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I inch closer, holding the glass like a weapon. Just enough to see.

A hand clamps around my arm. I scream and jerk back, elbowing him hard in the ribs. He stumbles. I turn, ready to run—but he catches up to me and he grabs my hair. My scalp burns. I scream again, my arms flailing for anything to grab. My back hits the floor hard. The breath rushes out of me in one sharp gasp.

He’s on top of me now, heavy knees pinning my hips, hand clamped over my mouth.

My vision swims, panic flooding my limbs like fire—but somewhere in the haze, instinct kicks in. I bring my knee up. It slams into his side. I twist my head just enough to sink my teeth into his gloved palm.

He howls. The hand comes away.

I draw in air and scream loud enough to shake the windows. He tries to pin me again, but I claw at his neck, at the fabric of his mask. My nails dig into his cheek and I feel skin tear. Warm blood smears under my fingers.

His fist slams into my shoulder, then my face. Pain explodes behind my eye. I blink through it, dazed—but I don’t stop. But I twist under him, kicking with everything I have. I shove hard, roll us sideways. My knee slams into his gut. He growls and grabs a fistful of my hair again, dragging my head back. I claw at his arms, choking on my sobs.

“Lune!”

Bea barrels into him and she wraps her arms around his neck and pulls, dragging him off me. I gasp and roll away, coughing, blood dripping from my nose onto the floor.

Bea’s on his back, legs locked around his middle. She’s pounding at his head with her fists, screaming like a wild thing.

He slams her back against the wall. She grunts but holds on.

I stagger to my feet, vision blurring. The lamp.

My fingers scramble across the counter until they close around the heavy ceramic base.

“Get off her!”

The lamp crashes into the side of his head with a sickening crack. His body jerks. Bea tumbles to the floor.

He turns toward me—stumbling, woozy. I swing the lamp again.

The second blow hits harder. His knees buckle. His body drops like a sack of bricks, face-first onto the carpet.

My breath saws in and out of me. I’m shaking. My arms burn. Bea groans beside me, rubbing her shoulder.

I stumble forward and drop to my knees beside him, fingers trembling as I reach for the mask. Together, we peel it back.

The face beneath is pale, bloodied.

I gasp. Bea recoils.

It’s Father Romani. His mouth is slack. His cheek is bruised and raw from where I clawed it.

I fall back on my hands, staring at him.

Then her hand draws back and slaps him hard across the face. The crack echoes through the room.

“You sick fuck!” she shouts, voice raw. “Wake up, you bastard!”

She raises her hand again, but I catch her wrist. “Bea—”

I kneel by his side, forcing my hands to stay steady as I search his coat. There—an inside pocket. I pull out a small brown bottle, capped tightly.

Bea crouches beside me, and I keep searching. Another pocket yields a phone and a ring of keys.

“Give me the phone,” Bea says, already reaching for it.

She turns it toward his face. “Lune, help me—hold his eyelids open.”