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Jan. 24th, 2017 08:45 pmIf he doesn't do something, they're both dead, but Bennett will be taken by the demon and Marcus just can't allow that. For all his uptight nonsense, Bennet is one of the few decent priests Marcus has ever had the pleasure of knowing and the man is righteous and good, one of the smartest people he's ever met, and he can't let that be lost. Not to this damn demon.
It's easy to goad Maria. She's weak, it's why she's never been chosen, but Marcus turns on her, picking at her wounds, biting word that dig in like barbs and she takes the bait faster than he ever could have hoped. He's lucky. Bennett is slipping away and Marcus doesn't know how much he has left in him with all the blood he's lost.
"I am your daughter," Maria says, face up, tilted toward the swirling ash, toward the demon, her eyes shining. "Take me."
And the demon does.
Not that it's a favour, not really, because even as Marcus snaps the arm of the chair they've tied him to, he sees her fall to her knees, the foam dripping from the corners of her mouth. Too much for her, he supposes, too great a power.
He turns, smashing the wooden arm into the head of the nearest priest and from beside him he can heard Bennett fighting. Moments after nearly being possessed, bleeding to death, and he's fighting. Of course he is. Marcus smiles grimly as he hears the sound of a snapping neck.
Only Bennett could manage to fight like this.
"Sebastian," he hisses to Marcus. The Pope. The target of the Friars, the man's life is in danger and Marcus nods as he begins to untie his other arm from the chair.
"I know," he says. He'll have to leave Bennett, but they're the only ones who know about the plot, the only ones who'll be able to save him.
He feels so weak, blood still seeping from his cut wrist, but he strips off his outer shirt and tears it, wrapping it around his wrist and tying it as tight as he dares. It hurts, a searing, terrible pain, but he knows he has no other choice, and he clutches his wrist to his torso, Mother Bernadette's rosary hanging heavy and warm against his chest, and he turns. God needs him now, God is expecting him.
No one even looks his way. The streets of Chicago are filled with teeming masses of people waiting to see Pope Sebastian and Marcus stumbles through the crowds with his wrist pressed against his chest. He can see the motorcade just ahead, the black cars, the suited security men. It's not enough. He falls and he thinks for a moment he isn't going to make it, he isn't going to get to them.
But God is with him.
Marcus gets to his feet. Either side of the street is lined with people, with security fences, but there are other priests, members of the Friars, their eyes are closed and they're doing something to everyone in the crowd. People are clutching their heads, bleeding from their ears, but Marcus doesn't hear whatever they're hearing. God is protecting him. He feels Him, truly feels Him for the second time in as many weeks and he pushes on.
Brother Simon is right there, mere feet from him and he's smiling. He looks so damn happy and Marcus thinks something inside him might just snap.
Simon's hand presses to the window of the Pope's vehicle just as Marcus catches up to him. He grins, leans close, and says, "The Morningstar sends his greetings."
"And I send mine," Marcus hisses, Mother Bernadette's rosary in his hand, twined around his fingers as he lifts it and stabs the sharpened end into Simon's throat. With a twisting of his hand, he yanks, widening the wound, blood spraying. It soaks his hand, the rosary, sprays on the Pope's car window before Simon finally drops and Marcus is left standing there, a dead priest at his feet.
It's chaos. People begin to scream as the security team rises, hurrying the get the Pope away from whatever is just happened and Marcus is sure they see him, but they don't seem to register his presence. He steps back, once, then again, then shifts his shoulders sideways and slips into the crowd. He needs to get to a hospital, he needs to direct an ambulance to Bennett, he needs help, but he suddenly feels the energy draining from him.
He's served his purpose. What happens next is up to him.
He would call Tomas, but they took his phone, so he simply plods forward, one foot in front of the other, until he can't walk any further and then he drops to his knees. There's snow in the grass, small amounts here and there, and he realizes the screaming has stopped. It's quiet here save for the distant sound of voices and Marcus lifts his head to find himself kneeling in the grass beside a church.
There is no one to deliver his Last Rites, but Marcus bows his head again, swaying on his knees, and breathes, "I believe in God, the Father almighty, creator of heaven and earth. I believe in Jesus Christ, His only Son, our Lord, who was conceived of the Holy Spirit and born of the virgin Mary."
