerged into the open air, taking a deep, grateful breath. He brushed the ash and dust away from the hem of his robe and chuckled to himself. He had forgotten he was wearing a Christian monk's habiliments, which was certainly a bizarre sight in this city.

Tourec frowned thoughtfully as he reached beneath the folds of his robe and tucked the gun into his waistband. Perhaps his outfit could be useful after all. Paris was a city that swore allegiance to the Great Dragon, but with the arrival of the Voice, there were bound to be many Christian laymen and clergy who would descend upon the city to protest the ceremony, albeit at their own peril. If he could mingle with the crowd, he might have the slightest chance....

The rain continued to fall in a steady, somber rhythm. Tourec looked up at the sorrowful clouds that seemed to be mourning the corruption of what was once a glorious city. He felt the weight of the gun beneath his robes, and he thanked God for His providence. Tourec's head was still reeling from his miraculous discovery, but he wasn't going to waste time calculating the unbelievable odds. His eyes swept the street for the mysterious figure that had led him to the gun, but he couldn't see anyone.

He raised his hood over his head and made his way to the car. Once inside, he closed his eyes and wiped the water from his sooty face.

This was it. This was happening right now.

Tourec closed his eyes and touched the crucifix around his neck.

If she were here, what would she say?

He stared at his soot-streaked face in the rearview mirror. He had given up trying to recognize himself long ago.

She probably wouldn't even recognize him now either.

Tourec put the key into the ignition, paused for a moment, then started the car. It didn't matter now — who he was, what she would think, all of it. He was here, and he had a job to do. The discovery of the gun only confirmed the righteousness of the path he walked.

He exhaled a sigh of relief. It was a cleansing feeling, to be purged of doubt.

It had been a long time since he had felt this way.

****

As Patric's feet pounded the rain-slicked asphalt, he cursed everyone he could think of with each step. Cursed his brother, cursed his mother, cursed God, even cursed himself. He stopped short of cursing Satan but he was the one Patric wanted to curse most of all. Though his lips did not speak out against his master, he secretly resolved to spend the rest of his days profaning the name of the Great Dragon if any harm came to Natasha and his unborn child.

With each breath exploding in his chest, he stumbled into the parking lot of a roadside restaurant. He saw an ancient black van ambling out of its parking space and steer towards him. Throwing aside his hesitation, Patric waved for the van to stop, which it did. The passenger window creaked downwards and a torrent of marijuana smoke gushed out of the van. The occupants inside stared at him as if he were an extraterrestrial.

"Are you all right?" the woman in the front seat asked, rapidly blinking her eyes which were swathed in heavy black makeup.

Patric savored the fumes wafting from the van. "Are you going to the ceremony?" he asked, sounding quite pathetic.

"Certainly," the driver replied proudly, peering at Patric through a curtain of hair.

"Do you have room for one more?"

The driver and passenger exchanged glances, and then the driver gestured towards the door, which slid open before Patric could reach it. An even greater blast of smoke spilled out of the van like children escaping from school, and four additional pairs of eyes peeked out through the haze. Patric climbed inside and shut the door, and the van sped off down the road.

" _Merci beaucoup,"_ he said, reaching out to accept a blunt that was offered to him by an incredibly thin blonde-haired girl.

"What were you doing out there?" the driver asked loudly as the van began rattling down the road.

Patric coughed harshly, then took another toke. "My car broke down at the petrol station down the road."

The driver nodded his sympathies. "This is going to be one hell of a night, eh?"

Patric stared at the glowing blunt in his hand. "Sure is."

The black van soon found itself drowning in a sea of traffic, which became agonizingly slow as soon as they entered the Latin Quarter of Paris. Patric glanced out the window at the stagnant ocean of cars.

"Are you okay, my friend?" one of the passengers asked. "You seem a little nervous."

Patric forced himself to stop fidgeting, though he was growing more uncomfortable by the minute. "No, no, I'm fine. The weed's making me a bit paranoid, that's all."

The young man smirked with understanding and nodded slowly. "Relax, my friend. We are all family today."

"Hail Satan!" the driver suddenly shouted.

" _Hail Satan!"_ everyone echoed.

Patric was about to join in the chant, but he stopped, the blunt almost to his lips.

There it was. He was hearing it _again_.

An icy bead of sweat slid down his temple like a cold finger.

Why now?

Patric looked from face to face, feeling panic clutch his nerves as he stared in horror at their gaping mouths and their blazing eyes. His breath caught in his throat, and his trembling fingers dropped the joint.

"Hey, careful!" Several hands and feet quickly stomped out the sparks and someone scooped up the extinguished joint. Black eyes peered at him from pale faces.

Patric couldn't breathe. He felt someone's fingers on his neck. With a yelp, he flung open the sliding door and leaped out into traffic.

"Don't go...!" the emaciated girl cried feebly. Patric ignored her pleas and the car horns blaring in irritation. He weaved his way through the unmoving vehicles, then scaled a rusted chain-link fence. Panting furiously, he fell back against the cement barrier that bordered the freeway and sank to the ground. He didn't know why, but he started to cry. The tears gushed like a fountain, and he didn't try to stop them. A thousand sorrows tumbled over him like an avalanche, and his soul felt like an infinite abyss.

"Help me," he sobbed, burying his face in his hands.

At that moment, a great peal of bells rang out. Patric looked up, and just over the roofs of once-charming buildings arose a black pentagram that seemed to hover in the mist. He stood up slowly on shaking legs, keeping his eyes fixed on the towering symbol. He scanned the surrounding area and saw the shattered skeleton of a pedestrian overpass that had long been demolished, leaving only the remnants of stairs. Patric jogged over to the staircase and scrambled up the crumbling steps, unconcerned with the integrity of the structure. He looked out over the city from his elevated perch and beheld a sight that made his limbs tremble.

Like a mighty black mountain, the rebuilt Temple of the Dragon dominated the center of Paris. The design of the new temple was similar to the decimated cathedral upon whose ruins it now rested, a monstrous Gothic apocalypse boasting mammoth twin towers and a soaring spire where the transepts collided with the nave. Yet despite the similarity with its predecessor, there were also several key differences between the feeble Cathedral of Notre Dame and the colossal Temple of the Dragon.

The new temple was nearly twice as large as the former cathedral, and the structure swallowed up almost the entire square that had surrounded the old church. The temple was sheathed in a skin of black obsidian that glinted even in the dismal weather that smothered Paris like an unshakable depression. As the bells in its identical towers crashed and bellowed, Patric felt the ground tremble beneath him.

