by Tillie Cole
“Repent,” he hissed.
Raphael remained unmoved. Father Murray’s seed ran down the back of Raphael’s legs. Blood covered his skin from the whip, and marks peppered his neck from where Father Murray’s hands had wrapped around it and squeezed. But the boy didn’t say a word. Just stared at him with a rebellious expression. Father Murray grabbed Raphael’s short hair and yanked his head back. Raphael met his eyes, but there was no weakness there, no sign of tiredness, no sign of submission. “I will break you,” Father Murray promised. “One day, Raphael, I will break you and make you beg at my feet. You’ll kneel to me, and you’ll give me your soul.”
Too lost in his head, when Father Murray looked down at the boy on the rack he only saw Raphael staring back at him. “I’ll break you,” he promised again.
“No,” the boy begged, but his voice was all wrong. It wasn’t the voice Father Murray needed to hear. He needed to hear that raspy voice tell him he had won. “Please!”
Father Murray shook with rage at the sound of the whiny voice. Using all his strength, he thrust the wheel of the rack forward. The boy screamed, and cracks and snaps echoed off the stone walls. Without even looking at the boy’s broken corpse, Father Murray stormed from the room and along the hallway. Seeing a trainee priest, he snapped, “The boy is dead. Get rid of the body.” Father Murray kept on walking until he reached his private quarters. He slammed the door and bolted it, then moved to his decanter of whiskey. He poured a large glass and stared at the picture he had pinned on the wall. Rage boiled inside him, threatening to wake the darkness that lay asleep in his soul. For a moment, he let that darkness free. Reaching into his robes, he pulled out his knife and charged at the wall. The blade sank in deep. Father Murray bared his teeth. The picture was almost destroyed, but the golden eyes that Father Murray hated so much stared back, mocking him.
“I’ll kill you, I promise,” he growled, the whiskey fueling his words.
Breathless at his momentary lapse of control, Father Murray backed away and stared at the school picture of Raphael he had salvaged from the archives of Holy Innocents’ vault.
Raphael had Sister Maria.
“She’s nothing, Father Murray,” Father Quinn had said when she had disappeared from the club. “She was a nun who easily shed her chastity. Like all women, she is a product of Eve. Weak and easily tempted. She was disposable. I hope he killed her slowly.” Father Quinn placed his old hand on Father Murray’s shoulder. “We will get them. Our day with the Fallen will come. The Lord will soon show us another path.”
Father Murray pulled at his hair. He didn’t care if Sister Maria was dead. He cared that Raphael had bested him again.
His skin itched with fury. His muscles twitched with the need to do something. To go after the heathen. Father Quinn had to reconsider his stance. Before Father Murray could see sense, he jumped out of his chair, the buzz from the whiskey in his blood taking the wheel. He stormed down Purgatory’s barren hallway until he arrived at Father Quinn’s door. Without even knocking, Father Murray slammed his way through the high priest’s quarters. He stopped at the desk. Father Quinn was changing his robes, his bare chest on display. Father Murray’s cock hardened as he looked at the man who had been his teenage savior. The man who had rid him of his own demon.
Father Quinn paused in his dressing. Father Murray knew the high priest must have returned from cleansing a child.
“Father Murray.” Father Quinn’s voice was neutral in tone, but Father Murray felt the shivers race down his spine at the angered expression on his face. “You weren’t invited in here.”
“We have to get Sister Maria,” he snapped. Father Quinn dropped his shirt to the floor. The zipper of his slacks were open, his underwear’s band visible underneath. “He can’t have her. He needs to be stopped. I’m sick of them winning! Sick of their sins and evil ways.”
