by Tillie Cole
But as she looked at Raphael, curled her cheek into his caressing hand, she was more determined than ever to heal this man who had never known good, who had been mistreated by everyone he had ever encountered.
She wouldn’t be another to fail him.
Her calling as a nun was compassion. What greater compassion was there than bringing love to a sinner, showing him that not everyone would let him down? Giving him whatever made his heart happy.
Maria thought of the death pictures he displayed on his trophy wall. She was at peace. That was it. Maria’s eyes filled with hot, sorrowful tears. Raphael equated death with peace.
The lost boy who fought a constant inner war.
“I love it, my lord,” Maria whispered, and Raphael’s lips curled back into the biggest, most stunning smile Maria had ever been blessed with witnessing. “It’s perfect.” Raphael’s eyes lit with uncontained happiness.
Groaning, he scooped her out of the coffin and took her straight to the bed. He kissed her and kissed her until her lips were bruised and swollen. Raphael was as gentle as a whisper as he rid Maria of her clothes and slipped inside her. He stared into her eyes as he made love to her.
Because it was making love. Maria knew that now. The way he touched her, the way he stroked her hair and kissed her lips . . . it was love. It was obsession and possession and ownership in every way.
Maria knew she was his. She had been saved all those years ago to give Raphael his dream. To show him that not all people would let him down. That some would protect him and sacrifice themselves to finally heal the darkness in his soul.
When Raphael and Maria came, Raphael hung on to her, head on her chest, still inside her as he fell asleep. Stroking her fingers through his messy brown hair, Maria drifted off too.
Death looming.
Yet she was unafraid.
*****
Maria sat up in bed. It was dark, the open windows letting in only a slither of moonlight. Heavy, quick breathing and agonized moans sailed into her ears. Maria searched the bed and found she was alone.
“No . . .” Raphael’s voice was laced with pain and seemed . . . afraid? Her heart cracked. He sounded afraid. He had never once sounded afraid.
Maria scrambled to the side of the bed, frantically searching for him. She froze when she found him on the floor, his naked body facing down. A sob escaped from her lips. His body had made a cross on the floor—arms outstretched as if someone were holding him down. But his legs . . .
His legs were parted, and his body rocked back and forth as if someone were in between his legs . . . as if someone were forcing themselves inside him.
“Father Murray,” he said through gritted teeth. “I will not repent.”
Maria felt the blood drain from her face. Father Murray . . . Maria couldn’t have stopped her mind racing if she’d tried. As she stared at Raphael, such a formidable man on the floor, fingertips digging into the carpet, unable to move, locked in a nightmare, all she saw was an innocent boy who had lost his mother in the most tragic of ways. And she saw Father Murray above him, naked but for a crucifix around his neck. The kind they had given her before the mission to the sex club so many weeks ago.
“I . . . won’t . . . repent . . .” Raphael hissed, his head snapping back and a scream of pure torment echoing like daggers around the room.
Maria couldn’t take another second of seeing Raphael so haunted, so in distress. Jumping from the bed, she crouched at his side. Even in the dull light of the moon, she saw the thick layer of sweat coating his body. But as his hips lifted again, what was worse was his erection, pushing against the cage he never took off.
She closed her eyes and breathed to steady the anger that was striking like a match within her. What horrors had the Brethren put these men, these seven very disturbed men, through? Tears fell down her cheeks—from a mixture of rage and deep sorrow.
Raphael’s hands scrambled along the floor as if he were fighting to be freed. As he moved, Maria reached out and threaded her fingers through his. She squeezed and whispered, “I’m here, Raphael. I’m here.”
His harrowing scream made her blood run cold. Raphael’s head snapped back, and so did his eyes. But Maria could see in his gaze that he wasn’t awake. He was still trapped in his nightmare. He pulled her down, his free hand covering her neck. “Don’t touch me. I don’t want you to touch me anymore,” he snarled, and she knew he was replacing her face with that of his abuser.
Father Murray.
