The Devil's Bible

by Dana Chamblee Carpenter

  “You’re here because I brought you, and you can’t leave until I let you.” She meant to keep her voice soft and steady, but the power charged it with command. “Now sit!”

  He did. But Mouse could feel him testing the binding spell, leaning into it, raking bits of gravel against the barrier of her blood. “I’ll find my way around this spell. Do you have any idea what I’ll do to you when that happens?”

  “Your threats mean nothing. You’re not going anywhere.”

  He threw his head back and rage tore through his throat. He reached an arm up to the sky and pulled. A rope of lightning ripped through the curtain of air and struck the mound where Mouse sat.

  But she wasn’t there. She had anticipated what he would do. She laughed at the frenzy in his face, but the laugh unnerved her. She didn’t sound like herself, and she could feel the power roiling in her, her nearness to him charging it with malevolence.

  “If you’re done with your temper tantrum, I’d like to know what you want,” she said.

  “That’s my line, isn’t it? Since you brought me here?” he said mockingly. “What I want is to get out of here. A storm’s brewing.” He grinned.

  “What does that mean?” she asked, certain that he was about to prove the Bishop right, that a war was coming. If that were true, then she was playing with the souls of humanity at stake.

  “I thought it was rather obvious.” He pointed to the thundering sky.

  “What do you want?” she repeated, her voice sharpened by the risk she was taking. She couldn’t afford to keep playing games with him. She needed her answers now.

  He crossed his legs, leaning back on his hands casually, his whole demeanor suddenly light, like he was at a picnic. “You mean with you?”

  Mouse had seen his shifts in tone before, but she was in control of this conversation. “We’ll get to that. I mean bigger picture.”

  He shrugged his shoulders. “What I’ve always wanted. The chance to prove that I’m right, that my way works better.”

  It was the same thing that Bishop Sebastian and his Novus Rishi wanted. They believed in their own rightness, and they wanted everyone else to believe it, too. They claimed to fight for God, but in Mouse’s seven hundred years of experience, the Church and all its various fingerlings usually fought to serve their own interests, to expand their power and influence. They shunned the poor and closed their doors to the outcasts, to people like Mouse. They tortured and killed Father Lucas to get what they wanted. How could they be right? How could they be good?

  “What’s your way?” Mouse asked her father.

  “No limits. No knocking down the tower when it gets too tall. No clipping the wings of angels.” He lifted the edge of his cloak and revealed the disfigured knobs that jutted from his back. “That’s cruel—to create beings with desires and then tell them they can’t have what they want. Selfishness should be a virtue. Ambition, a virtue.” His nostrils flared as he spoke, but he made it all sound so simple, his position almost reasonable.

  And yet Mouse knew that he would do whatever it took to get what he wanted. He didn’t care who got hurt in the process. Like Bishop Sebastian, her father justified any means necessary to achieve his ends. He could be cruel—she’d seen it. But he had also been kind and thoughtful to her. He wanted to know her, wanted to share himself with her. The Church never had.

  “I may have lost the first battle,” her father said, “but over the years, I’ve leveled the playing field—and the pendulum’s about to swing in my favor.”

  Again Mouse was struck by how similar the Bishop and her father were. They both seemed eager for war. They both wanted to win. They wanted to control people. They wanted to control Mouse. She wouldn’t let that happen—not to her or to anyone else.

  “So you are preparing for a war,” she said flatly.

  He barked out a laugh. “War? What makes you think that?”

  “Your demons have been more active.” She sounded like an echo of the Bishop.

  “Have they? I hadn’t noticed.”

  “Why not? What have you been doing?” A little hope was blooming in her that she was right and Bishop Sebastian wrong.

  “None of your business.”

  “Maybe I’ll just make you tell me the truth.” She ran her fingers across the blisters on her lips, flaking as they healed from her use of power at Onstad.

  He snorted. “You’re no good at bluffing. And I am no Moloch—you might find me more difficult to handle.”

