by Tonya Hurley
“I’m not taking it,” Agnes protested, placing her bohemian book bag inside the metal cabinet.
“I guess it’s not all bad right? With the fan mail and everything?”
“Fan mail?” Agnes asked dubiously. “You mean guys asking for pictures of my feet? Or wanting to know if they can be my first? Or worse, boil me in a pot?”
Hazel looked sympathetically at her friend. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you kinda did ask for it. All this saint stuff.”
“Like rape victims ask to be raped because of what they wear?” Agnes was incredulous. “I didn’t ask for this, Hazel.”
“But you accepted it,” Hazel said. “You can’t just expect people to pretend that nothing happened. It was everywhere. And you can’t expect people to understand it. You can’t just go back to a normal life.”
“My life was never normal.” Agnes thought about trying to explain herself, her feelings. She did accept her fate, Sebastian, wholeheartedly, but to ask brainless highschoolers to comprehend any of it would be asking too much. She didn’t expect them to. Maybe a little curiosity, but she had been blindsided by the mockery and condemnation. It was hard enough to figure everything out without all the cruelty she had to bear on top of it. “You know what? You’re right. Why should I expect anyone to believe me, to believe this, when my own mother won’t?”
“I thought that was getting better,” Hazel said, pulling a ChapStick from her bag and swiping the waxy ointment across her lips.
“It did for a minute, but now I think she’s in total denial about the whole thing.”
“What do you mean?”
“She looks at me like I’m one of those kids that was brainwashed by a cult and returned ten years later.”
“I know the face.”
“It’s the one she gives the terminal patients in the cancer ward where she volunteers,” Agnes elaborated. “Pitying. Patronizing.”
“You know how she is,” Hazel said, hoping to ease some of the Agnes’s tension. “She’s probably just angry at the people hanging around your house and everything.”
“Bullshit.”
“Okay, she’s angry about the people hanging around. And jealous.”
“So much to be jealous about, as you just saw,” Agnes sniped. “I don’t know if people want to kiss me or kill me.” Agnes caught herself. “I hate bitching like this.”
“You’ve been through a lot,” Hazel said, hugging her. “I guess it comes with the territory. You should really talk to someone.”
“Who? Who should I talk to about this? Who could possibly understand?”
For Agnes it was more than just a rhetorical question. Much more. There were so many things happening, none of which she could confide to Hazel or anyone except for Cecilia and Lucy. It was a strange, terrifying feeling. She longed to see them, wanted to know if they had similar things happening, mourn with them, talk about what they needed to do, and more importantly, commiserate about him. But, what if they didn’t feel the same things? Didn’t hear the voices calling? Didn’t feel out of body on occasion—in two places at once. It was all so crazy, and one thing she didn’t want to appear was crazy. She’d been there. She told them she’d be strong, and she was trying her best. Besides, things were happening now that hadn’t happened before, and she felt in her heart that the time for them to be together was nearing.
“There’s a plan for you, girl,” Hazel said sincerely. “Work it.” Hazel wasn’t especially deep or insightful, but these were comforting words, maybe even wise ones. Hazel was trying, and that’s all Agnes could hope for. That was the mark of a true friend. Whatever it was that Sebastian had gifted or cursed her with was hers to bear, hers to figure out.
The bell rang, announcing the start of the school day as a crack of thunder announced the storm overhead.
“I don’t want to be late, gotta bounce,” Hazel said, heading down another hallway to her class. “You know where to find me.”
Agnes waved to Hazel and waited for the hallways to empty. She walked slowly down the main corridor, turning her head toward the row of windows facing the street. The buses had pulled away, but a small crowd still lingered, buzzing in anticipation. She hoped they weren’t waiting for her. She had her own set of followers, but not in the same way Cecilia and Lucy did. Cecilia’s followers hung on her every word like a prophet, agreed with everything she said. Lucy’s followers wanted a piece of her fame, wanted to take pictures with her, be her. They had some experience with it all. Agnes, however, was new to all of this, and for her it was very much a mixed bag. It was quite exhilarating, and yet so terrifying, to have people wait for you, stare at you, adore you. Thankfully, her followers were a peaceful lot. They didn’t trail her to school or anything, they just waited patiently outside her house at a safe distance, hoping for a glimpse or the opportunity to offer her little gifts like handmade candles, oils, soaps, jeweled rosaries, mala beads, baked goods like sacred heart cookies, and ask politely for favors, prayers.
