About Bloody Time...
Oct. 17th, 2010 08:28 am![[personal profile]](https://www.dreamwidth.org/img/silk/identity/user.png){kind=small}
realsorienI FINALLY got my short story done. Here it is, in all its under 6000 word supposed glory! Enjoy, and let me know what you think- Note that some of the formatting gets nuked by LJ- The section headers are supposed to be in italic and centered on the page.
January 14, 2009
The snow fell thick in St. Petersburg in January. Fat, wet flakes the clung to every surface, fuzzing even the shape of the Kremlin’s ancient onion domes. Smoke curled from hundreds of chimneys across the city, and cars quietly hummed their way about the cobbled streets, bearing their passengers to home or shopping. Pavel watched all this from the alley, and once again considered whether his fate was just or not. His companion, a smallish man bundled in several second-hand coats, watched him.
“Pavel, aren’t you cold? This wet is miserable. We should go.”
He watched his friend shift from foot to foot in the chill, likely working more wet into the holes he knew graced the shabby shoes. “You go. I still have business.”
Josef grimaced. “They hunt for you. In this part of the city you cannot be mistaken for another even in your wildest dreams!”
He knew this to be true. In the years since his Marking, he’d grown used to his disturbing visage, but nobody would ever forget seeing him. Over six feet of red-skinned devil isn’t something people forget. “I will be back at the apartment before midnight. Go. Unlike me, the cold can harm you.”
The smaller man shrugged, but it was obvious from is posture that he wasn’t unhappy with the idea of a place warm and dry. He was Marked as well, but not so obviously as his stubborn companion. “Fine. FIne. I will go. I won’t bother asking that you be careful. God be with you.”
Pavel laughed, a bitter edge to the sound. “I think God has had enough time with me.”
He watched as Josef first walked, then jogged away towards what passed as their home. As with many of the larger cities, the poor, dispossessed and Marked tended to end up in the portions of town populated by tenements and empty warehouses. A snort, and he shifted in his hooves, watching disinterestedly as the heat his Gift generated melted the heavy flakes around him. He should leave; he knew that, but within the church might lie the answers he sought. Maybe... Redemption.
Five years. God knew it seemed longer.
September 12, 2002
At twenty-three, Pavel knew he had it good. His parents were wealthy and if he got into trouble they seemed quite willing to pay his way out of it. He, of course, did what he could to get his, or their, money’s worth. “Pavel,” his father would say, “There is no need for this! Why do you do these things?” He never had an answer. He just knew he had to.
And now he’d found his true love: Fire. His gift had not appeared at puberty as it did for most of those fortunate to receive a blessing from God; not that any in his family had ever expected him to be touched in such a way. From an early age he’d been trouble, either getting into or picking fights. Later, he’d tried stealing, but it lacked the kind of kick that he was after. Likewise he’d tried drugs, but he couldn’t see the thrill of sitting around like a zombie under the influence.
And now, years later, he had fire. Glorious fire. He loved it and it loved him- no flame could burn him, and the cold of winter never touched him at all. He could watch it, his or more natural flame for hours, almost not blinking as he did. The flickering, flowing heat was hypnotic in its appeal to him, and he knew that he needed to see it at work.
Which is why he was in this derelict farmhouse in the middle of nowhere.
He called up his Gift, a shimmering ball of blue-and-gold flame building in his hands. None of it touched his calfskin gloves or tailored suit, but the feel of it, that HE was creating it, put a thrill through him like an orgasm. Nobody was within miles of this place, which is why he’d picked it. His family had purchased the land years ago, the house standing empty the entire time. He never considered that people had lived in and loved it as a home- to him it was nothing more than an overlarge test-tube for his experiments.
He started small. Glancing about, he saw the broken ruins of a table. tossing the fire in his hand like a slow-pitch softball, he lobbed it almost gently into the table, which caught with a satisfying, soft whuf of sound. He watched it burn for a time, the flickering light reflected in his dark eyes. Then, with a light grunt he made a fist of his hand- the flames exploded upwards from the table, going from the cheery yellow-and-red of a campfire to the searing white of a blast furnace! Drawing his arms to his chest, he screamed an inarticulate howl of passion, throwing his arms out from him.
From without, the house simply detonated in a blast of white fire!
Moments passed, Pavel standing in the midst of the blazing ruins, panting after the effort. He was actually feeling the heat, slightly, while he barely felt the link to his Gift at all. “So I have a limit,” he thought. “Good. Without a limit, there’s no challenge!” Following that thought, he quickly made his way to his car and drove away, letting the ruin glow in the light of the fire.
January 14, 2009- later
The cold around him had grown, not that he noticed. He could tell because the snow had become less wet and more intense. Swirls of white slowly sheeted through the now-empty streets, sometimes whirling like the dust-devils of more southerly climes. He pulled his longcoat tighter about him, unconsciously trying to conceal his inhuman form. A hat covered his head, but the horns that graced his forehead were difficult to conceal.
He’d changed position in the last hour, and now could stare at the heavy oak doors of the church, emblazoned with the eight-pointed Star of Christ. He’d never been a highly religious man; not for the first time he wondered if it would have saved him. He doubted it. Shrugging his shoulders, he went to the doors and pulled; locked. Pavel stared at the ancient wood and raised his hand to knock... But couldn’t. Maybe it wasn’t time yet. Or perhaps he was a coward. He’d no real way to know. With a quiet snort of frustration he made his way back down the steps, his hooves making obviously nonhuman tracks- but the snow would deal with that.
There was always tomorrow. It wasn’t as if he would ever be human again.
December 10, 2002
A rosy ball of flame danced above his index finger as he lit his cigarette. The night was cold and clear despite the forecast of snow, and Pavel was in a very good mood. He’d decided on his next target, and to celebrate he’d gotten American cigarettes and an insanely expensive bottle of 45 year old scotch. He grinned at the thought of what was to come, and swigged once more from the bottle. How it could taste of vanilla and flowers he’d never truly understand, but it beat hell out of the crap vodka his father preferred.
This was going to be the biggest he’d done so far. He truly wanted to tell people what he’d done and how he was doing it, but he wasn’t fool enough to think that people would understand- the wealthy simply didn’t go around committing crimes... At least, not the kind of crimes he was. He looked up at his choice; in 1962 it’d been the height of luxury hotels, but now it wasn’t much of anything. It had fallen behind in fashion, and had finally closed during the recession of the 1980‘s. Since then it had stood as a depressing corpse of a building, not even a burial to take it from sight. Pavel would fix that.
