Bless me as you blessed the Archangel Michael against the dragon.
Johnny’s knees wavered as he took one step toward the bed. Then, another. He should not be on his feet, he realized. He would faint before he could shoot.
The monk was nuzzling Caitlin’s neck; or he might be biting her, from the pain wrenching her tear-streaked face. But Caitlin’s face softened when she saw Johnny, her eyes wide and clear.
The gun seemed to weigh fifty pounds, but Johnny lifted it and pointed. The room slid out of focus with every heartbeat. Caitlin and the monk were side by side. He had to walk closer.
Bless me as you bless all believers against the Beast, Lord.
Johnny’s last step was a stumble. His arm ached from the gun’s burden, but the back of the monk’s head looked close enough to touch. The monk chuckled, taunting Caitlin’s ear.
Johnny pulled the trigger.
Nothing. The trigger wouldn’t give. The room was silent, except for Caitlin’s feigned whimpers that didn’t match her eyes, begging Johnny to shoot.
His gun was jammed! Johnny heaved for air, silently. Doubt welled up, ready to bury him. The monk would see him soon. I need you, Lord. Please don’t forsake me now.
“Safety!” Caitlin called out, the same instant Johnny remembered. “Thumb!”
The monk raised his head to look at Johnny; an easier target. Johnny’s thumb found the lever and pushed. When the lever wouldn’t go up, he clicked it down. Johnny felt calm to his bones even as he watched the monk’s arm snap for his own gun, racing him.
The monk’s hand was only halfway to his holster when they both knew he was dead.
The monk grinned like a ghoul, leering with gray teeth.
This time, Johnny Wright’s gun fired six times straight.
Thirty-four
Somewhere, there might have been gunshots.
Otherwise, the room was silent, or seemed to be. Fana’s ears took in no sounds.
Who are you? Fana quivered as she stared at his face, learning and unlearning. She could barely keep steady on her feet. Her teeth chattered; the room was suddenly frigid.
He was a name with no face, and a face with no name. He was a stranger, yet she knew him. She knew which soccer shirt he had worn on his fifth birthday, and the way he liked his steaks to bleed. His memories were nearly as vivid as hers; some of them more so, especially from his childhood. The new memories collided with Charlie, dominoes falling in her head.
Fana sobbed. Why?
Something stirred at her feet. Fana’s bare foot had backed against her robe (you showed yourself to him and let him touch you), and the fabric moved as if a raccoon had scurried beneath it. Suddenly the robe flew up in a swoop. Fana gasped as the cloth billowed toward her, chasing her when she sidestepped it. When the fabric lighted across Fana’s shoulders, she screamed and flung it off. The robe slid across the floor, limp.
COVER YOURSELF, his voice said. IT WON’T HURT YOU.
Fana felt silly, which only enraged her. She hated giving him the satisfaction of seeing her startled by such a simple levitation. She grabbed the robe from the floor and flung it around herself, trying to close any gap where she might give him another stolen gaze. Remnants of arousal chafed her. Fana trembled with rage at the memory of his touch.
I HATED LYING TO YOU, FANA. I’M SORRY.
His true voice was chilling in its foreignness. Standing near him felt like swimming against a current, and Fana’s mind whirled. Now Fana understood how her mother had felt when they’d tried to meditate together, and Mom had said she’d felt her racing away.
He adjusted his thoughts, trying to give her clarity, to slow down for her. She felt his efforts, but he was still a blizzard. His unfiltered presence made Fana’s head hurt, but she didn’t block him out. Instead, she waded more deeply into him. She didn’t like what she saw in his head, but it was better than not seeing.
He could kill her with a thought. And he believed he loved her. His love for her was as real as the blood on the Rolfsons’ wall.
He turned away, as if to give her privacy. Fana didn’t trust the shame he seemed to feel.
“You killed them.” Fana spoke aloud. Her voice was shaky, but words carried more significance when they were aired out. “A whole family. A minister.”
A HERETIC.
“A fourteen-year-old boy! There’s no way to justify it. You’re a murderer!”
AM I THE ONLY ONE OF US WHO HAS KILLED? He made himself sound gentle.
