Book of the Just

by Dana Chamblee Carpenter

  “You did well. It looks finished,” he said, nodding at the mark on the floor and stepping back around the table. “What are you hoping to bind?”

  Kitty just smiled and started stirring what she’d put in the bowl.

  He tried again. “What are you making there?”

  “Another spell.”

  “For protection?” he asked.

  “Nope. You already gave us that.” She thumped the gold plates stacked on a stool beside her.

  “What kind of spell, then?”

  “Summoning.”

  Mouse had taught Angelo that protection spells and binding spells were static, stable—crafted by words and symbols, powered with blood, and sometimes enhanced with salt as a conduit. But there were also active spells, ones that required kinetic energy—like Jack Gray’s locator spell that had hunted down Mouse in the outback. Those spells still needed blood, but they also needed a power source to serve as a catalyst to set the spell in motion.

  “A summoning spell needs power to fuel it,” Angelo said, sounding like a teacher coaching a student. That kind of power was hard to come by, and he had been counting on Kitty not yet having it.

  “I know what I need,” Kitty snapped as her arm shot out to grab the stool, turning it so Angelo could see what was hiding on the other side of the stacked gold plates.

  A hiss of breath slipped through his lips. “You don’t want that,” he said.

  She looked over at the stool. “Your little Mouse had lovely eyes, didn’t she?”

  Angelo kept his gaze on the stone shard covered with a painted green eye. Mouse had had it last—at Lake Disappointment. She’d taken it away from Jack. “You got it from the desert?”

  She hesitated just a moment. “The Reverend brought it back for me. Brought you, too.”

  She didn’t sound right. “That thing will mess with your head,” he said in warning.

  “You mean the tickle of power that comes from it? I can handle that just fine.”

  “It’s dark power, Kitty. It belongs to Mouse’s father.”

  “We use what we have.”

  “Who are you summoning?” He needed her to say it, to confirm his fear that she was using the blood from Mouse’s stone angel to capture her brother.

  “Someone I met this evening.”

  “At the ballet?” Angelo was genuinely confused.

  She smiled again but didn’t look up. “Did you know Mouse had a little brother?”

  And there it was. “What?” Angelo’s crutches slammed against the side of the table as he lurched forward in feigned shock, giving her what she wanted.

  Kitty laughed. “I love surprising people! Especially at Christmas.” She reached for something rolled in what looked like gauze. “I have to tell you, the boy was really cute.”

  “How do you know he was Mouse’s brother?” Angelo felt sick knowing that he had set all this in motion. He clenched his jaw, working to find an angle that would get her to stop.

  “You don’t look happy. Is it because your little Mouse was more common than you realized?” Kitty slowly unwound the ball of gauze.

  “Brother or no, Mouse was anything but common,” Angelo said. “The reason I don’t look happy is because you seem to be planning to summon the son of Satan to an old barn by yourself while you’re still in your evening gown.” He slammed his fist against the table.

  His mind was racing. Maybe he was looking at this wrong. Maybe this was an opportunity—given the choice, he’d much rather try to take the boy from Kitty than from his father. “Let me help. Please,” he said more softly.

  “I want to do it myself,” Kitty argued.

  “Is that blood?” Angelo was watching as she used a pair of tweezers to pull fine strands of discolored cotton from a bandage. “Is that the boy’s blood?”

  Kitty pressed her lips together. “I know what I’m doing.”

  “Do you even know whose blood that is?”

  Kitty looked up at him disdainfully. “I know it came from a special place.” Her eyes shifted, looking over his shoulder.

  “How did you get it?” Angelo asked as he turned to see what she was looking at.

  Jack Gray stood in the doorway, lit by the scattered light drifting down from the house. A heavy curtain of snow fell behind him. “I gave it to her.”

  CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

  Why?” Angelo asked.

  “I had no choice,” Jack answered.

  “I wasn’t talking to you, stronzo.” Angelo took a step toward him, his hands gripping his crutches as he fought the urge to smash the metal against the soft, pasty face and watch all that long white hair run red, but Angelo didn’t have time to indulge his anger. He spun back around to Kitty.

