John 1:1

The fires had finally been extinguished, burning for nearly 12 hours, reducing the church to nothing more than its concrete foundation and plumbing. The fire was not like anything Fire Chief, Tom Mann, had ever seen in his twenty plus years with firehouse 17. The closest thing he could compare the smoldering pile of ash to was Ground Zero, but even that had some evidence of a structure left behind in the rubble. But this, this fire had left nothing behind. The mop-up was still being conducted and, so far, nothing conclusive had come back for the cause of the fire. In fact, it appeared there was never even a fire to begin with, which further perplexed the Fire Chief who would have gone with another theory had he not seen the immensely tall flames licking the skyline himself just a few minutes before. Everything about the fire was suspect. How it started. How it came to an end, after pouring thousands of gallons of water on the flames, bleeding the hydrants dry and calling in back up engines from four different firehouses around the surrounding metro. And the flames, he recalled, were hotter than anything he had ever come it contact with, forcing he and his men to battle the blaze from nearly double the distance in order to be effective. Fireman Russo, a ten year veteran, had severe burns along the front of his body without ever coming within seven hundred feet of the flames. It was though the heat targeted him alone, for none of the other firemen in his unit were harmed at closer distances.

     "Chief Mann?" Said a voice behind him. 

     "Hmm, yes?" 

     "Detective White," he said extending his hand in greeting, "This is my partner, Detective Carter."

     "Yes, detectives. How may I help you?"

     "We understand you found someone inside." Said Detective White. 

     "Yes, that is correct. She...is not saying much. When we came upon the compartment she was inside-"

     "The compartment?"

     "Yes. After we...after the flames died down, we located a small metallic door in the floor, where the sacristy  is located. When we opened it, the girl climbed out from the cubby-hole and refused any medical treatment. Not that she needed any, she was in good health and spirits. Docile, but you could just tell that she was not effected by the events as much as someone who had just lived through a fire might be."

     "Do we know a cause?"

     "Are you kidding? Look at it. Along with this sweltering heat of summer, some hot spots must have reached two bills. The soles of some of my boys boots melted it was so hot at one point. There is nothing left but pipes and concrete. I'll tell ya' detective, in all my years I have never seen a fire like that and I doubt I will ever see one like it again."

Detective White nodded to the Fire Chief. 

     "Keep us informed if something changes." He said walking away. 

 As the two detectives walked towards the woman, Chief Mann knew he would not speak with the men again, because the only thing that would change about this fire is his own sleeping habits, for the mystery of how the fire happened and its subsequent end would keep him awake for weeks to come. 

The first thing Detective White noticed about the woman was that she was not a casual church goer, dressed in a black nuns habit and still wearing her white coif, veiled to shadow parts of her face. The second thing he noticed was how beautiful she was, even mostly covered, with ivory skin and petite hands that lay clasped in the seat of her lap. She had movie star lips, thick and plush that captured his imagination in ways that would make most respectful men shift uneasily in their pants. He instantly felt guilt rush over him. Not a man of God himself,  but schooled enough in Catholic practice to know he was nearly half mast over one of God's many wives. He turned to Detective Carter, asking him to take a few statements from other firemen, still puzzled by the Chief's bedazzlement over an event he should be well versed in battling. When the woman stood to greet him she could not have been any taller than five foot three, and a buck ten sopping wet; but, she carried herself quite a lot taller than she appeared. She was chatting up a fireman who was also smitten by her, laughing and flirting with her, forgetting that he was here to do a job. When he came to them, the fireman shook himself back to reality and ran back to his Chief. 

     "My name is-"

     "I know who you are, detective." She said looking up to him with a gentle smile. 

     "Oh?"

     "If I were to tell you how I knew you, you might assume me to be some lunatic and call in the paddy-wagon, carting me off to some nearby asylum for the rest of my days. So, I suppose, I should let you proceed with your unnecessary introduction." 

     "Well, that is quite a way to start out a conversation, sister, but, since you know me, perhaps I can cut with the pleasantries and ask who you are and how you ended up inside a secret compartment inside the church sacristy?"

     "I'm afraid that will be a little more difficult with its explanation. May I bum a cigarette from you?"

This request did not seem to register to the Detective. 

     "I may be a nun, detective, but I am also human and have my vices. And in case you're wondering how I know you smoke, you have yellow-stained fingertips, which suggest a heavy smoker that is common among people in your profession. And don't feel embarrassed about the evidence for my own detection skills are required for the unique profession I am in."

A woman after his own heart, he thought as he reached into his pocket and procured a cigarette from the packet, lighting it and then handed it to her. 

     "You mean being a nun?"

