by Duncan, Lex
Hm. A nun skulking around a shadowy, secluded stairwell at two in the morning was suspect enough. The mysterious stranger didn’t help. Given my track record with these things, they were probably referring to the goat they meant to sacrifice in the name of the demon lord. Because you didn't huddle around in the dark to discuss your sewing circle. Especially if you lived in Stone Chapel.
We didn't do sewing circles. Too normal.
We didn't do normal here.
Hell, I didn't do normal. Not after what happened earlier. I tried, but normal repaid my efforts in mobs of angry crows and possessed night club owners. Normal was what I thought I wanted, but normal wasn't what wanted me. Normal was the ex-boyfriend (or girlfriend) who didn't care anymore, and I wasn't going to pine over it. I was so over normal. Normal needed to take a long walk off a short pier. Normal needed―
“I take it you haven’t any ideas,” Aralia said, jostling me from my thoughts.
“Oh, uh,” moving without seeing where I was going was a disorienting experience. I kept tripping up the stairs and would have fallen down them more than once if not for her. “Nope, none. I’m never even out here at night. They keep us in our rooms after eight, remember?”
“And you've never once snuck out?”
“I've only been here two weeks.”
“Excuses, Beatrice.”
We stopped. She gave me a nudge.
“What?” I said.
“Are you going to unlock the door?” She asked.
“Depends,” I replied, reaching for my key. “Are we there yet? I can't see.”
“For God's sake,” she snatched the key away and unlocked the door. The knob turned with a click. “There.”
I guess we were here.
I went in first. Aralia followed. I wasn't sure how this was going to work. Our bunk-beds only housed two and we had just as many blankets and just as many pillows. St. Agatha's wasn't like Dante's. There weren't six different rooms to choose from. We'd need to make do with what we had.
“So,” I whispered, turning in what I thought was Aralia's direction. I didn't want to flip the light on and wake Sadie up. “Do you want to sleep on the floor or―?”
“Excuse me?” She said. “I am not sleeping on the floor.”
“It's the floor or nothing because there's nowhere else we can go.”
“Um, hello? A hotel?”
“B-Beatrice?” Sadie's voice stammered through the dark.
Damn it. “Hi, Sadie.”
“What are you doing? I thought you were...”
“Yeah,” I said, “me too. But something happened so we had to come back here.”
“This is ridiculous,” Aralia shouldered past me and a moment later, the lamp on the desk turned on.
Sadie sat on the edge of her bed, clutching her blanket to her chest like a shield. Her weary gaze flickered between Aralia and I. Judging by the panic in her voice, she'd probably be petitioning for a new roommate come morning. “What's―what's going on?”
“Nothing, darling,” Aralia answered in a way one might to a frightened toddler. “Go back to sleep.”
Unconvinced, Sadie looked to me for further explanation.
Shit. I sucked at impromptu lying. I sucked at lying in general. Being raised by nuns did that to you. “I, uh―I went to see my ex and it didn't go well, so we came back here.” There, that was good, right? Not entirely true, not entirely false. God couldn't smite me for a half-lie. I don't think. “Aralia's staying, too. Just for the night. She'll be gone in the morning, I promise.”
Sadie glanced at Aralia as though she were a bomb with only a few seconds left on her timer. She could have yelled for Sister Margaret. She could have kicked us out. But she didn't. She was trusting me. “...Okay.”
I'd repay that trust eventually. Maybe in Fruit Loops. She liked Fruit Loops. “Sorry for waking you up.”
“It's okay,” she said, smiling in her nervous way. “I wasn't really sleeping with the storm and all...”
Aralia made a noise, crossed her arms over her chest.
Hoping to placate her, I climbed the ladder to the top bunk and tossed my pillow down. “Here, catch.”
She didn't. In fact, she made a concentrated effort not to catch. “I'm not sleeping on the floor, Beatrice.”
“Someone has to,” I said.
Big surprise. That someone was me.
***
As per my promise to Sadie, Aralia was gone by the time the sun came up. How she escaped without being caught was something of a mystery, but if anyone could give a boarding house of nuns the slip, it was her.