  “I’m asking you—why? Assuming that it’s actually the boy’s blood, why bring him here now?”

  Angelo needed to slow everything down, to give himself time to come up with a plan for rescuing the boy if Kitty managed to summon him. A plan for what to do if Mouse’s father followed in the wake.

  “Why risk waking his father’s rage against us when we aren’t ready yet?” he added. “I don’t care what kind of protection spells or how many hundreds of bodyguards you have crawling all over the place—none of it will stop him. It won’t even stop the first line of demons he sends to clear out your men. This place will be a pile of ashes before you can even finish calling out to God for deliverance.”

  “Your stories don’t scare me anymore, Angelo. I have my faith instead. God’s in the control booth and he says we’re good to go!” Her voice over-bright, her smile too tight, Kitty kept working on the contents of the bowl. “Besides, the Reverend’s tired of waiting. He has his armies ready and all his pieces in place—a few small but key countries pushed to the edge of chaos, waiting for our nudge; access to important political figures; strings in hand to manipulate the markets.” She glanced up. “We just have to set it in motion. Then we sit back and watch it all fall down.” A faraway look glazed her eyes for a moment before her forehead creased with a touch of worry.

  “What do you need the boy for, then?”

  Her lips pulled in a tight line of disapproval. “Don’t try to play me, Angelo. You already know full well what we need him for—the spark to light the fuse, the voice to whisper the Reverend’s orders into the ears of those key figures. He’s a contingency plan if something goes awry—a force to make it all happen just the way we want.”

  Her smile had come back, though it didn’t drive out the remaining worry in her eyes. “We thought to use Mouse, but that didn’t work out, so her brother will have to do. We thought you would deliver us a weapon, the anointed warrior blessed by God to live again and again. But you failed us, too—at least in part. Though you did give us armor to protect us in our holy work.” She grabbed the book of gold plates and held it to her chest. Angelo noticed for the first time that only three of the plates were held together by the rings. Kitty saw the look slide across his face. “Yes, Kevin has the others. So even if the boy’s father comes running to the rescue, at least we’re safe.”

  “What about your men?”

  “They are prepared to die for their faith, and God will welcome them at St. Peter’s gates.”

  “Jack and the Bishop?”

  “I’m leaving before the fireworks start. Which is why I came out here, Kitty,” Jack said. “The Reverend wants to know how soon and do you want him out here or can he stay in the house?”

  Ignoring him, Angelo pressed Kitty for another answer. “The Bishop?”

  “I leave the business part to the Reverend.” Kitty looked down at the bowl, stirring slowly still. “You haven’t asked about yourself.”

  “It doesn’t matter.”

  “It does to me. The Reverend wanted to kill you. I wouldn’t let him. I told him you’d tried your best. And I told him that I didn’t want to be any part of killing you.”

  “Why not?”

  “I meant what I said all those months ago, Angelo. God has called you to
do great and wonderful things. He has lifted you from the clutches of death. Even if evil descends tonight, God will not let you perish. I believe it! Stay with us and watch as we set the foundation stone of our new moral empire.” She shrugged. “Or you can leave with Jack.”

  “No. I’m with you.” Angelo was still banking on a chance to get the boy and run—hopefully before Mouse’s father showed up.

  “Wonderful,” Kitty said and then looked up after a moment of silence. “Oh, bless your heart—I didn’t mean out here with me now. I told you, I want to do this part alone. Go tell the Reverend it’ll be about five minutes, give or take. And then he can come down if he wants.”

  Angelo had no choice but to turn and follow Jack out the door and into the snow.

  “I did what I had to do,” Jack said as they walked back up the path to the house. “That piece of portrait and a bloody bandage bought me my life.”

  “You’re not worth it. Now, shut up.” Angelo was straining to listen for any sounds from the outbuilding, but all was quiet.

  “Anybody else would have done the same thing,” Jack said as they turned the corner onto the patio still full of armed guards.

