by Tillie Cole
Joseph flinched, his feet grinding to a halt as the whip cracked again and the boy dropped to all fours. The boy’s fingers dug into the mud as Father Brady administered three more harsh stripes to his back. The fabric of his shirt split under the force of the lashes and fell in two halves on either side of his body, curling around him as though protecting his heart. Joseph idly thought that they reminded him of angel wings.
But just as quickly as that vision came, it disappeared with another thunderous crack of the whip. Night birds and bats fled from the trees; fallen leaves danced in the wind.
Joseph’s pulse raced so fast he wondered if it could take the incessant rhythm in which it was operating. The boy stayed on all fours, arms shaking with the effort of keeping his body upright under Father Brady’s onslaught. Joseph despaired at the pain the boy would be in, at the cruel punishment Father Brady was making him endure. Then the boy raised his head, and the blood drained from Joseph’s face when he caught his expression. Joseph had expected tears. He had expected a visage racked with agony and despair. Instead, the boy was smiling. No, the boy was laughing. His green eyes were lit with amusement. But Joseph found no entertainment in the punishing stripes Father Brady administered. The boy’s eyes rolled back as though he found pleasure in the pain. Joseph closed his eyes, trying to understand what he was witnessing, why the boy wasn’t calling out for Father Brady to stop. Why didn’t he repent? Seek redemption?
“Brother. Stop. Now.” Joseph’s eyes snapped open at the sound of a sternly spoken order . . . an order given by a voice he would know anywhere. “Father Quinn . . .” Joseph said, so quietly he was sure even God would have had trouble hearing his whisper.
“Inside. Now. And control yourself,” Father Quinn ordered. Father Brady yanked the boy from the floor and, with a hold on his neck, descended out of view. Father Quinn scanned the surrounding area. Joseph pulled his hood higher, sinking back into the large hollowed-out trunk of the hemlock tree behind him. Joseph never took his eyes off the priest he saw as a father figure. Father Quinn, seemingly satisfied with their privacy, descended what Joseph knew was the sunken staircase Matthew had told him about.
Joseph didn’t move for what had to be over an hour. His heart barely calmed; his brow was sweaty. His breathing was shallow, and his legs were rooted to the ground. Joseph was unsure if he could walk. The boy . . . the whip . . . the priests . . . Father Quinn.
Purgatory.
This was Purgatory.
It was all true.
It existed.
Joseph’s heart, which had been so quick in its beat, fell and shattered on the ground. James . . . James was in there. Joseph knew it with every fiber of his being. What are they doing to you? he thought. Were they hurting him that way? That cruelly? Joseph knew that, just like the red-haired boy, James would never let them see that they had hurt him, affected him. He would take his punishment in the same way. But Joseph knew there would be no laughter from his brother. His face would remain unmoved. Expressionless. Blank, in the same way it always was . . . unless he had drawn blood. It was the only time James ever showed any kind of emotion.
Fear, like nothing he’d ever felt, sparked into a raging fire in Joseph’s chest, spreading through his veins as though his blood were made of pure gasoline. He had to get James out of there. He never came back. Matthew’s words from earlier ran through his head. If the boys in this place rarely returned to the home, where did they go? A question so heinous he didn’t even want to entertain it stabbed his brain with the force of a Roman spear—did they never return to Holy Innocents because they didn’t leave Purgatory alive? Were their so-called sins never expiated, and thus their souls never redeemed?
Joseph grabbed the rough bark of the tree trunk just to find some kind of anchor against the thoughts that were threatening to overwhelm him. The sounds of hooting owls sailed on the bitterly cold wind. Joseph kept his eyes on the entrance to Purgatory. When he saw the first signs of sunrise, he forced himself to return to the main building, to his dorm room. He sat on the edge of the bed and stared at the crucifix on the wall. The bronze hue of Jesus’s face began to shine brighter in the light of the rising sun from the drape-less window behind him. Joseph saw his future life in his mind, the one he had dreamed of for so long. Graduating Holy Innocents, entering a seminary, and marrying himself to the church. Serving the community and living a full and pious life.
