The Second Coming by David H. Burton

cities
of the old world — Barcelona. It had been reborn from the ashes of
the Shift, a place of trade and commerce now, where markets
sprouted to replace the rubble of the ancient world.
    The Temple of
the Sacred Family loomed over the city. Built from the designs of
the ancient world, it was born again in blocks of bone white. Its
tapered spires stretched towards the heavens, the tallest with a
great cross sitting at its pinnacle. Each spire, as well as the
south entrance, appeared as if stone wax had melted down the sides,
giving the gothic Temple the appearance of a giant candelabrum.
    John had once
seen its majesty in his youth, and remembered well the intricate
statues that littered the elaborate structure, yet he had never set
foot through its holy doors. Imams, priests, and rabbis all
gathered and spoke around its base, debating theology and aspects
of the great Joining.
    There were
still some among the new Church that thought the joining of the
three religions a mistake. But after the Shift, with the appearance
of devils, apparitions, and fiends from a cursed realm, the three
religions banded together and did everything they could to maintain
control. The Shift had changed everything. Spirits openly walked
the Earth once more — good and not so, and unknown beings inhabited
barrows, deep wells, and the hollows of trees once more. And then
there were the Firstborn, a fey race hell-bent on imposing their
dominion over humans. They brought with them their dark witchcraft
and religious sacrifice and it took decades to truly bring order
once again. At least the Church was consistent in its thoughts on
only one God.
    Fools.
    John covered
his eyes from the glare of the white walls of Casa Milá — a
building with sinuous curves and elaborate ironwork that wrapped
about it in a twisted spiral. Its great chimneys of masked heads
craned their necks far above the rooftop to stare out upon the
city. It was another re-creation of the old world, and home to the
King of Iberia — a man with a taste for wine, a fondness for lavish
parties, and an eye for powerful women.
    John urged his
white mare down the cobbled road, Miguel groaning behind him. The
late morning sun rose above the central pinnacle of the Temple,
casting the shadow of a cross upon them as they descended into the
city.
    The markets
bustled with trade and activity. The two friars dismounted,
choosing to walk through the busy streets, leading their horses
through the goods-laden market. John waved off numerous peddlers;
rugs from famed Persia, stallions from Phoenicia, oils and wine
from Rome, and even antiques from the old world; all carried by the
Portuguese galleons.
    Whores waved
from windows, peddling their own merchandise, and children danced
through the streets, selling small trinkets to any who would pay
them mind. One of the children tugged on his dust-ridden robes, a
scarlet-haired street urchin with a bashful smile. John knelt,
dwarfing the girl's hand in his own. She could not have been more
than seven years old. Her pointed ears revealed her Firstborn
heritage, though her face appeared somewhat human. She was a
half-breed and almost as much an outcast here as she would be in
Valbain.
    At least here she was free and let to live .
    “ What can I do for you, little one?” His words were in
Iberian, but she wore a turquoise charm about her neck — a
translation amulet.
    The gleam in
her eye indicated she understood as she pulled from her red rags a
handful of the same stones, each attached to a leather cord. John
reached into his robes and took out a small silver coin from his
drawstring purse. He took two of the amulets from her, and passed
one to Miguel after donning his own.
    A timid smile
crept across the girl's face. She spoke Valbain, but the charm
worked. “You have paid too much.”
    “ No I haven't, little one. But if you feel it is too much, you
can do me a favor. I need information.”
    “ Are you from the Temple? There are others like him,