  The maids in the kitchen kept their heads down over another tray of food when Angelo and Jack walked through. The den was much as they’d left it—the Reverend was still looking at his phone, and the Bishop still stood looking out the window, though he turned when Angelo came back in the room.

  “She said wait about five minutes,” Jack announced to the Reverend.

  “Thank you, son.” With surprising grace for a man so large, the Reverend rose from the chair, pocketed his phone, and crossed the room to his desk. “And does she get to keep her little pet angel?” he asked as he opened the center drawer, looking over his shoulder at Angelo. “Are you staying with us?”

  “If that’s alright with you.”

  Angelo moved closer to the window, trying to get a view of the outbuilding. He saw the Bishop’s reflection in the glass, his face hard and disapproving.

  “Why are you here?” he said softly to Angelo, his words making puffs of cloud against the window.

  “Why are you?”

  “To die, I think.”

  “What do you mean?”

  As the words left his lips, Angelo saw the flash of a gun in the reflection of the window. Then he heard a loud pop and turned just in time to see the side of Jack Gray’s face explode as a bullet tore through and sprayed blood and cartilage across the hearth. Bits of something sizzled and sparked as they fell into the fireplace.

  The Reverend pivoted the gun toward the men at the window. Angelo threw himself at the Bishop as a second shot rang out. The window shattered and a gust of cold air rushed in. Angelo was on top of the Bishop, shards of glass and snow raining down on them. His body tensed, waiting for the next bullet, his mouth flooding with adrenaline and bile.

  But it was a scream, not a last gunshot, that broke the silence, and it came from the outbuilding. Angelo couldn’t tell if it was a cry of pain or fear—or a yelp of gleeful surprise.

  There was a sound of footsteps, dozens of them, and at the same time, Angelo thought he heard the Reverend call out for Kitty. Footsteps again, then silence.

  Angelo slowly lifted his head to look out over the room. It was empty of everyone except himself and the Bishop and a dead Jack.

  “Are you okay, Father?” Angelo asked as he rolled off the Bishop. He felt the wetness on his own shirt before he registered the Bishop’s stillness and then the spreading ooze of blood coming from his mentor’s stomach. “Oh, God.”

  Angelo pressed his fingers to the Bishop’s neck. He was still alive. Angelo heard the shouts of the guards outside. He needed to get Bishop Sebastian out of here quickly.

  He slipped and slid in the melted snow on the floor as he scrambled to the other side of the Bishop and grabbed him under the arms, dragging him toward the foyer. Angelo’s crutches dangled from the leather straps at his elbows, his muscled arms bulging as they pulled the Bishop’s weight. But his legs kept giving out under him until he finally stayed on the floor, his legs framing the Bishop’s body as he used one arm to pull himself forward and the other to drag the Bishop with him. At the foyer, he dug his fingers into the grout lines around the centuries-old stone floor. He knew he’d never be able to get the Bishop into a car on his own.

  He could hear the two maids crying in the kitchen. He swung his head in their direction and called out, just loud enough for them to hear. “Help! Please, this man is still alive. We need to get him to a hospital.”

  His answer was more crying.

  “I know you’re afraid. I am, too. But I really don’t want to be here when the Reverend comes back. Do you?”

  He waited a moment and, hearing nothing, reached up to the knob and pulled the Bishop to the side so the door could swing open. The Bishop groaned and lifted his hand toward his abdomen.

  “Hold on, Father. I’ll get us out somehow.” Angelo’s voice cracked with despair as he looked out at the entrance steps and the yards of snowy gravel between him and the nearest car.

  Angelo snapped his head around as he felt a hand press against his shoulder. The maids stepped past him and slipped their arms under the Bishop’s back, pulling him upright. Groggily, he seemed to try to help drag his feet under him.

  Angelo pushed himself up on his crutches. “Thank you,” he said as they all stumbled out into the cold night toward the car.

  Angelo got in the back with the Bishop. He pulled his coat off and pressed it against the bloody wound to slow the bleeding. “Where’s the nearest hospital?”

  “Near Moscow.” One of the women slid in behind the wheel, the other on the passenger side.