  Mouse shrugged, but she’d seen the doubt flicker in his face. He didn’t know the limits of her power any more than she did. “Tell me what you’ve been doing.”

  “No.”

  “Then you can stay where you are. See you.” Mouse pulled her legs under her and started to stand.

  He laughed. “That’s my girl. Play as if you’ve got the better hand.”

  “I do.”

  “For the moment, but eventually your blood will fade. With time. And I have lots of that. I’ll be out before you know it.”

  “Maybe. But I let my blood run deep into the dirt and wove the infinite power of this place into that binding spell. It’s not going anywhere soon unless I will it. And I thought you had somewhere you wanted to be.”

  “I do. And I’ll be quite angry if I miss the . . . event. I don’t think you’ve ever seen me really angry.” The first drops of rain made plumes of dust as they struck the ground like tiny bombs.

  “Let’s remember, I’m out here and you’re in there. And I’m learning a little more about my gifts.” She hissed the last word.

  “Oh, all right. Fair’s fair. You win. I suppose you ought to know anyway.” He made her wait just one more moment. “You’re going to be a big sister.” He smiled.

  “What?”

  “I’ve been trying for a long time now—since before you, obviously. But ever since our time together at Podlažice, it has been my sole purpose. And yet every time, the little life would wither in the womb. Until now. I think this one will be like you—a survivor.”

  “You were planning for the birth of your child?” Mouse’s eyes squinted in confusion. “The Bishop thought you were planning for war.”

  Her father’s laugh boomed over the top of the mound and slipped down to the fields below in an echo that blended with the thunder. “Some things never change. Wars are good for their ratings, and, with me as the bogeyman, your bishop’s sure to draw a crowd. But don’t be a fool. I’m not in this for the warm fuzzies of being a daddy. This kid will serve the purpose you could have if you hadn’t been corrupted with all that twisted theology. This one I’ll raise myself to be my ally, to be a messiah for my side.”

  In those final days at Podlažice, Mouse had learned to read her father. She could hear now the loneliness behind his words, could see the tenderness hiding amid the scorn on his face.

  “It’s more than that, Father.” Her voice was thick with compassion and understanding. “You know it, and I know it.” The rain rolled down Mouse’s back. “I never told you about the first gift I discovered, the gift that made me believe God meant for me to do good things in the world. I wonder if you have this gift, too?”

  Her father looked away. “Don’t.”

  “If you’re like me, you’ve tried to see inside yourself, to find in you what you see in others.”

  “Stop.”

  “If you’re like me, you’ve only ever seen darkness where others have light. You believe you have no soul. You believe you have no goodness in you. But you are made of God like everyone else.” She was weeping. “Like me.”

  “Please, Mouse. Don’t.”

  It was the first time he’d ever said her name. There was so much sorrow in it.

  Mouse closed her eyes. Deep in the inky abyss of him, she saw it: a pinprick of light. Despite an infinite existence soaked in the lusts of his own sick will, he had not managed to rid himself of it fully.

  Slowly she opened her eyes, her face full of naked joy.

  “There
’s hope. For you and for me,” she whispered. She couldn’t wait to tell Angelo.

  A flash of lightning illuminated her father’s face, and in the blinding light, she saw his faith. His belief in what she said sheared his pride and his ego and exposed him for what he was—a wounded and lonely creature longing for home. The forgotten Son of Morning, the Bringer of Light cast into darkness, the Fallen Star.

  Without thinking, Mouse reached out to comfort him, but the moment her hand crossed the circle, there was another flash of lightning and the spell broke.

  Her father turned on her in an instant.

  His hand lashed around her throat, claws digging into her. Charred, twisted flesh ripped through his smooth skin until his humanity lay in crimson tatters at his feet. He raised his face to the heavens and howled his defiance. But even in this distorted, demonic shape, Mouse could see the creature he had first been made to be, and he was beautiful.

  “You don’t want to do this,” she said. Her mind was full of what he had once been and could be again. She understood now—by her own choosing Mouse could be whatever she wanted to be. And so could he. By choice, not by birth or fate or circumstance.