Father Murray panted after his tirade. Father Quinn was deathly silent, until, “Come here, Francis.” Father Murray lost his breath as Father Quinn stepped back from his desk by a foot. The high priest’s cock hardened under his slacks. With Father Murray’s attention still on him, Father Quinn pulled out his length. “In front of me, demon.” Father Murray felt the demon inside him scuttling away to hide. But he ignored the rushing of his evil-tainted blood and moved to Father Quinn. Turning, Father Murray bent over his high priest’s desk, lifted his robes, and pulled down his pants. His hands lay flat on the old wooden desk before him. He felt Father Quinn take hold of hips, and he held his breath as Father Quinn pushed inside him. Father Murray’s eyes rolled back. This was what he needed. Like when he was a boy, he needed Father Quinn to rid him of his evil, keep the devil at bay. Sweat beaded on Father Murray’s forehead as pleasure began to build in his groin. He fought back a moan, but the sound slipped from his lips. Father Quinn stilled. The older man leaned over him, and Father Quinn’s mouth met his ear. “I cleanse you of the evil in your soul.” He slammed into Father Murray. Father Murray cried out, but Father Quinn didn’t stop. Instead, he pushed on, Father Murray’s cock growing impossibly hard. Then Father Murray felt it. The agonizing rush of pain in his erection. He glanced down to see Father Quinn’s hands on his cock, a fine needle being pushed into the tip. Blood poured from him, lancing the evil from his flesh. His cock quickly lost its erection, and Father Quinn released inside him, purifying him of the ever-threatening darkness that would forever dwell inside him.
Father Murray laid his cheek on the wooden table, the needle still in his dick. Father Quinn pulled out, his holy seed dripping down Father Murray’s legs. Father Murray felt like he was fourteen again. An evil boy being exorcised by Father Quinn.
He’d saved him.
Father Murray loved him.
Father Quinn came to stand beside him, cock spent. Father Murray stared up at him. Father Quinn’s hand pressed to his cheek. “There, Francis. The darkness is defeated for another day.”
“Thank you, Father,” he whispered, voice fractured with the heady cocktail of pain and pleasure. Father Quinn reached down and pulled the needle from Father Murray’s soft cock. Father Murray knew there’d be another scar to add to his already ruined flesh. But they were scars of triumph over evil. Of his ongoing battle with the devil.
One that his high priest would never let him lose.
Father Quinn held his hand out for Father Murray. Father Murray kissed his fingers, and Father Quinn rewarded him with a caress on the cheek. Kneeling down, Father Quinn stroked Father Murray’s sweaty hair. “You need to practice patience, my child. God will bring the Fallen into our arms again. You must be patient. They may have won this battle, but we will win the crusade.”
“Yes, Father.” Father Murray got to his feet. He tucked his throbbing cock into his pants and left the room. Dazed and light-headed, he made his way to his room, feeling calmer now that Father Quinn had silenced the demon in his soul.
Forcing himself to sit, Father Murray poured another whiskey. The fire roared before him, the hot flames matching his inner ambition. “One day, Raphael,” he said to the almost-ruined photograph. “I’ll destroy you.” Father Murray smiled. “And you will finally repent.”
Chapter Seven
Maria wasn’t sure how long she had been waiting in the day room. There was no clock on the wall. She glanced down at the Band-Aid on her arm. Peeling it back, she took it from her skin and stared down at the tiny mark where the priest, Gabriel, had taken her blood. She had no idea why. But she didn’t argue. What was the point?
You are not to leave his rooms again . . .
She wasn’t going home. It was done. God had shown her His decision through Gabriel.
It is decided.
Maria took a calming breath and thought back to the room full of men. She tried to make sense of what she had found. Were they all killers? Did Father Quinn and Father Murray know? And Gabriel, the priest. Was he facilitating this evil behavior?
Maria was losing herself to those thoughts when she heard the lock begin
to turn. She held her breath, waiting to see who would enter, then an older man in a suit came through the door. “Ms. Maria?” he asked, politely.
“Yes.”
“If you’d like to follow me.” He turned and held the door open for her. Maria ignored her trembling legs as she rose from the couch and made her way across the day room and to the . . . butler? She thought he was a butler. A mansion of this size no doubt came with staff.
“This way, please,” he said. Maria self-consciously pulled at the t-shirt she wore, trying in vain to protect her modesty. The butler didn’t even give her a second glance, just dutifully led her upstairs. Did he know too? Know about the nature of the men he served?
Maria didn’t see anyone else as she passed through the mansion, through countless hallways adorned with paintings and furnishings that she assumed would be worth millions. Gabriel had obviously trusted that she wouldn’t try to run. She wouldn’t. She had no idea where she even was.
