The Devil's Bible

by Dana Chamblee Carpenter

  “Angelo, you don’t have to do this alone.”

  “I don’t need you either. Now get out!”

  “Let me pray—”

  Angelo shoved the Bishop into the nun and rammed them both through the open door, slamming it shut and locking it as he leaned back against it, not able to stand on his own anymore.

  The light over the bed hung low, swinging and raking Mouse with a harsh glare. Angelo reached over and flipped the switch, throwing the room into darkness. His mind toyed with him as it played oscillating images of Mouse alive and laughing, Mouse reaching up to kiss him, Mouse ripped apart by her father and lying in the dirt as the blood rushed out of her.

  He flipped the switch again, but the truth under the light was worse.

  His hand rammed down the switch once more, and he stumbled forward in the darkness, his eyes slowly adjusting as feathers of moonlight floated in through a tiny window near the ceiling. He knelt beside the bed, laid his face against her hand, and ran his fingers softly across the hole in her neck. Her face glowed in the light, and a sudden hope wrenched Angelo.

  “Are you immortal?” he mouthed, not asking again but remembering.

  “I can get hurt, but I always heal,” Mouse had told him. But he had not forgotten the second part of what she had said: “I think there’s at least one way I can die.”

  The understanding he’d had then felt like a curse now in the silent night.

  Her father had done this to her. Did that mean there would be no healing?

  Bishop Sebastian banged on the door.

  As Angelo looked at Mouse’s still face, her sunken chest, her white skin, his hope seemed foolish and cruel. But he willfully held to his faith anyway.

  “May whatever good you do and suffering you endure, heal your sins, help you to grow in holiness, and reward you with eternal life.” He whispered the last of the penance prayers given to the dead and dying as he walked over to his guitar.

  He sat on the edge of the bed and began to play.

  Mouse had been dead before, but this time was different.

  Before, at Marchfeld and at the river when she hanged herself and when she threw her body down the mountain, she had still been aware of herself and the world around her like she was wrapped in darkness. But there had been flickers of light, echoes of sounds. There had been pain. And they had called her back to the world even when she did not want to go.

  Now she so desperately wanted to live, but she was surrounded by a black nothingness like the pit at Houska—not merely wrapped in it, but immersed, baptized, lost. Nothing lived in all that blackness. No hope, no breath, no sound. And the silence frightened Mouse. She wanted to cry out, to call for Father Lucas. He had pulled her up out of the Mouth of Hell once before, but Mouse knew it was no use now. Father Lucas was gone. There was no one else to come looking for her in the dark.

  She felt her memories floating away from her like ash on the wind. But something slipped into the emptiness just as she felt herself begin to drift down into the abyss. It was a sound, soft and beckoning. It touched the pieces of her that were floating away in the dark and made them shine like bits of gold leaf dancing.

  The music swirled around her, weaving her back together, like river water carrying her deep, moving swiftly around the rocks, and then breaking the surface and glittering like handfuls of diamonds in the sun. Her chest filled with the burning need to breathe, so she opened her mouth like a hungry bird and waited for the water to flood her lungs and cool the hotness there.

  And then Mouse remembered—she remembered the glow she had seen hovering at her lips as she died. She remembered Angelo. She remembered want, and she remembered pain. The abyss could take that away, but the music called her home.

  Mouse would not go back into the dark.

  The nuns were demanding to be let in to wash the body and prepare it for burial when Angelo finally opened the door three days later. He was weeping.

  “I am sorry, my son.” The Bishop had finally left Angelo to hold his vigil in solitude with the hopes it would help him grieve and move on.

  Squinting in the sun, Angelo looked up, smiling, and stepped aside to allow the women into the room. He laughed as they gasped. Mouse lay wrapped in clean bedding he had found in a trunk in the guesthouse. The bed had been pushed back against the wall and the plates of food the nuns had brought to Angelo lay scattered on the floor nearby. Mouse was too weak to sit and her throat too damaged still for even a whisper, but she blinked groggily at the nuns. When they started making the sign of the cross and murmuring prayers—some of thanksgiving and others for protection against evil—Mouse weakly waved them away.