Fana’s wrists shook. She still didn’t have control of her body. She didn’t think he was manipulating her limbs—she hoped she could tell—but his presence made her body forget itself. Rage was so foreign to her that it blotted out her muscles. It blotted everything.
Fana’s face flamed. “I was three years old!”
YOU WERE READY TO HAVE ME KILL THOSE MONKS IN THE VAN. EVERY KILLER HAS REASONS. OUR LIVES WERE ORDAINED FOR US, NO DIFFERENT FROM THAT BABE PAINTED BY DA VINCI’S HAND.
In her fearful indignation, Fana’s knees knocked together. “You’re deluded! You’ve forgotten everything He grew up to say.”
THE LETTER OF THE WITNESS SPEAKS ALL, FANA.
“Did that letter tell you to kill Maritza?” Fana said. “What else would Jesus do with this blood except give it to the sick?”
“WREST THIS BLOOD FROM THE HANDS OF THE WICKED.”
“You’re the wicked! That’s what you’ve become. Those were innocent people!”
I WOULD GRIEVE TO HARM A TRUE INNOCENT. I HATE HURTING YOU, FANA.
“Use your voice,” she said. “I don’t want any part of you inside of me.”
His face stiffened. Her words could lash him. Good.
He stepped away to pick up his own shirt, quickly pulling it over his head and tucking it into his jeans. “I could have ridden you,” he said. “Like a horse. I chose not to.”
“So it’s better to lie?”
“Isn’t it?” he said.
His eyelashes made Fana’s stomach cinch; she nearly vomited from mourning Charlie’s memory. She turned her face away. She couldn’t look at the Frida painting either. Instead, she forced her unsteady legs toward the door. She heard a lock click as soon as she got close. The air seemed to ripple as a humming sound skated past her ear.
“Let me go!” she said.
“I can’t, Fana,” he whispered. He took a step, as if to comfort her. But only one.
As she probed him, the humming rattled Fana’s teeth. A cloud traveled from the room’s eastern windows to the northern ones, slowly stealing the moonlight. The room was getting dark, casting the paintings in Shadows.
“Where’s my family?” Fana said.
The blizzard in his head gave way to a blank spot. He was still withholding from her, she realized. What else was so horrible that he wouldn’t want her to see?
“Show me,” she said. “Right now.”
A kaleidoscope of images from home battered Fana. Blood. Weapons. Tears.
Gramma Bea.
Fana screamed, remembering Gramma Bea’s visage on the roadside with trauma so fresh it was stamped on her face. “I never got the chance to say good-bye!” Fana said.
“I’m sorry, Fana.”
Fana’s knees gave way, and she slid to the floor. She had suspected that Gramma Bea was dead, but it was worse to know her suffering. Gramma Bea should have passed quietly in her sleep, or doing something she loved. Gramma Bea could have died well.
“You’re SICK!” Fana shrieked from the floor.
He offered his hand, standing high above her. “Heal me, then.”
The floor’s vibration roiled beneath her. That same power had lifted their feet from the ground while they’d kissed, she remembered. The floating sensation had been real, not just her love-struck imagination! Had the Shadows carried her? Fana had shied away from the Shadows since her first taste, but he breathed Shadows as if they were oxygen.
They came to Fana as soon as she stopped ignoring their call, flushing her wit
h giddiness. The humming suddenly thrilled Fana the way his fingers had thrilled her skin, scores of gentle tendrils. Fana’s skin and mind crackled, charged. The humming was deafening.
Fana stared at Michel, realizing she had never hated anyone so much. As soon as the thought came to her, blood crawled from his right nostril in a teardrop.
Did I do that? A pinch of concentration, and blood trickled from his left nostril too, resting above his lip. Am I hiding from him somehow?
Yes. Hiding in the Shadows.
Fana imagined Michel’s mind as light patterns, like the firefence she had learned to evade at home. She felt herself eluding him, too, predicting his probes. She hid inside the pathways his mind’s potent stream carved in her, like riding on a lion’s back.
Blood dripped to his shirt, and he stared down. “I’m bleeding.” He sounded shocked.
Fana’s heart thrashed with both fear and exaltation. She forced herself to her feet.
“The Cleansing starts now,” Fana said. “With you.”
