Raphael

by Tillie Cole

  Maria followed Margaret down a long hallway, and they came to a stop at the end. “The chapel,” Margaret said. “When you’re done, the kitchen is the third door on the left back that way.” She pointed down another hallway. “There’ll be food waiting for you.”

  “Thank you.” Maria pushed the door open and stepped inside the chapel. The familiar and comforting smell of wood seeped into her senses and calmed her nerves.

  Maria walked down the short aisle, past three sets of pews, and stopped at the altar. She dropped to her knees and stared up at Jesus on the cross above her. She exhaled a long breath. “My savior, I hope you understand why I have done what I have. I hope you understand that I couldn’t let him be hurt anymore.” Maria smiled. “I know you do. I know it’s what you would have done. You were the most compassionate man to have ever lived.” Maria closed her eyes and laid her hand over her heart. “And like you, I have chosen a difficult path.” She laughed a mirthless laugh. “Or, I believe you chose it for me.” Maria opened her eyes and looked Mary’s statue. “He deserves forgiveness for what he has done. They all do,” she said, picturing each of the Fallen’s haunted eyes. Gabriel most of all, the good man broken by the burden of his duty to his brothers. “Men are sinning and doing evil acts in your name. Using their power and positions to hurt young boys.” She sighed. “I have broken my vows. I have abandoned my vow of chastity. But I cannot feel regret.” Maria tried to feel guilt, feel shame at what she had done. But none came. “Taking Raphael into my body was my ministry. Caring for the sinner was my prayer.” Maria’s body filled with warmth and love, such strong, passionate love. “And loving him . . . loving him was both his and my salvation.”

  “Whore.”

  Maria froze as she heard the angry slight spat from behind her. She jumped to her feet and spun around. Father Murray was in the center of the aisle. There was darkness in his eyes that seemed to shine like the North Star. His brown hair was wet. It was early; Maria assumed he had just come from the shower.

  Father Murray’s eyes ran over her clothes. His jaw clenched. “We believed you dead.” He stepped closer to Maria. Maria tried to back away, but there was nowhere for her to go. Fear ignited in her stomach and began to disperse through her limbs. “When he took you, when you never returned, we all assumed he had finally gotten his greatest wish.” He gestured to her long hair.

  Gabriel was right. They knew about Raphael’s obsession with long hair.

  Maria’s hands shook at her sides, but she tried in earnest to keep calm. “I know what you did.” She moved to a pew, putting the wooden seat between him and her. “I know about the Brethren. I know what you do to young boys.” Maria’s gaze became steel as she said, “I know what you did to Raphael. I know how you tortured him. How you abused him.” Maria let her anger take hold. She lifted her chin. “How you raped him over and over, trying to make him repent, to bring him to heel, to bend him to your will.” Father Murray’s face grew red, and he practically vibrated with hate, with fury, and, if the look in his eyes spoke the truth, with the wish for Maria’s slow death.

  “You’re caught.” Maria moved along the pews toward the door. Father Murray mirrored her steps and moved swiftly down the aisle. “I’ve already told the bishop of you and your unholy sect.”

  Movement by the door caught Maria’s attention. Relief filled her when Bishop McGuiness stepped through. Her panic dissipated, until Father Quinn walked in behind him. Maria froze on the spot. She met Bishop McGuiness’s eyes and felt a chill reach down to her bones. “No,” she whispered.

  “Father Murray,” Father Quinn said. “Take her.”

  “No,” Maria said again and looked to Bishop McGuiness. “You too?”

  “You have no idea how far our reach goes, Sister Maria,” Father Quinn said. Maria’s eyes filled with angry tears. Father Murray, taking advantage of her distraction, moved behind her and covered her mouth with his hand. Maria fought and fought, her screams muted under Father Murray’s gag. She kicked and thrashed, but Father Murray was depriving her of breath. She grew dizzy, but even though her vision blurred, she never took her gaze off Father Quinn and the bishop.

  She had been so naïve. She’d had faith in her church. She’d believed that the Brethren was isolated to Holy Innocents.

  They were going to kill her.