Another swig from the bottle, then he tossed the cigarette butt away; time to get down to it. After the dozen or so fires he’d caused he had a very good idea how to go about it- a lot of medium-sized fires worked a lot better than one big one, unless the target was small. He wasn’t going to ever be caught, either. No accelerants, no matches, no evidence to trace. Moving at a quick pace, he tossed balls of white-hot fire around within the building’s lowest three floors, working downwards. Things caught quickly, the stink of the burning carpet and paint growing strong in the night. By the time he reached bottom he knew it was going to be spectacular. He polished off the last of the bottle, smashing it on the floor.
All in all a good night. He jogged out into the cold to find a good place to watch the excitement.
January 16, 2009
“Pavel, stop pacing. You’re driving me mad!” Josef stared at his friend in irritation. “You’ve been like this for years and it won’t change. You know that.”
“That is not why I pace.”
“Then what? Those damned hooves of yours clomping about won’t let me rest.”
“I want to try again.”
Josef sighed. “God, why? You always go, you stare at the place and then you leave. You also go too late for the place to even be open!”
“I got to the doors, Josef. I almost knocked.”
This earned him a sharp snort of derision. “Yeah, thats close all right. Close enough to turn tail again. At least we both have an excuse for that. As if to punctuate his statement he flicked his long, spade-tipped tail. Where Pavel’s skin was all devil-red, Josef’s was still the color of human skin; however, it shifted to midnight black along the length of his tail to the tip. “Why is it so important you talk to a priest anyway?”
“You wouldn’t understand.” Pavel lit a cigarette with a finger, then sat.
“Not if you don’t tell me I won’t. At least you’re not pacing anymore.”
Minutes of silence passed. Josef watching his friend uncomfortably as the cigarette burned its way down to the filter without Pavel taking a single drag from it. Finally, the bigger man sighed and stabbed the stubby remnant out in the ashtray. “I want to know how this was done. I know why, I want to know how.”
Josef stared at his friend for a bit, then laughed. “Why the hell would that matter? The Bishop signed the order, the Cardinals did the deed and now you’re a horny bastard!” He laughed a while more, still fighting the grin after he stopped.
From where he sat Pavel glared at his friend, tail lashing. “There is more to it, but I want to know. YOU only have the tail and the ears. YOU could have things fixed by surgery. Not so, I.”
“Of all of us here you’ve always seemed the most comfortable with the changes though- why the change of heart?”
“It isn’t a change. I choose to live with it rather than against.” He lit another cigarette, plus another for Josef. “I do not belong here, save in body. I was cured of my evil when this was done to me. Most here still thrive on whatever it was that caused them to be Marked. You being an exception.”
“Yeah, well, being a con-artist kinda doesn’t work with devil ears and a tail.”
Pavel raised an eyebrow. “I know you. You could make it work if you wished.”
“... Maybe.”
“Admit it; this change took away the evil in you. I want to know why some of us are healed of our evil and others aren’t.”
“I ain’t admitting a thing. You got a bottle? I could use a hit.”
“I have nothing right now. Maybe tomorrow.”
“I like that stuff you get. You know, the not-vodka.”
“Scotch, Josef. It’s called scotch.”
“Whatever. Its good stuff.”
“I will see what I can do.” Pavel stretched. “I think I’ll try to sleep though. And I will go back tomorrow. Maybe I will go inside.”
Josef grinned. “Maybe you will.”
March 26, 2003
“FuckfuckFUCK!” The obscenities snapped from his mouth like a litany while he ran. Far behind, he heard yet another explosion, and the sirens were multiplying like a nest of angry hornets. Pavel whipped around a corner, then took the time to lean against it, panting. The night sky was lit like a late sunset from the fire, and while ordinarily he would have enjoyed the sight, things had gone far out of his control. He fumbled a cigarette out, and he was so rattled it took three times for him to light it.
“Who the hell stored explosives in abandoned office buildings?” He wondered silently. He’d scoped the place out, but he didn’t do a thorough job of it, obviously. The cops were definitely going to know something was up this time. Maybe he should lie low a while, not do anything... But still. “What could they know. Nothing, that’s what. I started the fire with my Gift- no evidence.” he brushed his hair back with his off hand, and then noticed the blood. he stared at it as it dripped, but it wasn’t too bad. Hopefully it’d be missed in the investigation.
He knew when it happened. He’d started the fires like usual, and as he’d headed to the door the first explosion bounced him off the doorframe. He must have found a jagged bit of metal or something. He yanked his handkerchief out of a pocket and tied it roughly around the gash. He’d deal with it later.
A quick jog finally brought him to his car, and he got in. Reaching under the seat he fetched out a bottle, taking a deep few swallows of the amber fluid. A few minutes later the spreading warmth from the alcohol calmed him, and his heart started to slow to a saner pulse. When he could, he finally laughed. He’d never caused explosions like that before! BoomboomBOOM, like fireworks but way too close and far too loud; his ears were still ringing, but he wasn’t sure if it was from the noise, the booze or hitting the wall. Shoving the depleted bottle back under the seat, he pulled out into the streets and made a wide circle of the inferno he’d created.
The scene was impressive. Emergency vehicles of every type were in evidence, even a few helicopters- probably the police and a couple of news choppers he thought. “Hey, I’m the worlds most famous invisible man!” With the image, he started giggling again and had to pull over until it stopped. The explosions were still going off, which made him seriously wonder what the hell he’d started. The smell in the air wasn’t fuel of any type that he knew of- more like some kind of plastic or odd chemicalish odor. He shrugged, pulling back into the street and turning around as if to avoid the congestion of the inferno.
He couldn’t wait to read about it in the morning.
January 19, 2009
Pavel lay in his bed, staring at Josef’s unconscious form in his own. He grimaced, thinking about what he’d thrown away in his foolishness, to be reduced to not even being able to afford a shithole apartment like this in a tenement without help. He wondered if the police still hunted him; he doubted it. it’d been five years since his last fire, and that one... Actually wasn’t his fault, really. Sitting up quietly, he pushed the covers off, quietly stretching as he stood. Grabbing a towel and his clothes, he stepped into the hall and into the communal bathroom.
Shutting the door, he turned on the light and looked at himself in the mirror. By now he’d stopped wincing at the sight. While his general features- strong-chinned squarish face, moderate nose and average mouth- hadn’t changed, that was about it. His skin was now a dark red, almost the color of blood. black hair covered his head, shaggy in front and tied into a ponytail in back. A pair of foot-long bull-like horns curled up from the corners of his temples, and his eyes were whiteless, yellow and slitted like a cats.
Behind him, his spade-tipped tail flicked, bare and as red as the rest of him save for the jet-black spade. Lastly, his legs, once those of a runner were now like the hindlegs of a goat, furred from hip to calf in black, bare-red skinned from hock to hoof. He was a devil, far more that than human, now.
Sighing, he showered and dried off. Rubbing his forehead with one hand he again considered asking his parents for help... But how would they react to him now? They were devout, and he was a monster- before within and now without. He angrily wiped incipient tears and dressed.
