Father Murray’s seat allowed him a view of the nuns eating their small, basic meals. And as always, he couldn’t tear his gaze from Sister Maria Agnes. He didn’t know why she commanded so much of his attention. But he suspected it was to do with the fact her skin was a gentle shade of milky white, her fairness untouched by the sun. And her neck . . . a long, slim neck that, when she moved, displayed every bone that kept it intact, every vein that housed her lifeblood.
He wondered if she ever felt him watching. It wouldn’t matter. Sister Maria Agnes was the most dutiful bride of Christ he had ever encountered. The perfect holy sister—meek, subservient, and completely devout. He knew Father Quinn felt the same about the novitiate. He had seen the high priest speak to her longer than the others who were close to taking their final vows. He watched the older man’s gaze warm whenever Sister Maria was close, when she nervously smiled his way.
Father Murray choked down the bland vegetable broth and bread and waited until the nuns had vacated the hall before following Father Quinn to the privacy of his office. The minute the door was locked and Father Quinn gave the signal that they were alone, Father Murray rushed out, “I saw one.” The high priest seemed confused, until Father Murray added, “In the club last night, after I cast a sinner to hell, I saw him. Raphael. One of the lost Fallen.”
The room plunged into a harrowing silence. Father Quinn’s eyes widened. “You’re sure?”
“Positive.”
“And where is he now?”
Father Murray rubbed his hand down his face. “I had to leave. People were noticing the sacrifice’s absence. But we now know where he frequents. We can lay a trap.” Father Murray smiled in excitement. “We can finally capture him, Your Excellency. We can finally recall him to finish what we started.”
“We need a plan. We’ll have to call a meeting of the others. This is too important to wait.” Father Quinn sat down behind the desk, but Father Murray could see the high priest was just as excited as he was. The older man was unable to keep still. Father Quinn was a master priest. The finest example to follow. But Father Murray was comforted that the high priest, served with this news, was unable to rest. “I have a call with a Maine diocese that I must take. After that, we’ll call an emergency meeting at the headquarters and make plans. We need something that is iron clad, brother. We can’t lose them again. We may never get another chance to finally send their souls to hell.”
Father Quinn got to his feet and laid a hand on Father Murray’s face. Father Murray was not unused to the high priest’s touch. It had been Father Quinn who had exorcised him all the years he was in Purgatory, cleansing him with his seed. At first he had fought it. But he had still been in the grip of the consuming evil that had captured his soul. Once that evil had been freed, Father Murray had yearned for the high priest’s touch. Prayed that he would come to the dorm and take him into his care.
Father Murray curled his cheek into the priest’s hand, feeling his spirit soothe, and kissed his palm.
“You did well, Francis.”
“Thank you, Your Excellency.” His voice was merely a whisper.
“Now, go wait for me in the car. I won’t be long.” When Father Murray stepped out into the empty hallway, Father Quinn’s blessed touch still warming his cheek, silence and darkness greeted him. He glanced toward the main doors, but his heart tugged in his chest and persuaded him to walk in the opposite direction. On light and silent feet, Father Murray followed the shadows to the stairs and up to the first floor. It wasn’t the first time he had ventured into the private rooms of the nuns. As if a beacon were calling to his heart, he followed his feet until they stopped outside a nondescript wooden door, its panels chipped and worn with age.
Checking there was no one around, Father Murray leaned his ear against the wood and listened. All beyond the door was silent. The sister must have been done with evening prayers and already asleep. Smoothing his palm down the door, Father Murray allowed his fingers to wrap around the iron knob and quietly turn it to the right. The door opened, and Father Murray peered through the inch-wide gap he had made.
He froze.
Every muscle locked into rigid ice as the view before him was revealed.
Sister Maria Agnes was undressing, the dim glow of a single low light on her nightstand surrounding her body in an ethereal halo. Father Murray felt his breathing change from soft exhales to short, sharp puffs as Sister Maria removed her habit. She was as meticulous in undressing as she was in walking. Every move was gentle and measured, purposeful in her duty. Father Murray felt a familiar stirring in his groin as Sister Maria slipped into her nightwear and began removing her headdress. The white material gave way to dirty-blond hair he had never before seen, captured in a tight bun at the base of her head. Slowly, the trainee nun pulled out pin after pin until there was a small pile on her empty desk. With delicate hands, Sister Maria proceeded to unravel her hair. Down and down it went, falling past her shoulders, the center of her back . . . until it landed below her rear. Father Murray’s eyes widened as the nun raked through the silky strands with her hands, followed by a simple comb. And then his heart stilled. His blood stopped pumping as a memory flashed across his mind.