Fic: Sinnerman, Prophet, Saint (8/?)
Title: Sinnerman, Prophet, Saint
Rating: NC-17
Pairings: Chase/OMC, House/Chase
Summary: The marks of the saints and a past he won’t remember force Chase and House to face religion head on. They won’t get his fellow without a fight!
Spoilers: Up to season 4 Finale.
Genre: Drama, Supernatural
Disclaimer: I don’t own House. I’m not making any money off this story.
Chapter Rating: PG-13
Warning(s): Language, Adult Situations, Violence, M/M relationships. Do not read this story if any of these bother you!
A/N: This took way too long. Sorry for the delay. I’ve been carrying around this chapter with me so that I could edit it at every chance but it seemed to take ages. Anyway, I hope it’s worth the wait.
Chapter 8: The Head of a Pin
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It was the change in times zones that had House wide awake long after the sun had set. It had been at least a few hours since Mayes had left. House hadn’t left the room. Chase had slept on and off, though none of it appeared restful. House had observed and brooded. His inability to find a logical, scientific explanation for what was happening to his fellow made him weary, while the constant threat of their captors made him jumpy. The plausible scenario, that should he find an explanation for this apparent mystery nobody would believe him, made him tired. The only place left to sit in the room was the bed. There had been a chair but he’d used it to barricade the door closed by leaning the chair on its hind legs until the back fit underneath the door knob -just like in the movies. He’d quickly grown annoyed with the intermittent stream of staff looking to clean up and take care of things when there was nothing to clean up or take care of. His successful interference in their overzealous performance of their duties had been his greatest accomplishment in the past hours.
Feeling as old and tired as he probably would have been feeling for years if not for the numbing effect of his pain medication, House sat at the other side of the king-sized bed, his back to his charge. The city’s night light was a glowing blanket laid underneath a dimly starred sky. He thought he heard some commotion in the distance but couldn’t tell for certain. Finally he kicked off his shoes, removed his jacket and lay down. His eyes remained upon the ceiling for a few more minutes then his head shifted to the man next to him, taking his gaze with it.
He found his subordinates gaze already on him. His wounds had once again closed but pain lingered on his face. It took House a moment to think of something to say, unsure as he was of Chase’s state of mind.
“Don’t get any ideas, just ‘cause where in the same bed.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” The response was slow in coming as if it took some effort to generate the levity that could be heard in his words. “As far as I know all you’re hookers have been women.”
He wasn’t wrong in his assumption, but House wasn’t about to let him know that. “As far as you know,” was the cryptic response. His smirk deepened when he heard the sound of Chase shifting to see him better. House has always been quite candid regarding his sex-life, practically shouting his exploits from the roof. His possible experiences with other men had, oddly, never come up. Chase was curious. And House’s sex-life was a nice distraction from their current situation.
“So…” Chase ventured, “You and…Wilson? ever…y’know.”
“No, we’ve never fucked like bunnies.” House’s smirk turned into a smile at the suspected though not visually confirmed twist of Chase’s mouth at his crass wording. “I heard you and Mayes were at a safe-house together when you were twenty-one.”
Innuendo was, abruptly, House’s game of choice and Chase either didn’t have enough experience to know how to face it or he just took the route that was simplest. “We were. And we did fuck like bunnies.”
“I assume that’s before he sold you out to your mortal enemies.” The light conversation took a sudden turn on to a rougher, more difficult path.
“He didn’t sell me out…” Chase was matter-of-fact in his rebuttal, though there was an opening in his tone that House all too often stepped into in order to refute.
“Of course not. He didn’t mean it. He just accidentally called them, told them where to find you--”
“He didn’t!”
“You can’t recognize betrayal. I suppose that explains why you know nothing about loyalty.”
“And you know nothing about earning it. What’s your excuse?”
House shifted his gaze to the tall window he’d spent much of the last few hours staring through. He wished he’d continued staring and left the past where it belonged, where he couldn’t poke and prod it. The point he’d been trying to make before he thought he’d slide a dig at Chase’s character into the mix was…
“Mayes is up to something.”
“He’s trying to find a way out of this situation.”
“Which begs the question how did he get into the situation?” His confidence emboldened him to face his fellow again. The reminder of Chase’s frail condition was written in his shaky breaths and the darkness that circled the stunning eyes. At the last moment Greg tried to soften his accusation. “If he was on your side, then how did they find us?”
“If I knew that, it’d be a lot easier to avoid them.” Chase didn’t go for the bait House was laying before him.
House took his avoidance as disbelief and support of Mayes despite the careful deduction laid out. “If they found you on their own, then why would they include him if he wasn’t going to help them?” House didn’t get a response but he watched the doubt inch its way across Chase’s tense and worn expression and felt remorse for what he had to do. Chase knew Mayes the best but that knowledge was useless if he was blinded by friendship…or love.
“He wouldn’t,” Chase said, more to himself than the man next to him. His tone was even, his eyes were steady, Chase’s characteristic fidgetiness gone.
House suddenly felt too tired to move or continue his argument. “It’s late. Get some sleep.”
He didn’t have to wait long before he thought Chase was asleep. His breathing became a little shallower, a little less pained and some apprehension that had coiled in his body released and allowed his limbs to relax. House remained on the bed. The cot he was supposed to be using was probably waiting outside the door but he was too lazy to go all the way out there and get it. And he didn’t want to be any further away from Chase than he had to be.
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He heard the door to his office open after a sharp knock. He planned to look up just as soon as re read the next note, and the next one, and the prescription dosage.
“You’re concern for your best friend is touching.”
Wilson ignored Cameron’s voice. He didn’t even have to look to know she was tired and worried.
Foreman slipped past the woman and collapsed to the oncologist’s couch. This had become their base of operations in the hunt for House and Chase. The diagnostic department was now an abandoned monument to brilliance.
“There’s nothing in any of the churches. Father Demarco wasn’t of any help either.”
After Cameron’s recount of the priest she’d found sniffing at the blood stained carpet in the diagnostics room, and the memory of the flower’s he’d sent, they’d quickly made their way to him. He’d been cooperative and calm, but in the end hadn’t been much help.
His patience already severely thinned, Foreman suddenly asked of the oncologist, “What the hell has you so fascinated?”
It took several seconds before Wilson responded distractedly. “Angelica Brown.”
“Who’s that?”
“A psych patient.”
“What’s this have to do with House and Chase?” Cameron asked, stepping closer to get a look at the file.
Wilson paused, weighing his words and how crazy they would undoubtedly sound to anybody who hadn’t witnessed what he’d witnessed. “I don’t think she’s crazy. Well she is, but the reason for it isn’t schizophrenia. I think whatever is happening to her, something similar is happening to Chase.” James had been back a few times to see the woman and had watched and listened as she spoke to people that only she could see. What he would have labelled dementia not long ago, he know looked at more closely and really wondered not only about what she was seeing, but about what he and everyone else was missing.
“Could be an infection that’s going away at her brain,” Foreman suggested, his fatigue lifting at the possibility of a medical challenge.
“She could also be schizophrenic. We should be trying to find Chase and House.”
Foreman was suitably chastised and went silent, eyes averted. Wilson wasn’t.
“There’s nothing we can do for them here.”
“Here? As opposed to…wherever they are?” Cameron waited expectantly.
He’d said too much. Wilson briefly wondered if House rubbed off on all his fellows like this, or only the ones who lasted a certain amount of time under his tutelage.
Foreman jumped in. “You know where they are?”
Defeated Wilson sat back in his chair. He could have told them right then. Probably should have told them, but he drew it out, for no good reason except to keep them waiting. “Israel.”
The shouts of surprise that followed the question hastily blurted out one over the other, the recriminations at him for withholding the information, James tuned it out. Even the part where Cameron was going to Cuddy.
“You should have told her as soon as you found out,” Cameron finished. A moment later she was gone.
Action took a brief hiatus then. Eventually Foreman stood, recovered from his own shock and disbelief, and went to the desk. He spun the patient file around on the table top until it faced him and began reading.
“You’re not going to join her?”
Foreman spared him an impatient and patronizing glance. “I’m sure she’s got it covered.” They both knew she did, her righteous indignation practically left an odour in the air. “I’d like to work on a case that I might actually solve without challenging organized religion.”
“That still might not be this case.”
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God’s work on earth would not, to most, include spying on others. Then again God was always watching, so Siva Jordan considered his work to be the mortal equivalent and thus felt no guilt or shame. He probably found too many ways to justify even his most heinous actions, because even faced with what he did and for whom, he slept well. It was probably for whom he did it that eased his conscience. Somebody had to do the dirty work.
They’d all learn soon, that was far too true.
“Jordan, what’s he doing?” the voice in the headphones connected to his cellular asked almost timidly.
Leaning casually against an old brick wall outside a small bar catering to locals Jordan surreptitiously kept his eyes on his target.
“He’s talking.”
“Is that all?”
Is that all? Jordan shook his head wondering why he continued to answer to Voorhees when it was Antolovich that he respected of these two. “He’s making plans. He’s up to something that could complicate our duties.” He waited several seconds before posing, “What would you like me to do?” and could feel as much as hear the uncomfortable shifting on the other end of the phone call. Voorhees was not a decision making man. He saw only the big picture and none of the details to achieve it. That was where Jordan came in.
“Do what you think is necessary.”
The call ended with nothing further. Jordan shook his head in mild disgust. Spineless, old fool, he couldn’t help but think, but chastised himself after the deed was done. He had his vague orders. Discretion was left in his very capable and very deadly hands.
As his target left the small establishment after having what looked like a drink and an uninteresting conversation with random patrons, Jordan set his course as well. It took him directly into the other man.
“Excuse me,” Mayes said in Hebrew so flawless one might think him a native speaker of the language.
In English tinged with his Turkish accent Jordan returned, “No, excuse me, Mister Mayes. Such a coincidence that we would meet out here.”
The polite apology written on the taller man’s face shifted to a darker more calculating look as he recognized the man before him and his purpose in the Tenth Order.
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Doctors Cameron and Cuddy thanked profusely the FBI agent that had come so quickly and taken the information about their two missing colleagues. Despite how awkward the interview had started out the agent had kept an open mind and jotted down the unbelievable details regarding Dr. Chase’s condition when last they had seen him. He’d even listened patiently to Dr. Cameron’s concern that perhaps a religious group had taken an interest in Chase, and pointed the agent in the direction of Father DeMarco.