By the time he exited the tiny bathroom, other denizens of the building were wandering the halls. Mostly Marked individuals, none were as severely changed as Pavel. This gave him a bizarre form of credibility with them- most of the Marked didn’t really change much- they just kept on as they’d always done and eventually were caught. They scattered from his path as he made his way downstairs.
Out into the street, Pavel pulled his longcoat around him. Cold had never bothered him, not after his Gift awoke, but every little bit to hide his appearance helped, even if he couldn’t quite hide the horns. The morning was still dark, dawn still an hour or so off, and he made his way in practiced fashion to his usual lurking-spot across from the grand St. Peter’s Cathedral. Well out of sight, he knew, knew that this time he had to go within. Even if he left immediately, he had to pass the doors.
As he watched, the altarboys appeared and unlocked the doors. They changed a small sign to indicate this, then once again passed within. They’d thereafter go to attend to various duties within the Church; he hoped that they’d be away from the chapel. Steeling himself, he looked quickly through the streets- a few cars, but nobody really looking. With that, he committed himself and crossed, and a moment later his hand was upon the doorhandle.
December 18, 2003
“So its confirmed?” Detective-Inspector Lykov scanned over the documents as he awaited the answer.
“Yes. More then twenty fires, likely more, going back at least until October of last year. And they’re happening more frequently.” The speaker, Detective Bulovich, grimaced. “No accelerants. No evidence until the explosions on March 26- that was the blood and the empty liquor bottle.”
“Our perp has expensive tastes.”
Bulovich snorted. “But he doesn’t appreciate it. He seems to swill that scotch like it were water. Backtracking, we found bottles at a dozen other fires, and DNA matches.”
“So... What did the Bishop say?”
“He confirmed that the perp is Gifted, and frighteningly strong.”
“Likely rich or with contacts in the black market, no criminal record, no DNA on record at all other than what we’ve got from the two sites he was injured at.” Lykov looked again at the paperwork and abruptly grabbed a pen, scrawling a signature. “Get the Bishop back here. This is now the Church’s problem.”
February 10 2004
Pavel’s day had gone wonderfully. He’d won a disturbingly large pile of rubles from his friends, and happily blew it all buying liquor for himself and the bar. From there he’d gone dancing, having more than his usual luck with the ladies. In fact he’d set up a date for the next night. But tonight... He had other plans. He’d picked a new target, and it was impressive- Right downtown, and new as well. Thirty stories of glass and steel just completed and ready for its tenants to move in. He’d plied the security guard watching the place for weeks with booze, and he knew he could get the man out of the empty building without trouble. Better yet, he’d never talk. As the building wasn’t yet ready for occupants, the law prevented anyone from remaining inside- thus the guard was just checking it once every two hours on a circuit of several properties.
He’d gotten a bit smarter in his fires. He stopped drinking quite so much before and during the act, which had the side effect of making it a more enjoyable experience. On top of that, without the booze clouding his head it was easier. Just point and shoot, point and shoot. He wondered how long it would take for the place to heat up enough to collapse- initially it would be only furniture, carpet and paint that would burn. He grinned at the thought of the faces of the insurance adjusters when they saw the result of his work.
Work. Now that was a laugh. It was more art than work. And fun. “One must love one’s work to be happy in life,” he thought, and floored the gas. Only hours to go to the biggest show ever, even if it was for an audience of one.
January 9, 2009
The door opened without a single sound on well-oiled hinges. The cathedral was mostly dark, the limited light coming from candles and a very small number of electric lights. the pews were totally empty, but in the distance Pavel could hear someone moving. Taking a deep breath, he stepped forward onto the traditional blue carpet that ran the length of the pews.
Memories came with his entrance; himself as a child, chubby hand held by his father’s own as they entered the vast space, a hint of the incense that was held in the censers, the stronger scent of lit candles. But missing from the reality was the people- the chapel pews had been packed with people of all descriptions, all eyes facing the altar where a single frail-looking old man had stood.
Like the pews, that altar was now unoccupied. Pavel walked forward, taking in the scene and half-hoping, half-fearing a meeting with a churchman; the Marked weren’t forbidden within a church, but at the same time most did their best to never walk within one; and here he was, doing just that. A distant clanking drew his attention; likely someone on an errand of cleaning. Taking a deep breath of relief that he’d not encountered anyone, his eyes once again turned to the altar... And froze there.
He wasn’t alone in the chapel.
Standing there, a man was watching him warily. That the man saw that Pavel was Marked was obvious, but he wasn’t fleeing. Instead of the ancient priest of his memory, this priest was younger, in his forties at the oldest. His blue robes and black star-marked stole covering a human frame, sandy brown hair crowning the round-faced head, he stood with one hand upon the altar. Fear was in his eyes, yes, but he made no move to flee. Pavel broke the painful silence first.
“I... Will go. Forgive a sinner, I mean no harm here.”
The priest straightened, what fear there was fading to the background as he did. “Nonsense. You have come here in need; what may I help you with?”
Pavel rubbed his forehead. “It is nothing.”
“All things are something. Do you seek forgiveness?”
A pained chuckle came from Pavel’s mouth, quickly stifled. “I cannot be forgiven, Apostle. I am Marked as you see, and justly.”
“I am Apostle Petrov, my friend. May I ask a name of you? Please... Come forward and seat yourself. None will come here for hours; I take the time alone here to prepare for Noon mass.”
With slow paces, Pavel came forward. He wasn’t sure if he was actually doing the walking; he made no conscious decision to do so. Reaching the first pew, he removed his coat and hat in respect, then sat. “You do me kindness, Apostle. I am Pavel.”
“Well, Pavel. Welcome to the Cathedral of Saint Peter. May I ask what has brought you here?” Petrov himself moved forward, taking a folding chair from a stack nearby. At Pavel’s look of curiosity he says, “we keep these here for close conference with families attending for funeral or wedding rites.”
“It has been a long time since I entered this place... Or any like it,” admitted Pavel. “I recall only a little of what would take place.”
“A long time indeed to forget so much. Do you believe?”
Pavel laughed, a harsh and bitter sound. “Apostle, I have no choice!”
Flinching, Petrof looked down at the floor. “And now it is I who must ask forgiveness, Pavel. I had no desire to fling such into your face.”
“You are not the Apostle I remember being here.”
“That long...” The comment is barely audible from the Apostle. “Apostle Kleiss was ordained as Bishop fifteen years ago, and went to serve in Rome; he died last year. Have you been Marked so long?”
“No... No. It has been four years. I was last in the Cathedral when I was a small boy. My family did not attend this congregation.”
“Do you wish to confess your sins?”
Pavel stopped and stared. Apostle Petrof blinked then froze in place, obviously mere moments from running. The standoff went on until Pavel shook his head, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “I... Do not know, Apostle. What I have learned, what I have seen, I doubt it would help me. This,” he gestured at his form, “will never go away.”
