A future that will never come.
“I am,” I say. Tears sting my eyes.
It’s decided. I’ve decided.
I’m sorry Grace.
“Are you resolved to consecrate your life to God . . . for the salvation of his people, and to unite yourself to Christ?”
“I am, with the help of God,” I say, and feel something shift inside me. A rush of strength flows through my body, coursing from my heart to my limbs. A growing warmth that clears my mind like an elixir.
Andrew moves his hand into his pocket, pulls out the small jar of holy water.
“Help me . . .” he says.
I press his fingers around the bottle with my own, pull free the cork stopper. He puts a thumb on the opening and tilts it until water trickles out. I stopper it for him once more, then take it from his dying hand.
He moves his thumb to my forehead. With a shaking finger he makes the mark of the cross. “May God, who has begun the good work within you . . . bring it to fulfillment.”
It’s done.
Only now do I notice a single witness to this bloody ceremony. Hiding under the bed beyond Andrew is Finnegan, wide-eyed and watching. Listening.
Andrew’s eyes roll wildly away from me. He blinks rapidly and coughs a spray of blood.
“There is light . . .” he says, then his head rolls to me a final time. He looks almost relaxed. In a strange way I can’t fathom . . . content. His eyes are bright, as if in wonder.
“There is light all around you . . .” he says weakly, then closes his eyes.
My father is gone.
After a brief moment, I slide out from under the bed. I grip the crozier.
Pushing gently against Andrew’s body, I’m able to squeeze out and stand, still holding the staff. I tuck the holy water into my pocket.
To my left, a small group huddles against the far wall. Byron stands in front of them, fighting off anyone who dares come too close. A few of the others dance around him, jeering, mocking. All around me are blood-soaked beds, blood-spattered bodies.
For the first time since the attack, I spot Bartholomew. He stands calmly to the side of the open doors, watching the scene play out. For a brief moment, our eyes meet, and he looks surprised. Then he smiles. The shadows blacken his teeth.
There is movement in my peripheral vision. I turn in time to see a boy rushing at me, a knife bared in his grip.
Jonah.
I raise the staff defensively and thrust it at his chest. He stops, hops to the left and I follow, stabbing forward again. He laughs.
“Time to die, Saint Peter,” he says.
Then he winces in pain, looks to the floor. I follow his eyes and see Finnegan, half-crawled from his hiding place. At some point, he’s picked up a bloodied knife.
And stabbed it through Jonah’s foot.
“Leave us alone!” he yells, then scrambles back beneath the bed.
Without thinking, I drop the crozier and spin back toward Andrew’s body. I grip the top of the cross sticking out of his midsection.
Forgive me.
I yank on the cross with both hands. It slides out deceptively easy, almost knocking me off balance. I spin back toward Jonah, already swinging. He has a split-second to look surprised before the point of the cross’s arm strikes his temple. There’s a sickening thunk and I feel the metal sink into his skull.
Jonah collapses to the ground, convulses once, then goes still.
Beside me, someone has snatched up Andrew’s crozier. I turn to see Timothy, eyes blazing. Blood is sprayed across his face, his clothes. When he speaks, he does not stutter.
“I’m with you, Peter,” he says.
I nod, step into the middle of the room. Byron, having laid down his tormentors, leaves those he’d been guarding to stand beside me. The three of us now form a weak blockade against the young, defenseless ones gathered behind us. The fighting has slowed, but there are small battles going on around the room as boys try to kill or survive.
Enough.
I raise the blood-slick cross above my head, feel the cool rivulets of a stolen life slide down my wrist.
“STOP!” I scream. “Stop in the name of Our Lord! Stop in the name of Jesus Christ!”
To my surprise, the attackers slow, as if tired.
Then stop.
Two of ours who’d been in combat with the others take the momentary distraction to scramble away, hurrying to relative safety. All of the others have turned toward me.
I take another step forward, still holding the cross aloft. My hand shakes. I have no idea what I’m doing, have no concept of power or command. I only know that my path has been chosen, and my mission is clear: save who can be saved. Whatever it takes.
But who remains?
Behind me, there are now barely a handful of children. A few of them, like Thomas, not even big enough to hold a shovel, much less fight. A few make their way, wounded, to a distant wall or corner. Otherwise, there is only Timothy, Byron, and me.
Even so, were it not for Johnson, I think we could take them. We are at least equal to the five or six remaining boys who stand across from us, hands fisted with metal, eyes wide with murderous rage.
For now, though, the battle has paused.
I do an accounting of those we face: Simon, Terrence, Samuel, Aubrey.
Little Jonathan.
Bartholomew.
Johnson.
Slowly, Bartholomew steps to the front of his group, all of them blood-soaked and panting. Johnson, seemingly back on whatever leash they have him tethered to, simply stands to the side, eye aimed at nothing.
I study the swirling shadows dancing around them. I can sense the depths of their evil, know that what I only considered before is the truth.
I am not looking into the faces of boys, of orphans. Of children.
I am looking at the possessed.
I am looking at demons.
Keeping the cross raised above my head, I take a few tentative steps forward. Bartholomew raises a hand toward his followers, staying them. He also steps forward, as if he and I have silently agreed to a parlay.
When he nears, I press the heavy cross toward him. In the grip of my outstretched arm, the bloodied iron is only inches from his black eyes.
“In the name of Jesus Christ,” I say, not knowing the right words, not knowing anything. I muster all my confidence, all the supposed power bestowed in me by Andrew, and forge ahead. I search for the light. “Be gone, demons!” I say, my voice rising. “Torture us no longer. I command you to leave in the name of the Lord God, Jesus Christ, and the Holy Spirit.”
My arm trembles, as does my voice, but I force strength into both of them.
I will not fail.
Bartholomew says nothing for a moment, as if pondering. His eyes stay fixed on mine, black and empty. For a moment, as he breathes this close to me, he appears almost normal.
It’s hard not to see him as nothing more than another skinny orphan. If anything, he looks tired.
“I fear, good Peter,” he says, “that you’ve misjudged us.”
Finnegan comes to life behind me. “That’s Father Peter!” he yells defiantly. “He’s a priest now. I heard it, I heard Andrew give him the words!”
There’s a noticeable stirring among the boys. All the boys.
I notice Johnson shift his body at Finnegan’s words. He looks at me directly, that one gruesome eye focused on me with a devil’s interest.
“Well then, it sounds like congratulations are in order. By the looks of it,” Bartholomew says, looking at the carnage around us, “we’re going to need some new priests around here.”