Agnes strained to see through the raindrops on the windowpane as a low-pitched brassy dirge and the roll of snare drums bled in from outdoors. She stood, transfixed, as the figure of Our Lady passed by. The same way it had just passed Cecilia. The face of the impaled statue was pained, anguished. That much was obvious to Agnes even from a distance, even through the droplets that obstructed her view.
“Mater Dolorosa.”
Agnes turned, startled by the voice behind her.
“I’m sorry?”
“Mother of Sorrows,” the woman said.
“I’m ashamed to say that I don’t . . .”
“Our Lady of Sorrow is an example of the pain and suffering we feel when we lose someone we love. She shows us that it is appropriate to mourn while never losing our faith. Our hope.”
Agnes turned back to the procession outside. She thought about Sebastian. Her loss. The loss that no one seemed to acknowledge. No sympathy, only ridicule. A tear fell from her eye as she watched the statue being carried by a group of distinguished men. Holding her up. Supporting her. Carrying her.
“Excuse me,” Agnes said, wiping the tears from her eyes.
“Is there something wrong, dear?”
“I just don’t want to be here,” Agnes said, gesturing toward the parade and the wider world outside. “The answers I’m looking for aren’t in textbooks or job fairs. They are out there.”
“No,” the sister replied. “They are in here.” She pointed to Agnes’s chest. Agnes smiled slightly.
“There’s a difference between education and vocation,” the woman noted. “Some of us do what we are trained to do, others what we are compelled to do, called to do.”
Agnes placed her hand on the damp windowpane, palm side down. The woman noticed the extravagant mourning ring—black onyx with elaborate gold detailing—on Agnes’s hand. It was beautiful on the outside, but contained something even more precious within: a single strand of Sebastian’s hair, one she found the day he was killed, matted in blood on her lambswool cowl. She put it inside the ring for safekeeping and told no one. She was astonished to see it mysteriously lengthen and grow each time she checked on it. A private relic of her own. A living piece of him. Until now. She’d noticed recently that it had stopped growing. Agnes caught the woman looking at it, then noticing her bone chaplet with sacred heart milagro. She jerked her hand down defensively, covering both items.
“Those are beautiful pieces,” the woman said.
“I got the ring from my grandmother.”
“I’ve never seen anything like it before.”
“I only started wearing it recently,” Agnes said, uncomfortable about revealing its contents. “And, the bracelet . . .” Agnes paused, not knowing exactly how to explain to a stranger.
The woman waited as the girl struggled to find the words.
Agnes looked up at her with surprise. “Wait, I know you.”
“Yes.”
“You’re the nun that was taking care of Jude on the
playground last fall.”
“Sister Dorothea,” she said, offering her hand.
“How is he?” Agnes asked, grasping it gently.
“The boy is fine,” the nun advised. “I see him often.”
“What are you doing here?”
“I’m a counselor,” Sister Dorothea said.
Agnes paused. “Well, I’m sure this place keeps you pretty busy.”
The nun smiled.
“I’m here if you need me.”
7 “I hate people,” Lucy bitched, leaving her Vinegar Hill apartment building. She dropped her shades down over her eyes as the usual suspects—gawkers, stalkers, tourists, and doomsday types—called out to her for autographs, photographs, and secrets of salvation from across the street.
Details had gotten out about the Precious Blood “incident,” spreading like hellfire, quick as the click of a mouse. Producers and bookers who’d rejected Lucy before now sought The Word from her, not for the sake of their souls, but for the sake of their ratings. It was all she ever wanted, or thought she wanted. She didn’t do parties, premieres, openings, or endorsements any longer, but she was a lifer on the invite lists. The more she refused, the more she was pursued.