“There are other reasons to confess. Other things that may need to heal.”
“May... May I have a while?”
“Of course. I will tell none of your being here; sanctuary is granted for those in need of spiritual aid.” With that, the Apostle left Pavel alone in the chapel with his thoughts.
February 11, 2004, early morning
The Masarati’s big engine howled as Pavel roared down the road, leaving his latest triumph far behind. “Now that was a show!” He yelled, the wind whipping about the car the only thing to hear his joy. The building had taken hours longer to properly catch, but when it went, it went big. Every fire brigade in St. Petersburg had been called in, and Pavel had watched from a top-floor hotel lounge close by.
He’d made all the right noises: My god, how could it have happened? Do you think it was deliberate? All of that. The barflies ate it up and added to the inane conversation until the bartender kicked them all out. Pavel had a nice buzz going, but he knew he was in full control; he always was.
Since leaving the hotel bar, Pavel had been driving hell-for-leather around town. Why not? It was late, and the poilce really didn’t want to deal with a car that could lose them easily, after all. Besides, they knew who he was. Pavel Valentenin, wealthy son of a prominent businessman, not someone to mess with. Nobody would ever mess with him. And maybe he’d walk the ashes where the city once stood and laugh.
His vision blurred a little. He blinked it clear, mostly. Maybe he’d had a bit too much... Yeah, that was it. he felt rather warm as well. It was nothing, he knew that. He whipped around a corner and headed for a bridge, generally towards home. He reached down to the bottle of scotch; empty. “It figures. More at home though! ... Why am I so hot?”
He loosened his collar, but it didn’t help. His hands started to shake, and he tightened his grip on the steering wheel to control that. HE was in control. He could handle anything; he’d proven it!
But he couldn’t. Not this time. With a unnerving puff of sound he saw his coat start to burn. It was his power, but he wasn’t controlling it! More flames flickered about, and soon the upholstery, fine leather, was burning merrily and filling the car with smoke. Pavel yelled in both anger and growing fear as more of the car was engulfed, a sensation of heat like he’d never felt before building within him.
He never saw the railing of the bridge as the car smashed through it.
He never felt it when the car exploded, throwing him into the water.
When he woke on the bank far downstream he did feel what had been done to him, and howled like the damned soul he was.
February 11, 2004, late afternoon
The crane slowly and methodically lifted the burnt, twisted wreck from the water as a small crowd gathered at the scene. A cordon was up around the jagged hole in the bridge’s guardtail, a few telltale bits of twisted metal and shattered glass telling the tale of the early morning wreck. Detective Bulovich got out of his car and approached the officer on site. “Morning. What do we got?”
“What we have is a likely very dead rich kid on a bender in his hot car.”
“You ID’d him?”
“Yeah. Car is registered to Pavel Valentinin. He’s Igor Valentinin’s kid.”
“The textiles magnate?”
The officer nodded. “That’s the guy. We’ve a lot of history on little Pavel. He’s gotten about thirty citations for reckless driving, speeding, and a fair number of alcohol-related arrests as well.”
Both men watched quietly as the wreck was set down on the bridge deck. The car was a twisted nightmare that only barely resembled a vehicle. the convertible top was gone, only the metal struts left, and the upholstery was charred away.
Bulovich leaned over and scanned the interior. “No body. Got gloves officer...”
“Lansky, sir. Here.” he handed the gloves over.
Bulovich tried the door, but it was jammed shut. Trying the passenger side, he managed to open it, a little remaining water trickling out. Leaning in, something caught his eye. “Well well well. I doubt there’s much mystery in this.” He carefully pulled a bit of broken glass out, still bearing the label of an expensive scotch.
Lansky nodded. “Judas. Look at that. Is that his shoe?” The blackened bit of leather wasn’t far from the remnants of the bottle.
“It probably came off when the body was thrown clear.”
“Body?”
“I’d guess he spilled the booze while lighting a cigarette, lit himself on fire and went off the bridge. From the damage I’ll bet he was doing at least eighty when he hit. Look- no seatbelt either.” The melted remnant was hanging retracted.
“I’ll get crews to drag the river.”
“It’ll be bad when you find him. If you find him. Right, get this hulk out of here and let the crews patch this.” Bulovich walked back to his car. “Helluva thing,” he thought, and hoped that he was off shift when the body was recovered.
January 9, 2009
“... When I came to myself, I wandered. Hid in abandoned buildings, finally took a freight car to Kiev. I stayed there for a year, then came back home... Such as it is. I’ve no idea what else to do.” Finishing his confession, Pavel went silent.
“Do you believe your fate undeserved?”
“No... No. I did terrible, wasteful things for nothing but my own entertainment. What happened is just, but I’m lost now.”
The Apostle nodded. “I think perhaps what has happened to you actually was unjust, contrary to your own belief. Your Marking is far more than would be expected; this... Severity is usually restricted to mass-murderers, serial killers, rapists. You set fires, yes. But nobody died?”
Pavel shook his head in the negative. “No. Some firefighters were hurt in the last.”
“That was certainly after the order was issued and signed. It takes weeks for such to be processed.”
Pavel remained silent at this. “Son... Pavel, what do you want?”
“I... Wish I knew. Not forgiveness. Resolution. An end of some kind so I can move on.”
“Would not the jail time resolve that?”
“It... Might. But I think I would rather people remember me dead and fondly, than alive, like this. And if I surrendered it would all come out. My father would be ruined.”
Apostle Petrov stood, then walked to the altar. Once there, he knelt and prayed. Pavel remained silent, looking up at the interior of the worship hall. Light was shining through the stained glass rosette window high above, illuminating the Star of Christ at its center. Minutes passed, and finally Pavel heard the whispered ‘amen’ from Petrov.
“Pavel, I have prayed for guidance. While no heavenly voice spoke of a miraculous solution for you I do have an idea. What you may need is a task to heal the wounds upon you own soul. To this end, go to the Cathedral of Judas the Penitent in New Jerusalem and speak to Apostle Gavin; do what tasks he gives you, until he releases you from this task. Can you do this?”
“Just do as he says?”
“His Church serves the needs of New Jerusalem, and there is a large number of the Marked there who need ministering to. He may ask you to help in that, or not. But yes, just do as he says. I will contact him when you’re ready to go.”
Pavel considered this unexpected turn. On the one hand, it didn’t solve anything. On the other... Maybe that was the point. He’d done nothing at all but survive to this point- maybe he needed to do something more. “I will do this, Apostle. Thank you for the opportunity.”
“You are quite welcome. Now... You should probably go. It approaches the Mass, and I suspect you do not wish the stir your being here would cause.”