Fana rode the Shadows’ surge. His ears bled next, spurts across his neck. He winced in pain as he clapped his hands to his ears. He looked at her, confused.
“Fana…you would try to kill me?” he said. He sounded exactly like Charlie, because a part of him was Charlie, of course. How else had he created Charlie so convincingly?
He created Charlie to hurt you. He wanted Charlie to touch you.
The man with Charlie’s face cried out and lurched in anguish, backing into an end table, crashing it on its side. When he spun, blood oozed from his mouth. He gazed at her, wide-eyed. Even knowing who he was, Fana couldn’t stand to watch him suffer. She turned away.
“You’re a quick study,” he said. His throat gurgled.
“I’ve had practice,” she said. “Remember? I killed a Life Brother when I was three. You’ll lose every drop, just like him.”
“But he wasn’t me, Fana,” he said, gasping. “I shouldn’t bleed from you.”
“Your mistake,” Fana said. “You let me in.”
He spat. Blood splattered the spotless floor.
“Re…” His chest heaved, his breathing became labored, and he spat again. He smiled widely, with bloodied teeth. “Remarkable. You’re exquisite. Papa was right…”
Slowly, his smile faded. His face, streaked crimson, lost its humor. “I hope you understand, Fana…” He tried to straighten, bracing himself against the wall, where his palms left a collage of bloody handprints. “I can’t allow this.”
His arrogance was infuriating. The Shadows surged through her, and he howled.
“Don’t be naive!” he shouted. He spat again. “You think because you’re hiding, I can’t find you? That I’m defenseless? Fana, please—don’t make me hurt you. The time comes when…you can’t stop yourself…”
Fana closed her eyes so she wouldn’t have to watch him bleed to death. He might have Charlie’s face, but his voice was not Charlie’s. Between agonized groans, he vomited blood.
DON’T MAKE ME KILL YOU! he screamed, just when she had hoped he was dead. IT WOULD BE WORSE THAN KILLING MYSELF, FANA.
“Then kill yourself,” Fana said. “My way will hurt more.”
DON’T
His thoughts babbled, snuffed.
Suddenly, a vise encircled Fana’s head, tightening her eyes in their sockets. While Fana was still absorbing the scope of the agony—it was new and dizzying; worse than physical pain—a water glass danced on the nightstand, then fell and broke. Paintings jumped from the walls in succession, cracking wooden frames. The floor shook violently, nearly swaying.
Earthquake. But it wasn’t nature’s work. He was causing it. Or she was. Or both.
STOP, FANA, OR I’LL HAVE TO HURT YOU. SHOW YOURSELF TO ME.
“I’ll die before you touch me.”
THAT PAIN YOU FEEL IS ONLY A TASTE. FERMATI! STOP THIS
Fana felt his probe riding with her inside the humming. He couldn’t penetrate her mask to control her body, but he could find the source of his pain. He held on, fighting to turn the currents she was riding against her. His strength was a wonder.
I can’t win, she realized. No wonder he had begged her to stop! If he couldn’t unmask her, his only defense was deflection. The pain wasn’t from him: He was only sending it back to her. Soon, she would be bleeding, if she wasn’t already.
Even if she killed him, she would die too.
Don’t wanna die for a while…I think I’ll fly for a while
Reflexively, Fana tried to retreat, to separate from the Shadows. But suddenly the humming was the only thing she could hear, even as she watched furniture tumbling around her. The bowl of mango fell to the floor, breaking in silence. The humming clogged her ears.
He said she might not be able to stop. Maybe everything out of his mouth isn’t a lie.
Nosebleeds always came first. Warm blood dripped across her lips and chin.
Fana tried to be ready, but the ripping sensations surprised her. Her insides cramped and twisted, wringing out. Her vision shifted, and the light in the room faded to dim red.
She looked at her white robe, dotted with blood. Fana’s throat and cheeks burned as her veins and capillaries burst, and blood spilled out of her mouth. The salty, coppery taste drowned her tongue. Fana’s heart wriggled, struggling. A mountain sat atop her chest, smothering her.
Fana’s body craved the fetal position, but she staggered to stay on her feet. She looked up at him and saw the horror on his face, inside his bloody mask.
FANA PLEASE DON’T MAKE ME.
