Runaway Nun (Misbegotten) by Caesar Voghan Read Free Book Online

rafters.
Bundles of furs, mostly from small animals—raccoons, rabbits, and once in
a while a fox—stood on display nailed onto board planks. Blacksmiths
brandished their tools, banging their iron blades against each other, counting the
seconds like some out-of-sync human metronomes. From underneath a
still-standing façade with the words TRAL STATION hanging under a truce, brewers
kept enticing passersby to an early-morning thirst-quencher to get them through
another day in the ruins; there was plenty of ale and cider in their kegs, and
plenty of souls who needed to forget or were ready to pretend. Strolling in from
around slabs of concrete covered in lichens and wild poison ivy, police monks
surveyed the crowd with frowning eyes. At their sight, beggars in rags
disappeared hastily among the mounds of rubble. So did the vagabond dogs.
    As the helicopter thumped low over
their heads, everyone stopped and stared at the sky for a brief moment, then
returned to the business at hand.
    Elano
gently pulled back on the cyclic stick. The old Huey vibrated and gained
altitude immediately as it prepared to fly over the giant pit five miles in
diameter that suddenly emerged before the pilots’ eyes: The Crater of God’s
Enduring Mercies… The earth bore the mark of divine justice with silent
resignation; to Elano, it looked like an invisible hand had scooped out a giant
tumor and left behind a grotesque wound never to close again. A Pilgrim Center
operated by the Carmelite nuns had been built on its Eastern ridge, the one
close to the city. It was early morning, but a school bus was already pulling
up to its entrance for the first tour of the day.
    On its farther Western ridge,
perched atop a mangled outcrop, stood an imposing edifice fifty stories high:
the headquarters of the New Vatikan, an architectural hybrid between the Empire
State Building and Notre Dame Cathedral strapped in steel armature and layers
upon layers of stained glass. Intricate formations of flying buttresses and
spires cluttered its granite façade. Saint-adorned pinnacles poked at the sky
on every corner—one halo-accessorized man or woman for every day in the
calendar. And crosses; too many to count, some with the gaunt Man of Nazareth
sagging in tireless abandon, others still vacant.
    The helipad was located behind the
main steeple, so Elano guided the Huey around the soaring geodesic dome that
hosted the nave of the adjacent Saint Peter cathedral, then handed the commands over to Ulf, giving the young monk a chance to practice his
skills.
    Ulf took over the chopper and
brought it to the ground in a perfect, smooth landing.
    Bishop
Hurlin was a sullen man in his sixties who wore the golden-buttoned, red
Cardinal mantle fastened over his rotund belly with the distinction of a whale
strapped in a tuxedo. He waited for the chopper’s rotors to wind down, and for Elano
and his companion to climb out. He noticed the Jesuit warriors’ determined
step, and the envy of the civilian who never swung a sword, never tasted the
rush of adrenaline in the heat of battle, flickered on his face briefly.
    “God have mercy,” he muttered
under his breath. He caressed his belly, arranged the cross around his neck,
and took two steps to meet Elano.
    “It’s been a while, Monsignor,”
Hurlin said. He grimaced, hesitating to give the young Jesuit Cardinal the
customary embrace and holy kiss. Elano ignored the half gesture and headed
straight toward the access into the building—a tall, spiked gate at the
edge of the helipad guarded by two Swiss guards decked in full regalia.
    “What do they feed you here, Hurlin
dear?” Elano said, glancing at Hurlin’s bulging gut.
    Too taken to react, Hurlin bowed
his head and fell into step alongside Elano.
    “Monsignor, at my age—,” he
mumbled.
    “The flesh lusts against the
Spirit, and the Spirit lusts against the flesh. Or, if you would allow me to
translate it for you: the more fat, the less Spirit.”
    “We all struggle,