Chapter IV

The night air was moist and cool outside the Holy Door, leading to St. Peter’s Square.

MOST OF THE ELECTRONIC equipment in the Vatican was either functioning poorly, or has suffered catastrophic failure due to the Angels’ highly electrical presence. So much energy had been created during their confrontation that an invisible electro-magnetic pulse-around the order of 50,000 volts-had emanated outward from the Vault, deep under ground. All of the phone systems, magnetic locks, security systems, cellular phones, and even some wristwatches, were suffering from the overload of scattering electrons.

The damage extended a few hundred meters past the northernmost point of the Vatican’s property line. No doubt, the local Polizia would be paying them a visit to ask about Rome’s localized power problems.

It had taken the humans, with the cooperation of dozens of Swiss Guards, more than an hour to get to the top floor of the Research Vault. Abbot, Pasquale, and the three surviving guards had carefully ascended the broken and twisted staircase, every few feet helping each other maintain footing and purchase.

And there was a kind of non-verbal agreement not to discuss what had gone on in side the Vault. So they climbed quietly, hoping that to free themselves of this large coffin would elise their confrontation with creatures that they could never explain to a sane person.

Peter, and a contingent of Swiss Guards, met them at the glass security door, which was oddly cracked and splintered enough that with the help of some careful kicking they created a passable exit.

An hour and a half after the Angels, and the earthquakes, and the Shadows . . . they found themselves sitting on the steps of St. Peter’s Basilica, large columns on their sides, looking out towards the Obelisk which towers above the other structures in St. Peter’s square. It had been taken from Egypt and erected at that very spot in 37 A.D., making it the Vatican’s oldest form.

A little rain had fallen, giving everything a clean, reflective sheen. The moisture that hung in the night air gave the few lights that were still working a soft halo. Guards were running back and forth, carting around tools and generators and explanations across the square.

Abbot slid the ball of his shoes around in little circles on the wet grey stones below his feet. It made him remember the strange look of those creatures that had appeared from the shadows. Things like that weren’t supposed to exist. The kinds of strangeness that he and the others had recently witnessed had changed his conceptions about the world that he thought he knew. He realized that he would probably never get a chance to talk about any of this once he left. Nobody would ever believe him, anyway. He turned to Pasquale with an almost somber look on his face.

Pasquale smiled, “So, I guess that was a rather unique event in our lives.”

Abbot couldn’t do much more than laugh. “Yeah, I’d say so.” It took a few breaths to stop laughing and after clearing his throat he said, “What in the world are you going to say to the Pope? He’ll want some kind of explanation.”

Pasquale shrugged, “I’ll try and fill in the gaps the best that I can. I’m really too old fashioned to talk about things like monsters and whatnot. I was hoping that, perhaps, you would care to join me for that conversation.”

“Oh, I don’t know,” Abbot said as he shook his head, “I doubt that he would be too receptive to some dumb American.”

“Don’t be so sure. John is a good man . . . a good Pope. Give him a little credit.”

“Belsito,” Abbot said with a change in tone, “how did all of this come to be? How did we get here?”

Pasquale looked up at the moist night sky, considering his words. “Let me tell you a couple of the interesting things that have happened in our recent past. I’ll try to use only normal events—”

“Normal,” Abbot echoed. “Isn’t that a relative term?”

“Well, normal when compared to shape changing monsters and rogue Angels that carry swords and grudges.”

“Fair enough.”

Pasquale crossed his arms, placing them over his knees. “The Catholic Legacy is long and sordid. As a man of faith, and of the cloth, I am bound to promulgate the party line, so to speak. But the history of this faith is quite tumultuous. I suppose that there are rather specific incidents that we could turn to, that might have edged us to this point. Defining moments in the Catholic timeline that explain some of this current madness.”

“Obviously it wasn’t all brunch and speeches and selling indulgences,” Abbot said as he stared up at the tip of the Obelisk.

Pasquale nodded, “It started with the conviction that your trough was better than his truth. Truth by force . . . truth by violence. It all began when Rome was suffering great internal turmoil. Constantine gathered together his advisors, and a group of religious scholars and priests, and they had the Council of Nicea.”

“That was in three twenty-five,” Abbot said.

“Very good, Mr. Abbot.”

“Oh, I saw the DaVinci Code . . . Tom Hanks was at his best.”

“Right.” Pasquale’s eyes scalded him. “Well, with that, our religion officially began. It was a political move to keep Rome from tearing itself apart. Mass was invented, and then became official in three ninety-four. Then we moved forward. In four twenty, Augustine wrote his ’The City of God,′ in which he was very clear in that the Pope was supposed to rule the World. Later versions of the work removed that particular text . . . for political reasons.”