“I’ll update you when I can but as an open investigation I may not be able to give you many, if any, details,” Agent Jerome warned.
Cuddy nodded her understanding. “Of course.”
“I’ll be in touch.”
Cuddy turned back to her desk as soon as the FBI agent was a few feet beyond the outer doors of her office. Dr. Cameron stared after the man for a few seconds more, a faint warning having belatedly taken form in her mind.
“You think he’ll look into it?”
Cuddy didn’t look up from her paperwork but responded anyway. “Even if he didn’t believe the details we gave him, he has a duty to investigate. He’ll at least find that House and Chase are missing, and have to take it from there.”
Cuddy looked up to convey in her expression her hope but also her fear that the FBI may not find or even look for their friends. The immunologist gave a thin nod and left. Cuddy went back to her paperwork under the pretence of doing work. The pen in her hand didn’t move for several minutes.
Just outside the hospital Agent Jerome answered a call on his cell phone.
“Long break you’re taking. Did you forget about our case?” his partner, who along with Jerome had been working late the past several nights, questioned.
“No, just had something to check out for a friend.”
“…And?”
“Turns out it was nothing.” Jerome tore out the pages of his notebook where he’d taken notes on the potential case. He crumpled and tossed them into a waste bin on his to his sedan. “As I suspected. Just had to be sure.”
“Well get back here. I’ve covered for your dumb ass long enough.”
“See you soon, Sunshine.”
Jerome laughed at the aggravated huff just before the line went dead. The mirth from the interaction with his partner left him quickly to be replace by conflict. Should he look into the disappearance of these two men? Was it not his duty?
He fingered the gold cross underneath his tie and collared shirt. He reminded himself of his higher duty.
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Mayes hadn’t returned. House wished that he was more angry than worried. At least Chase was too uncomfortable to notice. The wounds had begun bleeding again. House clinched his jaw at the recent memory of waking to find Chase lying next to him, peacefully awake with growing stains of blood on the sheets below his wrists and on his pillow. At some time before House had awoken, Chase had been bestowed an invisible crown of thorns and nails through his wrists. It was a small blessing that the other injuries hadn’t yet arrived.
“How is he?” Voorhees asked from behind House as the doctor continued his ministrations. He’d removed the chair wedged behind the door when he admitted that to tend to Chase he would need some supplies he didn’t have in the room. Regrettably, that also meant unwanted visitors were stopping by.
“Weak, tired -exactly why he should be in a hospital.”
The old man shook his head. “God will give him strength.”
House knew his argument would be futile but the stubborn dog in him wouldn’t let common sense go, although it wasn’t as common around these people. And if he heard one more comment about God doing something for any of them, he’d hurt somebody. All the blind faith, the overwhelming piety was making him more than unhappy. Worse than stupid people, were people being stupid. What was the point of having a mind if it wasn’t used? Faith, in his opinion, circumvented all the higher reasoning that set human’s apart from the other animals, yet here were people happily doing away with the best gift their God might have ever given them; free will.
“I don’t want to do this,” Chase said weakly, his lips tainted deep cherry by the blood that rand down his face from the gouges on his forehead. Again, despite his position the blood seemed to have a mind of its own as it ran down Chase’s face as though he was upright. The eerie image was only bolstered by the nearly dreamy expression on his face. Even with the pain making his limbs shiver and his skin damp with sweat, there was another less tangible, less describable facet to Chase’s experience that balanced the physical experiences.
Still, as a human being, the physical suffering could not be discounted and making matters worse, they weren’t allowing him to eat. Fasting, for the upcoming rituals, Voorhees had called it, while he and his cohorts gorged themselves on food and expensive wine. House had only been able to sneak Chase some crackers that morning and that wasn’t nearly enough to keep up an adult male’s energy.
“I’m afraid it’s not up to you, Robert.”
“It shouldn’t be up to you either.”
“But it is.” Turning to House he ordered, “Get him ready. Mister Mayes is busy at the moment.” House watched his exit, turning over the comment on Mayes in his head.
“Well, this is a fine mess you’ve gotten us into, Chase,” House said once they were alone.
“Sorry.”
“I was kidding,” House snapped. He didn’t really blame Chase but he wanted the banter he’d shared with the young man to come back. Even the terse words they’d shared last night would have been welcome. It would have been an indication that Chase wasn’t feeling as bad as he looked. “I don’t think I can blame you for the collective delusions of a group of idiots,” he said in a tone that was gruff but gentle, while he wiped away more of the blood that streaked the lax face.
“You really don’t believe any of it?” Chase asked once House had helped him to sit up in the bed.
“You don’t believe any of it either,” House countered.
“I believe in God, and angels and hell.”
“Seminary school brainwashing,” House excused and gave Chase the new shirt that had been provided for him to wear. House would have to tough it out in his old wrinkled attire.
“If you don’t believe in God or something, then what matters?” Chase argued with a weak voice. “There’s no morality, no good or evil, only nature.”
“What’s wrong with nature? Everything doesn’t have to be a test. We’re just animals that try not to do bad all the time.” House helped him slip his arms into the shirt and then button up the front while their debate continued.
The blood loss made Chase’s limbs heavy and his mind sluggish. He barely noticed his boss helping him dress. “Because nature excuses everything. If it’s nature for a volcano to erupt and kill people then it’s nature for people to kill other people too.”
“Maybe it is,” House shrugged. “Maybe we’re just trying to achieve something better than our nature dictates.” Chase shifted to the edge of the bed where House slipped on his pants. He’d stayed with Chase overnight, doing what he could to make sure he remained in good health; playing doctor the whole night (and not the fun type of doctor he’d sometimes resorted to paying some women for). And now he was forced to play nurse-maid as well.
He had to suppose it could have been worse. Instead of Chase he could be changing the pants of a wrinkly, incontinent man with boils and no teeth. Chase’s smooth and skin and toned body was actually a welcome distraction. So while half his mind was on the debate -one he’d been meaning to have with Chase since he found out the young man had gone to seminary school -the other half of his mind was cataloguing the body he’d never before seen unclothed.
“Then why bother?” Chase asked still sounding tired, though the topic did manage to pull some life out of him. “And how would we know what’s good without something to guide us?”
“We’d manage,” House said distractedly. He couldn’t help it. He was a human being, and a beautiful body was a beautiful body, even if they were both neck deep in a religious mystery they barely comprehended. Yet helping Chase put his pants on, sliding his hands up the strong thighs to the slender hips with tight, white briefs, was a distraction he could no more give up than he could stop breathing.
“You can’t be serious,” Chase said, too tired to notice that perhaps House wasn’t being as clinical with his tasks as a good doctor should have been.
“You can’t seriously expect me to have this conversation with you after we’ve been kidnapped by a bunch of lunatics who think you’re some sort of heavenly or hellish deity, and brought to a country that is not my number one vacation destination!” House almost felt bad for his outburst. His thin distraction hadn’t been much in the face of their current uncertainty and the undercurrent of preparation. Something was happening and they were helpless.
The outburst silenced the blond man for a moment, while the thrum of his wounds attempted to occupy his mind. Instead he focused and distracted himself. “Well…what number would this be?” Chase asked and sounded only curious as to the answer.
“What rank is Jerusalem on my list of vacation destinations?” House repeated rather dumbly.
Chase nodded, still looking as earnest as a tired, pained and hungry man could be. He needed this bit of normalcy. House tried to indulge him.
“Well…probably around two hundred. I’m not really one for pilgrimages.”
Chase managed a weak and brief smile. He could accept that answer though he turned it over in his mind. He probably shouldn’t have been amused by House’s blasphemy. What was left of his seminary education insisted that he feel affront or perhaps pity. Instead he was intrigued by House’s view and he welcomed this version of a puzzle. What were the other one-hundred and ninety-nine destinations?
The door to the room opened again. Father Antolovich entered. He stopped a step inside, taking in the sight of the sacred stigmata. He crossed himself, an action House saw when he glanced back. He had no choice then but attack the man’s faith.
“If this is from God, why the inconsistencies? Some people get wounds in the wrists, others in their hands. You’d think God would have been able to choose one.”
It was a cold man that could discuss and plan the death of another and only worry about how history would record it. Thus, it was not surprising to House that Antolovich responded with a patronizing smile.
“Robert,” he addressed the youngest man, “where do you believe the nails in Christ were inflicted -hands or wrists?”
There was evidence and conjecture to support both scenarios but each believer had his or her own opinion. Chase was no different. Reluctantly, loathe to lend support to this man’s theory, he responded.
“Wrists.” His voice was tinged with defeat, resignation was setting in. His faith, perhaps, had brought all this on. He’d turned to it once wholly, and then turned away from it, to what Robert thought was the same degree. If he ever engaged in debate of religion or spirituality his words were without fervour. He played only to serve the side of the argument he felt fewer and fewer people were willing to defend. In the end however, none of it touched him. In his daily life he’d separated himself from faith, but it always lingered, like ghosts over his shoulder. And now that lingering seed of faith had grown thorns.
Antolovich smiled at him, then turned his gaze to House. “The person’s faith is as much a part as are God’s actions. He does, after all, work through us.”
“Whatever lets you sleep at night.”
Antolovich might think himself wise but he was lacking when it came to patience, and the stubborn American doctor was quickly devouring what little he owned. “Finish up. We’re leaving.”
“For where?”
The priest began for the door and responded casually over his shoulder, “The Church of Holy Sepulchre in the old city. Mister Mayes will be meeting us there.”
The tone didn’t sit well with House. Judging by the worry in Chase’s eyes, it didn’t sit there with him either. They didn’t have time to ask questions, those assembled being so eager to get to their destination and begin what was quietly being referred to as ‘The Awakening’.
Two inconspicuous beige sedans drove the group away. Clayton and his people in one and Antolovich, House, Voorhees and Chase in the other.
“Travelling light today?” House inquired. Forced to take the front passenger seat he had to twist around to keep his eyes on Chase, who was in the opposite corner, and Voorhees, who was behind him.
“The others are already in place. We’ve been waiting for this for sometime,” Voorhess stated calmly.
Antolovich in the driver’s seat didn’t comment as he carefully made his way through the busy streets of the newer portion of Jerusalem to take them to the Old City.