I spent the rest of the day with a crick in my neck and a bit of dried drool on the corner of my mouth. I hadn't noticed it was there until Jason Clark pointed it out in English class. I picked up my copy of the Divine Comedy to throw at him, but Mr. Northrop put a damper on my fun and sent me to Headmaster Vance's office before I could get the job done.
No detention this time. Vance said it was because I didn't actually throw the book, that my restraint showed maturity and that it saved me from another week with Ms. Hayworth. I didn't tell him that I would have thrown it if Mr. Northrop hadn't stopped me. Or that I spent most of my time at school in the library regardless of my detention status.
Why ruin a bonding moment?
After a long bus ride home, I returned to my room at St. Agatha's to a note slipped underneath my door. I wouldn't have noticed it if it hadn't gotten stuck to my shoe.
All these notes I'd been finding lately got me wondering if any of the people who wrote them knew how to use a computer. It was 2015. Email was quicker and killed less trees.
At least this one wasn't from a dead girl or Demon-Rosie.
It was from Sister Margaret. Our, uh, “floor mother.” That was her official title, anyway. I mostly knew her as the intimidating woman across the hall with the glass eye and the raspy voice. She didn't like me very much. And she wanted me to report to the chapel at 6 PM sharp, according to the note. There were pews that needed to be scrubbed. Great.
Headmaster Vance showed me mercy by skipping the detention. Sister Margaret was doing the opposite. But why? Had she found out that I left last night? Had she seen Aralia? Was she the nun lurking around the stairs in the wee hours of the morning? So many questions and not enough answers. It seemed like everyone had something to hide these days.
I barely tasted the stew we had for dinner. Sopped up the excess gravy with a hunk of bread, chased it down with a glass of milk. When I was finished, I headed to the chapel. Got there right as the clock struck six.
It was dark. A few candles were lit here and there, but they barely managed to give off enough light to make a difference. It was cold, too. Colder than usual. I shivered in my sweatpants and Stone Chapel High hoodie. Kept an eye out for Sister Margaret's knotted frame.
“Hello?” I meandered up the aisle between the pews. This place was much plainer than the city's church. No silk garnishments, no soaring windows, no pointed doorways. Just a bare, brutal sense of piousness. Another crucifix stared down at me from the front of the room. “Sister Margaret? It's Beatrice. I'm here.”
No answer.
Huh. Maybe she forgot. That'd be nice. The temptation to ditch was strong, but ditching without just cause would get me into more trouble. I didn't want that. After all, I was responsible now. Responsible-ish. I could wait a few minutes to see if she came and if she didn't, I'd leave. Yeah, there we go. I was so mature. Mother Arden would be proud.
I made myself at home on the first pew on the left. Waited like the responsible-ish person I was. I whistled a tune, tapped my foot, made small talk with Jesus. He didn't reciprocate.
Then I waited some more.
“I don't think she's coming,” I told Jesus. I tried. I did the responsible-ish thing. I waited to see if she'd come. She didn't. Therefore, I was well within my rights to leave. I got up to do so and when I did, a pair of hands seized me from behind.
Before I could do anything but blin
k, a dull burst of pain slammed into the back of my head. I slumped over, but those hands kept me from falling. Gripping me tighter, they dragged me off the pew. As much as I wanted to fight back, I could feel my consciousness slipping, receding like an ocean tide.
My eyelids fluttered. Keeping them open required almost as much effort as staying awake. All I could make out was the floor moving beneath my limp feet.
I didn't know how long we'd been moving or where the hands were taking me. But I knew when we stopped. I knew because those hands let me go. Threw me down. I hit the floor so hard that I could almost feel my brain rattling against my skull, knocking whatever was keeping me conscious clean out.
Before the darkness swallowed me, I heard a laugh.
At least this was fun for one of us.
***
“Wake up!”
A hand cracked across my face. Forced me out of my stupor. My eyes opened and the blur of the world slowly came into focus. Three faces. A dim little room. I took a breath. Gagged. Tasted like incense soaked in blood. Why couldn't I ever go anywhere nice?
“I said, wake up!”
