by Tonya Hurley
Silence filled the room as they meditated on what had been said. The importance of it.
“Your work is not yet done,” the pope said, breaking the silence, with sadness in his eyes. “The path you tread is a thorny one.”
“We know,” Agnes replied.
“Your enemies are legion and ever vigilant,” the pope reminded. “Near at hand.”
“We’re ready,” Cecilia added. “For whatever will come.”
“Even I won’t be able to help you,” he informed regretfully. “It is in the hands of the Almighty.”
“And ours,” Cecilia added.
Agnes turned toward the gold casing holding Sebastian’s heart and read the Latin inscription out loud.
“Noli Timere.”
“What does that mean?” Cecilia asked the Holy Father.
“Do not be afraid.”
Jesse’s parents lingered tearfully over their son’s motionless body, waiting for the doctor.
Moss arrived, grim faced.
“How is he, Doctor?” his mom asked.
“Will he ever wake up?” his dad inquired.
“The honest truth is, we just don’t know. His vital signs are stable. We’ve done all we can do.”
“What happens now, Doctor?” his dad continued.
“He’ll be sent upstairs to Psych for continued observation and whatever treatment is necessary. It’s a waiting game.”
“Is there anything else we can do, Doctor?” Jesse’s mom asked urgently.
“Pray,” the doctor said.
The onetime couple, long estranged, lingered over their son like the first day he was born. Stroking his hands and face, whispering sweet nothings to him. Telling him how much they loved him. How proud they were of him. Words they wished they’d said more often to him. His mom noticed he was warm and brought a glycerin stick to his dried lips to moisten them while his father cracked a window. Each kissed his forehead gently as they said their good-byes. Mr. Arens escorted his ex-wife out and headed for the chapel at Perpetual Help.
The buzzing and pinging of machines, and the rustling of hospital staff through the halls continued apace; the sick were admitted, the healthy discharged. The patient lay there, oblivious to all of it, alive but not present. The night was dry and cool and a light breeze blew into the hospital room. It brushed across his body, passed through him.
Jesse opened his eyes.
He whispered softly,
“Lucy.”
Dr. Frey stood at his office window high above the streets of Brooklyn looking downward at the city sanitation crew cleaning up after Lucy’s procession. He resembled nothing so much as a gargoyle keeping watch from the toppled bell tower of Precious Blood, directly across the skyline. The doctor checked his watch. It was time for him to begin his rounds.
He walked down the hall, stopping at Jude’s room. He peeked into the window of the reinforced door and spied the child sitting on the edge of his bed, looking blankly at the wall. After a while, the boy turned and stared at the doctor observing him. Their eyes locked and wills struggled, neither wanting to blink first. Eventually, Jude retrained his gaze on the white wall in front of him. Frey smiled and moved along to check in on another patient of particular interest. Jesse.
The doctor checked Jesse’s chart. His vitals, Frey thought, were surprisingly stable considering the trauma he’d endured. CT scan and MRI were normal, but these were not determinative. The patient remained in a semi-coma, experiencing only intermittent consciousness. Frey performed an examination of his own, lingering over Jesse, to personally assess his condition and reassure himself of the prognosis. It was impossible to tell how functional he was or would be. One thing was certain: Jesse would be with him for a while.
Frey’s examination was interrupted by a call coming through on his cell phone. He stepped out of the room and answered.
“Call from a Sister Dorothea?”
“I’ll take it.”
The nurse bridged the call.
“Alan Frey speaking.”
“I’m calling about Jude,” she said sternly. “I haven’t been able to get any information.”
“Well, that is understandable, Sister. Patient confidentiality being what it is.”
“All I want to know is when he will be released.”
Frey paused.
“Oh, I couldn’t say, Sister. Jude was quite traumatized by the events at his foster home.”
“I was there, Doctor. I want to be sure even more damage isn’t done by keeping him in your facility.”
“He is perfectly safe here,” Frey assured her.
“The boy needs to be in school. With friends.”
“You needn’t worry, Sister. That is exactly where he is,” Frey said. “With friends.”
