It was a den of sin.
Father Murray fought to keep a hold on his anger as he looked around. He stood in the corner of the room, dressed in black slacks and a black shirt. He had shed his red dog collar and robes for the mission, but his rosary lay around his neck, a symbol of his faith. He could almost feel the cross burning his skin in revulsion as he took in the sight of a woman locked in a metal cage, her legs forced apart as her sinful lover pushed sex toy after sex toy inside her. Clamps bit into her nipples, a chain leading down and clamping her clit.
Father Murray tried to tear his eyes away from her face as she cried out in ecstasy for everyone to see and hear, putting on a show. But his gaze locked on her when she threw her head back and bared her long, slender neck. Murray felt the familiar stirrings in his groin. He gritted his teeth in self-disgust, snarling against his own weakness, against the darkness that lay in waiting, readying to strike, deep in his soul.
Turning toward the black-painted wall behind him, sinking into the shadows, he curled his fingers and slammed his fist against his cock, eyes screwing shut at the thundering blast of pain that splintered up his spine. The shooting agony crippled him. He flattened his hand against the wall as he breathed through the burning, the aching. He could barely stand. Father Murray pictured the evil that had once controlled him finding its way back to the surface. He couldn’t let it happen. Not again. He could never go back. Not now that he had been brought into the light, into the way of the brotherhood.
The priest punched between his legs again and again until he almost dropped to his knees. The sting of tobacco smoke burned his nostrils, and the smell of sex and immorality that infiltrated the air clogged his lungs with wickedness. Disgust sailed through his every cell, abhorrence for those polluting the world with their vice. Only when his hardened penis had deflated under his concrete fist did he turn back to challenge the sickening depravity. His erection might have dissipated, but the rage and anger at such unrighteous acts remained as strong.
Even stronger.
Father Murray’s eyes locked on the woman again as she was released from the metal cage and brought into her lover’s embrace. The man slammed his mouth against hers and thrust his fingers into her overused pussy. They were dressed in scandalous leather outfits that did little to conceal their bodies. Father Murray’s lip curled in disgust. The man pulled back and made for the bar. His slut’s cheeks were flushed, and her lips were swollen from the claiming kiss. She had red marks littering her body like the witch she was. Bruises and gashes from whips and chains and whatever else the male sinner had used on her flesh.
Flesh that belonged to the Lord, not her. Flesh that she was defiling, making a mockery of.
As Father Murray sipped on his water, he noticed the whore was walking to the bathrooms. His eyes tracked her across the room, then scanned the club for any sign that someone else would follow. But the heathens were too busy fornicating to notice or care. His heart kicked into a sprint; she was alone in the bathroom. He squeezed the bottle of water until it was crushed beneath his grasp.
Father Murray’s skin burned as he watched the door of the bathroom. His muscles tensed so tightly they felt as though they would snap. His eyes misted with red . . . and then he was moving. He let the Lord fill his senses and gave over control.
Do with me what you will. Use me as your vessel to destroy the evil walking this earth.
As quick as a shadow, Father Murray turned the knob of the bathroom door and walked inside. The whore stood in front of the mirror, wiping a cloth along her rancid pussy. She turned her eyes his way. What first seemed like shock at the interruption turned into heated interest.
“Can I help you?” Her voice was all seduction. The voice of the devil, Father Murray thought. A living temptation trying to sway me from the path.
It would only make her cleansing all the more powerful.
Father Murray licked his lips and pushed his jaw-length dark hair from his eyes. He saw the whore’s eyes flare. That was the reason he was picked for these missions. Father Quinn had told him God gave him his looks and body for this very reason. To ensnare impure sluts and send them to the depths of hell where they belonged and would dwell for eternity.
Silently, Father Murray turned, giving the slightest nudge of his head in instruction for her to follow. He didn’t look back, and the thumping music from the speakers in the club meant he couldn’t hear her high-heeled feet on the floor. But he knew she would follow. It was God’s will.
These missions were the Brethren’s very reason for existing.
Father Murray exited out of the back door and down the winding fire escape stairs. A metal door plunged him into the darkness of the alley outside. He stopped against the wall and waited. He smirked when the fire door opened and the slut walked through. He watched as her eyes squinted in the dark, searching for him. She smiled when she caught sight of his intense gaze fixed on her. “You like privacy, huh?” she asked, coming to stand before him. “Not into public displays?” She smiled. “You should try it. There’s nothing like all eyes on you as you come.”
