Debris of Shadows_Book II_The Forgotten Cathedral Read online

  “Yes,” he said, his voice a rasp. He had had ample opportunity to hobble to the window and see for himself, but so far, he had not dared. Visions of the shattered and surreal remains of Phoenix flashed in his mind. What sacrilege had he committed in his delirium? What kind of nightmare landscape had he created that would make her act this way?

  He had fabricated a walking stick from a broom handle. He leaned on it as he made his way to the outer door of the camp. He opened it, and stumbled into his city.

  The sunlight that greeted him glinted off towers of layered diamond and glass. The prism effect created rainbow spirals within their facades that seemed to recede into infinity. His face broke into a grin. Sister Theresa stepped alongside him, and he turned to face her.

  She was not smiling.

  He shrugged. Her cold, judgmental scowl could not compete with the giddy sense of joy that flowed through him. He climbed the granite steps of the nearest building. The stain of its double doors was such a deep mixture of cherry and black that light seemed to be sucked into it. Ornate carvings reminiscent of Egyptian hieroglyphics adorned their frame. He ran his fingertips along the edges of their jagged, polished script. Had this really existed within the folds of his mind? He had never seen such craftsmanship. He turned back to Theresa, his face beaming.

  “It’s beautiful,” he said. “It’s the most beautiful —”

  She struck him.

  He staggered back, falling against the door. She loomed over him, blocking out the sun. He raised a shaking arm to protect himself, hiding his stinging face.

  “You have to destroy it,” she said. “You have to do it again.”

  “Have you gone insane?” he asked. “You hit me. What —”

  “Shut up,” she said, “and be glad I haven’t alerted the Church. Otherwise, the abbot and probably the Magistrate himself would be here right now.” She took deep, gasping breaths, closed her eyes, and swallowed. She opened them again. “Look at it,” she said, fighting to keep her voice calm. “Look hard. What do you see?”

  Asher stared up at her. “I can barely walk,” he said, “and you hit me. You crazy —”

  “Fine,” she said, as if he had not spoken. “I see sidewalks that don’t have a single crack. I see a city full of windows that must have been scrubbed right up to the moment the Shadows fell, because there’s not one streak upon them, nor is there a single, white glob of pigeon shit in your entire city.” She breathed in through her nose. “What do you smell?”

  He shrugged. She walked down the steps to a dumpster beside a restaurant. She raised its lid. It was piled high with refuse, some of it vegetables and meat. She inhaled deeply through her nose, and shook her head. She stepped away from it, and waved him over. With a wary eye, he limped to the receptacle, and sniffed. His stomach sank. Not only did the garbage not reek, its mixture of rotting foodstuffs actually smelled good.

  She approached the nearest apartment building, and walked inside. Asher followed in silence. Once past the threshold, his bare feet sank into plush, luxurious, carpet. She picked a door at random, turned its polished brass knob, and entered.

  An overflowing bookshelf stood in the foyer. He chose a paperback, thumbed through it, then another, and then another. Each was in perfect condition, as if they had been printed that morning.

  They walked from room to room. The toilet and shower were so clean, they sparkled. The beds were made, their linens fresh and soft. “They’re all like this,” said Theresa, “at least all of the ones I’ve seen.” She led the way to the den. “Look at the couch,” she said, pointing. An open wine bottle lay upon it, its burgundy contents stopping just at the tip of its prone mouth. “It must have spilled, so why aren’t there any stains?”

  They walked back to the main hallway, and up the stairs to another apartment. As before, the beds were perfectly made. A syringe, lined with a glowing, orange residue lay on one, beside a length of rubber tubing and a pile of Life Sands.

  “It’s Tangerine,” she said. “The woman in this apartment was shooting up, just as the Shadows fell.”

  Asher nodded. “It’s very sad,” he said, “but unfortunately not that uncommon. What’s the problem?”

