Page 4 of Drag You Down (Bloody Desires #2)

LEVI

F ather Zachariah stares at all of us with deep disapproval.

The only light comes from the small flickering lamp. The windows are covered with thick blankets to prevent any light from seeping through, rendering this room as ominous as any pit to hell.

The penance room is still better than the basement.

The hardwood floors dig into my knees, and I clench my fists on my thighs. Eve, who’s sitting next to me, keeps her head bowed so her hair falls over her face. From behind me, I hear soft whimpers from one of the younger women.

Everybody is terrified of retribution.

All thirty-two of us have gathered here. I can hear the younger children making soft, distressed sounds, while the older ones have learned that silence is the only acceptable reaction. The mothers force the children to look down, while the men stay stoic.

I need to be stoic too.

My eyes catch on a dark red stain at the edge of the wooden slat underneath my knees.

Was that my blood?

“Which of you pulled the fire alarm?” Father Zachariah asks. “I know it must have been one of you.”

Guilt hammers in my chest. I remember deep, dark eyes, penetrating my soul.

Nobody says a word as Father Zachariah walks between our kneeling bodies.

He lifts up young Mary’s arm and rattles her. “Was it you, child?” he demands. “I know you like to play in the halls.”

“No,” she answers quickly. “Please, Father Zachariah, sir, I swear I didn’t. I would never.”

She’s only thirteen. Her blonde hair is pulled into two braids, and her eyes are wide with fear.

Father Zachariah scowls at her. “You’d never? But last week you stole Myriam’s cookies. We all know you’re driven to temptation easily.”

I purse my lips and give in to the urge to look in their direction. My sister Eve catches my gaze and shakes her head.

“I didn’t do it!” Mary cries out again. She tries to pull away from Father Zachariah, but her older brother pushes her back into her spot.

“You protest like the guilty,” Father Zachariah says. “Get up against the wall?—”

Get up against the wall and face penance.

“It was the Devil!” I yell.

Father Zachariah lets go of Mary and turns to look at me. “What?”

I straighten my shoulders and look straight ahead at the dirty white wall with its brown smudges.

Next to me, Eve goes even more still. I know she’d look at me if she could, but nobody would dare draw unnecessary attention to themselves.

“The Devil did it,” I repeat, my voice raspy.

That’s the truth. There is no reason for Mary to suffer when she had nothing to do with it.

Father Zachariah walks over to me and grips my hair harshly. “Why would the Devil pull a fire alarm, Levi?”

I look up at him, at the cold anger in his blue eyes.

“Because… because the Devil wants something in our home.” I swallow down the confession that wants to slip free.

The Devil wants me.

Father Zachariah shakes my head from side to side, and I bite my lip to suppress my pained noises.

“What would the Devil want from us?” he demands. “We are righteous and godly. Our halls are hallowed, and the Devil may not step foot inside here.”

I stay silent, hoping the answer will be enough.

But Father Zachariah releases me and says, “If the Devil is here, then you must all take penance, to ensure you remember your place in the world.”

He means to punish everybody for my own sin.

It isn’t their soul the Devil came for.

They aren’t the ones who have been remembering the gurgling sounds of a stranger’s death.

They aren’t the ones who have been thinking about a tall stranger with a smooth voice.

They aren’t the ones who have been dreaming about a copper kiss.

“I did it,” I quickly say. “The Devil came for me. I’m the reason he pulled the fire alarm.”

The others, the children , don’t deserve to suffer for the weakness in my soul.

I can feel Eve stir as much as I can see her out of the corner of my eye, and I know she’s willing me to backtrack. She doesn’t understand why I need to do this. She would rather everybody take a lash or two and be done with it, instead of me receiving God’s full wrath.

But I know Eve can’t take much penance either. I’m doing this for her as much as for the children.

I see Father Zachariah’s lips curl into a smile, one not even his bushy beard can hide. “Then I’ll have to drive that Devil out of you, Levi.”

My back already aches, and my stomach drops in dread, but I nod. “Yes, sir.”

If this spares Mary and Eve and the others, I’ll gladly take it.

As long as it’s penance up here, in front of the others.

As long as penance means pain and prayer and is over in a few minutes.

Father Zachariah tightens his hold on my hair and looks at the others. “Be grateful, children. Levi has done the honorable thing and confessed to his sins. Pray for his soul, for it is the most stained among yours.”

Those words cut deeper than anything else he’s said so far.

It’s because I know they’re the truth.

