Note: I am so, so, SO sorry! I had no idea that it had been so long between my last post and this one! (I could almost die of embarrassment, honestly.) This gigantic break between chapters thing has got to stop. There’s still so much story left to tell! But on the bright side, nearly a year after hitting the worst case of writer’s block I’d ever had in my entire life, the adventures of Johanna and Abel are about to resume once more! So here we go again…

IN ALL THE EMPTY PLACES, PART XVI

Smoke.

Pressure.

Heat.

William fought to open his eyes, desperately trying not to panic when he felt a smothering weight on his face and body. Then he realized that the weight was in fact Father Tres, who had whirled around at the last possible instant when Father Michael had opened his office door, and Tres had thrown William to the floor to shield him from the blast that had thundered through the corridor.

“T-Tres…” he choked, pushing at the cyborg to try and extricate himself. “A-are you all right?”

“Significant damage sustained, but operational capacity remains within acceptable limits,” came Tres’ flat response as he levered himself up from where he was lying on top of William. “Requesting damage report, Father Wordsworth.”

“Mostly unharmed,” William said after a moment, quickly assessing himself for injuries. His eyes were watering from the smoke, his ears were still ringing, everything sounded as though it were at least fifteen feet away from him, and he yielded to the occasional coughing fit. But then William’s eyes went huge as he whirled around, looking for Father David, Father Michael, and Erica Garrett. David had been standing next to him, while Erica had been coming down the corridor when Michael had opened his office door. He tried to call out, coughed, then tried again. “Erica… David… Michael…” The corridor was filled with smoke, patches of the ceiling and floor were ablaze, and part of the corridor ceiling had collapsed after the explosion had torn through the building.

Tres saw Erica lying on the floor a short ways down the corridor, moaning in pain. Once he was certain that William was all right, he made his way through the wreckage and quickly scanned her body. “She will survive.”

William looked down the corridor in the other direction and saw Father David half-covered in detritus, and he started working to free the other priest. As soon as he was able to, he reached down and felt for the man’s pulse, reassured to discover he was also still alive.

“What about Father Michael?”

But a charred and battered form near the office door made William’s heart stop in his chest. “No…” He dimly remembered the ball of white-hot flame exploding out of the office when the door had opened, and Father Michael had been directly in its path. William swiftly crossed himself and whispered a prayer for the other priest’s soul.

“Recommended course of action - we must leave this building,” Tres stated after a moment. “The fire will spread and the rectory will become structurally unsound.”

William hesitated, but only for a moment before nodding. “Help free Father David. I’ll help Erica.” Tres nodded and with no visible signs of strain, began to lift the heavy rubble that trapped Father David against the floor. William crouched down next to Erica, regretting that he could not take more care with lifting her, and slung her over his shoulder in a fireman’s hold. But before rising to his feet, he saw the folder of papers she had been holding before the bomb in Michael’s office had gone off, and he hastily gathered them up. Then he cautiously rose to his feet and began making his way out of the burning building, followed closely by Tres, who was carrying Father David.

Out in the courtyard, mass panic was evident as people were running in every direction, some toward the rectory, others from it. Screams, sobs, yells, and whispers were filling the courtyard, quickly drowned out by the howl of sirens as emergency teams arrived at St. Paul’s to try and contain the fire.

William carefully laid Erica down on the grass, then sank to his knees beside her and began a more careful assessment of her injuries. While he was heartened to see that on the outside, she had appeared to only have caught the edge of the blast, he was not at all certain that she had not suffered any internal injuries as a result.

“Erica… Erica!” he called insistently, taking her by the shoulders and shaking her to try and rouse her, and she moaned again before her eyes slowly opened and she drew in a ragged breath. She tried to speak, but a fit of coughing overtook her and she tried to roll onto her side. Gagging and choking, Erica coughed up dust and phlegm before finally inhaling clean air.

“F-F-Father W-” she rasped, trying to sit up.

“Take it easy,” he warned her, helping her to a sitting position. “Are you hurt anywhere? Are you in pain of any kind?”

She knew he was asking if she felt any pain inside her body, and she weakly shook her head. “N-no… but it h-hurts to breathe.” Erica pressed her hands to her ears and winced, but suddenly her eyes went enormous and she glanced around wildly.

“Michael!”

Erica’s eyes sought William’s, and the priest lowered his gaze and sadly shook his head.

“I’m sorry, Erica.”

She gave a sob and buried her face in her hands, and William rested a hand on her shoulder in silent sympathy. Glancing around, he saw others in the courtyard that were grieving for those who had died in the explosion.

“But why?” he murmured to himself. “Why bomb the rectory? It doesn’t make sense.”

“Insufficient data,” Tres replied, also looking around. At that, William looked up at him, and recoiled at the sight of Tres’ back. The fire had scorched his AX robes and scalp, but the cyborg seemed oblivious to his appearance. However, he was garnering quite a few looks from those nearest to them in the courtyard.

“How long will it take your auto-repair system to fix the damage?”

“Auto-repair system already working, estimated recover time approximately twenty-three minutes to regain optimal performance.” Tres glanced over his shoulder at his back. “However, surface damage will require additional time.”

“Not to mention a new set of robes,” William remarked. “You can’t go around Londinium looking like that.”

“Positive.”

A low groan from Father David made the two priests look down, and they saw him wince and put a hand to his side. “What hit me?” he moaned.

Tres knelt beside him, his eyes scanning below the surface of the other man’s skin to assess the damage. “Right anterior seventh and eighth ribs are cracked.”

