In all those years of Joseph trying to control James’s evil, James had never hurt him. Even in his bloodlust, something, some innate fraternal bond, had always ensured James never took his punishment of Joseph’s interference too far.
I have to believe that bond will stop him hurting me now.
The dorm room door flew open. Black spots began to blur Joseph’s vision as unconsciousness danced closer, and for once he entertained the harrowing idea that this time James would kill him. Before the darkness claimed him, James’s hands were ripped from Joseph’s throat. Joseph coughed, gasping for breath. But he had to get to James. He had to protect James.
Joseph rolled over, lifting his body, bracing his weight on his hands. But they slipped beneath him, and he landed heavily in the blood that had caused him to fumble. Familiar snarls and growls came from across the room, from James. When Joseph looked up, Father Brady had James in his unrelenting hold. James was fighting to get free, but Father Brady was too big and too strong for James to overcome.
Father Quinn entered the room, and Joseph froze. The priest took one look at Luke on the chair and Joseph on the ground. Joseph could only imagine what was running through his head. What he thought of seeing Luke and Joseph bloodied and hurt—both injured at James’s hands. Turning to Father Brady, Father Quinn flicked his hand—a silent instruction. Father Brady dragged James from the room. James’s was skin coated in Luke’s blood, his teeth washed in red as he snarled and kicked to be free, eyes wild.
“No,” Joseph whispered. He fought through the slippery blood to get to his feet. He tried to run to the door, but Father Quinn stopped him with a firm hand on his arm. Father Quinn nodded in the direction of the bench against the wall. Joseph looked up at the priest he held above any other at Holy Innocents. “I have to see him.” Joseph’s voice was graveled and laced with sadness. “He needs me. I need to be with him. He doesn’t know what he’s done is wrong. He won’t understand what is happening.”
“On the bench, Joseph,” Father Quinn ordered. Joseph did as he said, though every movement was a war with his legs—they urged him to chase after James. But Joseph never disobeyed the priests in charge.
Just as Joseph sat on the bench, Father McCarthy came through the door. He was about twenty years younger than Father Quinn and had fiery red hair. He had always made Joseph feel uneasy. Something dark and sinister seemed to reside in his blue eyes. Joseph didn’t know what, but his gut told him not to trust him.
At Father Quinn’s instruction, Father McCarthy made quick work of untying Luke and carrying him from the room. Father Quinn shut the door and sat beside Joseph on the bench. Silence filled the room, but Joseph tensed when he heard his brother’s rabid growls echoing from somewhere else in the home.
His hands fisted at his sides. But he wouldn’t defy Father Quinn. Joseph respected him too much for that. He squeezed his eyes shut. “Where will you take him? You . . . you won’t hurt him, will you?”
When Joseph’s eyes opened, all he could see was blood. Blood on the floor, the walls . . . He looked down. It was even on his hands. Joseph glanced up at the white wall opposite the bench. A large crucifix hung in the center, the single piece of decoration the room afforded. It had always been a beacon of peace for Joseph. A symbol of the fact that he led a pure and righteous life. But Joseph’s stomach plummeted, disgrace and horror flooding his chest, when he saw a spatter of blood running down Jesus’s bronze face. Luke’s pilfered blood, sullying the sacred.
Joseph looked at Father Quinn. The priest’s eyes were narrowed and focused on Joseph’s hands. On the crimson evidence of James’s wickedness. “Tell me, Joseph. Is your intention still to join the church? To become a priest?”
“Yes,” Joseph replied. He spoke the truth. Truth was the only absolute in his life. There wasn’t a bone in his body that didn’t want to pledge itself to his faith. Devote his life to God, Jesus, and the Catholic Church that had raised him—saved him. He had known what path lay before him from the age of six. He was fifteen now, and his conviction, along with the strength of his faith, only grew day by day.
Father Quinn nodded as though he had expected the answer. Joseph rubbed his hands together. Luke’s blood was still wet on his skin. “He is a burden to you.” Joseph stilled, his eyes snapping to Father Quinn. Joseph’s heart began to beat faster, church bells tolling at high speed.