Another slap. This one harder than the first. Warm, salty blood flooded my mouth. I spat it out. Hoped I hit their feet.
Obscured Face #1 grabbed my chin. There was something...not quite right about it. “You are becoming a nuisance, Beatrice Todd. We don't like nuisances.”
The other Obscured Faces were silent, large black hoods hanging over their foreheads. The one on the right was wearing some sort of necklace. White...Or maybe it wasn’t a necklace. Couldn’t tell. The one on the left...Smiling. Teeth too bright in the dark.
“What do you have to say for yourself?” Obscured Face #1 asked. Their nails dug into my skin.
I winced. Tried in vain to form words I could only slur. Nothing fit right in my mouth and a shrill ringing noise filled my left ear. What was that thing called? When you hit your head and you felt sick afterward? Like you'd been drinking too much and...
A, uh...
Confession? Confusion? No, wait. Concussion. Yeah. Probably had one of those.
“You are a wicked girl,” Obscured Face #1 snarled. She got real close, so close that I could see her clearly despite my blurry vision. Hole in her face. She had a hole in her face. A black spot where her eye should have been. Missing glass eye. Black clothes. Didn't like me very much.
Sister Margaret.
I recoiled. Didn't get very far. Couldn't move my hands or my feet. Something at my back. A chair? Pretty sure I was sitting in a chair. Tied to it.
So...
Sister Margaret tied me to a chair. Attacked me in a chapel. Wasn't surprised. Everyone else in this stupid city was out to get me. Why not a nun?
Obscured Face #2 turned, melted into the shadows as though they were a part of them.
Obscured Face #3 did the same.
They left me with Sister Margaret and her one eye. Black eye. Demon eye. Possessed eye. Her hand hadn't moved. Except for when she slapped me again. How many times was that, now?
Ten?
Uh. Maybe four. Three.
“How long have you been consorting with the cambion?” She asked.
Her breath stank more than the air did. “I, uh―the...”
“The cambion, you little brat. You know exactly of whom I speak, do not play games with me.”
Cambion? Didn't know that word. No clue what she was talking about. Bad interrogation technique. Couldn't work if your hostage had no idea why they were being taken. Saw that on a TV show once. “I, uh...I don't know who―”
“You lie. Do you know where liars go?” Sister Margaret skipped the slap this time and grabbed something from between the folds of her robes. Looked sharp.
Knife.
Oh, no. No no no no.
“You reek of it.” She lurched forward like Quasimodo, shark fin shoulder blades sticking up out of her back. An image of Jaws praying the rosary popped in my head.
I needed a bigger boat.
Gritting my teeth, I tried to free my hands. No dice. I looked down. Heavy, braided rope chafed against my wrists. Didn't hurt as much as the knife would. Needed to get out of here. Needed to call for help. Dante. Aralia. Max. Someone.
Too late.
Sister Jaws attacked. Grabbed my hair and yanked my head back so that I had no choice but to look in her one eye. Reminded me of when Dante exorcised Max. That's where the comparisons ended. This wasn't an act of heroism. This was an act of torture.
“You will tell me what I need to know, you stupid girl,” Sister Margaret snarled. The knife pinched my skin. It didn't hurt so badly at first. And then the cuts got deeper. I could feel my blood welling up in my arm. My brain reeled with questions that didn’t matter right now. Why was she doing this? Who was working with her? I didn't know what a cambion was. Didn't know how long I'd been “consorting” with it. Didn't know anything but pain and the warm red rivulets crisscrossing my wrist.
I screamed.
Sister Margaret cringed like I was the one with the knife. “Stop it!” She hissed. She let go of my hair and clamped her hand over my mouth. The knife sank deeper into my wrist. I screamed again. My throat hurt. Along with everything else.
If I didn't do something soon, Sister Margaret was going to kill me. Or worse.
That couldn't happen.
Wasn't going to let it. Just needed to fight through the pain, the confession―er, concussion―the blood loss. Just needed to get away.
Needed a plan. Couldn't really think of one.
Well.
There was something. Demons didn't like loud noises. Made them angry. Learned that from Rosie.