“I will come again when I have prepared, Apostle.” With that, he turned and walked out, startling a few early arrivals. One approached the Apostle, looking concerned. “What was that doing here?” He asked.
“Just another soul seeking salvation. Perhaps he will find it.”
January 14, 2009
The snow fell thick in St. Petersburg in January. Fat, wet flakes the clung to every surface, fuzzing even the shape of the Kremlin’s ancient onion domes. Smoke curled from hundreds of chimneys across the city, and cars quietly hummed their way about the cobbled streets, bearing their passengers to home or shopping. Pavel watched all this from the alley, and once again considered whether his fate was just or not. His companion, a smallish man bundled in several second-hand coats, watched him.
“Pavel, aren’t you cold? This wet is miserable. We should go.”
He watched his friend shift from foot to foot in the chill, likely working more wet into the holes he knew graced the shabby shoes. “You go. I still have business.”
Josef grimaced. “They hunt for you. In this part of the city you cannot be mistaken for another even in your wildest dreams!”
He knew this to be true. In the years since his Marking, he’d grown used to his disturbing visage, but nobody would ever forget seeing him. Over six feet of red-skinned devil isn’t something people forget. “I will be back at the apartment before midnight. Go. Unlike me, the cold can harm you.”
The smaller man shrugged, but it was obvious from is posture that he wasn’t unhappy with the idea of a place warm and dry. He was Marked as well, but not so obviously as his stubborn companion. “Fine. FIne. I will go. I won’t bother asking that you be careful. God be with you.”
Pavel laughed, a bitter edge to the sound. “I think God has had enough time with me.”
He watched as Josef first walked, then jogged away towards what passed as their home. As with many of the larger cities, the poor, dispossessed and Marked tended to end up in the portions of town populated by tenements and empty warehouses. A snort, and he shifted in his hooves, watching disinterestedly as the heat his Gift generated melted the heavy flakes around him. He should leave; he knew that, but within the church might lie the answers he sought. Maybe... Redemption.
Five years. God knew it seemed longer.
September 12, 2002
At twenty-three, Pavel knew he had it good. His parents were wealthy and if he got into trouble they seemed quite willing to pay his way out of it. He, of course, did what he could to get his, or their, money’s worth. “Pavel,” his father would say, “There is no need for this! Why do you do these things?” He never had an answer. He just knew he had to.
And now he’d found his true love: Fire. His gift had not appeared at puberty as it did for most of those fortunate to receive a blessing from God; not that any in his family had ever expected him to be touched in such a way. From an early age he’d been trouble, either getting into or picking fights. Later, he’d tried stealing, but it lacked the kind of kick that he was after. Likewise he’d tried drugs, but he couldn’t see the thrill of sitting around like a zombie under the influence.
And now, years later, he had fire. Glorious fire. He loved it and it loved him- no flame could burn him, and the cold of winter never touched him at all. He could watch it, his or more natural flame for hours, almost not blinking as he did. The flickering, flowing heat was hypnotic in its appeal to him, and he knew that he needed to see it at work.
Which is why he was in this derelict farmhouse in the middle of nowhere.
He called up his Gift, a shimmering ball of blue-and-gold flame building in his hands. None of it touched his calfskin gloves or tailored suit, but the feel of it, that HE was creating it, put a thrill through him like an orgasm. Nobody was within miles of this place, which is why he’d picked it. His family had purchased the land years ago, the house standing empty the entire time. He never considered that people had lived in and loved it as a home- to him it was nothing more than an overlarge test-tube for his experiments.
He started small. Glancing about, he saw the broken ruins of a table. tossing the fire in his hand like a slow-pitch softball, he lobbed it almost gently into the table, which caught with a satisfying, soft whuf of sound. He watched it burn for a time, the flickering light reflected in his dark eyes. Then, with a light grunt he made a fist of his hand- the flames exploded upwards from the table, going from the cheery yellow-and-red of a campfire to the searing white of a blast furnace! Drawing his arms to his chest, he screamed an inarticulate howl of passion, throwing his arms out from him.
From without, the house simply detonated in a blast of white fire!
Moments passed, Pavel standing in the midst of the blazing ruins, panting after the effort. He was actually feeling the heat, slightly, while he barely felt the link to his Gift at all. “So I have a limit,” he thought. “Good. Without a limit, there’s no challenge!” Following that thought, he quickly made his way to his car and drove away, letting the ruin glow in the light of the fire.
January 14, 2009- later
The cold around him had grown, not that he noticed. He could tell because the snow had become less wet and more intense. Swirls of white slowly sheeted through the now-empty streets, sometimes whirling like the dust-devils of more southerly climes. He pulled his longcoat tighter about him, unconsciously trying to conceal his inhuman form. A hat covered his head, but the horns that graced his forehead were difficult to conceal.
He’d changed position in the last hour, and now could stare at the heavy oak doors of the church, emblazoned with the eight-pointed Star of Christ. He’d never been a highly religious man; not for the first time he wondered if it would have saved him. He doubted it. Shrugging his shoulders, he went to the doors and pulled; locked. Pavel stared at the ancient wood and raised his hand to knock... But couldn’t. Maybe it wasn’t time yet. Or perhaps he was a coward. He’d no real way to know. With a quiet snort of frustration he made his way back down the steps, his hooves making obviously nonhuman tracks- but the snow would deal with that.
There was always tomorrow. It wasn’t as if he would ever be human again.
December 10, 2002
A rosy ball of flame danced above his index finger as he lit his cigarette. The night was cold and clear despite the forecast of snow, and Pavel was in a very good mood. He’d decided on his next target, and to celebrate he’d gotten American cigarettes and an insanely expensive bottle of 45 year old scotch. He grinned at the thought of what was to come, and swigged once more from the bottle. How it could taste of vanilla and flowers he’d never truly understand, but it beat hell out of the crap vodka his father preferred.
This was going to be the biggest he’d done so far. He truly wanted to tell people what he’d done and how he was doing it, but he wasn’t fool enough to think that people would understand- the wealthy simply didn’t go around committing crimes... At least, not the kind of crimes he was. He looked up at his choice; in 1962 it’d been the height of luxury hotels, but now it wasn’t much of anything. It had fallen behind in fashion, and had finally closed during the recession of the 1980‘s. Since then it had stood as a depressing corpse of a building, not even a burial to take it from sight. Pavel would fix that.
Another swig from the bottle, then he tossed the cigarette butt away; time to get down to it. After the dozen or so fires he’d caused he had a very good idea how to go about it- a lot of medium-sized fires worked a lot better than one big one, unless the target was small. He wasn’t going to ever be caught, either. No accelerants, no matches, no evidence to trace. Moving at a quick pace, he tossed balls of white-hot fire around within the building’s lowest three floors, working downwards. Things caught quickly, the stink of the burning carpet and paint growing strong in the night. By the time he reached bottom he knew it was going to be spectacular. He polished off the last of the bottle, smashing it on the floor.