  Rain bathed them in sheets.

  Her father snarled and hurled her through the air. She slid across the graveled surface of Megiddo, rocks tearing the back of her shirt and ripping into her flesh until she rolled to a stop and jumped to her feet. He stalked to her left, and she pivoted to keep him in front of her.

  “You think I want . . . reconciliation? To return to my cage like a good angel?” He spoke quietly, but his words were full of venom.

  “I know you want to go home.”

  He moved faster than she could react. The sharp claws on his leg slammed into her left shoulder as she turned to dodge his attack. She felt the talons pierce her front and back as his foot rounded over her shoulder. The momentum threw her back to the ground and pinned her. As he shifted his weight, Mouse heard her collarbone snap. Her back arched as she screamed.

  Her instincts cried out for her to fight back, to live—to call on the power that was now part of her and to crush her father beneath the raw force of her will. But Mouse would not give in to the violence. That was what her father thought he wanted.

  “You may have wanted to match your adversary . . . son for son,” she said, her body shuddering under his weight. “But at Podlažice, you wanted me to . . . love you.”

  She saw the fury dilate his eyes.

  “People worship me. What need have I of you?” he hissed. Foamy spittle ran down his chin. The back of his clawed hand slammed into the side of her head and then raked gashes across her cheek. She rolled with the blow and then pulled herself to her knees. Her hair stuck to her face in the rain, water mixing with the blood that poured down her face.

  She could see his mouth moving as he took slow steps, springing on his jointed, agile limbs toward her, but Mouse couldn’t hear past the ringing in her ear. She felt her ribs break as he grabbed her around the abdomen and squeezed. He flung her across the mound again. As she landed against an outcropping near the edge, Mouse felt her chest sink in as she tried to draw breath. The skin pulled taut across her crushed ribs.

  He spoke as he straddled her. She strained to hear him but could only make out one question at the end. “Why don’t you fight back?” he asked. He was crying.

  Mouse couldn’t force enough air through her throat to answer, so he snatched it from her mind, which lay bared to him now: Because I choose not to.

  “You’re weak! Use your power!” He spat at her, his eyes pleading with her.

  Not weak, Mouse thought. Not like you.

  “That’s your mother talking. Weak and human. And dead.” The gravel crunched as he knelt, his weight settling on her broken chest. “Now let’s see if you can die, too.” He turned his face from her as he spoke.

  His hand closed around her throat again, squeezing. Mouse heard the pop as one of his claws punctured the artery at the side of her neck. Blood shot out across his face. His slit tongue flickered through his teeth and licked at the drops of red as they ran with the rain.

  Mouse’s throat and mouth filled with blood. She could feel him pulling something from her, like he was dismantling her cell by cell. She could feel him shaking as he wept. She only wanted the pain to stop. She was tired, ready to sleep.

  But then her father turned back to her suddenly, his eyes glazed as he turned his concentration inward, his head cocked as if listening. Mouse had begun to close her eyes when she heard his peal of victorious laughter. She forced her eyes open and saw the corner of his cloak flapping in the wind and the stars sparkling behind him. The storm was passing.

  “There is good news,” he said as he knelt swiftly beside her, tenderly lifting a bloody lock of her hair from her forehead and tucking it behind her ear. Sobs lifted her broken ribs, and the air pushed through the holes in her chest with a high, gurgling whistle.

  “It seems I finally have what I want,” he whispered to her. “And you have a brother.” He kissed her on the forehead and then took the edge of his bloody and torn cloak and folded it around himself, disappearing into the night.

  As he released her, her body, already half-flung over the side of Megiddo, slid down the thorny brush of the hillside until she broke her fall against a lower outcropping.

  A brother, Mouse thought. I must warn someone.

  But there wasn’t time.

  Whatever her father had done to her had worked well. It felt different from the times before when the darkness had taken her; she always woke, then. But she didn’t think she would this time. Mouse was dying. Suddenly she was afraid of what would happen after.

  She wanted Father Lucas to hold her.