While the former cathedral had been a monument to the glory of God, the Temple of the Dragon was a blasphemous stone symphony. The serrated spire which stabbed the sky rose nearly three hundred meters into the air and was capped by an enormous pentagram which was visible from all parts of the city. The gargoyle rain spouts had been replaced with sculptures of Christian saints and Jewish and Muslim prophets, water pouring from their gaping mouths like vomit. Grotesque demons and specters haunted the countless nooks and filled the blind arcades, and the elaborate portals in the western facade were decorated with every conceivable nightmare for the enemies of the Great Lord Satan.

The western facade of the previous cathedral had been graced with a majestic rose window. Now a giant iron pentagram stretched across the circular window, nearly thirty meters across. When darkness fell over the city each night, the iron would be heated with internal heating coils and the entire symbol would blaze red hot, burning the emblem of hell into the eyes of all who turned their faces towards Satan's throne room.

Raindrops mingled with Patric's tears as he gazed upon this fearsome spectacle. A cold fist clutched his heart, and he knew that he was in the presence of a power too awesome, too terrible to describe. Perched atop the unsteady staircase like a bird huddling in the rain, Patric suddenly came to his senses and began looking around frantically.

_What do I do?_ his soul cried out in panic. _What do I do?_

A soothing wave of bizarre calmness washed over him, and a small voice inside whispered, _First, get down from these deadly stairs._

Patric took a deep breath, then followed the command. Once on solid ground, he glanced up again, afraid of losing sight of his destination. He felt a palatable sense of comfort when he saw the temple spire, like a lost child finding his father again in a crowd.

He closed his eyes and took another deep breath, then flung his wet hair away from his eyes and melted into the streets of the Latin Quarter, which was rapidly filling with people being summoned by the continuously thundering bells.

_I'm going to find you, you bastard,_ his spirit snarled within him. His rage began to boil and his face became dark with fury as he quickened his steps. Perhaps even more than wanting to save Natasha, he wanted to find his brother and break that son of a bitch's teeth.

### CHAPTER 11

"Give me strength," Tourec breathed, "give me strength...."

His sweaty hands gripped the steering wheel as he navigated the blighted streets, searching for a way out the mire of pulverized buildings and rotting piles of garbage. Yet it wasn't his lack of direction that fueled his anxiety; his heart thundered within his chest as he realized that every moment drew him closer to his destiny. He didn't know how, he didn't know when, he didn't know what would happen afterwards, but he knew that he was going to silence the Voice of Satan.

And the world would watch.

Then, like the sun bursting through the clouds, the road opened out onto a large, swooping roundabout. Tourec rejoiced, even though he was trading a maze of ruins for an impassable swamp of cars. The traffic on the roundabout was at a virtual standstill, but Tourec took heart as he saw the sea of metal and glass, since this meant he was close to the center of the action.

A glance out of the passenger window confirmed this: the blasphemous spire of the Temple of the Dragon rose high in the air, soaring over the expanse of humanity that was gathering in its shadow.

Tourec's nerves started to tingle with anticipation. Amazingly, he found a place on the curb to park the car, and he was thankful for the vehicle's small size as he squeezed it in between two delivery trucks. As he stepped out and joined the throngs on the sidewalk, he glanced back at the car, unsure if he would ever come back to it. He made a mental note of the surrounding buildings and landmarks, just in case.

An image of Patric suddenly flashed through his mind.

You left your brother on the side of the road. In the rain.

Tourec inhaled deeply and winced as he felt the painful expansion of the muscles encasing his bruised ribs. He flipped his hood over his head and gritted he teeth as he walked.

He made his choices. He chose darkness instead of the light, and now he reaps what he has sown. Allegiance to God is more important than family....

His restless spirit raised no counter-argument and he continued towards the temple. The bells rang out at seemingly random intervals, sending shockwaves reverberating through the streets below.

Tourec kept his head low but occasionally ventured a glance at the incredible chaos surrounding him. Police barriers held the traffic back one hundred meters from the temple and the streets and sidewalks weaving around the temple were absolutely clotted with people. The atmosphere was festive and riotous, with every manner of music and song ringing out over the crowd. Revelers were clad in eye-popping outfits— some sinister, some outlandish, some outright ridiculous, and some were clad in nothing at all besides spatters of paint or stickers slapped onto bare skin.

The air reeked of alcohol and exotic smoke flavors, and Tourec had to step carefully around numerous bodies passed out on the ground or engaging in hazy, frantic intercourse.

_Have mercy,_ he prayed, recoiling in horror at the new depravities that each moment revealed to him. The crowd was dotted with numerous police officers who looked on with solemn faces but made no efforts to interrupt the revelry. Surprisingly, no one seemed to pay Tourec any mind, and he realized that his silver crucifix was hidden in the folds of his robe. He guessed that people mistook him for one of the numerous Druids skulking amongst the crowd.

He felt like an exhausted swimmer lost at sea. Glancing around for any kind of direction, he spotted a rather somber looking woman clad in relatively ordinary attire and approached her.

" _Excuse moi, mademoiselle,"_ he said.

The woman turned and gazed at Tourec with glassy eyes. Tourec suppressed a gasp of surprise. The right side of the woman's face, which had been hidden from his view, sported dozens of gold rings piercing the skin in every conceivable place.

"Yes?" she answered in a smooth, chocolate voice, and her eyes continued to stare through Tourec as if he were a window.

Tourec cleared his throat. "When does... _His Worship_ arrive?"

The woman stared at him for a long, uncomfortable moment. "He is in the city now."

She pointed a long red fingernail towards a large fabric screen that had been erected a short distance away. It displayed live footage of the pontiff's motorcade crawling through the streets of Paris amidst a shower of flowers and other tokens of adoration. The Voice himself, wearing a flowing black robe and miter, was perched atop an ornate golden chair mounted on the back of an ancient yet pristine black luxury sedan.

Tourec hastily thanked the woman and elbowed his way through the crowd, struggling to get closer to the images. As he approached the screen, he noticed a distinct change in the crowd's behavior. The primal excesses of those gathered on the outskirts began to fade away, replaced by authentic reverence and worship offered by genuine devotees to Satan. Tourec could feel a very real presence, something oppressive and dark that seemed to permeate the crowd like an invisible fog. People were chanting in bizarre tongues, feverishly clutching Satanic icons and books and staring up at the looming screen in tearful adoration. The drunken revelers on the fringes of the crowd seemed like rambunctious children free from parental supervision, but these who huddled close to the temple belonged wholeheartedly to the Prince of Darkness.

Tourec wiped his brow, surprised that he was sweating despite the cooling temperature. Although it was only late afternoon, a chilling breeze began to sweep through the city. Flags flapped and fluttered nervously, and the trees trembled. The dark presence that surrounded him weighed heavily on his spirit, and his heart cried out for heaven's strength. He kept his gaze focused on the giant screen that tracked the pontiff's progress through the city streets.