The whore ran her long fingernail down Father Murray’s chest. Her touch did nothing to him. There was no stirring in his cock, no satisfaction from her attention. The bitch had no idea what turned him on.
She would soon.
She dropped her hands to the fly of his pants and undid his zipper. Her tongue snaked out and licked along her too-white teeth. The whore was a demon wrapped in attractive female flesh.
But she wouldn’t make this man of God sin.
Father Murray grabbed the top of the whore’s arms, spun her, and smacked her back against the wall. An innocent soul would feel fear, dislike of the rough contact. But not this slut. She smiled, enjoying the pain Father Murray’s aggressive grip brought.
Heathen. A heathen who deserves to die.
“Are you gonna fuck me or what?” she whispered in his ear. The whore lifted her hand and flipped her hair back over her shoulder, aiming for seductiveness. Father Murray knew the movement was a message from the Lord. An invitation to strike, to do his work of ridding the world of sinners.
Father Murray smiled; the whore smiled back. He didn’t bother to tuck his cock back into his pants. Instead, he ran his hands over her hell-created curves, listening to her moan. His fingers roved over her small waist and up over her large breasts. Finally, his hands rested on either side of her neck. Father Murray stared right into the whore’s eyes. Leaning in close, he whispered, “You are a blight on the world. You have no place on this earth . . . and I shall be the holy warrior to send you back to the second level of hell.” Her eyes only had a second to flare with fear before Father Murray began to squeeze. The whore’s mouth dropped open as she quickly became starved of breath.
Father Murray hadn’t been aroused by the whore’s touch. But now, with his hands ridding her of life, his dick was hard and throbbing with the need to release. He panted as the whore’s body began to fight back. But she was too weak; he was too strong. He pressed his wide chest against her tits and pushed her hard into the wall. The friction of her skin against his erection only heightened his excitement. Father Murray rocked against the front of her bare pussy, his hands tightening and tightening until the whore’s eyes began to bulge. She clawed at his chest. But the battle, the pain she was trying to inflict on his pure soul, only made his hold around her neck tighten.
“Hail Mary, full of grace, the Lord is with thee.” Father Murray felt the pulse in the whore’s neck begin to slow. He thrust against her harder; the friction sent bolts of pleasure shooting down his spine. “Blessed art thou amongst women and blessed is the fruit of thy womb.” Father Murray’s voice was raspy as completion raced to catch him. “Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners now and at the hour of our death.” The whore’s body began to still under his grip, and her eyes froze over with the heavy blanket of death. The sight, the tight purchase on her neck, made him groan out loud. He squeezed her neck tighter, hearing and feeling the jagged snap of her bone. A roar of release slipped from his throat; his holy seed cleansed her desecrated skin. He was breathless. His dick throbbed in the aftermath of his release. Father Murray dropped his sweaty forehead against the whore’s chest and whispered, “Amen.” As he drew his head back, he noted the imprint of the crucifix around his neck on the slut’s chest. He smiled, knowing the Lord was pleased.
Another demonic soul purged back to hell.
He didn’t wait around to admire his work. Pride had no place in a Brethren’s life. In minutes, Father Murray had tucked himself back into his pants, righted his clothes, and placed the body of the whore in his van that awaited in the pitch-black corner of the alley. Checking the time, he saw that he had enough night left to cleanse another soul. The underground sex clubs of Boston were rife with heretics and enemies of the faith. All of them needed to die. This club was the worst. Only the worst kind of wrongdoers dwelled there.
Father Murray slipped back up the stairs and retook his place among the shadows. He fixed his dark eyes on the man who had been pleasuring the whore who now lay dead in his van. The sinner had moved on to another whore, tying her with rope as she hung suspended from the ceiling, a ball gag in her mouth. Her eyes rolled back with the pleasure of her body being so tortured.
Father Murray was about to move from the shadows to begin his seduction of the man when someone at the bar caught his eye. He froze, feet rooted to the floor. He could barely breathe. Father Murray didn’t take his gaze from the black-clad man chatting to a blond woman with fake breasts. The man circled his finger around his glass, smiling flirtatiously at something the woman said. Father Murray watched the woman shift in her seat, free-falling into the seduction. Whatever the man was saying was having a strong effect on her. She was putty in his hands. But with that jaw and build, Father Murray could understand why. As he himself had been crafted with beauty meant for good, this man had been molded for sin.
It can’t be . . . not after all this time . . .