In his corner of the car Chase subtly tried the door. He thought maybe, he could jump out when the car was moving slowly or stopped at a light, and disappear into one of the crowded streets. But the door didn’t budge. He tried to pull the plastic pin in front of the window to release the lock but it didn’t move. Damn child locks.
Chase clenched his teeth as the pain surged with the frustration of the situation. In so short a time he’d been dragged back into what he’d tried to run from. He was closer than ever to where he didn’t want to be.
Just beyond the glass, mostly average people went about mostly average lives. Strangely many were familiar to Chase. He’d seen them before, seen through them before and witnessed their choices. A guiding shadow, a malevolent creature, a guardian angel -he saw many things walking a step behind the people on the crowded sidewalk. Some were brighter, others much darker. What joyous, magnanimous gesture might one of them perform? What despicable act might another?
The world grew darker, the sunlight loosing it potency as the spectre blossomed from air. Chase’s heart rate began to climb as he watched the people become enveloped by the greyness, sinking into and becoming part of them. On some the hold went so deep their face contorted into inhuman monsters, the wicked madness taking over their minds. Not even children were spared. All the people were enveloped, the darkness thickened until it began to rush at him. Racing over other vehicles, over falling bodies, weaving through the column of fire that had burst from the ground and struck from the sky! Until it struck him, his head snapping to the side.
The blow had been almost non-existent -a light brush across his cheek. His mind however was reeling, while the world around him continued on, normal, undisturbed.
Finally Robert risked opening his eyes. Blinded at first by the sunlight, the eyes of the vehicles driver in the rear view mirror caught his for second before a touch to his cheek made him start and press himself into the corner. The motion and Chase’s restrained cry of pain from it drew House’s concern and he turned to see what was going on. Voorhees’s hand followed Chase even after he moved away, regaining contact with the ashen skin.
“What do you see, my child?”
Chase tried to turn his head away and keep his sight on the man at the same time. “Don’t touch me,” he hissed.
“You’re special. I only wish we’d seen it sooner.” Chase didn’t respond. Voorhees didn’t remove his hand. “We were misguided. Blinded to the truth by our own narrow expectations and feeble understanding of the life-after.”
In the front House tried to intervene, bring up his cane ready to smack the Deacon’s hand away. He was just a touch too slow, allowing Antolovich to grab the other end of his cane to keep House from interfering.
“No more running. Hmm, my child?” Voorhees asked. Chase chanced a look at the man and saw the world behind the man warping as though he saw it through a rounded piece of glass. The strange distortion carved out a human-like form that nearly draped itself over the back of Voorhees, whispering and sinking tendril-like fingers into the man’s mind. Voorhees moved his hand from Chase’s face, to his bleeding wrists. Taking a tight hold the Deacon was immune to the pain he caused, though it was evident in both his victim’s face and the sound of his breathing.
“Leave,” Chase commanded in a desperate whisper.
Both occupants in the front of the vehicle heard but knew with great confidence that Chase was not speaking to them.
The creature pulled back, removing itself from Voorhees side. As though reluctant to go, it hung back, waiting.
“Go.”
It went.
Voorhees let go. His hand now slick with blood, he brought it to his face. The others watched as the bloody hand moved closer and closer still to the man’s lips. They thought he would lick it. It looked as though he wanted to. Instead Voorhees inhaled deeply, long and loudly -until the scent of blood blocked out everything in his mind save for the burning desire to control, to decide, to act without self-doubt.
Only a few seconds needed to pass before the man’s mind returned to him, with all its many questions and reservations. With his clean hand, Voorhees retrieved a handkerchief and wiped the fragrant blood from this hand. There was no further conversation, only the heavy look between the Deacon and the Priest.
In his corner Chase rocked and shivered as the aches intensified. He had his hands to his chest, trying to give comfort to himself where there was none to be found. It was becoming harder think clearly, to lift the shroud of his waning faith and disturbing sights. He didn’t dare look outside at the passing scenery or at the brick and stone structure of the Damascus Gate as they entered into the walled city of the old Jerusalem.
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Angelica Brown’s medical records were of no particular use. Nothing in her history hinted at anything but a woman whose mind was ill, and at sometimes her body as well.
“She’s usually only here once a week to be evaluated for the drug trial,” Henderson remarked tiredly. He’d joined doctors Foreman and Cameron in the diagnostics conference room and was half-heartedly working on the case. Mostly, the older doctor sat and poked holes in their theories.
“But she has an infection,” Cameron added distractedly. She flipped a page in the notes and continued reading.
“Pneumonia is hardly noteworthy.”
“It is when she’s been hospitalize four times in the last six months for different infections.”
To Dr. Foreman’s rebuttal, Henderson had another. “The staff at her facility is overly cautious and she’s covered under her family’s Blue Cross plan. Of course they spare no expense for her.”
Foreman shook his head. “If you don’t think she has anything but schizophrenia and an infection, why are you letting us look at her file?”
Henderson shrugged. With his arms crossed and his gaze averted the motion looked petulant. They’d informed him that Wilson suspected Ms. Brown’s situation may be related to Chase’s. He’d told them that it was simply schizophrenia. Cameron and Foreman suspected that perhaps they were both wrong. Maybe Henderson did too; he’d provided the medical records.
“This new drug…”
“Sopalitor,” Henderson supplied for Cameron.
“…it’s being administered in combination with others.”
“Yes, the trial is focused on the drugs success in a patient on other medications. Most patients like Miss Angelica require more than one treatment.” The psychiatrist paused to glance at the two other doctors. “Neither of you have entertained the notion that what’s happening to her is like what happened your colleague?” his tone made it hard to determine whether or not he’d considered any supernatural causes himself.
“There’s an explanation we just have to find it,” Cameron stated after a few seconds without a response.
Henderson nodded as though he’d expected such an answer. “Spoken like a true disciple of Doctor House.”
“What? You don’t think there’s anything spiritual happening to her either.”
“True, but when I say it I sound less like an arrogant jerk.”
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Sacred to many, the church was divided into different chapels for different faiths. The Greek Orthodox, the Roman Catholics, the Armenians, Ethiopians and Muslims each had a part to call their own. Housed under one main structure, it was a tense environment for those who knew, only a shrine to the crucifixion site of a long-dead and then risen man to most of the visitors. Today the general public was not allowed inside, much to their disappointment.
Inside the church, up the stairs beyond the main entrance to the calvary, many people of the many faiths waited. Dressed in their ceremonial vestments and backing the intricate shrines and artworks to the crucifixion it was a somewhat gaudy and overbearing scene. Chase’s eyes remained on the floor as he was lead through. Several paces behind House followed, his sharp eyes taking in the new surroundings.
Chants and prayers in many languages followed them, creating a sombre thrum within the old chambers. Finally the procession stopped. A rectangular slab of stone about the height of an altar stood with a vase of four candle burning at one end. On the other side was a row of nuns, each wearing habits of slightly different designs. They each represented some of the many monastery in the holy city and attempting to discern which was from where was a pointless exercise.
When he raised his eyes and saw them Chase glared. He couldn’t help it. His practically natural aversion to the women who’d dedicated their lives to the church was ramping up. He nearly missed the entire oration being given by Deacon Voorhees while the other clergy of different religions gathered. At the end of it a question was posed.
Why where they asking? House wondered. Up until this point they’d threatened him to keep Chase in line and overpowered Chase whenever they couldn’t to get him to do what they wanted. Yet now, at what appeared to be a crucial moment they were asking his permission.
“No.” A quick, simple and clear response. Seemed it was the church that brought out the defiance in him.
Maybe Chase was expelled from seminary school.
Though he’d given a response, Chase knew that it wasn’t over. They wouldn’t shrug and say “okay. You can go,” after dragging him all this way.
“Robert…” Voorhees began admonishingly.
“I said ‘No’! You need my permission for this ritual, and I’m not giving it to you.”
There was silence, the chants having ended when Voorhees had begun talking. Into the quiet somebody approached. Actually it was two, and one of them was stumbling badly. Chase pivoted to see what was causing the murmurs of low speech and his eyes widened.
“Warren!”
Voorhees stepped into Chase’s path to keep him from approaching. Chase stopped but continued to stare. His friend was in a bad state. One eye was swollen almost completely shut, while dark bruises coloured the cheek under the other, as well as his jaw on the left side. Some internal pain kept him from standing upright so he was hunched forward, bound hands at his abdomen. Most of his weight was being carried on his right leg and in the moments where his tired and aching muscles caused a shift to the other, he winced.
At Warren’s side Voorhees’s henchman, Jordan, kept a tight grip on his captive’s arm. “You’re friend was making pitiful plans to whisk you away again. We couldn’t allow that to happen.”
“Men of God,” Chase spat accusingly.
“Soldiers of God,” Voorhees corrected and returned Chase’s glare with a most infuriating expression of serenity. Sudden arrogance in such a small, feeble man.
Jordan became impatient. He squeezed and twisted intensifying the pain at Warren’s shoulder knowing that the recently dislocated joint would be aching intensely even on its own.
Mayes bit back his moan of pain by clenching his jaw and holding his breath but the expression said it all. Chase tried to approach again, and again Voorhees blocked him.
“His fate is in your hands. This is your choice. Accept the divine blessing and the anointing and be free of suffering. For the Lord shall open his arms and welcome back his champion.”
Face stony with grief Chase stepped back, colliding with the stone slab, chest heaving with increasingly burning breaths. He knew he was trapped. Around him the others stood silent, waiting, hoping. Their conflict over the method of attaining the subject’s cooperation was not enough to more than shadow their duty. He met the hard gaze of Warren’s one open eye. Warren was ready to accept whatever punishment they threw at him. His eyes told Robert that he would gladly take it. If it came to such, he would die happily in the knowledge that his Robin was still safe and whole.
Chase opened his mouth. The words didn’t come out immediately.
“Don’t!” House yelled, already too sure of his fellows decision. “Don’t be the idiot I know you’re not!”
“Old man, would you like to be next?” Jordan called back while House tried to make his way through the bodies that had no regard for the difficulties of a cripple.
House was stopped as he reached the inner circle of those assembled. He yelled, threw the worst insults he could imagine towards the church and threatened everybody with power he knew he didn’t have. He was almost panicked. This building and these people didn’t sit right with him. And religions had a long history of killing people. Chase wasn’t going to be next.
