The Devil's Labyrinth

bottle.

Sofia shrank from Father Sebastian as if he held an asp in his grip.

Forcing the fingers of her left hand open, the priest tipped the vial so the blood ran onto her palm, then did the same with the other hand.

A terrible stench began to rise from Sofia’s hands and the blood oozed across her palms and began to drizzle between her fingers.

Father Sebastian circled around her, his deep voice chanting, his hands etching patterns in the air above her.

Sofia’s palms began to burn.

She craned her neck to look at her hands, which now had smoke curling up from what looked like charred flesh. “Burning!” she screamed, finding her voice at last.

“Silence the demon!” Father Sebastian commanded.

Sister Mary David instantly forced a washcloth into Sofia’s mouth, binding it in place by wrapping some kind of scarf tightly around her head, completely covering her mouth and barely leaving any room for her to suck air in through her nostrils.

Panic began to rise in Sofia — she couldn’t get enough air through her nose, and her hands were on fire!

She squeezed her eyes shut as if blinding herself might make it stop happening.

What kind of nightmare is this?

Then she felt fingers beginning to unbutton her blouse.

Her eyes flicked open and she found herself gazing into Father Sebastian’s eyes.

She wanted to fight him, but her hands were burning and all her energy was being drained by the struggle merely to keep breathing.

Father Sebastian spread her blouse wide, then unhooked her bra, exposing her naked breasts.

As her terror rose, Sofia’s breath threatened to fail completely. Father Sebastian turned his back to her, and she felt a brief instant of hope, but then he turned back, holding a bloody mass of pulp in his hands. Gently — reverently — he laid the thing on her chest, and a terrible chill ran through her body as if the bloody thing itself were sucking the warmth out of her.

Father Sebastian began chanting again, and Father Laughlin lowered the crucifix hanging above her until its glittering point touched the thing on her chest.

The mass of pulp suddenly began to throb, and Sofia instantly knew what it was: the bleeding heart of whatever creature it was whose blood had burned the palms of her hands.

Now she felt something growing inside her, as if some terrible presence was awakening, crowding her out, pushing her aside with every beat of the evil heart that lay over her own.

Sister Mary David helped Father Sebastian off with his stole, then his surplice, and finally he pulled his cassock over his head.

He stood above Sofia, clad only in a gray hair shirt, which hung to his knees.

Sister Mary David untied the string that held it closed at the back of his neck and opened it wide.

Father Laughlin handed Father Sebastian a short whip that ended in a profusion of metal-barbed leather thongs. As Sofia watched in horror, Father Sebastian held the whip to his lips, murmured some unintelligible words, then raised the lash high.

Sofia shrank against the stone, trying to steel herself against the agony to come, and watched helplessly as the whip began its arc.

But instead of slashing down on her, it whipped across Father Sebastian’s head and shoulders, cutting not into Sofia’s flesh, but that of his own back.

Yet even as Sofia watched each stroke of the flagellum as it slashed into the priest’s flesh, she felt exactly as if each lash were biting into her own body.

Felt it as surely as if he were whipping her rather than himself.

She thrashed against her bonds now, trying to scream, feeling the flesh stripping off her back every time Father Sebastian took the whip to his own skin.

And the presence that had awakened within her began to grow angry. She felt it, hot and vibrant inside her chest.

Inside her mind.

She felt it trampling her own thoughts and emotions, shoving them aside to make more room for its own fury.

Blood spattered her face as Father Sebastian slashed his back over and over again. Sofia’s tongue tried to work its way past the wad of cloth that filled her mouth to taste the priest’s blood.

At last Father Sebastian stopped his flagellation, reached back, and gathered a handful of ruined flesh and skin from his back. He looked down on Sofia, so close she could feel the heat of his heaving breath on her face.

He drew something on her forehead with a bloody forefinger. The heart on her chest gave one more mighty heave, then exploded in a fountain of gore as the cross above her burst into flames.

The beast within her roared, erupting with rage.

Sofia sat up, breaking the velvet ropes as if they were nothing but threads, and hurled the flaming cross aside.

Father Laughlin and Sister Mary David backed away, their eyes wide with terror, but Father Sebastian stood his ground and met Sofia’s furious gaze with no sign of any fear at all.

He raised his right hand, and suddenly his voice filled the chamber. “It is through my blood that you exist and you are bound to my bidding,” he declared. “I command you to submit!”

Sofia felt the presence inside her gathering to lash out at the priest, but suddenly Father Sebastian placed his broad right hand over her face.

He squeezed.

“Submit!”

As the single word echoed off the chamber’s stone walls, all the strength drained out of Sofia, and she sagged back on the pallet.

Father Laughlin doused the burning cross with holy water, then righted it and replaced it on the wall as Sister Mary David removed Sofia’s gag, refastened her bloody bra and buttoned her ruined blouse.

Sofia lay limp while she was being ministered to. She had no energy, but no more fear either.

It was over.

Yet the presence inside her still remained. It had been calmed, but not banished.

Sofia curled up on the cold stone, wrapping her arms around her knees as Sister Mary David cleansed Father Sebastian’s wounds, then helped him on with his vestments.

When he was once again fully dressed, Father Sebastian leaned against the table, his chest still heaving from his exertions. “Give me a few moments,” he said softly. “Then we shall finish it.”

CHAPTER 25

RYAN FINISHED THE last of the algebra problems, closed his math book, and stretched his cramped muscles. If he were still at home, he’d go out and run a few blocks before he went to bed, but a glance at the clock told him it was only twenty minutes until lights out. But even if there was enough time, he didn’t really want to run up and down Beacon Hill, at least not just before going to bed. Sighing, he picked up the Catholic History text and flipped to the first of the pages that Melody had flagged for him after dinner.

He could feel his eyes getting heavy with just the first paragraph but steeled himself to keep going. You don’t get into Princeton with anything less than A’s, he reminded himself. But in Catholic History? What was that about? Wasn’t it the same as real history? Not that it made any difference — in this case, at least, it was only the grade that counted. Besides, there wasn’t anything else to do until Clay came out of the bathroom and he’d have his turn to shower.

Taking a deep breath he finished the first of the highlighted paragraphs — which seemed to be trying to