Page 25 of Drag You Down (Bloody Desires #2)

I don’t dare show the hurt and confusion and every other emotion that taunts me in the wake of what she’s done.

“I’m sorry, Father Zachariah,” I manage to get out around the lump in my throat. “I needed time to think.”

“You should have come to me immediately.” Father Zachariah glances at Eve. “Go visit Ruth, Eve. Levi and I need to have a private conversation.”

Eve purses her lips, looking between us, then nods. “Yes, Father Zachariah.” She gets up but pauses at the door. “I did this for your own good, Levi.”

For my own good?

I stare at her as she leaves and quietly closes the door behind herself. Does she really think this was for my own good? How?

Why does she get to make that decision for me?

I turn my attention back to Father Zachariah, unfamiliar anger simmering beneath the surface. This was my confession to make, not hers.

A small voice in the back of my mind whispers that maybe, just maybe, I shouldn’t have come back after all.

“You left with that man,” Father Zachariah says, and what gentleness he had in his eyes before is gone now. “Where did you go? What did you do?”

I should tell him the truth.

He’s the man who holds the keys to my faith, but that faith has been shaken.

I don’t want to tell him anything.

I can’t tell him the sins I actually committed. “I let myself be persuaded to doubt,” I say quietly. “But then I walked the streets among the people. They need help, Father Zachariah. I spent the days in prayer, then returned home.”

“Who needs help?” Father Zachariah asks, his brow creasing. “But if you spent your time in prayer, that’s good. You’ll still need to do penance, of course, to wash the filth of the city from your soul, but returning home was the right thing to do.”

It’s too soon to feel relieved. He believes me, and I wonder what other hooks the Devil has set into my soul to where I can lie so easily.

“The homeless, the sick, the sinful,” I tell him hoarsely. “They doubt, and they have nothing.”

Why hadn’t I tried to talk them into returning here with me, to be a part of Father Zachariah’s flock?

“Forget them,” Father Zachariah says harshly. “If they truly believed, God would have provided for them. That they now suffer is divine punishment.”

I stare at him, and it’s hard to speak as I whisper, “‘ Whatever you did for the least of these brothers and sisters of mine, you did for me .’” The words are rough, difficult to get out. Who am I to use Jesus’s teachings against his prophet?

“Don’t quote scripture at me,” Father Zachariah spits out. “You don’t know the meaning of the words. ‘ And I will punish the world for its evil, and the wicked for their iniquity .’ Those are God’s words. The only thing you need to do is listen to me.”

God’s words or Jesus’s.

Punishment or mercy.

Empathy or damnation for the wicked.

I don’t know which path to follow.

“I do listen,” I protest.

That’s the problem. I listen, and I learn, and now I’m starting to see where one departs from the other. Scripture should not be used to counter scripture, should it?

Father Zachariah shakes his head. “You’re being impudent. Whatever you think you learned, forget it. I am the word of God.”

I’m not sure he is.

Maybe Gabriel’s claws have dug into me too deeply, making me doubt, making me question.

“Yes, Father Zachariah,” I whisper, bowing my head.

His eyes narrow at me. “You need penance to remind you of your place here.”

I just took penance.

I’m not sure my back can handle much more.

He’s not going to accept that as an excuse, though, especially not after I had the audacity to quote scripture at him.

Maybe I don’t belong here after all.

Maybe I really have lost my way.

Maybe I do belong with someone like Gabriel.

“Yes, Father Zachariah,” I repeat.

He nods. “Good. Follow me.”

I follow obediently, out my apartment door and down the hall.

But we don’t stop at Apartment 302. Father Zachariah walks right past the door and toward the stairs.

My blood freezes in my veins.

Father Zachariah notices my hesitation. “Well? Don’t dawdle.”

I try to speak, but no words will form. I take a step forward, but it’s like I’m trudging through quicksand. “Please, Father Zachariah,” I say. I don’t even know what I’m pleading for — or against.

“You need this,” Father Zachariah says. He motions down the stairs. “A full day of prayer will cleanse you and remind you of your faith.”

My mouth is dry, and while I try to wet my lips with my tongue, it does nothing. “P-please,” I whimper. “I can… I can pray up here.”

I don’t want to go downstairs.

