The Blessed (23 page)

“Because you know. Don’t try to make a fool out of me.”

“I’m not here to mock you.”

“No, you’re here to eliminate me.”

“No, to help you.”

“It doesn’t matter. There will be others.”

“Others? Who? Where?”

“Closer than you think, but why would I tell you?”

“You can talk to me. Anything you say will be kept in confidence.”

“Forgive me for not believing a damn thing you say.”

“The doctor-patient relationship is sacred, Sebastian.”

“Sacred? That’s funny. Father Piazza said the same thing.”
Sebastian’s face twisted up in loathing at the very thought.

“You’ll feel much better when this is over.”

“Do you always do these procedures so late at night, Doctor? On a weekend, when no one is around? With a patient in street clothes?”

“Take hold of him.”

“Why are you so threatened by me? Is it because you believe me? Is that it?”

The doctor nodded at the attendant to begin.

“Is this your idea of treatment?”

“We’ve tried everything else.”

“Trying to get me closer to God, Doctor?”

“No, to sanity, Sebastian.”

Sebastian could still feel the struggle. His muscles flexed, cramped, as he remembered being dragged, inch by inch, toward the table. The restraints hung loosely, waiting for arms and legs. The IVs were bloated with anesthesia and hungry for his veins. The rubber bite plate sitting on the metal tray next to the gurney sat idle in anticipation of his clenched teeth.

“You’ll need more than one guy to help you.”

The arrogant smirk on the orderly’s face suggested otherwise.

“Sicarius is nearby if I need him.”

“On a leash?”

“Sedate him.”

“Relax. Just a little pinprick and you won’t remember a thing.”
The orderly approached Sebastian, who evaded his grasp. Sebastian spun him around facing the doctor and put him in a vise grip headlock. The orderly struggled and gagged, flailing his arms, his face turning red, then purple, and then a ghostly white as Sebastian continued to apply pressure with all his strength. Sebastian stared directly at the doctor, who did nothing, as the lackey was on the verge of unconsciousness. A final silent squeeze of Sebastian’s arm, and the orderly slipped helplessly to the floor.

“Well done,”
the doctor said.
“Now you are not just psychotic; you are a murderer.”

“He’s not dead.”

Sebastian rushed at Frey and slammed him against the wall, pinning him there with his forearm pressed hard against the doctor’s throat. He didn’t resist.

“Is it my turn now?”
Frey taunted.

“The chaplets,”
Sebastian demanded.

Frey handed them over.

Sebastian reached into the doctor’s pocket and took his keys and removed the battery from his cell phone. He stepped out quietly and locked Frey in the treatment room.

“Go ahead and scream for Sicarius now,”
Sebastian shouted.
“Him, I will gladly kill.”

“Does killing evil make you yourself evil?”

“That’s just what I’d do. I’m not the judge.”

“I’ll see you again, Sebastian,”
he said through the thick glass window of the metal door.

“God help you if you do, Doctor.”

He could see Jude’s sweet face poke out of his room, startled by the unusual late-night commotion. The boy was clearly frightened for him. They’d gotten close in the time they’d both spent on the ward, despite the age difference. Sebastian had become like a big brother. He pointed in the direction of Sicarius’s room, a silent warning, but Sebastian waved him off. If Frey had intended to bring out the big gun, it would have been done already.

Sebastian kissed one of the chaplets and tossed it to Jude.

“Give it to her for me,”
Sebastian said.
“And be careful.”

The boy nodded, not needing any further instruction.

“You. Be. Careful,”
Jude said haltingly, his eyes squinting and lips trembling.

“I won’t forget this,”
Sebastian said, rushing for the stairwell.
“Remember everything I told you.”

Jude smiled and pulled his head back inside his room.

A giant wind gust followed by the loudest silence he’d ever heard knocked Sebastian back into the moment. The air around him crackled and his ears clogged painfully and then popped, sending him sprawling off balance to the deck of the tower.

He rose slowly to his feet, fighting a stiff wind.

However painful the recollection of his captivity, he was proud that he’d gotten away from Frey. Against all odds, he’d escaped and had nearly fulfilled his mission.

Sebastian raised his fists in triumph, challenging the wind and the rain, daring the lightning to strike him.

The old tower began to quiver violently from the wind and sonic assault from the thunder, shaking loose mortar from between the stones and some of the fairy dust from his memories. At once, he felt a sickness in his stomach. Not from what he’d accomplished but from what he’d missed, what he’d overlooked. Had he really escaped after all or had his hubris in that moment clouded his judgment? He replayed the scene over and over in his mind, trying to make some sense of it. Frey didn’t resist. Why? And then it struck him. Hard as the impending tornado bearing down on Precious Blood.

“What have I done?” he repeated, dropping his head into hands, allowing himself a rare moment of doubt and self-pity.

A sudden burning across his arms and legs. The colored glass, splintered timber, and finishing nails that had been lying at his feet began to swirl upward like a vortex in a hurricane-force gust, almost revolving around him like a swarm of hungry mosquitoes. The storm was upon him. He covered up as plywood and planks crashed down relentlessly in the belfry around him, knocking him to the cement floor. It was loud as a battlefield, but the only sound Sebastian could hear was the sound of his own voice, filled with a painful realization. He had put the girls in more danger than he could have ever imagined.