Finally, she was brought to a familiar door. The butler knocked three times. Maria’s heart pounded just as loudly as the butler’s hand rapping on the wood. She heard footsteps approaching from the other side. When the door opened, Maria had to swallow back her nerves. Raphael stood on the other side. His lean, muscled torso was bare, and he wore only a pair of black silk pajama bottoms. His feet were bare too. Raphael’s cheeks were flushed and his dark hair fell over his forehead, the messy strands only emphasizing his incredible beauty.
“Sir,” the butler said, breaking through Maria’s thoughts. The butler walked away. Maria watched him go until he disappeared around the corner. When she turned back to the doorway of Raphael’s room, he was waiting.
“Little rose.” Raphael’s voice was low and soft, seductive. Confusion flooded Maria’s body. He’d told her if she escaped, if she ran, she would be punished. He didn’t speak to her as if she were to be punished. “Are you coming in?”
Raphael’s voice was as smooth as the silk that draped over his lean hips. A small smile was etched on his full lips. The look was devastatingly handsome. His dimples showed, and his long lashes kissed his upper cheeks when he blinked. He still wore the silver upturned cross in his left ear.
Maria made her feet move over the threshold. She heard Raphael shut the door behind her. Then she felt him move closer to her back. Her breath was labored, her feet rooted to the plush carpet beneath her feet. “Come,” he whispered in her ear, his sea-salty and fresh water scent cocooning her. He walked farther into the room. He paused when she didn’t follow. Raphael held out his hand. “This way.” His lip twitched. “I won’t bite.”
Maria put her shaking hand in his. His palm was warm. Maria’s heart beat an irregular rhythm as Raphael folded his hand securely around hers. It felt like the hold of a lover, protective, nurturing. Not that she would know, but from what she had observed and read it seemed familiar. Raphael led her to the closet. When he opened the door, she had to blink at what lay before her. This was the same closet she had been bound and gagged in, and yet it wasn’t. All of Raphael’s clothes were gone, and in their place was a rail of white floor-length dresses. They had thin straps, and slits up their floor-length skirts. Maria swallowed when she saw that they were slightly sheer. She looked away, and her eyes traveled to the bed in the center of the room. It was also dressed in white. The mattress and comforter looked plush and soft. White pillows lay at the top of the bed. Maria’s stomach rolled when she saw bright red roses in a vase on a side table. A lamp illuminated the room.
“Do you like it?”
Maria turned her head to Raphael. It wasn’t until she glanced down that she realized her hand still lay in his. She went to pull it away, but Raphael held on tightly. He moved before her, and Maria couldn’t look away from the mesmerizing sight of his golden eyes if she tried.
“I want you to be comfortable while you’re here.”
Maria knew she should have kept her mouth closed, but she had to ask, “Why?” Her gaze roved around the room. It was the prettiest room she had been in in a very long time. Her attention snagged on the roses again, and she had to fight back the tears the red blooms threatened to cause, the painful memories they tried to evoke. “You told me that if I escaped, if I left the room . . . there would be punishment. This . . . this feels like a reward.”
Raphael sighed and dropped his head. He looked up at her through impossibly long black lashes. He was perfection. She feared she would never get used to his stunning looks. “I was angry that you left,” he said and dropped her hand. Maria couldn’t help but notice how empty her hand suddenly felt. “I can get angry sometimes. But I’m trying to be better at controlling it.” Raphael’s lip curved up, a flicker of a smile ghosting on his mouth. “I thought there was no time like the present to start.” Raphael ran his hand over the back of his neck. To Maria, the move looked nervous. But she kept her guard. She knew she shouldn’t believe a word out of his beautiful mouth. “I had the staff make up this room for you while you’re here.”
Maria inhaled a shaky breath. “And . . .” She straightened her shoulders. “And how long will that be? That I’ll be here . . . with you?” She didn’t want to ask the real question—how long before he would kill her. Maria would rather face death blindly. She didn’t want to count down her days.