This is why the Devil sought me out.

But the others are still pure. Their souls can still be saved.

“Now stand, Levi, and bare yourself for penance.” Father Zachariah lets go of me and walks to the nearby wall.

The wall I’ve avoided looking at.

I stand and pull my shirt off. I hear Eve’s inhale, and the soft breaths of others in the room.

None of their backs are as scarred as mine. They take a lash or two every few months.

I take penance regularly.

I go to the center of the dirty white wall in front of me. I place my hands over a dark stain, one that’s familiar and matches the groove of my hand.

Just above eye-level is another dark, ruddy brown mark.

Copper .

I lick my lips and wait for the familiar sting, for the familiar pain.

Father Zachariah removes the thick whip from where it hangs on the side wall and strides over to me. He drapes the leather across my back, stroking over the scars I’ve accumulated over the years.

“Watch, my children, and remember this. Levi makes this sacrifice to protect all of you,” Father Zachariah says.

Is it really a sacrifice if I’ve drawn the Devil’s eye?

He takes several paces back, and my apprehension only grows as he puts more distance between us. As soon as he’s far enough away, he’ll begin.

I close my eyes instead of continuing to stare at the dark stain. I can still see it in my mind’s eye, though. Focusing on it is better than nothing at all, but when my mind goes blank and the pain suffuses my entire being, I know it will be good .

Maybe if I suffer enough, the Devil will stop stalking me. The first lash falls between my shoulder blades. It isn’t a particularly hard strike, but it still draws a sharp hiss from my lungs. The pain quickly transforms into something other , something that fills me with yearning and shame alike.

Father Zachariah always ramps it up by subtle degrees, drawing out the whipping to make sure the lesson is learned and imprinted into my skin.

As it gets progressively harder, I sink into a place inside of me where the pain becomes penance, where I know that the absolution for my sins is within reach. It’ll take more, I know, but I need it.

My rebellious flesh grows hard under the onslaught, but I keep perfectly still, not flinching away from the lashes, not grinding against the wall like my sinful body wants me to.

I cry out the first time the whip cuts my skin, my body shuddering. It gets more difficult to remain still as he speeds up and I have less time to relax before the next strike lands—and as the pleasure builds, aching for something forbidden.

The slow trickle of blood down my back is a familiar feeling, and as it seeps out of me, so too does my sin.

There is nothing but this pain, this euphoria.

This is supposed to be penance, yet I chase it, want it.

Cleanse me.

Make me feel .

I stifle a moan as the lash hits me once more. I attempt to turn my thoughts to God, but instead of the beautiful, shining light, I see dark brown eyes and a lurid smile.

I see the Devil, smirking at me.

Little lamb .

I gasp and squeeze my eyes shut, arching my back for the next lash so I can drive these thoughts away.

It’s harder than the rest, cutting more deeply into my skin. I never count. Father Zachariah doesn’t like it when we count, preferring instead for us to put our faith in him to determine how many strikes are needed to absolve us of our offenses.

I expect another, but it doesn’t come.

My heartbeat thuds in my ears, then I feel Father Zachariah’s hand directly on my back, over the cuts.

I let out a small, strangled sound, and my tears finally fall.

Because it isn’t Father Zachariah’s face I see behind my eyelids. It’s still the Devil, that being who stole an angel’s name and wears it like a bad disguise.

It’s his kiss I feel against my lips, filling my mouth with copper once more.

It’s his hand I imagine brushing across my burning flesh, his tongue lapping up my blood and telling me that I have earned this pain, that I deserve it, but that I am forgiven.

“Your penance is done, my child,” Father Zachariah says, still stern. “You may return to your room.”

No , I want to say. The Devil is still in my thoughts! He hasn’t been driven out!

But I nod, and I turn to face the rest of the flock, hunching forward to hide the embarrassing truth of my arousal.

Eve’s bright blue eyes are on me, and I see the pity there, and the gratefulness.

She never argues to save me. She says I shouldn’t sacrifice myself for the others, yet she won’t prevent it, either.

It would be worse for her if she did. The women are held to a higher standard, and as his future wife, Eve is held even higher than that. She might not be lashed, but there are other punishments.

Worse punishments.

I stumble in her direction, and she stands to help me. She grips my arm, and her body helps shield my shame from the others.

“Levi won’t be fit to collect our groceries tomorrow. Jacob, you’ll go,” Father Zachariah says. “Eve, tend to your brother.”

“Yes, Father,” she says, her voice carefully demure.