A chorus of voices rose above the din of the crowd, and Tourec turned his attention away from the screen. He strained to hear what was being said, and he began moving towards the voices. He stopped in his tracks as he saw a cross hoisted above the crowd and a cluster of Benedictine monks chastising the crowd and exhorting them to turn from their imminent damnation. Those closest to the monks hurled profanity and insults at them, but the monks were largely ignored, by pilgrims as well as police.

Tourec stared at the brave men for a moment, trying to decide if he should join them or melt back into the crowd. Before he could make a decision, one of the monks spotted him and reached out his hand.

"Come, brother," he said in a voice that was soft yet stern. "Stand with us — raise your voice against the devil!"

Surprised that he could be distinguished from the hordes of other hooded figures in the crowd, Tourec stammered incoherently as he was pulled into the group that clustered together like pioneer wagons circling to fend off hostile attackers.

"Repent, ye wayward souls!" the monks shouted, raising their fists and crosses in the faces of the revelers. "The gates of hell are quaking, and the lake of fire burns hotter with your sins!"

Tourec watched in amazement as these brethren assailed the forces of evil with boldness in the face of scorn and humiliation. Several irritated members of the crowd threw water, beer, or food at the monks, who made no attempts to dodge the missiles. Tourec soon found his robe stained and soiled in several places, but he found the abuse strangely invigorating. For a moment, he forgot about the miraculous gun tucked beneath his robe and joined in the calls for repentance.

An eruption of cheers and applause from the farthest fringes of the crowds grabbed Tourec's attention. In the distance, as if he were floating over the heads of the crowd, the Voice of Satan himself drifted through the ocean of outstretched arms, his black garments shimmering in spite of the overcast sky. Tourec couldn't see his face but he imagined a smug smile and arrogant eyes looking down in masked contempt upon the legions of loyal devotees. Tourec clenched his fists and his heart burned with anger. Unconsciously, his hand brushed against the heavy weapon buried within the folds of his robe.

While every eye in the plaza was fixed upon Satan's emissary creeping through the crowd, Tourec turned his face towards the heavens and closed his eyes.

Almighty God, show me the way.

****

The sound of the bells crashed against Patric's heart. Fighting against the press of the crowd, he scanned each face that he passed, though a sinking feeling in his stomach was starting to convince him of the futility of trying to locate his brother in such a vast crowd. Once, he even thought he spied Natasha, but a second glance convinced him of his foolish error.

As he searched the countless faces, despair began weighing heavily on his shoulders. What if Tourec wasn't even in the crowd at all? And if by some unbelievable coincidence he found his brother, what then? Where was he supposed to go?

Patric's desperation was beginning to reach a fever pitch. He had no idea what to do. A suffocating sense of hopelessness began to squeeze his soul. His eyes whipped through the crowd, recognizing no one.

A roar of excitement in the distance grabbed his attention. Patric was a couple of inches taller than most of the people in the crowd, but he still had a hard time seeing the cause of the commotion through the forest of signs, inverted crosses, effigies, and other obstructions.

"What is it?" he asked a woman who seemed so giddy, she looked like she was going to faint.

"I think it's _him_!" she squealed.

Patric elevated himself on his toes and craned his neck to peer through the obstacles.

It _was_ him.

Patric's nerves tingled, and even though the Voice was a distant figure, he could feel otherworldly power radiating from the pontiff like rays of sunlight. He couldn't make out the man's face, but the way he sat upon his throne, the way he glided through the crowd like a black sailboat, struck Patric with a profound sense of awe.

A loud concussion made him jump, and he ducked instinctively. The bursts continued, and they seemed to come from overhead. He looked up towards the gray sky and saw fireworks explode. This was apparently forbidden, since several scowling police officers thrust their way through the crowd, seeking the source of the pyrotechnics. The aerial display, however, excited the pilgrims even more and a great chorus of cheers arose from the crowd.

For a brief moment, Patric's hopeless burden seemed a bit lighter. These people all around him were _his_ people, and though they were separated by nationality, language, and even degrees of devotion to their Great Lord, here they were, all of them, gathered in the shadow of the Temple, esteeming their master's Voice. Even with the dire consequences dangling precariously over his head, Patric felt heartened by the energy surrounding him. This was his church; this was where he belonged.

His Worship's motorcade came to a halt, and the pontiff rose up from his throne. He seemed invincible, as if all of the powers of hell had been poured into him. Patric knew he had to get closer and began threading his way through the sea of bodies.

As stone-faced security forces held the crowd at bay, the Voice stood above the crowd, his arms outstretched, absorbing the adoration and praise. Patric kept his eyes fixed on him as he inched his way closer and closer. He felt as if it was the Prince of Darkness himself, spreading his hands wide to welcome all who dared submit their souls to the flames of hedonism and indulgence.

Suddenly, a dreadful thought pierced Patric's mind like a bullet. This would be the perfect moment for an attack. He searched the crowd in a panic for his brother; his heart seized with fear.

At that moment, he heard a terrifying shriek. About ten meters away from the police barriers erected around the motorcade, a black-clad figure vaulted himself over the heads of the crowd and fired a desperate shot at the pontiff. The crowd gasped, and the Voice ducked just as the bullet ricocheted off the pentagram that topped the golden scepter he held in his hand. Several bodyguards jumped back and circled His Worship's vehicle as others pressed against the surging crowd, while two of them leaped up to the pontiff's perch and shielded him with their bodies.

The would-be assassin tumbled to the ground and the enraged crowd fell upon him. Patric couldn't see what was happening but he could hear the screams of agony as the mob thrashed and tore at the man like sharks in a feeding frenzy. After a few moments, the screams of pain died away, and the bloodstained attackers backed away and melted into the crowd. Patric couldn't see the man's body but his imagination filled in the details.

Police immediately swarmed the area, pushing the crowd away from the assassin's mangled corpse, while others circled His Worship's vehicle and beckoned for him to come down to safety.

Instead of descending, the Voice regarded the ugly gash across his scepter, then raised it high over his head. The crowd erupted in riotous applause and the Voice grinned triumphantly. After a few minutes of exultation, he finally heeded the police officers' insistent pleadings and stepped down from the car. His black robes billowed in the wind and he swept through the plaza on the path that had been cleared through the crowd. He was trailed by a train of anxious clergy members and several voluptuous priestesses clad in black robes and hoods, then by a dozen members of his personal security detail. His arms remained raised towards the sky and he gripped the unconquerable scepter, an invincible symbol of his master's might.

As he approached the cavernous doorway of the Temple of the Dragon, he turned and looked out over the impassioned crowd, then thrust his fists into the air. With a ground-shaking roar, great bursts of flame erupted from the double towers and the pentagram window overhead glowed red like the devil's eye.

The crowd recoiled in shock, then broke out into cheers. His Worship beamed with satisfaction, and then disappeared into the temple, followed by his priests, priestesses, and bodyguards.

