When cynical addict Rodion Popov makes a deal with the Devil and wagers his soul, his life takes a turn for the demonically surreal. Thrust into a city of shapeshifting sinners and chaos spirits, he must complete five tasks at the Devil's behest in...
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☨ THE DEVIL COMES TO ANGELOVSK 12: Sanctuary ——————————————————
Saint Cecilia's had, at one time or another, been a church, a cabaret, and a compound.
The old stone church stood on the Rusalka's northwestern shore, separated from the rest of the city, as it had for centuries. Orthodox crosses remained erected on each of the onion domes. The domes in turn spiraled down into eight white steeples, which connected to the lower-level bochka roof known to be the muse of many an Angelovsk artist. But while the exterior still bore semblance to a past era of grand princes and boyars, the inside was gutted. Cracked floors, a crumbling iconostasis looted of its most precious icons, and painted pillars pierced with bullet holes made it known Saint Cecilia had seen finer days.
Growing up around Angelovsk, Rodion had heard plenty of tales of the legends who'd commandeered Saint Cecilia's for their own benefit. They included Stetsko's partisans defending it in a days-long siege during the Great Patriotic War and Andrey Angelov's mother and father during the late twenties. It was because of those very occupation rumors that he'd gone straight through the broken window over to the staircases that lead up into the towers.
While Gleb and Kostya had split up to search the nave and crypt, he'd climbed ladder after ladder. The view of Angelovsk from the top of the towers was exquisite, but he was more interested in scouring for any minor details that looked out of place: cracks in the walls, gaps between the floorboards, variance in the tempera paint that coated and colored every centimeter of open space.
When he stumbled into a cleared-out bell chamber midway up one of the towers, Rodion found himself unsettled by its blandness. Someone had lived in the chamber; there was an old mattress strewn out over the only dry part of the floor and cobweb-covered candles gathered all around.
Rodion frisked the mattress, searching for anything firm tucked away in the cotton batting. He pursued the candles, lit one with his lighter and ran it along the wall as he looked for any variance in the stone pattern. A near-perfect crack caught his eye, and he lowered himself onto his haunches. There was white dust scattered on the floor below it. Thinking quickly, he drew his pocket knife and sliced through the cracked plaster around it. The piece of stone slid out like butter in a hot pan; the sides of it were smooth from constant grinding and it didn't weigh much because it was hollow.
He tipped it towards him and raised the lit candle. There was a cache of old knives packed inside. He pulled out one kind after: dagger, puuko, butterfly. Leftovers from the partisans' siege, perhaps?
"Kost! Gleb!" he called, coming down the ladder with the cache in hand leaning over the balcony that overlooked the nave.
His brothers swiveled around from their places among the kaleidoscope of jewel-toned frescos and raised their lights to his beaming face.
