Joseph didn’t know how, but he would find a way to protect them all. All of the boys with upturned crosses on their chests and darkness in their hearts. Boys with the names of angels but the thirst of demons in their blood.
He would protect them all.
Somehow. He at least had to try.
Chapter Five
Joseph’s brand had healed. He had yet to return to the torture room, but he knew his time was coming. Each of the boys had been taken often. Michael had been to that torture room nine times. And each time Joseph felt sick. But Michael returned each time, nothing in his eyes but a blank stare. Joseph had no idea how much time had passed. It had to have been weeks; it could have been months. There was no glimpse of daylight to judge time. No regular meals. He knew the priests did it on purpose, to destroy their minds. To exorcise the demons within. The seven of them were jailed in cruelty and perpetual night.
All of the boys were in the room when the door opened. Joseph’s eyes widened when he saw Fathers Brady and McCarthy, but beyond that were more priests. Priests he had never seen before. They looked young. Some not that much older than himself.
He remembered what Matthew had said about a priest that returned to Holy Innocents years after he was taken away. That he was different, and had a new kind of darkness in his eyes. Could they be like him? Had these priests once been where Joseph and the others were now?
“Move.” Father Brady spoke, and the boys all got to their feet. But gone were the smirks from Bara and Uriel. Instead, Bara’s jaw was clenched and his hands were fisted at his sides. Uriel’s shoulders were rigid. Sela’s eyes were filled with a storm. Raphael’s promised the awaiting priests death. Michael snarled when his silver-blue eyes landed on the priests in the hallway. That alone had Joseph’s breath leaping from his lungs. Joseph was last off his bed. His chest was still sore, but he could now function. His brand was red, scarred, and scabbed . . . now a permanent feature on his flesh.
Joseph met the eyes of the priests as he followed the others, all dressed in the same white shirts and pants, down the hallway. The priests glared back at him. They walked for longer than it took to get to the torture room, so Joseph knew that was not their destination. His pulse raced twice as fast as his footsteps. Priests flanked the boys as they descended a spiral staircase, taking them deeper and deeper into Purgatory.
Suddenly, Bara stopped, and the boys lined up along a wall. The room was large, candles casting shadows and dim, dancing flickers of light around the space. Joseph’s eyes widened as he took in the pictures on the walls. Demons, horned and savage, being torn down by men of the cloth . . . Men with crucifixes in their hands, swords in their grips, and a red letter “B” on each of their chests.
The priests stood on the opposite side of the room, watching the boys. They held crucifixes in their hands, just like the men in the paintings. Father Quinn turned to face them, and the expression he wore sent chills down Joseph’s spine. This was not the kind priest he had known most of his life. This was a man who viewed the boys before him as something not of this world. Something to conquer. Something to defeat. Something to destroy.
Joseph was unable to meet Father Quinn’s gaze. His eyes dropped to the priest’s sandaled feet, then he tracked their movements as they approached where Joseph stood, helpless and afraid.
He was afraid.
As soon as Father Quinn saw Joseph, his eyes never strayed from him. Droplets of sweat broke out along Joseph’s skin, then Father Quinn flicked his hand and the boys automatically began to unbutton their shirts. One by one they bared their chests, their brands. Then they started untying the waistbands of their white pants. Joseph choked on the dank air as the boys kicked their pants aside then dropped to their knees. They were emotionless, submitting to the silent instruction without any fight. Michael, beside him, dropped down too. Acting on instinct, Joseph leaned down and gripped Michael’s arm. He pulled, trying to hoist him to his feet. But Michael was a dead weight, refusing to move. Panicked, Joseph pulled again; he yanked and yanked, a frustrated cry slipping from his mouth. A sudden lash of pain sliced against his arm. Joseph cried out as the following sting burned then numbed the skin. Fear, thick and strong, clogged his veins. He met Father Quinn’s eyes for a second before the priest struck him again with a whip, the leather rope thrashing across his cheek. Joseph saw dots of black, then the hellish scene before him came back into focus. As he staggered back, Joseph’s alarmed eyes fixed on Father Quinn. Joseph felt blood drip into his mouth. The whip had split his cheek open.