“Shh,” Maria soothed, praying to God that He would help her break through Raphael’s pain and give him some peace. Raphael’s lips pulled back from his teeth and he snarled. “Stop touching me. Stop hurting me!” The anger in his voice faded to a little boy’s plea for mercy. “Please, Father . . . please . . . it hurts . . .”
Maria sobbed. Even with Raphael’s hand on her neck, she broke at the echoed voice of innocence that was buried within him somewhere deep, somewhere it was trapped and couldn’t break free.
She felt his erection leaking against her thigh. What had they done to him? The confusion he must feel. Only finding pleasure through pain. Raphael’s eyes closed again and his hips began to buck. He tried to find friction against her leg, but he grew frustrated, growling and . . . Maria gasped when she saw tears falling down his cheeks. “I can’t,” he whispered.
“You will, demon.”
Maria froze at the sound of a odd, deeper voice spoken from Raphael’s own throat. A voice she knew mimicked Father Murray.
Demon.
He’d made Raphael believe he was a demon.
How could they? They were children. Children in need of help, not exorcism and punishment. Their fragile minds had been destroyed, purged of anything good and pure.
“Come, demon. Release your sinful seed.”
Raphael tried. He tried and tried to come, his hand no longer tight around her throat, as if he couldn’t even muster any strength to try. Unable to watch it anymore, Maria reached down Raphael’s soaking chest and took hold of his length. It throbbed in her hand, so desperately trying to find release and break the hell Raphael was in. He hissed as she worked her hand up and down, faster and faster, until his mouth parted and he bellowed out his release, coming onto Maria’s naked body. Raphael collapsed against her. He struggled to catch his breath. Maria cradled him to her, holding him close so he would know he was safe.
Minutes passed, and Raphael didn’t move. Then he stirred. Hs legs moved, his chest lifted off hers, and he slowly lifted his head. Maria braced for his anger. But when weary and sorrowful golden eyes met hers, she felt as if she had taken a spear to the chest. Raphael stared at her. His lips parted. His eyes dropped, and Maria understood. He was embarrassed.
In her heart, she knew he wouldn’t talk about Father Murray or the Brethren, or tell her about his dream. Maria was sure he wasn’t capable of expressing feelings. He never had done; he didn’t know it was something other people shared.
Maria placed her hands on his face. “Raphael,” she whispered, her soft words like a crash of thunder in the room. He didn’t lift his head. “Raphael,” she tried again. “Look at me.” Raphael squeezed his eyes shut, then let her guide his gaze to hers. Fighting to smile, his semen still running down her thighs, Maria kissed his lips.
They were quivering.
In that moment, Raphael wasn’t a killer. She wasn’t a nun. They were just healing balms to one another’s open wounds. “Let’s get you clean.” Raphael struggled to his feet. He never let go of Maria’s hand the entire time. Maria followed him to stand, then when he didn’t move, his body seeping tiredness and sadness, she led him into the bathroom. She sat him on the chair beside the bath and turned the faucet. Raphael still kept hold of her hand. Maria glanced back at him. He was crouching forward, his glazed eyes on the floor. Shivers racked his body. His hair was wet with sweat.
Maria fought back her anger at Father Murray and went to Raphael. She got to her knees. He reluctantly met her eyes. “Let’s get y
ou in the bath, my lord,” she said softly. His eyes flared some at the use of that name. But he didn’t move until Maria got to her feet and led him to the large bath.
Raphael sank into the water, and Maria moved in behind him. Taking the washcloth, she began to clean the sweat from his back. Raphael’s head was bowed as she washed every inch of his scarred flesh. As she dipped her hand into the water and cleansed the cage over his spent penis.
Raphael didn’t even react to her touch. Maria’s blood traveled thick and fast through her veins, fueled by disgust of the Brethren and a man she had considered a friend.
And Father Quinn. He had done the same to Gabriel. Which other priests had hurt the remaining brothers of the Fallen? Did she know them too? How had they been able to do this for so long without being caught?
A pit caved in Maria’s stomach when she wondered if it was still happening. Did Purgatory still exist? Were there innocent but troubled children being raped and tortured in the name of a God that would never encourage such atrocities?