She laughed. It was a quick chuckle, but still something she had not done in some time. 

     "Heavens no."

     "Then what do you mean?"

     "I'm sorry detective, but there are very important and powerful individuals who cherish their secrets, which I happen to be one. And, although I do wish to assist in any way I can, there are limitations which go far beyond the ruling arm of your badge."

     "Respectfully sister, there is no greater law than that which I represent."

     "I beg to differ. Respectfully."

Detective Carter returned. His face shared the same puzzlement of Chief Mann's earlier, and when he explained to Detective White that the other priest and nuns who ran out from the church, before it caught fire, failed to see or say anything to him when questioned, the entire scene began to smell to high hell of lies and deception. For now, the only thing he had was arson at best. It did not make much sense to start a fire and then remain at the scene down below, although this approach was daring enough to be believable; however, the nun was hiding something and did not make any attempt to try and hide this from him. 

     "See what more we can get from the hotheads and meet me down at the station afterward."

     "What about her?"

Detective White turned to the nun. After a moment he said, "I would venture to say you are willing to come down to the station and make a statement, but it would likely be a short and sweet one. So, how about coffee and some lunch on me, instead?"

She took a long drag from her cigarette, sizing up the tall medium built man before her. There were many gaps between his questioning her and her answering his questions, suggesting a personal motive to have her all to himself. Perhaps he wanted to win over her trust, to later mount some kind of impersonal attack against her character or learn more about her role in the church by deceptive means of flirtation.  

     "Very well. I accept."

He took Detective Carter aside so that his words were not easily heard.

     "I want you to get as much history on this church as you can. See if any of the priest are willing to assist you with this and maybe provide you with some kind of order, or hierarchy of this particular parish."

     "You got it." 

     "Oh, and find out who the ruling bishop is and see if you can get in touch with him."

     "Shall we then, sister?" He said extending his hand to her, "I'll buy, but I am leaving any tips up to you."

Detective White sat in a quiet booth situated in a corner away from the rest of the Ardent Grille's patrons, a local breakfast bar and personal favorite that provided enough privacy to speak freely with the woman, sitting across from him, who he had yet to finger as neither a witness, a victim or potential suspect. They had not shared a single word with one another during the drive, perhaps being too defensive to engage one another in such close quarters. There was definitely tension among them, Detective White noted. He stirred creamer into his coffee, laying out his cigarettes.
     "Help yourself."
     "Now that you have me away from your partner, detective, would you like to ask me the questions that have stewed in your mind since you first laid eyes upon my legs?"
He was sure the redness in his cheeks had given away his embarrassment.
     "I'll just cut to the chase then. I think you and I can agree that whatever happened inside that church, it was far from the norm. Not your typical case of arson or random act of God."
She chuckled at this last part.
     "And you hope I can provide you with some since of reality to support whatever crazy theories going around at the crime scene. Tell you that I saw firsthand what that man did, before setting fire to my home, killing the only mother I ever loved in the fire."
     "The Fire Chief did not say anything about that."
     "No, I suppose he would not have had enough forensics to suggest anyone perished."
     "Those who were inside at the time all made it out safely...only you managed to remain trapped, which is, I suspect, the reason you sought refuge from the smoke and flames down inside that basement closet you were found in. One could speculate that you may have even been stored there, if one thought about it long enough."
The woman stared down to the table, sliding her hand slowly across it towards the cigarette packet, fishing a slightly bent stogie from inside and placed it between her lips. Her eyes grazed over his left hand, which hovered over his Zippo lighter like a tarantula raised up on its hind legs in warning, seeing the tattoo on the palm of his hand. It was a simple design, a point that started just below his middle-finger and angled to the bottom of his thumb, across the flat of his hand and back to his finger. It was a simple black triangle that stuck out, like a throbbing cartoonish thumb, in certain circles that doubled as both a brand and universal ID to those within The Black. Her heart began to speed up, adrenaline flooded every nerve in her body, her instincts fought for control of the wheel pushing her right hand from the table into her lap, closer to the blade still at her side.
     "Or one might assume, being a nun and all, that I knew of the storage space. After all, it does contain all of the church's charitable goods, such as can goods and clothing for our fortnight food drive, Deacon Joseph oversees. Perhaps he can better provide you with a cause for it than I." She explained as she surreptitiously scouted out the nearest exit.
     "Of course you did. It must have been terribly frightening, trapped inside a burning building as it collapsed around you. Very lucky."
     "Luck is a false deity among the rich detective."
     "You know, for a nun, you are very radical with some of the things you have said."
     "And for a detective, you have an interesting choice of body markings." She said eyeing his hand.
Ah, he thought to himself, the tattoo. The day he had decided to join the cult, receiving his mark, was still as fresh in mind as the breakfast rolls on his plate.
     "You mean this?" He said showing her the mark once more. "Just some stupid thing I did ten years ago, when I was still rebelling against the world, partying beyond my means and fucking women left and right, married or single, fat or small without regard to any one's feelings, including my own, along a destructive downward spiral that may have lead me straight to prison. A friend of mine was all into the satanic cult, never to the point he knew anything about it at all, aside from the devil horns (at this he flashed his hands in the iconic symbol of 80's hairbands and death metal rockers around the world, bending his ring and middle fingers down touching his thumb while his index finger and pinkie pointed straight up like horns) and owning a goat named Lucifer. He eventually became involved with this group of misfits whose shtick was dabbling in the black arts and Demonology, which, in order to become part of this sect, one needed to have the Mark."

