That first moment when the apparition fell shrieking upon Tacit, he knew he’d been irretrievably changed, the fervour and panic as the thing came out of the shadows at him forever now branded on his brain. Instantly the air froze, turning Tacit’s blood to ice. He fell away, shielding his eyes, enveloped in a cloud of dust as he tried to roll away from it.
He could feel the cold tendrils of the thing’s tattered arms raking his back, the sound like a scream in his head. He felt lost in the darkness, swirling mists of unconsciousness engulfing him. He tried to cry out, but no sound came. He whimpered and then, when he thought he was lost for good, he heard a voice, growing louder and louder, calling out: Inquisitor Tocco, barking at the apparition to ‘Get back! Get back!’
Tacit rolled over and looked straight up into the face of the wraith. It turned its wrathful eyes from him onto the Inquisitor, as Tocco leapt into its swirling gaseous form, whipping out his crucifix and at the same time pulling a strange looking gun from his holster.
At once the ghost knew it was beaten and reared away, attempting to find some hole into which it could hide. Tocco lowered the pistol and fired.
“How d’you feel?” the Inquisitor asked Tacit straggling behind him, as they strode through the bowels of the Vatican. He shouted the question into the air above his head, heaving open a heavy oak door and stepping through it. Tocco caught sight of Tacit peering about the dour surroundings. “They don’t decorate down here,” he said, turning right at the next split in the corridor. “Weapons mark the walls too easily. So, how d’you feel?”
“Fine,” Tacit lied. He swallowed and realised he was shaking.
“Ghosts are one of the easiest things you’ll face,” the Inquisitor continued, unhelpfully. “They can’t hurt you, not unless you let them in. You just have to remember what they are. Memories, on the wind.” He touched the point of his index finger to his skull. “Sadly, there’s plenty else out there that can hurt you.”
“What was that thing you fired at it?” Tacit asked, recalling the Inquisitor’s revolver. “I didn’t think ghosts could be hurt by bullets?”
“They can’t. It was a special revolver. Fired silver charms. Good for dissipating ghosts. Not so good against Hombre Lobo, witches, demons or heretics.”
“Werewolves,” the Inquisitor replied, smiling.
“Where would you get a gun like that?” Tacit asked, wide eyed.
“Come,” replied Tocco. “I’ll show you.”
They stepped through an archway into a vast hall. Along one wall was a wide opening against which Inquisitors stood, leaning forward across a counter towards figures scampering back and forth on the other side. Tables and chairs, backpacks on table tops, black clad Inquisitors seated or standing in groups, covered every available space in the chamber.
“What is this place?” Tacit asked, mesmerised. He’d never seen so many assembled in one hall, not even in St. Peter’s Basilica.
“Stores,” the Inquisitor replied, guiding Tacit towards an available space in the opening. “We can’t fight with our hands and crucifixes alone.”
Tocco nodded at the figure behind the opening and wordlessly a high sided tray, piled with various items and oddments, was placed on the counter in front of him. The Inquisitor pulled it towards him and rummaged carelessly through its contents. “Here, take this,” he said, producing a silver revolver from the pile of contents and handing it absently to Tacit. “My gift to you.”
Tacit gasped. “But … I can’t take this. It’s a gun!” He shuddered at the weight of the weapon in his hands, turning it over to peer at its intricate mechanisms and the shimmer given off from its metallic parts. “It’s too beautiful. I can’t accept it.”
“You don’t have a choice. I’m not giving it to you out of the kindness of my heart. You’ll need it. Every Inquisitor needs to be armed.”