eighteen
The Merciful
I stare into my closet, my heart hammering. I shouldn’t go. I should run to Father Salvatore and tell him what’s going on, beg him to save me. He would. He’s a priest. His job is to protect his flock, and I am his little lamb.
A funny flutter happens in my lower belly at the thought of being his, being the sweet, innocent child of God that he envisions when he thinks of me.
Or maybe he doesn’t suffer under any such delusions. He’s the first to hear my confessions, after all. If I don’t go tonight, what will the Hellhounds do to ruin me? Will they tell Father Salvatore the other things I’ve done, that I’m not as pure as I pretend, even when I’m confessing to God? Will they tell him the hands that have touched me, the pleasure I’ve succumbed to in this place? Will they tell him I’m not an innocent at all, but a heathen like them?
I pull a soft, flowing skirt from the closet, a cream colored one with golden flowers, that covers me to the ankles. I’m turning myself in tonight, so I don’t need to worry about proper running shoes. I slide on my clogs as usual. Then I select a soft white camisole to wear under a rust-colored cardigan I crocheted last winter while watching re-runs of Pretty Little Liars and pretending I didn’t notice Aunt Lucy making a baby blanket for a baby that didn’t exist.
I let my strawberry waves tumble around my shoulders, then avoid my own eyes in the mirror while I wind them back up, making sure every strand is in place. Once my bun is secure, I slick back any flyaways with a bit of water to make sure it’s as stark and severe as a nun’s.
I pull the cardigan closed, pushing the oversized button through the chunky buttonhole with trembling fingers. I could run, leave campus. I could leave my dorm room and hide somewhere until morning, so even if they came for me, I’d be gone. But then what?
If I run, I’ll have to keep running. I can’t come back. And I’m done hiding. It’s time to pay for what I did four years ago.
They could have done worse. Saint protected me on HAVOC night, and some part of me takes courage in that, in the fact that some part of him still sees me as the little sister he wants to protect. They gave me a choice, let me decide how to pay for my crimes against them. They didn’t have to do that. They could have decided for me. But they let me choose whether to work off my debt by becoming theirs—or not.
I’ll pay either way, but it won’t be at their hands if I choose to walk away. It won’t be at the hands of boys who used to be my best friends, who let me ride on the handlebars of their bikes before I learned to ride my own; who picked me up and dusted me off and kissed it better when I wobbled and fell when I was learning to ride without training wheels; who waited for me when we were running away from some real or imagined threat, even though I was smaller and slower.
They waited, not just because they never left anyone behind, but because they didn’t want me to get caught by someone else. They protected me, even then, even if none of us knew that’s what they were doing. We were the Quint, Cinco de Mercy, bound together by friendship bracelets and blood oaths and promises sworn, “cross my heart and hope to die.”
Maybe a sliver of that remains in all of them, not just Saint. Some part of me trusts them, even though they want to hurt me. I have to believe, to have faith, that they won’t kill me. That there’s a limit, a line they won’t cross.
I don’t know that about anyone else, but I know about them. I do. I know it in my bones, in my soul. And if I know that, then I must have known, in some hidden place deep inside me, that they didn’t kill Eternity.
And so, I won’t refuse their offer. I won’t take my chances with the giant Sinner named Bain, or his brother with the neck tattoo and hairline like a knife, or the one with the quicksilver eyes and dirty mouth, who will surely be out to avenge his wounded pride after our encounter outside the dorm. I will turn myself over and pay for the sins I’ve committed. Maybe then, at last, I’ll be absolved. Maybe I can finally be forgiven and move on, free from this burden that has burned inside me like hellfire since I was twelve years old. This isn’t my sacrifice. It’s my penance.
I wrap my fingers around the cross that hangs from my neck and close my eyes, saying a quick prayer that they won’t ruin me completely, that they’ll stop before condemning me to hell. That I will return to my room with enough innocence left that I’ll still be worthy of God’s love. I run a trembling thumb over the engraved letters on the back.
Then, I step out of my room and pull the door closed behind me. A hooded figure is hurrying down the hall, away from me. My eyes fly back to my door, expecting another message, but there’s nothing. I turn after them, my mouth already open to call out, but the hallway is empty. I stand there, breath held, but the only sound is the slightest echo of a whisper from the stairway ahead.