  She wanted a lullaby so she could slip away peacefully.

  She wanted Angelo.

  She closed her eyes and searched the darkness, and, at the end, she saw the glow start with a faint flicker at her lips.

  CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

  In the courtyard at the Muhraka monastery, moonlight dusted a statue of Elijah. He held his jagged knife raised, ready to fall on the unrighteous. Tall and white, the statue looked like a ghost watching Angelo slide out of the back seat of the car that had just pulled up. Angelo flung both his bag and the guitar Mouse had given him across his back, bending with the weight, his feet dragging on the chalky stone as he made his way to the door. He wondered if there would be anyone awake to let them in—it was nearly midnight. Haifa had been all but empty when they drove up to Mount Carmel.

  “Wait for me, son,” Bishop Sebastian called out as he leaned down to say something to the driver.

  Angelo didn’t turn around. He was still angry—angry that Mouse had left him and angry that he’d had to ask the Bishop for help. Angelo had called Bishop Sebastian just minutes after he had read Mouse’s note, minutes after he’d finished praying for her. He didn’t think prayers would be enough, so he had reached out to the only person he knew could help. And even though they did what he wanted, Angelo had been irrationally angry that the Bishop and his friends had tracked Mouse to Israel so easily. He was angry that it had been the Bishop and not him who figured out her final destination: Megiddo.

  Angelo had been angry from the moment he spotted the Bishop waiting like a spider for him at the airport at Tel Aviv. But the dark news the Bishop had given him sent a silent rage running through him: The Bishop’s men had found Mouse, bloody and broken, at the bottom of Tel Megiddo. On the drive to Haifa, with the salty air from the sea whipping through his open window, Angelo had not said a word.

  As they took the last steps up to Muhraka, the Bishop laid his hand against the back of Angelo’s head and neck. Twelfth century pilgrims had claimed the Arabic word for their monastery: sacrifice. “You should not be alone in this,” the Bishop said.

  The door opened, throwing out a rectangle of light, and a nun in brown habit and a black hood knelt to kiss the Bishop’s ring.

  “Where is she?” Angelo pushed h
is way past the nun, stumbling through the hall and looking into dark rooms to his left and right.

  “Not here. Out in the guesthouse,” the nun said quietly, not looking at him. “Follow me.”

  Angelo focused on the black of her back, putting one foot in front of the other. He couldn’t breathe. He couldn’t think. When the nun opened the door to the guesthouse, Angelo could not go in.

  “Let me, son,” Bishop Sebastian whispered as he eased past Angelo and into the too-bright room. Angelo leaned against the doorframe, hands on his knees, the guitar sliding from his shoulder to the floor with a hollow thwong.

  “God, the Father of mercies, through the death and resurrection of his Son—”

  Angelo’s head snapped up as the Bishop began the sacrament of last rites. “Stop!” He took a step toward the bed that had been pulled into the middle of the room under the overhead light.

  “You don’t want to see her like this, son.”

  “I am not your son.” His voice broke as he twisted around the Bishop and saw her. They hadn’t covered her. She was naked; her clothes lay strewn on the floor beside the bed. They looked like strips of meat, dark red and dull. Mouse was white. She looked cold and hard as if she’d been carved of alabaster, but she was streaked with blood and the sheets ran red with it.

  Angelo walked to her, slowly lowered himself onto the bed, his hand sinking into the sticky wetness.

  “Why didn’t you take her to a hospital?” The words came out stilted, each one a struggle. The Bishop had ordered his Novus Rishi friends to take Mouse to this obscure Carmelite monastery rather than to the hospital in Nazareth.

  “You know why.” The Bishop had come closer. “She’s not normal,” he muttered.

  “She was gone before she got here, Father. I am sorry we could not save her. But, I think, no one could.” The nun made the sign of the cross.

  “She doesn’t need you to save her.” Angelo’s rage wove with his grief and came out as a snarl, twisted in his tears and spit, as he turned and slammed his hands against the Bishop’s chest, pushing him back toward the door. “Get out!”