All in all a good night. He jogged out into the cold to find a good place to watch the excitement.
January 16, 2009
“Pavel, stop pacing. You’re driving me mad!” Josef stared at his friend in irritation. “You’ve been like this for years and it won’t change. You know that.”
“That is not why I pace.”
“Then what? Those damned hooves of yours clomping about won’t let me rest.”
“I want to try again.”
Josef sighed. “God, why? You always go, you stare at the place and then you leave. You also go too late for the place to even be open!”
“I got to the doors, Josef. I almost knocked.”
This earned him a sharp snort of derision. “Yeah, thats close all right. Close enough to turn tail again. At least we both have an excuse for that. As if to punctuate his statement he flicked his long, spade-tipped tail. Where Pavel’s skin was all devil-red, Josef’s was still the color of human skin; however, it shifted to midnight black along the length of his tail to the tip. “Why is it so important you talk to a priest anyway?”
“You wouldn’t understand.” Pavel lit a cigarette with a finger, then sat.
“Not if you don’t tell me I won’t. At least you’re not pacing anymore.”
Minutes of silence passed. Josef watching his friend uncomfortably as the cigarette burned its way down to the filter without Pavel taking a single drag from it. Finally, the bigger man sighed and stabbed the stubby remnant out in the ashtray. “I want to know how this was done. I know why, I want to know how.”
Josef stared at his friend for a bit, then laughed. “Why the hell would that matter? The Bishop signed the order, the Cardinals did the deed and now you’re a horny bastard!” He laughed a while more, still fighting the grin after he stopped.
From where he sat Pavel glared at his friend, tail lashing. “There is more to it, but I want to know. YOU only have the tail and the ears. YOU could have things fixed by surgery. Not so, I.”
“Of all of us here you’ve always seemed the most comfortable with the changes though- why the change of heart?”
“It isn’t a change. I choose to live with it rather than against.” He lit another cigarette, plus another for Josef. “I do not belong here, save in body. I was cured of my evil when this was done to me. Most here still thrive on whatever it was that caused them to be Marked. You being an exception.”
“Yeah, well, being a con-artist kinda doesn’t work with devil ears and a tail.”
Pavel raised an eyebrow. “I know you. You could make it work if you wished.”
“... Maybe.”
“Admit it; this change took away the evil in you. I want to know why some of us are healed of our evil and others aren’t.”
“I ain’t admitting a thing. You got a bottle? I could use a hit.”
“I have nothing right now. Maybe tomorrow.”
“I like that stuff you get. You know, the not-vodka.”
“Scotch, Josef. It’s called scotch.”
“Whatever. Its good stuff.”
“I will see what I can do.” Pavel stretched. “I think I’ll try to sleep though. And I will go back tomorrow. Maybe I will go inside.”
Josef grinned. “Maybe you will.”
March 26, 2003
“FuckfuckFUCK!” The obscenities snapped from his mouth like a litany while he ran. Far behind, he heard yet another explosion, and the sirens were multiplying like a nest of angry hornets. Pavel whipped around a corner, then took the time to lean against it, panting. The night sky was lit like a late sunset from the fire, and while ordinarily he would have enjoyed the sight, things had gone far out of his control. He fumbled a cigarette out, and he was so rattled it took three times for him to light it.
“Who the hell stored explosives in abandoned office buildings?” He wondered silently. He’d scoped the place out, but he didn’t do a thorough job of it, obviously. The cops were definitely going to know something was up this time. Maybe he should lie low a while, not do anything... But still. “What could they know. Nothing, that’s what. I started the fire with my Gift- no evidence.” he brushed his hair back with his off hand, and then noticed the blood. he stared at it as it dripped, but it wasn’t too bad. Hopefully it’d be missed in the investigation.
He knew when it happened. He’d started the fires like usual, and as he’d headed to the door the first explosion bounced him off the doorframe. He must have found a jagged bit of metal or something. He yanked his handkerchief out of a pocket and tied it roughly around the gash. He’d deal with it later.
A quick jog finally brought him to his car, and he got in. Reaching under the seat he fetched out a bottle, taking a deep few swallows of the amber fluid. A few minutes later the spreading warmth from the alcohol calmed him, and his heart started to slow to a saner pulse. When he could, he finally laughed. He’d never caused explosions like that before! BoomboomBOOM, like fireworks but way too close and far too loud; his ears were still ringing, but he wasn’t sure if it was from the noise, the booze or hitting the wall. Shoving the depleted bottle back under the seat, he pulled out into the streets and made a wide circle of the inferno he’d created.
The scene was impressive. Emergency vehicles of every type were in evidence, even a few helicopters- probably the police and a couple of news choppers he thought. “Hey, I’m the worlds most famous invisible man!” With the image, he started giggling again and had to pull over until it stopped. The explosions were still going off, which made him seriously wonder what the hell he’d started. The smell in the air wasn’t fuel of any type that he knew of- more like some kind of plastic or odd chemicalish odor. He shrugged, pulling back into the street and turning around as if to avoid the congestion of the inferno.
He couldn’t wait to read about it in the morning.
January 19, 2009
Pavel lay in his bed, staring at Josef’s unconscious form in his own. He grimaced, thinking about what he’d thrown away in his foolishness, to be reduced to not even being able to afford a shithole apartment like this in a tenement without help. He wondered if the police still hunted him; he doubted it. it’d been five years since his last fire, and that one... Actually wasn’t his fault, really. Sitting up quietly, he pushed the covers off, quietly stretching as he stood. Grabbing a towel and his clothes, he stepped into the hall and into the communal bathroom.
Shutting the door, he turned on the light and looked at himself in the mirror. By now he’d stopped wincing at the sight. While his general features- strong-chinned squarish face, moderate nose and average mouth- hadn’t changed, that was about it. His skin was now a dark red, almost the color of blood. black hair covered his head, shaggy in front and tied into a ponytail in back. A pair of foot-long bull-like horns curled up from the corners of his temples, and his eyes were whiteless, yellow and slitted like a cats.
Behind him, his spade-tipped tail flicked, bare and as red as the rest of him save for the jet-black spade. Lastly, his legs, once those of a runner were now like the hindlegs of a goat, furred from hip to calf in black, bare-red skinned from hock to hoof. He was a devil, far more that than human, now.
Sighing, he showered and dried off. Rubbing his forehead with one hand he again considered asking his parents for help... But how would they react to him now? They were devout, and he was a monster- before within and now without. He angrily wiped incipient tears and dressed.
By the time he exited the tiny bathroom, other denizens of the building were wandering the halls. Mostly Marked individuals, none were as severely changed as Pavel. This gave him a bizarre form of credibility with them- most of the Marked didn’t really change much- they just kept on as they’d always done and eventually were caught. They scattered from his path as he made his way downstairs.