  They couldn’t let their secret out into the world. And Raphael believed that she would return. In her letter, she had made him a solemn promise. A promise he would believe she had broken.

  Another person to fail him.

  I’m sorry, she thought as black spots began to smother her eyes. I’m sorry, she thought as her body grew weak and her legs gave way. I’m sorry, she thought as she sank into darkness. I’m so sorry . . . my lord . . .

  *****

  Maria’s eyes fluttered open. Confused, it took her a while to gather her bearings. The room was dully lit, candles and a roaring fire its only light. The air was stuffy, and her skin was clammy.

  As the rest of the room came into view, Maria stilled as her eyes drank in what lay before her. Devices and apparatus that she had only ever seen in history books. Instruments of torture. Racks, chains suspended from the ceiling, wooden wheels with metal spikes. Whips and shackles and scourges . . . She began to flail, but her arms and legs were tied down. She realized she was naked, her body completely stripped of clothes.

  Panic surged through her veins. She pulled and pulled at her restraints, but they didn’t move. Tears filled Maria’s eyes as she searched the room. She recalled Gabriel’s explanation of Purgatory, of the torture room where they were taken each day.

  “No,” she whispered, knowing that was exactly where she was. The underground building that no one but the Brethren knew of. Maria glanced down and saw she was on a wooden table.

  She had barely taken in a breath when a door opened. Her stomach flipped in dread. Father Murray was heading toward her. When his brown gaze clashed with hers, his nose flared and a dark smirk etched on his lips.

  “Sister Maria.” He came to a stop beside her. His eyes dropped to rove along her body. He lifted his hand, and Maria yanked on her restraints. When his hand landed on her ankle, she captured the sob that threatened to spill from her mouth. Her skin turned from clammy to ice cold at his rough, unwanted touch. “When we decided to send you on the mission . . .” Father Murray’s hand tracked up her leg. “When I saw your hair, when we learned of your past. Of William Bridge, of him killing your family and taking you captive . . .” He shook his head. “We thought you’d understand our mission from God. We thought you’d understand that we need men like Raphael and the rest off the streets.”

  Maria’s skin prickled. His fingertips danced up her thigh and to her hips. She wanted to push his repulsive touch from her skin. Cleanse herself of his abusive poison.

  Maria stilled when his hand reached her breast and began to circle her nipple. Father Murray shook his head again. “But, like the slut you are, that all women are, you fell for his lustful and sinful ways.” He squeezed Maria’s nipple so hard that she cried out, pain slicing across her chest. As quick as he had brought the pain, he released her nipple, smoothing it with his palm. “All you had to do was tell us where he was. Keep him in your company long enough so we could retrieve him.”

  Maria watched him. She stared at his dark eyes and messy hair. But more than that, she focused on his face. On the expression of evil that he had only now bared, in this room of torture. Maria saw the anger in his eyes, saw his fury at her betrayal in the tensing of his jaw and the thinness of his lips. His hand traveled south. A lump filled Maria’s throat as his wandering fingers headed between her legs.

  “You weren’t meant to take his side, Sister Maria. You weren’t meant to know of our brotherhood and try to have us stopped.” Father Murray’s hand paused on her inner thigh. Her legs were spread apart by the ankle cuffs; there was nothing she could do. Father Murray dropped his hand and cupped Maria’s core. She cried out when hurtful fingers dug
in, pain flashing through her legs. He twisted her clitoris, and tears fell down Maria’s face as he pushed a finger inside her. He hurt her. As he plunged his finger in and out, her body went from pained to steadily numb. Her tears dried. Her body went limp and she stopped fighting.

  Maria stared at the ceiling and thought of Raphael. She pictured the manor in her head, and the men gathered around the table, talking and smiling. She didn’t resent them for the life they lived. After just a few minutes in this room, she understood how year after year of torture would affect their childish minds, send them to a place of constant evil and darkness. Make them devoid of good, make them want to hurt people in the way they had been hurt.

  They had been conditioned to hate humanity. And with the Brethren as their example, who could blame them?