Lucy was more famous than she ever could have imagined. But this was not how she pictured it.
She was struggling. Conflicted. What happened at the church was beyond imagination, but try as she might, she was not beyond bitterness. The loss of Sebastian was so senseless, the crowds that gathered to honor or even just ogle her, an unpleasant reminder. And yet her impatience with it all made her feel guilty. Survivor’s guilt. Even though deep down she knew this was all part of his plan, to die, she couldn’t help but wish he hadn’t. Selfishly. She missed him. She was committed to honoring him by fulfilling her mission. Their mission.
It was times like these that she felt him the most. In her moments of doubt and uncertainty, the very thought of him fortified her, filled her with peace and with patience. Just like in the church, he knew how to get to her. She believed in him, in his plan, and knew she would see him again. Of that she had no doubt.
Lucy stopped to look at herself in the baroque floor-to-ceiling mirror that stood in the lobby. As usual, she was dressed to the nines. She was always a stickler for fashion and now that spring had come, the off the shoulder dress, blazer, and ribbon sandals laced up her legs were just the thing to make her presence known. Like Cecilia and Agnes, Lucy felt different on the inside; but to her, the outside still mattered. Even more because now there was meaning to it. A reason. That was who she was, why she was chosen. Sebastian didn’t want her to change.
“Why are these people so close to the building?” she asked Jimmy the doorman. “I need a cab.”
“No chance this morning. There’s a—”
Just then an explosion of brass and woodwinds, prayers and lamentation thundered down the cobblestone street, overwhelming Jimmy’s reply.
Lucy reached for her ears, cutting him off. “What is that racket?”
Jimmy pointed.
She looked down the street and got her answer. “That’s what I was trying to tell you,” Jimmy yelled. “The procession is coming this way.”
“What procession?”
Before he could answer, the marchers, musicians, mourners, and statues were upon them. The instruments were closer, louder now but somehow less abrasive. She looked up at the veiled statue of Mary, stabbed through its plaster chest, which seemed to pass by her in slow motion. Creeping.
It has just passed Cecilia and Agnes, and now it was her turn. Threading her in. Lucy was getting dizzy, something that had been happening more and more frequently. She tried to remember if she’d had anything to eat for breakfast and couldn’t, even though she’d only just left her apartment. She felt a sudden shift in perception. Now she was not seeing the parade, not hearing the music and prayers. Now she was experiencing it. Becoming part of it, swept up in the energy of the moment. She could see the march’s progress, all the way to its end point, even though the procession had barely moved from beyond her building.
A hand reached out and touched her. She wasn’t sure if it was real or imagined. Ordinarily, she’d pull away, especially in the middle of such chaos, but it was a familiar touch. Lucy didn’t feel threatened.
“Come,” the woman said as she walked. “For Sebastian.”
“Perpetua?” Lucy shouted.
The woman turned her head and returned to her song.
Lucy walked toward her, drawn to the procession, but Jimmy pulled her back. Smartphone cameras caught her every move.
“I can’t let you get caught up in that mess.”
“I’m already caught up in it,” Lucy admitted, struggling desperately to break free of his grasp, like an addict jonesing for a fix.
He let go.
Lucy was handed a candle and given a veil to put over her flawless face. She no longer stood out. They were all women in mourning, something she could finally do openly. She began to walk. With them.
“Miss Ambrose?” She heard a voice call out, but kept walking, gripping her candle in desperation. “Lucy?”
She turned toward the sound and found herself staring directly at the starched and stiffened white collar of a priest. Lucy shut her eyes tightly and leaned into him to make sure he was real. He led her away from the tumult, and after a moment her head cleared, candle still in hand.
“Thank you, Father,” she said sincerely. “I don’t know what came over me.”
“Do any of us?” he asked. “These are strange days.”