13 Catherine and Cecilia headed for a meeting with Daniel Less at the open-mic club where Catherine had first met him. He’d been pressing, especially after all the attention Cecilia had gotten in recent days. They walked and talked.
“I’m so sorry about Lucy,” Catherine sympathized.
“Me too,” Cecilia said.
“Nothing is going to happen to you, is it?”
“Not with you to protect me.” Cecilia smiled.
The girls walked along Myrtle Avenue and down Wilson Avenue into the Bushwick section of Brooklyn. The L train rolled by overhead, pausing their conversation for a just a moment, when Cecilia spied an enormous edifice with two bell towers visible in the distance. They strolled up to the church, and Cecilia looked up to admire the century-old building, a towering baroque structure with a white-marble and yellow-brick facade.
“Saint Barbara’s,” Catherine said. “She was a martyr too. I mean a saint. I mean . . .”
CeCe took Catherine’s hand in hers, calming her.
“It’s beautiful,” CeCe noted. “I want to go inside for a second, okay?”
“Sure, if it’s open.”
“It’s open,” Cecilia said confidentially, stamping out her cigarette and grabbing the front door handle.
They entered and stood in awe at the statuary along the columns in the nave, the shrines to Jesus and Mary, the elaborate pulpit, gloriously painted ceiling vault and dome above the altar. Cecilia walked to the votive stand, dropped some change in the poor box, and lit two candles. The coins struck the bottom of the metal container, echoing through the cavernous space like a vesper bell. She allowed herself a moment of reflection as the candle flames danced in the glass votive cups.
“Praying for a good deal?” Catherine said.
“No, just praying,” Cecilia replied.
“It’s a real neighborhood landmark,” Catherine explained. “Named for Saint Barbara but also the daughter of the family who donated the land for the church. She was Barbara too.
“Just a normal little girl?” Cecilia asked.
“Yep.”
“I love it,” Cecilia said as they exited the church.
They walked a few blocks to the club and went inside. It was still afternoon, and the place was empty except for the guy at the back table, working on his smartphone. He stood and dropped it in the breast pocket of his suit jacket as Catherine and Cecilia approached. Catherine led the way.
“Daniel Less, I’d like to introduce you to—”
“Cecilia Trent,” he greeted, extending his hand.
Cecilia grabbed it and shook firmly, her own hand wrapped in loose gauze to absorb any random droplets of blood. It had become almost her trademark. Besides, it looked cool and made a strong first impression.
“Do they hurt?” he asked.
“Only when I feel taken advantage of,” she said with a sly smile.
He returned the gesture with a toothy boardroom grin of his own.
“Please sit,” he requested. “So, I’m sure Catherine has told you, I’ve been following you for a while now.”
“Coming from you that’s very flattering.”
“I’ve watched your following grow along with your creativity. You’ve done it the old-fashion
ed way.”
“One at a time,” Cecilia said. “That’s my mantra.”
“I like to think of my label as an artist-friendly company. A place where we can help you express who you are as a songwriter and performer.”
“That’s good,” CeCe responded, “because I don’t need some jerk-off junior A and R guy telling me how to sell myself or what to do.”
“If it comforts you, the only jerk-off you have to deal with is me,” he said. “Besides, I think you’ve got that part of it down. The music and the marketing.”
Cecilia paused for a moment.
“The only reason I want to do this is because I know it’s the best way to reach the greatest number of people and get my message out.”
“Then we agree.”
“As long as it’s on my own terms.”
Less reached into his briefcase and pulled out an 8 1/2 x 11 document.
“I took the liberty of bringing a contract along. Forgive my arrogance.”
“You’re forgiven,” CeCe joked. “Got a pen?”
Catherine was smiling ear to ear, celebrating not only the sealing of Cecilia’s deal but also the prospect of her own.
“It’s a seven-year deal. Sure you don’t want to read it?”
“Not necessary,” Cecilia answered.
Less offered a pen, holding it directly above the paperwork.
“Then all that’s left is for you to sign on the dotted line.”