Patric watched him enter the building, then scanned the crowd again, hoping for a miracle. Evening was approaching and the feeble light filtering through the heavy clouds began to dim with each passing moment. As darkness fell, so did Patric's hopes. The thrill of the pontiff's grand arrival had passed, and his thoughts were consumed with images of Natasha. Where was she now? Was she here, in Paris? Was she hurt? Was she even alive?

Patric felt weak with helplessness. He sought out a broad stone chain post and sat down, suddenly feeling sick. He clutched his stomach and doubled over, retching violently but expelling nothing except saliva. He coughed and spat, disgusted with himself. A small but shrill voice in his mind cried out in anger.

You smile and sing when the Voice of Satan arrives, yet Natasha is being held captive by the master that both he and you serve. Are you a fool?

Patric spat again and sat up. He was oblivious of the rivers of people streaming towards the temple and towards the large screens set up throughout the plaza that would broadcast the service to the masses outside. He didn't even care anymore. There was a black abyss inside of him, swallowing his soul.

It was too late now.

****

Tourec had witnessed the assassination attempt from the edges of the crowd, and his heart sank when he realized that the assailant had failed. Anger flared inside him as he saw the blasphemous pontiff revel in the praise and adoration from the heathen masses, and the cheers and applause followed him into the giant temple. As the Voice disappeared into the cave-like portal, Tourec was gripped with panic. It was going to be impossible to get inside the temple, and even more impossible to get close enough to cause any harm. He wrung his hands with worry as he searched around for an answer.

In the sea of black clothes and robes, a gleam of white caught his eye. He turned and saw a woman, her face both beautiful and severe, dressed in a flowing white gown. She was staring right at him.

Tourec peered at her in amazement, and she beckoned him with a delicate hand. He looked around to see if he might be mistaking the direction of the woman's attention, but no one else seemed to notice her. He looked at her again, and again she bid him to come towards her. Enchanted and perplexed, he took a step forward. With sparkling eyes and a chilling smile, the woman turned and glided lightly through the crowd, and Tourec felt compelled to follow her. He was baffled that no one took any notice of this angelic figure, whose dazzling clothes and stunning beauty were in extreme contrast with the rest of the crowd. She seemed to float through the crowd like a dove in the midst of crows.

Tourec somehow felt drawn to her, feeling an almost magnetic pull that guided him through the crowd. He wasn't even aware that she was leading him away from the temple until they had nearly reached the edge of the plaza. The crowd was somewhat thinner, though there was still a crush of people.

The woman stopped and turned abruptly towards Tourec. He froze.

Like oil separating from water, the crowd moved away from the woman, creating a circle of open space around her. No one looked in her direction.

Watching this bizarre behavior, Tourec gasped and jumped back. A chill shivered through his body, and the crowd's zombie-like oblivion to the woman's or Tourec's presence was baffling. Tourec stared at her as a mouse regards a cat, but the tranquil expression on her face strangely soothed his uneasiness.

Standing in the empty circle, the woman took a step back, revealing a battered iron sewer cap set in the stone beneath her feet. Tourec looked at the heavy iron lid, then looked up at the woman, who nodded once. His heart pounding, he stepped into the circle and walked towards her. The woman did not move, and her eyes remained fixed on him.

As he drew near to her, Tourec could see, or rather _feel_ , some kind of warmth and light emanating from her. A thought struck his brain like a bolt of lightning.

She is an angel.

This possibility thrilled his heart, and a surge of strength blasted away his fear. He looked down at the sewer lid, took a deep breath and prayed.

If this is your will, give me the strength I need.

Disregarding the danger he was putting himself in, Tourec cast off the heavy monk's robe he had been wearing. His muscular body bulged beneath his dirty jeans and T-shirt, and his blatant Christian tattoos were bared for everyone to see. But no one did. Every eye in the crowd was fixed upon one of the dozen video screens that showed His Worship's triumphant march down the aisle of the temple towards the grand pulpit at the far end of the sanctuary.

This was the sign that Tourec needed. He didn't even stop to consider the impossibility of one man lifting the gigantic manhole cover until he had hoisted it out of its grooves and deposited it to the side of the opening. His thundering heart felt like it was going to explode, and his eyes beamed with wonder as he looked up at the woman in white.

Her eyes dared him to descend into the blackness. Tourec eased himself over the manhole, then cautiously descended the rusty iron ladder down into the murky abyss. He glanced up once more and could see only clouds. Breathing a plea for strength, he continued down the ladder and was enveloped by the darkness.

****

Patric's head jerked up out of his hands.

He had heard it this time.

He was certain of it — the haze of the drugs had long since faded, and the agonizing buzz was ringing in his ears like a mosquito that had flown into his brain.

He leaped to his feet and looked around. Every time he had heard that sound, something had happened to Natasha, and he wasn't going to let this chance slip away. He dashed into the crowd, pushing past the worshippers whose eyes were riveted to the large screens that glowed brightly in the twilight.

Patric followed the sound like a hound on a scent, bumping and jostling the transfixed pilgrims watching the Voice ascend to the pulpit. No pyrotechnics or fanfare accompanied the pontiff's ascent; his menacing presence was a spectacle in itself. Even to the crowd assembled outside the temple, His Worship's gaze seemed to slice through their souls like a red hot knife.

The pontiff raised his hands, and his voice resounded throughout the temple and rang out across the plaza.

" _O Lux Inferni, iam sol recedit igneus, infunde lumen veritas cordibus...."_

The buzzing sound was now loud enough to split his skull, and Patric winced with each step. He was on the verge of collapsing in agony when he burst through the crowd and saw a woman in white standing in the center of an empty circle. She was so white that she seemed to glow, but her eyes were black and reflected no light.

In spite of the pain searing his brain, Patric froze and stared at her. Her face was rigid like stone, and she pointed to the open manhole beside her feet, then stepped back and literally melted into the crowd.

"Wait!" Patric cried.

The humming vanished. Like grazing cows oblivious to their movements, the crowd began to close the circle, and Patric glanced around in fear. He looked down at the open manhole, and then slipped inside, cursing everyone and everything he could think of.

****

The arching sewer tunnel was illuminated by faint bulbs encased in wire cages, and this was a great relief for Tourec. It would have been impossible to navigate the matrix of tunnels without light. As he made his way through the odious cave, he kept an eye on the slippery stones beneath his feet — one slip would send him into the stream of filth slowly drifting past. With the other eye, he scanned the walls for any indication of direction. At last, he saw a spray-painted sign pointing the way to the temple. Tourec sucked in his breath — the temple was only fifty meters away.

He heard a small splash behind him, followed by the startled chirp of sewer rats. Placing his hand on the wall for stability, Tourec quickened his steps towards the temple. He did not want to spend one unnecessary moment in this place.