  “Read the entry.” She pointed to a bound notebook lying on the frilly pillow, amidst a scattering of glistening Sands. Asher swallowed. This is where the woman’s body would lie, when he resurrected her. This is where she would lie in the midst of her high, her body’s agonized dependence only sated for a tiny while. What a joke. He read the diary. He read it again. He felt something twist within his gut that he did not understand, and did not want to. He handed it back to her. “I’m not a psychiatrist,” he said, his voice weak.

  She yanked it from his fingers. “Dear Ophanim,” she read, “thank You. Thank You for giving me life, for giving me hope. Every day, I feel Your love. I thank You for all the beauty in the world, that You have made goodness in me that’s worth living for.” She tore the page from the notebook, crumpled it in her blanched fist, and threw it to the floor.

  “Very nice,” said Asher.

  “Yes,” she said, “especially for someone who is in so much pain that she needs narcotics to smother it. Do you want to know what the rest of these buildings are like? I’ll tell you. In every home there are diaries just like this one, where everyone expresses nothing except their happiness and love for each other on every page. No dirty dishes, and no dirty laundry. In the offices, every air conditioner and light bulb is a modern technological wonder of efficiency that did not exist when the Shadows fell. Every ledger and bankbook is in the black. Everything is perfect, and perfectly damned. Tear it down, Brother Asher. Tear it down, and do it again.”

  He stumbled to the window, leaning on his stick. He looked out upon a street of flawless, velvety asphalt, shining sewer grates, and marble pillars that glistened as if they stood before the gates of Heaven.

  “No,” he said. “No, it’s impossible.”

  “I tried to stop you, but you wouldn’t listen. I tried to tell you what you were doing, but you did not want to hear. Now you have to do it all over again. I hope your rapture was worth it.”

  I wanted to heal, but you wouldn’t let me.

  Asher jumped. It was as if Brother Leo had just whispered the words into his ear. He stared at her, as if in a trance, and shook his head. “No,” he said.

  She walked to the dresser, and picked up a snow globe that sat beside a virt screen. An angelic figurine stood inside, her hands raised amidst a blizzard of silver and gold. Asher had no doubt that its swirling flakes had been shaved from real precious metals. Theresa held it high in the air. “Fix this,” she said. “You have to fix it. You have to redo it all exactly as the scrolls were written.”

  He shook his head. “But it’s… it’s not like Phoenix at all. It’s better. It’s beautiful.”

  She threw the globe at his head. He ducked, evading it by inches. It shattered against the wall, spraying water, glistening flakes, and lead crystal everywhere.

  “What the hell are you doing?” he shouted.

  She screamed, and punched the mirror next to the bed. It broke into a spiderwebbed crack. She looked at her bloody knuckles, and pulled a shard of glass from between her fingers. She stared into his eyes. “Fix it,” she said, her voice low. “Erase it, or my children will erase it for you.”

  “All right,” he said, holding his hands up. “It’s all right, just calm down.”

  “It’s not all right,” she said, her voice a monotone. “You have taken liberties that the Ophanim did not intend. You did everything the abbot thought you would. You’ve proved yourself unworthy. You’ve shown that you’re a child who can’t handle the cup that has been passed to him. Destroy this.” She gestured with her hands. “All of it. Undo it all.”

  “But it’s better,” he said.

  “It’s not supposed to be!” she cried. “Why can’t you understand that?” She grabbed the virt screen, and raised it over her head. For a moment, Asher thought
she was going to throw it at him. Instead, she whirled and smashed it through the window pane. Asher watched it tumble through the air amidst a shower of glass until it exploded on the concrete below. By the time he turned back to face her, she was gone.

  Chapter 7

  Theresa ran back to the base, clutching her hand. She knew that it was not really injured. Within her immersion tank in the real world, she was fine. But this Sage still sent signals to her pain receptors as if her knuckles really were sprained and lacerated, and Jesus Magdalene–fornicating Christ, they hurt.

  She put the camp on defensive lockdown. It would keep Asher out, for a little while at least. She had lied when she had said that the shield was the only thing coded to just her DNA. Next, she searched the infirmary. The monastery had not stocked iatric packs as they could prove catastrophic for a resurrector, but lesser variants of healing gel were available. She slit one open, and applied a teaspoonful to her fingers. Immediately, her pain subsided.