She was momentarily distracted by the sirens blaring just outside and the sound of cars screeching to a halt.
“Another afternoon in Brooklyn,” Catherine fretted, shaking her head.
Cecilia took the pen and moved her hand toward the document. She looked down as she was about to sign and noticed a ruby red droplet on the signature line. Then another and another. It wasn’t ink. She looked at the bandage on her hand. It was soaked through with fresh blood.
An army of officers burst through the club entrance, guns drawn. Her first reaction was confusion, then relief. Perhaps the cops were sent over by Murphy to protect her, she surmised. Since Lucy’s death, they must have been on high alert, investigating every threat to her and to Agnes. Whatever it was, it must be serious to send armed guards after her.
But then a second thought occurred. Perhaps these weren’t guards at all, but vandals, minions in the police force, sent by Frey to finish the job. Wolves in blue uniforms.
“Cecilia!” Catherine screamed, jumping in front of her and standing tall like a human shield.
Less also bounced up, in shock and anger.
“What’s going on here?” he demanded. “You’re interrupting a business meeting.”
“Shut up and stand back,” the lead officer ordered.
“You too, kid,” another insisted.
Daniel and Catherine stepped aside and the officers formed a wall directly in front of Cecilia.
“Cecilia Trent?” another asked.
“You know damn well who I am.”
“Hands over your head.”
CeCe complied as Catherine watched in disbelief.
Two officers approached, each took an arm and brought it behind her back. Firmly. One fastened her wrists with a plastic tie and spun her around.
“You’re under arrest.”
“For what?”
“You have the right to remain silent,” the officer dutifully recited the Miranda warnings. “Anything you say can and will be used against you.”
“I said for what?”
“The murder of Finn Blair. Your prints were on the murder weapon.”
He continued reading her rights as Cecilia was dragged out of the club and escorted into a waiting a squad car. A few apostles who had texted her whereabouts to one another fretted tearfully as she was loaded, ungraciously, into the backseat. She smiled back reassuringly at them and Catherine through the dirty car window and mouthed Don’t worry. It did little to console them as the squad car sped away.
“We have the suspect. En route to the station.”
A voice crackled through the car radio with orders for a detour that sent shivers up Cecilia’s spine.
“Reroute. Reroute. Deliver suspect to Perpetual Help hospital. Psych ward. Do you copy?”
“Ten-four.”
3 Agnes and Martha walked along the Park Slope side streets. Agnes was talking about the weather but thinking about Lucy. And Jesse. And the video documenting it all that she had hidden away.
“Spring is finally here,” Martha said cheerfully, hoping to bring a rare smile her daughter’s face.
“I guess,” Agnes replied. “Hard for me to appreciate it right now.”
“I understand, honey,” Martha said sympathetically. “Maybe you should talk to someone.”
“Oh please, Mother. Not again.”
Turning the corner onto their street, Agnes saw some commotion going on down the block, very near their home. Agnes felt her mom’s grip tighten on her arm as they continued to walk. There was an ambulance with lights flashing, its siren off. A crowd of Agnes’s followers surrounding it.
“What’s going on here?” Agnes asked.
“Agnes Fremont?” an officer inquired.
“Yes.”
“Please come with us,” he said reaching for her arm.
“No!” she screamed, pulling away. “Mother what’s going on here?” Martha released Agnes arm and all but pushed her into the EMT’s arms.
“I’m sorry, Agnes!” she wailed.
“What’s happening?” Agnes screamed, struggling against the men who’d come to pick her up. “How could you do this to me, Mother?”
“You left a suicide note. I just can’t take any chances, Agnes. You are sick.”
“You’re having me committed?”
“Dr. Frey said it would be best. To save you.”
“You believe him and not your own eyes? Not me?”
“You saw what just happened! It’s all true!” Agnes shouted. “It’s all on tape, for God’s sake. I’ll show you.”
“I don’t care if Jesus stepped off the cross and told me to believe it. You are my daughter and I will not let that happen to you.”
Her followers rushed to her aide but were driven back as NYPD officers pulled their guns.
