Chapter Twenty-Two
Chapter
Twenty-Two
I heard the screams coming from inside St. Mary of the Angels by the time we were ten feet from the door.
St. Mary’s was less a building than an edifice.
Taking up a whole city block, the church was famous for its architecture and artistry.
To me, it had always looked like someone from a different age had popped into the middle of the city and decided to show everyone how it was done back in the day.
The building exuded a sense of solidity, permanence, and order—things I’d never found myself taking comfort in when I’d visited before.
But there was something inside me that ached for them now.
The screams kind of put me off, though. They were high-pitched, desperate, animalistic.
I couldn’t tell if it was a woman or a man making them.
I recognized agony. Recognized it in my soul.
And for a second, I was overcome by a sense of pure panic, by dread, by a desire to go find a dark, quiet room and shut myself inside.
I had plenty of pain already, thank you, and the wounded part of me wanted nothing to do with more.
But I closed my eyes and took a slow breath, as I’d been practicing daily.
Then I did it again, forcing myself to slow my breathing, my heart rate, separating myself from the terror I felt deep in my bones.
I visualized myself from a bird’s-eye view, noting the panic I was feeling without letting it overwhelm me, and embraced reason as best I could.
Someone was hurting.
Father Forthill thought I could help.
This wasn’t about me. This was about the poor soul in agony.
I nodded as my thoughts stabilized and opened my eyes again. Michael and I exchanged a look, his concerned, mine a lopsided smile of reassurance. He’d put on an insulated flannel shirt and a leather vest against the cold. He leaned on his cane and frowned at me for a moment, and then at the church.
“Yeah,” I said quietly. “What the hell?”
The door opened before we could step up to it, and Father Forthill appeared there, looking ragged and tired. The old priest managed a faint smile and gave us a quick nod. “Michael. Harry. Thank you for coming. This way, please.”
I went in, and as I did, I could sense the quiet power of decades of faith that permeated the building—and it had been roused and was stirring.
That was unusual. It took the presence of real evil to bring the power of holy ground out of the earth and stones, and that meant that whatever was happening inside, it was capital-B Bad.
Michael tilted his head at the same time I was sorting through the energies around me, and his grey eyes brightened and went hard. His jaw flexed a couple of times, and his grip on the cane shifted, as though he had begun to seize the shaft of it like the handle of a sword.
Forthill led us to the entrance to the chapel, and as he did the screams weakened and trailed off.
“It’s Robert,” he said quietly. “He’s a member of the Brotherhood of St. Brigid.
One of the Brotherhood is a doctor, but he has no idea what’s causing the problem.
We had him in my quarters, but he was getting worse, and Doctor Brazell feared cardiac arrest. We took him into the chapel on the way to carrying him toward a car to take him to the hospital, and the moment we carried him in, he was given grace and relief for a few moments at a time.
It seems to be going in cycles, but we judged it too great a risk to move him and put him in continual agony again.
Hospitals are already overloaded, and I feel certain this is not a medical problem. ”
Forthill opened the door, and we followed him into the chapel.
There were a dozen men wearing St. Brigid’s cross standing in the nave, while a middle-aged man knelt over a panting, grunting, sweating younger man who lay on a narrow cot’s mattress in the sanctuary—presumably Dr. Brazell and Robert, respectively.
The moment I looked at the victim, I felt the nauseating, greasy feel of black magic swirling around the poor bastard, and I was pretty sure I knew what was happening to him.
Because I’d seen it before.
I walked over to the victim and spared a nod for the elaborate altar and painted cupola above it, because I didn’t want to show any disrespect and because I didn’t think a full genuflection would be appropriate for someone not of the faith.
The last time I’d dealt with this curse it had been difficult enough.
I didn’t need to make myself work uphill to handle it again.
“Doctor Brazell?” I said quietly.
He was a pretty average guy. Grizzled hair, silvering beard, thirty or forty pounds overweight, with thick forearms and capable-looking hands in a polo shirt and slacks. His eyes looked haunted, but he offered his hand.
I shook it. “Harry Dresden,” I said. “Wizard. What can you tell me?”
“It started at sundown,” Brazell said. He was holding on to Robert’s hand.
The stricken man was breathing as if he’d just run a marathon at high elevation, covered in sweat, and his eyes were sunken and closed.