****

Patric bit his lip as his foot slipped on a slimy stone, sending a loose rock into the river of sewage. This disruption was not appreciated by the local vermin, who bleated their annoyance and jumped into the stream and swam away.

The sudden movement had caused Patric to gulp a large breath of the foul air, and he snapped his mouth shut to keep from vomiting. He didn't know who or what was waiting up ahead, and he wanted to keep his presence here a secret.

After suppressing his gag reflex, he continued onwards. His eyes nervously scanned the floor and walls of the tunnel, and he was grateful to discover faded red words splashed across the grimy stone walls, declaring that the temple was only fifty meters to the north. He swallowed a painful lump of fear and proceeded forward, though his mind was baffled by the woman in the shocking white gown.

He had seen her eyes, and he knew what she was, or what possessed her. He was surprised how easily he had followed her gesture. He had no idea what was down here, yet he had jumped in with barely a moment's hesitation. There was something about her, something.... _powerful._ Commanding. It felt natural to go where she told him to go.

But why?

Patric stopped, clamping his teeth shut. He had heard something up ahead, like the sound of creaking metal. He waited for several moments, hearing only silence. He crept forward, barely daring to breath. He could hear the drip, drip of oily water and the scurrying of rat's claws, but nothing indicating a human presence.

He remained motionless for a few moments, wincing at each exploding breath of foul air. He glanced fearfully behind him, then crept forward with silent footsteps. He came to an unlocked metal door, which was probably the source of the creaking. He peeked through it with caution, glancing up at the rough-hewn stairs that led upwards into blackness. He strained his ears to listen for any sound, but he heard nothing. Taking one more deep breath, he wrenched open the door, which shrieked loudly in protest. He knew that it was going to make a sound whether he opened it quickly or slowly, and an abrupt jerk caused a shrill but brief creak, rather than a long, mournful squeal. He waited again and heard only silence.

Fear clutched his heart with an icy fist, but he forced himself to think of Natasha, though his mind was a tempest of doubts and despair. He had no idea what was even going on here, or if his current path would lead him to his fiancée. Or something else

Patric exhaled a breath of exasperation.

He had to try.

****

The Voice of Satan raised his eyes and swept his gaze across the cavernous sanctuary, which was packed from wall to wall with eager, reverent faces. The mood inside the temple was somber and tense, in sharp contrast to the carnival of excess raging outside. This was how he liked it — calm and serene. It was in moments like these that he could truly feel his master's presence, not in the orgies and rituals, which were more for the followers' enjoyment than for the Great Lord's pleasure.

The black obsidian walls of the temple flickered with countless torches and candles, and the three-hundred pound chandeliers suspended from the ceiling glowed with a dim, mournful light. For a moment, His Worship forgot about the sea of faces beneath him, and his spirit reveled in the devilish majesty of the magnificent structure that engulfed him and the congregation.

This truly was the house of Satan.

The Voice could remember visiting the pathetic cathedral that had once stood here when he was a child. He had felt no divine fingers plucking at his soul as he had surveyed the Gothic arches and melancholy statues, but he remembered feeling scorn and contempt for a religion that had erected what it declared to be a monument to God but was only a weak attempt to crystallize the glory of man.

Well, his master had certainly made quick work of that supposedly indelible etch on human history, and now this spectacle arose from the stones like a black mountain from hell. It was to hell that this temple was dedicated, and it was truly infused with infernal power and strength. Awe and wonder were evident on each face in the vast congregation, and His Worship smiled to see what a profound effect this place was having on those gathered within.

He raised his arms, the black sleeves of his silk robe slipping down his wrists to reveal a matrix of scars, remnants of countless rituals. The congregation raised their arms as well.

"Hail Satan!" the Voice cried out.

" _Hail Satan!"_ the crowd echoed with such force that the walls trembled.

His Worship bowed his head beneath the massive gold pentagram hovering behind him. His lips moved in silent words for a moment, then he looked out over the audience as he gripped the podium tightly.

"Brothers and sisters, children of our dark master, we are gathered in this sacred hall to witness the birth of a new age. Since our Great Lord's appearance on this very spot twelve years ago, our church has flourished into a mighty force whose power and influence is unequaled throughout the world."

There was a burst of cheers and applause, and after a moment, the Voice continued his address.

"We have fought and labored to not only build our order, but also to eradicate any systems and beliefs that dared challenge our dominion. Now, as this age folds into twilight, we can rejoice that our foes have been broken and crushed into dust!"

Stronger cheers and louder applause filled the sanctuary. His Worship, beaming like an eager child, threw off a cowl that covered several books on the pulpit. He seized the volumes and raised them up for the cheering masses to see. At that moment, a rectangular stone pit filled to the brim with oil burst into flames beneath the pulpit, sending the congregation into a frenzy.

"Death! Death to the stupidity of Judaism!" His Worship cried as he flung the Torah into the fire.

The crowd roared.

The Qur'an and Buddhavacana sailed through the air and splashed into the flaming oil pit.

"Death to the bondage of Islam! Death to the mystical illusions of Buddhism! Death to the chaos of Hinduism!"

The crowd shrieked with ecstasy as the Shruti and Smriti were hurled into the fire. Then the Voice held aloft a massive tome, and the room shook with fury. His Worship grinned broadly as he looked up at the enormous book. It was a Gutenberg Bible, one of the first books ever printed.

He clutched the book over his head like Moses about to cast down the Ten Commandments.

"Death to the delusions of Christianity!"

His face a mask of pure hatred, the Voice launched the book into the raging fire, and the crowd roared like demons from hell. His Worship's knuckles were white as he gripped the pulpit, his body trembling with wrath.

"We are all that remains!" he bellowed to a surge of cheers. "Our enemies have fallen! Apollyon the Destroyer has scorched the lies and delusions from our world! The synagogues and churches and temples and mosques have crumbled into dust! Our church... _is the one true church!"_

The temple quaked as the tower bells rang out and the throngs of people inside the sanctuary and crowded outside in the plaza cheered and applauded. The Voice held his arms aloft and gazed down at the faithful, his eyes flashing with fire.

****

As he navigated the slimy steps and slipped into a silent corridor, Patric could hear, or rather feel _,_ the roars and applause coming from the temple above. Despite the frequent outbursts, he kept his eyes peeled and his ears open for any sign of the ghost he was chasing. He was beginning to wonder if he had made a wrong turn somewhere, but he had not seen any other routes since he had emerged from the sewers, so he figured that the only course was to keep moving forward.