“Stop,” Agnes shouted, resigning herself to her fate. “I’ll go.”
She gave herself over. Her hands were cuffed and she was placed in the ambulance, humiliated and imprisoned.
“Sebastian was right. It is those close to you that must be feared the most.”
The rear doors slammed closed and the ambulance pulled quickly away.
Martha looked on at the small crowd dropping to their knees in tears of anger and disgust. She watched the ambulance fade away into the distance and quietly whispered,
“God, help her.”
For those who see things differently,
The ones who think they know.
For those who want more to be,
Then all that was for show.
Craving excess more and more,
The drug of the trend.
Pain and suffering left empty,
Pray broken hearts to mend.
Speaking in tongues of whispers,
Worry what they say.
It’s the way you see it,
There is no other way.
Removed the shadows from my sight.
This I pray to thee.
Once I was blind,
But now I am me.
Lucy, ora pro nobis.
THANKS to my husband, Michael Pagnotta, and my sister, Tracy Hurley Martin, for making all of this possible.
I would like to especially thank my amazing editor, Zareen Jaffery, for her belief in this project and for her invaluable support.
Heartfelt thanks to the extraordinary dream team at Simon & Schuster: Jon Anderson, Justin Chanda, Anne Zafian, Julia Maguire, Chrissy Noh, Bernadette Cruz, Lizzy Bromley, Lucille Rettino, Paul Crichton, Lydia Finn, Mary Marotta, Christina Pecorale, Jim Conlin,
Mary Faria, and Teresa Brumm.
Special thanks to the people I have been blessed with in my life: Isabelle Rose Pagnotta, Beverly Hurley, Oscar Martin, Vince Clarke, Tamara Pajic Lang, Natalie Shau, Abbey Watkins, Michelle Zink, Andy McNicol, Laura Bonner, Alicia Gordon, Ellen Goldsmith-Vein, Ally Condie, and Parker Posey. Thanks to all at William Morris Endeavor and especially to my amazing publishers and readers around the world.
TONYA HURLEY
is the author of the New York Times bestselling ghostgirl series. She has worked in nearly every aspect of teen entertainment: creating, writing, and producing two hit TV series, and writing and directing several acclaimed independent films. Tonya lives in Brooklyn, New York, with her husband and daughter. Precious Blood was the first in the Blessed trilogy of novels. Visit Tonya at theblessed.com.
Simon & Schuster New York
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An imprint of Simon & Schuster Children’s Publishing Division • 1230 Avenue of the Americas, New York, New York 10020 www.SimonandSchuster.com • This book is a work of fiction. Any references to historical events, real people, or real places are used fictitiously. Other names, characters, places, and events are products of the author’s imagination, and any resemblance to actual events or places or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. • Text copyright © 2014 by Tonya Hurley • Illustrations copyright © 2014 by Abbey Watkins • All rights reserved, including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. • is a trademark of Simon & Schuster, Inc. • The Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau can bring authors to your live event. For more information or to book an event, contact the Simon & Schuster Speakers Bureau at 1-866-248-3049 or visit our website at www.simonspeakers.com.• Book design by Lizzy Bromley • Jacket design by Lizzy Bromley • The text for this book is set in Goudy Old Style. •Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data • Hurley, Tonya. • Passionaries / Tonya Hurley. — First edition. • pages cm. — (A Blessed novel ; [2]) • Summary: “Agnes, Cecelia, and Lucy watched as Sebastian sacrificed himself for what he believed in. Will the girls trust their destiny as saints and martyrs and perform the miracles as Sebastian instructed? Or lose faith in themselves and each other in his absence?”—Provided by publisher. • ISBN 978-1-4424-2954-3 (hardcover) — ISBN 978-1-4424-2956-7 (eBook) •[1. Good and evil—Fiction. 2. Conduct of life—Fiction. 3. Saints—Fiction. 4. Catholic Church—Fiction. 5. Brooklyn (New York, N.Y.)—Fiction.] I. Title. • PZ7.H95667Pas 2014 •[Fic]—dc23 •2013019654