  “No lights until we’re well on the main road,” Angelo instructed the woman driving. “And then go very fast. You understand?” She nodded. He looked out the back window at the disappearing house. No one was chasing them. He wondered what was happening at the outbuilding.

  “Father, can you hear me? We’re going to get you to the hospital. You have to hold on just a little longer. Okay?”

  The Bishop grunted and nodded. He opened his eyes a little. “I missed you. God . . . sent you back . . . to me.” He smiled and then closed his eyes again.

  “That’s right, Father. I’m here now. It’s going to be okay.”

  Angelo couldn’t stop shaking, but he couldn’t afford to break now. He needed a plan. He pulled a wallet and cellphone out of the Bishop’s tux, took a credit card and the cash, and then tucked the wallet back inside the coat pocket.

  “When we get near the hospital, I need you to let me out,” Angelo told the woman driving. His guilt at leaving the Bishop, knowing there was every chance his mentor would die, twisted his gut, but he couldn’t afford to get caught up answering police questions about a gunshot wound.

  “You are leaving us?” The woman’s voice was shrill with fear and accusation.

  “Someone else is in danger, a boy, and I need to help him.”

  The woman pulled over in a shopping mall parking lot a few minutes later. Angelo could see the signs for the hospital. He opened the door, then leaned down and kissed the Bishop’s forehead.

  “I’m sorry if I disappointed you, Father. I’m trying to make amends. Be well.”

  “Wait,” the Bishop mumbled. “You need . . . she’s . . . do you know?” But his words were lost in a low groan of pain. Angelo closed the door and watched the car speed out into the traffic. As he walked toward the mall, he scrolled the Bishop’s cell for a taxi service. While he waited, he prayed—not for his mentor, not for himself. He prayed for a little boy he’d never met.

  Mouse woke shivering in the dark. She took a raspy breath of air and opened her eyes but could see nothing. The floor felt like stone or concrete. It was smooth, and wet with her own urine. She inched forward on her knees, feeling for Luc, not sure she could speak yet, her throat ravaged by the heat and her screams. When she moved, lights clicked on overhead. To
o bright, they stung her eyes and took away her hope.

  Luc wasn’t here.

  Her clothes and the cloak lay in tatters around her, the edges of the pieces charred and whole sections burned to a fine ash. The walls and floor were covered in writing and symbols, many Mouse recognized. They were spells of summoning and containment, spells to drain power, spells to bind.

  She stood and lifted her nose like a dog, sniffing—sickly sweet perfume and the brassy twang of hairspray hovered in the air. She’d smelled them earlier that evening on the landing at the Bolshoi. Kitty Ayres.

  Mouse’s lips pulled into an angry sneer as she lifted her hand to the wall. “These work on demons, you fool,” she said. “I’m part human. You can’t hold me.” She pressed her hand against the wall and commanded the surface to break. Her power swelled between her palm and the concrete, surging until it lifted her and threw her back against the opposite wall.

  She shook it off and fed her power with the rage she meant to unleash on Kitty Ayres. This time, Mouse hurled the force against the corner across from her. It shot back like a boomerang of heat and ill will, crushing her against the concrete. She heard her ribs snap, the pain rushing into her chest and stealing her breath. She slid to the floor, moaning and grabbing at her side.

  Furious, she rolled over onto her knees, her hands spread wide on the floor. “Shake,” she commanded through gritted teeth, tears of pain and wrath mixing with her spit as she sent the full force of her power down against the floor. The air inside the concrete cell began to vibrate like the concussion from a dropped bomb. It rose up against the ceiling, hit the spells painted there, and fell back down on her, pressing her into the floor until she couldn’t breathe. Her consciousness slid away from her like smoke in the wind.

  It was dark again when she came to and opened her eyes. She lay still, trying to understand—why were these spells working against her when all the spells Bishop Sebastian had laid in the Vatican had failed? There was nothing unique about the spells themselves. They were all familiar to her. So how were they taking the force of her power and turning it against her? And where was her little brother?