I screamed some more.
Sister Margaret reacted just as I figured she would. Pressed harder against my mouth to muffle the sound. I used this to my advantage. Bit down on her wrinkled palm until I tasted blood. Kept biting.
She screeched, ripping her hand away and smacking me with it. Staggered back a pace or two.
In turn, I threw all my weight to one side, face stinging from her slap. The chair rocked. My vision blurred. I wanted to puke. I did it again. The chair rocked even harder. One more time.
The floor rushed up at me. I hit it hard. Vomit licked at the back of my throat. I swallowed it down. I could throw up later. Needed to focus on freeing my hands.
“Stupid girl!” Sister Margaret cradled her bleeding hand. “You'll burn for what you've done!”
If I had a dollar for every time someone told me that, well...I'd have a lot of dollars.
Like, four.
“You think you can win this?” Her voice lost its previous pitch. It shivered now. With rage, but with an undercurrent of confidence, too.
I assumed her question was a rhetorical one, so I didn't waste time with a response. Had to get out of here. Had to call Dante and Aralia and Max. And the cops, probably.
The more I twisted my wrists, the looser I could feel the rope becoming. Almost there, almost there.
“He's coming for you.” Sister Margaret sounded very close. She crouched down in front of me and I could see myself reflected in her onyx eye. “Nothing will save you. Not even the cambion.”
Still didn't know what the cambion was. Didn't matter. What mattered was that Sister Margaret didn't try to grab me again. Didn't try to stop me from finding the loose spot in the rope, from slipping my hands free. She merely arose, a terrible vision in black, and she walked away.
Twenty-Five
I wasn't sure how I got out of that room. I vaguely remembered untying my ankles from the chair. Sort of recalled stumbling around like a drunk on New Year's Eve. Everything after that was a bit of a concussed blur.
I figured someone found me passed out from the blood loss, because when I opened my eyes again, I was in a hospital room on a hospital bed in a hospital gown. An IV fed clear liquids into my hand and a monitor like the one Rosie had kept a second-by-second record of my vital signs. The curtains were drawn and the walls were white and my wrist wa
s bandaged in layers of foamy gauze.
No more bleeding.
My head still hurt, though. Every movement, no matter how tiny, felt like a seismic shift. I groaned.
“You're awake.”
The line on the monitor that measured my heartbeat spiked. I had a visitor. A visitor I wasn’t really expecting, given our last few interactions.
“Dante,” I breathed, feeling nauseous for reasons unrelated to my concussion. I didn't dare move my head to look at him, so I looked at the ceiling instead. “I, uh...Hi.”
A chair scraped across the floor. Dante appeared on the periphery of my vision, a sad almost-smile on his face. “Hello.”
“You look terrible,” I said, and that was being kind. Honestly, he looked like shit. Scruffier than usual with longer, scragglier hair and even more bags underneath his eyes. His bags had bags. At least he showered.
His almost-smile widened to a small, but real one. A rarity. “Thank you.”
“You're welcome.”
This Dante was the one I liked. The nice one who smiled and went along with my stupid jokes. Had the one with the dead voice and the foul stench showed up, I would've had him kicked out. I wasn't going to kick this one out. Yet.
“What are you doing here?” I asked. My throat was raw from the screaming or the disuse or both.
“Waiting for you to wake up,” he replied, smile vanishing. “You've been in and out of consciousness for two days.”
Two days? Now I knew how Max felt. “Oops.”
His brow knitted together and he sank out of my line of sight to sit in the chair. “A girl named Sadie Li found you passed out in a hallway at St. Agatha's in a pool of your own blood. You were barely conscious.”
“Sadie? Are you sure that was her name?” There were tons of people living in that place and Sadie had to be the one to find me. God, she'd be having nightmares for weeks.
“Yes,” Dante said, “she's with Aralia and Max right now. Getting lunch.”
And yet, here he was. Not getting lunch. Braving the vertigo, I tilted my head to the side to look at him. He leaned toward me, elbows propped up on the bed. A bouquet of daisies and a couple of cards were on the table behind him. “Why aren’t you?” I asked.