The blue eyes closed and opened again when his face was to the vaulted ceiling. Panels of gold followed the curve of the high dome from the center where sunlight filtered down through the skylight. He stared up at it, the light so dazzling and bright his eyes hurt. A dream came back to him.
“Yes,” he answered at last.
Housed hurled insults at him.
Mayes begged him to take it back.
Chase closed his eyes. He knew what he’d done -given up his freedom, possibly his life to save two people, two friends. While delicate hands began to divest him, Chase admitted that he would have done the same for anyone. An awareness had begun to stir in him, telling him that this was not their conflict, yet.
He hung his head and kept it down while he was exposed. The church had not felt so chilly before, nor the eyes on him so heavy and intrusive. His shirt was undone and slipped off his shoulders to fall in a wave of fabric to waiting hands. The urge to wrap his arms around himself, shelter what he could, would have been given into were it not for the hands that held his arms while they worked off the bandages at his wrist.
The most uncomfortable was the removal of his pants and underwear. His aversion for nuns steadily increased. Naked as Adam in Eden, bleeding like the stigmatists before him, Chase turned to the old slab where the nuns indicated he should lay. Sooner than he could get his limbs to move the hated sting of lashes across his back struck him and brought the Australian to his knees. He used his arms to hold onto the cool granite surface while the flagellation continued and the gashes appeared like a curse on his back.
The last few brought cries of pain from him. When it ended the sounds of his pain echoed for an unnatural stretch of time, while his pants and moans went on in harmony.
The prayers had begun again in earnest. They’d been witness to the miracle as it was bestowed. The scent of jasmine heightened and the hearts lightened as they became increasingly assured of their actions.
Chase had to be helped onto the stone. Once he was laid out they began washing him with water, simple soap, and cloths -humble tools for such ornate surroundings. While they washed him, the various clergy said their prayers. Mayes and House were silently watching Chase. House had thought to turn away and give Chase the privacy that nobody else would afford him. He didn’t. More so than privacy he thought Chase needed support. Not his forte but he was still enough of a human being to know that a trusted gaze free of shame or loathing would tell Chase that there was nothing for which he had to be ashamed.
It seemed to take hours, this ritual cleansing and then anointing with special oil. They redressed Robert when it was done in white robes. First a small one was wrapped around his hips to cover his genitals and then a loose one was draped over his shoulders. As the light fabric settled around the slender body a white powder gently lifted from the clothes into the air. Being so close Chase didn’t see it, or notice that each breath he took was laced with it. Being far enough away House did notice.
They were moved again. Voorhees lead Chase to another small room, the Chapel of St. Helena but only a few of the various clergymen were allowed to follow. They were all careful not to touch Chase and to give him room. When he stumbled, nobody was allowed to help him up. Even when his footprints began leaving marks of blood on the floor and his steps were accompanied by agony, nobody helped. Mayes and House were brought along, their usefulness not having ended, but they were kept away from Chase as well.
The final destination of the thinned group was not the Chapel of St. Helena, but a lesser known chapel only recently discovered. A steel gate was unlocked and down to a stone quarry the group went.
“The Chapel of Saint Vartan,” Voorhees announced softly as they group found their rightful positions around the fairly large open area beneath the shallowly arched and ornately carved ceiling.
Numerous candles danced in the dark and provided a soft lighting for the centuries old room. Carved low on the rock walls of the room were centuries old drawings and messages, like ancient graffiti. Although it appeared almost as vandalism, the messages written in old languages were actually important notes and messages and they made this Chapel of St. Vartan so very special.
Standing in the middle of the slightly oblong room Chase was made to wait for the next unwanted step in this ritual. He was light-headed, dizzy and ready to fall over. As the prayers began, again many in many languages, he found a beat to them. He closed his eyes and let the beat reverberate through him. The slick liquid flowing down his limbs and his head stained his white garments further. They began to stick to him, lightly tugging at his torn flesh when he listed this way or that.
Suddenly the words and the beat stopped. Chase felt as though he was floating far away, above all the cares and fears, mostly his own.
“Why are they stopping?” House asked quietly of Mayes who was knelt near him. Their view of Chase was hampered by the two people in front of them and they couldn’t move with Jordan watching them.
“It’s time for a new book,” Mayes informed with a haggard voice. Just as he finished speaking Voorhees stepped back and Clayton stepped forward. He held a heavy tome. It looked old and fragile but it’s endurance through its obvious years said that it must be very important. “The Key of Solomon,” Mayes said hanging his head as his failure was completed.
“Somewhere you all lost your way,” Clayton began arrogantly. He flipped slowly through the thick pages, dragging out his part, reminding all those that choose to deny him and his followers that they were now the ones with the power. Without them all the faith in the world would have been for naught. “Your religion clung to faith, became passive and weak. Always begging, asking, never with the strength to command. Denying the strength religion once had.”
“Yes, you’re arrogance knows no bounds,” Antolovich replied patronizingly. A hum of amusement tipped the composure of the religious men. Clayton seethed. “Please,” Antolovich implored scathingly, “continue.”
Clayton went back to his aged book.
“Again we command ye with vehemence, and we exorcise ye with constancy, that ye and all your comrades come unto us in an agreeable and gracious manner like the breeze, to accomplish successively our various commands and desires. Come ye, then, by the virtue of these names by the which we exorcise ye…”
“What is it? What’s written inside?” House demanded, his eyes flitting around as the air pricked his skin and made his hair stand on end.
“Spells…it’s a grimoire.”
Words were being spoken again but these weren’t like the other ones. There was not beat to lull Chase into comfort and take away his pain. There was only one voice and his words caused a pain in him somewhere deeper than his body.
“We will compel ye, both ye and the Prince of Darkness. Come ye, come ye, angels of Darkness; come hither before this circle without fear, terror, or deformity, to execute our commands, and be ye ready both to achieve and to complete all that we shall command ye.”
A breeze picked up. Dust spun into spirals on the floor. The candles danced a more vigorous and violent ballet until finally they went out and the room was plunged into pitch-black, obscurity. Invisible forces churned in the blackness. Their touch was both cold and warm, comfort and malice, messenger and warrior.
Clayton continued, his equanimity not upset outwardly by they storm of unknown around him.
At the center Chase was barely managing to hold his mind together. He was being pulled apart. His body twisted, his head flailed side to side, and back and forth -unnatural, painful movements for a human being. As the last words reached him, touched him, he reached upwards holding out his hand for something to save him in this last moment. A drop of blood fell from his wrist to his face, adding to the red streaks. Nothing else came down to him. He went slack. He would have fallen, but he was caught.
In his dream he saw his reflection in the water and the forest burning behind them. They both lay down, cheek to cheek, and sank.
A light that cast no shadows slowly filled the room just enough to allow sight. They saw Robert Chase, bleeding, limp, and yet somehow still upright. In the tense silence they all waited. House quickly noticed that around his back the clothing Chase wore was restrained and compressed against him as though somebody were holding him. Somebody was.
They came into sight slowly -contours of a man, a lovely man. Transparent at first, he became mostly opaque, tall and slender, he held Chase up with one arm around his back allowing his head to rest against his shoulder. With his free hand he gently stroked Chase’s cheek trying to rouse him with the tender touch.
House shivered suddenly, violently. It nearly knocked him off his feet. Then he felt something brush past him, walking out from the small recess in the wall where ancient graves had not been uncovered. Gaping blue eyes followed the dark spectre as it too became more opaque and took on the form of a handsome man. More followed, seeping through the walls, into the room, crowding it but leaving the number of occupants the same.
They formed two rows facing each other, Chase and the unknown being between them.
Soon there was a pinch in the blond man’s features as his awareness returned. He opened his eyes. The blue-green was gone. Luminescent white was in its place.
“Chase?” House whispered. His fellow didn’t hear, or just didn’t respond. Instead he stared at the man supporting him while he found his footing again.
“Azrael.” The soft whisper cut through the room like a concussive wave.
Azrael smiled. His eyes brightened. His hold shifted and tightened.
“I missed you,” Chase continued. His voice maintained the familiar accent and he still sounded like Chase, yet there were subtle differences that made his voice more buoyant. It felt like his whisper could carry through any medium forever, as clear as if he’d said it with his lips at your ear.
“Archangel Azrael,” Antolovich said lowly. Relief poured out and anticipation poured into him. “He’s an archangel,” was his inference, his bias finding easily confirmation of his theory.
From one of the rows of spectres a handsome man with dark hair stepped forward. House felt his jaw slacken as he took in the man’s appearance. He looked like Chase. Sharper features, slightly greater height, darker hair, thinner lips, squarer jaw, but he was undeniably, unmistakeably a version of Chase in appearance.
Feeling the presence at his back Chase looked and his expression changed. The simple happiness that had touched his face a moment ago bled away and Chase swung his arms around the being who proceeded to hold him back just a tightly.
“Azazel.” The whispered name carried through the room again. “Brother.”
The holy men shook with uncertainty, which quickly morphed into fear. What sort of abomination were they dealing with? To which side did he truly belong?
In a burst of vehemence Voorhees took the grimoire from Clayton and started to flip through the book, looking for a specific passage.
Chase let one arm release from Azazel and took Azrael’s hand. Azrael kissed the back of the hand holding his and then leaned in to kiss the blond head that still remained tucked under Azazel’s chin. It was the last gesture he gave before the Deacon’s words began to pull at them, banishing the spectres from the room. Their outrage and anger could not find their target soon enough and they faded away, unable to stop it. Without support, Chase collapsed to the ground, his coverings billowing around him before settling.
“What are you doing?” A man with a distinctly Arabic accent asked of Voorhees.
“We must know which one he is?”
Despite his strong words, Voorhees made no move forward so Antolovich braved the unknown instead and approached the weak figure. Chase had pushed himself up but could not seem to get further with his quivering limbs. His mind was still reeling over being so suddenly alone that he didn’t notice the man that approached him or hear his words until he was touched. With his fingers under the Chase’s chin, Antolovich raised the face to look at him. Locked in a stare with those bright, bottomless eyes Piotr briefly forgot his question. He took a deep breath and pulled back a little. Finally he forced his question out.
“I have many names,” the voice that was Chase’s responded slowly.
The question was repeated. “Who are you?”
Yawning silence grew while they waited for the answer. Even those who hadn’t believed held their breath.
“I am Mastema.”