I wasn’t sure he knew what was going on.
“He was on a ghoul patrol in the ruins,” Brazell continued, his voice bitter, “and he just pitched over and started screaming. He’s barely said an intelligible word, even in his pain-free moments.
I tried a dose of tramadol, but it did absolutely nothing for him. ”
“I doubt it did nothing,” I said. “If I’m right, it just isn’t the right kind of medicine. I need you to let go of his hand for a moment, please.”
“Why?” Brazell asked.
“Because you’re clearly empathetic, and if you’re touching him it’s going to have an effect on his aura. I need a clean read.”
“Holy Mary,” Brazell spat. “His aura?” He looked up at Michael and Forthill.
“Do it,” Michael said gently.
Brazell looked down at Robert and then at me, and then slowly put his hand down. The victim shuddered and trembled, still gasping.
I put my left hand down to hover over Robert, less than an inch from touching his throat.
He was fever hot. Then I closed my eyes and opened my wizard’s senses.
That same greasy roil of black magic bubbled out hungrily, swirling around my hand, threatening to make me retch in pure reaction.
I fought my stomach back down and slowly moved my hand down his body, over each chakra, each energy center, and focused my attention completely on what I could feel.
Every few inches, I passed another line of black magic, as if something had coiled around his body like a snake. I took a deep breath, pressed my hand closer, and could feel the phantom sensation of needle-sharp barbs pressing against my skin.
Oh yeah.
I had seen this before. And I didn’t need to use my Sight to identify it this time.
“Michael,” I said quietly, “we’re going to need fire. At least the size of a big campfire. The holier the better.”
“Holy oil,” Michael said at once.
“My room, in the ready cabinet,” Forthill said, nodding. “And the old pews are in storage in the basement.” He turned to the other members of the Brotherhood gathered in the nave and said, “Gentlemen, I need your help, please. If you would follow me.”
They all but leapt up to do so. Forthill led them out, and Michael touched my shoulder and limped away as quickly as he could, back toward Forthill’s quarters.
I looked up to find Brazell staring at me. “You…you know what’s going on?”
“Seen it before,” I said. “Maybe fifteen years ago.”
“What’s happening?”
“It’s a curse,” I said. “Someone used black magic to send pain directly into his nervous system. If you could see it, it would look like a coil of barbed wire wrapped around him.”
“Black magic.” Brazell frowned. “Is that why he…he got a little better when he came in here?”
“Belief can be a powerful positive force,” I said. “And black magic like this is as negative as it gets. At its core, the people of your faith believe in redemption, mercy, and compassion. Looks like Someone thought your man needed a little relief until help got here.”
“God,” Brazell said slowly.
“That’s above my pay grade,” I said. “I only do religion when it’s work adjacent. But it doesn’t surprise me that bringing him in here helped.”
“Before last summer,” Dr. Brazell said, “I would have just assumed you were incurably foolish. Or insane.”
“Heh,” I said. “Jury’s still out on the latter.”
Brazell almost smiled. He looked at me intently. “Can you help him?”
The last time I’d used my magic under pressure, it hadn’t gone so well. “I’ve handled this before. I hope so, yeah.”
“What happens if you fail?” Brazell asked.
“If it works the same way it did last time, I’ll end up like him.” I swallowed. I mean, if there was some part of me that thought I deserved to suffer, who was to say it wouldn’t take the opportunity to torment me in one of the most hideous ways I’d ever seen?
“What can I do?” Brazell asked.
“Stand by for aftercare,” I said quietly. “He might well need a hospital after this. You a believer?”
“More and more, the past few months,” he said.
“Then pray,” I said.
“Will it help?”
“Maybe. Probably, even. And I don’t see how it can hurt.”
“Robert is a good man,” Brazell said. “A wife. Two small children. God will help him, won’t He?”
“Near as I can figure from observation, Doc,” I said, “the Almighty mostly seems to be willing to make sure you get a fighting chance when evil supernatural forces stack the deck against you.”
“How so?”
“Like maybe by making sure Robert got enough of a respite to survive until I got here.” I settled back onto my knees and toes, resting my hands on my thighs and beginning to order my thoughts.
“Maybe that’s why they say He helps those who help themselves.
But talk to the padre. Faith isn’t really in my wheelhouse. ”