Passionaries (The Blessed)

by Tonya Hurley

  “I can’t explain. Something that belongs to us has been taken. And we need to get it back.”

  “Maybe I can help?”

  “No,” she said, tearing up. “We have to do it ourselves.”

  He dried the tear falling down her cheek and she smiled. “Agnes, you know how I feel about you.”

  She nodded. “I know. But . . .”

  “But you love someone else.”

  “I do.”

  He leaned in. “Can a dead guy do this?” Finn whispered, bringing his lips close to hers.

  Agnes slid back. Warily. “Finn, please. Don’t. That’s not why I asked you to come over.”

  She felt a violent tug at her long mane. Suddenly, everything changed in the room and in Finn’s demeanor. He became aggressive. Even his voice deepened. Just like in her dream.

  “Isn’t it?” he said angrily, grabbing a fistful of hair in a drug-fueled attack.

  He pulled her back down to the bed and maneuvered himself on top of her, grinding his pelvis into hers, ripping her shirt open.

  “Stop it, Finn,” she shouted at him. “I said STOP!”

  She smacked his face and he recoiled. The kindness she’d seen in his eyes disappeared, replaced by a manic, determined, and conscienceless expression. One Dr. Frey would approve of.

  “Invite a guy over. Into your bedroom. I know exactly what you are,” he said, reaching for the button on her jeans. “You’re no saint. You’re a tease, bitch.”

  “Don’t—” she started to say, scratching at his face.

  “You won’t be a virgin when I’m done with you.”

  “Don’t make me hurt you.” She reached for a fountain pen on her night table, the one she used to write her childhood journals, and brought the point to his throat, his carotid artery, and pushed inward. He felt the sharp metal edge cut through the top layer of his skin, poised to sever the vessel, a drop of blood beginning to run down his neck. He stopped and moved back. She moved forward, the pen still pressed against him, until he was off her and had backed away. “I was an idiot to trust you.”

  “You were,” he said.

  She picked up her phone.

  “Get your sorry ass out of here now, or I’ll call the police, if I don’t kill you first.”

  “Ready?” Lucy asked.

  “Yeah,” Cecilia answered bravely.

  “Where’s Agnes?”

  “I don’t know, but we can’t wait,” Cecilia said. “She knows where to find us.”

  They approached Born Again cautiously, as if it were an enemy compound, ready for the battle of their lives. For their lives. Cecilia turned the knob and found the door open. Her palms were burning. A bad sign.

  It was quiet and dark without a sign of life inside, only a barely audible moan coming from somewhere upstairs.

  Cecilia brought her finger to her lips before Lucy could speak, and led her to the staircase. They walked up quietly. CeCe stopping at the first door and Lucy signaling she would check the second. Lucy moved slowly down the hallway, leaning against the wall for support and guidance through the darkened space until her progress was impeded by something. She gasped, but didn’t cry out. It felt like a statue, life-size but immobile. She reached for her phone and swiped it on.

  The dim blue glow illuminated a horror.

  “Oh God. Jesse!”

  Lucy’s shrieks drew Cecilia out into the hallway. Jesse was pale, paler even than the cool white beam that Lucy shone to illuminate him, and cool to the touch. Cecilia saw the bigger picture as she approached, his arms outstretched, hair matted with sweat, blood trailing down the wall from either hand. She spied a pair of pliers along with other tools piled up nearby.

  “Lucy, hold him under his arms,” CeCe ordered.

  “Is he dead?” Lucy sobbed uncontrollably. “Please don’t let him be dead.”

  “Hold him!” CeCe grasped the nail head in his left hand with the pliers and pulled with all her might.

  “Don’t hurt him,” Lucy begged, as if any further damage could possibly be done.

  Cecilia freed one hand and then the other. Jesse fell into Lucy’s arm, the weight of his body and her sorrow carrying them to the bloody floor. A shallow, raspy rattle came from his throat and she saw him try to swallow.

  “He’s alive!”

  “Barely,” Cecilia said. “I’m calling an ambulance.”