Raphael’s eyes narrowed for a second and his head lifted. He smiled at Maria, ran his thread-wrapped finger down her cheek, then turned to the clothes rail, dismissing her question. He lifted one of the identical gauze dresses and brought it to where she stood. “Change.” Raphael handed Maria the dress. She took it. “You must be hungry. I have dinner coming any minute now.”
Raphael left the room, and Maria watched him go. He turned and met her eyes as he closed the closet doors. She heard him move away. Only when she believed him to be out of earshot did she release a choked breath and drop to the edge of the bed. She searched around the room, trying to understand what all of this meant. She viewed the opulence of the room and furnishings, but she could still feel the phantom hands of Raphael thrusting her against the wall of the club and cutting off her air with unyielding hands. Maria sat on the bed, closed her eyes. And she prayed. Please help me, she silently begged God. Am I here to guide him to your grace? Am I here to find any good inside him that remains, to bring him into the light? Maria pushed away the memory of him choking her and embraced the one of him protecting her, of pressing her against the wall so his brothers couldn’t see her. A strange flicker of heat burst in her chest. Maria closed her eyes and felt that warmth spread over her body like a blanket. She smiled and tipped her head back. Maria knew in that second that it was the Lord. It was Him confirming what she was here to do.
Save him, she thought. You are here to save him. By any means. You are here to save his damned soul.
Maria heard a quiet knock on the door that led to Raphael’s rooms. It was quickly followed by the scent of food drifting under the closed closet doors. Maria’s stomach growled. But she wasn’t sure she could eat. Her stomach was in knots. She didn’t understand Raphael. He was violent, yes. But he had spared her life. If he had wanted her dead, he only had to have strangled her a few seconds more. And the way he was acting now . . . the kindness, the smiles, the room . . . He was making her feel safe.
Maria knew this would be the biggest test of her faith.
Hearing the door to Raphael’s rooms close, Maria quickly shed Raphael’s t-shirt and pulled the white dress over her head. She stared at her reflection in the full-length mirror that leaned against the wall. Maria swallowed. Most of her naked body underneath was concealed. But even though the material was more opaque than she had originally thought, she could still see the outline of her breasts, the dusky pink of her nipples. She turned and, with trembling hands, ran her hands under her hair and along her back. Relief surged through her when her skin was concealed by the neckline. It wasn’t high by any means, dipping low into a V, baring her shoulder blades. But it hid what so pained her, what her long hair disguised
.
“Little rose?” Raphael said from the other side of the door. “The food has arrived. Come and eat.”
Maria glanced at herself in the mirror one last time and blinked. She could do this. She must. It was God’s will.
Maria opened the closet door. Music was playing from a room beyond the bedroom. Maria followed the sound of familiar hymns that she sang at church. Wordless versions, soft voices humming and harmonizing, only playing loud enough to drown out the stringent sound of silence.
When she walked through the archway that led to what appeared to be a lounge, Maria stopped. Raphael stood beside a large fireplace. A table had been set for two, with domed silver trays and tall candelabras in the center. Raphael was staring into the flames, unaware of Maria’s presence. So Maria watched him. He had not changed; he remained in the black silk pants, his chest bare. His dark hair had fallen over his eyes, obstructing her view of his face. His hand was in a fist as he leaned against the marble mantlepiece. He looked so young in the soothing orange glow. Innocent and pure. The true perfection of an archangel, just like his namesake.
In theology, the archangel Raphael was a great healer. Maria felt nothing but sadness at the irony. This Raphael only wanted to kill. The very opposite of what his name symbolized.
Raphael must have finally sensed Maria’s presence as he turned his head and caught her standing in the doorway. Raphael’s eyes widened, his lips parted, and Maria believed that, in that moment, Raphael was not faking his reaction to how she looked.
He roved his golden eyes over her body. Maria wasn’t sure if it was due to the heat from the fire or to his perusal of her in the white dress, but a faint blush burst onto Raphael’s stubbled cheeks.
“You look beautiful,” he rasped. Maria tried not to feel the compliment in her heart. But she had not been paid too many compliments her life. The deadly sin of vanity reared its ugly head inside her soul and made her feel nothing but shame at Raphael’s unexpected attention.