Detective White looked away from her. She could see his humility was authentic, to the point he might have changed the subject right then had she not asked him to continue. It was highly unusual for someone with the Mark to be so open about their experience, begging the question was he truly a member of The Black or just a wannabe with stories and a bad tattoo?

     "Anyway, my own foolish curiosity took me all the way to an acquaintance's house on the lower east end of town, drunk off my ass, high as hell and minutes away from my first tat. I wanted to get it on my arm or someplace I could easily cover with an article of clothing, like a shirt or something; but, they insisted it be on the bottom of my hand."
     "All religions, even those less appealing to the masses, have their own unique practices. I am sure eating the body of Christ and drinking his blood might be a bit unsettling to someone who practices Buddhism." She replied kindly.

She wasn't sure why, but the more he opened up to her the more she wanted to tell him about herself. Knowing full well she could never divulge all of her secrets, she humbled herself enough to tell him a bit about her own life. She spoke of her family, how they perished in a fire when she was young, leaving out the bits about her father and the atrocity of him murdering her sister on that dire evening long ago. Her story arc took a turn from here, joining the covenant at the age of 12 where she spent the remaining part of her life in study and servitude of God. Every defensive mechanism inside her sounded its intuitive alarms. Whether or not he was telling the truth about his experience with The Black, at the end of the day, he was still connected to the sect and that made him dangerous. The fact he might not have known this for himself did not matter. It was nice, she thought, being able to speak to a man without having to recite the Rosary afterward. But, there was still the mission. She stood, her bones cracking as she stretched.
     "So, have I said enough to warrant my leaving without you arresting me in the process?"
     "As I said earlier, even if I had questions to ask, you would be likely not to answer them. I do appreciate the chat however, it was most informative."
     "Indeed."
She started to leave when Detective White called to her.
     "One last thing sister. Was I ever at risk of you pulling that blade beneath your habit on me?"
There was a long pause between his question and her answer.
     "No, but I fear there may come a time when I will. Good day detective."
Detective White pulled out his wallet, throwing enough money onto the table to cover the bill and then looked up to find that she was nowhere to be found. His phone vibrated inside his pocket.
     "Detective White, speaking."
     "It's Carter. I was able to get the name of that bishop, after a little encouraging. Name's Antonio Verelli. Apparently he was some kind of pariah within the church who pissed off a lot of brass, so much so that his rank of bishop is currently under review with folks at the Vatican."
     "Anything else?"
     "Yeah, that hot nun of yours, turns out no one knows a thing about her. No names, no identification at all. One of the older birds said she recalled something about being orphaned."
     "Understood. I'll be back in the station soon."
The second he hung up with Carter, he quickly dialed a second number. The voice on the other end was very old, having to take a breath in-between each of his words spoken.
     "My master. The church has been completely destroyed. I have on good authority information that suggest the bishop, Antonio Verelli is dead. And...there is something else."
     "Go. On. My. Son."
     "I have reason to believe there is an outsider now involved, although I am uncertain of her motives."
     "Her. Motives?"
     "A nun. She was found after the fact, safely inside a hidden compartment in the church's sacristy. I lost contact with her, but I have plenty of evidence to run through the system." He said collecting a few butts from the ashtray.
     "Very. Well. Do. Not. Pursue. Her. Your. Focus. Now. Is. Finding. The. Priest. His. Location. Has. Been. Sent. To. You."
There was a click and the call ended. Detective White sat for a moment, his thoughts weighing on the woman and his incredible desire to know more about her. They were both very different and on very uncommon ground. Part of him wished they had met long before, when his life was still his own and he could be himself with her, pursue his attraction and arrest whatever emotions that came with this. He looked at the Mark on his palm and knew this could never be.
    