“Look up,” Father Murray whispered, the soft sound from his mouth disappearing into the heavy music pulsing through the speakers. “Look. Up.”
As if God were rewarding him, honoring him with a boon, the man looked up, and a rush of disbelief crashed through Father Murray’s body, so strong he had to reach out and touch the wall to remain on his feet. Golden eyes. Golden eyes smoldered as sensuous lips hooked up into a smirk, making the woman flush and bat her eyelashes.
“Raphael,” Father Murray whispered. Just the name leaving his lips caused his eyes to close and memories to spill into his mind.
“Get on your knees.” Father Murray had been working on this boy’s soul for four months. Raphael was Father Murray’s first. His first soul to cleanse. After Murray had pledged to the Brethren, Father Quinn had awarded him this boy.
One just like himself. But where Father Murray had succumbed to the exorcisms Father Quinn had performed on him for five years, giving his soul over to serving God instead of the devil, Raphael was resisting.
The evil in this boy was strong.
But he was no match for Father Murray. He would prove to Father Quinn that he was worthy of the Brethren pledge, the brotherhood he had been welcomed into. He would break this boy and the evil that lived within him.
Raphael glared at him, refusal in his strange golden stare. Time on the rack had made his body weak, stretched until he couldn’t take a second longer. Yet Raphael still stood before Father Murray, shoulders slouched in pain and exhaustion . . . but not defeated.
Drawing the baton from the deep pocket of his robes, Father Murray lashed out and rapped Raphael on the back of his knees. The boy’s legs gave out and he crashed to the floor, palms smacking flat on the stone. Raphael tried to scramble to his feet, refusing to submit, but Father Murray wrapped his hand around the boy’s throat, incapacitating him where he kneeled. The priest was aware of the crime that had brought this boy to Purgatory. It had been frighteningly similar to his own.
Raphael stilled, breathing deeply—a rabbit caught in a hunter’s snare. His body relaxed further the harder the priest squeezed, and Father Murray noted the quick release of breath from his parted lips and the enlarging of his pupils.
He liked this. Raphael liked to be strangled.
Father Murray regarded Raphael. He freed himself from his pants and edged closer to the boy. “I will cleanse you, heathen. I will cleanse your blackened soul.”
When the memory cleared, Father Murray cursed; the seats where Raphael and his whore had been sitting were empty. He raced to the bar. “Where did they go? The couple who were here,” Father Murray demanded of the bartender.
The bartender was drying a glass with a white towel but paused to say, “You know the rules. No information is given on members. If you can’t abide by the laws of the club, leave.”
Father Murray wanted nothing more than to snap the sinner’s neck for his insolence, but he refrained. His job was to blend in with the crowd, to be indistinguishable among the clientele.
But that man had been Raphael. After all these years, he had spotted a Fallen. They were still in the Boston area. Must have been.
He had to tell Father Quinn. Father Murray scoured the club, needing another glimpse of the boy he had long ago failed to exorcise. Raphael had been the only evil spirit he had never succeeded in breaking. Father Murray didn’t fail. And he had always had a certain penchant for Raphael. They were too alike for him to forget the pretty boy with the golden stare.
Kindred spirits. But one of them was pure, made with light, and one of them made with the blood of hell.
Father Murray saw a door shutting to the far right, a man in black leading a woman inside. The woman who had been sitting at the bar, enraptured by Raphael’s affection. Father Murray was about to follow when the man who had been Father Murray’s next chosen victim came to the bar beside him. “Have you seen Suzy, Ben? She went to the bathroom and hasn’t come back.”
Father Murray’s ears pricked up at the question.
“Sorry. I haven’t seen her.”
“I’ll keep looking. She may have found another partner for us to play with.” The heathen smiled and disappeared into the crowd.
He had to go. Father Murray couldn’t stay if a victim was being noted as absent. His brain told him to leave, but everything else in him needed him to stay. To find the man with the golden eyes and bring him back into the Brethren’s care.
“You want a drink?”
Father Murray looked at the bartender, who was waiting for him to make an order. He didn’t answer. Instead he rushed out of the front doors and through the liquor store that hid the depraved pit of evil beyond its storage room. The frigid Boston winter slapped him around the face. But it was no competition to the raging inferno that was consuming his flesh from within. The satisfaction of finding one of the worst sinners to ever darken the doors of Purgatory.
The Brethren’s only failure in over four hundred years.
Well, one of seven.
