Play with Fire

chapter Five





FATHER JOE WOKE up with a headache that dwarfed any he’d had in the past, and the priest had known more than his fair share of headaches over the years.

Then he opened his eyes, and realized that the throbbing in his skull was the least of his problems.

He was naked, lying on his back atop something that was smooth, hard and cold. A quick glance around told him that he was in the sanctuary of his own church, Saint Bartholomew’s, and his position relative to other objects he knew well – the pulpit, statue of Saint Bartholomew and the rank of offertory candles – meant that he was atop the altar, devoid of the ceremonial cloth that usually draped it. He tried to move, and found that his wrists and ankles were somehow tied to the marble slab with rope. He was trying to wrap his mind around his predicament and figure out both how he’d got here and what it meant, when a pleasant male voice said from behind him, “Welcome back to the land of the living, Father – although I don’t think you’ll be staying.”

Father Joe strained his neck in an effort to get a look at the speaker, but the man was already moving. He passed through the periphery of the priest’s vision and a second later was standing at his feet, gazing down at Father Joe with an expression of amused contempt.

The man appeared to be of average height and build. His midnight-black hair was brushed straight back, and a well-trimmed goatee encircled his mouth. His shirt and slacks were of the same color as his hair.

Father Joe took all this in within an instant, then his attention was riveted on the knife the man was holding. It was more of a dagger, really, at least a foot long from the ebony hilt to the tip of a blade that glinted briefly in the ceiling lights. The man toyed with it as he spoke, allowing Father Joe to see that the hilt was intricately carved, with small jewels worked into the wood.

The man’s face briefly split into a grin. “You like the getup? Like something out of a bad horror movie, isn’t it? And the facial hair adds a nicely Satanic touch, don’t you think? Personally, I prefer a nice gray Armani, or even a sweatshirt and jeans for casual wear. But my disciples expect this kind of image, and in this age image is everything, or very nearly. Don’t you agree, Father?”

The man tilted his head a little, not waiting for a response. “Do you know, I don’t believe I’ve called anyone ‘Father’ since the old man died, lo those many years ago.” A dreamy expression briefly appeared on the man’s face, but it was the kind of dream from which you’d wake up screaming. “What I wouldn’t give to have him trussed up there, in your place. I could keep him alive and screaming for hours, I expect.”

“In any case, you’re far more appropriate for my purpose.”

Father Joe tried to speak, and failed, his voice box constricted with fear. He cleared his throat and tried again. “And what purpose is that, exactly?”

The man raised an eyebrow. “I would have thought that was obvious. Where are you now, Father? I mean specifically.”

After a few seconds, Father Joe was able to croak, “On the altar.”

“Very good. And what purpose does any altar serve, hmmm?”

Father Joe didn’t try to speak this time – but he didn’t have to.

The man in black smiled, as if at a prize pupil. “Exactly – a sacrifice. A more meaningful one than that charade you go through here every weekday and twice on Sundays.”

He raised his head and looked toward the back of the church. “Stop dragging your asses and get it finished, people.” His voice echoed in the near-empty building. “I’d rather not explain what we’re about to the half-dozen old bags who show up for six o’clock mass!”

Looking back at the priest he said, more conversationally, “Actually, it might be rather amusing to have them here and make them watch what we’re going to do to you. But we need to be done and gone before the cock crows, more’s the pity.”

“Done – with what?” Father Joe croaked.

“Why, the ritual, of course, the final step of which will require us to burn this place to the ground. That’s what my minions – I just love that word – are doing, however slowly. Setting incendiaries at strategic points, to make sure this holy shithole burns hot and fast. We can’t have the fire department saving any of it – it just wouldn’t do, you know.”

He peered at Father Joe for a moment. “I see the prospect of burning alive has just occurred to you. Don’t worry, Father – we’ll be finished with you before the incendiaries go off. You’ll be spared the experience of the flames – which is more than your church did for many of my brethren, back in the old days. The Burning Times, they call that period now, did you know? Well, guess what – the Burning Times are back. Only this time, we’ll be doing the burning. And when we’re done, all of you will burn.”

“You mean... all... priests?” Father Joe had to force the words out.

“Oh, no, my dear man. You’re thinking on too small a scale. I have something rather... Ah, but it seems that the minions are done, at last. Come on, children – gather ’round!”

Soon Father Joe was surrounded by three more people. He recognized one of the men as the one who’d lured him out of the rectory. He’d been joined by a red-haired woman with a hard face, and another man with a large build and vacant expression. The first two produced sheets of paper with words typed on both sides and held them expectantly. The man in black looked at the third. “Don’t tell me Mark, that you’ve forgotten your copy of the ritual. For your own sake, don’t you tell me that.”

The large shoulders lifted and fell in a shrug. “I already got it memorized, Ware. I’m good to go.”

“I don’t care if you think you know it by memory. The invocation has to be done precisely as written, and I don’t want you getting all excited and forgetting something once things start to get messy. Now get out your copy!”

“Okay, okay. Be cool.” Mark produced a folded sheet of paper and opened it out.

“That’s better.” The man in black looked at Father Joe. “It may occur to you to try disrupting the proceedings with some of your holy mumbo-jumbo. Be advised at the first word from you – the very first – I will cut out your tongue. Understood?”

Father Joe nodded.

“Very well.” The man in black looked at the others. “Let us begin.”

The four of them began to chant, in a language that had already been old when Christianity was young. The priest prayed silently – not for deliverance, but for God to receive his soul on the other side, despite what Father Joe regarded as his many sins and shortcomings. He was distracting himself by considering the theological question of whether what was about to happen to him constituted martyrdom when the voices ceased.

“Very good,” the man in black said. I’m sure our Master will be pleased. Now let’s really make him happy.”

He picked up the big knife and stepped forward.

Over the next few minutes, Father Joe tried very hard not to scream. But his resolve lasted less than thirty seconds.