End Chapter 8
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- - - H/C - - -
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Cast and Characters
Rating: NC-17
Pairings: Chase/OMC, House/Chase
Summary: The marks of the saints and a past he won’t remember force Chase and House to face religion head on. They won’t get his fellow without a fight!
Spoilers: Up to season 4 Finale.
Genre: Drama, Supernatural
Disclaimer: I don’t own House. I’m not making any money off this story.
Chapter Rating: PG-13
Warning(s): Language, Adult Situations, Violence, M/M relationships. Do not read this story if any of these bother you!
A/N: This took way too long. Sorry for the delay. I’ve been carrying around this chapter with me so that I could edit it at every chance but it seemed to take ages. Anyway, I hope it’s worth the wait.
Chapter 8: The Head of a Pin
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It was the change in times zones that had House wide awake long after the sun had set. It had been at least a few hours since Mayes had left. House hadn’t left the room. Chase had slept on and off, though none of it appeared restful. House had observed and brooded. His inability to find a logical, scientific explanation for what was happening to his fellow made him weary, while the constant threat of their captors made him jumpy. The plausible scenario, that should he find an explanation for this apparent mystery nobody would believe him, made him tired. The only place left to sit in the room was the bed. There had been a chair but he’d used it to barricade the door closed by leaning the chair on its hind legs until the back fit underneath the door knob -just like in the movies. He’d quickly grown annoyed with the intermittent stream of staff looking to clean up and take care of things when there was nothing to clean up or take care of. His successful interference in their overzealous performance of their duties had been his greatest accomplishment in the past hours.
Feeling as old and tired as he probably would have been feeling for years if not for the numbing effect of his pain medication, House sat at the other side of the king-sized bed, his back to his charge. The city’s night light was a glowing blanket laid underneath a dimly starred sky. He thought he heard some commotion in the distance but couldn’t tell for certain. Finally he kicked off his shoes, removed his jacket and lay down. His eyes remained upon the ceiling for a few more minutes then his head shifted to the man next to him, taking his gaze with it.
He found his subordinates gaze already on him. His wounds had once again closed but pain lingered on his face. It took House a moment to think of something to say, unsure as he was of Chase’s state of mind.
“Don’t get any ideas, just ‘cause where in the same bed.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it.” The response was slow in coming as if it took some effort to generate the levity that could be heard in his words. “As far as I know all you’re hookers have been women.”
He wasn’t wrong in his assumption, but House wasn’t about to let him know that. “As far as you know,” was the cryptic response. His smirk deepened when he heard the sound of Chase shifting to see him better. House has always been quite candid regarding his sex-life, practically shouting his exploits from the roof. His possible experiences with other men had, oddly, never come up. Chase was curious. And House’s sex-life was a nice distraction from their current situation.
“So…” Chase ventured, “You and…Wilson? ever…y’know.”
“No, we’ve never fucked like bunnies.” House’s smirk turned into a smile at the suspected though not visually confirmed twist of Chase’s mouth at his crass wording. “I heard you and Mayes were at a safe-house together when you were twenty-one.”
Innuendo was, abruptly, House’s game of choice and Chase either didn’t have enough experience to know how to face it or he just took the route that was simplest. “We were. And we did fuck like bunnies.”
“I assume that’s before he sold you out to your mortal enemies.” The light conversation took a sudden turn on to a rougher, more difficult path.
“He didn’t sell me out…” Chase was matter-of-fact in his rebuttal, though there was an opening in his tone that House all too often stepped into in order to refute.
“Of course not. He didn’t mean it. He just accidentally called them, told them where to find you--”
“He didn’t!”
“You can’t recognize betrayal. I suppose that explains why you know nothing about loyalty.”
“And you know nothing about earning it. What’s your excuse?”
House shifted his gaze to the tall window he’d spent much of the last few hours staring through. He wished he’d continued staring and left the past where it belonged, where he couldn’t poke and prod it. The point he’d been trying to make before he thought he’d slide a dig at Chase’s character into the mix was…
“Mayes is up to something.”
“He’s trying to find a way out of this situation.”
“Which begs the question how did he get into the situation?” His confidence emboldened him to face his fellow again. The reminder of Chase’s frail condition was written in his shaky breaths and the darkness that circled the stunning eyes. At the last moment Greg tried to soften his accusation. “If he was on your side, then how did they find us?”
“If I knew that, it’d be a lot easier to avoid them.” Chase didn’t go for the bait House was laying before him.
House took his avoidance as disbelief and support of Mayes despite the careful deduction laid out. “If they found you on their own, then why would they include him if he wasn’t going to help them?” House didn’t get a response but he watched the doubt inch its way across Chase’s tense and worn expression and felt remorse for what he had to do. Chase knew Mayes the best but that knowledge was useless if he was blinded by friendship…or love.
“He wouldn’t,” Chase said, more to himself than the man next to him. His tone was even, his eyes were steady, Chase’s characteristic fidgetiness gone.
House suddenly felt too tired to move or continue his argument. “It’s late. Get some sleep.”
He didn’t have to wait long before he thought Chase was asleep. His breathing became a little shallower, a little less pained and some apprehension that had coiled in his body released and allowed his limbs to relax. House remained on the bed. The cot he was supposed to be using was probably waiting outside the door but he was too lazy to go all the way out there and get it. And he didn’t want to be any further away from Chase than he had to be.
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He heard the door to his office open after a sharp knock. He planned to look up just as soon as re read the next note, and the next one, and the prescription dosage.
“You’re concern for your best friend is touching.”
Wilson ignored Cameron’s voice. He didn’t even have to look to know she was tired and worried.
Foreman slipped past the woman and collapsed to the oncologist’s couch. This had become their base of operations in the hunt for House and Chase. The diagnostic department was now an abandoned monument to brilliance.
“There’s nothing in any of the churches. Father Demarco wasn’t of any help either.”
After Cameron’s recount of the priest she’d found sniffing at the blood stained carpet in the diagnostics room, and the memory of the flower’s he’d sent, they’d quickly made their way to him. He’d been cooperative and calm, but in the end hadn’t been much help.
His patience already severely thinned, Foreman suddenly asked of the oncologist, “What the hell has you so fascinated?”
It took several seconds before Wilson responded distractedly. “Angelica Brown.”
“Who’s that?”
“A psych patient.”
“What’s this have to do with House and Chase?” Cameron asked, stepping closer to get a look at the file.
Wilson paused, weighing his words and how crazy they would undoubtedly sound to anybody who hadn’t witnessed what he’d witnessed. “I don’t think she’s crazy. Well she is, but the reason for it isn’t schizophrenia. I think whatever is happening to her, something similar is happening to Chase.” James had been back a few times to see the woman and had watched and listened as she spoke to people that only she could see. What he would have labelled dementia not long ago, he know looked at more closely and really wondered not only about what she was seeing, but about what he and everyone else was missing.
“Could be an infection that’s going away at her brain,” Foreman suggested, his fatigue lifting at the possibility of a medical challenge.
“She could also be schizophrenic. We should be trying to find Chase and House.”
Foreman was suitably chastised and went silent, eyes averted. Wilson wasn’t.
“There’s nothing we can do for them here.”
“Here? As opposed to…wherever they are?” Cameron waited expectantly.
He’d said too much. Wilson briefly wondered if House rubbed off on all his fellows like this, or only the ones who lasted a certain amount of time under his tutelage.
Foreman jumped in. “You know where they are?”
Defeated Wilson sat back in his chair. He could have told them right then. Probably should have told them, but he drew it out, for no good reason except to keep them waiting. “Israel.”
The shouts of surprise that followed the question hastily blurted out one over the other, the recriminations at him for withholding the information, James tuned it out. Even the part where Cameron was going to Cuddy.
“You should have told her as soon as you found out,” Cameron finished. A moment later she was gone.
Action took a brief hiatus then. Eventually Foreman stood, recovered from his own shock and disbelief, and went to the desk. He spun the patient file around on the table top until it faced him and began reading.
“You’re not going to join her?”
Foreman spared him an impatient and patronizing glance. “I’m sure she’s got it covered.” They both knew she did, her righteous indignation practically left an odour in the air. “I’d like to work on a case that I might actually solve without challenging organized religion.”
“That still might not be this case.”
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God’s work on earth would not, to most, include spying on others. Then again God was always watching, so Siva Jordan considered his work to be the mortal equivalent and thus felt no guilt or shame. He probably found too many ways to justify even his most heinous actions, because even faced with what he did and for whom, he slept well. It was probably for whom he did it that eased his conscience. Somebody had to do the dirty work.
They’d all learn soon, that was far too true.
“Jordan, what’s he doing?” the voice in the headphones connected to his cellular asked almost timidly.
Leaning casually against an old brick wall outside a small bar catering to locals Jordan surreptitiously kept his eyes on his target.
“He’s talking.”
“Is that all?”
Is that all? Jordan shook his head wondering why he continued to answer to Voorhees when it was Antolovich that he respected of these two. “He’s making plans. He’s up to something that could complicate our duties.” He waited several seconds before posing, “What would you like me to do?” and could feel as much as hear the uncomfortable shifting on the other end of the phone call. Voorhees was not a decision making man. He saw only the big picture and none of the details to achieve it. That was where Jordan came in.
“Do what you think is necessary.”
The call ended with nothing further. Jordan shook his head in mild disgust. Spineless, old fool, he couldn’t help but think, but chastised himself after the deed was done. He had his vague orders. Discretion was left in his very capable and very deadly hands.
As his target left the small establishment after having what looked like a drink and an uninteresting conversation with random patrons, Jordan set his course as well. It took him directly into the other man.
“Excuse me,” Mayes said in Hebrew so flawless one might think him a native speaker of the language.
In English tinged with his Turkish accent Jordan returned, “No, excuse me, Mister Mayes. Such a coincidence that we would meet out here.”
The polite apology written on the taller man’s face shifted to a darker more calculating look as he recognized the man before him and his purpose in the Tenth Order.
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Doctors Cameron and Cuddy thanked profusely the FBI agent that had come so quickly and taken the information about their two missing colleagues. Despite how awkward the interview had started out the agent had kept an open mind and jotted down the unbelievable details regarding Dr. Chase’s condition when last they had seen him. He’d even listened patiently to Dr. Cameron’s concern that perhaps a religious group had taken an interest in Chase, and pointed the agent in the direction of Father DeMarco.