“Since there were humans, there were politics,” Abbot said flatly. “They say that War is just politics by other means.”

“So true,” Pasquale said remorsefully.

Abbot turned to him, “I read, somewhere, that there were more than sixty-eight million people killed since twelve-hundred A.D. in Catholic related violence. That’s a lot of politicking.”

Pasquale lowered his head, “Our past is unfortunately littered with violence. It is one of those horrible dark parts of our nature, sewn into the very fabric of our DNA.”

“So what happens after all of this?”

“In what sense?” Pasquale asked.

“In the whole,” Abbot looked up into the dark night above them, his eyes searching for signs of something he had never considered before tonight, “giant grand scheme of things. What is next?”

“Hmmm?” Pasquale carefully considered his answer. “As a Catholic I should subscribe to the idea of Purgatory, at least on some level. The idea of Purgatory was created in Five ninety-three, by Pope Gregory the first. It was a kind of temporary place where one’s soul would suffer and, thereby, purify his being. The Council of Florence made it official in fourteen thirty-nine.”

“And even though they made it up, you still believe in it. Or is that your official position?”

That was a good question. Pasquale took a moment, looking across the square. “Whatever doubts that I may have harbored for the first fifty or so years of my life vanished a few hours ago. After what we witnessed, I see no way to dispute that there is some kind of life after we leave this place. So, in answer to your question . . . I am a believer. And I have the luxury of faith with facts, instead of by fear, or by legislated teaching. I feel lucky.”

There was a quiet minute between them as Abbot thought about Pasquale’s words. The rhythmic sound of generators replaced the relative silence for a few seconds and then there was silence again. Somebody was yelling in Italian, and it didn’t sound like something you could repeat at the dinner table.

“And what about you?” Pasquale asked directly. “How has your perception of our reality changed?”

“I’m . . . I’m a man of science. I know down-to-earth things. Stuff like . . . in a normal-sized male body, under an ambient environment of seventy-two degrees Fahrenheit, the core temperature will cool at a rate of one and a half degrees per hour for the first twelve hours after death. I know about livor mortis, and blood pooling, and finding psychopaths hiding behind the faces of normal looking people. I believe in the inherent deceitfulness of humans, and their ability to ignore the suffering of others. I believe in what I can see, and touch, and investigate.”

“But then you must do that,” Pasquale offered, “in order to be an objective investigator you must suspend judgment in order to solve your mysteries . . . the crimes.”

“I am my own worst nightmare, I guess. Grounded in empirical data.”

“When did you suspect that Colonel Ritti was dirty?” Pasquale inquired. “Something tells me he didn’t fool you.”

Abbot laughed to himself, “I had a get feeling that he was in on something when we first met in London, at Scotland Yard. His eyes were too content. He was too passive for the gravity of the situation. I liked the guy, though, and it probably clouded my judgment. I mean, he was going to kill us both to protect his investment. I don’t know . . . it was worth the risk, for me.”

“Worth the risk?” Pasquale said, perplexed.

“The possibility of knowing the truth is always worth the risk it takes to uncover it. The bigger the truth, the larger the risk. They are directly proportionate. So it’s always worth it to search for the answers. You just have to be willing to deal with the consequences.”

“And now you have searched for the answer to the biggest question of all,” Pasquale said prophetically.

“My life started over a few hours ago. Whatever it is we witnessed down there, it is quite clear that there is something beyond this place . . . this life. And I think that we all might be in some trouble if those monsters get pissed off. Where I used to see just darkness, now I wonder what is inside . . . lurking just outside my vision . . . waiting for the right moment to . . .” Abbot’s words trailed off.

Abbot stared up into the dark sky, “I suppose that now I believe in something beyond this place. Something that is much larger and more powerful than my old science made room for. And that kind of bothers me. It’s tough to throw away your entire belief system this quickly.”

“Non existence of proof,” Pasquale said scholarly, “is not proof of nonexistence.”

Abbot threw up his hands, “I’m a believer, now. The only question I have is what side do we choose?”

“Well,” Pasquale said as he rose slowly to his feet, “that is a question that only our hearts may correctly answer.”

“What will you do now?” Abbot asked as he stood, his body aching and sore.

“I will rebuild this place of God. I will try to be a better man. And I will prepare for the End of Days, and all of the violence and chaos that will follow it.” They walked out into the square, slowly looking at all of the history that surrounded them. Their eyes darted from statue to statue. “And you?”

Abbot shrugged, “After all of this. The craziness we just saw, I don’t think that being a San Antonio Homicide Detective is going to do it, anymore. I’ll probably call my buddy, Don, and admit that he might have been right . . . go back to work at the FBI. Something tells me that in the very near future they are going to need people who are open-minded enough to deal with things that don’t fit into our science.”

