The First Sacrament (The Demons of Stone Chapel Book 1)

by Duncan, Lex

  “Almost time for what?” I yawned. Bed. It was almost time for bed.

  “Whatever he was planning for the solstice,” Dante said. He scratched his jaw, looking worried. He was looking worried a lot lately.

  “You okay?” I asked.

  His gaze flickered up to mine for a brief moment before returning to the book. “Yes, I’m fine. I’m…very tired is all. And this book is not what I expected it to be.”

  “What did you expect it to be?”

  “Something useful. It’s useful in that it’s very suspicious that this particular volume would be missing from the set, and that the mayor would request the rest of them not long after I received Henriette’s letter, but…”

  “It’s not the smoking gun,” I said. I heard that in a movie once.

  He nodded. “I still don’t know who sent me Henriette’s letter. I feel…”

  Stop the presses, Dante Arturo was going to tell me about his feelings.

  “I feel like we’re being set up. Played. Like there’s someone pulling the strings behind all of this and I can’t for the life of me figure out who it is.” He sighed. “The mayor is a corrupt man, but I just don’t believe he’s truly the one playing puppet master. There’s got to be someone else.”

  Henriette’s letter remained a mystery, but the mayor proved himself slimy enough to lie about pretty much everything to everyone since the murders began. His task was made easier since the stuff Henriette wrote about had been blacklisted from history books completely. Stone Chapel was obsessed with itself, but only with the nice parts. You couldn’t put on a play for elementary school kids and include the ritual sacrifice at the church. “Okay, Humphrey Bogart, who do you think it is?”

  Candlelight writhed on Dante’s face, shadows soft against the sharp angles of his cheekbones. Reminded me of the first time we meant, only now, a faint note of sadness tinged his voice. “I don’t know.”

  “We’ll figure it out,” I said, hoping to cheer him up a little.

  He nodded. Stared down at the book like it was the stuff secrets were made of. “The entry after it is dated December 7th.”

  “So?”

  “So,” he said, “that’s getting us closer to the winter solstice. The rest of the entries after it have been ripped out.”

  Nothing said look, I’m totally suspicious! like the only pages missing from the book being the ones we actually needed. “You think the mayor has them?”

  “I’d like to think he wouldn’t be that incredibly dense, but I’ve been wrong about him before.” Dante’s shoulders lifted as he drew in a long breath. “I have to make a few phone calls. You may go to bed if you’d like.”

  I had no idea who he’d be calling at four in the morning, but at this point in my exhaustion, I didn’t really care. Bracing myself on the arms of the chair, I got up and was going to walk around it to get to the door, but my foot got caught on one of the legs. I pitched forward, and I would have hit the ground if not for Dante. He hopped up out of his chair and grabbed my arm. Sleep deprivation was one helluva drug.

  “Uh,” I said, embarrassed. I couldn’t get the feeling of how warm his fingers were out of my head. He’d touched me before, but this time it felt different. More intimate. “Thanks.”

  He made sure I was steady before he let me go. He didn’t return to his chair, instead escorting me to the door like the gentleman from 1841 he so expertly emulated. “We’ll talk in the morning.”

  “Sure,” I gave his shoulder a pat. I stood there for a second, smiling tiredly at him, then realized I’d overstayed our goodbyes. “Anyway, um. Goodnight.”

  He managed a smile just for me. Made me feel all warm and fuzzy inside. “Goodnight, Beatrice.”

  I kind of loved it when he said that.

  ***

  Brother Luke came through. I would be allowed to see Rosie on the condition that I'd be accompanied by a security guard at all times and that the visit didn't last for more than an hour. When I got there, I was further instructed to remove any sharp objects from my person.

  Apparently Rosie was in the habit of stabbing people.

  “She got her nurse with a dirty syringe yesterday,” the security guard explained on our way to the maximum security wing. “It was a real mess. Her eyes got all black and she was screechin' like some pissed off cat. Took four guys to strap her down.”

