The Fallen (19 page)

THIRTY TWO

P
LEVEN
. B
ULGARIA
.

Poré sat some distance from the rest of the men, as he did every night, nestled close to his own fire, preferring his private company. Rowdy drunkenness enslaved the faction who followed him. They were intoxicated by the power they wielded in the wolf pelts Poré had given to them and by the strong liquor inside their bellies.

Poré had had many doubts in the days after the Mass for Peace, particularly doubts about those in his employ. He had encountered this bunch of drunken thieves and strays as he had wandered, broken and lost, within Paris, sharing with them at first nothing more than a desperate thirst for vengeance and the desire to thrust an eager blade deep into Catholic flesh. This had been enough at the beginning, when his plans for the Mass for Peace had been thrown into disarray. At the time he was grateful to find solace with others as desperate as he had been, people who shared a common hatred for that accursed religion.

From an inside pocket he took out the letter he had carried ever since leaving Paris, the letter which now drove him and had given him a reason to keep going. To keep fighting.

At the time, when Cardinal Monteria lay dead on the floor of Notre Dame at the Mass for Peace, Poré had thought he had failed in the task allotted to him, but that, he now knew, was a merely a cul-de-sac, a false hope. An impasse.

Now, with the letter in his hands and the revelations it presented, he understood.

The letter had never been meant for him. Poré had taken it from the mauled and partially devoured remains of a young Inquisitor whom had he
slaughtered and fed upon in one of the quieter suburbs of Paris a month after the events at Notre Dame. Poré had told himself that he wasn't getting a taste for young Catholic flesh, but, as a wolf, he found their meat as sweet as any he tasted when a human.

Perhaps it was chance that Poré had happened upon the Inquisitor and the letter, but deep inside he supposed it was always meant to be. As he plucked the letter from the bloodied envelope, once he had fed, he supposed it contained general orders from the Inquisition, a broad suggestion as to what deed was expected of the Inquisitor.

It turned out that he was only partially correct.

Carrying the mark of the Vatican, the letter had outlined a most pressing and urgent case, one which required the Inquisitor, one of several it seemed, to act swiftly and precisely. According to the Bishop who had written the letter, one of the two knives of Gath, a relic from an earlier age last used in a satanic ritual years ago in the fields of Pleven, Bulgaria, had gone missing from where it had been kept safe under inquisitional guard within the Church of Saint Pierre de Montmartre. Its retrieval, so it seemed by the tone of the letter, was of the utmost importance to the Bishop and those he represented within the Church.

The mention of Satan, ratified by the Seal of the Vatican, had at once captured Poré's attention, impelling him to discover more about the little-known events in Bulgaria, events of which he had not been previously aware.

He'd followed what evidence he was able to gather in secret across Paris and then France, his path taking him away into the east, always under the pretence to those who followed and fought for him that he was hunting Catholics. But all the time Poré was hunting for something else: knowledge about just what had happened in Pleven on that fateful night. For he knew it was his destiny to find out. The call to do so had come from a higher power, many years ago, an event he recalled as if it had happened only yesterday.

He held the letter now, reading over the words, devouring them by the light of the fire, as he did most nights, before raising his eyes to the darkness beyond. Somewhere out there in the dark something fearful had taken place, something that was attempting to return again.

A drunken cry rose up out of the gloom from the valley below, a barking voice imploring Poré to join them at the bottle. He ignored the call and folded the sheet of paper, carefully placing it back in his inside pocket, holding his hand there for a moment. Tomorrow, he trusted, the long journey
he had taken from Paris might reach an end after which … but beyond tomorrow he dared not think.

THIRTY THREE

T
HE
V
ATICAN
. V
ATICAN
C
ITY
.

“Blasted crows!” Cardinal Korek cursed from the window of the chamber, his arched spine turned away from the gathered assembly of Cardinals and Bishops behind him. “They're making a terrible mess of the roofs and the square.” His face was scrunched in disgust as he attempted to wave them away with a hand. There was dandruff on his shoulders, his skin a pallid grey like that of a dying man. “Where did they all come from? Blasted things!” He waved again, even more frantically.

“They might have come in from the shoreline,” suggested Cardinal Adansoni, stepping closer, his hands hidden in the sleeves of his robe. “The storms of late must have forced them inland. I've noticed the same with the gulls.”

“They're chasing the doves away!” said Korek, clapping his pale hairless hands, calling out to the birds in a futile attempt to scare them away.

“Undoubtedly,” said Cardinal Secretary of State Casado from the heart of the room, his own face pale and drawn as if sleep had been at a premium lately, “but can we leave the crows for just a little while please, Cardinal Korek, and focus our attention on the more urgent matters of the hour?”

“Such as the Eagle Fountain bleeding?” asked the white-haired Cardinal Berberino, and Casado looked crestfallen at its mention.

“That, among other things,” he replied.

Korek grumbled quietly, casting a final stare in the direction of the black oily birds, before returning to the gathering and looking to take a seat around the table set in the very centre of the room. This chamber was plain, by Vatican standards, and around it the other members of the meeting were waiting impatiently for proceedings to begin. Cardinals, Priests and all manner of other clergy were present. Casado prepared to speak, but the door to the chamber suddenly opened and through it lurched an imposing looking man, dressed all in white. Casado paused and looked up knowingly
as a shudder reverberated around the room at the man's arrival, many turning away and busying themselves elsewhere so not to have to look at the menacing figure.