In the car, Detective White sat eying his computer screen. The information on the priest was before him, along with a thirty year history of the man, his life, his family, and all thing in-between. Like the nun, he did not look like any priest he recalled as a boy. He was young and there was something about his eyes that spat danger, like a cobra, into the faces of his enemies. He phoned the station a final time, the voice of his partner greeted him.
     "Carter, see what you can find on a Wade Keller. I am emailing you the 411 on him now. Thanks bud."
As he placed his cellphone back into his pocket, he felt the hot burning grip of a hand around his throat and a voice that growled its words into his ear instantly turned his skin white with fear.
     "Hello again, Bryan. The Black calls upon you."
The car erupted into flames that rose up into a ball of fire, before changing into a plume of thick black smoke drifting slowly into oblivion. Below, the car and its driver were gone without a trace of it ever being part of this world. Nearby, a woman watched the plume of smoke fade into the gray sky, where a single snowflake floated down, kissing the side of her cheek. She scooped the crystal onto the end of her finger, melting into a tiny droplet of water, studying it. She then lowered the veil of her coif and sought shelter in the shadows of the alleyway.

Remember Me.

Snow had fallen for several days in a row, without breaks in the weather pattern, piling on new layers of fresh powder every hour until it covered the wooden steps leading up to the porch of the old cabin in the woods. This was the first snowfall in over twenty years and weathermen were visually perplexed, even though they continued to power through the forecast as best they could. The reality was that there was no explanation. Even if one presented itself, it would only be localized to the surrounding area. It could not possibly provide a logical enough reason for why the snow event covered the entire country, slowly spreading in every direction as the days pressed on. Outside the cabin, the snow had covered every sign of man made progress, the gravel road leading to the Cabin, the Oldsmobile buried out front, the favored wicker chair encased inside an igloo of snowflakes on the porch. Inside the cabin, however, an old dust laden machine hummed. Once, this machine created life from the tiniest molecule, its mission to breathe life into a lost love, to restore what was right in a world that had wronged its designer. It had failed. It had not lived up to the design its maker had given the better half of his life to. But its efforts did not go unnoticed...

Outside the old Cabin, a few feet from where the porch steps lay buried in snow, a warmth swarmed around the frozen tundra, melting it down, inch by inch, revealing the frozen carcass of a man, dressed in a white smock, whose hand lay over his chest petrified into a fist. Snow had preserved most of the body with only a few signs of decomposition around the face, where hungry wildlife tasted flesh, still salty from tears. The man's eyes were opened, two clear orbs of deep regret stared straight up to the heavens, forever trapped in whatever final thought that crossed his mind the moment of his passing. A warm gentle hand lay against the corpse chest, consoling the trapped soul inside, speaking through the darkness of its demise, reaching out for the lingering life present, but caught between this world and the next. The aura surrounding the being was a vibrant prism of color that appeared to pulsate, which, if looked upon through a telescope, would have been seen as a kaleidoscopic explosion of color and shapes. It was never easy to look upon the grace of an Angel, especially when it did not desire to be seen. 

The Angel lifted its free hand to the sky, snowflakes turned to ice chips around its glow, and uttered two words that resonated through the gates of Saint Peter, echoing throughout the embodiment of Lazarus and the whole kingdom of Heaven. The Angel whispered; "Remember me." The chest of the corpse rose and fell as though that final breath, the vessel in which the spirit leaves the body, was finally allowed to exhale; but, instead of leaving the realm of the living, the soul returned to the body and the man was once again alive.  The man lifted up from his snowy grave, looked around for a moment, and then faced the Angel kneeling next to him. 

     "Why?" 

     "Because, Professor, your purpose has become far greater a need than your death."

     "Are you the Angel of Death?" 

     "No. I am someone who requires your unique approach to an ideal that has long been lost to the rest of the world."

The Professor mulled this over, his attention now on his cabin, partially consumed by the biggest snow he had ever seen or known of. He did not have to ask why or know how this had happened, suspecting a similar event to occur years before, during his first testing of his machine...his machine?

     "An ideal lost to the world, you mean HOPE?"

     "Yes. Your machine, as well as your brilliant mind, Professor, is of great need to a cause that I can not begin to fully explain its importance and prevalence."

     "But, HOPE still needs work. It failed...

     "Failure is just another means to succeed the next time round. Now, please, we must go."

     "No!" The Professor said, rolling away from the Angel and getting to his feet. "I cannot. I...will not."

The Angel moved swiftly, like a sudden wind gust that discombobulates one's balance momentarily, its glow dispersing the snow around it and shaking the Professor's core with its aggressive grip around his dampened smock. 