He's dying now, blood seeping through the shirt he has wrapped around his wrist. He's dying, but he's served his purpose, and for that Marcus will only ever be grateful.
It's easy to goad Maria. She's weak, it's why she's never been chosen, but Marcus turns on her, picking at her wounds, biting word that dig in like barbs and she takes the bait faster than he ever could have hoped. He's lucky. Bennett is slipping away and Marcus doesn't know how much he has left in him with all the blood he's lost.
"I am your daughter," Maria says, face up, tilted toward the swirling ash, toward the demon, her eyes shining. "Take me."
And the demon does.
Not that it's a favour, not really, because even as Marcus snaps the arm of the chair they've tied him to, he sees her fall to her knees, the foam dripping from the corners of her mouth. Too much for her, he supposes, too great a power.
He turns, smashing the wooden arm into the head of the nearest priest and from beside him he can heard Bennett fighting. Moments after nearly being possessed, bleeding to death, and he's fighting. Of course he is. Marcus smiles grimly as he hears the sound of a snapping neck.
Only Bennett could manage to fight like this.
"Sebastian," he hisses to Marcus. The Pope. The target of the Friars, the man's life is in danger and Marcus nods as he begins to untie his other arm from the chair.
"I know," he says. He'll have to leave Bennett, but they're the only ones who know about the plot, the only ones who'll be able to save him.
He feels so weak, blood still seeping from his cut wrist, but he strips off his outer shirt and tears it, wrapping it around his wrist and tying it as tight as he dares. It hurts, a searing, terrible pain, but he knows he has no other choice, and he clutches his wrist to his torso, Mother Bernadette's rosary hanging heavy and warm against his chest, and he turns. God needs him now, God is expecting him.
No one even looks his way. The streets of Chicago are filled with teeming masses of people waiting to see Pope Sebastian and Marcus stumbles through the crowds with his wrist pressed against his chest. He can see the motorcade just ahead, the black cars, the suited security men. It's not enough. He falls and he thinks for a moment he isn't going to make it, he isn't going to get to them.
But God is with him.
Marcus gets to his feet. Either side of the street is lined with people, with security fences, but there are other priests, members of the Friars, their eyes are closed and they're doing something to everyone in the crowd. People are clutching their heads, bleeding from their ears, but Marcus doesn't hear whatever they're hearing. God is protecting him. He feels Him, truly feels Him for the second time in as many weeks and he pushes on.
Brother Simon is right there, mere feet from him and he's smiling. He looks so damn happy and Marcus thinks something inside him might just snap.
Simon's hand presses to the window of the Pope's vehicle just as Marcus catches up to him. He grins, leans close, and says, "The Morningstar sends his greetings."
"And I send mine," Marcus hisses, Mother Bernadette's rosary in his hand, twined around his fingers as he lifts it and stabs the sharpened end into Simon's throat. With a twisting of his hand, he yanks, widening the wound, blood spraying. It soaks his hand, the rosary, sprays on the Pope's car window before Simon finally drops and Marcus is left standing there, a dead priest at his feet.
It's chaos. People begin to scream as the security team rises, hurrying the get the Pope away from whatever is just happened and Marcus is sure they see him, but they don't seem to register his presence. He steps back, once, then again, then shifts his shoulders sideways and slips into the crowd. He needs to get to a hospital, he needs to direct an ambulance to Bennett, he needs help, but he suddenly feels the energy draining from him.
He's served his purpose. What happens next is up to him.
He would call Tomas, but they took his phone, so he simply plods forward, one foot in front of the other, until he can't walk any further and then he drops to his knees. There's snow in the grass, small amounts here and there, and he realizes the screaming has stopped. It's quiet here save for the distant sound of voices and Marcus lifts his head to find himself kneeling in the grass beside a church.
There is no one to deliver his Last Rites, but Marcus bows his head again, swaying on his knees, and breathes, "I believe in God, the Father almighty, creator of heaven and earth. I believe in Jesus Christ, His only Son, our Lord, who was conceived of the Holy Spirit and born of the virgin Mary."
He's dying now, blood seeping through the shirt he has wrapped around his wrist. He's dying, but he's served his purpose, and for that Marcus will only ever be grateful.
