Nestled on Stark Road between two abandoned businesses sat Zandia Orphanage. An unusual commotion could be heard from the streets. Cheering and laughter grew louder by the moment, in stark contrast to the building’s surroundings. Inside, a group of neighborhood residents sipped on cheap champagne and munched on crudités.
Sebastian Blood loosened his tie before he reached for two plastic cups.
“Thank you for coming, Dr. Vaca,” he said, handing the doctor his drink. Sebastian’s chocolate-brown hair was slicked back as he showed off his smile.
“Of course, Sebastian,” Vaca said. “Becoming the new Alderman for the Glades certainly warrants a celebration.”
“Well, I couldn’t have done it without tireless support—it’s meant a great deal to me,” Blood said, clinking his glass with the doctor’s. He took a sip of his drink, letting the bubbles tickle his throat.
“It’s the least I can do, Sebastian. After all, you’ve been in my corner many times, a genuine friend to the Rebecca Merlyn Clinic. I look forward to your work as alderman, and have high hopes that you’ll bring new awareness to the clinic… and more importantly, to the Glades.” Dr. Vaca peered over Sebastian’s shoulder, and waved his arm to indicate a pair of newcomers. “You remember the Gomez family, don’t you? They were at your rally three weeks ago.”
Sebastian extended his hand. “Hello again, Mr. and Mrs. Gomez, thank you so much for coming to our little soirée.”
Although cheerful, Richard and Amelia Gomez looked tired, as well. Amelia’s makeup was thick under her eyes to hide the dark circles that lurked there.
“We just both wanted to personally thank you for all the attention you’ve brought to the clinic during your campaign, Mr. Blood,” she said. “When our son Bobby was diagnosed with cancer, we didn’t know what to do. There was no way our insurance company would help us, yet the thought of our boy not getting treatment because we couldn’t afford it, well, it was… heartbreaking.”
“And how is he doing?” Blood asked.
“He’s in remission,” Richard Gomez replied, and he beamed. “That wouldn’t be the case if it wasn’t for the clinic and Dr. Vaca.”
“I’m so glad to hear it,” Sebastian said sincerely. “I hope now as Alderman of the Glades I can continue to help families just like yours. If I have my way, the Merlyn Clinic will thrive for years to come.”
Suddenly he jumped a bit as he felt a strong hand gripping his shoulder from behind. Sebastian turned to see his longtime friend, Cyrus Gold, standing there.
“Congratulations, old friend,” Cyrus said, throwing his arms around Sebastian. “I couldn’t be more proud of you.”
“Thank you, Cyrus,” Blood said, embracing his friend tightly. To the others he said, “Please allow me to introduce one of my dearest friends, pastor Cyrus Gold of the orphanage’s sister church.”
“It is a pleasure to meet you all,” Cyrus said, “and what a joyous occasion, celebrating our new leader, Alderman Blood.” He vigorously shook hands with each person in the group.
“What parish do you belong to?” Mrs. Gomez inquired.
“I am with St. Pancras parish,” Cyrus said. “St. Pancras is the patron saint of children, martyred as a teenager because he refused to sacrifice his faith. A true conviction for what he believed in—it only seemed fitting to name our parish after him. My mentor, Father Trigon, sadly passed away a few months ago. He believed that no child should suffer or be forgotten, and that’s what led us to partner with Zandia Orphanage.”
“It must be so rewarding for you to see all the children of the Glades find a place to call home,” Mr. Gomez said, but it was Sebastian who replied.
“It’s a beautiful thing that Cyrus and Father Trigon have done for these young men and women,” he said. “Without them, they would have been lost, roaming the streets, getting into who knows what sorts of trouble—but here, they have someone to care for them, and make sure they are safe. I have to say that I’m in awe of what Zandia has done for the children of the Glades.”
He raised his cup to Cyrus and, smiling, toasted his longtime friend.
2
FIFTEEN YEARS AGO
Father Trigon sat in his office in Zandia Orphanage, his glasses perched on the edge of his nose while he pored over paperwork. His hair was black with a few white ones starting to sprout around his ears, and his eyes were tired from too many hours spent with exhausting children. He rubbed his forehead, and looked up when there was a knock at the door.