Abbot’s eyes followed the form of the Obelisk all the way to its point. “I guess I might give church a shot, too.”

“Good man,” Pasquale said as he patted Abbot’s large shoulder. “Good man.”

In the Research Vault the noise and energy and turmoil and uncertainty, compounded with all of the other excitement of the recent past had gone. The Vault was in nearly complete ruin. And while not every artifact had been destroyed, there wasn’t much that had been left untouched. Buts of pottery, gold coins, old staffs and rare paintings were strewn about as if a tornado had swept through the entire Vault area.

The Angels had come to collect their rogue brother, but had left empty handed. The Shadows had shown themselves for the first time since being sent away from Heaven, and with their shocking presence came their revelation that the earth was no longer a welcome place for beings from either Heaven or Hades.

He walked slowly past an old set of wooden cups, careful not to step on anything. It wasn’t that he cared for the rich history of the different artifacts, but that he despised anything that had ever been blessed. It was dark all around him . . . and cold. He hated the cold. It reminded him of the moment when God had turned his back.

He noticed a display case that was on the verge of collapse. He gave it a spiteful shove and it crashed to the floor, breaking on all sides, as several sets of knives and prehistoric sharpening stones clattered out onto the silt covered floor. He thought of all the violence and arrogance that had been endured to make a place like this, and fill it with bits and pieces of Human history.

He approached the now fallen table where several metal frames lay haphazardly on the mixture of broken table and cracked tiles beneath.

The Prophecies of Jesus Christ.

He wondered when Deegan had learned of them. He tried to put the pieces together. At what point did the shape shifter turn? And Mavet was a curious issue. Had the Angel gotten to Deegan recently, or did they know each other in some other way? Had they planned this hours ago?

. . . days ago?

. . . years ago?

And as for the Shadow Angels . . . how had they eluded both the forces of Heaven and Hades for so long?

The Shadows, like himself, had been cast from the clouds. They, too, were sent away, never to bask in the glory of His love. And like him, they were preparing for the End of Days. They were readying themselves for the Great Battle between Heaven and Hades, and no the Shadows had entered the stage. He had suspected that they would soon make their presence known. But he had been surprised that both Mavet and Deegan had joined them.

He had watched, quietly from afar, as Mavet had revealed his intentions to Uriel. He could only imagine how angry Michael would be. The very prospect of the stuffy old bastard being livid made him grin. He stood silently while the Shadow Angels had appeared from their dark hiding spaces among the debris. And he had even considered interfering until he heard the part about ‘free will’ for the humans. That part was rather intriguing.

The thing that he didn’t yet know was, which side are the Shadows really on?

Surely, they didn’t actually intend to do battle with both Heaven and Hades. The forces on both sides were overwhelming, and such an act would be suicidal. They simply didn’t have the numbers. They would play a decisive roll in the Great Battle, though. And all of this would commence when the Sword was finally recovered and used to spill innocent blood, here on earth.

The sword that had long ago been given to the finest, most respect and loved of the Angels in Heaven; those Angels charged with guarding Heaven by the shade of those swords. The sword that had been given to Lucifer, and subsequently had been lost by his lieutenant. The very sword that would signal the End of Days.

He took one final glance at the prophecies that had caused so much trouble, and he laughed. How simple the humans were to toy with. “Prophecies of Jesus Christ,” he said to himself, the ground rumbling beneath his words. “Gullible little monkeys.”

He stomped his feet down, smashing through several of the frames, crushing the Prophecies beneath him. Then he walked past the crushed frames, past several rows of toppled display cases and wrecked cabinets.

He made his way over to a locked case that stood about waist high. He peered through the thick protective glass at what was once referred to as the Arc of the Covenant. His hand slowly traced across the glass to the side of the case where he folded his fingers over the edge. With a quick motion, he flipped the case, cartwheeling it across the Vault several tens of meters, coming to a stop upside down, near a collection of bronze statues.

He looked up and closed his eyes, “Our Father . . . our beloved Father who art in Heaven. You are responsible for all of this. You created impulsivity,

and irresponsibility,

and hedonism,

and egocentricity,

and apathy,

and remorse,

and shame,

and guilt,

. . . and every sort of vile thing.

This is your perfect creature . . . loved above all others? What a fine mess you have made.”

He snorted as he turned away, opening his eyes. “I so look forward to the Great Battle . . . Do you?”

And with that he suddenly burst into thousands of large black wasps, all racing around in different directions. And that swarm of wasps burst into millions of tiny mosquitos. And then the cloud of mosquitos exploded into smaller and smaller insects . . . then into tinier life forms until they became a thick fog of deadly virus. And as the fog grew larger and larger it spread suddenly and disappeared.

And the Light-Bringer was gone.