“I’ll update you when I can but as an open investigation I may not be able to give you many, if any, details,” Agent Jerome warned.
Cuddy nodded her understanding. “Of course.”
“I’ll be in touch.”
Cuddy turned back to her desk as soon as the FBI agent was a few feet beyond the outer doors of her office. Dr. Cameron stared after the man for a few seconds more, a faint warning having belatedly taken form in her mind.
“You think he’ll look into it?”
Cuddy didn’t look up from her paperwork but responded anyway. “Even if he didn’t believe the details we gave him, he has a duty to investigate. He’ll at least find that House and Chase are missing, and have to take it from there.”
Cuddy looked up to convey in her expression her hope but also her fear that the FBI may not find or even look for their friends. The immunologist gave a thin nod and left. Cuddy went back to her paperwork under the pretence of doing work. The pen in her hand didn’t move for several minutes.
Just outside the hospital Agent Jerome answered a call on his cell phone.
“Long break you’re taking. Did you forget about our case?” his partner, who along with Jerome had been working late the past several nights, questioned.
“No, just had something to check out for a friend.”
“…And?”
“Turns out it was nothing.” Jerome tore out the pages of his notebook where he’d taken notes on the potential case. He crumpled and tossed them into a waste bin on his to his sedan. “As I suspected. Just had to be sure.”
“Well get back here. I’ve covered for your dumb ass long enough.”
“See you soon, Sunshine.”
Jerome laughed at the aggravated huff just before the line went dead. The mirth from the interaction with his partner left him quickly to be replace by conflict. Should he look into the disappearance of these two men? Was it not his duty?
He fingered the gold cross underneath his tie and collared shirt. He reminded himself of his higher duty.
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Mayes hadn’t returned. House wished that he was more angry than worried. At least Chase was too uncomfortable to notice. The wounds had begun bleeding again. House clinched his jaw at the recent memory of waking to find Chase lying next to him, peacefully awake with growing stains of blood on the sheets below his wrists and on his pillow. At some time before House had awoken, Chase had been bestowed an invisible crown of thorns and nails through his wrists. It was a small blessing that the other injuries hadn’t yet arrived.
“How is he?” Voorhees asked from behind House as the doctor continued his ministrations. He’d removed the chair wedged behind the door when he admitted that to tend to Chase he would need some supplies he didn’t have in the room. Regrettably, that also meant unwanted visitors were stopping by.
“Weak, tired -exactly why he should be in a hospital.”
The old man shook his head. “God will give him strength.”
House knew his argument would be futile but the stubborn dog in him wouldn’t let common sense go, although it wasn’t as common around these people. And if he heard one more comment about God doing something for any of them, he’d hurt somebody. All the blind faith, the overwhelming piety was making him more than unhappy. Worse than stupid people, were people being stupid. What was the point of having a mind if it wasn’t used? Faith, in his opinion, circumvented all the higher reasoning that set human’s apart from the other animals, yet here were people happily doing away with the best gift their God might have ever given them; free will.
“I don’t want to do this,” Chase said weakly, his lips tainted deep cherry by the blood that rand down his face from the gouges on his forehead. Again, despite his position the blood seemed to have a mind of its own as it ran down Chase’s face as though he was upright. The eerie image was only bolstered by the nearly dreamy expression on his face. Even with the pain making his limbs shiver and his skin damp with sweat, there was another less tangible, less describable facet to Chase’s experience that balanced the physical experiences.
Still, as a human being, the physical suffering could not be discounted and making matters worse, they weren’t allowing him to eat. Fasting, for the upcoming rituals, Voorhees had called it, while he and his cohorts gorged themselves on food and expensive wine. House had only been able to sneak Chase some crackers that morning and that wasn’t nearly enough to keep up an adult male’s energy.
“I’m afraid it’s not up to you, Robert.”
“It shouldn’t be up to you either.”
“But it is.” Turning to House he ordered, “Get him ready. Mister Mayes is busy at the moment.” House watched his exit, turning over the comment on Mayes in his head.
“Well, this is a fine mess you’ve gotten us into, Chase,” House said once they were alone.
“Sorry.”
“I was kidding,” House snapped. He didn’t really blame Chase but he wanted the banter he’d shared with the young man to come back. Even the terse words they’d shared last night would have been welcome. It would have been an indication that Chase wasn’t feeling as bad as he looked. “I don’t think I can blame you for the collective delusions of a group of idiots,” he said in a tone that was gruff but gentle, while he wiped away more of the blood that streaked the lax face.
“You really don’t believe any of it?” Chase asked once House had helped him to sit up in the bed.
“You don’t believe any of it either,” House countered.
“I believe in God, and angels and hell.”
“Seminary school brainwashing,” House excused and gave Chase the new shirt that had been provided for him to wear. House would have to tough it out in his old wrinkled attire.
“If you don’t believe in God or something, then what matters?” Chase argued with a weak voice. “There’s no morality, no good or evil, only nature.”
“What’s wrong with nature? Everything doesn’t have to be a test. We’re just animals that try not to do bad all the time.” House helped him slip his arms into the shirt and then button up the front while their debate continued.
The blood loss made Chase’s limbs heavy and his mind sluggish. He barely noticed his boss helping him dress. “Because nature excuses everything. If it’s nature for a volcano to erupt and kill people then it’s nature for people to kill other people too.”
“Maybe it is,” House shrugged. “Maybe we’re just trying to achieve something better than our nature dictates.” Chase shifted to the edge of the bed where House slipped on his pants. He’d stayed with Chase overnight, doing what he could to make sure he remained in good health; playing doctor the whole night (and not the fun type of doctor he’d sometimes resorted to paying some women for). And now he was forced to play nurse-maid as well.
He had to suppose it could have been worse. Instead of Chase he could be changing the pants of a wrinkly, incontinent man with boils and no teeth. Chase’s smooth and skin and toned body was actually a welcome distraction. So while half his mind was on the debate -one he’d been meaning to have with Chase since he found out the young man had gone to seminary school -the other half of his mind was cataloguing the body he’d never before seen unclothed.
“Then why bother?” Chase asked still sounding tired, though the topic did manage to pull some life out of him. “And how would we know what’s good without something to guide us?”
“We’d manage,” House said distractedly. He couldn’t help it. He was a human being, and a beautiful body was a beautiful body, even if they were both neck deep in a religious mystery they barely comprehended. Yet helping Chase put his pants on, sliding his hands up the strong thighs to the slender hips with tight, white briefs, was a distraction he could no more give up than he could stop breathing.
“You can’t be serious,” Chase said, too tired to notice that perhaps House wasn’t being as clinical with his tasks as a good doctor should have been.
“You can’t seriously expect me to have this conversation with you after we’ve been kidnapped by a bunch of lunatics who think you’re some sort of heavenly or hellish deity, and brought to a country that is not my number one vacation destination!” House almost felt bad for his outburst. His thin distraction hadn’t been much in the face of their current uncertainty and the undercurrent of preparation. Something was happening and they were helpless.
The outburst silenced the blond man for a moment, while the thrum of his wounds attempted to occupy his mind. Instead he focused and distracted himself. “Well…what number would this be?” Chase asked and sounded only curious as to the answer.
“What rank is Jerusalem on my list of vacation destinations?” House repeated rather dumbly.
Chase nodded, still looking as earnest as a tired, pained and hungry man could be. He needed this bit of normalcy. House tried to indulge him.
“Well…probably around two hundred. I’m not really one for pilgrimages.”
Chase managed a weak and brief smile. He could accept that answer though he turned it over in his mind. He probably shouldn’t have been amused by House’s blasphemy. What was left of his seminary education insisted that he feel affront or perhaps pity. Instead he was intrigued by House’s view and he welcomed this version of a puzzle. What were the other one-hundred and ninety-nine destinations?
The door to the room opened again. Father Antolovich entered. He stopped a step inside, taking in the sight of the sacred stigmata. He crossed himself, an action House saw when he glanced back. He had no choice then but attack the man’s faith.
“If this is from God, why the inconsistencies? Some people get wounds in the wrists, others in their hands. You’d think God would have been able to choose one.”
It was a cold man that could discuss and plan the death of another and only worry about how history would record it. Thus, it was not surprising to House that Antolovich responded with a patronizing smile.
“Robert,” he addressed the youngest man, “where do you believe the nails in Christ were inflicted -hands or wrists?”
There was evidence and conjecture to support both scenarios but each believer had his or her own opinion. Chase was no different. Reluctantly, loathe to lend support to this man’s theory, he responded.
“Wrists.” His voice was tinged with defeat, resignation was setting in. His faith, perhaps, had brought all this on. He’d turned to it once wholly, and then turned away from it, to what Robert thought was the same degree. If he ever engaged in debate of religion or spirituality his words were without fervour. He played only to serve the side of the argument he felt fewer and fewer people were willing to defend. In the end however, none of it touched him. In his daily life he’d separated himself from faith, but it always lingered, like ghosts over his shoulder. And now that lingering seed of faith had grown thorns.
Antolovich smiled at him, then turned his gaze to House. “The person’s faith is as much a part as are God’s actions. He does, after all, work through us.”
“Whatever lets you sleep at night.”
Antolovich might think himself wise but he was lacking when it came to patience, and the stubborn American doctor was quickly devouring what little he owned. “Finish up. We’re leaving.”
“For where?”
The priest began for the door and responded casually over his shoulder, “The Church of Holy Sepulchre in the old city. Mister Mayes will be meeting us there.”
The tone didn’t sit well with House. Judging by the worry in Chase’s eyes, it didn’t sit there with him either. They didn’t have time to ask questions, those assembled being so eager to get to their destination and begin what was quietly being referred to as ‘The Awakening’.
Two inconspicuous beige sedans drove the group away. Clayton and his people in one and Antolovich, House, Voorhees and Chase in the other.
“Travelling light today?” House inquired. Forced to take the front passenger seat he had to twist around to keep his eyes on Chase, who was in the opposite corner, and Voorhees, who was behind him.
“The others are already in place. We’ve been waiting for this for sometime,” Voorhess stated calmly.
Antolovich in the driver’s seat didn’t comment as he carefully made his way through the busy streets of the newer portion of Jerusalem to take them to the Old City.