  My stomach soured and a reconstruction of the incident played in my head. Rosie, infected with demonic rage, lashing out at her nurse. Jamming that needle in their arm, her lips spread in a malicious grin. Then came the security guards, struggling to restrain her as she thrashed around.

  The one that was escorting me stopped. “You okay?”

  I blinked the images from my mind and crossed my arms over my chest to stave off the artificial chill. “Yeah, fine. Are we there yet?”

  “129,” he tapped the sign beside the door indicating as such. “Yup, this is the place.”

  “Wonderful,” I said. The sooner we got out of this hallway, the better. Generally, the sanatorium maintained a stuffy, distinctly Victorian look. It was built in 1891 and its age showed in the outdated equipment, the scuffed wooden floors, the dusty paintings. It could be bad for my allergies, sure, but it didn't actively freak me out.

  This place, though...

  The maximum security wing was a long stretch of stark white walls and bolted metal doors. The fluorescent lights overhead kept flickering, unsure if they should stay on or shut off. A rust colored stain streaked the cracked tile a couple of feet from where we were standing and the air tasted stale and bitter, like days old coffee.

  The whole thing brought to mind a prison, not a hospital.

  “Here we go,” the guard said, digging his keys out of his pocket. He picked one out from the dozens that jangled there and unlocked the deadbolt, then lifted the lever above it. It settled in its upright position with a metallic click. He tossed a glance in my direction. “You ready, kid?”

  As ready as I'd ever be. “Yep.”

  At my confirmation, he pulled the door open and recited the rules again. “No touching, no yelling, no sudden movements. Might wanna keep your distance, too. Your friend's a feisty one.”

  I nodded, taking a steadying breath and squaring my shoulders. I hated that I had to prepare myself to see my best friend. Hated that I had to adhere to a set of rules that sounded like they deserved a sign at zoo. Rosie wasn't an animal. She was a person. A possessed person.

  ...A possessed person who stabbed other people with dirty syringes from time to time.

  “Kid?” The guard asked.

  I looked up at him. “Yeah?”

  “You gonna go in?”

  I looked down at my feet. They hadn't moved. “Oh, yeah. Sorry.”

  Summoning my courage like it was some helpful demon, I stepped inside.

  Twenty

  Rosie was strapped to her bed. Her wrists and ankles were fastened to the frame with thick leather strips, her pale blue gown making her skin look translucent in comparison. Her cheeks had sunken in and her eyes weren't brown anymore.

  They were black.

  “Bee,” she said, turning her head to the side. Her hair stuck to her face in sweaty wisps and the many machines she was hooked up to beeped between her labored breaths. “I've missed you. Have you missed me? Tell the truth, you know you're not very good at lying.”

  “Hi, Rosie,” I said. How did you make small talk with your possessed best friend? I was grasping at straws here.

  Since she was unable to move her hand to wave at me, she wiggled her fingers instead. “Hi.”

  The guard stood in the corner next to yet another suspicious red stain. I made an effort not to look at it. Looking at it would only make me think how it got there and the tight feeling in my gut told me I didn't want to know.

  “Aren't you going to sit down?” Rosie asked. Her lips were chapped to the point of bleeding, though they smiled all the same. It wasn't a friendly smile. “You know, make yourself at ho
me? I get so lonely here sometimes.”

  Guilt wedged between that tight feeling. Even before she was moved, I hadn't been visiting as often. Of course she'd call me out on it. “They wouldn't let back here. Brother Luke had to pull some strings and―”

  “Don't make excuses for yourself.” She twisted her wrists around in their straps, the friction eating away at her papery skin. “You've been afraid of me for years. Now that I'm dying, you've found your way out.”

  “That's not true,” I said. I was breaking the first of FaustianSyndrome.Org's Guidelines for Coping With Your Possessed Loved One. Never argue with the demon.

  “It is, Bee,” my name was spit from her mouth like a bullet, “it is. You're just too much of a coward to admit it.”

  Okay, that stung a little. A lot. Should have followed the Guidelines. What was the second one again? Never take anything they say to heart? Oops. “I need to talk to you about your note.”

  “My note?” She batted her eyelashes innocently, kept twisting her wrists. “What note?”