  Bishop Sebastian stepped into the space they left. “My God.”

  Angelo sat on the bed beside Mouse. “Ours, too,” he said.

  A week later, Angelo came into the guesthouse reading a text on his phone. Mouse was taking shuffle steps around the room, balancing herself against the wall and trying to get her strength back. She was ready to go.

  “Looks like your book made it home,” he said.

  Mouse cocked her head in question.

  “Bishop Sebastian fielded a call from an irate Eva Hedlin. Apparently the Church made a very nice donation to the library which means I don’t have to go to jail.” He smiled at her. The Bishop had left without a word, but he was in daily contact with Angelo.

  “And me?” Mouse laid her hand against the pain in her throat; she could still only manage a gravelly whisper. She smiled, too, but she was really just wading through the banter to talk about more serious matters.

  “You’re in the clear already. You were Emma Lucas to her, remember? That Emma doesn’t exist anymore. So you’re home free.” He tossed his phone on the bed and wrapped his arms around her. She slapped him playfully on the arm.

  They had been lightness and joy as Mouse continued to heal, though the nights were harder. They both struggled to sleep. They both suffered from dreams of fire and lightning, ashes and blood—but they were together, each helping the other through the darkness. And yet, Mouse noticed that Angelo would not talk about the days to come. It worried her and picked at the edges of her happiness, as did the certainty that she’d forgotten something important about her father. She could see him in her mind atop Megiddo and he was laughing—but she couldn’t remember why.

  Mouse looked down at the phone on the bed, its face still lit with the Bishop’s text, and she wondered, not for the first time, what he meant to get out of helping them. “Can we go home?” she asked instead.

  “What about your father?”

  Mouse knew he was stalling; they’d had this conversation already. Had her father meant to kill her but couldn’t? If so, then he would surely try again. Or had he meant to teach her a lesson, taking her to the edge of oblivion and then trusting that her immortality would heal her as it always had? If that were true, did it mean that he was finally convinced that she would be of no use to him? Or that he was saving her to play again another day? The questions were endless, and neither she nor Angelo had come up with any answers.

  “It doesn’t matter. Let’s go home.”

  Angelo sighed as he sat heavily on the bed. “But where’s that?”

  Megiddo, the nothingness after, Angelo’s music calling her back—these had taught Mouse that home for her wasn’t a place. Angelo was home. And she wanted to be home for him as well.

  “Rome?” she asked, not sure how to say the rest.

  “Is that home for you?”

  Mouse sank onto the bed beside him. She picked up the phone, pointing at the part of the Bishop’s text that Angelo had not shared: ORDINATION SCHEDULED. ST. FRANCIS’S FEAST DAY.

  “Is it for you?” she asked.

  Angelo put his head in hands. “It’s what he wants.”

  “Payment for helping us?”

  “He didn’t put it like that, but yes, I think so.”

  “Or what?”

  He looked up at her, worry in his eyes. “He didn’t sa
y, but the Novus Rishi—they’re everywhere, Mouse. I don’t have a choice.”

  “Yes you do.” She’d lived her life letting her father’s blood, her gifts, and other people define who she was and what she was. She’d waited on God to give her a purpose. But Megiddo had shown her that it had been her choice all along. And the choices weren’t simple—not either/or, good or evil, just a girl or something else. She was both; she was all.

  Even now, the power ran through her freely but so too did the glow of a soul. She could feel them both dancing in her blood. What she did with them was up to her. Angelo had helped her see this, and she wanted to give the gift back to him even if it meant saying good-bye.

  Wincing as she swallowed, she asked, “What do you want, Angelo?”

  “Does it matter? Not to the Bishop.” He spun to look at her, and she could see the tension in his face as the anger he’d been tethering while she recovered finally broke loose. “And not to you either.”

  “That’s not true. I—”

  “You? You left me in a damn hospital so you could go play the hero. Do you think that’s what I wanted?” He shook his head.