In his corner of the car Chase subtly tried the door. He thought maybe, he could jump out when the car was moving slowly or stopped at a light, and disappear into one of the crowded streets. But the door didn’t budge. He tried to pull the plastic pin in front of the window to release the lock but it didn’t move. Damn child locks.
Chase clenched his teeth as the pain surged with the frustration of the situation. In so short a time he’d been dragged back into what he’d tried to run from. He was closer than ever to where he didn’t want to be.
Just beyond the glass, mostly average people went about mostly average lives. Strangely many were familiar to Chase. He’d seen them before, seen through them before and witnessed their choices. A guiding shadow, a malevolent creature, a guardian angel -he saw many things walking a step behind the people on the crowded sidewalk. Some were brighter, others much darker. What joyous, magnanimous gesture might one of them perform? What despicable act might another?
The world grew darker, the sunlight loosing it potency as the spectre blossomed from air. Chase’s heart rate began to climb as he watched the people become enveloped by the greyness, sinking into and becoming part of them. On some the hold went so deep their face contorted into inhuman monsters, the wicked madness taking over their minds. Not even children were spared. All the people were enveloped, the darkness thickened until it began to rush at him. Racing over other vehicles, over falling bodies, weaving through the column of fire that had burst from the ground and struck from the sky! Until it struck him, his head snapping to the side.
The blow had been almost non-existent -a light brush across his cheek. His mind however was reeling, while the world around him continued on, normal, undisturbed.
Finally Robert risked opening his eyes. Blinded at first by the sunlight, the eyes of the vehicles driver in the rear view mirror caught his for second before a touch to his cheek made him start and press himself into the corner. The motion and Chase’s restrained cry of pain from it drew House’s concern and he turned to see what was going on. Voorhees’s hand followed Chase even after he moved away, regaining contact with the ashen skin.
“What do you see, my child?”
Chase tried to turn his head away and keep his sight on the man at the same time. “Don’t touch me,” he hissed.
“You’re special. I only wish we’d seen it sooner.” Chase didn’t respond. Voorhees didn’t remove his hand. “We were misguided. Blinded to the truth by our own narrow expectations and feeble understanding of the life-after.”
In the front House tried to intervene, bring up his cane ready to smack the Deacon’s hand away. He was just a touch too slow, allowing Antolovich to grab the other end of his cane to keep House from interfering.
“No more running. Hmm, my child?” Voorhees asked. Chase chanced a look at the man and saw the world behind the man warping as though he saw it through a rounded piece of glass. The strange distortion carved out a human-like form that nearly draped itself over the back of Voorhees, whispering and sinking tendril-like fingers into the man’s mind. Voorhees moved his hand from Chase’s face, to his bleeding wrists. Taking a tight hold the Deacon was immune to the pain he caused, though it was evident in both his victim’s face and the sound of his breathing.
“Leave,” Chase commanded in a desperate whisper.
Both occupants in the front of the vehicle heard but knew with great confidence that Chase was not speaking to them.
The creature pulled back, removing itself from Voorhees side. As though reluctant to go, it hung back, waiting.
“Go.”
It went.
Voorhees let go. His hand now slick with blood, he brought it to his face. The others watched as the bloody hand moved closer and closer still to the man’s lips. They thought he would lick it. It looked as though he wanted to. Instead Voorhees inhaled deeply, long and loudly -until the scent of blood blocked out everything in his mind save for the burning desire to control, to decide, to act without self-doubt.
Only a few seconds needed to pass before the man’s mind returned to him, with all its many questions and reservations. With his clean hand, Voorhees retrieved a handkerchief and wiped the fragrant blood from this hand. There was no further conversation, only the heavy look between the Deacon and the Priest.
In his corner Chase rocked and shivered as the aches intensified. He had his hands to his chest, trying to give comfort to himself where there was none to be found. It was becoming harder think clearly, to lift the shroud of his waning faith and disturbing sights. He didn’t dare look outside at the passing scenery or at the brick and stone structure of the Damascus Gate as they entered into the walled city of the old Jerusalem.
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Angelica Brown’s medical records were of no particular use. Nothing in her history hinted at anything but a woman whose mind was ill, and at sometimes her body as well.
“She’s usually only here once a week to be evaluated for the drug trial,” Henderson remarked tiredly. He’d joined doctors Foreman and Cameron in the diagnostics conference room and was half-heartedly working on the case. Mostly, the older doctor sat and poked holes in their theories.
“But she has an infection,” Cameron added distractedly. She flipped a page in the notes and continued reading.
“Pneumonia is hardly noteworthy.”
“It is when she’s been hospitalize four times in the last six months for different infections.”
To Dr. Foreman’s rebuttal, Henderson had another. “The staff at her facility is overly cautious and she’s covered under her family’s Blue Cross plan. Of course they spare no expense for her.”
Foreman shook his head. “If you don’t think she has anything but schizophrenia and an infection, why are you letting us look at her file?”
Henderson shrugged. With his arms crossed and his gaze averted the motion looked petulant. They’d informed him that Wilson suspected Ms. Brown’s situation may be related to Chase’s. He’d told them that it was simply schizophrenia. Cameron and Foreman suspected that perhaps they were both wrong. Maybe Henderson did too; he’d provided the medical records.
“This new drug…”
“Sopalitor,” Henderson supplied for Cameron.
“…it’s being administered in combination with others.”
“Yes, the trial is focused on the drugs success in a patient on other medications. Most patients like Miss Angelica require more than one treatment.” The psychiatrist paused to glance at the two other doctors. “Neither of you have entertained the notion that what’s happening to her is like what happened your colleague?” his tone made it hard to determine whether or not he’d considered any supernatural causes himself.
“There’s an explanation we just have to find it,” Cameron stated after a few seconds without a response.
Henderson nodded as though he’d expected such an answer. “Spoken like a true disciple of Doctor House.”
“What? You don’t think there’s anything spiritual happening to her either.”
“True, but when I say it I sound less like an arrogant jerk.”
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Sacred to many, the church was divided into different chapels for different faiths. The Greek Orthodox, the Roman Catholics, the Armenians, Ethiopians and Muslims each had a part to call their own. Housed under one main structure, it was a tense environment for those who knew, only a shrine to the crucifixion site of a long-dead and then risen man to most of the visitors. Today the general public was not allowed inside, much to their disappointment.
Inside the church, up the stairs beyond the main entrance to the calvary, many people of the many faiths waited. Dressed in their ceremonial vestments and backing the intricate shrines and artworks to the crucifixion it was a somewhat gaudy and overbearing scene. Chase’s eyes remained on the floor as he was lead through. Several paces behind House followed, his sharp eyes taking in the new surroundings.
Chants and prayers in many languages followed them, creating a sombre thrum within the old chambers. Finally the procession stopped. A rectangular slab of stone about the height of an altar stood with a vase of four candle burning at one end. On the other side was a row of nuns, each wearing habits of slightly different designs. They each represented some of the many monastery in the holy city and attempting to discern which was from where was a pointless exercise.
When he raised his eyes and saw them Chase glared. He couldn’t help it. His practically natural aversion to the women who’d dedicated their lives to the church was ramping up. He nearly missed the entire oration being given by Deacon Voorhees while the other clergy of different religions gathered. At the end of it a question was posed.
Why where they asking? House wondered. Up until this point they’d threatened him to keep Chase in line and overpowered Chase whenever they couldn’t to get him to do what they wanted. Yet now, at what appeared to be a crucial moment they were asking his permission.
“No.” A quick, simple and clear response. Seemed it was the church that brought out the defiance in him.
Maybe Chase was expelled from seminary school.
Though he’d given a response, Chase knew that it wasn’t over. They wouldn’t shrug and say “okay. You can go,” after dragging him all this way.
“Robert…” Voorhees began admonishingly.
“I said ‘No’! You need my permission for this ritual, and I’m not giving it to you.”
There was silence, the chants having ended when Voorhees had begun talking. Into the quiet somebody approached. Actually it was two, and one of them was stumbling badly. Chase pivoted to see what was causing the murmurs of low speech and his eyes widened.
“Warren!”
Voorhees stepped into Chase’s path to keep him from approaching. Chase stopped but continued to stare. His friend was in a bad state. One eye was swollen almost completely shut, while dark bruises coloured the cheek under the other, as well as his jaw on the left side. Some internal pain kept him from standing upright so he was hunched forward, bound hands at his abdomen. Most of his weight was being carried on his right leg and in the moments where his tired and aching muscles caused a shift to the other, he winced.
At Warren’s side Voorhees’s henchman, Jordan, kept a tight grip on his captive’s arm. “You’re friend was making pitiful plans to whisk you away again. We couldn’t allow that to happen.”
“Men of God,” Chase spat accusingly.
“Soldiers of God,” Voorhees corrected and returned Chase’s glare with a most infuriating expression of serenity. Sudden arrogance in such a small, feeble man.
Jordan became impatient. He squeezed and twisted intensifying the pain at Warren’s shoulder knowing that the recently dislocated joint would be aching intensely even on its own.
Mayes bit back his moan of pain by clenching his jaw and holding his breath but the expression said it all. Chase tried to approach again, and again Voorhees blocked him.
“His fate is in your hands. This is your choice. Accept the divine blessing and the anointing and be free of suffering. For the Lord shall open his arms and welcome back his champion.”
Face stony with grief Chase stepped back, colliding with the stone slab, chest heaving with increasingly burning breaths. He knew he was trapped. Around him the others stood silent, waiting, hoping. Their conflict over the method of attaining the subject’s cooperation was not enough to more than shadow their duty. He met the hard gaze of Warren’s one open eye. Warren was ready to accept whatever punishment they threw at him. His eyes told Robert that he would gladly take it. If it came to such, he would die happily in the knowledge that his Robin was still safe and whole.
Chase opened his mouth. The words didn’t come out immediately.
“Don’t!” House yelled, already too sure of his fellows decision. “Don’t be the idiot I know you’re not!”
“Old man, would you like to be next?” Jordan called back while House tried to make his way through the bodies that had no regard for the difficulties of a cripple.
House was stopped as he reached the inner circle of those assembled. He yelled, threw the worst insults he could imagine towards the church and threatened everybody with power he knew he didn’t have. He was almost panicked. This building and these people didn’t sit right with him. And religions had a long history of killing people. Chase wasn’t going to be next.