  Lucy wiped at his face, fussing over him, her warm tears replacing the beads of cold sweat that had formed. Cecilia ripped pieces of her vest and wrapped his hands with them. Jesse struggled to open his eyes. “Lucy,” he gasped.

  “You’re going to be okay,” she assured him. “Try not to talk.”

  “It’s not here,” he said, falling into unconsciousness. “Frey has it.”

  Agnes ran up to the swarm of ambulances, emergency vehicles, and police cars that had descended on the halfway house. She arrived just as Captain Murphy pulled up in an unmarked sedan and Jesse was being loaded into the EMT van. “Lucy,” she shouted, spotting her friend. “What happened?”

  Cecilia grabbed hold of her. “It’s Jesse,” she said. “We found him here.”

  “Is he gonna be all right?”

  “I don’t know. He lost a lot of blood.”

  “Why Jesse?” Agnes asked tearfully.

  “He felt guilty about leading Frey to Perpetua’s. He came looking for the heart.”

  Lucy walked over. Still in shock. “They are taking him to the hospital. I’m going to go and be with him.”

  “Was he able to tell you anything?” Agnes asked.

  “Only that the heart’s not here,” Cecilia said.

  “They were waiting for us, not him,” Lucy surmised grimly. “This is all a game for Frey, and he’s still one step ahead.”

  “He knows we’re coming for it,” Cecilia added. “But how could he have known when?”

  Agnes began to tremble. “It’s my fault,” Agnes admitted. “The guy I met at school. He seemed so vulnerable. I confided in him. He must have told Dr. Frey. He tried, he tried to . . .” Agnes couldn’t bring herself to speak the words. She didn’t need to. Lucy took her hand.

  “Don’t you see? This is it. This is our suffering. Always doubted. Mocked. Hounded. Never knowing who to trust. Never knowing which of the ones you love will be put in danger. Never knowing if someone wants to kiss you or kill you.”

  “Or rape you,” Cecilia spat.

  Lucy nodded. “And it’s just the beginning.”

  “Did you tell the police?” Cecilia asked.

  “No, I just left a note for my mom in case he tried to call or come back.”

  “Okay, good. We’ll take care of Finn later,” Cecilia snarled.

  A gruff, angry voice interrupted. “Take care of who?” Captain Murphy barked.

  “Jesse,” Lucy answered, changing the subject.

  “I told you this would happen.” Murphy was steaming mad and barely listening.

  “Will he be okay?” Agnes asked softly.

  “Did he look okay?” Murphy chided. “What the hell was he doing in there?”

  There was no response from any of them.

  “What were you doing there, for that matter?” Murphy asked them.

  “Can we go or are you charging us?” Cecilia asked.

  The detective’s frustration was plain to see. “Not yet, but your blogger buddy is looking at breaking and entering,” Murphy fumed. “If he survives.”

  As he trudged away to his car, he turned and walked back to them. “Your problems are bigger than just me now. We’re hearing that the Vatican is sending an investigator. The advance team, including a cardinal, is already here. They are looking to rip the skin off this fantasy you three have going. Don’t say I didn’t warn you.”

  “Captain,” Lucy said as he walked away, “thank you.”

  “Don’t thank me. I can protect you from a lot of things, if you let me,” he said. “But I can’t protect you from yourselves.”

  Murphy trudged off.
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br />   “The Vatican?” Agnes shuddered.

  “The Vatican is looking for us,” Cecilia said, lost in thought. “That’s the answer. We need to bring Sebastian to them.”

  7 Lucy sat in the chair beside Jesse in the Perpetual Help ER, watching the blood and antibiotics trickle into him. She’d never seen him so still or so quiet. Her mind raced; she wondered if he got her phone message, if she could have stopped it, if only they’d gotten there first. She chastised herself for a million different reasons. None of which, she realized, mattered at all right then.

  A nurse entered to check Jesse’s vitals. Lucy recognized her from her stay in the ER. And the nurse recognized Lucy.

  “No offense, but I want him moved to another hospital,” Lucy all but demanded. “He’s not safe here.”