The string of weak light bulbs illuminated his path as he crept silently on his toes, and he found himself wishing for a weapon of some kind — a metal bar, a workman's hammer, anything. He had not seen loose items of any kind on the stairs or the corridor which now enveloped him. Then his thoughts turned away from his inability to defend himself to anxiety about where this seemingly endless hall would lead. He couldn't tell if he had been walking for five minutes or fifteen. Natasha had always pestered him to wear a watch to terminate his habitual tardiness, and now he wished he had listened.

The curved stone ceiling above his head trembled again as the crowd burst into frenzied applause. This outburst seemed louder than the ones before, and this gave Patric some relief. At least he was getting closer to the surface and hopefully to whatever or whoever was holding Natasha.

Suddenly, he stopped. He leaned forward, listening intently. A sharp buzz jabbed his eardrum and he stifled a gasp of pain. Even though the roar of the crowd was quite loud, the piercing vibration bored through his skull and seemed to silence all other sounds. Patric squinted with agony, but he kept moving forward. He knew he was close.

****

The Voice could feel the rabid, animal energy streaming from the maniacal crowd which had been docile and reverent only minutes before. The flames licked the charred ashes of the sacred books and smoke curled into the air, forming claw-like shapes.

A momentary thought of the danger he might be exposing himself to flashed through His Worship's mind, but lingered only for a moment. He was invincible, a king, anointed to stand before the throne of Satan. No other living man dared to claim such an honor. This was his place, and his alone.

Of course, he was certainly not lacking protection. There were a dozen security guards surrounding the pulpit and altar, with several more guarding the apse in the rear of the sanctuary, as well as two snipers perched in the upper arcades. His heart did not quicken even a beat. The band of assassins had been demolished, and the world now belonged to him. Even the foolhardy attempt on his life outside in the plaza seemed like a clumsy joke. Feeling a rush of electric energy sizzling through every nerve in his body, he clapped his hands above his head, then pointed towards the choir perched high above the crowd at the west end of the sanctuary, beneath the simmering pentagram window.

A mighty blast of nearly one hundred male and female voices shook the sanctuary with melodies both sinister and majestic. The crowd fell silent and every heart quaked with the weight and power of each thundering note. Many people collapsed in their seats, and some even fainted or fell into convulsions.

The infernal choir filled the temple with Satanic stanzas for several minutes, then ceased abruptly. As the last echoes drifted towards the vaulted ceiling like frightened birds, His Worship descended from his pulpit down to the altar, where he was joined by two seductive priestesses, and the trio glided towards the fiery pit. He knelt before the altar, and then turned towards the congregation and spread his arms wide. A priestess removed his heavy outer robe, and another brought him a silver goblet from the altar. He took a sip and smacked his lips.

"The blood of the fallen is sweet," he declared dramatically. He motioned towards an open door on his right, and two hooded monks wheeled a large metal frame out onto the chancel. Affixed to the top beam of the frame were seven pairs of what looked like leather handcuffs. Whispers and murmurs rippled through the crowd.

His Worship smiled broadly. "And the willing sacrifice of innocence is sweeter."

Through the same door, seven young women in gossamer white robes strode forth, their steps bold but their heads bowed. They assembled themselves in a row before the flaming pool of oil. The heat caused their delicate features to shimmer and sway. Their beaming eyes were fixed upon the Voice with excitement and trepidation.

The Voice clapped twice, and the two monks stepped forward and seized each girl by her hands and hoisted her arms above her head, locking her wrists firmly into the cuffs. His Worship watched the bindings with a glint of fiendish delight in his eyes, and the lascivious priestesses by his side wore hungry, wolfish expressions.

The girls were all bound securely, and their chests heaved with panting breaths. The din arising from the congregation began to increase, as one by one they began to realize what was about to happen. His Worship paced in front of the girls like a lion examining wounded gazelles, enjoying this moment of supreme power. The crowd also began to snarl and gnash their teeth, and the unseen masses watching outside were even more frantic.

Standing before the flames, His Worship raised his hands towards the sky and spoke with a mighty voice. "Behold, the willing surrender of seven lost lambs, wandering for years in the darkness that they imagined was the light, languishing in a faith that was never theirs and provided no answers. Now, they have truly seen the light, and offer up their treasured virtue to Almighty Satan, the Prince of this World!"

The masses roared with frightening fury, and His Worship turned towards the girls, who were gasping with adoration, expectation, and fear. The Voice of Satan snorted victoriously, then reached out and seized the neckline of one of the girls, clenching his muscles as he prepared to rend the garment from her body.

He froze at the sight of a gleaming silver gun barrel pointing at him from between two girls' bodies. He heard a stone cold voice that rasped like scraping metal.

"No one moves, or I kill him and all of you."

### CHAPTER 12

When Patric opened the door in the east wall in the rear of the sanctuary, the cheers that had been muffled by wood and stone suddenly exploded in his eardrums. As he stepped through the door, his foot struck something soft. He glanced down and gasped.

Four men were lying face down in their own blood.

Who did this?

Patric's heart began thundering louder than the congregation's applause, and he crept forward with caution, though he wasn't sure who or what he was stalking. He found himself behind a large shrine that spanned nearly the entire width of the chancel stage and hid the rear of the sanctuary from the congregation. Several massive tapestries hung down from the ceiling, creating layers of curtains that obstructed his view of what was transpiring at the altar.

Peeking cautiously through the forest of fabric, Patric saw a man with his back towards him, along with seven women who also faced the crowd, and whose bodies seemed to hide the man from the eyes of the congregation. No one was moving.

Suddenly, Patric gasped, immediately clamping his hand over his mouth.

That man was Tourec.

****

"What do you want?" the Voice snarled.

"You know what I want," Tourec answered, his voice dripping with venom. "You are a scourge upon this world, and you must answer for your blasphemy."

The Voice snorted again in contempt. "You do not scare me, Christian. My 'blasphemy' is the truth. Your God remains silent and cold, and now the world trembles at _my_ feet."

"I do not speak of blasphemy against God," Tourec growled, a bitter metallic edge serrating his voice. "I speak of blasphemy against your master."

His Worship raised his eyebrows. " _My_ master? What are you — ?"

"Silence!" Tourec hissed. "You have made this noble faith into a carnival of fools! Do you think _this_ is what he wants? A playhouse of ridiculous rituals and Halloween debauchery? _He hates you!_ All of you! Especially you, his pathetic 'Voice!' He doesn't want a feeble mimicry of the Christian church; he wants _chaos!_ "

Tourec jabbed the gun towards the pontiff, who took a frightened step back. He glanced towards the girls, who were all paralyzed with fear.

"How can you...who are you?" the Voice stammered.

Patric's fingers clawed at the hanging tapestry, and he poured every ounce of strength into his voice.

" _Tourec!"_

Tourec whirled around.

Patric's heart froze as he stared into his brother's eyes.

They were black as death.