Out into the street, Pavel pulled his longcoat around him. Cold had never bothered him, not after his Gift awoke, but every little bit to hide his appearance helped, even if he couldn’t quite hide the horns. The morning was still dark, dawn still an hour or so off, and he made his way in practiced fashion to his usual lurking-spot across from the grand St. Peter’s Cathedral. Well out of sight, he knew, knew that this time he had to go within. Even if he left immediately, he had to pass the doors.
As he watched, the altarboys appeared and unlocked the doors. They changed a small sign to indicate this, then once again passed within. They’d thereafter go to attend to various duties within the Church; he hoped that they’d be away from the chapel. Steeling himself, he looked quickly through the streets- a few cars, but nobody really looking. With that, he committed himself and crossed, and a moment later his hand was upon the doorhandle.
December 18, 2003
“So its confirmed?” Detective-Inspector Lykov scanned over the documents as he awaited the answer.
“Yes. More then twenty fires, likely more, going back at least until October of last year. And they’re happening more frequently.” The speaker, Detective Bulovich, grimaced. “No accelerants. No evidence until the explosions on March 26- that was the blood and the empty liquor bottle.”
“Our perp has expensive tastes.”
Bulovich snorted. “But he doesn’t appreciate it. He seems to swill that scotch like it were water. Backtracking, we found bottles at a dozen other fires, and DNA matches.”
“So... What did the Bishop say?”
“He confirmed that the perp is Gifted, and frighteningly strong.”
“Likely rich or with contacts in the black market, no criminal record, no DNA on record at all other than what we’ve got from the two sites he was injured at.” Lykov looked again at the paperwork and abruptly grabbed a pen, scrawling a signature. “Get the Bishop back here. This is now the Church’s problem.”
February 10 2004
Pavel’s day had gone wonderfully. He’d won a disturbingly large pile of rubles from his friends, and happily blew it all buying liquor for himself and the bar. From there he’d gone dancing, having more than his usual luck with the ladies. In fact he’d set up a date for the next night. But tonight... He had other plans. He’d picked a new target, and it was impressive- Right downtown, and new as well. Thirty stories of glass and steel just completed and ready for its tenants to move in. He’d plied the security guard watching the place for weeks with booze, and he knew he could get the man out of the empty building without trouble. Better yet, he’d never talk. As the building wasn’t yet ready for occupants, the law prevented anyone from remaining inside- thus the guard was just checking it once every two hours on a circuit of several properties.
He’d gotten a bit smarter in his fires. He stopped drinking quite so much before and during the act, which had the side effect of making it a more enjoyable experience. On top of that, without the booze clouding his head it was easier. Just point and shoot, point and shoot. He wondered how long it would take for the place to heat up enough to collapse- initially it would be only furniture, carpet and paint that would burn. He grinned at the thought of the faces of the insurance adjusters when they saw the result of his work.
Work. Now that was a laugh. It was more art than work. And fun. “One must love one’s work to be happy in life,” he thought, and floored the gas. Only hours to go to the biggest show ever, even if it was for an audience of one.
January 9, 2009
The door opened without a single sound on well-oiled hinges. The cathedral was mostly dark, the limited light coming from candles and a very small number of electric lights. the pews were totally empty, but in the distance Pavel could hear someone moving. Taking a deep breath, he stepped forward onto the traditional blue carpet that ran the length of the pews.
Memories came with his entrance; himself as a child, chubby hand held by his father’s own as they entered the vast space, a hint of the incense that was held in the censers, the stronger scent of lit candles. But missing from the reality was the people- the chapel pews had been packed with people of all descriptions, all eyes facing the altar where a single frail-looking old man had stood.
Like the pews, that altar was now unoccupied. Pavel walked forward, taking in the scene and half-hoping, half-fearing a meeting with a churchman; the Marked weren’t forbidden within a church, but at the same time most did their best to never walk within one; and here he was, doing just that. A distant clanking drew his attention; likely someone on an errand of cleaning. Taking a deep breath of relief that he’d not encountered anyone, his eyes once again turned to the altar... And froze there.
He wasn’t alone in the chapel.
Standing there, a man was watching him warily. That the man saw that Pavel was Marked was obvious, but he wasn’t fleeing. Instead of the ancient priest of his memory, this priest was younger, in his forties at the oldest. His blue robes and black star-marked stole covering a human frame, sandy brown hair crowning the round-faced head, he stood with one hand upon the altar. Fear was in his eyes, yes, but he made no move to flee. Pavel broke the painful silence first.
“I... Will go. Forgive a sinner, I mean no harm here.”
The priest straightened, what fear there was fading to the background as he did. “Nonsense. You have come here in need; what may I help you with?”
Pavel rubbed his forehead. “It is nothing.”
“All things are something. Do you seek forgiveness?”
A pained chuckle came from Pavel’s mouth, quickly stifled. “I cannot be forgiven, Apostle. I am Marked as you see, and justly.”
“I am Apostle Petrov, my friend. May I ask a name of you? Please... Come forward and seat yourself. None will come here for hours; I take the time alone here to prepare for Noon mass.”
With slow paces, Pavel came forward. He wasn’t sure if he was actually doing the walking; he made no conscious decision to do so. Reaching the first pew, he removed his coat and hat in respect, then sat. “You do me kindness, Apostle. I am Pavel.”
“Well, Pavel. Welcome to the Cathedral of Saint Peter. May I ask what has brought you here?” Petrov himself moved forward, taking a folding chair from a stack nearby. At Pavel’s look of curiosity he says, “we keep these here for close conference with families attending for funeral or wedding rites.”
“It has been a long time since I entered this place... Or any like it,” admitted Pavel. “I recall only a little of what would take place.”
“A long time indeed to forget so much. Do you believe?”
Pavel laughed, a harsh and bitter sound. “Apostle, I have no choice!”
Flinching, Petrof looked down at the floor. “And now it is I who must ask forgiveness, Pavel. I had no desire to fling such into your face.”
“You are not the Apostle I remember being here.”
“That long...” The comment is barely audible from the Apostle. “Apostle Kleiss was ordained as Bishop fifteen years ago, and went to serve in Rome; he died last year. Have you been Marked so long?”
“No... No. It has been four years. I was last in the Cathedral when I was a small boy. My family did not attend this congregation.”
“Do you wish to confess your sins?”
Pavel stopped and stared. Apostle Petrof blinked then froze in place, obviously mere moments from running. The standoff went on until Pavel shook his head, rubbing the bridge of his nose. “I... Do not know, Apostle. What I have learned, what I have seen, I doubt it would help me. This,” he gestured at his form, “will never go away.”
“There are other reasons to confess. Other things that may need to heal.”