The hairs on my neck bristle, and I lock my door and race on tiptoes to the top of the stairs. By the time I arrive, the stairwell is empty. Heart hammering, I descend, glancing over my shoulder every few steps. When I step into the hall at the bottom, there’s no sign of them in either direction.
Curfew is quickly approaching, and the nun at the front scolds me harshly for forgetting to check out a book from the library that I need for a paper that’s due tomorrow, but she’s too old-fashioned to tell me to just find it online. With a final threat, she lets me leave with only the promise of a quick return and humble acceptance of punishment if I’m even one minute late.
I know I’ll be more than a few minutes late, but I’ll have to take my punishment the same way the boys did when I turned them in. Or maybe she’ll worry and send someone after me, and they’ll save me from the deviance of the three lawless heathens in whose hands I’m willingly placing myself. Thoughts of running rise again, of hiding behind a mask the way I have so many times, of disappearing. But my feet move on their own, leading me as if they know my fate is already sealed, as inevitable as the crucifixion.
Three stray students race past me, trying to make it back to the girls’ dorm in time to avoid the nun’s wrath, and then I’m alone. The deserted campus lays spread before me like an offering, an unholy temptation that quickens my steps and my heartbeat as I move across the empty lawn. The wind tears at my cardigan, and I clutch it tight around me. There’s no use fighting. That’s what I tell myself, because if I don’t have a choice, it’s not a sin.
I dart a glance around, making sure I’m alone before I let myself lift my face to greet the force of the gusts like a challenge, drinking in the cool edge in it, the whisper of promise that sends a delicious shiver down my spine. After all, I’m the kind of girl who ducks my head against the wind, who doesn’t watch it bend the trees to its will, making them sigh in pleasure as it tugs at their leaves and forces them to bow for their master.
A few minutes later I step into the atrium, my heart pounding erratically as my eyes adjust. No one is here. I take a few minutes to collect myself before I march into the chapel, my clogs announcing my approach. Three robed men stand waiting at the altar, each wearing a skull mask of a different color. My heart skips, but my stride never wavers.
I stop at the pedestal where a porcelain bowl of holy water stands. Closing my eyes, I dip my trembling fingers into the water, searching for some comfort, maybe even purification, before I step into the unknown. My lips move, but no sound comes out as I cross myself.
No one moves or speaks as I finish and open my eyes before climbing the three wooden steps that lead to the heart of the church, where mass is conducted. The pulpit stands to my left, and to my right, the choir’s seats sit empty. Ahead, a row of cushions wait at the railing where we take communion, and past that, the altar stands backed by a tall wooden cross. High above, a crucifixion scene is cast in stained glass, each delicate pane burned into my memory, though it’s nothing more than a shadowy hollow in the dark of night.
“Here I am,” I say, stopping at the railing.
“Have you decided to accept your lot as our sacrifice?” asks the one in the black mask.
My palms are itching, and I curl my fingers into fists, letting my nails bite into my scarred skin. A single word echoes in my head, a result of the waves of adrenaline beating at the shore of my mind.
Fight.
But fighting won’t get me what I want—to be closer, to be one of them again, to find the truth about Eternity.
“Yes,” I say.
“Let’s give her one more chance,” says Red Skull.
“You just want to chase her,” says White Skull.
“Yeah, so?” Red Skull says, cracking his knuckles.
“So what if I get away?” I ask. “Then I don’t get your protection?”
He laughs, the mirthless sound echoing through the empty pews. “You’ll never get away.”
“Then what’s the point?” I ask. “If I have no chance, there’s no reason to run. I accept my fate.”
“The point is, it gets my dick hard,” he says harshly.
“You can’t fuck her,” Black Skull says. “His Holiness has to choose you.”
“You’re just hoping he’ll choose you,” Red Skull says, elbowing him. “Sicko.”
“Should we prepare her for the Master?” asks White Skull, going to the back wall, where the tall wooden cross stands below the stained-glass window. “Help me with this.”
“Good idea,” Black Skull says, joining him.