They walked together for a while, not talking, as onlooker after onlooker faded back. The further they walked, the more she felt his anxiety. He finally broke the swollen silence.
“Sebastian, the boy who died in the church that night . . .”
Lucy’s mood darkened.
“I’m not talking about this,” she said, unlinking her arm from his.
“Please,” he responded.
“Who are you?” she asked. “Who are you, really?”
“I am a priest,” he said. “You can trust me.”
“That’s a joke, right?”
“I am from the cult of Saint Lucy,” he said. “Part of the lineage. A devout follower. Please, believe that.”
Lucy nodded her head for him to continue.
“I understand that it must still be painful.”
“Don’t dare patronize me,” she said through clenched teeth, stopping. “Dr. Frey was cleared following the police investigation. Big surprise. He’s back upstairs at Perpetual Help running the loony bin, back to indoctrinating the next generation of psychotic assassins. Probably got a raise, a bogus title, and a dedication at some made-up award dinner. Painful, yes.”
“You misunderstand,” he said gently. “I only mean that he has fooled so many.”
Lucy recoiled.
“You make it sound like some kind of illusion. It isn’t. I can’t even walk down the street without fearing for my life, and a beautiful guy is gone.”
“Such a shame about Sebastian.”
“Spare me, Father. He doesn’t need your pity. Not now. Neither do I.”
Lucy turned away.
“Listen—”
“Are you some kind of reporter in disguise? Because I’ve said all I’m ever going to say about it to the police, and a lot of good it did.”
“At least the construction has been halted. There are people outside the church every day, demanding it be re-established . . .”
“I was inside.”
The priest took a step back, giving her a little room. He was just close enough to see tears welling in the reddened lids of her otherworldly blue eyes.
“Faith is coming alive again. The three of you have given us a chance against them. Hope.”
Lucy stopped and looked deep into his eyes, probing him. “Against who?”
“The ones who hide in plain sight. Vandals,” he whispered. “Ciphers.”
“What about them?�
��
“They are worried now. You three have put shame on them. You are their biggest threat. Their only obstacle. You are in their way.”
“You know most people think I’m crazy, right?”
“I know you see things,” he said. “I don’t care what skeptics say, nor should you.”
Lucy went silent. It was true. She was seeing things. Visions. Things she couldn’t explain or understand. Then she erupted.
“That’s easy for you to say, Padre,” Lucy said, frustrated. “You aren’t out here on the front lines taking shit like I do.”
“I read the accounts; I know you are not crazy,” he persisted.
“Accounts? That sounds so respectable,” Lucy rasped. “You mean the tabloids, don’t you?”
“I just want you to know that I believe you and so do many others. People you don’t even know around the world are starting to believe you. You can trust me, Lucia.”
“I’m not looking to trust anyone. I don’t need your understanding, or approval,” she said. “Sebastian is dead. Cremated. It doesn’t matter what anyone thinks.”
“Are you sure?”
“That’s he’s dead? I saw him die. We have his ashes. He was cremated.”
“He wasn’t.”
“Wasn’t what?”
“Cremated,” the priest said. “Not all of him.”
“What are you talking about?” she asked.
“I’ve heard things.”
“What things?”
“Before he was cremated, his body was . . .”
Lucy’s confusion turned to outright rage. She dropped her burning candle and backhanded the priest across the face. Cameras flashed, capturing her every move.
“You sick sonofabitch,” she railed as the bottom of her skirt started to catch fire. Cloaked women ran to her to put it out, but she remained oblivious to everything but the priest. “What about his body?”
“His heart,” he gasped, wiping the blood from his lip, trying to stay incognito before slipping away into the crowd. “It’s been taken.”
TONYA HURLEY
is the author of the New York Times bestselling ghostgirl series. She has worked in nearly every aspect of teen entertainment: creating, writing, and producing two hit TV series; and writing and directing several acclaimed independent films. Tonya lives in Brooklyn, New York, with her husband and daughter. The Blessed is the first in a trilogy of novels. Visit Tonya at theblessed.com.