“Take me to the others.”
54
JOHNSON PUSHES BARTHOLOMEW ROUGHLY ASIDE IN his eagerness to get his hands on me.
Once again, like an idiot, I’m frozen to the ground. My mouth hangs open as my brain screams commands to my useless body:
GET UP! FIGHT! RUN! SURVIVE!
SAVE THEM!
“I . . . wait . . .”
Johnson reaches for me and my mind goes blank. All I can think to do is scream, and I’m about to do so when Andrew’s crozier smashes into the side of the big man’s scorched, hideous face. His head knocks to the side, and he appears momentarily dazed. I turn my head to see Byron gripping the staff like a Mongolian warrior bracing for an onslaught of cavalry.
Samuel, who he somehow wrested it from, looks dazed as well, his lip bloodied. Byron must have knocked him in the teeth before he grabbed the weapon.
The action jars me from my wretched stupidity and in a burst I find my feet.
Is this the moment? Our last stand?
So be it.
I’m ready to fight.
“Stop!” Bartholomew yells, and whether he’s addressing my group or his own or Johnson, I have no clue. All I know is everyone stops, at least for a moment. “Johnson, how fucking stupid are you? You oafish, dumb ox,” he says, and his fiery eyes meet mine. “I’ve changed my mind. Kill Byron instead. I want Peter to watch his friend die.”
Byron roars and swings the staff once more, but this time Johnson is ready and catches it neatly. He rips it from Byron’s grip and throws it aside. Before Byron can retreat, Johnson reaches out with his big hands and grips his head, yanks the stout boy toward him.
Byron screams as Johnson drops to a knee, wraps an arm around the child’s throat and begins to squeeze. Over Byron’s reddening face, Johnson looks at me with that one hideous eye, as if the pleasure of his kill is reflected in my face, and he is eager to study it.
“Peter, do something!” Finnegan yells.
Yes! I must! But what? I have no weapon, no bloody cross, no hammer, no knife.
I don’t have the strength to pull Byron free, and we are outnumbered.
The others laugh and yell. They prod Johnson onward, scream words of encouragement as Byron’s life is slowly taken.
“Johnson! Stop!” I say, trying for my most commanding—most priestly, most adult—voice.
But he only adds pressure. Byron’s eyelids flutter, his face turns red as a turnip. His legs weaken, which only increases the pressure on his throat.
I don’t know how, or why, the thought comes to me. I only know that it does.
I think of it when I remember the vial of holy water in my pocket.
I pull the vial free and yank out the stopper. My mind is blank, chaotic, completely overrun with panic and fear and a mad desperation. My actions seem not my own.
I throw the water at Johnson’s face.
His eye opens wide, as if in shock. Water drips down the burnt skin, glistens on the bloodied fabric melted into his face.
The practiced words of baptism spill from my mouth like oil.
“Theodore Johnson, dost thou believe in Jesus Christ, His only-begotten Son, our Lord, who was born and suffered for us?”
Finnegan tugs at my elbow. “Peter, what are you doing?” he hisses.
Amazingly, I notice Johnson’s hold on Byron loosen. The boy gasps in a short, tight breath. Johnson gives me the faintest of nods.
“Enough! Kill that boy!” Bartholomew screams, and I turn on him.
“Quiet demon!” I shout the command, can almost feel my heart bursting with inner light. With strength. “You are in the presence of God!”
I notice a few of the others take a step back. Bartholomew’s mouth clamps shut.
I put my focus back on Johnson, gently place a hand on the arm tucked against Byron’s throat, willing it to let go. I speak quickly, confidently. “Do you believe in the Holy Ghost, the Holy Catholic Church, the Communion of Saints, the forgiveness of sins, the resurrection of the flesh, and life everlasting?”
Johnson tries to speak, but nothing comes from his mouth but a gurgle, followed by a squeak I can’t decipher.
I take it as a yes.
“Theodore Johnson, I baptize you in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit.” I step closer and make the mark of the cross over him. I dare not touch his flesh, but I place a gentle hand on his shoulder, my eyes locked onto his own.
I hardly notice when Byron squirms free and steps away, scurries behind me.
A swollen tear leaves the giant’s eye, and I rush the words. “By the blood of Jesus Christ your sins are washed away.” I let out a large breath I did not know I was holding. The light leaves my body, and I realize the enormity of what’s occurred. I tremble, but force myself to carry on, to finish it. Breathless, and as astonished as anyone that this somehow worked, I complete the ritual. “May God the Father bless you and keep you.”
And it’s done.
There’s a quiet to the room. A stillness. As if we’ve all been frozen in time and place.
Even the howling wind of the storm seems oddly muffled. Johnson continues to stare at me in a sort of wonder. His head tilts, as if listening for something. In a thick, rough voice he whispers something odd.
“No more flies.”
I nod, though I don’t understand. Even worse, I have no idea what’s to come next. Then I hear David.
“Peter!” His voice comes from the hallway.
And with it, a sound reminiscent of distant thunder.
“You still alive in there?” he yells, his voice muffled by the closed doors.
David . . . alive?
All this horror has turned bizarre, and everyone seems equally stunned at the turn of events. I look at Byron, who stares at me questioningly, then shrugs, all the while rubbing his sore neck.
“I’m here!” I yell, loudly as I can, waiting for Johnson to grab me or a boy to run me through or Bartholomew to leap at me. But none of this happens. “There are several of us!”
The rolling thunder gets closer, closer.
There’s a thump at the doors.
Finally, the moment breaks, and Bartholomew hisses at Simon, who stands beside him. “Simon! Go!”
Simon nods and runs toward the doors, Terrence following right behind.
David, run! I think, but then he yells out again, and I’m thrown back into confusion.
“Peter!” From the nearness of his voice, he must be just outside the doors. The two boys who’ve been guarding the entrance pull the long candlestick from the handles, prepare to pull the doors open.
When David’s voice comes again, it’s further away.
A sick worry stirs my stomach.
I have the sudden, overwhelming sense that something very bad is about to happen.
“I’m sorry!” he says.
And the doors are pulled wide.
55
HAVING RUN AT A DEAD SPRINT BACK DOWN THE LENGTH of the hallway—doing his best not to slip in the trail of oil he’s spilled rolling the cursed barrel from the balcony to the dormitory—David reaches Poole just as he hears the doors opening, followed immediately by angry voices.
Poole thrusts the lit lantern into his hands.
“Now, you fool!”
David grabs the lantern and spins.
The long hallway is dark, but instead of terminating at the shadowed wall of the dormitory entrance, it ends at a lantern-lit room. He sees a handful of faces looking back at him—some with confusion, some with pure hate.