  “No offense likewise, but haven’t you caused enough trouble?” the nurse shot back as she recorded blood pressure, respiratory rate, and urine volume. “There’s a cop at the desk and you have no authority. We’ve contacted his family. They can make decisions on his behalf. Besides, this hospital was good enough for you.”

  Under her breath, Lucy grumbled loud enough for the testy RN to hear.

  “Is this the only hospital in Brooklyn?”

  “No,” the nurse said tersely, adjusting Jesse’s IV drip before leaving. “Just the best. The EMTs don’t take requests about where to bring a dying man. It’s not a limo service.”

  Lucy stroked his forearm, letting him know that she was there, hoping to reach through the coma to comfort him. Color was returning with each drop of fluid, but not consciousness.

  She’d persuaded the intake staff to place him in a more private bay, which they did, away from the prying eyes that followed her everywhere. Her notoriety had been good for something, at least.

  She recalled her night there not so long ago. A fateful one. But for all the changes she, Cecilia, and Agnes had undergone, perhaps Jesse was the one who’d changed the most. Lucy had mocked him in the church for being jealous and spiteful and weak, but he was brave. And decent. And loyal. All these qualities inside of him, waiting for the chance to surface. If such a transformation was possible for him, it might be for anybody. She placed her hand in his and held on tight.

  “Come on, Jesse.”

  A sudden rush of hospital techs and equipment brushed by the curtain and began their hourly examination of the critically ill guy. They unlocked the wheels of his hospital bed, preparing him for transport.

  “Where are you taking him?” Lucy asked.

  “For an MRI.”

  “Is he bleeding internally or something?”

  “An MRI of the brain.”

  Lucy felt a fast moving panic grip her. A more reasonable voice than the one inside her head spoke.

  “Glad to see you looking so well, Ms. Ambrose.”

  “Dr. Moss?”

  “I’m surprised you remember,” the ER chief said, “considering the state you were in.”

  “How could I forget,” Lucy said, extending her hand. “Coming here that night saved me.”

  Moss circled the patient, taking a look at him and the chart.

  “Sometimes with massive bleeding and lack of oxygen, there can be some brain damage,” Dr. Moss explained. He checked Jesse’s pupils. “Memory loss. Paralysis. We need to check.”

  The techs finished their preparations and waited on the doctor’s order.

  “Okay, ladies and gentleman,” Moss said. “Let’s take him upstairs.”

  “Upstairs?” Lucy asked.

  “To Psych. It’s where the scanners are.”

  “Dr. Frey’s floor?”

  “Do you know him?”

  Lucy paused. “Yes. I know him.”

  “He’ll be in good hands up there,” Moss comforted.

  She watched the orderlies wheel him out carefully and stopped Dr. Moss for one final question. “Will he be okay? Will he ever wake up?”

  The doctor considered his words carefully as he offered his prognosis.

  “In my professional medical opinion, Miss Ambrose, it will take a miracle.”

  Cardinal DeCarlo’s calls and e-mails to the Vatican were unreturned. It was unusual for there to be any sort of radio silence with regard to him, considering the importance of his position and his closeness, both personally and clerically, to the Pontiff. But then, this was a most unusual matter. Ordinarily, he would be able to activate a network of associates in the curia for advance notice of even the most consequential decisions, but not this time. Whomever the pope appointed for this duty would remain a mystery to him for now.

  The lack of information was problematic, but not insurmountable. Instead of working his like-minded Vatican sources, he focused on speed rather than stealth. The threat presented by Lucy, Cecilia, and Agnes, by the relic, had to be extinguished, and fast. There wasn’t time to persuade the pope and his allies, if it was not clear to them already. All an investigation would produce would be delay, the thing he could least afford.

  The recantation suggested by Frey at first seemed oddly retro, even to a man charged with upholding a two-thousand-year-old faith. On the other hand, it was a reaction keeping with a long history of challenges to the Church’s authority. Witches, Satanists, apostates, heretics of all stripes had been brought to judgment effectively in the past, so why not now? What were these girls, other than reprobates daring to dress themselves in the all-forgiving finery of sanctity. There were rules in place, standards established. DeCarlo was not willing to see these teenage upstarts pass themselves off as saints. Debunking them, having them refute themselves, would be major news. After all, they were primarily a media creation in the first place.

