by Jamie Shindler

Created on: April 29, 2008

~*~ Alexandria of the Arc ~*~

Blood always smells worse in the morning. Especially in a church.

I stood with my feet planted firmly, arms folded over the black front of my T-shirt as I studied the echoing room around me. It had once been a beautiful cathedral, a testament to the glory of the Catholic god in wood and polished metal; it was still pretty, in its own way. A strip of plush red carpet, edged with golden threads, ran from the darkly imposing front doors straight across the room to the altar, softening the glowing hardwood that marked the center aisle. Pews of mahogany, polished to an incredible glossy slickness, crouched solidly in neat rows as a nice counterpoint to the white linen draping the altar. Candlesticks and plates of gold and silver glittered, as did the shelves of candles lit and gleaming on a table to the right of the pulpit. A cross of light, honey-colored wood at least ten feet tall hung from the paneled wall above the altar and pulpit, glowing like a fallen star in the amber light of several hanging lamps. Stained glass windows sent their own sparkling rays of color across the floor whenever a car chanced by outside, rainbows of green, red, blue and white stretching like the fingers of saints for a moment before vanishing.

Of course, the pure beauty of the scene was tarnished now, its glory overlaid by a blanket of violence and gore. Blood spattered the pews in an obscene version of modern art, streaking and running down the walls like naughty children; puddles and dragging marks in the carpet at my feet showed where the victim had tried to make a run for it. He hadn't gotten far. The foot of the cloth-draped altar was buried in a pool of solid, rippling red, the priest himself piled high on the drenched pulpit. And I do mean piled. The limbs, head, and genitals had been torn from the torso, stacked on top of what had probably been a sermon.

Call me crazy, but I didn't think the Father was going to be reading it today.

"What do you think, Alex?" The voice came from behind me, deep and masculine, intruding into my quiet moment. Turning around, I glared up at my companion. It was a long way up; Sergeant Nick O'Connor is six feet seven inches of thickly muscled cop, over twelve inches taller than my paltry five foot five. His bright red curls glinted nearly gold in the warm lighting, even lopped short in the way of most policemen, and his dark green eyes were cool and collected in spite of the gory surroundings. "Any take on it?"

"You didn't

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