Maria was snapped from her thoughts when Raphael’s hands moved to her hips. Maria paused and simply let him have this moment. When Raphael raised his head and his haunted stare clashed with hers, she saw love . . . felt it pulsing from him in waves. But she didn’t dare say the four-letter word that was on the tip of her tongue. She wasn’t sure he could hear that quite yet.
“You took care of me,” Raphael finally said, his voice hoarse from the turbulent emotions and the screams of his nightmare. He swallowed, and Maria watched the bobbing of his Adam’s apple with rapt attention. There was no strong man to be found in that moment, but a wounded and scarred boy, lost in a troubled man’s body. “No one . . .” He cleared his throat. “No one has ever taken care of me before.”
If Maria’s heart had been made of glass, it would have shattered with those sorrowful words. Maria dropped the washcloth and held Raphael’s face. “I will care for you. I will look after you for as long as I am here.” The words were hard to say, but Maria knew the ending of her life was non-negotiable. She had made peace with the gift she would give Raphael. She would show him that he could be loved enough that someone would make the ultimate sacrifice to demonstrate that love. Maria smiled to soothe the confusion on Raphael’s torn face. “Let’s get you to bed.”
Raphael let Maria dry him and lead him into the bed. He threaded his arm around her and laid his head on her naked breast. They were silent, and Maria thought he was asleep. But then, holding her closer, he whispered, “I won’t let you ever leave me.” Seconds later she heard his soft inhales and exhales, feeling his warm breath against her skin.
But Maria couldn’t sleep. She looked over at the coffin. Maria knew it was the Brethren’s fault that Raphael was like this. They had taken the memory of his mother dying and made it part of him, made him need to do the same thing as her killer.
With every minute Maria lay in the bed, holding Raphael, her anger built. They had to be stopped. The church had to be told about the monsters that hid in their parishes. Maria began to shake with the fire their actions inspired. She rolled Raphael to his side so as not to wake him with her ire. She padded across the room to the bathroom and looked at herself in the mirror. And she knew what she had to do. She could only face herself if she helped stop them. If she exposed them to the church and more.
She couldn’t see any more children being hurt.
Slipping into Raphael’s closet, Maria dressed in the sweats, hoodie, and sneakers he had let her wear to the rose garden. She moved to his desk, pulled out a piece of paper and pen, and wrote Raphael a note.
She left it on the desk for him to easily find. Softly so as not to wake him, she pressed a kiss to his cheek, promising, “I will be back, my lord. I promise you, I’ll return to you . . .” Maria fought back tears. “For you.”
Maria crept out of Raphael’s rooms. With every step away from him, her heart grew heavier. It was a veritable magnet; she had to force herself not to go back. Maria understood what God wanted of her. She would die to heal the darkness in Raphael’s soul. What Jesus had done for mankind, she could do for one broken man.
Maria found her way through the house and to the back door. When she exited into the bitterly cold night, she fled across the fields of the estate, following the sounds of a road in the distance.
She ran. She ran as fast as her feet would take her, her lungs burning as they inhaled and exhaled the cold night air. She broke through a gate in a high wall and ran through an enclosed wood until she cleared the trees and found herself at a road. She began to walk, praying someone would come by and stop. She had no idea which direction she was traveling in, but she prayed it was the road back to Boston.
Maria had been walking for what felt like hours when she heard the loud sound of tires and saw the blinding light of a truck. Maria held out her hand, hoping they would stop. The screeching of brakes made her heart leap in her chest.
The truck stopped and the window opened. An elderly truck driver leaned across the passenger seat. “Are you okay, miss?”
Maria wrapped her arms around her chest. Her breath made white puffs of smoke as it hit the frigid air. “Are you by any chance heading into Boston?”
“Yeah,” the driver said. He looked around them at the deserted dark road. “Are you sure you’re okay?”
“Could I catch a ride downtown?”