Chapter44

2 weeks later . . . the air was warm and salty in Barcelona.

THE WAVES LAPPED AGAINST the small wooden pier, gently splashing the cool Mediterranean water near their feet. Pena, wearing light seafaring clothing, and a pair of sunglasses, carried two large nylon bags full of gear to the boat. As the white-hulled ship rocked back and forth, Diego extended his arms to help Pena load the last of their equipment. “Es todo?”

“Si,” Pena said as he carefully handed the bags over the water. Marco and Thomas were already on the boat, below the deck, sorting our their gear. They had all made the voyage from Rome to Spain without incident. Pena had taken a long roundabout route so that they couldn’t be followed, nor anticipated by any of the Vatican’s guards.

Pena looked back at the large rocks that made up most of the coastline. He nodded slowly, and took out his cell phone. He had the notion to throw the damn thing in the sea and kiss goodbye to his old life, but before he could act Diego stopped him. “Don’t do that.”

“Why?” Pena said with a skeptical glance.

“I just have this feeling that you might need it,” Diego said as he started the boat. The engine purred like a fine automobile spiting a spray of water out behind the boat. “Untie us,” he said as he eyed the mooring lines.

Pena stuck the phone back into his pocket and unfastened the lines. They were heading out across the water on a journey that would end them on one of the Balearic Islands, where Pena had purchased a small cottage—in a fake name, of course. There they would stay with Thomas, protecting him until the End of Days, which was not that far off if they weren’t all completely mad. From time to time Pena did consider the idea that they were all insane. But then, so what? He had tried sanity for his whole life, and what had it gotten him?

He stepped onto the boat and said, “Ya vamos.” And with that Diego carefully brought the boat around. Marco and Thomas had made their way back up, and were standing beside Diego as they pulled away from the pier.

“Say goodbye to the mainland,” Marco said. “Thomas,” Pena asked, “what do you think?”

Thomas shrugged, “It’s all an adventure to me. Two weeks ago, the closest I had ever been to the water was watching it on late night television. And look at me now . . . I’m getting my sea legs.”

Diego laughed, “You want to drive?”

“No, no,” Thomas said, stepping away from the wheel. “I’m purely an academic.”

They all laughed as Barcelona grew smaller and smaller on the horizon.

Three hours later, as the sun was setting behind them, Pena and Thomas found themselves sitting at the back of the boat, quietly watching the water foam and separate behind the prop. The sky was a deep red, as if the air had been painted with amber.

“Where does all of this end, Thomas,” Pena said, breaking their silence.

Thomas’s eyebrows rose curiously, “I don’t know, Antonio. My life’s work ended a few weeks ago. Jesus doesn’t talk to me now . . . except through my dreams and prayers. We just wait, I suppose.”

“What happens when everyone up there,” Pena said as he looked up, “finds out what has happened? What happens when these new ‘Shadow’ Angels start to grow restless? Will this be a catalyst for the End of Days? It doesn’t take much for people to lose hope and act like animals.”

“I don’t know, but to me . . . it’s like someone has taken a very large torch and with it they have set Heaven ablaze,” Thomas said eerily.

“Like they’re burning Heaven,” Pena said to himself. And just as a thought crossed his mind he felt the phone in his pocket vibrate. Instinctively he grabbed it and answered the call, “Dime . . .”

“Mr. Pena?” the voice asked.

“Si,” he answered cautiously, “who is this?”

“This is doctor Rodriguez, I have been looking after your partner, Ricky—”

“Yes, doctor,” he said urgently, realizing that this was probably the call that was inevitable. He wasn’t looking forward to the following words, but then, finally he would have come closure. He swallowed hard, “1 . . . 1 know who you are.”

“Well, it’s really quite strange,” the doctor said. “We thought that he was lost last night. His respiratory rate dropped significantly, and his body seemed to be loosing the battle. We brought him back a couple of times and then, we thought he was gone. He was pronounced dead at nine-thirteen p.m. But as the official time of death was being discussed by the doctor on staff, all hell broke loose. We had a strange power outage. The generators kicked in, of course, and when we got power back . . . which was about forty or fifty seconds later, he was sitting up, his eyes as big as footballs.”

“How do you explain—”

“Oh, there’s no explanation for that, Mr. Pena. Unless you believe in God,” the doctor said enthusiastically. “It’s really the strangest thing I’ve ever seen. Anyway, I just thought you should know. He’s alive, and with the exception of several months of intense physical therapy, I feel that he should make a fair and highly remarkable recovery.”

“Gracias, doctor,” Pena said. He turned to Thomas as he disconnected the call. Thomas extended his hand and numbly Pena handed him the phone.

Thomas smiled carefully, like a small child might. And without words he tossed the phone into the water.