Father Murray jumped into his van and pulled out onto the downtown streets. The sun was beginning to rise. Another day of the Lord. The sound of a body rolling around the cabin filled the van, but the priest paid it no mind. He would dispose of the body, find Father Quinn, and tell him what he had discovered.
It was time to act.
It was time to complete the exorcism that had begun so many years ago.
An hour later, Father Murray pulled into the crematorium outside of the city. He drove the van into the underground parking lot and jumped out. The undertaker came to the back of the van and wordlessly took the body from the cabin and carried her off to the incinerator.
When the undertaker came back, Father Murray smiled as he noticed the rosary he wore, a crucifix with a “B” embossed on the center of Jesus’s chest. The wider church had no idea what greatness walked among them. Knights of Jesus, Warriors of the Lord, keeping the faith safe by eradicating evil they could only imagine in their worst nightmares. And it wasn’t just priests who were part of the Brethren and their mission, but men in both high and low places.
The Pope and the Catholic Church were oblivious to who lived under their banner. It had been that way for over a century. And as the years passed, the Brethren only grew in strength.
They were unstoppable.
And they would never be defeated.
The undertaker took a hose and spray and began dousing the back of the van with chemicals. It was important to remove all traces of the sinners they killed. Every detail must be attended to with complete professionalism. Father Quinn made sure the men of his cloth never made it close to a mission without mastering how to eradicate any evidence that an exorcism had been made.
The priest rocked on anxious feet as he waited for the undertaker to complete the cleanse. He bit his nails as he pictured Raphael’s eyes in his mind. That smile. That olive skin and dark hair. Hair that was much longer than it had been in Purgatory.
Raphael had been beautiful as a boy. But as a man, he was unrivaled. Beauty was a sin, vanity the worst of all. And it was clear that Satan had blessed Raphael, his precious denizen, with extreme beauty to lure in his victims. Weak sinners wouldn’t stand a chance under Raphael’s hypnotic attention.
His kills must be so easy.
It was why Raphael needed to die. He was too powerful to remain on this earth. A deadly magnet to innocent, lost souls.
Thirty minutes later, Father Murray was heading back toward Boston, no trace of the woman who was now ash in the sky. When he’d parked the van, he ran into the shower, scrubbing the whore’s poisonous touch from his skin. Just the memory of his hand around her throat made blood fill his cock. He didn’t want it. Didn’t want the act of strangulation to still be attractive, to make heat travel over his skin and bones.
He took hold of the fine needle he kept in a small plastic case in the shower, breathed through his nostrils, and pushed the needle into the tip of his penis. Father Murray clenched his jaw, fighting back a scream as the needle sank in deep.
Gasping, he dropped to his knees. The hot water turned cold as it rained down on his bowed head. Insufferable agony suffused his every cell. Father Murray opened his eyes. Blood poured over the shower floor. He bared his teeth in disgust at his own weakness. At the hardening that never left him. Even after his exorcism and years in Purgatory, the feel of a slender neck under his palms, the last desperate gasp for life, and the frosting over of the eyes still caused him to become aroused. But Father Murray had married himself to the Brethren. He had forsaken sexual desires and would not succumb to his baser urges. He wouldn’t sacrifice his soul as he had once done.
After a deep breath, he jammed the needle the rest of the way into his hard flesh. He screamed at the blinding pain and toppled to the side, curling into a fetal position on the tiled floor. Blood washed from his cock and down the drain toward the depths of hell. He breathed in long deep breaths, fighting through the torture.
Then, mercifully, his cock began to deflate. Father Murray watched as he slowly lost his erection. The pain from the invasive needle began to numb as triumph smothered lust. A deadly sin to which he would no longer succumb.
He lay there for minutes and minutes, until his body had calmed and a heady peace swelled through his veins—peace birthed by victory, good defeating evil. He slowly extracted the needle from his unaroused penis. Blood seeped from the tip, crimson red, but blood penance was the price to pay for the temporary darkness he had allowed into his body.
Later, in confession, he would tell Father Brady—the keeper of his transgressions. He would willingly endure the devices in the heretics room, and the purging of the sin that he knew still lurked somewhere in his body. A place he couldn’t reach.
But first he would speak to Father Quinn.
He must relay the sighting . . . the miraculous gift from God.
“He’s at Sisters of Our Lady of Grace,” Father Cormack, a priest not much older than Father Murray, informed him. “He’s with the novitiates.”
Father Murray cursed internally at the news. He left Holy Innocents and drove the ninety minutes it took to reach Sisters of Our Lady of Grace, the monastery Father Quinn oversaw alongside the Mother Superior.
