Joseph’s brand had healed. He had yet to return to the torture room, but he knew his time was coming. Each of the boys had been taken often. Michael had been to that torture room nine times. And each time Joseph felt sick. But Michael returned each time, nothing in his eyes but a blank stare. Joseph had no idea how much time had passed. It had to have been weeks; it could have been months. There was no glimpse of daylight to judge time. No regular meals. He knew the priests did it on purpose, to destroy their minds. To exorcise the demons within. The seven of them were jailed in cruelty and perpetual night.
All of the boys were in the room when the door opened. Joseph’s eyes widened when he saw Fathers Brady and McCarthy, but beyond that were more priests. Priests he had never seen before. They looked young. Some not that much older than himself.
He remembered what Matthew had said about a priest that returned to Holy Innocents years after he was taken away. That he was different, and had a new kind of darkness in his eyes. Could they be like him? Had these priests once been where Joseph and the others were now?
“Move.” Father Brady spoke, and the boys all got to their feet. But gone were the smirks from Bara and Uriel. Instead, Bara’s jaw was clenched and his hands were fisted at his sides. Uriel’s shoulders were rigid. Sela’s eyes were filled with a storm. Raphael’s promised the awaiting priests death. Michael snarled when his silver-blue eyes landed on the priests in the hallway. That alone had Joseph’s breath leaping from his lungs. Joseph was last off his bed. His chest was still sore, but he could now function. His brand was red, scarred, and scabbed . . . now a permanent feature on his flesh.
Joseph met the eyes of the priests as he followed the others, all dressed in the same white shirts and pants, down the hallway. The priests glared back at him. They walked for longer than it took to get to the torture room, so Joseph knew that was not their destination. His pulse raced twice as fast as his footsteps. Priests flanked the boys as they descended a spiral staircase, taking them deeper and deeper into Purgatory.
Suddenly, Bara stopped, and the boys lined up along a wall. The room was large, candles casting shadows and dim, dancing flickers of light around the space. Joseph’s eyes widened as he took in the pictures on the walls. Demons, horned and savage, being torn down by men of the cloth . . . Men with crucifixes in their hands, swords in their grips, and a red letter “B” on each of their chests.
The priests stood on the opposite side of the room, watching the boys. They held crucifixes in their hands, just like the men in the paintings. Father Quinn turned to face them, and the expression he wore sent chills down Joseph’s spine. This was not the kind priest he had known most of his life. This was a man who viewed the boys before him as something not of this world. Something to conquer. Something to defeat. Something to destroy.
Joseph was unable to meet Father Quinn’s gaze. His eyes dropped to the priest’s sandaled feet, then he tracked their movements as they approached where Joseph stood, helpless and afraid.
He was afraid.
As soon as Father Quinn saw Joseph, his eyes never strayed from him. Droplets of sweat broke out along Joseph’s skin, then Father Quinn flicked his hand and the boys automatically began to unbutton their shirts. One by one they bared their chests, their brands. Then they started untying the waistbands of their white pants. Joseph choked on the dank air as the boys kicked their pants aside then dropped to their knees. They were emotionless, submitting to the silent instruction without any fight. Michael, beside him, dropped down too. Acting on instinct, Joseph leaned down and gripped Michael’s arm. He pulled, trying to hoist him to his feet. But Michael was a dead weight, refusing to move. Panicked, Joseph pulled again; he yanked and yanked, a frustrated cry slipping from his mouth. A sudden lash of pain sliced against his arm. Joseph cried out as the following sting burned then numbed the skin. Fear, thick and strong, clogged his veins. He met Father Quinn’s eyes for a second before the priest struck him again with a whip, the leather rope thrashing across his cheek. Joseph saw dots of black, then the hellish scene before him came back into focus. As he staggered back, Joseph’s alarmed eyes fixed on Father Quinn. Joseph felt blood drip into his mouth. The whip had split his cheek open.
“Get back, demon,” Father Quinn said, whip raised in warning.