“Oh, my God. Frey could have stopped me. He
let
me go.”

“It’s getting really dark,” Agnes said, noting that things got strangely still for a moment. “Where is he?”

CeCe wondered the same. “Maybe I should—”

The crashing sound in the bell tower reverberated through the church below as beams weakened from the renovation and from the storm blew around like toothpicks. The organ began to play, random keys triggered by the shaking and falling ceiling plaster. Torrents of water were breaking through the roof, turning the balcony into an indoor waterfall.

“Tornado!” Lucy screamed, steadying herself as the entire church seemed to roll from back to front, side to side.

Cecilia stumbled to the vestibule and yelled up the stairwell to no avail. Debris and plaster dust from above tumbled down like vomit covering the railing, the steps, and her
boots. She sucked in a mouthful of grit and began to choke on it. Plaster dust filled her sinuses and nasal cavity. Red-faced and runny-nosed, she yelled up as loudly as she could. “Sebastian!” She strained to listen for a reply but none came. She was about to race up after him when Lucy grabbed her from behind. “Let me go! He might be hurt.”

“You might
get
hurt,” Lucy chided, sensing something desperately wrong.

“I’m not going to let him die up there.”

“We need to stay together. Or we’ll die down here.” Lucy looked up and pointed. Huge pieces of plaster were cracking along the vestibule ceiling directly overhead.

“Run!” CeCe shouted, pulling Lucy along through the nave and nearly out of her peep toes.

All hell was breaking loose outside and in.

A whoosh of wind and the plywood from upper windows began to creak and shake loose. The entire church was transformed into a giant wind tunnel as the twister came ever closer. They felt the oxygen ripped from their lungs. It was breathtaking, literally.

Windowpanes in the clerestory, already cracked and fragile from construction jackhammers, dropped shards of glass over the sills and into the aisles, hitting the floor and detonating just inches behind their heels, turning the onetime house of worship into a real-time house of terror. Scaffolding swayed in the stiff draft and collapsed like small buildings during a demolition. CeCe and Lucy grabbed for their heads as they raced toward the altar, their calves imbedded
with splinters and sharp, multicolored fragments of leaded glass, covered in grime and dripping blood.

The wind and rain blasted through the open window casements and chased them down the center aisle almost the entire length of the church. Cecilia motioned to Agnes up ahead, hugging the marble communion rails for dear life, and the girls dived for the relative safety of the pews before any more of the doomed edifice crashed down. Cecilia covered Agnes with her body, protecting her from the falling boards and glass, like a soldier taking a bullet for a comrade.

“I thought I’d be safe here!” Agnes screamed.

“You are,” Cecilia said. “I got you.”

“I feel like we’re under attack!” Lucy shouted back.

Cecilia made the decision to fall back. “We gotta get out of this place.”

“And go where? For a ride on the Cyclone out there? In the pitch-black?” Lucy challenged. “Are you nuts?”

Cecilia wiped at the warm liquid dripping down her legs and tasted it. It was blood. She eyed Agnes’s wraps. “The sacristy. Follow me.”

They bolted for the sacristy door, Cecilia dragging Agnes, and Lucy, expensive heels now in hand, falling in quickly behind.

Sisters-in-arms running for cover. Racing the storm and running for their lives.

Sloshing through puddled rain and over muddy marble floors. Their bare feet unable to gain any traction on the slippery tile beneath them.

Agnes slipped out of Cecilia’s moistened grasp and tripped over a few pieces of wood littering the aisle, landing on her hands and letting out a loud cry.

Lucy stopped and lifted Agnes to her feet in an adrenaline rush of strength, much as Sebastian had lifted her. She was careful not to pull at her wrists.

“C’mon,” Lucy shouted, helping Agnes along.

Cecilia reached for the door and flung it open. Agnes ducked in and then Lucy slammed it closed behind them, shutting the worst of the storm out, at least for that moment. The quiet was a relief.

“Can you move any slower?” Lucy exhaled in frustration at Agnes. “We should have left you back there.”

“I’m sorry. I did my best,” Agnes said, throwing her matted mane away from her face. “Thanks for helping me.”

“Hey,” Cecilia called over, signaling Lucy not to push it. “Chill.”

“No, I’m the one who’s sorry,” Lucy offered apologetically.

“It’s okay,” Agnes said, leaning her head on Lucy’s shoulder.

The physical contact took Lucy off guard. She hadn’t let a girlfriend close enough to touch her, let alone console her, for a long time. If ever. She reached out for Agnes and slipped her hands under her thick mane and around both sides of her face. “I’d never do you like that,” Lucy whispered.

Agnes kneeled down and brushed her fingers along both girls’ legs, feeling for bits of glass, which she picked out gently one by one from each of them. She wiped at the tiny cuts
with the gauze from her wrappings. “Not exactly sanitary,” Agnes said, “but it’s the best I can do.”

Cecilia and Lucy scanned the room from floor to ceiling. Flaking paint, bubbling plaster, water damage, and mold creeping along the walls and ceiling signaled to them that Agnes was more than a little right.

Lucy looked down at the wraps around Agnes’s wrists and saw they were looking wet and stained not just with their blood but with Agnes’s own.

“We should probably change those,” Lucy said. “How are your arms?”