He made his way up the steps. Nuns of all ages and stages of experience milled about the picturesque lands deep in the stunning Massachusetts countryside. The place was silent, the gardens green and perfectly manicured. The stones of the building were gray and delicately laced with forest-green ivy. The monastery was old and large and suited the reclusive sisters perfectly. Sisters who stayed away from the community and instead thrust themselves into prayer and serving the Lord.
“Father Murray.”
Father Murray looked up to see Mother Superior walking down the hallway toward him. “What can I help you with, Father Murray? Father Quinn didn’t mention you would be assisting today.”
“I’m not,” he said, trying to keep the sense of urgency from his steady voice. “But I must speak to him. There is something we must discuss as a matter of great importance.”
Mother Superior smiled but shook her head. “I’m afraid he has sequestered himself and the novitiates in the education room for the day. He will be there until sundown and has made it clear they must not be disturbed. Patience, Father Murray, is a virtue. Make this a lesson in that.” Father Murray tried to control his sudden anger. He needed to speak to his high priest. But it had to be in private. Nobody could overhear a word he had to relay. “The novitiates will take last vows in a matter of months. Their schooling at this time is too important to interrupt.”
“Then I’ll wait.”
“Very well.” Mother Superior gestured for Father Murray to follow her outside. “Then you may make yourself useful. The devil makes work for idle hands, after all. We have bushes that need pruning.”
Father Murray wanted to laugh in her wrinkled face. She was a slave to a church who denied the world and the Lord its truth. Tried to stop the heretic trials and ignored the evil that spread through the world like a cancer while they focused on church services and collecting riches from their congregations to add to their already brimming pot.
“Of course,” Father Murray said politely and followed the old woman outside, taking the proffered shearing scissors in his hand.
Six hours later, Father Murray hovered outside the education room. He could hear the low murmur of Father Quinn’s voice as he spoke to the trainee nuns. The sound of footsteps approaching the door followed. He sank back against the wall and watched as the novitiates vacated the room. His eyes quickly searched for the one nun who always captured his attention. The most devout. The quietest. The one who would scarcely meet his eyes. He held his breath when she finally came through. Head lowered in the “custody of the eyes,” she had her gaze downcast and her hands joined together, hidden, tucked under her large sleeves. Her white headdress covered her head, and her black habit hid her small frame. Father Murray took a deliberate step forward into her path.
Shocked blue eyes snapped up to meet his. “Father Murray, you startled me.” She smiled shyly.
Father Murray smiled back. “Sister Maria Agnes. Nice to see you again.”
Sister Maria nodded once, then cast her eyes to the ground once again and commenced her walk to the refectory for the evening meal.
“Father Murray?” Father Quinn’s voice pulled Father Murray’s concentration from Sister Maria. When Father Murray looked to the high priest, he saw the flash of censure in his gaze. “Is there something I can help you with? You were on duty at Holy Innocents today.” Father Quinn spoke vaguely, of course. In actuality, Father Murray was scheduled to be on duty in Purgatory today, overseeing the cleansing of the boys they had in their care.
Father Murray checked their surroundings were clear and stepped closer to the high priest. “I must speak with you. Urgently.”
Father Quinn’s eyes narrowed slightly. The sound of Mother Superior walking toward them made them both face her direction. “Fathers, evening meal will commence soon. Join us.” On cue, a bell rang out into the barren hallways, bouncing off the stone walls.
“We will speak after food, when the nuns retire to their rooms for the night,” Father Quinn said. “Come.” The high priest led the way to the refectory. Father Murray and Father Quinn were seated at the top table with Mother Superior. Everyone ate in silence; discipline was of the utmost importance at this monastery. It wasn’t progressive, a convent of modern times, but one that embraced the past and its harsher, more rigid practices. Father Murray always thought that if the Brethren were to ever take women into their fold, this convent would provide the best candidates.
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.
“It’s the hair, isn’t it?” Father Murray said to Raphael, triumph flooding his face. “It’s the hair.”
Father Murray quickly closed the door and raced to Father Quinn’s office. He burst inside just as Father Quinn hung up the phone.
“Father Murray, I told you to wait in the car,” the high priest snapped.
“I know how we get him,” Father Murray said breathlessly. “I know how we capture Raphael.” Father Murray smiled, his body radiating pure joy. “And I know it will absolutely not fail. He’ll be ours. He’ll finally be ours.”