     "Your selfishness has always lead to your failure, Professor. Your life is precious to me, but do not think for a moment that I will not put you back form whence you came and do so far more inhumanly than just laying down to die like a rabid dog!"

If the man was anything, he was fearless. The Angel's anger did not phase him, standing his ground and even trying to push back. 

     "I was prepared to die before you Angel! Do your worse, but I will not break."

The professor felt his chest cave, his heart struggled to beat as though it were being bound by chains. The Angel had taken hold of his black heart, squeezing it, contemplating crushing it in its hand. It then released the Professor, who fell to his knees at the Angel's feet, struggling to regain his breath. 

     "No. You will not break, will you. Your efforts with Jocelyn, before and after her death, have left you marred. If I told you that you and your machine could save humanity from a certain hell, you would continue to stand your ground, wouldn't you? Perhaps you need more than words. Perhaps you need tangible means to force your self hate aside for the greater good. Behold, Professor, the truth to your new life."

The Angel placed his hand flat across the Professor's face. The world was now a canvas of hot white nothingness, and then the visions slammed against his consciousness. His knees buckled under him, never feeling the crush of the frozen mud against his kneecaps. He was propelled through a series of places, some filled with demons, lashing out at people, ripping flesh from their bones, consuming them like sheep. Some were empty graveyards, lifeless churches hung in the background like long abandoned pyramids in a desolate wasteland of skulls and bones. The final vision was of a single long grave, far removed from the others in the graveyard, set aside where only those who knew it was there could see. The image expanded closer as his head smashed against the grey and chipped concrete, the words close enough now that even in the dark grey sky were easily seen. The words INRI branded his subconscious mind. When he was once again with the Angel, his eyes flowed freely, bleeding the hurt and pain in the form of black tears that stained the ground at his feet. The emotions passed, helped to his feet by the Angel. 

     "Now do you see?"

The severity settled and the scientist returned. He nodded and walked towards his cabin, the snow melting around him as subtle improvements to his machine already flooded his mind. 

     "There is much work to be done." He said opening the door to the cabin. 

The Angel turned, looking to the cold grey sky. It had begun to snow again, thick heavy flakes drifted down over him. One snowflake passed through the glow and touched the Angel's face, settling for a moment and melting into oblivion. 

TALES FROM A MOTEL 

HELL HAS FINALLY FROZE OVER. 9/15/2011

9/15/2011

"And the sky opened like the belly of a gutted fish, spilling evil, unseen since the War in Heaven so long ago, down upon the Earth. Those of us who fought the Dogs of Hell did so with heavy hearts, slaughtering our brothers and sisters to protect Man from themselves. Lucifer may have been defeated that day, but a lesson was learned by us all-Our LORD had chosen them over us."  

LORD have mercy for the Angel will not.

Interlude 3: Sister ÆGLÆCA

The strike from the whip against her back felt like a hundred scorpion stings against her young tender flesh, its crack echoing throughout the house, throughout her mother who feared her husband too much to interfere, as well as her younger sister who had felt their father's wrath before. The powerful blow brought her down onto her knees, her arms spread out over the end of the bed, clutching at the sheets with each lash. The pain was fierce, so much that his words rang deaf in her ears. He shouted obscenities to his daughter as his whip lashed out, one, two, three more times. Her back cracked and split in blood-streaked lacerations, growing more intensely with his beating the more she refused to scream. Her eyes closed, retreating to a place she could be free from her father's grip, where her body grew numb on the outside and soothed itself on the inside. Here, she could be normal and be a teenager like those at school, whose father would encourage them, shout for them at their volleyball games, cheer them whenever they did good things. She looked up to a multicolored sky, streaked in crimson and bleeding down the horizon, each crack of her father's whip a thick bolt of lightening across the oceanfront of her subconscious. The beating would end soon, her wounds would eventually heal and her scars just a reminder that life was not always a guarantee of joy, but a canvas of opportunity to change when change finally came.

For her, this change came on her sixteenth birthday. She had not expected much from her mother or father, being that they had never given her anything for her birthday before, unless you counted a lack of beating her father forgot to give her on two occasions. She recalled the time she asked her mother why her father had done this to her and her sister, "Your father loves you. He is just...not right in the head. Hasn't been right since he returned from the war." She told her. War, such a poor excuse, she thought, for a father to forget what it meant to be a parent to two girls who were supposed to idolize their father, see him as their protector no matter the cost and love him unconditionally. She had not known the love of a father or how to love a father and this was a unexpected defense, when her father came to her on the eve of her sixteenth birthday.