White Skull wraps his arms around the upright beam of polished wood, straining to lift it from the brass base where it stands. Black Skull lends a hand, and together they heave it out. It starts to tip, and Red Skull rushes to help support it as the three of them lower it to the floor. It’s so tall they can’t lay it flat, and instead it comes to rest at a slight angle with the top few feet jutting over the railing where we take communion.
“Alright,” Black Skull says, shrugging to adjust the black robe that was pulled askew when they were working. “Let’s strap her on.”
“What?” I gasp, stepping back and shaking my head. “You can’t!”
The very thought of being put on a cross is sacrilege.
Red Skull’s masked face swings my way, and a menacing chuckle echoes through the vaulted ceiling overhead. He steps toward me, his body tensed as if to spring the moment I make a run for it. Black Skull’s arm extends in front of Red Skull’s chest, stopping him with a silent command.
“If you want to leave,” he says to me. “Go.”
I swallow hard, glancing over my shoulder as I calculate how long it will take me to snatch the clogs off my feet and run if they’re playing some kind of trick on me, letting Red Skull have his fun.
“You told me to come,” I say, narrowing my eyes and trying to figure out their game. I have next to no experience with psychological warfare, and I don’t know what move to make, which one they’re expecting. I just know that everything depends on making the right one.
Black Skull shrugs. “You’re not a prisoner. You’re free to go.”
“Really?” I ask. “You’d let me go? Or are you just predators who want to play with your food before you devour it?”
White Skull chuckles, but it’s different than the menacing one Red Skull let out. I can hear an edge of admiration in this one.
The swell of pride in my chest is disconcerting and dangerous. I need to keep my head on straight, to impress them for strategic reasons, not so they’ll love me again like they did when we were kids.
“Go on,” Black Skull says. “Leave if that’s what you want to do.”
Red Skull shakes out his fingers, getting out the nervous energy. “Or you can come when we call, and we’ll keep your secrets.”
I swallow hard, my gaze moving from one to the next. I don’t want to know which masked man is which, but I do.
“How badly do you want to keep this secret?” Red Skull taunts, circling to the end of the railing and prowling toward me. “How badly do you want the world to think you’re a good girl?”
The way he bounces on his toes when he’s standing still, his body leaned forward slightly, like a horse ready to run and barely held back by its reins, along with his slightly smaller, ropier stature, lets me know that one is Heath.
He drops his voice to a slippery whisper that hisses through the church like a snake. “What would you pay to be absolved of your sins?”
I nod slowly. “Okay.”
He leans in, so close I can see the glitter of his eyes through the small eyeholes in the mask. I jump when his fingers, clad in black leather gloves, wrap around my wrist in a gentle grip that makes me quake even harder than a rough hold would. “How much is a secret worth, little lamb?” he breathes. “More than your innocence?”
“No.” I shake my head, taking a step back, but his fingers clamp around my wrist.
“Funny, that’s what I said to the guards in juvie,” he growls. “How does it feel to have the choice taken from you?”
“Please,” I whisper in a pathetic quaver. “You said I could go.”
He laughs, quiet at first, a menacing low rumble that grows, rising, echoing off the church walls, the ceiling, erratic and unhinged.
“The funny thing is, she thinks she still has her innocence,” says a voice behind me, so close I almost scream. I was so focused on Heath I didn’t even notice Black Skull in his black robes moving like a shadow around the other end of the railing, coming up behind me. “You can’t give us something you don’t have.”
I know his voice, one that’s been a comfort all my life, from when I was so small I barely remember it saying the words I needed to hear each time, that he chose me. A voice that cracked and squeaked through those awkward preteen years before settling into a deep, slightly gravely texture that vibrated through shameful nights as I tossed and turned in heated, fretful agony, praying to forget the way it held onto my name, as if his tongue was savoring it an extra moment each time he spoke it.
White Skull—Angel, I presume—hops the railing and straightens, crossing his arms over his barrel chest and looking down at me. “You’re wasting our time,” he says. “So what’s it going to be? You in or out?”
“I don’t know,” I admit, my throat constricting with panic as I glance at the cross again. I can’t let them do what they said they were going to do. “Are you going to… Crucify me?”
“You know our intentions well enough,” Saint says. “We took that to mean you were committed. If you’re not, run back to the nunnery and stop playing games.”
“Just remember,” Heath says. “Whatever you don’t give us, the Sinners will take by force.”