The priests against the wall moved forward as a threatening black-clad unit, shedding their robes in a terrifying synchronicity. “No,” Joseph whispered. Taking advantage of Father Quinn turning toward the wall, Joseph scrambled to his hands and knees and desperately crawled along the line of boys. “Get up,” he said, trying to push them to their feet with his trembling hands. Only blank stares met his eyes. The stares of boys who had mentally taken themselves to another place, somewhere away far far from here, away from this room, to a place they couldn’t feel pain. “Get up! Please!” he cried. He came to the end of the line, to Bara. Bara was the only one who met his eyes. He was the most outspoken of the group. He was a fighter. He would fight; Joseph knew if he and Bara could just get the others to move, they could fight back, escape whatever the hell this was. “Bara, help me. Bara!” Bara’s eyebrow rose, and a smirk pulled on his lips as if he found Joseph’s desperation amusing. But there was nothing humorous about this moment. And then the smirk was gone, and Bara’s face adopted the emptiness of the rest.
A hand suddenly grabbed Joseph’s hair and wrenched him away from the others and into an unyielding grip. The priests, in a unified naked formation, moved themselves right before the boys. Joseph was still, trying to pray that his eyes were deceiving him, as the Brethren took hold of their erections. Joseph fought the bile that had gathered in his throat. The priests’ pupils were enlarged, their chests rising and falling with anticipation. Joseph’s heart cracked as, one by one, the priests clutched his roommates’ heads and forced open their jaws with their free hands. Joseph choked on a sob as the priests pushed their erections into the mouths of the boys. They were relentless, slamming themselves into Bara, Sela, Diel, Raphael, Uriel . . . and Michael. Michael! Joseph’s legs weakened, knees dropping as he focused on his baby brother. His little brother, whose mouth was being sexually savaged by a priest not much older then himself. A priest with blond hair and disturbingly intense blue eyes.
Snapped from a stupor, Joseph fought the person holding him. He needed to help Michael, to help them all. To stop the Brethren. What was this? What kind of brotherhood would do such a thing?
Joseph tried to break from his captor’s hold. But when he turned, he saw Father Quinn was the one keeping him back. “They’ll drink the seed of purity,” he whispered into Joseph’s ear. Terror and disgust smothered Joseph. “And so will you, Gabriel.” Joseph thrashed and fought to be freed, to help the boys, but his legs were kicked out from under him. Joseph dropped to his knees. Hands on his shoulders kept him down as Father Quinn disrobed. Then the hands holding him began to shed his clothes, ripping the material apart to get to his virgin flesh. “Get away!” Joseph warned. Father Quinn moved toward him. The hands that had removed his clothes, his modesty, suddenly roved, calloused and rough, all over his skin. One by one they applied pressure and pushed his body down until there was no chance of escape. Joseph looked back and saw Father Brady and Father McCarthy. They had betrayed him. All of the priests had desecrated their faith and sold their souls to Satan. Joseph heard cries of pleasure echo from the line of Brethren disciples who were taking his friends and brother. He felt sick to his stomach knowing what those cries meant. The seed of purity, Father Quinn had said.
Father Quinn took advantage of Joseph’s distraction and wrenched open his jaw with strong fingers. Joseph fought it, tried to clench his jaw, but he was helpless; he was too weak. He cried out, tears dropping from his eyes, but it was to no avail. Father Quinn thrust his erection in Joseph’s mouth, cutting off his muffled pleas.
The taste, the feel of Father Quinn on his tongue, repulsed him. He couldn’t believe this was happening. He prayed it was a nightmare from which he would awake. But as salty drops from Father Quinn’s tip started to trickle down his throat, he knew this was really happening. That he was truly in hell. Nothing could be worse than this.
Tears slipped from Joseph’s eyes as he was held down harder. He hadn’t realized he’d been fighting to stand until he was incapacitated by hands behind his back and heavy feet on his legs. The quest to rebel against the unwanted sexual act fled from Joseph just like the tears that were in free flow. He prayed to God to make the punishment quick. To take him from this moment so he didn’t have to feel, like his roommates and brother had done. But surprisingly, Father Quinn pulled back before completion. When Joseph opened his eyes, it was to see the other boys in a circle around him, still on their knees. The unknown members of the Brethren stood behind them, shadowing them like sinister spirits threatening to steal their souls. Joseph was slammed to the floor on his front. His arms were pulled to the side by Fathers Brady and McCarthy and pinned down. Even through his panic and distress, Joseph understood that his body made the shape of a cross.