The light from the hallway crawled into her dark bedroom in slivers, growing thicker as the door opened. She felt her mattress compress with the weight of another, stirring but not waking from her slumber. She then smelled his breath, heavy with the unmistakable smell of alcohol, vodka being his preferred taste, and the cold grip of his big powerful hands at her wrist. He then heard him close to her ear, "It's time you became a woman." he whispered. She then felt the leather of his whip around her throat. On instinct alone, she returned to her place of peace and serenity, the crush of blue waves rushed up along the shore and wet the ends of her feet, sitting in the sand and waiting for the calm of the storm to pass. Her sky was not multicolored as it had always been before, but vanilla and pure of chaos. In her bed, her clothes were wrestling from around her dead heavy legs, but here, in her place of protection, she could never be anything more than what she chose to be.  The last words she heard were from her father; "Lie still bitch."

She sat on her beach, toes wiggling in the water, feeling the sand run between her toes back out to sea. The skies were now a mix of emotion, one side vanilla and the other a dark mass that continued to overpower the remaining open air with its insidious existence. The waves were cold and gentle, slowly reaching higher over her legs to her kneecaps, comforting to her old scars removing the dirt back to sea. Shortly afterward, the water began to heat up, a lukewarm feeling now tickled the bottoms of her feet. Part of her had become terrified at the change in temperature, but the other half, the half her soul resided in, reached out and took her gently by the hand. A bright glow opened up beside her, about the size of a volleyball, hovering above the sands. It too emitted a warm glow that felt much better than the water at her feet. She smiled at the light and turned her head back to the sea.

     "This is the first time he has been able to reach me here." She said.

A tear developed in one eye, building until her ducts could no longer contain it. The teardrop rushed down the side of her cheek, dangling at her chin, dropping into the hand of a new presence there with her.

     "Why do you cry?" A voice asked that sounded more like soft music in her ears.
   
     "Because, if I were to cry elsewhere, he will have won."

     "Your father?"

     "Yes."

     "He...is a bad man."

     "Yes."

     "Why don't you resist? Fight him and remove him from you?"

She thought about this for a long moment before answering.

     "Mother tells me that he does not mean it. She says he is ill, a living casualty of war."

     "Your mother lies with the beast. Instead of standing by you, she has become lost to this world, consumed by her own guilt for allowing it to continue. Your mother dwells in purgatory, but you...there is still hope for you and your sister."

     "My sister...will not be there when I wake. He..."

     "He needs to repent. His sins have offended the father and at His request, I have watched over you, given you this place; however, this place cannot save you from him now. Only you can keep him away."

The waves grew larger now, nearly covering her legs, roaring onto the shore. The no longer appeared as waves, but flashes of the past when she would fall to his mercy and feel his anger on her back, her, legs, her arms and even her face.

     "Can you help me?"

When the light did not answer, she asked the question differently. "Will you help me?" 


     "If I do, you must in turn help me, but my favor will not come soon. And, what I ask of you will not be easy. Do you trust that I will not guide you wrongfully in your journey from this day forth?"

The water just inches from covering her legs, its weight heavy enough that she began to imprint in the sands. She had always thought this place were just a figment of her imagination, to escape the horrors of her life, but the ball of light was not of her own making. It was not like the cerebral manifestations of the ocean, the skies, and the sand beneath her. This was something else entirely. And though she could not understand why, she did trust it, implicitly.

     "Yes." She cried.

Her father spread her legs with his own as he fell on top of her, kissing sloppily at her face, almost licking her as though he were a dog in heat. She braced for the moment he would enter her only to feel the weight of him lift. The room exploded in a bright white blinding light that filled the room. Her father shouted, gripped by hands he could not see, flailing in the air above his daughter's bed. Her mother ran inside the room, catching her own screams in the palm of her hand. Her husband hung in the air, slowly spinning, panicked and reaching for his wife to help him, who stood frozen with fear. She turned to the bed, where her daughter lay, shouting to her to come to her, appalled by what she was seeing and not entirely for those reasons she should be. The unseen presence in the room reached out and took hold of her mother by her throat and pushed her against the opposite wall, lifting her from the ground. She gripped at her throat as the air was cut from her lungs, kicking her feet out as she tired to find stable ground.

     "Close your eyes child, and do not open them no matter what. Return to your safe place until I come for you."

She eyed her mother a final time, closing her eyes as instructed. Both her mother and father looked in utter disbelief as their daughter sank into the bed and disappeared. Then they each witnessed the power of the being before them. The light exploded in the room, brighter than anything they had ever seen, causing them both to see nothing but white all around them.

     "Please...God! Help us!" The man shouted.

