Note: I spent all summer editing this, so this is the new and improved Redemption. It’s also separated now, even though I don’t actually have chapters. Read, enjoy, and (please) review!

Redemption
Prologue(ish)
The cloaked gentleman gazed up at the tempestuous sky and shuddered, emerald eyes reflecting the seething mass of clouds. Wind howled demonically as a branch of lightening crawled across the sky, illuminating the forest clearing and the weathered stone cathedral skulking beyond the open space. Thunder boomed not long afterward, the noise fading with the sparse light to leave him in darkness. He wrapped his long cloak around his muscular frame as another flash threw light onto the ground before him once more.

The year was 1738, and he, Vincent Chavier, was currently employed as a spy for France. He slowly walked through the clearing, gazing up at the shadowed spires, remembering why he’d been sent. His superiors had gotten wind of an old ally plotting against "their great country", and had charged him with the task of "collecting" this man, Monsieur Depoe. The building loomed out of the darkness above him, seeming much larger now that he was closer, and the wind picked up, whipping his long black hair into his eyes.

Odd place to put a cathedral, he mused, out here in the middle of this forest. No one is around to worship.

The spy sprinted towards the overhanging shadows as the rain began to fall, quickly increasing to a downpour. The cathedral towered above him, grotesquely carven figures leering at him from the eaves. He stopped by the door and peered at it, to see carven scenes of Purgatory, the dead eternally trapped by demons. The carvings writhed and twisted, an illusion brought by the next flash of lightening. As the light faded, Vincent leapt back in startled horror - the carvings were crawling across the door, sliding toward him. He drew his pistol and fired, the shot drowned out in the newest crash of thunder.

Ridiculous, he thought, I’m being foolish.

He took a deep breath and hesitantly stepped toward the door, looked at it again to find his bullet, and saw there was no hole. Vincent frowned and crouched to find the small chunk of metal, but to no avail.

He bit back an unreasoning feeling of terror. Perhaps the bullet had merely gone through the door. He ignored the fact that there was no hole, grasped the elaborately carved handle, and slowly entered the cathedral.

Vincent slipped through the door and shut it quietly behind him, taking care to stay out of the light. He glanced up and gasped, gaze held by the way the walls seemed to extend into forever. Candles flickered in brackets along the walls, the ghostly shafts of light illuminating ornate paintings lining the wall. Sinners reconciled themselves in hell as he watched, the damned in the paintings screaming eternally as fire bit their feet and jeering demons flayed the skin off their backs. He gazed in helpless, fascinated horror until he felt surrounded by screaming dead and screeching demons. At length, he forced himself to look away, shuddering.

He craned his neck back in another attempt to see the ceiling, eyes meeting instead with those of a maliciously grinning wooden demon directly above him. The spy jumped back against the door as another bolt of lightening jolted across the sky.

"This is no place of holy redemption, nay, ‘tis a tribute to the eternally damned," he muttered darkly. The hood of his cloak fell to his broad shoulders as he stepped out into the flickering candlelight and spotted a door in the far wall. He adjusted his cloak, took a deep breath, and slowly made his way across the hall. The accompanying rumble of thunder drowned out the hollow echo of his boots on the stone floor. He let his breath out quickly when he had reached the other side; it had been unnerving to walk through the sight of those hellish scenes. Mentally chiding himself for his weakness, he reached for the doorknob and stopped.

Pure terror enveloped him, turning his stomach to ice. His hand shot away from the knob as though the small golden ball had suddenly come to life and was trying to deprive him of his limbs. He shook himself and reached for the knob a second time, turning it. The door swung open into a brightly lit room filled with plush chairs centered around a cheerily burning fire that threw waves of warmth throughout the room, excluding one solitary corner. The walls, painted a deep maroon, were hung with paintings of meadows and lakes, giving the room a peaceful, pleasant air. Vincent moved through the doorway, terror quelled at the sudden presence of such familiar settings, and cleared his throat nervously.

"Ah . . . Monsieur Depoe?" he inquired, stepping closer to the comforting glow of the fireplace.

"Vincent Chavier, you’ve kept me waiting."

A shadow unfolded itself from the dark corner and came forward. As the man stepped into the light, holding a gently steaming teacup and saucer, Vincent blinked in astonishment. This was Monsieur Depoe? The man his superiors had told him was "France’s greatest ally, and yet her greatest enemy", was old and frail, appearing to be ancient. Fine lines covered his face, adding to the grandfatherly illusion. His voice was gently, the sort that could be expected from a man of his apparent age. Vincent realized he was staring and cleared his throat again.

"Please, sit down," Depoe instructed, bowing with a sweep of the teacup to the proffered chair. The spy slowly walked over to the patterned mass of cushions and sat stiffly, eyes never leaving this strange mans hard amber ones.

"Now, my child, what brings you to me tonight? Fate?" asked Depoe, beginning to laugh. Vincent rose angrily.

"Monsieur Depoe," he snapped, eyes flashing, "you are under arrest for plotting against the state of France. I ask that you would come with me."

"I had hoped that it would not come to this. Ah, well, such is the price." Vincent saw the tell-tale flash of a pistol and ran for the door. Depoe fired. Vincent spun and crashed into the door, clutching his left arm. Warm, sticky blood pulsed through his fingers, and he gasped for air, slowly sinking to the floor, pain shooting through him. The last image pain-filled eyes saw was the leering face of Depoe, not unlike that of the carven demon. He slipped into the cold arms of unconsciousness, and all was dark.

* * *

No noise, just the sensation of falling through cool darkness. A burning pain in his left arm slowly brought the injured Vincent back from the shadowy realms. He slowly opened his eyes and tried reflexively to reach for the wound, but couldn’t move his arm. Panic was suppressed at the realization he was bound hand and foot to a large four poster bed in a shoddily furnished room.

A creaking door behind him signaled the presence of the monster who had shot him. Depoe strode to the foot of the bed and stared imperiously down at Vincent, much the same way a hawk will stare at its prey before tearing it to shreds. He chuckled darkly at the prone spy. Vincent shrank into the mattress slightly as the crazed man stopped laughing and glanced down again, amber eyes hard.

"Greetings, Vincent. I am pleased you have decided to join me again." His voice lacked all trace of the gentleness it had possessed before. "Unfortunately, you will not be with me for very long. It is a pity, but it will be for the greater good in the end. I wish you pleasant dreams, my dear, dear child." He smirked and raised the pistol. It flashed once more, cutting into Vincent’s shoulder. The bound victim jerked back in pain, the room already fading as he returned to the dark.

*dun dun dun* Sorry, couldn’t help myself. So, he has been shot twice, is stuck with some psycho, and his real problems haven’t even started yet! Bwahahaha . . . keep reading . . .