“May... May I have a while?”
“Of course. I will tell none of your being here; sanctuary is granted for those in need of spiritual aid.” With that, the Apostle left Pavel alone in the chapel with his thoughts.
February 11, 2004, early morning
The Masarati’s big engine howled as Pavel roared down the road, leaving his latest triumph far behind. “Now that was a show!” He yelled, the wind whipping about the car the only thing to hear his joy. The building had taken hours longer to properly catch, but when it went, it went big. Every fire brigade in St. Petersburg had been called in, and Pavel had watched from a top-floor hotel lounge close by.
He’d made all the right noises: My god, how could it have happened? Do you think it was deliberate? All of that. The barflies ate it up and added to the inane conversation until the bartender kicked them all out. Pavel had a nice buzz going, but he knew he was in full control; he always was.
Since leaving the hotel bar, Pavel had been driving hell-for-leather around town. Why not? It was late, and the poilce really didn’t want to deal with a car that could lose them easily, after all. Besides, they knew who he was. Pavel Valentenin, wealthy son of a prominent businessman, not someone to mess with. Nobody would ever mess with him. And maybe he’d walk the ashes where the city once stood and laugh.
His vision blurred a little. He blinked it clear, mostly. Maybe he’d had a bit too much... Yeah, that was it. he felt rather warm as well. It was nothing, he knew that. He whipped around a corner and headed for a bridge, generally towards home. He reached down to the bottle of scotch; empty. “It figures. More at home though! ... Why am I so hot?”
He loosened his collar, but it didn’t help. His hands started to shake, and he tightened his grip on the steering wheel to control that. HE was in control. He could handle anything; he’d proven it!
But he couldn’t. Not this time. With a unnerving puff of sound he saw his coat start to burn. It was his power, but he wasn’t controlling it! More flames flickered about, and soon the upholstery, fine leather, was burning merrily and filling the car with smoke. Pavel yelled in both anger and growing fear as more of the car was engulfed, a sensation of heat like he’d never felt before building within him.
He never saw the railing of the bridge as the car smashed through it.
He never felt it when the car exploded, throwing him into the water.
When he woke on the bank far downstream he did feel what had been done to him, and howled like the damned soul he was.
February 11, 2004, late afternoon
The crane slowly and methodically lifted the burnt, twisted wreck from the water as a small crowd gathered at the scene. A cordon was up around the jagged hole in the bridge’s guardtail, a few telltale bits of twisted metal and shattered glass telling the tale of the early morning wreck. Detective Bulovich got out of his car and approached the officer on site. “Morning. What do we got?”
“What we have is a likely very dead rich kid on a bender in his hot car.”
“You ID’d him?”
“Yeah. Car is registered to Pavel Valentinin. He’s Igor Valentinin’s kid.”
“The textiles magnate?”
The officer nodded. “That’s the guy. We’ve a lot of history on little Pavel. He’s gotten about thirty citations for reckless driving, speeding, and a fair number of alcohol-related arrests as well.”
Both men watched quietly as the wreck was set down on the bridge deck. The car was a twisted nightmare that only barely resembled a vehicle. the convertible top was gone, only the metal struts left, and the upholstery was charred away.
Bulovich leaned over and scanned the interior. “No body. Got gloves officer...”
“Lansky, sir. Here.” he handed the gloves over.
Bulovich tried the door, but it was jammed shut. Trying the passenger side, he managed to open it, a little remaining water trickling out. Leaning in, something caught his eye. “Well well well. I doubt there’s much mystery in this.” He carefully pulled a bit of broken glass out, still bearing the label of an expensive scotch.
Lansky nodded. “Judas. Look at that. Is that his shoe?” The blackened bit of leather wasn’t far from the remnants of the bottle.
“It probably came off when the body was thrown clear.”
“Body?”
“I’d guess he spilled the booze while lighting a cigarette, lit himself on fire and went off the bridge. From the damage I’ll bet he was doing at least eighty when he hit. Look- no seatbelt either.” The melted remnant was hanging retracted.
“I’ll get crews to drag the river.”
“It’ll be bad when you find him. If you find him. Right, get this hulk out of here and let the crews patch this.” Bulovich walked back to his car. “Helluva thing,” he thought, and hoped that he was off shift when the body was recovered.
January 9, 2009
“... When I came to myself, I wandered. Hid in abandoned buildings, finally took a freight car to Kiev. I stayed there for a year, then came back home... Such as it is. I’ve no idea what else to do.” Finishing his confession, Pavel went silent.
“Do you believe your fate undeserved?”
“No... No. I did terrible, wasteful things for nothing but my own entertainment. What happened is just, but I’m lost now.”
The Apostle nodded. “I think perhaps what has happened to you actually was unjust, contrary to your own belief. Your Marking is far more than would be expected; this... Severity is usually restricted to mass-murderers, serial killers, rapists. You set fires, yes. But nobody died?”
Pavel shook his head in the negative. “No. Some firefighters were hurt in the last.”
“That was certainly after the order was issued and signed. It takes weeks for such to be processed.”
Pavel remained silent at this. “Son... Pavel, what do you want?”
“I... Wish I knew. Not forgiveness. Resolution. An end of some kind so I can move on.”
“Would not the jail time resolve that?”
“It... Might. But I think I would rather people remember me dead and fondly, than alive, like this. And if I surrendered it would all come out. My father would be ruined.”
Apostle Petrov stood, then walked to the altar. Once there, he knelt and prayed. Pavel remained silent, looking up at the interior of the worship hall. Light was shining through the stained glass rosette window high above, illuminating the Star of Christ at its center. Minutes passed, and finally Pavel heard the whispered ‘amen’ from Petrov.
“Pavel, I have prayed for guidance. While no heavenly voice spoke of a miraculous solution for you I do have an idea. What you may need is a task to heal the wounds upon you own soul. To this end, go to the Cathedral of Judas the Penitent in New Jerusalem and speak to Apostle Gavin; do what tasks he gives you, until he releases you from this task. Can you do this?”
“Just do as he says?”
“His Church serves the needs of New Jerusalem, and there is a large number of the Marked there who need ministering to. He may ask you to help in that, or not. But yes, just do as he says. I will contact him when you’re ready to go.”
Pavel considered this unexpected turn. On the one hand, it didn’t solve anything. On the other... Maybe that was the point. He’d done nothing at all but survive to this point- maybe he needed to do something more. “I will do this, Apostle. Thank you for the opportunity.”
“You are quite welcome. Now... You should probably go. It approaches the Mass, and I suspect you do not wish the stir your being here would cause.”
“I will come again when I have prepared, Apostle.” With that, he turned and walked out, startling a few early arrivals. One approached the Apostle, looking concerned. “What was that doing here?” He asked.
“Just another soul seeking salvation. Perhaps he will find it.”