  “I was wrong.”

  “What?” The simplicity of her answer surprised him.

  “I should have talked to you about it. I should’ve let you make your own choice. I’m sorry.”

  Angelo looked at her like he was trying to see inside her. Finally he said, “Never again. You promise? Promise that you won’t run off and—” The grief of having lost her broke across his face, and his body started to bend in on itself, but she was there, slipping in under his arms, holding him and laying his head against her chest.

  “I promise, Angelo.”

  His fingers dug into her back as if he was afraid she would disappear. “I can’t live like that, Mouse. I can’t lose you like that again.”

  “I promise, Angelo. Never again.” She wove her fingers between his.

  He laid back to rest against the wall and pulled her with him. “But if I don’t go back and take my vows, the Bishop won’t leave us alone,” he said warily, turning back to the problem at hand. “He’ll send the Novus Rishi to hunt us.”

  “Well, I’m pretty good at running.” Mouse leaned into him. “And I know how to hide.”

  “But that’s not home.”

  She turned, lifting her face to him. “We are home, Angelo,” she said as her lips closed on his.

  “Home,” he breathed when she pulled back. He stood and tugged her up with him, slinging his guitar and bag over his shoulder. “Ready, then?”

  “Always.”

  EPILOGUE

  The man pulled back into the shadows at the crook of the wall and waited. He had an excellent view of the cemetery below and watched the Bishop weave through the Muslim dead as he made his way toward the Gates of Mercy. The sun had just begun to crawl up the Mount of Olives, and a few pale rays of light slid among the rocks.

  As the Bishop neared, the man opened a small gate at the side of a wrought-iron fence that framed the enclosure. “Welcome, Brother.” The man’s voice rumbled deep in his throat.

  Bishop Sebastian embraced the shadowy figure before lowering himself to a crouch, making himself less visible to passersby.

  “What a place,” the Bishop said, a little winded from the walk.

  “A place of war. We fight our battles everywhere,” the voice from the shadows answered. “Jews believe the Messiah will enter Jerusalem through this gate and usher in a new reign, so the Muslims walled it up and planted their cemetery to keep Elijah out.”

  “Christ came through this gate,” the Bishop said.

  “He ended up a casualty, too.”

  Toying with something in his hand, the Bishop kept silent.

  “Well then, she is alive?” the man asked.

  “Yes.”

  “But your plan failed.”

  “Was it my plan? I thought we all—”

  “You convinced us that she could be more useful than dangerous.”

  “I believe it still.”

  “I am not as comfortable with risk at my age.”

  The Bishop held something out to the man in the shadows. “You must have faith.”

  “What’s this?” The little wooden mouse lay in the palm of his hand. Part of its tail was missing and it was covered in scratches, the exposed wood stained with blood.

  “A sign?”

  The quiet chuckle rumbled in the man’s chest like distant thunder. “Very well. But I have been cultivating my own alternatives.” He turned and motioned into the deeper dark of the alcove behind him. “Bishop Sebastian, I’d like you to meet Jack Gray.”

  Miles away, another priest ran his hand along the narrow passageway as he stooped under the low ceiling of the cave and stepped into the hollowed-out Chapel of the Innocents. The dim glow from the security lights disappeared into the deep niches carved along the walls, and he jumped as the iron gate clanked shut behind him.

  The baby’s whimper called up ghostly images of the little boys, victims of Herod’s fear, who were supposedly buried under the ancient stone floor—dozens of them or thousands depending on who told the tale.

  “Hush, little one. We’ll get you fed in a moment. Hush.” The child’s father puckered his lips at the infant cradled in his arms and tenderly rocked his son from side to side.

  The priest huddled at the altar a moment and then turned, pressing a cloth to his wrist, and he nodded to the father who was dressed all in black.

  Patterns of blood pooled on the white marble. The father laid his baby in the center of the symbols and put his hand protectively on his son’s chest. The priest muttered the words of consecration and protection as he walked slowly around the altar. His hand trembled as he made signs in the air. The dark ceremony was finished within minutes.

