smiled.
“If I go by history,” Marshall continued, “one perception would be that anything of power could be seen to be tools of the Devil by your Church, the types of things that got people burned at the stake or flayed alive.”
“What other way
would
the Church react?” Rory asked. “Going with that strategy seemed to get them through the Salem witch trials just fine.”
Marshall stepped to the restricted area, raised his hands, and looped his fingers through the gate itself, eyes looking at the contents behind it. “Well, some might see all this and reckon it as definitive proof of God. Technically, everything ‘magic’ here
is
a miracle. Either way, I’m pretty sure the Church wouldn’t want the world to know about any of this.”
“Marsh, you’re sounding conspiracy-crazy,” Rory said. “Like tinfoil-hat territory.”
Was it, though? I turned my attention back to Desmond Locke, who was standing there looking like he was almost enjoying all of this.
“Who are your people?” I asked. “What is a
Libra Concordia
?”
“
We
are the
Libra Concordia
,” he said, gesturing to indicate the entirety of the activity within the church. “Long ago, the Church decided in its wisdom that while much of its trade was invested in the idea of ‘miracles,’ there was much in the world that didn’t fit with the Church itself that could also be called ‘miraculous.’”
“Magic,” I said.
“As clever as your friend here,” Locke said with a nod. “So while some thought it best to burn witches and warlocks—their books, charms—there were also those in the fold who thought it best to keep track of such things instead of destroying them. Thus was the
Libra Concordia
born.”
Rory laughed, but there was bitterness in it. “And the powers that be are just fine with all this? Doesn’t it amount to blasphemy in their eyes?”
Desmond Locke gave a tight smile. “Let’s just say that the ideology of some of our members does not fall in line with many of the current administrations; I hear we are quite unpopular in Vatican City.”
“So you’re outlaws,” I said. “Tsk, tsk, Mr. Locke.”
“Such an ugly word,” he said. “The early members of the
Libra Concordia
set about going underground centuries ago, men and women with a more . . . long-term view of what may or may not be gained by having such arcane knowledge.”
I smiled at that. I had always dismissed Desmond Locke as a religious fanatic, doing what he was told within the confines of the religion with which he held sway over my father, but it seemed there was more to him than just that. Desmond Locke was a freethinker and, in the eyes of his own religion, a bit of a heretic.
Locke raised his gun once again, but not at us, the barrel instead pointed straight up into the air. He wagged the firearm back and forth. “I trust I can dispense with this, Miss Belarus?”
“Preferably,” I said.
“Good,” he said, sliding the gun inside his jacket. “Dreadful things. Necessary at times, I suppose, but dreadful nonetheless.” He turned away from us without looking back and once more started down the center aisle of the church.
I looked to Rory, then Marshall, who half looked like he was ready to run for the doors. I raised my hands out in front of me, palms down.
“Steady,” I whispered. “Whatever these people are, we need to see this through.”
Marshall made to argue, but Rory elbowed him.
“Relax,” she said. “I’ve got your back.”
“You didn’t a second ago when there was a gun pointed at us,” he grumbled.
Rory went to argue back, but I laid a hand on her shoulder. “Save the bickering for home,” I said. “The gun’s put away. That’s a step in the right direction, yes?”
This seemed convincing enough for Marshall, and he walked off after Desmond Locke, Rory and I falling in behind him as quick as we could.
Marshall’s eyes fixed on the rows and rows of shelves off to our right as we continued down
“If I go by history,” Marshall continued, “one perception would be that anything of power could be seen to be tools of the Devil by your Church, the types of things that got people burned at the stake or flayed alive.”
“What other way
would
the Church react?” Rory asked. “Going with that strategy seemed to get them through the Salem witch trials just fine.”
Marshall stepped to the restricted area, raised his hands, and looped his fingers through the gate itself, eyes looking at the contents behind it. “Well, some might see all this and reckon it as definitive proof of God. Technically, everything ‘magic’ here
is
a miracle. Either way, I’m pretty sure the Church wouldn’t want the world to know about any of this.”
“Marsh, you’re sounding conspiracy-crazy,” Rory said. “Like tinfoil-hat territory.”
Was it, though? I turned my attention back to Desmond Locke, who was standing there looking like he was almost enjoying all of this.
“Who are your people?” I asked. “What is a
Libra Concordia
?”
“
We
are the
Libra Concordia
,” he said, gesturing to indicate the entirety of the activity within the church. “Long ago, the Church decided in its wisdom that while much of its trade was invested in the idea of ‘miracles,’ there was much in the world that didn’t fit with the Church itself that could also be called ‘miraculous.’”
“Magic,” I said.
“As clever as your friend here,” Locke said with a nod. “So while some thought it best to burn witches and warlocks—their books, charms—there were also those in the fold who thought it best to keep track of such things instead of destroying them. Thus was the
Libra Concordia
born.”
Rory laughed, but there was bitterness in it. “And the powers that be are just fine with all this? Doesn’t it amount to blasphemy in their eyes?”
Desmond Locke gave a tight smile. “Let’s just say that the ideology of some of our members does not fall in line with many of the current administrations; I hear we are quite unpopular in Vatican City.”
“So you’re outlaws,” I said. “Tsk, tsk, Mr. Locke.”
“Such an ugly word,” he said. “The early members of the
Libra Concordia
set about going underground centuries ago, men and women with a more . . . long-term view of what may or may not be gained by having such arcane knowledge.”
I smiled at that. I had always dismissed Desmond Locke as a religious fanatic, doing what he was told within the confines of the religion with which he held sway over my father, but it seemed there was more to him than just that. Desmond Locke was a freethinker and, in the eyes of his own religion, a bit of a heretic.
Locke raised his gun once again, but not at us, the barrel instead pointed straight up into the air. He wagged the firearm back and forth. “I trust I can dispense with this, Miss Belarus?”
“Preferably,” I said.
“Good,” he said, sliding the gun inside his jacket. “Dreadful things. Necessary at times, I suppose, but dreadful nonetheless.” He turned away from us without looking back and once more started down the center aisle of the church.
I looked to Rory, then Marshall, who half looked like he was ready to run for the doors. I raised my hands out in front of me, palms down.
“Steady,” I whispered. “Whatever these people are, we need to see this through.”
Marshall made to argue, but Rory elbowed him.
“Relax,” she said. “I’ve got your back.”
“You didn’t a second ago when there was a gun pointed at us,” he grumbled.
Rory went to argue back, but I laid a hand on her shoulder. “Save the bickering for home,” I said. “The gun’s put away. That’s a step in the right direction, yes?”
This seemed convincing enough for Marshall, and he walked off after Desmond Locke, Rory and I falling in behind him as quick as we could.
Marshall’s eyes fixed on the rows and rows of shelves off to our right as we continued down
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