The Voice seized upon this moment of distraction and turned to flee. As he ducked away from the gun, Tourec fired instinctively. The bullet ripped through the pontiff's shoulder and he fell heavily into the pool of flaming oil. A fiery wave washed onto the marble floor and immediately began devouring the women's' white robes.

With a piercing shriek, the Voice of Satan burst out from the pool of fire, his entire body engulfed in red and yellow flames. Behind him, the seven virgins betrothed to the church of Satan blazed like torches, their screams mingling with those coming from the horrified congregation.

As the girls burst into flames, Tourec felt something rip away from him, like a blindfold being torn from his eyes. He fell to the floor in a heap, then his rigorous training injected his senses with a surge of adrenalin and he scurried behind one of the heavy curtains.

The members of the choir screaming in horror from their lofty perch as the leader of their church staggered towards the congregation, wailing and writhing with unimaginable torment. The audience recoiled from the wretched soul, but the crush of people seeking to run away was so strong that several members of the audience were unable to escape and were set ablaze themselves. The snipers hidden high above never saw any antagonist, and could only watch helplessly as their beloved pontiff collapsed in a sizzling heap of scorched flesh and cloth upon the gleaming stone floor. The swarm of panic was so overwhelming that none of the attendants or security guards could get close enough to extinguish the blaze.

Screams of shock and terror echoed crazily across the cavernous sanctuary, and the surging waves of people trying to escape obliterated the elevated platforms which afforded the cameras a safe viewing height. The petrified throngs outside of the temple only saw the first moments of horror as the Voice exploded in fire, then all was static as the cameras crashed to the ground and were trampled by the fleeing masses. The temple was a grand spectacle of pandemonium and grief, and the blackened corpse of the Voice of Satan lay smoldering on the ground, surrounded by several other charred bodies.

Patric watched this scene of horror transpire in a matter of seconds, and he was too stunned to react until he felt an iron fist seize his collar.

"Let's go!" Tourec bellowed, hauling Patric towards the door where the four dead men lay.

Patric tried in vain to wrench his brother's hand from his shirt. "What did you do?" he cried.

Tourec didn't answer as he flung Patric through the door and slammed it shut. Both men tumbled down the stairs and rolled out into a small, dank room with a single naked bulb casting dim rays of illumination.

"I'm going to kill you!" Patric screamed as he sprang onto Tourec like a ferocious cat, ripping and tearing at his eyes, hair, and ears. He was consumed with frenzy, his madness fueling each blow and slash with incredible power.

Tourec tried to shield himself from Patric's attacks but his brother's maniacal strength caught him off guard.

"Patric! Stop! Listen to me!"

"Murderer!" Patric shrieked. "Monster!"

His fist crashed into Tourec's eye, and Tourec struck back with blind rage. His blow landed on Patric's jaw and sent him sprawling onto the clammy floor. Stunned, Patric groaned with pain as the dark room spun around him. His fury soon returned and he sprang to his feet and leaped towards Tourec just as his brother drew his gun.

Patric's full weight crashed into Tourec's body and the weapon clattered across the stone floor.

"Are you going to shoot me, too?" Patric cried as he smashed his fists into the back of Tourec's skull like a club.

The ferocious insanity of Patric's attacks awakened Tourec's killer instinct. He whirled round, ducking out of the reach of Patric's flailing fists. In the span of a heartbeat, he pinned Patric's arm between his bicep and ribs and landed a fierce blow on Patric's nose. Blood spurted out onto both men, and they tumbled to the floor.

Reacting in an instant, Tourec flipped himself into Patric's stomach, his weight pinning his younger brother to the ground. The fire of violence flashed brightly in his eyes as his powerful fingers wrapped around Patric's throat.

"You made your choice, brother," he growled as Patric choked and sputtered beneath him. "You will never see the light of heaven...."

Patric writhed and gasped, yet his efforts were in vain. He could feel his life slipping out of his body, and his face turned into a bloodless mask of desperation.

A sharp crack of gunfire seemed to split open the stone room like an earthquake. Patric felt Tourec's body convulse, then his fingers relaxed. Coughing and gulping delicious breaths of air back into his lungs, Patric stared up at his brother's face.

Tourec's listless eyes were fixed on the wall in front of him. He made a gurgling sound, and a bright red stain grew rapidly on the front of his shirt. A moment later, he fell dead on the floor.

Patric stared at his brother's body, his mind gripped in the paralysis of shock and disbelief. Then he scrambled away as if Tourec's corpse was a mass of squirming snakes. He scurried to the opposite wall and looked up at his rescuer.

"Natasha...?"

Patric didn't know if he was hallucinating. He reached out a quivering, bloodied hand, and Natasha took it in hers. Patric closed his eyes and felt as if he was going to melt into the ground. Her skin felt so warm and... _alive._

"Natasha," he finally managed to croak in a raspy voice. Her name felt warm and sweet on his tongue. "Natasha, what are you doing here?"

She didn't answer; she only smiled at him. But it was not a smile of affection, or relief. It was a smile of sympathy.

At that moment, Patric noticed that she was draped in the robes worn by members of the choir that had been singing so majestically just moments ago. Patric's head began to swim as a wave of nauseous confusion washed over his senses.

"What...?" His voice trailed away.

Natasha knelt down and touched his face with a soothing hand. "I am so sorry, Patric. I didn't know all of this was going to happen."

Patric could feel his heart began to quicken with anxiety. "You...you were kidnapped. They threatened you, threatened our baby...."

Natasha rose to her feet. "It's not our baby, Patric."

An icy dagger of terror gouged Patric's soul. His fingers felt numb.

"What...what are you talking about?"

"You are not the baby's father, Patric."

Natasha's beautiful face was cold and rigid. Patric's hands began trembling and his heart pounded wildly. "If I'm not the...then who is?"

Natasha inhaled deeply and she stared at him with steel-cold eyes. "I cannot tell you."

Electricity surged through Patric's nerves and painful tears welled in his eyes. "Natasha," he said with a quivering voice, "we were going to make our future together, all three of us. If you knew the baby wasn't mine, why did you — "

"She made a deal."

Patric's head jerked to the right to see where this alien voice had come from. The rusty iron door creaked open and he saw the woman who wore a blazing white dress, the woman who had led him to the open manhole in the plaza above. Now she was wrapped in an impossibly tight black dress, black as the void of space.

The agonizing hum immediately returned and stabbed Patric's brain. He pressed his hands to his temples and squeezed his eyes shut.

He felt like such a fool.

"What kind of deal?" he snarled.

The woman sauntered over and stood next to Natasha, who did not seem threatened by her presence. The woman's face exuded a haughty exultation of triumph, and she stroked Natasha's face with a frighteningly long, slender finger.

"She was never going to tell you the truth about the child, and like a foolish girl, she believed that the three of you could live a happy, unremarkable life together. When we snatched her away from you, she was scared at first, but she soon realized she wasn't in any danger, and she became quite attentive when she learned how special her child was."