A peaceful life.
But as the minutes passed, that dream seemed to blur with black, his life’s tapestry catching fire and disappearing from existence with every lick of new flame. And in its stead was a new path, this one more of a nightmare than a beautiful dream.
Look after your brother. Love him, for both of us.
He had to save James. He had to get to James.
For that he would have to sin. He would have to stray from his devout ways.
Joseph would have to earn his place in Purgatory.
Chapter Three
Joseph shook as he opened the doors to Holy Innocents Church. It was Tuesday night. On Tuesday nights the priests held a meeting in the back office of the church. Joseph hovered on the threshold of the doors and looked down at the marble floor beyond. The knife in his robes felt like a ten-ton weight. When his eyes caught sight of Mary’s painting on the wall, he quickly averted his gaze. But it didn’t matter; Joseph could feel the knowing stares from the saints and archangels painted on the ceilings, of the apostles from the stained-glass windows warning him against what he was about to do. Joseph couldn’t even face the crucifix that stood center stage.
A sacrifice, he reminded himself. For James. He needs me. I gave my vow to protect him. A vow I must fulfill. This isn’t about me.
Joseph took in what he knew would be his last pure inhale of breath. He counted to ten, then entered the church. Eyes pinned straight forward, he walked with determination to the office. Joseph didn’t hesitate. He turned the knob of the private room, and, without pausing to second-guess the upcoming sin, he withdrew James’s knife from his robe and charged. His feet pounded on the wooden floor in the direction of Father Quinn. Father Quinn glanced up in surprise, then his eyes widened on seeing Joseph rush his way. It wasn’t until Joseph had plunged the blade through Father Quinn’s shoulder that any of the priests seemed to react.
They trusted me, he thought. They never thought I would fall so badly from grace.
Joseph knew that for as long as he lived he would never forget the horrifying feeling of the blade sinking into Father Quinn’s flesh. The sickening feeling of hurting another, harming someone with his own hand. An incredible rush of nausea threatened to bring Joseph to his knees, but he held firm, pulling out the blade, readying to reluctantly strike again. As the blade slid from the flesh, he saw the blood on the metal. The evidence of his betrayal of the church, of God, and of the future he had so desperately craved. But just as he raised his arm to strike again, a strong hand gripped his wrist. Gripped it so hard that Joseph cried out. The blade slipped from his grip and clattered to the ground. Another hand wrapped around his throat, but Joseph kept his eyes on Father Quinn. On his favorite priest, his mentor, who was now looking at Joseph like he was the devil incarnate.
Pain wrapped itself around Joseph’s arm. He gritted his teeth to bite back the cry of agony caused by his sore wrist. But he couldn’t take his gaze from Father Quinn. From the blood that ran down his arm, the red blending in with the black of his shirt. Father Quinn got to his feet, his palm covering his wound. When he withdrew his hand, it was coated with red. Father Quinn stood before Joseph. Joseph fought the need to drop to his knees and beg forgiveness. To confess, and tell him it was all for James. But he had a role to play. If he was to see James, he had to see this through. He must become a devil-like sinner in their eyes.
“Joseph,” Father Quinn said. His voice was neutral, without emotion. Joseph glared at the priest just like he had practiced in the mirror. He had pictured the face James wore when he was racked with rage. And he
emulated that malicious stare now. Father Quinn’s nostrils flared—the only indication he felt anything about the situation at all.
As Father Quinn went to open his mouth, Joseph spat in his face. The saliva hit the priest’s cheek and ran down his clean-shaven face. Joseph maintained his glare, but inside, his heart broke in two. He had desecrated the man he respected most in the world.
He didn’t see Father McCarthy to his left. He only knew the other priest was there when a hand struck his face. Joseph’s head snapped to the side. The tinny taste of blood burst in his mouth. It is justified, Joseph thought. Blood for blood. Sacrifice for the pain he had caused.
Harsh fingers gripped his chin and yanked his face forward. Joseph was met with Father Quinn’s stony eyes and tight-lipped mouth. “Two sinners born from the same set of heathens,” Father Quinn said calmly, measuredly . . . coldly. A spark of true ire burst inside Joseph. His mother. Father Quinn talked of his mother. A heathen? She had been anything but.