  I glanced at the guard. He was on his cell phone, which I'm almost sure was against sanatorium policy. So I took my chances, leaned toward Rosie in direct violation of his request. “You know exactly which note, Rose. Check underneath the floorboards.”

  “Oh. That one.”

  “Yeah,” I whispered, “that one.”

  She strained against the straps, her back arching off the bed like a cat trying to stretch. “No need to thank me, Bee. I was happy to help.”

  “How did you know we were looking for it and how did you know it was there?”

  “What's it?” She asked, smirking.

  “The book,” I said. I could feel my patience running thin. Demon-Rosie could be so difficult.

  Her smirk grew. “Why are you whispering?”

  The guard looked up from his phone. “Five feet away, kid.”

  “Yes, Bee,” Rosie agreed emphatically, “five feet away. Don't get too close.”

  Sighing, I took a few steps back. “Happy now?”

  “Bouncin' off the walls, kid,” the guard replied. He returned to his phone.

  Rosie drummed her bony fingers along the surface of her mattress. A moment or two passed and she sniffed loudly, blood trickling from her left nostril. I would have been alarmed if not for one of her nurse's prior warning. Rosie got nosebleeds every day now. “I'm bored, Bee. You're boring.”

  “I really need to know about the book,” I said. Dante would be expecting an answer when he got home from the mayor's office. “Please, Rosie. It's important.”

  “Why?” The mischief had gone from her voice and her mouth lost its smirk. Her black eyes stared at me, malice making them hard and flinty. “Trying to impress your boyfriend?”

  I raked my hand through my hair, catching several snags along the way. She was doing the demon thing. Trying to bait me. Make me angry. I wasn't going to let her. Nope. “I don't have a boyfriend and even if I did, we're not discussing him. We're discussing the book, remember?”

  She ran her tongue along her bottom lip to catch the dripping blood. “What about Dante, huh?”

  “The book, Rosie.” A sudden heat surged to my face.

  Her smirk returned. She had me and she knew it. “What was it you said about him? Ohh, he's so hot! I think I love him, Rose! Wait until you meet him!”

  “Hey,” I interjected, letting my temper get the best of me once again. “I never said any of that.”

  Except for the hot part. I definitely said that.

  “Liar, liar, pants on fire,” Rosie clucked her tongue and shook her head like a disapproving mother. “Poor Bee. Always wanting someone she can't have. Remember in the sixth grade―”

  Nothing good ever came after the phrase “remember in the sixth grade.” I had to put a stop to this before she said something really embarrassing. “Rosie. The book. How did you know where it was?”

  She rolled her eyes. “You and that stupid book.”

  “The sooner you tell me, the sooner I'll shut up about it.”

  “Is that a promise, Bee? You aren't very good at keeping your promises.”

  “Cross my heart, hope to die.”

  “Careful what you wish for.”

  We talked ourselves into a stalemate. I wasn't leaving without an answer and she wasn't going to talk. If only because she wanted to piss me off. Gritting my teeth, I utilized one of the anger management techniques my old therapist taught me when my parents first died.

  Take a deep breath, count to ten.

  I'd gotten to six when Rosie so rudely interrupted.

  “Congratulations, Bee, you can count.” Her voice was flat.

  “...Seven, eight...”

  “Careful, you're getting into the really big numbers now. Wouldn't want you to hurt yourself.”

  I never thought I'd think this, but I kind of wanted to punch my best friend in her possessed face right about now, which went to show how effective this technique was. “Nine, ten.”

  Rosie snorted. “Good job, Bee. You did it. I'm really proud of you.”

  “Thanks,” I slapped on a smile. I needed to remember Rosie the way she was before she entered Stage Four. I needed to remember her soft voice, her sweet disposition. I needed to remember her how she'd want to be remembered. I needed to be patient. I was horrible at patience. “The book, please?”

  Her pallid face twisted into something wicked, her smile so large that I could almost count every one of her teeth. “Do you really want to know?”

  “I really, really want to know.”

  “Okay, but do you really, really, real―”

  “Rosie!”

