Fires Rising Read Online Free

earlier.
    Unmoving, Jyro could only stare at it wide-eyed and dumbfounded as it climbed to a height of ten or twelve feet. The seconds passed, and the chalice grew darker, its outermost edges turning nearly black, like onyx. In the center of the chalice he could see etchings similar to those on the surface of the crate.
    The red light grew brighter around it, the chalice itself a turbulent focal point swelling before his eyes, like a great pupil focused solely on him .
    The room grew hotter. Sweat burst from his brow as fear and anxiety roiled in his blood. Frightened, he shoved the flashlight into his pants, then with a gasp stepped onto edge the crate and gripped the sheared perimeter of the wooden floor. He hoisted himself up, feet scrambling against the exposed bricks, fingers digging into soil, face in the dirt, hands cramping as he pulled himself up over the edge of the hole, onto the dusty floor. Quickly, he climbed to his feet and scampered to the room's entrance, where he grabbed the doorjamb and peered over his shoulder to look at the chalice again.
    It floated far above the hole: a widening pinpoint in the aura of red light still aimed at him, looking at him.
    From within, a din of raging fires surfaced. It filled his ears with dense pressure that dulled his shouts. A wind sprung up, stinking of rot and sulfur, assailing him physically and shoving him back into the hallway.
    He looked around wildly, back and forth, up and down. He staggered away, tailing the flashlight's beam back into the dark lobby. When his breath returned, he released a sharp gasp and looked back down the hallway. Red light spilled out of the rec room, illuminating the once dark hallway as though a fire were raging nearby.
    He fled up the steps to the second-floor landing, where he collapsed breathlessly onto the threadbare carpet, trying to rid the image of the floating chalice from his head.
    These will help me , he thought, seeking out the rosary beads in his pocket.   Hands trembling, he gripped them tightly, staring at them with awe and wonder and the want of salvation from the dark event he just witnessed.
    They are beautiful, and they will protect me as my mother's beads protected her until the day of her death, all those years ago .
    He grasped them into a tight ball, thoughts focused solely upon the calming magic they seemed to possess. Exhausted, he lay down on the carpeted landing and stared into the darkness, listening to his heart pounding, feeling his skin tingle.
    Soon, sleep took him, and in his dreams he could vaguely hear in his dark dreams his own voice repeating the same phrase over and over again: "The evil that promises man the end of days."

Chapter 2
     
    B lue skies.
    Proud sun.
    Warm breeze.
    The weather in Manhattan could have been described as joyful, and those basking in its noontime brilliance echoed it with generous smiles. Traffic was flowing smoothly, devoid of impatient horn-honking. Perched in the branches of trees growing amid square cut-outs in the cement sidewalks, birds fluttered and chirped, seemingly jealous of those brave pigeons pecking at the feet of passing pedestrians.
    Two middle-aged men met on 78 th Street before the entrance to the Church of St. Peter. One of them was a priest, the other a construction foreman. Each was approximately the same age, of the same build and height and perhaps ethnic background. But that's where the similarities ended.
    "This way, Father."
    The construction foreman, wearing a yellow hardhat, held the orange construction tape up to allow Father Anthony Pilazzo to pass below. The priest leaned down, the bones in his forty-three year-old body creaking as he conducted the once undemanding feat with difficulty. Perhaps now would be a good time to start exercising again , he thought, knowing that finding time for such a simple routine would be as trouble-free as performing a service for a church full of Satanists.
    He leaned back up and eyed the Church Of Saint Peter, its