The blue eyes closed and opened again when his face was to the vaulted ceiling. Panels of gold followed the curve of the high dome from the center where sunlight filtered down through the skylight. He stared up at it, the light so dazzling and bright his eyes hurt. A dream came back to him.
“Yes,” he answered at last.
Housed hurled insults at him.
Mayes begged him to take it back.
Chase closed his eyes. He knew what he’d done -given up his freedom, possibly his life to save two people, two friends. While delicate hands began to divest him, Chase admitted that he would have done the same for anyone. An awareness had begun to stir in him, telling him that this was not their conflict, yet.
He hung his head and kept it down while he was exposed. The church had not felt so chilly before, nor the eyes on him so heavy and intrusive. His shirt was undone and slipped off his shoulders to fall in a wave of fabric to waiting hands. The urge to wrap his arms around himself, shelter what he could, would have been given into were it not for the hands that held his arms while they worked off the bandages at his wrist.
The most uncomfortable was the removal of his pants and underwear. His aversion for nuns steadily increased. Naked as Adam in Eden, bleeding like the stigmatists before him, Chase turned to the old slab where the nuns indicated he should lay. Sooner than he could get his limbs to move the hated sting of lashes across his back struck him and brought the Australian to his knees. He used his arms to hold onto the cool granite surface while the flagellation continued and the gashes appeared like a curse on his back.
The last few brought cries of pain from him. When it ended the sounds of his pain echoed for an unnatural stretch of time, while his pants and moans went on in harmony.
The prayers had begun again in earnest. They’d been witness to the miracle as it was bestowed. The scent of jasmine heightened and the hearts lightened as they became increasingly assured of their actions.
Chase had to be helped onto the stone. Once he was laid out they began washing him with water, simple soap, and cloths -humble tools for such ornate surroundings. While they washed him, the various clergy said their prayers. Mayes and House were silently watching Chase. House had thought to turn away and give Chase the privacy that nobody else would afford him. He didn’t. More so than privacy he thought Chase needed support. Not his forte but he was still enough of a human being to know that a trusted gaze free of shame or loathing would tell Chase that there was nothing for which he had to be ashamed.
It seemed to take hours, this ritual cleansing and then anointing with special oil. They redressed Robert when it was done in white robes. First a small one was wrapped around his hips to cover his genitals and then a loose one was draped over his shoulders. As the light fabric settled around the slender body a white powder gently lifted from the clothes into the air. Being so close Chase didn’t see it, or notice that each breath he took was laced with it. Being far enough away House did notice.
They were moved again. Voorhees lead Chase to another small room, the Chapel of St. Helena but only a few of the various clergymen were allowed to follow. They were all careful not to touch Chase and to give him room. When he stumbled, nobody was allowed to help him up. Even when his footprints began leaving marks of blood on the floor and his steps were accompanied by agony, nobody helped. Mayes and House were brought along, their usefulness not having ended, but they were kept away from Chase as well.
The final destination of the thinned group was not the Chapel of St. Helena, but a lesser known chapel only recently discovered. A steel gate was unlocked and down to a stone quarry the group went.
“The Chapel of Saint Vartan,” Voorhees announced softly as they group found their rightful positions around the fairly large open area beneath the shallowly arched and ornately carved ceiling.
Numerous candles danced in the dark and provided a soft lighting for the centuries old room. Carved low on the rock walls of the room were centuries old drawings and messages, like ancient graffiti. Although it appeared almost as vandalism, the messages written in old languages were actually important notes and messages and they made this Chapel of St. Vartan so very special.
Standing in the middle of the slightly oblong room Chase was made to wait for the next unwanted step in this ritual. He was light-headed, dizzy and ready to fall over. As the prayers began, again many in many languages, he found a beat to them. He closed his eyes and let the beat reverberate through him. The slick liquid flowing down his limbs and his head stained his white garments further. They began to stick to him, lightly tugging at his torn flesh when he listed this way or that.
Suddenly the words and the beat stopped. Chase felt as though he was floating far away, above all the cares and fears, mostly his own.
“Why are they stopping?” House asked quietly of Mayes who was knelt near him. Their view of Chase was hampered by the two people in front of them and they couldn’t move with Jordan watching them.
“It’s time for a new book,” Mayes informed with a haggard voice. Just as he finished speaking Voorhees stepped back and Clayton stepped forward. He held a heavy tome. It looked old and fragile but it’s endurance through its obvious years said that it must be very important. “The Key of Solomon,” Mayes said hanging his head as his failure was completed.
“Somewhere you all lost your way,” Clayton began arrogantly. He flipped slowly through the thick pages, dragging out his part, reminding all those that choose to deny him and his followers that they were now the ones with the power. Without them all the faith in the world would have been for naught. “Your religion clung to faith, became passive and weak. Always begging, asking, never with the strength to command. Denying the strength religion once had.”
“Yes, you’re arrogance knows no bounds,” Antolovich replied patronizingly. A hum of amusement tipped the composure of the religious men. Clayton seethed. “Please,” Antolovich implored scathingly, “continue.”
Clayton went back to his aged book.
“Again we command ye with vehemence, and we exorcise ye with constancy, that ye and all your comrades come unto us in an agreeable and gracious manner like the breeze, to accomplish successively our various commands and desires. Come ye, then, by the virtue of these names by the which we exorcise ye…”
“What is it? What’s written inside?” House demanded, his eyes flitting around as the air pricked his skin and made his hair stand on end.
“Spells…it’s a grimoire.”
Words were being spoken again but these weren’t like the other ones. There was not beat to lull Chase into comfort and take away his pain. There was only one voice and his words caused a pain in him somewhere deeper than his body.
“We will compel ye, both ye and the Prince of Darkness. Come ye, come ye, angels of Darkness; come hither before this circle without fear, terror, or deformity, to execute our commands, and be ye ready both to achieve and to complete all that we shall command ye.”
A breeze picked up. Dust spun into spirals on the floor. The candles danced a more vigorous and violent ballet until finally they went out and the room was plunged into pitch-black, obscurity. Invisible forces churned in the blackness. Their touch was both cold and warm, comfort and malice, messenger and warrior.
Clayton continued, his equanimity not upset outwardly by they storm of unknown around him.
At the center Chase was barely managing to hold his mind together. He was being pulled apart. His body twisted, his head flailed side to side, and back and forth -unnatural, painful movements for a human being. As the last words reached him, touched him, he reached upwards holding out his hand for something to save him in this last moment. A drop of blood fell from his wrist to his face, adding to the red streaks. Nothing else came down to him. He went slack. He would have fallen, but he was caught.
In his dream he saw his reflection in the water and the forest burning behind them. They both lay down, cheek to cheek, and sank.
A light that cast no shadows slowly filled the room just enough to allow sight. They saw Robert Chase, bleeding, limp, and yet somehow still upright. In the tense silence they all waited. House quickly noticed that around his back the clothing Chase wore was restrained and compressed against him as though somebody were holding him. Somebody was.
They came into sight slowly -contours of a man, a lovely man. Transparent at first, he became mostly opaque, tall and slender, he held Chase up with one arm around his back allowing his head to rest against his shoulder. With his free hand he gently stroked Chase’s cheek trying to rouse him with the tender touch.
House shivered suddenly, violently. It nearly knocked him off his feet. Then he felt something brush past him, walking out from the small recess in the wall where ancient graves had not been uncovered. Gaping blue eyes followed the dark spectre as it too became more opaque and took on the form of a handsome man. More followed, seeping through the walls, into the room, crowding it but leaving the number of occupants the same.
They formed two rows facing each other, Chase and the unknown being between them.
Soon there was a pinch in the blond man’s features as his awareness returned. He opened his eyes. The blue-green was gone. Luminescent white was in its place.
“Chase?” House whispered. His fellow didn’t hear, or just didn’t respond. Instead he stared at the man supporting him while he found his footing again.
“Azrael.” The soft whisper cut through the room like a concussive wave.
Azrael smiled. His eyes brightened. His hold shifted and tightened.
“I missed you,” Chase continued. His voice maintained the familiar accent and he still sounded like Chase, yet there were subtle differences that made his voice more buoyant. It felt like his whisper could carry through any medium forever, as clear as if he’d said it with his lips at your ear.
“Archangel Azrael,” Antolovich said lowly. Relief poured out and anticipation poured into him. “He’s an archangel,” was his inference, his bias finding easily confirmation of his theory.
From one of the rows of spectres a handsome man with dark hair stepped forward. House felt his jaw slacken as he took in the man’s appearance. He looked like Chase. Sharper features, slightly greater height, darker hair, thinner lips, squarer jaw, but he was undeniably, unmistakeably a version of Chase in appearance.
Feeling the presence at his back Chase looked and his expression changed. The simple happiness that had touched his face a moment ago bled away and Chase swung his arms around the being who proceeded to hold him back just a tightly.
“Azazel.” The whispered name carried through the room again. “Brother.”
The holy men shook with uncertainty, which quickly morphed into fear. What sort of abomination were they dealing with? To which side did he truly belong?
In a burst of vehemence Voorhees took the grimoire from Clayton and started to flip through the book, looking for a specific passage.
Chase let one arm release from Azazel and took Azrael’s hand. Azrael kissed the back of the hand holding his and then leaned in to kiss the blond head that still remained tucked under Azazel’s chin. It was the last gesture he gave before the Deacon’s words began to pull at them, banishing the spectres from the room. Their outrage and anger could not find their target soon enough and they faded away, unable to stop it. Without support, Chase collapsed to the ground, his coverings billowing around him before settling.
“What are you doing?” A man with a distinctly Arabic accent asked of Voorhees.
“We must know which one he is?”
Despite his strong words, Voorhees made no move forward so Antolovich braved the unknown instead and approached the weak figure. Chase had pushed himself up but could not seem to get further with his quivering limbs. His mind was still reeling over being so suddenly alone that he didn’t notice the man that approached him or hear his words until he was touched. With his fingers under the Chase’s chin, Antolovich raised the face to look at him. Locked in a stare with those bright, bottomless eyes Piotr briefly forgot his question. He took a deep breath and pulled back a little. Finally he forced his question out.
“I have many names,” the voice that was Chase’s responded slowly.
The question was repeated. “Who are you?”
Yawning silence grew while they waited for the answer. Even those who hadn’t believed held their breath.
“I am Mastema.”
End Chapter 8
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- - - H/C - - -
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Cast and Characters