The Brethren.
Joseph tensed when Father Quinn’s hands ran down his bare chest and stopped just above his crotch. Joseph’s breath was uneven and choppy like a raging sea. “Such a guise,” Father Quinn whispered. His hand traveled to Joseph’s blond curls. “Like an angel. Not a single devil’s mark on his flesh. Not a scar or blemish. The perfect demonic ruse.” All of the fight drained from Joseph when Father Quinn lifted a branding tool from near the fire. An upside-down cross. “In all my years of fighting evil I have never seen a possession so excellently done.” He smiled. “It will make the exorcism all the more gratifying . . . You will receive my special attention.”
Father Quinn pushed the brand into the flames of the fire. Sweat beaded at Joseph’s brow. He pulled at the restraints as the fire began to heat the iron and turn it orange. “Some see an upside-down cross as a symbol of devotion. Saint Peter’s cross. A man crucified upside down as he believed he wasn’t worthy enough to be crucified in the same way as Jesus. Noble. True piety.” Father Quinn pulled the brand from the fire and held it above Joseph’s chest. “But here at the Brethren, we have discovered that those possessed by demons, those whose veins run with the blackness of evil, fear all forms of the cross, a beacon of light against their evil ways. Like Saint Peter, they are not worthy enough to wear the cross of Christ, the way Christ was killed for mankind.” Father Quinn maneuvered the upturned cross over Joseph’s torso. “But their aversion to the cross is the first step toward confession, of purging, of exorcising those who threaten to bring their evil into the world.”
“No,” Joseph whispered, trying to arch his back and avoid the scalding brand that Father Quinn began to lower. “No!” he shouted, thrashing and pulling on the shackles.
“See how they fight,” Father Quinn said to the other priests. “See how the sight of the cross sends them into a frenzy.”
“No,” Joseph wanted to argue. It wasn’t possession; it was fear of the pain the brand would bring. But then Father Quinn plunged the brand down on his chest. White-hot pain engulfed Joseph as the heat seared his flesh. He screamed. He screamed until his voice grew hoarse and Father Quinn ripped the brand away. He felt dampness between his legs and knew he had wet himself. He gasped for breath, but his lungs wouldn’t work. Blackness danced in his vision, but he held on to consciousness; he held on and met Father Quinn’s victorious blue stare.
Father Quinn was evil. He claimed he fought demons and those on the wrong path, but he was more wicked than anyone Joseph had ever met. Father Quinn placed the branding iron down. “We name you after archangels to taunt your wicked souls. Name you after heavenly princes, warriors of the faith. Of course, the church only recognizes three—Gabriel, Michael, and Raphael. But we at the Brethren recognize more. And now we have seven demons in the husks of young boys to defeat.” He leaned closer and whispered in Joseph’s ear. “And defeat you we will.” Tears fell from Joseph’s eyes and trickled down his cheeks. “Cut his hair,” Father Quinn ordered one of the other priests; Joseph didn’t see who.
Joseph’s hair was cut close to his head, then Father Brady pulled him from the bed. Joseph barely kept consciousness as he was dragged along the hallway and dumped on his bed in the dorm. When the door was slammed shut, a lamp immediately came on. Joseph closed his eyes and tried to breathe through the pain. The priests were in a sect of some kind. One who believed he was a demon disguised in the flesh of a boy. Born evil and with the intent to bring harm to the world.
Gabriel. He was no longer Joseph. He was Gabriel in their eyes.
“Breathe,” a voice said. Joseph cracked open his eyes. The boy with the golden eyes was sitting on the end of his bed. Joseph hadn’t even felt him sit down. His name was Raphael, he remembered. Raphael was wrapping the string around his finger over and over again. “The pain eventually goes.” Joseph tried to frown, but he couldn’t move a single muscle to do so. The brand was ripping him apart, slowly, piece by piece. He disagreed with Raphael. He believed the pain would never subside.
“Block out the pain. It’s the only way to survive this place,” Sela, the brown-haired, brown-eyed boy, said. He sat beside Raphael. Joseph tried to do what he said. He gritted his teeth and refused to cry. He realized he was still naked. But he couldn’t find it in himself to care. Bara came to the side of the bed, followed by Uriel. The two seemed to be together a lot. Even Diel came over, as far as his chain would allow. Finally . . . Michael came to stand at the bottom of Joseph’s bed. Joseph never took his eyes from his brother. And he wasn’t sure if it was the pain inducing false visions, but Michael’s eyes seemed filled with rage. For a moment it looked like he actually cared that Joseph had been hurt.