  Father Murray’s fingers slipped from inside her. Maria barely noticed; she had mentally taken herself away from the assault. But the priest moved into her line of sight and, yanking her head to face him, made her watch as he sucked on his fingers, tasting her on his tongue. She was unable to stop him as he gripped her face, forced her mouth open, and pushed his fingers into her mouth. “Taste yourself,” he hissed. “You taste like a whore, an easily swayed woman. A daughter of Eve, tempted once again by the devil.”

  Maria’s eyes watered at the invasion, but she didn’t struggle. She could see the disappointment in Father Murray’s eyes at her lack of fight. Pulling his fingers from her mouth, he smiled coldly. He turned and picked something off a nearby table. He walked to the fire, and Maria watched as the orange and red flames danced over his clothes, showcasing a priest riddled with evil.

  But any defiant strength she had gathered waned when he turned. In his hand was a brand—an upturned cross . . . like the one Raphael had on his chest, like all of the Fallen had on their chests. Father Murray closed in. The brand was orange as it fed on the heat of the fire. Maria tried to hold herself still, to brace for the oncoming pain. But she wasn’t strong enough for that. She tested the restraints, but it was useless. Father Murray brought the boiling-hot brand over her chest. “You are evil, Sister Maria. You have fallen from the cause.” As the brand lowered, as the scalding metal melted against her chest, an excruciating pain, the like of which Maria had never felt in her life, seemed to burn her alive. She fought to hold on to consciousness. She needed to fight for Raphael. “If you like the Fallen so much,” she heard Father Murray’s voice say in the distance, “then you will be treated the same way.”

  Maria blacked out. She slipped in and out of consciousness, unable to keep awake for long enough to try to escape. When her eyes finally opened for more than a few minutes, she was engulfed in darkness. Panicked and feverish with pain, she reached out her hands. All she was met with was a hard, unyielding ceiling. Her legs parted, and her ankles met narrow sides. “No,” she croaked, her voice stolen with the paralyzing quicksand of fear. “No! Help! Please!”

  A coffin. Maria was back in a dark coffin. A metal coffin with only tiny holes for her to breathe.

  The racking pain coming from the brand on her chest diminished her ability to fight, and as she was quickly dragged back under, losing consciousness, all she thought of was Raphael. How he would never know how much she wished she could return to him. Because to die under the Brethren’s hands was the very worst kind of death.

  She knew Raphael’s would have been beautiful. The perfect way to go.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Raphael raced down the stairs faster than he’d ever run before. His heart was pounding in his chest, which was pulled tight. So tight he could hardly breathe. Reaching Gabriel’s door, he shouldered into the room. Gabriel and John Miller looked up from the desk. “We have to go get her,” Raphael snarled, the anger that was building in him threatening to take control.

  Gabriel got to his feet. “What? What’s wrong?”

  “She left. She fucking left!” Raphael slammed Maria’s letter down on the desk. He had woken up to find her gone. The enraged feelings that had swept over him were foreign to him. He didn’t know how to handle them. Pain and rage. That was all he was made of in that moment. He hadn’t even bothered to dress; he’d just ripped through his doors and stormed into Gabriel’s office, needing only Maria, needing to find Maria. He didn’t give a fuck about modesty. His rose was gone.

  Gabriel’s eyes scanned the letter. Raphael paced the room. Miller was watching him; he could feel it. But he didn’t care. He needed Maria back. His mind raced to the previous night. He had told her she would never leave him ever. Her in the coffin . . . in the bath . . . in his arms . . .

  He squeezed his eyes shut and saw each word of her handwritten letter in his head.

  Raphael,

  I will return to you. I want to say that first. I am not running away. I have gone to inform the bishop about the Brethren. As a novitiate sister of the Catholic Church I cannot have their atrocities on my conscience. The right people need to be told so they can be stopped.

  I have seen what they have done to you and your brothers. No one should have to endure what you seven have—especially not innocent children.

  When you read this I will hopefully be with the bishop. I will return to you as soon as I can. I will memorize my way back to the manor. I will not tell anyone where you live or anything about your way of life. You have my word.

  Always,

  Your Little Rose.