  Asher hammered on the door, shouting her name. He was too weak to do her physical harm, but he could easily devour the lock with his children, and then set them upon her. She would have to incapacitate him first, and God knew that she wanted to. His neurotic, narcissistic, obsessive–compulsive jackassery had ruined everything. His pounding and ragged shouts grew louder. She squeezed her eyes shut. His priority is the city, she told herself. He’s obsessed with his goddamn city. He’s not going to waste his wasps on you. The thoughts, logical as they seemed, did little to reassure her.

  She had promised Jacob that she would not resurrect what he had given her until the city was fully restored, citizens and all, but had she ever intended to keep that promise? Not really, she admitted. If she had, she would have stopped Asher’s heresy at its outset, and not waited until he had completed the New City Gallery and all its works. The problem was, she had no way of knowing if he had “improved” the paintings inside.

  Pain, like a nail of ice, stabbed through her forehead. The glyph that Jacob had given her burned within her mind the way no other soul’s ever had. The man it represented contained multitudes. It was not just like having another person inside of her head, it was like having a cobra hidden between the wrinkles of her brain. At any moment, it was going to poke its head out — or worse, burrow deeper inside — and strike.

  The gel stung as it healed. She sprayed sealant over it to make sure that it got nowhere near her wasp sacs. She splashed cold water onto her face, and stared at her haggard reflection. She would never have resorted to violence like that before. There were other ways to get the stupid boy to do her will. Ways that, while humiliating, were much less painful. Somehow, the snake within her mind was reacting with her subconscious in a way it had not with Jacob’s. Besides, the only person she had harmed was herself.

  The pounding on the door ceased. She peeked out of the window. She did not see Asher, nor did she hear him. The view had grown darker with the arrival of dusk, save for the faint glow of the shield. She programmed her irises to open as wide as they could, to let in as much light as possible. Still, she did not see him.

  It had to be now, she decided. She whispered an apology to Jacob, but she had no choice. If San Domenico turned unstable like Phoenix, she would never be able to help the soul he had placed within her mind, and that soul would never be able to help them. She reached inside of her cloak, took hold of the vial that she had taped beneath her left breast, and pulled it free.

  She knew that the Life Sands within were not actually the crystallized remains of the man that she carried inside of her mind. In reality, he lay beside her immersion tank amidst a green flicker of light. She had tried to help him out there, but had only made things worse. The Sands that she held and the glyph within her brain were just the cipher and key that the laws of this virtual world required for entry, and this was the only world in which they could ever interact.

  But what if, despite all her efforts, she brought back the snake instead of the man? What if, after all of her bungling interference, he could no longer control it?

  She brought the tiny bottle to her lips, and kissed it. Its glass tasted of her sweat. Her only choice was to move forward, and hope for the best. She knelt on the floor, and poured out its glistening contents. She blew lightly upon them, and they glowed. Maybe, on some level, he knew that the breath was hers. She smiled, and began to sing.

  Asher lay amongst the Life Sands of San Domenico, and dreamed.

  Shreya had been in IT, which stood for Information Technology, which was a pretentious way of saying that she fixed simple problems caused by idiots. She could work from home if she wanted and just fix the idiots’ problems by remote, but that was even worse than being in the office.

  She hated being home, now that Mina had moved back. College had not been for Mina, and neither was work, apparently. Shreya had no choice but to put up with her nonsense, because Mom and Dad adored her. She was their favorite, their perfect angel. Shreya had caught her sister hacking into their parents’ bank accounts, but they would not believe her. They insisted that Shreya had made it all up out of jealousy, and had actually told her to apologize. Whoever had fraudulently used their credit cards online could only have been a stranger, and shame on her for accusing her own sister. The fact that they had not even reported the fraud only fueled Shreya’s rage. Shielding their daughter from prosecution was one thing, but making her apologize, while Mina just stood there, barely swallowing her smile… It made her want to vomit.