     "God? God, you say? Do you truly believe that our LORD have mercy on the pitiful sick minded sheep who lay hands upon innocent children, especially those of blood! How dare you speak blasphemy in asking for His mercy. And you, the mother of all blessed seeds, you watch this monster conduct such incredulous punishments? No. For you two, The LORD thy God isn't here. There is only I, your judge, jury and executioner. And I sentence thee...to hell."

A great pressure swelled in both their stomachs. The pain was unbearable, feeling as though a rope had been tied around their necks on one end, and bind their feet together at the other pulling with a single mighty jerk that left them both beheaded on the bedroom floor, but not before witnessing the giant armor clad archangel, holding the end of each of their ropes in his hands with a dreadfully sad face. Their white infinite existences turned black and cold and forever.

She felt the Angel at her back. His hand was warm and kind upon her shoulder.

     "Are you ready?"

     "Will I see them again?"

     "For your sake, I hope not child."

Something stirred high above. Sounds of crashing and drilling could be heard for what seemed like days, when suddenly it was all quiet once more. The body woke inside its darkened shell, the screams of the innocent still rang loudly in its ears. It had found peace and solace inside its safe haven, keeping it alive and well beneath the earth, but now the Lioness stalked impatiently down below in her hole.  A square of light opened up above, a human-like figure basked in the light from outside.

     "Jesus Christ!" A voice said.
     "Is that...is someone down there? Chief, I think we have found a survivor inside the church. Get me a medic!"

A hand touched the cold blade at her side. It was time the Lioness went on the prowl.

Interlude 2: Marquis Sabnock

The sound of the Bishop's fading heartbeat could be heard echoing the length of the Church of the New Order. The Bishop choked on his own blood that filled the cup of his holy communion and run down the side of the alter, once the chalice was full, where it pooled at the feet of the Assassin. He held the bishop as he slowly died, by his bloodstained clerical, clutched within a powerful fist that held his weight effortlessly in one hand. Satisfied that the Bishop was fully drained, he tossed the body to the side, which plodded against the wooden stage with a thud, echoing throughout the nave of the church. The Assassin stood before his peers, each of them united by an oath and vow of silence only the pontiff's ears could listen to, glistening in the pale candlelight of the vigil behind him. Those who watched from the pews winced and knee-jerked at the brutality before them, their stomachs wretched and twisted at the gore. The Assassin remained quiet and still as the blood of the Bishop slowly dried on his olive-skinned hands. He wore the tunic of the Templar Knights, the unmistakable red cross blazoned on the shoulder of his cloak, along with a second symbol that only a few among them recognized. Had it not been for the piercing red glow of his eyes, he would have been considered merely a madman with a thirst for blood on his tongue by the Priest, a random act of violence that their beloved bishop had stepped blindly in front of...but this being was clearly more than a mortal man.

The unsettling gaze skimmed over each one of the Priest, sitting among the pews closest to the sanctuary. There were a total of ten, with a dozen nuns witnessing from both the east and west transepts, mourning, praying, weeping, fearful for their lives and for the lives of the fathers. One nun in particular, sat and moved her hands slowly beneath her habit. The cold steel at her feet soothed the fires of battle within her as her fingers coiled around the end of the blade. She felt the warning hand of Mother Strange at her leg, shaking her head as cautiously and surreptitiously as possible. If the Assassin were to notice the young woman, all would be lost.

Among the Fathers, only four mattered. The voice of the Assassin, resonating the consciousness of the four Fathers, growled angrily. Eyes like those of a Eagle zeroed in on those four who shuttered frightfully as it spoke. "Ah, the sheep." The voice said.

    "Do not fear me, for those who deserve to die have already been carted to the underbelly of the world. Your chosen leader has failed all of you, among his church. The sins of the Father have gone on for far too long without judgment. I am simply the executioner. There are those of you (the four of among you who have eluded detection are no longer sheltered by His grace) in need of forgiveness of which there is none to give. Those you confide in are no longer your friends, but your enemies. The world outside these doors is no longer the world of man...or the living. Your pontiff is no longer the champion of your LORD and your Priest no longer the purest among man. Your blessed mothers are but whores with dark secrets." the Assassin turned his attention to the west transept. His sight perverse and inhumane, molesting each of them with his demented stare, their blood warming, their skin crawling with guilty pleasure, even as they tried to resist him.

The Assassin leaped down from the alter and approached the first line of pews.

     "Know this. Brother Death sits beside each of you. It is only a matter of time before he shakes your diseased filled hands. (To the four, Marquis Sabnock request your presence. I will await you outside.) Oh," The Assassin said turning for the altar. "One last thing-" He moved his hand in front of him, producing the chalice from the alter in the palm of his hand. "The blood of sin shall rain down upon you, my brothers, my legion of the living and brethren of the Dark Father."