Cyrus Gold entered his office.
“Sorry to disturb you, Father,” the gangly teenager said meekly.
“Not at all, my child, please come in,” Father Trigon said as Cyrus skittishly took a seat across from him. “What can I do for you?”
Cyrus paused for a second, and avoided making eye contact. Father Trigon saw the struggle on the young man’s face, and reached his hand across the table, grasping him reassuringly.
“You can tell me anything, my boy,” he said. “You are in a safe place.”
“I found a boy last night,” Cyrus blurted out. “He was out wandering the streets alone. He looked lost so I asked him where his home was, but he didn’t answer me. I could tell he’d been crying, and his face was bleeding as if he had been in a fight, but still he wouldn’t speak. I couldn’t leave him alone there—who knows what could have happened to him if he was left in the Glades.
“So… I snuck him in last night,” Cyrus confessed.
Father Trigon removed his glasses. “I see. Where is the boy now?”
“He’s sitting outside your office,” Cyrus said.
“And have you been able to get the boy’s name?”
“No,” Cyrus admitted. “I don’t know what his name is, or where he came from, or if he has a home. He still hasn’t spoken.” Cyrus choked back tears.
“My son, you did a good deed, even though rules were broken,” Father Trigon said. “Your intentions and your heart remain in the right place. Why don’t you bring in your new friend, and we can all have a chat.”
Cyrus rose from his chair and slipped out through the door. The priest could hear him speaking, and finally he entered with a very scared, frail little boy. He was very small, and skinny—looked as if he hadn’t eaten a hearty meal in weeks. He had a few bloody scratches on his right cheek and a bump on his forehead. His clothes were worn and too small. Cyrus guided him into a chair, and sat next to him.
Father Trigon smiled at the boy.
“Hello, my name is Roger Trigon—what’s yours?”
The boy did not answer.
“You don’t have to be afraid, my child. Here at Zandia you are free from danger, and in a place of love and worship. No one is here to hurt you.” The boy remained silent. Father looked to Cyrus for a moment, and then tried again.
“Do you know where your mom and dad are? They must be worried about you.” The boy furrowed his eyebrows at the mention of his parents. Father Trigon realized he might be getting somewhere and continued, “Did you run away from your parents? Parents may not always be easy to get along with, but parents are God’s teachers to show their children the righteous way.”
“Not my parents,” the boy croaked out.
“What do you mean, my son?” Father Trigon leaned closer. “Tell me what happened.”
“No one is around, ever,” the child said, and he began to cry. “There is always darkness wherever I go. I’m always so afraid. I lie awake listening to the footsteps getting closer to my bedroom door—afraid of what my father may do to me when he comes home drunk and upset. Even when I do sleep I hear the footsteps still… getting closer to me.
“But they aren’t my father’s,” he continued. “It’s the man in black—the one with a skull for a face. His teeth are jagged and sharp and just when he gets close enough I always wake up. I cry out, but my mother doesn’t come to comfort me. I’m alone.”
Cyrus and Father Trigon listened intently.
“How did you end up on the streets?”
the priest asked.
“I woke up to tell my parents again about the man in black, but my father beat me, saying I shouldn’t make up stories. My mother was too busy to care about anything, especially me.” The boy cried, wiping his snot and tears on his sleeve. “Please, don’t make me go back! I can’t go back there!” he shouted as he started to cry harder.
Father Trigon rose from his seat as his heart broke for the pain this child had endured. He wrapped his arms around the boy, holding the back of his head tightly to his chest. The frail body shook as he wept, the sobs going deeper and deeper.
“You are safe here, my son,” the priest said, “and I will never make you leave, I promise. Soon, you’ll stop being afraid, or haunted by your dreams. I will see to that.” He released his grasp on the boy and bent down to face him, wiping the tears away from his puffy red eyes, still wide with fear.
“What is your name, my boy?” Father Trigon asked.