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.
“James,” Joseph croaked, his voice breaking with the relief that threatened to overwhelm him. But James didn’t even flinch. “James.” Joseph cut past the others to get to his brother. Joseph stared down at James, but James didn’t even move. He never had been very responsive, but this was different. Dread filled Joseph’s senses. “James?”
“It’s Michael now.” Joseph followed the path of that voice. The red-haired boy was lying casually back on his bed, a bored look on his face as he watched Joseph with overt curiosity. Joseph feared the boy would know he was a pretender.
“What?”
The redhead rolled off the bed and got to his feet. He pointed at the headboard of his bed. The name “Barachiel” was written on a wooden board above it.
“Barachiel?” Joseph questioned.
The redhead smirked. He had to be twelve, thirteen at the most. “Bara, for short.” Bara gestured to the blond with gray eyes. “Uriel.” He then pointed to the dark-haired boy with brown eyes. “Selaphiel, Sela for short.” Next was the black-haired boy with blue eyes. Joseph’s eyes met his, and Joseph froze. From this angle he could see the boy was chained to the bed by one arm. The chain was long enough for him to move some, but not far. “Jegudiel, which we all agreed was a fucking mouthful. So he goes by Diel. Oh, and don’t get too close to Diel.” Bara’s head dropped to the side, mirth in his green eyes. “He likes to attack.” Bara shrugged. “Little self-control, you see.”
Joseph felt the unease of the room begin to suffocate him, wrap around his heart like talons of evil. These boys were . . . different. The looks in their eyes, the darkness that radiated from them . . .
“The pretty boy over there is Raphael.” Joseph turned to face Raphael. His haunting golden eyes were fixed on Joseph, but his hands were busy. Raphael had a piece of string in one hand. He was winding it around the index finger on the other hand. Round and round, again and again. His finger was purple from where he was cutting off his circulation.
“Archangels,” Joseph murmured, putting the names together. “You’re all named after the seven archangels.”
“He’s quick,” Bara said to Uriel, raising a sardonic eyebrow.
“And that’s Michael.” Bara pointed to James. Joseph read the name across his brother’s headboard.
“Michael . . .” Joseph whispered. At the mention of that name, James lifted his head. His light-blue eyes were so pale they almost looked silver in the glow of the dim lamp. His dark eyebrows pulled down as he looked up at Joseph. “James, are you all right?” Nothing.
No reaction. Joseph rocked anxiously on his feet. “Michael,” he asked this time. “Are you okay?” There was recognition in his eyes at that name, but James—Michael—stared through Joseph rather than at him.
Joseph’s hand delved into the pocket of his robe and withdrew the vial of blood he had kept with him all these months. He had tied a leather string around it, like a necklace. Joseph held it out to his brother. Michael’s widening eyes were the only indication that he was remotely excited. Before Joseph could say anything, Michael ripped the vial from Joseph’s hand and held it up to the faint glow of the lamp’s light.
“It’s Luke’s,” Joseph said, and Michael stilled, tearing his eyes from the vial to his brother. Joseph swallowed down the guilt of keeping the evidence of Michael’s sinful actions. “The blood you spilled . . . the first blood you ever spilled. I . . .” Joseph fought against the thick lump of guilt in his throat. “I thought you would have wanted to collect it.” He shrugged. “I did so in your absence.”
Michael went back to staring at the vial in his hands as if it were the Holy Grail. Yet as messed up as he knew it was, at the sight of Michael’s pleasure, Joseph could breathe. Michael was content. Michael was as happy as he could ever be. Michael would sleep.
Michael . . . not James. What had happened here that James was no longer his name?
He was Michael. He answered only to Michael.
Joseph ran his hand down his face, wincing when he accidently hit his swelling lip. He studied each of the boys in turn. None were his age, of that he was sure. He was the eldest here by a couple years at least. “Why the archangel names?” Joseph asked. He didn’t care who would speak. He just needed answers.