  In this, he and Frey had different motivation but the same goal. From the moment he’d received the doctor’s letter, he sensed that he was communing with a kindred spirit, though the doctor might scoff at the description. Others called them Ciphers, evil puppet masters bent on world domination, but that overstated the case. Like their brethren in the military, politics, law enforcement, media, and business, they were simply power brokers with agendas. And their primary agenda was the status quo.

  Grass-roots movements, he reasoned, created fragmentation and were necessarily adversarial to centralized authority. Sebastian’s faith could not be contained in a pew or confined to Sunday mornings and therefore could not be controlled. It was unpredictable. Better a thousand sheep than a single wolf. Ironic, DeCarlo thought, that he—a man of the cloth—and Frey—a man of science—perceived the same danger in the spread of Sebastian’s message and the appeal of the girls, and now had reached the same conclusion. It was time to act. One in the name of progress, the other for the sake of tradition.

  “Cardinal, your call,” the deacon announced urgently on the office intercom.

  “Thank you,” DeCarlo replied, reaching for his desk phone. “Dr. Frey?”

  “Yes, Cardinal?”

  “I have considered your offer,” DeCarlo said. “I accept.”

  “You’ve been able to bring your superior to your point of view?”

  “As you said, that is my problem and no concern of yours,” DeCarlo advised. “I will meet your price.”

  “How shall we make the transaction?”

  “Time is short. The envoy will arrive within hours. I need you to arrange a meeting with these girls here at the archbishop’s residence.”

  “It can be arranged.”

  “Good. I’m staying at the archbishop’s residence. We can be assured our privacy here.”

  “Very good. I know where I can find at least one. When would you like to meet?”

  “Immediately.”

  “Oh, and Doctor,” DeCarlo added. “I’d like you to attend. With your keepsake.”

  7 Lucy exited Perpetual Help, satisfied that Jesse had been returned to his room safely. Her biggest worry was that Frey would find an excuse to keep him up there. She turned the corner and saw an orderly smoking. She stopped and asked to bum a cigarette. The orderly held ou
t his pack of cigarettes and pushed one forward at her with his fingers. Lucy bent to grab it between her teeth when she was suddenly grabbed from behind. She felt a wet cloth against her face and noxious fumes filled her nostrils. A flash of anger at herself for letting her guard down sped through her brain, and then nothing. The last thing she remembered before blacking out was being pushed into the backseat of a car.

  She came to with her hands bound. The room was large, the ceiling high. Paintings and frescoes, religious scenes, lined the walls. A figure in a long red robe walked toward her.

  “So nice to meet you, Miss Ambrose. Not even all your photos do justice to your beauty.”

  “Where am I?” she asked.

  “Does it matter? You are here.”

  “Who are you?”

  “I am Cardinal DeCarlo, Prefect for the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith.”

  Her head was clearing from the brain fog, but she still couldn’t make sense of any of it.

  “Are you the investigator?”

  “No, that would be a representative from the Congregation for the Causes of Saints.”

  “Then what do you want with me?”

  “This is not the time for a lesson in Church history or operations of the curia, but I’m concerned the investigator might find himself over his head in the case of you and your friends. The Church is used to pursuing these matters posthumously.”

  Lucy strained to see. To get a fix on her situation. From the looks of things, she could have been in a museum, but as her vision cleared, she could visualize signs that the space was active, used, lived in. A desk. A table with a gold water pitcher, a teapot, and porcelain cups. Expensive looking. Antique. The large grandfather clock showed just past twelve. Through the windows she could see it was night, but lights from apartment windows were clearly visible. She couldn’t be far from where she was taken. Still in the city. Her purse was at her feet, so whatever this was, it wasn’t a robbery.

  He stepped closer to her, just inches from her face, and looked directly into her eyes.

  “Quite beautiful, indeed,” he noted. “Like a painting.” He walked around her. “We take in so much information through our eyes, don’t we, Lucy? May I call you Lucy?”