one
The Merciful
I’m still tied over the railing at Thorncrown Chapel when I hear a quiet curse, and a cloth settles over me, a much more earthly sensation than the glow of divinity that was washing over me. It’s warm from his body, and the familiar scent of leather and sandalwood invades my nostrils, a welcome scent even if it severs the threads of holiness winding through me.
I know that later I will be grateful to be covered, that someone came before the entire congregation arrived for Midnight Mass and saw my naked, well-used body displayed before all. In this moment, though, I wish he wasn’t here, that he wouldn’t cover me, wouldn’t interrupt the revelation that was coming to me.
He quickly works the knots holding my hands, and they come undone, but I am already free. He removes the gag from my mouth with a soft intake of breath through his teeth, but I have no need for words. He scoops me into his arms and carries me through the door to the left of the altar, down the dark stone steps to the crypt, out of sight of the church, of prying eyes that will arrive at any moment. But I have already been saved.
“Lamb?” Father Salvatore asks, settling me into a chair. It’s the very same one Heath dumped me into the first time they came for me, before HAVOC night, before I knew. Before my eyes were opened, my mind opened, my body opened.
He curses quietly, under his breath, and I smile. I didn’t know priests were allowed to swear.
Wrapping me more tightly in his robe, he sweeps a strand of hair from my cheek. “Stay right here,” he says. “I have to conduct Mass. I’ll send someone.”
When I don’t answer, he straightens, a frown darkening his fine brow. “Can you do that for me, lamb?” he asks gently, his smoky velvet voice soft with concern.
I nod, and he bends, pressing his lips to my forehead. The contact sends a sharp pulse directly into my burning core, and I gasp aloud. He jerks back, mutters a flustered apology, and flees the room—but not before I catch the slightest hint of color in his cheeks.
I did that.
I undid a man who is always composed, always calm, always in control. My body did that.
I marvel at the thought until the door above opens again. I’m not sure how long it’s been. I expect Heath to come and gloat, though it won’t bother me. He couldn’t if he tried.
But the silhouette in the doorway is bigger than Heath, and after a second, the man steps through and descends the stairs. It strikes me that I know his gait, that it’s familiar from all those years ago, as familiar as his battle cry when we’d swing out over Shallow Creek and release the rope, cannonballing into the swimming hole; as his ice cream order at Two Scoops of Love—a double chocolate cone as soon as we walked in, even when Heath and Eternity asked to try every flavor, and Saint and I wanted to try them all but were too polite, so we only got three samples before we chose our favorite. Angel always knew what he wanted.
He scoops me into his arms, and his eyes darken. “Who did this?” he asks.
“Heath,” I say simply, because that’s the only person I know is responsible.
Angel looks like he might drop me and charge back up the stairs and murder his uncle right now, so I touch his cheek. “It’s okay,” I say. “I’m okay.”
He frowns down at me, searching my eyes for a long moment. At last, he nods. “Father told me to take you home and clean you up. Is that what you want me to do?”
Above us, the organ begins to play, the notes somber and resonant. A chill races over me, and my gaze moves to the ceiling, then back to Angel’s.
“Are you going to take me through there?”
“Of course not,” he says. “Just hold on, baby girl. I’ve got you.”
He turns away, towards the dark tunnels where we ran on HAVOC night, where they hunted me for sport, caught me, held me pinned and forced me to take more pleasure than I could endure. Tonight isn’t the first time I was put on display. It was simply the first time I was rescued from the ravenous eyes of men who would consume that display.
Angel shifts me in his arms, turns on the light on his phone, and then strides forward with complete confidence. If this is a maze, he has no fear of getting lost. He has been in it enough to know his way out. When we were kids, we snuck down here, but we didn’t explore far. We were too scared—of being caught, of getting lost, of the dead in the crypt. That was the most horrifying, delicious fear of all.
Maybe it was only my fear that had us all retreating. After all, the Quint stuck together. They would coax me to go on, but if I couldn’t, they would never have left me behind. I wonder, as Angel shows no signs of trepidation winding through the dark tunnels, if I held them back, or if my caution protected them. Maybe it was both. Certainly the others were more fearless. But did they explore here when I wasn’t around, even as kids?
The thought sends a pang of hurt into my heart, silly as it may be. It happened years ago. But being left out, being left behind, unwanted, is a wound that may never heal.
We exit through a doorway in the back of a building on the far side of campus. It takes me a moment to orient myself, and by then, Angel is unlocking the boys dorm and carrying me inside.
“You’re taking me to your room?” I ask.
“Don’t worry,” he says. “Heath isn’t there.”
“You live with him?”
“Of course,” he says, then grins. “Your brother has a single—again, of course. The bastard.”