“Sebastian,” the boy said. “Sebastian Blood.”
* * *
The outside of the house was worn, the paneling covered with gray chipped paint. Trees and bushes had become overgrown in the yard, while mildew and moss covered the foundation. Young Sebastian Blood walked slowly up his gravel driveway, returning home late at night after a week away. He arrived at his front door, frozen in fear, not knowing what beating lay ahead of him.
He entered to find his mother passed out cold on the couch with the television still on, blaring an infomercial. There were old takeout containers scattered on the coffee table next to a stash of pills and empty beer bottles.
Sebastian continued down the hall to find his father bending over in the door to the fridge. His gun sat on the kitchen table next to an empty beer bottle. Sebastian kept his eye on it, knowing that his father was probably wasted, and afraid of what he might do.
Suddenly, his father noticed him.
“Where have you been, you little punk?”
Sebastian remained silent.
“I asked you a question, you little shit,” his father said, his voice getting louder. “Where have you been?” When Sebastian turned to walk away, the man reached for his gun with a speed belying his condition, and pressed it to Sebastian’s head.
Sebastian closed his eyes tightly, feeling the cold metal on the back of his skull. Still he remained silent, sweating in anticipation, waiting for the bullet to pierce his brain.
WHAM!
The back door swung open as two dark figures kicked through it and entered the house. The newcomers were both dressed in black, head to toe. One of them wore a mask of the devil. It looked like bone, obscuring the face so only the eyes could be seen, and the horns that crowned it were long and twisted.
The other figure had the face of an acolyte—all white, but with black, dead eyes. The devil and the acolyte pulled Sebastian’s father away, hitting him behind his knees and sending him to the ground. They grabbed his head and banged it repeatedly against the kitchen table until blood started to pour from his mouth and nose. With each impact Sebastian cringed.
Sebastian’s mother, Maya, ran into the room and screamed at the sight of the violence. Her eyes sat deep in the sockets of her gaunt face, while her black shoulder-length hair was in disarray. She begged for the devil and the acolyte to stop, and they let Sebastian’s father go. The pudgy form crumpled to the floor, barely conscious, blood mixing with sweat and other stains on his dirty white T-shirt.
“Sebastian, call the police,” he mumbled, spitting out blood, but Sebastian stood frozen, unable to move. He found himself almost glad to see his father in such pain—the very pain he handed out to his son, all too often—and the thought made him ashamed.
The devil and acolyte turned their attention to Maya, and Sebastian’s emotions shifted to fear. The acolyte twisted her arm behind her back.
“Let go of me!” she screamed. “Sebastian, help me!”
The devil began to cackle. The mask muffled his voice.
“What irony! You beg for help from a son who has received no help from his parents. God himself said there is nothing like the love of a mother and father, yet here you are, having shown this boy neither love nor compassion.”
The acolyte went over to Sebastian’s father and picked him up off the floor. His face was swollen and already bruising. He tried to fight off his attacker, but he was too weak to put up a struggle, and quickly fell back onto the tiles. The devil picked up the pistol, opened it, and saw the bullets loaded inside.
“Please! Don’t kill us!” Maya screamed. “Don’t kill my son! He’s just a boy!”
The devil moved to Sebastian and knelt down before him. He offered him the gun.
“Are you worthy of delivering retribution?” he said. “Thou shall not let one deceive them with empty words, for the wrath of God comes upon the sinners of disobedience and negligence.” He raised the weapon to Sebastian, whose eyes widened. He looked at the man dressed as the devil, and wondered whether he should listen to him.
This was his opportunity to get revenge—revenge for the times that his father had ignored him and pushed him aside like a dirty old shoe. For the beatings he had endured, and those given to his mother, as well. He reached his hand out, his fingertips touching the barrel of the gun, then he grasped it with purpose.
“Sebastian, don’t listen to them!” Maya screamed. “We love you! We’ve always loved you. Your father and I will be better. We will get better, I promise.”
Sebastian turned to his father, expecting… wanting him to beg for his life, as well.
