In all his years at Holy Innocents, this was the very first—and only—time Joseph had felt anything but admiration for Father Quinn. In that moment he was livid, the fire the father’s derogatory words had inspired beginning to burn him from the inside out.
“You are more like your brother than I realized.” Father Quinn looked over Joseph’s head at Father Brady, who still held Joseph in his grip. “Take him.”
Joseph’s heart fell. He knew where he was going. He had planned it. Wished for it. But it didn’t take away the surge of fear that consumed him. Father Brady and Father McCarthy dragged Joseph out of the church by the back route. They threw him into the back seat of an SUV. Father Brady sat beside Joseph, pinning him down by his neck, hands gripped behind his back. Blood dropped from Joseph’s lip onto the black leather. The car was silent but for Joseph’s fast breathing and the thrashing wind howling outside. Everywhere was black. Joseph heard gravel crunching under the tires.
Then they came to a stop.
Joseph kept his eyes wide open as he was wrenched from the back seat. The wind whipped at his robes and stung the cut on his lip. He cast his eyes around the darkness surrounding them. It was the sunken staircase. Father Brady shoved Joseph forward onto the stone steps. Father McCarthy was already at the door that stood at the bottom. The sound of the lock turning was a crack of thunder in the silence.
The door creaked open, leading to a dimly lit hallway. Father Brady pushed Joseph through, his hands still gripping Joseph’s behind his back. Joseph stumbled, but righted himself as the door slammed shut behind them. It was cold—that was the first thing Joseph noticed. The chill of the dark hallway seeped into his bones, causing them to ache. The hallways of Purgatory were a maze. Joseph tried to remember the route to wherever he was going. But between the darkness and the identical walls and floors it was impossible.
They finally arrived at a closed door. Father McCarthy unlocked the door and, just before he opened it, smirked at Father Brady. “Finally, a full set. I can’t remember the last time that was the case.”
Joseph had no idea what he meant. And he didn’t get time to ponder it further as Father Brady shoved Joseph through the door. Joseph slammed to the floor, his cheek smacking off the hard concrete. He heard, rather than saw, the door shut behind him. The lock turned, and the footsteps of Fathers McCarthy and Brady echoed into nothing but a thick silence.
Joseph lay on the floor and let the reality of what had happened sink in. His hands were slick on the concrete, the sweat from his shame and sin coating his palms. He felt like he was being consumed by guilt, by the horror of what he had done. All he could see was the blood from Father Quinn’s shoulder. How did James even like it? How could he want to hurt people like that? How could he want to consume their blood?
Joseph laid his head on the cold floor, welcoming the lack of comfort on his beaten face, when a voice said, “I think he might be dead. I haven’t heard him get up.”
Joseph stilled. His eyes froze wide open, staring at the dark nothingness. There were no lights on. As if someone were reading his mind, a lamp was switched on, giving some life to the pitch-black room.
Joseph slowly turned his head, trying to ignore the pounding of his pulse in his neck. Lifting his head, he saw beds. A typical dorm room setting. A boy, looking to be around James’s age, sat on the edge of the closest bed. He had blond hair, not as light as Joseph’s, and gray eyes. He was dressed in all white—white pants and white shirt. His feet were bare. Just like . . .
“Nope. Not dead. Pity.”
Joseph’s eyes widened as he looked to the opposite bed. The boy from outside. The boy with the red hair and apparent penchant for pain was staring down at him prostrate on the ground. His green eyes were assessing, head tilting like a feral lion studying his soon-to-be prey.
Joseph pushed to his feet. His head spun a little, the aftermath of Father McCarthy’s strike. But he straightened his shoulders and made himself survey the room. The blond and the red-haired boy were closest; he searched the faces of the rest. A brown-haired boy with dark-brown eyes, a black-haired boy with blue eyes, a brown-haired boy with brown eyes so light they looked surreally golden. Then . . .
A breath of air whooshed from Joseph’s lungs, and his legs almost gave out. Sitting on the bed at the back of the room was James. James, who stared at the gray-painted brick wall opposite, his eyes never even straying to Joseph. His face was blank, and he too wore the white uniform. They all did.