“He’s my brother.” Joseph couldn’t give any other reply. Nothing else was as important to him as his brother. James was all he had. He needed to save him.
Father Quinn gently placed his hand on Joseph’s shoulder. “And that’s why you’ll be a wonderful priest. Your compassion is what drives you. Your conviction in saving troubled souls is no doubt how you will serve the church.” The priest paused, as though considering his next words. “But it is no longer your duty to save James. Something dark breathes within him. Something that needs special care. Care that you, my boy, cannot give. You have not had the training nor the experience to deal with such forces.” Father Quinn’s hand held him tighter. “I’m relieving you of this duty you have forced upon yourself. It’s time for you to focus on your theology studies and priestly duties.”
Joseph’s ears rang, fear drowning out all noise. He couldn’t let James go. He couldn’t. “Where will you take him?” Joseph asked, panicked.
“Isolation.”
“You won’t . . .” Joseph trailed off. “You won’t involve the police? For what he’s done to Luke?”
Father Quinn’s hand fell from Joseph’s shoulder, taking the warmth of his comfort along with it. “This is a church matter, Joseph. The police do not deal with ailments of the soul.”
“How long will he be in isolation?”
Father Quinn got to his feet without answering Joseph’s question. “Come, son. You need to wash that blood off you, and you will sleep in a spare room tonight. This room needs thoroughly cleansing.”
Joseph did as he was told, but once he had showered, he ducked back into his and James’s room. He was trusted enough by Father Quinn and the others that he didn’t need to be monitored. Joseph stared at the blood that painted the room. It was a horror scene. Joseph stood still, and his mind brought him back to the first time he had seen James cut his arm. Joseph had found his brother in the bathroom. The mirror above the sink had been smashed. Joseph had followed a trickle of blood to the bath. A thin shower curtain hid James behind it, but Joseph detected his familiar silhouette. With shaking hands, Joseph had drawn back the curtain. Joseph’s stomach fell as he recalled how he had found his baby brother. Eight years old, clutching a shard of glass in one hand . . . but that wasn’t what had scared Joseph the most. That honor had belonged to the sight of James, with a slash in his forearm . . . drinking his own blood from the wound.
James had lifted his head, pupils dilated. James had always been tortured. Since their mother had passed and they had been brought to Holy Innocents, James didn’t sleep, barely spoke. His face was always tight. Joseph knew it was from whatever dark force tortured his mind, whatever evil had begun a battle for his soul.
But in that moment, with blood staining his brother’s teeth and dribbling in scarlet drops down his chin, Joseph saw something on James’s face he had never witnessed before—peace. Contentment . . . satiation.
“James,” Joseph whispered, edging toward the bath. He stopped when he caught sight of a vial, the kind the priests used for holy water. Only it wasn’t filled with holy water, but with blood. James’s blood. Dropping his arm, James clutched the vial and rose from the bath. Joseph was a statue, as motionless as the saints that stood proudly in Holy Innocents Church, as he watched James walk back to their room. Joseph followed, trying to understand what his brother would do next. He was as terrified as he was mesmerized. But James didn’t do anything to instill fear in Joseph. It was quite the opposite. Clutching the vial to his chest, his wound leaking onto his sheets, James closed his eyes and, in minutes, fell asleep.
Joseph’s heart raced as he watched his brother relaxed in slumber, his face at peace. Beautiful. He wasn’t sure how much time passed, but Joseph finally retrieved a towel and took care of James’s wound. His little brother didn’t wake. Even when James’s wound was cleaned, Joseph stayed beside him on the bed, watching over him like the angels in the Bible.
A simple letting of blood had given James’s tortured mind some respite. And the vial against his chest had allowed him to sleep.
Joseph had had no idea what to do with these facts.
Joseph blinked and pulled himself from the memory. This room . . . it wasn’t like that night in the bathtub. It was worse. So much worse. Joseph recalled James’s face as he licked the knife. The ecstasy he saw on his brother’s face. His obsession with blood was getting worse. The older James got, the more he withdrew into himself. He grew his nails long and filed them into points. It was never long before a priest saw the nails and forced James to cut them. He was changing day by day. And it wasn’t for the better. He was spiraling into a darkness to which Joseph couldn’t follow. The only moments he felt as though he saw his brother’s remaining purity was when he was asleep with a vial of blood he had collected.