William frowned. While it was important that Father David receive medical attention (not to mention himself and Erica), their status as Vatican priests could draw unwanted attention. William was also extremely reluctant to risk turning any hospital they were at into a possible combat zone if their unknown opponent made a move while they were there.

Tres seemed to follow his train of thought. “Erica Garrett - do you know of a place where we can plan in safety and privacy?”

Swallowing her tears, Erica lifted her head and glared at the priest. “Is that all you can say?! My brother’s just been killed, the rectory’s in pieces, GOD knows how many people just died-”

“Erica,” William said softly. “Please try to understand… it isn’t that we don’t mourn as you do. But if we’re to stop this insanity from happening again… we have to stay focused.” His voice hardened slightly. “Don’t let Michael’s death be in vain. We need your help, and you’ll need to be strong.”

The young woman closed her eyes, folded her hands in prayer, and bowed her head for several moments. Then she opened her eyes again, and slowly nodded. “Yes… I will help you. For Michael.”

William glanced up at Tres, then over at David before looking at Erica again. “If it’s someplace with medical facilities, so much the better. But we’re going to need to leave, and quickly.”

Erica nodded again, and William helped her to her feet while Tres assisted Father David.

For a few minutes after Abel had left, Johanna remained half-slumped against the side of the building, her head still ringing like church bells and her vision hazy. She tried to breathe deeply and clear her head, but it only helped her a little.

Lifting her head, she squinted at the nearest street sign, then glanced around to get her bearings. “Okay… if Notre Dame is that way,” she murmured to herself, peering south, “then I need to go…”

She turned and looked around, getting her bearings, then trying once more to clear her head, she staggered down the street. She didn’t get far, however, before a wave of nausea overcame her and she gasped, swayed heavily on her feet, stumbled toward an alleyway, fell to her knees, and retched. Desperately fighting down the instinctive wave of panic at not being able to breathe, she blindly reached out and braced her hand against the nearest wall, forcing herself to focus on the feeling of the stone beneath her hand instead of the overwhelming urge to inhale.

After several seconds, however, the spasms passed and she was able to sit upright, and slowly she drew in deep breaths of air. With a grimace, she cleared her throat and spat to try and get the taste out of her mouth, wishing she had some water to wash her face and rinse her mouth with. However, she did feel better afterwards, and she used the walls of the alley to push herself to her feet.

“I don’t… have time for this,” she gasped, spitting once again and then leaning back against the wall. It was tempting, so very tempting to just stay where she was, or worse, just to sit back down and fall asleep. But if Father Nightroad had been right, and she did in fact have a concussion, then passing out would have dire consequences. No… she had to keep moving.

Taking advantage of her momentary improvement, she pushed herself away from the wall and began an almost loping half-remembered stride from her high school track days. Unfortunately, she didn’t get very far before she tripped and fell, landing hard on her hands and knees with a curse and a groan. The cobblestones under her feet were a far cry from the packed clay and dirt she’d been accustomed to running on, and her boots were nothing like the track shoes she used to wear. But Johanna’s determination was stronger than her pain, and she pushed herself to her feet once more and again took up the pace. It wasn’t the fastest gait she could manage or the easiest to maintain, but the rhythm and concentration of it helped keep her mind off the slowly building waves of dizziness.

“I’ve got to make it… I’ve got to make it…” She repeated it over and over in her head like a mantra as she made her faltering way down the dimly lit streets, disappearing into the darkness.

Slowly making his way through Notre Dame’s vast interior, his footsteps echoing in the cavernous darkness, Abel couldn’t help but be astonished and moved by the sight of the enormous cathedral. As impressive as the Vatican was, Notre Dame had a breathtaking quality all its own. Even at night, the faint light of the city through the stained glass windows gave the place an almost palpably mystic quality, and the faint sounds of the wind in the highest rafters sounded like the echoes of a choir.

But then the room seemed to blur before his eyes and he was remembering a different cathedral, in a different city. One that was crumbling and decrepit, a broken pile of glass and stones.

One surrounded by a city in ruins… by lives that had been snuffed out like so many candles…

“No!” he hissed, closing his eyes and angrily shaking his head to dispel the memory of La Sagrada Familia. The Rosencreutz might have bested him in Barcelona, but he wouldn’t let it happen again.

He couldn’t.

Not if he wanted to ever make it up to the memory of Sister Noelle.

Drawing his revolver, he cautiously made his way up the aisle, his eyes sweeping back and forth for any sign of danger. There was no indication that anyone was in the building, not even a watchman, and Abel wasn’t certain if he was glad or worried. While he’d hoped to find someone here, the absence of innocent bystanders at least meant that no one would get hurt if it turned out the Rosencreutz had in fact targeted Notre Dame.

Abel would never have admitted it, however, but he was almost hoping that the Rosencreutz would show up here… because if they came here to Notre Dame, Johanna would be safe. The thought that Johanna might inadvertently walk into Rosencreutz hands made his blood run cold. But once again, he shook his head and forced his mind back to the matter at hand. Johanna was, as she so often reminded him, capable of taking care of herself.

Halfway up the aisle, he paused, then he remembered that in Notre Dame, the church organ was actually located above the main doors, and just beneath one of the famed Rose windows. If any tampering had been done, the organ would be the best place to start looking. Glancing up, he tried to see into the organ loft, but it was just too dark inside. He would have to climb the stairs and look for himself.

But he only got one step toward the stairs when a voice stopped him in his tracks.

A cold, elegant, and all too familiar voice.

“Well, good evening… Father.”

To be continued…