  “Thank you,” the father said as the priest turned to leave. “And Father, if you tell anyone about this—”

  “You can trust me.” The priest stammered in fear and relief. He had not expected to live.

  “You know, why take chances?” As the father lifted his son from the altar, a sharp claw flashed from beneath the cloak and slid silently across the priest’s throat just as he reached the low lintel of the chapel’s opening. Blood showered the pew. Bright red drops of it landed on the baby’s face and hands.

  The father cuddled the infant to his cheek again, licked the blood away, and then began to hum a lullaby as he reached for the edge of his cloak with his free hand.

  “Come, we have much to do, little one,” he cooed to his son as they turned and disappeared into the night. “Let’s play.”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  Thank you for reading The Devil’s Bible. For those of you who haven’t already Googled it, the Codex Gigas is an honest-to-goodness, real book. I’ve done my best to adhere to the knowable facts surrounding the production, history, and content of the Codex, and I am immensely grateful to the National Library of Sweden for their meticulous research and their generosity in providing digital access to the fruits of all their labor. Any errors regarding my depiction of the ancient artifact are most assuredly mine alone.

  For all we know about the Codex Gigas, much of our understanding is still based on conjecture and presumption, and many of its secrets remain shrouded in the past. These gaps of the unknown offer a fertile playground for a writer to imagine what might have been. This is where Mouse lives.

  I met Mouse there because I live there, too, in the in-between places where should and should not have no meaning. Growing up in the American South as the only girl sandwiched between two brothers meant that my life could have been booby-trapped with all the things I was supposed to do and all the things I wasn’t allowed to do. But I got lucky. My brothers, Jim and Shane, helped me carve out my own space free of societal expectations. They never treated me like I was different or fragile because I was “just a girl.” They’ve always believed in me, and I am beyond grateful that I’ve gotten to share this journey with them. />
  I am also thankful for my found sister, Beth Spencer Cummings, who has taught me that strength and vulnerability are woven of the same cloth.

  Bringing Mouse and the story of The Devil’s Bible to you has been, like any novel, a bit of a relay race. I am thankful for the critical eyes, thoughtfulness, and curiosity of my early readers: Rebecca Smith Crimmins, Mandy Plummer Hiller, Carolyn Wilson, and Erin Townsley Etheridge. The fabulous Amy Kerr was particularly helpful in being a fresh set of eyes when mine were bleary. And through the long days of editing when I was infected with self-doubt, I lived on Paige Crutcher’s encouragement. Leanne Smith walks with me daily through the sometimes impossible obstacle course of life as a writer, professor, and mom. Together, we slay guilt and doubt and distraction.

  Many thanks to my agent, Susan Finesman, for hanging in there with me and especially for walking me back from the cliff’s edge—more than once. I couldn’t have pushed this boulder up the hill without you at my side. As always, I am grateful for your guidance and your friendship.

  I owe so much to all the incredible folks at Pegasus Books who are such thoughtful caretakers of the stories given to them. They clean up the messy parts, give the books beautiful covers, and then nurture them out into the world. Thank you Claiborne Hancock, Linda Biagi, Sabrina Plomitallo-González, Maria Fernandez, Jocelyn Bailey, Mary Hern, and Charles Brock. I am particularly indebted to Iris Blasi, my editor, for partnering with me in telling Mouse’s story, for pushing me to tell the story better, and for asking all the right questions. Thank you for sticking with me, even through the dark valleys. Hopefully Mouse offered a little light in the darkness.

  Having a community of fellow writers has been a lifeline for me. They are like the tether that keeps an astronaut safely connected to the shuttle but also frees her to take giant leaps of faith. Thank you, River Jordan, for introducing me to our Nashville writer’s tribe, and thank you to all you wonderful creative women who feed me the courage to keep telling stories. A special note of gratitude to the brilliant J.T. Ellison for sharing the wealth of her experience and for showing me how to do this writer gig with kindness and generosity. You are an amazing woman.