“You don’t have it in you to kill anyone, you little bastard,” he sneered through ruined teeth. “You’re not strong enough—you’re a weak little boy.”
Sebastian lifted the pistol, shut his eyes, and pulled the trigger, shooting his father in his abdomen twice. He was knocked back, and when he looked a sea of red blood flowed out of the gunshot wounds, quickly soaking through his father’s shirt as his eyes rolled back in his head.
His mother was shrieking incoherently, and when Sebastian turned the gun toward her, she begged him to spare her, the words tumbling out between gasping sobs.
“Please, Sebastian, I love you!”
Sebastian’s fury burned deep into his soul, and he felt more alive than he ever had before. He steadied himself to pull the trigger, when without warning the devil stepped in front of the pistol. He slowly placed his hands on the weapon, guiding it to the table and removing Sebastian’s hands from it.
“Spare her, boy,” he said. “As a mother, the giver of life, the greatest torture is hers to bear—knowing that death is too easy an option for her to escape what she has done, and how she has treated a gift from God.”
Sebastian stared at her with nothing but true hatred. The devil put his arm around the boy and led him out the door into the black night.
* * *
The devil and the acolyte took Sebastian to an abandoned factory in the Glades. He felt the fire running through his veins, still on a high from the feeling of revenge. There was no sense of remorse or regret for what he had done; in fact, he felt at peace with his choice.
They led him down into the basement of the decrepit building. It was cold and wet and smelled like mothballs, and he was taken aback when he saw a group of boys and men sitting in makeshift pews. The devil offered Sebastian a seat in one of the pews. Confused, unsure of what was happening, Sebastian sat down as the devil stepped to the front of the congregation.
“Tonight is a joyous night,” he announced. “Tonight is the night that we celebrate maintaining a strong, protected united front.” The group clapped and cheered in their seats. Sebastian slowly put his hands together, wondering if he had made a mistake.
“We have a guest of honor tonight,” the acolyte announced. “My friends, please meet Sebastian Blood.”
Sebastian felt every set of eyes turn to him as he sank a little lower in his pew. His adrenaline rush now diminished, he began to grow frightened at the situation he’d got himself
into, and he felt himself start to sweat.
“Sebastian, meet Brother Langford,” the devil said, and a man rose and went to the front of the room to join him. The devil placed his hands on Brother Langford’s shoulders. “Brother Langford is here to help guide you on this new journey. And meet Brother Daily,” he said as a teenager rose from his seat, and moved to the front of the room. He linked arms with Brother Langford, and next, the devil introduced Brother Clinton Hogue, another young teenager. Brother Hogue linked arms with Brother Daily.
“Brother Daily and Brother Hogue were much like you, Sebastian. They were young boys, underappreciated and forgotten by the world… until they found us. Together we join forces. Together no one will ever be forgotten.” As he spoke the devil and the acolyte linked arms with the rest of the group, then they finally removed their masks.
It was Father Trigon and Cyrus Gold.
He had suspected as much, but it still shocked him.
“Sebastian, you are part of the brotherhood now. We live to protect our brothers of the city. We started this group to protect the young and the orphans of Zandia.” He waved his hand around to indicate everyone in the room. “You will no longer be alone. Each life that has and will be taken for this cause is a sacrifice for the greater good.” Father Trigon reached for a bag and pulled something out as he motioned for Sebastian to come join them at the front.
The boy stood and approached the rest of the group. Father Trigon presented Sebastian with a skull mask, the one from his dream—the teeth long and jagged, just as Sebastian had described. Horns ran down the jaw line and curled upward like tusks.
“From here on out, Brother Blood, the terror you once felt will no longer haunt your dreams. Here on out—you shall not live in fear, but live in the power that your mask possesses, and strive to keep the brotherhood alive, helping those who need it most.”
Sebastian looked down at the mask, no longer doubting, and no longer feeling the fear he once did. He knew that Father Trigon was right. He knew that his parents deserved what they got, and that this brotherhood was where he belonged. This was his new family, the only family he would need. Sebastian reached out, taking the mask. He took a deep breath and placed it over his face.
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