Noa dropped the scalpel and got to her feet. She nodded at Bara. Bara smiled wide. He stepped forward, a compact blowtorch in his hand. He flicked the switch, blue flame morphing to warm tones, and edged toward the priest.
Noa moved beside Diel, and he watched, blood rushing through his veins, as Bara stripped the priest of his black robe until his skin was revealed. The branded “B” on his chest offended Diel’s fucking eyes. The priest sat stoic throughout, as if he had been trained to withstand torture. He only broke into a sweat when Bara began to scorch the skin of his arms and chest.
“Anything to say yet?” Noa asked when the dungeon reeked of charred flesh. Bara stayed close, shifting from side to side excitedly.
“Die, devil’s whore,” the priest snarled, breathless from enduring so much pain.
The slur was a red flag to Diel. He rushed forward, grabbed a knife, and plunged it straight into the priest’s shoulder until only the handle could be seen. Then he twisted the blade, slowly. The priest shook. His face reddened with agony, sweat poured from his forehead, and his teeth clenched as he tried to withstand the assault.
But Diel kept twisting and twisting, until Noa ran her hand up Diel’s back, signaling for him to withdraw. Diel forced himself to pull back. Noa crouched down and said, “Where is the woman?”
The priest laughed manically. His eyes narrowed on Noa as he hissed, “You’ll never find her.” Every muscle in Diel’s body locked; he was paralyzed by the priest’s words. His heart fired into a sprint, and he felt like he couldn’t breathe.
Cara was alive. She was fucking alive. The priest knew of her.
Noa stood and nodded at Uriel. Uriel took a large set of needles from the metal tray and walked slowly toward the priest. Noa came to stand before Diel as Uriel begin to pierce the mass of needles into the priest’s flesh, slow and deep. All over his body—his arms, his legs, his cheeks. Then Uriel pushed a needle into his groin, just beside his balls.
Noa’s hand on Diel’s arm drew his attention from the moaning priest to her. “You okay?” she whispered, low enough for only him to hear. Diel didn’t fucking know if he was okay. This bastard priest knew Cara, or he knew of her, and he wasn’t spilling shit.
Diel’s little sister was alive, which brought him relief. But she was with them, imprisoned somehow by them, which made him want to rip this fucker apart, then tear through every Brethren faction in the city until he found her.
Yet Diel nodded at Noa, giving nothing away with this prick in this room. By the knowing glint in her eye, he guessed Noa saw his true feelings.
When Uriel was done and the priest a human pin cushion, needles pushed into the parts of his body that would bring him most discomfort, Noa nodded at Sela. Sela approached the priest with the sharpest blade Diel had ever seen. The priest’s blood-curdling screams sounded as sweet as a fucking lullaby as Sela robbed the priest of two fingers and an entire ear.
The priest was moaning now, edging into delirium. Noa stepped forward. “The woman? Where is she?” The priest’s head dropped. Noa slapped him around the face. “Where. Is. She?”
“Eat … shit … witch,” the priest slurred, and Diel nodded to Raphael. Raphael’s golden eyes gleamed as he reached for the noose he had attached to the ceiling and carefully wrapped it around the priest’s neck.
Raphael tightened the rope around the priest’s neck until the priest was silently screaming for breath. Then Raphael, his usual string tight around his finger, yanked on the pulley. The noose began to drag the priest off the floor, the chair legs hovering an inch off the ground. His neck took the brunt of his weight; the rope’s fibers tore at his skin.
Noa slid her hand into Diel’s and squeezed, her eyes light with satisfaction as the priest fought for air, fought to be released. He choked, legs and arms desperately trying to break from Raphael’s ties. But it was futile.
Eventually, Raphael lowered him back to the ground, and the noose slackened enough to allow him to breathe. The priest gasped for air, then he let out a scream, filled with frustration—filled with the opening notes of defeat.
Noa rushed toward him. “The woman? Tell us where the woman is, and this will stop.” Diel smirked to himself. Because he knew his woman. This would never stop. This priest was going to bear the brunt of all the Fallen’s hatred toward his fellow black-robed brothers and their fucked-up organization.
The priest’s eyes rolled. Noa lifted his head by his hair. “Where is she?”
The priest fought unconsciousness, the pins still in his body, the knife Diel had inserted in his shoulder still handle-deep. Blood seeped from the wound. He was bleeding from where Sela had taken his fingers and ear. He was losing blood, and Michael was watching him from the corner of the room as if the priest was his next meal.