Free Evil Eternal by Hunter Shea Page A

his mind, concentrating on prayer instead.
    He had been feeling tired after lunch, a weariness that seemed to have settled not just in his bones, but in the fabric of his cells. He cancelled a meeting with the head of the Vatican’s new Social Media Department, an arm of the church’s responsibilities that he himself could not fully appreciate or understand, but he was no fool and saw how the world worked today. Spreading the word had never been easier, though he often wondered how deeply the words sank in when provided in limited chunks of characters.
    He hoped a short nap would replenish his spirits and give strength to his taxed body.  
    It hadn’t taken long for sleep to wash over him and he sank into a dark, comforting void. He had awakened hours later with a start; not because of a dream or nightmare. It was more of a feeling that had propelled him from his slumber and caused his heart to pound a lunatic’s beat in his chest. An impending terror gripped his mind with pit-bull jaws. He was reminded of an afternoon thirty years earlier, hearing the news of a plane crash in Colombia. His brother had told him just the day before that he was going to visit that country to do a story on the growing power of the drug cartels. He had been a reporter for the Associated Press and had often gone to places most people made a point of avoiding. That had been one of the most frantic, tense and dreadful afternoons of his life as he waited to either hear from his brother or receive confirmation from the authorities that he was, indeed, on that plane.
    When do you think you can come identify the body?
    That phrase had rung through his head over and over again as he conjured up the worst possible outcome. With each passing hour, the ache of profound loss grew heavier and heavier in his gut. Blessed relief came when his brother called later that night. After the call, he had given the Lord his thanks in a six-hour session of uninterrupted prayer.
    The feeling of that afternoon had plagued him from the moment he had bolted upright in his bed. So he had prayed, though for what, he could not and did not know.
    But he did know that Father Michael was in the States and the two had to be connected. After his prayers (he was no longer capable of six hours of kneeling), he pulled a key that dangled from a gold chain around his neck from beneath his undershirt. It took several attempts for him to fit the small key into the lock on his desk drawer.
    Within it was a book, incredibly old and bound in thick, brown leather. He carefully lifted the book by its edges and placed it on his desk.
    The book’s author was unknown, the writing within the yellowed pages simple, with no ornamentation or fanfare. He often wondered if one of his predecessors, perhaps the first pope to offer Father Michael residence in the Vatican, was responsible for it.
    With great care, he read through its pages, trying to glean the future through words written a millennium ago.
    Its sole subject was the man they called Father Michael and his role in the world to come.
     
     
    The creature clenched its fists and went rigid. It and Shane were now engulfed in a bubble of blazing heat and pain. The casual passerby would have seen a shimmering orb where they stood, like looking through the unstill waters of an aquarium, their bodies made invisible by the field around them.
    Shane struggled to breathe. Black spots formed before his eyes, mercifully blocking out the visage of the leering face before him.
    He heard a rumbling deep within his head. It was as though an entire ocean was rushing up through a tunnel, the breakers making a beeline for the center of his skull. His jacket caught fire with a dull whoosh and all he could feel was a harsh pang of sorrow for leaving Aimee behind, though she was probably better off without him, at least according to all of her friends and family.
    The sound of millions of screaming souls intermingled with the thunderous booming in his brain.