Another surge came, from nowhere and everywhere. This time, both of them screamed.
Senseless with suffering, Fana threw herself against the trembling wall, where her bare feet slipped against spatters of blood on the floor. She fell in a heap, her muscles locked. Hot blood escaping her ears snaked across her collarbone.
Michel grunted, as if he was carrying a heavy load, and he pulled himself upright. His teeth were gritted so hard that it transformed his face, expanding his jaw. His body shook violently, as if his skin could pull itself free.
As Michel stood taller, the Shadows stole everything. Fana watched his face fading above her as her eyes shut down, locking her in darkness. The Shadows’ humming tried to overtake her, but her favorite music was alive in her, untouched. Don’t wanna die for a while…
Fana was too racked with pain to be afraid, but she felt sad for Mom and Dad. She wished she had known she had so little time, or she would have left the woods long ago.
Fana screamed again.
All she wanted now was to stop the pain. She would put herself to sleep if she could, but her mind thrashed, useless. Michel was standing over her. She could smell him through her blood-clogged nose. She wished she could kick out at him, but her legs ignored her. He got past my mask. He has me now. Better to be dead.
At least she had hurt him like no one else had. At least she would die trying to bring light to the world, just as her name and Blood promised.
YOU SILLY FOOL YOU NEARLY KILLED US BOTH.
His voice came, scolding like a parent.
Fana couldn’t respond, even in her head. He thought he loved her, but he couldn’t possibly. If he did, he would have put her to sleep and spared her the blistering agony.
PROMISE ME YOU’LL NEVER TRY TO KILL ME AGAIN, FANA.
For an instant, Fana was too stunned to understand. Was he bargaining with her?
Her mind struggled to clear itself. Her lips wouldn’t move, so she sent him a thought: Promise you won’t hurt anyone else.
His answer came in such a roar of frustration and anger that it was incomprehensible. While his mind raged, Fana felt herself sinking away. Becoming smaller.
Stillness.
PROMISE ME, FANA, OR I CAN’T LET YOU LIVE.
Trance. Trance out.
IS IT WORTH DYING FOR? YOU WOULD ROB THE WORLD OF SO MUCH?
“I p-promise,” Fana heard herself say. “Never again.”
Ha
d he formed those words, or had she? Did either of them know the difference?
The torture subsided, a sensation so startling that Fana gasped again. The shaking in the room stopped. Light and sound returned. For the first time, Fana heard the church bell tolling wildly above them to proclaim the earthquake. Fissures veined the wall above her.
Had there been gunshots? She wasn’t sure.
Fana wiped her eyes, and the blood stinging her tear ducts stained her hands. She knew it wasn’t possible for all of her pain to have vanished so quickly. He must be soothing it somehow, massaging her. His mind was nesting inside of her; she felt him.
He offered his palm to her. “Stai bene, Fana?” Michel said gently in Italian, his first language. “Are you all right?”
“Don’t touch me,” she said.
“I don’t want you to hurt,” he said.
“Too late.”
He sighed and stood up straight, taking a step away. His eyes hung on her, watching. Pain cascaded over her as he stopped soothing her injuries, but only enough to make her wince and hiss. At least she was healing instead of bleeding.
Someone pounded at the door. “Fana?” a voice called. Caitlin!
Michel slid his hands into his pockets and strolled toward the door.
YOU’RE NOT THE ONLY ONE I’VE UNDERESTIMATED TODAY, FANA.
Fana’s heart leaped. The gunshots had had something to do with Caitlin and Johnny!
Fana tried to lunge after Michel to grab his ankle, but she couldn’t move, whether it was because of Michel’s influence or her body’s exhaustion. She tried to probe him again, but he was a fortress. She could never burrow inside of him now. Only his ardor had weakened his mask, and he would not make that mistake again.
More banging. “Fana?” Caitlin said. “I hear you! I’ll b-break the door down!”
Fana’s weary heart raced as she watched Michel walking toward the door.
“Michel!” Fana called after him.
The sound of his name straightened his spine. He turned around to look at her, waiting. Hearing his true name from her lips was a gift to his ears. Maybe he did love her.
“Don’t hurt my friends,” Fana said. “Or my family. Please.”