They knew him all instantly. Grand Inquisitor Düül, the head of the Inquisition.

Chilled sweat glistened on his dark skin, shimmering like mother of pearl under the pale lights of the chamber. The white folds of his garments, hanging from his weighty frame, gave him an eldritch glow, as if he were a ghost returned to bring retribution to all from beyond the grave.

Grand Inquisitor Düül had been a handsome man, at least until a blade had nearly split his face in two. He had lost an eye in the incident. Afterwards he claimed the wound helped him shoot faster with his revolver as he no longer needed to close one eye to aim.

Most Inquisitors wore only dark colours. It aided them when skulking in the shadows, avoiding being seen by an enemy until it was too late for their victim. But Düül wasn't like most Inquisitors. He liked to make sure he announced his arrival long before he thrust the death blow between the ribs of a victim. To put the fear of his reputation into them, before the fear of God followed. He'd worn white on the very day he was made a Grand Inquisitor. It was his little joke, suggesting that his soul was pure, his methods clean. Anyone who knew him knew he possessed the blackest of hearts and a history to match.

Adansoni did not look at him, instead following the still muttering Cardinal Bishop Korek to the table, joining him in the empty chair to Korek's left. His eyes caught the narrow glance of Bishop Basquez opposite and something twisted inside him. The Bishop's lips pressed into a thin leer before he turned his attention to the clamour of the meeting. Since Tacit's escape from Toulouse, it seemed to Adansoni that Basquez's demeanour had turned even more sour.

Cardinal Bishop Casado cleared his throat, a deeply resonant growl into which he seemed to pour all his frustration. “I hope none of you object, but I took the liberty of inviting Grand Inquisitor Düül to our gathering. Considering the concerning nature of recent events, I thought he should be fully informed, and we might be able to benefit from his superior knowledge.” Düül swept the room with a fierce inquiring eye; Casado cleared his throat and made his main announcement. “You will no doubt all be aware that Poldek Tacit broke out of Toulouse Inquisitional Prison a week ago.”

“Good heavens! I was not aware!” muttered Berberino, his hand slipping to his throat.

“How was Tacit allowed to escape?” Cardinal Korek demanded to know from the far side of the circle, his face seeming to flush at the news. “I thought that anyone confined to the prison never came out?”

“We don't know how he escaped,” replied Casado, pinching his nose as he studied his notes. “We don't know what happened, other than it seems Tacit broke free of his cell and rampaged through the prison complex.”

“The monster,” muttered Korek, staring firmly down into his lap, his thin lips drawn back against his bared teeth. “What has the warden at the prison to say for himself?”

“The warden's dead,” snarled Düül, his eye as cold as the blade in his belt.

“And Salamanca?”

Casado chewed the side of his mouth. “Salamanca cannot speak. He has no tongue.”

“What happened to him?” asked Berberino, from the confusion of gasps accompanying this latest revelation.

The old Cardinal Bishop gripped the ridge of his nose and closed his eyes for a moment. “Whatever Tacit said to him, did to him, it made Salamanca chew off his own tongue.”

Korek cursed and hung his head.

Düül smirked. “Poldek Tacit. He was always very good.”

“Do you think he'll come looking for us?” asked Berberino.

“I doubt it, Cardinal,” replied Adansoni, calming with the wave of a hand. “I am sure he escaped to find freedom, rather than come back to the Vatican looking for trouble and risk further incarceration.”

Düül chuckled slowly, a sound like nails being drawn down a chalk board. “Don't be so sure, Cardinal Bishop,” he said.

“You have news?”

“More than that. I have a sighting. Father Stradlov came face to face with the man in the residence quarter of Vatican City.”

“Is Father Stradlov alright?” asked Adansoni.

“He'll live. As for Father Strettavario …”

“What about the Priest?” asked Berberino, his fingers turning white.

“Gone.”

“Gone?” asked Basquez, the suggestion of pleasure pulling at his lips. “What do you mean, gone?”

“The door to Strettavario's residence was broken down. Tacit almost certainly came to visit him.”

“How dreadful,” squeaked Berberino.

Düül sneered at the sound the man had made. “Seems that Strettavario was lucky on this occasion. He wasn't home when Tacit came to call. If he was ever there.”

“What does that mean?”

“There was no sign of a struggle. And we've not found his body. But a car was seen leaving the residence matching the very same one seen a week ago and pursued during the disturbances in the capital. The car was trailed to a property, but the residence was found to have been recently vacated.”

Adansoni cleared his throat. “Have you any leads as to where Tacit might have gone to now?” he asked, attempting to draw the increasingly chaotic proceedings to order.

“Not yet,” replied Düül, “but we have a heavy presence within the city. We already had a number here due to recent occurrences.”

“By which you mean these demonic signs?” asked Basquez.

Düül did not reply directly, instead saying, “We've increased our numbers wherever possible.”

Casado nodded. “Grand Inquisitor Düül is at the moment mobilising Inquisitors all across the city, and Monsignor Benigni has already begun to direct the Sodalitium Pianum, his team of investigators. If Tacit attempts anything else, he will be caught. Between the Inquisition and the Sodalitium Pianum we'll find him, one way or another.”