I’d like to see them try, but I don’t say it. I’m here for a reason, and if this is the only way to succeed, then it’s a sacrifice I have to be willing to make. I hate that I’m not, but I force myself anyway—for her. If I do it for her, maybe it’s not a sin. Maybe it makes me a good Samaritan, a good person, to make such a sacrifice for someone else.
At last, I nod. It’s okay if I’m afraid. I just have to do it anyway. That’s what matters.
“Okay,” I manage through the stranglehold of my throat. “I’m in.”
“Good,” says Saint, picking up a coil of rough rope from the lectern. “Then let the binding begin.”
“The binding?” I whisper.
“With this rope, I bind myself to you,” Saint says, gripping the end of the rope in one hand and winding it around his wrist with the other. He passes the loop to Angel, who does the same before passing it to Heath.
“With this tie, I bind myself to you,” echoes the voice behind the red skull mask. Then he turns, handing the rope to me. I gulp down the storm of nerves inside me. This feels wrong, like some kind of satanic ritual. I glance at my brother, wishing more than anything that I could see his face, see even a hint of reassurance behind the stoic exterior. But his face is hidden, the skeleton mask staring back at me with its impassive, unchanging smile.
If I have to bind myself to one of them, I want it to be him, but the heathen with his maniacal laugh is the one holding out the rope.
“Once you’re bound, you’re ours, as long as we want you. However and whenever we want,” Saint says. “If you wish to enter this contract, repeat our words, binding your wrist once to each of ours.”
“And you’re bound to me?” I ask.
He nods, the movement almost imperceptible.
At least I’ll be bound to him too. Reluctantly, I take the rope and wrap a length around my wrist. “With this tie, I bind myself to you,” I say to Heath. Then I wrap the rope around my wrist a second time, stepping over to Angel. I wrap his wrist a second time, my heart hammering harder and harder. I feel a little dizzy, faint and sick. “With this tie, I bind myself to you.”
Saint holds out his wrist, and I wrap the end of the rope around my wrist a third time before winding it around his. Blood rushes in my ears, my heartbeat erratic now. I can taste copper, though I don’t remember biting my tongue.
“With this tie,” I whisper, wishing I could wipe my clammy, shaking hands. “I bind myself to you.”
I swear the candles burn brighter for a moment, as if they’re sensing the crackling charge in the air when I touched my brother. Or maybe I’m just aware of them suddenly, how many burn around the altar, like a séance.
“We are bound,” Saint says in his quiet rumble. I can feel it through the rope, racing up my arm, down my spine, nesting like a hot coal under my lower belly.
“We are bound,” the other two repeat, and I feel my lips moving, hear my own voice in my ears like it’s someone else’s as I obey the unspoken command by instinct, a lifetime of call and response in the pews having trained me to answer after a weighted pause.
Then my brother, the boy who grew up in a two-story house in a neighborhood that was so safe that our parents sent us around the block by ourselves to invite everyone to the cookout when we hosted; the boy who carried me around on his back and lined up my teddy bears in my pink bedroom with thick, soft carpet; who told me we could eat anything in the fridge when our parents were gone and never got punished for making a mess or leaving the food out; who preordered the latest Jordans every time a new pair dropped, was patted on the back for being such a model student athlete by every parent and teacher and pastor from every church in town, pulls out a switchblade and flicks it open like he’s a gangster from Angel’s side of town.
With one quick stroke, he slices through the rope, severing our connection. I almost cry out, but he cuts away the others as well, leaving the rope in pieces. They quickly gather the lengths, securing them around my other wrist before I can protest. Then they lead me around the railing.
“Wait,” I gasp, my knees threatening to give.
“Did you bring your rosary?” Heath asks, still behind the mask.
I nod, my throat working as I try to speak.
I hand it over, and he slips it over my head. “Open your mouth.”
I obey, and he pushes the attached cross between my lips, letting it come to rest on my tongue. Then he loops the string of beads double, squeezing it over a third time and settling the three strands over my lips. “As much as I love to hear you scream, tonight requires silent submission,” he says. “If you scream, these will fall into your mouth and become a gag,” he says. “And the cross might slip back and choke you. So keep your mouth shut and suck on that cross like it’s your brother’s cock. We all know how thirsty you are for him.”