Patric groaned with pain. "What are you talking about?"

The woman snorted, evidently enjoying Patric's torment. "The Voice had become a lunatic, and we made plans to have him eliminated. That's why we needed your brother. We could have done it a thousand different ways, but a Christian assassin killing the leader of Satan's church...it would create pure pandemonium. That's what's happening up there, right now. Chaos, fear, horror and confusion. All of it, music to his ears...."

His cranium felt like it was literally cracking, and Patric tried to scoot away from the woman, hoping distance would dull the pain, but it was no use. The woman in black placed a spider-like hand on Natasha's shoulder, who remained motionless.

"He doesn't need a church to rule this word," she continued, smiling at Patric's increasing agony. "His goal is simply to watch God's creatures rip and tear themselves to pieces. Organized religion, in his or any other name, is the opposite of what he wants. Now the head has been severed from the body, and the whole world is going to plunge into chaos."

"Why me?" Patric growled. "Why us?"

The woman chuckled and regarded Natasha hungrily. "Some things are beyond your ability to understand. But I can tell you that you were chosen simply because you had a famous brother. Once you brought him here, I took over the rest. I gave him a gun, I removed the guards, I laid out a clean, smooth path for him to follow. And follow he did, all in the name of God."

"But...but his eyes...I saw them. He was...possessed!"

The woman laughed deeply. "All one has to do is crack open the door and they will find me inside without even realizing it, even if they have promised their souls to another. All it takes is one moment of deviation from their faith...."

Her blackened finger stroked Natasha's cheekbone. As Patric watched, he felt anger and fury boiling within him so hot, he thought his skin was going to burst into flames. He screamed with rage and tried to jump to his feet, but an invisible weight pressed him to the ground.

The woman turned to him with bloodcurdling eyes. Crushed beneath an unseen hand, Patric screamed, "Demon!"

A sly smile crossed the woman's terrifying face. "It doesn't matter what I am. I serve my master, and today his will has been done. All thanks to you."

Patric arched his back and cried out as he struggled to raise himself up from the ground. "Natasha," he gasped, "don't follow her. You've seen what these people do. They murdered His Worship, our master's chosen voice! Whatever they promised you, it's a lie!"

Natasha shook her head. "It's too late. I've made my choice." She caressed her bulging stomach. "Our order has been cleansed, and this child will grow up in this new world and become a mighty weapon for our Great Lord. I am sorry, Patric."

Tears gushed from Patric's eyes and he felt his heart shattering like glass. "I came here for _you!"_ he roared with heart-wrenching anguish. "For both of you! Not for myself, or for the Great Lord. _For you!"_

Natasha's eyes sparkled with tears. "You are a good man, Patric. But our destinies take us on different paths, and we cannot change any of it."

These words sliced through Patric like razors. His energy exhausted, he slumped to the ground, feeling as lifeless as his brother lying just a few feet away. Sobs escaped his lips like groans of pain.

The woman in black slithered towards Patric, kneeling down beside him and stroking his sweaty brow. "You were part of one of the most important days in human history," she whispered. "That is quite extraordinary."

Patric gathered all of the venom and hatred he had left within him.

"Go to hell," he spat.

The woman laughed, a genuine hearty laugh, then rose to her feet. She glided to Natasha's side and put her arm around her waist, then turned to look down at Patric.

"Farewell, Mr. Bourdon. Perhaps we'll meet again."

Patric lay gasping on the cold floor like a stranded fish. He watched helplessly as the two women walked towards the door, and then they dissolved into a black mist.

****

The heavy stomp of boots and the clattering of metal and chains jolted Patric out of his daze. He squinted and smacked his dry lips, then cried out as he was jerked to his feet by rough hands. He felt cold steel constricting around his wrists and felt himself being shoved towards the iron door.

The fog began to clear from his mind and he could make out faces and hear voices. His foot struck something soft, and he glanced down and caught a glimpse of Tourec's lifeless body.

A flood of memories and emotions washed over him like a dam bursting.

Natasha....

Indescribable pain seared his heart, and he began to weep. The police officers took no notice and shoved him up the stairs and into the sanctuary which bore the telltale signs of panic and bedlam. Curtains lay in tatters, the altar was overturned and blood was splashed across the floor where the chalice had been thrown aside. Beyond the bloody streaks were several scorch marks on the intricate marble floor, and one was piled high with flowers and Satanic icons. The colossal sanctuary still seemed to echo with screams of terror, and the stench of smoke was thick in the air.

Patric felt his feet give way beneath him, and the officers caught him just before he crashed to the ground. They propelled him towards the south transept and led him into the shadows behind one of the shrines, where a secret door opened to the cool night air.

As they hurried down the stone walkway, Patric could hear throngs of people gathered at the temple's west entrance, wailing and shouting. He glanced up and saw the Paris sky glowing red.

The woman in black was right. This was going to be chaos such as the world had never seen before.

He was still in a trance and didn't even think to raise a word in his defense. He found himself being bundled into a waiting police truck and several officers squeezed in with him. The driver slammed the accelerator and the truck lurched forward, followed by several identical vehicles. The convoy skidded across the south plaza which was kept free from the crowd by police barriers, then swerved into the dark Paris streets.

The vehicles sped around corners and squeezed through alleyways, jostling its occupants like popcorn. In the midst of his utter despair, Patric realized that there were no sirens wailing or lights flashing. With infinite caution, he turned towards one of the officers and studied his face. The man suddenly seized him by the collar and stared into his terrified eyes. Any words Patric could have said froze in his throat, and his eyes dropped down to the man's bare forearm.

A bold, black tattoo of a cross was stretched across the weathered skin.

Patric's sorrow turned to terror, and he shook his head in desperate denial.

"No," he pleaded, looking at each of the officers like a mouse surrounded by hungry cats. "No...!"

The officer flung him back against his seat and his lip curled with contempt.

"Be silent!" he growled, smashing his fist into Patric's cheek.

All was darkness.

****

The

VENGEANCE,

BLASPHEMY,

and REDEMPTION

continues in

BLACK SUN

EXCERPT FROM BLACK SUN

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 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 among 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, 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 dabbed 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. Rest 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 churning 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 could 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."

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 its 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?"

****

Read more in _BLACK SUN,_ Book Two of _The Age of Apollyon Trilogy_

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

MARK CARVER spent more than eight years in China before returning

to the USA with his wife and two children. Besides writing, Mark is passionate

about art, tattoos, heavy metal, Gothic literature, and medieval architecture.

He lives with his family in Atlanta, GA.

You can find Mark online:

http://www.markcarverbooks.com

http://www.facebook.com/markcarverbooks

http://www.twitter.com/ageofapollyon