  So Shreya had taken her revenge. She had hacked Mina’s phone (her passcode was her birth date, of course), and uploaded most of its files to the internet — especially the ones in a folder marked “private.”

  And now she could hear Mina in her room, shrieking at the top of her lungs. Shreya felt a dark flare of satisfaction within her chest. She wondered what the big deal was. There wasn’t anything in the photographs that half of her university hadn’t seen already. Her sister’s hysterics were not even words at this stage, they were just inarticulate, painful —

  Asher jerked his head up, snapping awake. It was dark now, the night sky barely visible through the swirling shield. The wail had come from across the dunes, not from within his head. He rose to his feet, leaning on his cane. Theresa ran towards him, her calloused feet padding the desert.

  “It’s me,” she said, holding her hands up. Her eyes were wide and round, their sapphire flecks ablaze. Her cloak was parted, but she did not care. She panted, and by the faint luminescence of the dome, he could make out a sheen of sweat across her brow.

  “What’s wrong?” he asked. “Why did you yell like that?”

  “It… it wasn’t me,” she said. She swallowed. “I think someone else must be here.”

  “Wouldn’t you know?” he asked. “We haven’t added my DNA to the shield code yet. How could anyone open it without you?”

  Her face blanched. “Well,” she said, “just because it’s not coded to yours, that doesn’t mean it couldn’t be coded to someone else’s.”

  He stared at her. Her words made logical sense, but a tone of defensiveness lurked beneath their surface. “Did you call the Church?” he asked. “Did you send for someone?”

  “No.” She shook her head from side to side, her cowl flapping behind her. “Absolutely not.”

  Another scream echoed from the south, opposite from where he had begun his resurrection. He scanned the horizon as best he could in the low light of the shield. A dark speck stood out against its iridescent backdrop. Asher squinted. “I can almost make out something,” he said. He threw his makeshift cane aside, and broke into a hobbling run.

  He ran across the hill, his bare feet fighting for purchase. After half a kilometer, he stumbled across something half–buried, and picked it up.

  It was a combat boot. Its lace had broken. A trail of footprints led from it, cresting over the next dune. He gasped for breath as his eyes followed them. One had been made by a tread–marked sole. The other lacked definition, probably form
ed by a sock. His chest felt as if it were on fire, the pain matching a burning stitch in his side. He handed the footwear to Theresa as she ran up beside him and bent over, his hands on his thighs. He was far too weak to be running.

  “This is NorMec combat gear,” she said. “We shouldn’t be following. He could be dangerous.”

  “How can you tell?”

  She shrugged, dropped the boot, and pointed. “The tracks lead towards the perimeter,” she said. “Let’s think about this for a moment. Where can he go?”

  “Are you sure that you don’t know who it is?”

  The azure lights in her eyes flashed again in the near–darkness. “Are you calling me a liar?”

  He raised his head and stared at her, running his eyes across her exposed sacs. She looked down, and yanked her parted cloak around herself.

  “Sister,” he said, his breath coming in pants, “did you resurrect someone here?”

  She wrapped her arms around her chest. “You’re being ridiculous.”

  He grit his teeth. His heart felt like a drum against his ribs. “You did,” he said. “I can see it in your lying face.”

  She raised her hands. “Asher, you’re being paranoid. Just calm down.”

  “Calm down,” he said with a harsh laugh. “Why, will you hit me again?”

  “I’m sorry I did that,” she said. “Look, you’re in no condition to run. I’ll find him. Just stay here and rest. It will be okay, I promise.” She turned away.

  “How do you know it’s a he?”

  She looked over her shoulder. “We don’t have time for this. I’ll be —”

  Another cry tore the air. It sounded close, probably from right on the other side of the dune. She ran across the ridge. This time, it was Asher’s turn to follow.

  A man stood in the valley between the sandy hills. His close–cropped, salt–and–pepper hair glinted beneath the oily light of the shield. He was dressed in desert combat fatigues, save for one boot. He held his right hand to his left shoulder. He seemed to be trying to dig his fingers into his flesh, as if to tear his own arm off. Tiny forks of lightning erupted from between his fingertips. His left hand —