Ignoring the priest scurrying along the floor, Raphael moved for the exit, Maria tightly in his arms. Uriel poured the final can of gasoline in the hallway and all over Father Quinn. Raphael flinched at the heavy smell. His brothers stopped on the threshold of Purgatory, and he surveyed their childhood hell for the last time. This time there was nothing left in him to feel. Father Murray was dead, and the place was about to be an inferno.
Bara lifted his flame thrower. “Shall I?”
Raphael nodded. But just as Bara went to light the gasoline and set the place ablaze, Gabriel held out his hand. “Wait.” Gabriel walked to Father Quinn. The old man looked into Gabriel’s eyes, pure hatred in his stare.
“You,” Father Quinn spat. “The worst of them all.”
“You tried to ruin our lives. You tried to tear us down and make us into nothing.” Gabriel took a long inhale. “But you only made us stronger.”
“You are killers. Murderers. One day soon, you will be punished by God.”
“That may be true,” Gabriel said. “But at least we won’t have to explain why we raped innocent little kids in His name.” Gabriel got to his feet, hovering over the high priest bleeding, on his knees. “You’re a sinner of the worst kind. The most un-Christian Christian I’ve ever met.”
Gabriel walked to the exit, his brothers standing by and waiting for him to lead them home. They were a true brotherhood, unlike the cunts in this damned place.
“You have no idea of the wrath that is coming your way,” Father Quinn hissed.
Gabriel stared at the priest, pulled a box of matches from his pocket, and lit one. Meeting the high priest’s widening gaze, Gabriel smiled, but it was anything but holy. “Go to hell, Father.” Gabriel flicked the match to the floor, igniting the gasoline into a raging line of fire. The Fallen walked from Purgatory, locking the door for the final time.
Smoke and the stench of burning flesh followed them as they fled across the fields to the waiting vans. As Raphael crawled into the back of the van, he cradled Maria into his body. Her blue eyes looked into his, and even through her insufferable pain, she smiled.
His chest had never felt so warm.
Chapter Fifteen
Raphael sat beside Maria as she slept on his bed. His muscles still ached from the doctor’s visit. Maria was hooked up to an IV of antibiotics. Gabriel had had to restrain him as the doctor assessed her naked body. Uriel and Gabriel had pinned him against the wall when he refused to leave and let the doctor work. But as the doctor touched the puss-ridden upturned cross on Maria’s chest and she screamed, Raphael had lunged. His vision had misted with red, and the anger inside him had torn him up from the inside out.
But soon Maria was sedated. “For her own good,” the doctor had said. “So she can heal.” Raphael had moved beside her and taken her hand in his. The string that he forever wore around his finger was firmly in place. As his fingers entwined with Maria’s, the warmth in his chest was back again. He wanted her to open her eyes. He wanted her to smile. Raphael believed the constant ache in his chest would go if she did.
Raphael listened to Maria breathe. He hadn’t even showered since they’d arrived back at the manor. “Heal, little rose,” he whispered into her ear as he lay down on the pillow beside her. “That’s an order. I won’t repeat myself. Do you understand?”
But there was no Yes, my lord to this demand. There was no obedience. Maria was too deep in sleep to open her eyes.
Raphael placed his hand on Maria’s hair. It was full of sweat and knots. He needed to clean it. He needed to brush it and dry it; it needed to smell of vanilla and rose. Then she would be perfect again.
Raphael’s eyes dropped to the brand Father Murray had seared onto her flesh. Raphael wanted to run his finger down it. He wanted to take the pain away. But as he looked at the brand, he couldn’t help but feel his chest grow tight. Not in anger, but . . . With the brand, Maria was now like him. She wore the sign of the devil on her chest . . . just like him. Just like his brothers.
Like she was one of the Fallen.
But as quickly as the tight feeling in his chest came, it was replaced by seething fury at remembering Father Murray’s fingers in her pussy. At his hands around her throat. Raphael ran his finger over her neck. Finger marks that didn’t belong to him were imprinted on her flesh. Blue bruises and red scratches marred her perfect skin. Raphael looked down at his hands. They were shaking. But as he stared at those hands, he remembered them wrapped around Father Murray’s throat.