The driver nodded, and Maria opened the door. As the truck pulled out, she memorized the way back to the mansion. She would never tell a soul where it lay. And as they passed by the thick wood that disguised the manor, she understood why no one ever knew it was there.
The driver made small talk, but Maria gave short, vague answers. She knew where she had to go; she wouldn’t be distracted from her purpose. The sky began to lighten in the distance, a greeting of pinks and reds. By the time the truck pulled to a stop outside the bishop’s residence, morning had broken.
Maria thanked the truck driver and made her way to the door. As she rapped on the wood, all she could think of were the Fallen. And Raphael. Her stomach sank when she thought of him waking and not finding her there. Especially after last night, after how she had seen him so torn apart by his past.
It was because you mentioned Father Murray at dinner. You brought those horrors to his mind.
The door opened, pulling Maria from her guilt. A woman stood on the threshold. “Can I help you?”
“I need to speak to Bishop McGuiness. It’s urgent,” Maria said.
The woman went to shut the door, but Maria held her hand out. “It’s about priests engaging in abusive behavior at Holy Innocents. I am Sister Maria Agnes from Sisters of Our Lady of Grace, and I won’t leave until I’ve been seen.” Maria felt her chest swell with courage, with what was right and just. “Or I can go to the press. I have it on good authority that many journalists will want to hear what I have to say.”
The woman looked around her to check no one was listening, then ushered Maria inside. “Come in and stop with the threats. I’ll speak to the bishop and see what he says.”
Maria entered. The door slammed shut behind her.
“Stay here.” The woman moved out of sight. The confidence Maria had gathered en route waned some. But she stood tall and waited to be seen. Minutes later, the woman reappeared and showed Maria into an office. Maria sat at the desk and waited for the bishop. She thought she would be nervous. Anxious at meeting the important man. But she wasn’t. She was confident and ready to expose the priests who were straying so far from the church’s path.
When the bishop walked in, he was dressed, but he had a tight scowl on his face. He sat down. “Sister,” he said coldly. “If you wanted to speak with me you should have gone through the proper channels.” His eyes darkened. “Not threatened my staff with tabloid stories.”
Maria bristled at his dismissal. At his tone toward her, no doubt because she was a woman.
His gaze roved over her clothes. “If you are a sister, why aren’t you in your
habit?”
“At Holy Innocents Home and School for Children there are abusers among the priests. I know the names of two, but I understand the problem includes many more.” The bishop visibly tensed, eyes widening. Maria kept speaking, needing to purge the information from her soul so she could return to Raphael. “There is a sect hiding among the clergy. A sect that is derived from the Spanish Inquisition.” Maria took a deep breath to stay calm. “They take boys they deem evil to an underground building away from the school.” She sucked in another deep breath. “They hurt them, Your Excellency. They rape them and abuse them sexually, physically, and mentally. They destroy these boys. And they must be stopped.”
The room pulsed with tension. The bishop shook his head. “This can’t be true, sister, you are mistaken—”
“It’s true. And they will be stopped. One way or another.”
Bishop McGuiness sat straighter in his seat. She knew he recognized her words as a threat. “You have names?” he asked.
“Father Quinn leads the Brethren—the group’s name. I know Father Murray is a member too. You can start with them.”
Bishop McGuiness ran his hand down his face. He sighed, and Maria’s heart beat rapidly as she awaited what he would say. The bishop nodded his head. “I’ll look into this.”
Maria exhaled a relieved breath. “Thank you.”
“You look like you need food,” Bishop McGuiness said and rang a bell under his desk. The woman who’d opened the door appeared in the office. “Margaret, see that the sister gets some food.”
Maria smiled, but then asked, “Could I visit your chapel first? It’s . . .” She forced a cordial smile. “It’s been a while since I’ve been in chapel.”
Bishop McGuiness regarded her curiously, but he nodded. Maria got to her feet and went to follow Margaret. When she glanced back at the bishop, his head was tipped back, and he sighed. He appeared to be in great distress. Her heart lit with hope. He had been told. He could put an end to the shameful abuse. Good could now be done.