He threw the cup high into the air. The blood spilled out from the cup into the air and spread among the pews, and then hesitated for a few long seconds, as though the blood sought out a desired target, raining down in a crimson drizzle over four Priest, caking them in the blood of the bishop without a single drop touching anyone else. The four were spread out among their peers making this more than just a freak coincidence. The Assassin smiled and turned for the large wooden doors that lead through to the vestibule. The body of the bishop caught flame and burned with an intense fire that only burned the body and the trail of blood leading up the altar, removing the evidence as though all they had witnessed had never taken place. Once Mother Strange was convinced the demon had left, she took the young woman by the arm and whisked her out through a side door beside the sanctuary that lead to the sacristy. Here, she would pull back the shag rug, revealing a trapdoor. She knelt down and took a key from her habit, unlocking it. She then motioned for the young woman to climb down inside. "No matter what you hear, do not come out from here until the 6th day!" The door shut and the young woman was immersed inside the darkness.

Moments later, she could hear faint cries and shouts of tremendous grief echoing above.

The four piled inside the waiting limo outside, saying nothing to the Assassin across from them. The death of their Bishop meant that he had once again failed to produce his end of the bargain, and his arrangement with the Dark Father was not one of second chances. The limo sped off into the night as the church erupted in a series of explosions in its rear-view mirror that leveled the home of the once proud and honorable Bishop, Antonio Verrelli.

Interlude 1

They reached from their dark graves, swatting at the angel's muddy and bloodstained feet, begging for his mercy, to release them from their personal hell, the rotting flesh hanging from the bone with a permanent look of agony fixed to their dead faces, screaming for relief and receiving no pity from the angel making his way through the yard of the damn towards the dark towers ahead. He came to a massive grave with a stone obelisk jutting up from the soil that looked as though it had been freshly dug, a featureless head had been carved into the stone facing with the letters INRI chiseled beneath it with wreckless hands, as though added after the initial construct itself. Beside the grave sat a demon, stripped of its flesh, its skull polished to a fine sheen with two large black circles that refused the light devoid of gaze, yet were aware of all things around it. The demon held a long bone flute between its hands, forever fixed to its lips and played for its theater of misery, and as it played its song of sorrow the graveyard calmed to almost a whisper. The angel then heard the bells tolling high above in the towers. Slow gongs resonated out across the gardens of hell, an invite from the inhabitant within. The Flutist stopped playing its song, but quickly started once more at a glance from the Angel who respectfully asked it to "Continue playing." with the wave of his hand. The request scorched the demon's dark soul, easing the pain once the chilling music played that also forced the dark shadows in pursuit to retreat back inside their lost tombs. The Angel eyed the obelisk, his eyes heavy with sorrow and tears as they rest upon the lettering, somewhere inside the dark tower he would find Grigori. Somewhere inside, he would find the answers he had sought for over years. Somewhere inside, he would find Baphomet and his doppelgangers waiting, a deal signed in blood long ago waiting for closure and an executor. Somewhere inside, he would find her waiting for him. Most importantly, somewhere inside the dark tower he would find his Son, The Genesis Seed.

Coming Soon!

It all started with a Motel. Unexplained things had happened there, people disappeared, others died, some were murdered, a few had been given a second chance; but, only one was chosen by God, and even he had his own secrets. The men who knew of its existence harnessed its power and utilized its potential, spreading mixed signals across the land. Those who knew, also thought the mystery of the Motel could be contained to their own dark agendas. Those who knew were very wrong. After the fallout, the darkness swarmed, the hero reborn from the fires of Christ, pit against the enemy of Satan in an eternal struggle that scorched the Earth, slaughtered its sheep and swallowed the world inside the leviathan's mouth. The serpent that never sleeps, coils itself around the Lady of Hope and squeezes her. And even now, as the Lady weeps, the hero scours the burnt wasteland in search of solace. Blessed by the Almighty only to fail in the end. He seeks answers, leaving a trail of blood in his wake. There can be no mercy, without the Angel he whispers into the ear of the dying. In order to restore humanity and slay the Leviathan, one must go beyond the veil.

You see, I have discovered the origin of the Motel and it is not as they all thought it to be. A simple manifestation that attracted sheep as the nectar of a flower attracts a hummingbird. The Motel is only a fabrication, a vessel from the world of man into the lifeless den of the damned. It is here I will find the answers I seek. It is here that I will find you, my friend. I will free you from your hell and shatter the binds that have kept you grounded all this time. I will save you, Grigori. This I swear.

September 15 2011. LORD have mercy, for the Angel will not.