“The power of Christ compels you,” Father Quinn said, over and over, as the priest poured liquid over his bare skin. Holy water? He was dousing Joseph with holy water. The blessed water ran down his back and over his ribs to the stone floor beneath him. The rest of the Brethren joined in with the scripture spilling from Father Quinn’s mouth. Joseph looked to the boys that he could see—Diel, Raphael, and Michael. He kept his eyes on his brother. Michael’s face was locked in a neutral expression, but Joseph noticed the flare of anger in his brother’s blue eyes. In this moment Michael wasn’t in the place where he mentally took himself off to. He was here with Joseph. In this room, during this assault . . . he was with him. Joseph didn’t tear his gaze away from that ice-blue stare, seeking comfort in the only thing he could.
Body heat smothered his back. Joseph stopped breathing as his legs were pulled to the side. Joseph struggled to get free, he fought and fought, until he screamed as Father Quinn thrust into him. The pain was indescribable. Through it all, Joseph never moved his eyes from Michael’s. Tears threatened to fall, but Joseph kept them back. He choked on the pain, on the fear and the devastation at what was being done to him. The candles flickered from the draft sneaking into the room underneath the closed doors. The Brethren’s chants became louder as Father Quinn moved faster and faster. Joseph felt the priest’s sweat drop onto his back, heard his grunts and groans in his ears. Joseph’s nails snapped as he raked at the stone beneath him. At some point, he began to drift from the scene, giving over to his mind that was trying to block everything out, to pull him from the reality of this moment.
Joseph didn’t feel the completion. Didn’t register the roar of release and the seed spilling from his mentor into his broken and bleeding body. Slowly, with the subtle clenching of Michael’s jaw and the flicker of relief in his brother’s eyes, he blinked himself back into the room.
Joseph’s heavy, labored breathing was a clap of thunder as the chanting stopped. His cheek was cold from the stone beneath him. But something had changed. He had lost something in that moment. He couldn’t say what, but he felt it. A shift in his soul. A fissure in his heart.
The death of him as a child.
Joseph had always cherished the name of his church, his home, and his school—Holy Innocents. A tribute to the boys lost under Herod’s reign, sacrificed as the king searched for Jesus, the baby that would one day overthrow him as king. The home took in vulnerable children with no family to call their own. They raised boys in the family of the church.
But this . . . this was a insult to the name and creed of the school and orphanage. It was a mockery.
It wasn’t innocence protected; it was innocence stolen.
Joseph was pulled to his feet, his ruined scraps of clothes thrust into his hands. His legs were weak, and he was unsure if he could even stand. He couldn’t dress. But he didn’t care. He had no modesty left. Being naked was nothing compared to what had just happened. A hand took his arm to steady his shaky limbs. Raphael was beside him, his hand discreetly hidden so the Brethren couldn’t see his aid. Joseph dressed quickly, tightening his jaw so he didn’t cry out from the pain. Even in the candlelight he saw the blood on the stone floor.
His blood.
Nausea built in his throat, but Joseph didn’t know what else to feel. He was numb, in shock. The Brethren dressed and silently led the way out of the room as though they hadn’t just tortured and degraded the boys. Bara, as before, took the lead. In a daze, Joseph followed Uriel, Raphael following behind him, a comforting presence at his back. When they entered the dorm room and the door was locked behind them, Joseph staggered to his bed. He winced when he tried to sit, so he lay on his side instead. He held his hand out and saw that it was shaking.
The room was deathly silent, so it was no surprise that he heard the feet of the others approaching. As before when he was branded with the upturned cross, they gathered around his bed. Joseph closed his eyes and whispered, “I couldn’t stop them from hurting you. I tried . . . but I wasn’t strong enough.” He sucked in a quaky breath. “I’m so sorry.”
He would never forgive himself for not being able to get them all out of that room.
It would be a cross to bear all his life . . . however long that may be.