  “Fine, fine,” her bottom lip jutted out in an exaggerated pout. “You don't need to yell.”

  “You guys okay over there?” The guard asked, doing the bare minimum his job required.

  “We're great, officer,” Rosie replied. A ribbon of blood began to trickle out of her other nostril.

  I winced. “Do you want me to get you a tissue? Napkin? Toilet paper?”

  “No,” she sighed, sounding wistful. “I like the way it tastes.”

  Okay, that wasn't gross at all. “What about the book?”

  “Yes, about that book,” she spoke in a way that made me think she'd be tapping her chin with her finger if her hands weren't strapped down. “Have you thought to ask your friend Gershom?”

  “Gershom?” Gershom was a fraud who tried sacrificing an entire group of people on the roof of his now defunct night club. Somehow, his involvement wasn't much of a surprise. “What do you mean?”

  She licked her lips, eyes closing to savor the taste of the blood. Still gross. “Ask him.”

  “Have you guys been talking?” I thought of them sending letters to one another, detailing their lives as both the violently possessed and newly incarcerated. Were they pen pals now? Did they swap demon stories? Why the hell were they talking in the first place?

  “Kind of,” she answered. If being purposely vague was an Olympic sport, she'd have won gold. “It's complicated. You wouldn't understand.”

  “Try me,” I said, adding it's complicated to my list of ways people invented to call me stupid without actually saying it.

  “If I told you, it'd ruin my fun.”

  “No offense, Rosie, but I don't really care about your fun right now.”

  “Of course you don't. You don't care about anything but yourself.”

  And the cycle of insults began anew.

  My phone buzzed in my pocket before I could grace her with a response, providing a welcome distraction. I pulled it out just enough to see the caller ID. Dante Arturo showed up in big white letters on the screen.

  Rosie made a show out of trying to see it. “Who's that, I wonder? Your not-boyfriend?”

  Why were possessed people so fixated on my nonexistent love life? I ignored the call and shoved my phone back into place. “It's no one.”

  Her black eyes gleamed. “Liar.”

  “Yeah, you already
said that.”

  She was giving me a headache. Rosie wasn't supposed to give me headaches. She was supposed to be my best friend. I'd held out hope before I got here that Brother Luke was wrong. That the old Rosie was still in there somewhere. This visit took that hope and smashed it to pieces on the grimy floor.

  Rosemary Barrett was gone. The sooner I accepted that, the easier her death would be. Not that death was easy. It never was.

  “Why the long face, Bee?” Her question oozed false concern, rubbing salt in my already aching wounds. “Mad because you aren't getting your way?”

  I blew out a breath. “If you aren't going to help me, I'd better go. I have homework to do.”

  “Since when do you do your homework?”

  Since Max helped me with most of it. “Since now.”

  “Whatever, I know you're lying anyway. You aren't leaving to do homework. You're leaving because I scare you.”

  “You don't scare me, Rosie.”

  “Another lie. Don't you remember where liars go?”

  A memory of the orphanage crackled to life in my head like an old projection. It featured a black and white frame of Sister Joan, one of the orphanage's many caregivers, reprimanding me after she caught me stealing from the kitchen. She was the youngest nun there and had a lot to prove, so she took it upon herself to “correct” me whenever she felt the need. These corrections usually involved a lecture on the sin of lying.

  Though the exact words changed with whatever crime I'd committed, one line remained constant. So constant that I could hear her voice in my ear as I repeated it. “Liars go straight to hell, Rosie. I remember.”

  She grinned her Cheshire grin. “That's right, Bee. You're going to burn in hell forever and ever.”

  “Tell me something I don't know,” I zipped my coat up and pulled my beanie over my ears. It hadn't stopped raining since last night and the temperatures were set to be lower than average for the next week. I had to borrow the proper headgear from Max. “Like I said, homework to do. I'll see you later, Rosie. Or whenever they let me back in.”

  She coughed, her thin body rattling like a bag of bones. Unless they'd changed her dosing schedule, it was almost time for her medicine. “Don't bother. I'll be dead soon. Not that you care.”