Dark Urban Rising Box Set

5. Church Going

5Church GoingClosing the door of her apartment behind her, Tazia leaned back and exhaled. The shaking in her hands had all but stopped though her breath was still shallow.

The apartment was on the first floor of a converted sixteenth-century townhouse in a narrow street in the older area of Turin. She’d lived here for twenty years, off and on, sharing it with Soren for the last two of those.

After seeing the angel by the fountain, she hadn’t gone straight home, the little church located a couple of streets away had offered her respite. She went there often, for the peace and quiet, and when seeking refuge. No one ever thought to search for a demon in a church.

Today, though, it was the atmosphere she’d needed. Her skin still felt raw. Not from the serpent’s fire, but from sharing proximity with the evil emanating from the Advocate. Both would flay her alive.

Tazia had long ago learned that distinguishing good from evil was not simple. Shades of gray challenged even the purity of heavenly forms, and the darker beings that crawled from under the earth often displayed greater morality. The church had always been a place she could sort out good from bad.

The calm cold air had worked for a while. Then, instead of supporting her, the air had become icy. Freezing fingers had clawed at her. Even now, she felt caught in their bony grip.

Tazia dropped into the easy chair by the fire and pressed the remote control. The flames cast red flickers on the walls and wrapped her in comfort even the soft cushions of the purple upholstery couldn’t offer.

The apartment itself was bohemian in flavor. An eclectic mix of old and new furniture, clashing colors and styles. Along with the distractions of a book-covered shelf, a painted landscape on the wall, or the battalion of video game collectibles that stood guard on the mantelpiece, this was home.

The church was the exact opposite. No gaudy stained glass windows. Just unadorned plain white plastered walls.

But for the painting.

The canvas hung on the side wall at the end of the pews, a new addition to the décor. She’d never seen it before.

In style, it reminded her of a Bruegel. In subject matter, it depicted the division of Heaven and Hell. Angels with halos and wings, and demons with red horns and pitchforks slicing up their territories, hauling people this way or that in a seemingly arbitrary fashion. Whoever had painted it was not concerned with challenging stereotypes.

Above were the fluffy white clouds and blue expanse of the sky while below the Red River carried its cargo of condemned men and demons to Hell. The water ribboned over the ground ending in the dark cells of Permanent Incarceration.

The painting intrigued her. She’d been particularly drawn to the image of an elderly man being shunted under the red burning water with a long thin pole yielded by a skeletally thin angel. The man’s stalk-like arms were raised in supplication to the sky, the flesh already peeling from the bone in wilted leaves by the action of the acid water.

Tazia shivered. Even the memory made her cold.

She grabbed the fringed blue blanket from the back of her chair and draped it over her shoulders, then pulled herself closer to the fire. She didn’t mind the fake flames. She was used to illusion.

Usually, the pills helped her figure out what was real and what was imagined. But not today, there in the church.

While Tazia examined the figure of the man, faint screams emanated from the air. Alarmed, she’d looked around, trying to pinpoint the source of the sounds. There’d been no one else there.

Then, the screams had changed. They turned into a male voice pleading for help, one moment calling to God and the next to Satan. When she heard her own name, it clicked: her father was pleading for her help.

She’d stepped back and crashed into the end of the bench closest to her, staring at the scene in disbelief. She could see it all now. The whole painting had come alive. The river was moving. Pink foam formed on the crests of each red wave as the water surged over the heads of those who were caught there. The man was reaching out to her, his face now clearly that of her own father.

Tazia blinked to shake the memory of the picture. She stood and crossed to the sofa where she ran her hands over the soft cushions and throws, grounding herself. This is real. This is home.

In the church, she’d raised a hand there, too.

Stupidly, she touched it to the painting, looking to remind herself that it was just oil and canvas, but under her touch the vision escalated. She was no longer looking at the painting, she was inside it, staring through the metal bars of an old wooden door and looking out into the church. She could see the rows of empty pews and the crucified Christ statue that stood on the far side of the central aisle. To her right, the flickering votives on the altar cast moving shadows across the walls.

When she’d looked behind her, she realized she knew this place. She was in a cell that stood at the end of the Red River. The walls were rough-hewn slabs of stone stuck together with damp dirt and the floor was a mess of mud and blood. Water from the river had been sucked up by the heat. It condensed against the cold stone and formed tiny rivers of blood and grease that constantly dripped down the walls, keeping them and the floor forever wet. Metal and rancid fat tainted the smell of the earth.

She’d spent the first thirteen years of her life in that place, held there by her father until he’d replaced the walls and bars with the tattoos on her back to serve the same purpose: bind her movements and destroy her soul.

“No, I can’t go back!” she’d whispered. She dragged breath into her lungs and screamed.

The priest had come running. “Signorina?”

As he spoke, she’d found herself standing next to the painting again. It was perfectly still.

He hadn’t stayed to comfort her. He’d caught sight of her wild eyes and double-backed to his office at speed. “Mi scusi, signorina, mi scusi.”

Here, at the apartment, she moaned again, still feeling the pain deep in her belly.

Tazia stood and crossed to the window that faced the street below. She’d left it open to air out the room after Soren had been a little too liberal with his cologne, before they’d taken their early morning trip to the cave.

A crow settled on the roof of the house opposite, flapping its wings and cawing discontent. It turned a sulky back. She could just about make out the shine of its feathers in the moonlight.

Breathing deeply, her mind snapped back to the church.

It had been clear what she had to do.

She’d addressed the angel in the painting holding down the man under the water. “All right, you win, I’ll get my soul back. I’ll save my father. Don’t put me back there.”

As she spoke, the atmosphere in the church had changed. Around her, the air crackled like breaking ice, chilling her skin further and raising the hairs on her arms.

The angel looked up from the Red River, her voice seeping into Tazia’s mind, the voice of Venus from the fountain. “Do I have your promise, Anastasia?”

“Yes, I promise.”

The angel nodded and removed the pole from the man in the river. He bobbed up and floated away on the current, the flesh reforming on his bones. “I’ll pop in now and then, pet, just to help you if I can. I'm not the tyrant you take me for.” But the words sounded hollow and followed by her fake tinkling laugh.

Tazia returned to her place by the fire, holding her head in her hands. With that promise, her freedom had slipped away.

For almost an hour she sat stock still, raising her head only when the apartment was shrouded in darkness and luminous red flames danced crazy shapes on the walls. Outside, the crow swooped at the window so close she heard its wings beating against the glass. Little fucker, reporting God knows what, to God knows who.

Defiance bubbled in her chest. She could not let all hope die. She’d struggled far too long, fought too hard. She returned to the window and struck the frame with the flat of her hand, “I’ve got friends you know! People that love me.”

The bird squawked and flew off.

Well, one friend anyway…