I don’t want to be plunged into darkness, where my prayers go from pleas for salvation to pleas to escape this.

I can’t escape the bitter irony that the answer to my prayers for help might have come in the form of an avenging angel.

An angel I ran away from instead of allowing to help me.

“You will pray where I tell you to pray,” Father Zachariah says sharply. “This back talk is exactly why you need to spend time alone with your prayers.”

“I need my copy of the Bible. I need to reread the verses,” I say, my voice wobbling. If I get to read, I can have the light. It might be sparse — flickering and threatening to die at any moment — but it would be something.

I need it.

Father Zachariah’s expression remains stern. “We’ll see.” He waits, staring, and I know what he wants me to do.

I clench my fists, and after another breath, I start down the stairs.

Down to the main floor, and I glance around helplessly, hoping for somebody to save me. But there’s nobody. None of the others even crack open their doors when we pass.

I stop short of the basement door.

My heartbeat thunders in my ears, coming so very quickly, as I try to calm myself down. It’s only a basement. There’s nothing down there.

Nothing but darkness, nothing but silence, nothing but my own personal gateway to Hell.

I try to choke out another plea, but the words die in my throat as terror grips it and holds it tight. I can’t go down there.

I can’t .

Father Zachariah pushes the door open. “Go down, Levi,” he orders sharply.

I whimper and shake my head, but that’s a mistake.

Father Zachariah growls and grabs my arm, and he pulls me down the stairs with him. I almost trip, and a laugh bubbles up.

How ironic it would be if we both fell into Hell together.

When we reach the bottom, Father Zachariah pushes me toward the lone chair lying on its side by the boiler.

The lightbulb flickers above us, reminding me of how it had gone out two days ago. The long shadow of the chair stretches out, its spindly arms reaching into the depths of the darkness.

“Right the chair and kneel against it,” Father Zachariah orders.

With hands that won’t stop shaking, I pick the chair up, steadying it.

I slowly get to my knees in front of it, facing it, and I croak out, “My Bible? Please?”

I need the comfort of the familiar pages, the familiar verses. I need to remind myself of the benevolent as well as the opposite.

I need a reprieve from the fear.

“I’ll send somebody to bring it later.” Father Zachariah waits until I’m in position.

I watch as he takes my wrist and snaps a metal cuff around it, the kind police use on criminals. I flinch as it clicks into place, staring down at the cool metal in a daze. He snaps the other side around the wooden bar of the back of the chair.

When he reaches for my other hand, I pull it away automatically.

“Levi!” Father Zachariah barks. “Hand into position.”

“Father Zachariah,” I plead, “I don’t need the… the cuffs.”

“Considering you ran off? Yes, you do,” Father Zachariah says. “You will stay here and pray, and remember that the only voice you need to listen to is mine.”

I want to protest that I do listen to him — that that’s part of the problem — but he’s not listening to me .

With a choked sob, I extend my other hand to him, letting him secure my wrist against one of the wooden bars so I’m locked into that position.

I should be used to it by now.

It’s far from the first time he’s instructed me to kneel like this.

But it is the first time he’s locked me into place.

“This is for your own protection,” Father Zachariah says. He presses his hand against my wounded back, making me bite back a cry of pain, and leans down to kiss the top of my head. “You know that I love you, child, as I love all my flock.”

He’s said those words before, too.

I believed them, too.

But there’s no love here.

“Yes, Father Zachariah,” I whisper.

He pushes into my back, making me whimper in pain, before righting himself. “Pray for your soul, Levi. Pray that God cleanses you of the stain you brought upon yourself. And pray that He forgives you for all the transgressions, for all the sins you’ve partaken in of late.”

Tears roll down my cheeks.

Father Zachariah walks away, back toward the stairs.

Every step creaks as he makes his way back up.

And when he’s at the top, he flips the light switch.

I’m plunged into darkness as the door closes and the last sliver of light goes with it.

Then I’m alone.

No one is coming to save me — not God, not the Devil, not an avenging angel.

My breathing comes in short gasps, and I think I’m going to hyperventilate if I don’t calm down soon. I don’t think I can, though. I don’t think I can do anything but panic as I kneel here in the dark, in the pit of Hell where even angels would be afraid.

If they’d be frightened, what hope is there for me?

I pray anyway.