  Gabriel placed the letter on the desk and ran his hand down his face. “What was she thinking?” He sank into his chair. Miller read the letter.

  “We’re going to get her,” Raphael said. “We’re going to Boston and we’re bringing her back here.” He was fire lit from within. A burning effigy of rage.

  “Let me make some calls. We’ll find out if she made it to the bishop’s residence.” Gabriel picked up his phone.

  Raphael burst from the office and went to dress. He threw on sweats and a shirt. When he came back down, his brothers were in the dining room. “What’s happening?” Uriel asked.

  “She went to tell the bishop about the Brethren.” Raphael poured himself a strong black coffee. He drank it like a parched man drinking water, ignoring the scalding of his throat as he drank the caffeine down.

  His hands shook. He launched the mug against the wall, the china shattering on impact. Raphael paced the floor. But with every step, he grew more and more agitated. Something was wrong. He knew something was wrong.

  “Have you told Gabriel?” Diel asked. His neck cricked from side to side under his heavy collar.

  “He’s finding out where she is.”

  The room plunged into silence, until, “You told her?” Raphael stilled and looked up. Sela was watching him. “You told her what they did to us? The Brethren?”

  Raphael opened his mouth.

  “I did.” Gabriel entered the room. “I told her what they had done to me. I didn’t say anything about you six.” Raphael stared at the floor. She knew. She knew what Father Murray had done to him. The scars, being pinned down . . . why he needed pain.

  He struggled to breathe.

  She knew, and she hadn’t turned him away. She hadn’t been repulsed. She’d held him, kissed him . . . let him inside her.

  He was lost to his heavy, racing thoughts when Gabriel stopped in front of him. Raphael raised his head.

  “I got copies of the security camera footage from Bishop McGuiness’s house.” Gabriel turned and headed back to his office. Raphael followed, as did his brothers.

  Miller was beside Gabriel’s large computer screen. His face was pale. He turned the screen and pressed play. Raphael’s body was stone as he saw Maria, dressed in his clothes, enter the bishop’s home. Then there was nothing . . . until two familiar men walked through the gate.

  “Father Murray,” Diel growled.

  “Father Quinn,” Michael echoed.

  Raphael’s heart thumped as he watched the screen. The van the priests had arrived in moved. “Where is she?” Raphael snarled, focusing on the screen.
The screen switched to another camera.

  “These cameras are protected. Someone had paid off the city to turn a blind eye to anything that happens there. Luckily we have people who can hack into anything,” Miller said, and the screen came to life. It showed the back of the bishop’s home. Nothing happened for several minutes, until the back door opened and Father Murray walked out, something in his hands. No, not something. “Maria,” Raphael snarled on seeing her in that cunt’s arms. Maria, his Maria, unconscious, being taken by the man who had made his life a living hell for so many years.

  Raphael couldn’t stand it. He couldn’t stand the blood rushing through his veins, making his muscles ache. He couldn’t stand the tightness of his breath or the inability to fucking breathe. His hands rolled into fists, but they were shaking as he watched footage of the van moving through downtown Boston, all the way to—

  “Holy Innocents,” Bara said, and the tension in the room thickened.

  “Purgatory,” Uriel added. “They’ve taken her to Purgatory.”

  Raphael stood back and let the rage of seeing Maria unconscious, of seeing that cunt holding her and taking her to Purgatory, devour him, consuming every cell in his body until he burned like the depths of hell. Releasing a roar, he threw the screen off the desk, but the shattering of it against the wall did nothing to calm him down. He ransacked the office while his brothers stayed quiet.

  They had Maria. They fucking had Maria! His Maria!

  Sela stood in front of him, blocking his path. “Calm down, Raphe.”

  “I can’t,” he snarled. His body was too pumped full of fury for him to calm. “They have her.” Raphael looked at Gabriel, who was watching him closely. “We’re getting her back.” Raphael hit his chest. “We’re fucking getting her back.” His voice dropped dangerously low. “And I’m killing Father Murray. Finally, I’m gonna kill that cunt for taking Maria from me. For touching a hair on her head.”

  Gabriel held out his hands. “We have contacts who can go in and get her—”