He gives my cheek a patronizing little pat that makes me want to spit the cross in his face and punch him in the windpipe. Instead, I clench my teeth tight, letting the metallic taste of the object calm me with its familiar, blood-like flavor.
Without a word, he scoops me up and carries me around the railing, lowering me onto the tilted cross.
The other two jump in and grab my hands. My stomach lurches as they pin them down on the crossbeam.
“Wait,” Saint says, and my heart swells with hope.
Maybe he’ll stop them at the last minute, like he did on HAVOC night. Maybe he’ll save me, absolve me.
Maybe he’ll tell me I’m forgiven.
“We have to turn her the other way,” he says.
My hope deflates as Angel picks me up this time, setting me on my feet. “You sure about this?” he asks, his smoky, jade green eyes searching mine from behind the shadows of his mask. For one second, I feel the concern I hoped for in Saint, and all I want to do is grab hold of Angel and never let go, beg him to carry me home and keep me forever and never let anyone else hurt me.
But I hurt him too, and after a second, he steps back, and my moment to answer is gone.
“We need her naked,” Heath says.
“Do we have to do that part?” Saint mutters.
“Shit, of course,” Angel says. “The Master will want her ready when he arrives.”
I gulp, my gaze flying from one of them to the next.
Heath bounces on his toes, rubbing his gloved hands together. “Strip for us, little lamb. Show us what you’ve got.”
“What?” I try to ask, but the words are garbled by my mouth being forced open by the rosary beads that bind my cheeks and the cross on my tongue. I shrink back, and Saint sighs.
“Take off your clothes, or go home,” he says. “You’re wasting our time.”
Slowly, I peel off my cardigan, my eyes locked on my brother with all the hatred and fury I feel burning through my limbs. If he wants to humiliate me, show me off to his friends, I’m powerless to stop him. But I still have power over my actions within this contract, and I won’t cower before him. He knows what he’s taking from me, what it’s going to cost me, and I won’t pretend otherwise to appease his conscience.
They stand motionless, faceless in their silent witness while I peel off my shirt and drop my skirt.
Then Heath snickers, and whatever bravado gripped me and gave me the bravery to stare down Saint while I undressed vanishes. I’m suddenly smaller and more defenseless than I’ve ever been, scared and shaking as I stand exposed in my bra and panties before three men who are as emotionless as statues, as immovable as mountains.
“Please,” I whimper around the beads. If they’ll just let me stop now.
“What’s up with the underwear?” Heath asks. “You on your period or something?”
Another one of them chuckles, but I can’t tell where the sound comes from, since they’re standing together, their expressions hidden by the skull masks.
“Are you?” my brother asks.
My face burns even hotter, and I shake my head, covering myself with my arms.
“No use doing that,” Heath says. “We’re going to see every inch of you tonight, little lamb. Inside and out.”
“Shut up,” Saint growls, elbowing him in the ribs.
“What?” Heath asks. “It’s true. That’s what she’s here for. Now show us, little sister.”
Saint shakes his head, but he doesn’t say anything. They’re all standing there watching me. I want to cry, and I’m shaking all over, and I feel like I might be sick.
I could pick up my clothes and put them back on and walk away. Every instinct and good part of my soul is screaming for me to do it, to keep whatever parts of myself remain pure and protect them like treasure.
But then what? They wouldn’t just show the world my confession. They’d leave me on my own, to fend for myself against all seven Sinners. And while I’m not scared of that prospect, I need them to think I am. I need them to think I have a reason to need them that doesn’t involve Eternity and their secrets. I need a way in, and this is it.
So with trembling fingers and a heart racing like a scared little rabbit, I turn away and quickly unhook my bra, dropping it to the polished wood floor next to the altar, then drop my panties and kick them off. I take a deep breath, trying to get oxygen so I don’t faint. On shaking legs, I turn back slowly.
No one speaks for a solid minute, and my knees are so weak I know I couldn’t run if I tried. They just stare at me, three robed sentinels covered from head to toe, not even their hands or faces bared, while I’m in nothing but a necklace and the rosary beads bisecting my face. My breath hitches, and my eyes sting with tears suddenly.
“Let’s get her on the cross,” Saint says quietly.