induced sleep? A spell-induced sleep? He didn’t know, but his thoughts were filled with confusion and sorrow.
I failed and they died.
He’d not only been tempted, but he’d given in to his temptation. He’d lusted, and his weakness had brought death into the mission.
He closed his eyes and pictured her, the woman who had lied to him, had seduced him, had brought evil into the mission. Seduced him-he was a willing partner. He’d seen her as the sign he’d been waiting for that God wasn’t calling him, that He’d never called him into the priesthood. He’d been dangerously wrong.
He wanted to sleep, here, safe, knowing Anthony and Moira would be sentries against the evil that wanted him. But he couldn’t sleep. His mind was a mess; he could hardly keep his thoughts straight.
When he’d first seen Moira O’Donnell, he was certain they’d met before-talked before. He remembered her hair, her voice with her subtle Irish lilt, her long, elegant fingers … But they’d never met. He knew they’d never met.
It was as if she were meant to find him. But that scared him as well, because he was a pawn in a larger game.
And last night on the cliffs-the words he knew, the phrases, the commands. He didn’t question, just spoke- ordered-commanded-and the arca, Lily Ellis, was saved. As hard as he tried now, he couldn’t remember what he’d said.
He hadn’t been possessed, but nor was he quite himself. It was as if his brain had many rooms, and someone had unlocked a door he’d never known was there, then slammed it shut-and locked it-after he had a glimpse inside. Try as he might, he couldn’t open the door again. This wasn’t the first time, and he feared it wouldn’t be the last.
He closed his eyes, hoping to sleep undisturbed by the nightmares-real and imagined-that had haunted him during the three months he was in a coma. He had to tell Anthony about the dreams, but would Anthony believe what Rafe had seen? The dreams felt so real that Rafe was certain they were memories, but that was ridiculous. It was more likely the work of one of the local witches-and there were many, as he knew from his time at the mission. They had blinded him to their evil intent, and when he finally learned the truth, it had been too late. They’d planted dreams and nightmares in his mind during his coma to torment him.
He moaned out loud, his chest tight with emotional pain, as images of the vivid, blood-soaked chapel snapped into his head. He’d been blinded, true, but not just because of the witches. What if he couldn’t stop the evil that threatened them? What if he’d unknowingly unleashed the arca when he saved Lily Ellis? He’d saved one, but many more were in jeopardy.
He slipped into an uneasy sleep … And the dreams returned. And try as he did to wake himself, he couldn’t. Just like he couldn’t awaken for the last ten weeks, though he’d desperately tried.
The priest prepared the homily as he always did, after prayer and fasting.
The African villagers Isa served had nothing. Some went days without food. Water was scarce. Children were starving.
What could he say to them tomorrow? They stared at him with blank expressions, sitting in the tent church, converting to Christianity because they received a small wafer of bread. The bread of life …
“Give me faith, Lord.”
He had great faith, which was why he’d been sent to Kenya. Missionaries died here. They were tortured and murdered for giving hope to a hopeless people. Death didn’t scare him. He believed in Paradise.
“Abba! Abba!” The boy, ten, ran into the small hut Father Isa Tucci lived in behind the tent church. He grinned, carrying a long animal in his bony black arms. “I hunt him.”
At first, Isa panicked. He had a great fear of snakes. But this snake was dead, a nonpoisonous boa.
Isa smiled at the boy. “Let’s prepare a fire.”
How could he feed two hundred people with one snake? He would make a stew. And he prayed for a miracle akin to the loaves and fishes. These children of God needed a miracle.
They needed food.
The potatoes he grew were small, but they would make a good starch. He used the last of the beans, only three handfuls now, feeling a bit like the foolish boy who bought magic beans hoping to grow a beanstalk to the heavens. Everyone in the village contributed something. There was laughter and talk.
Father Isa looked on in approval, humbled. “Thank you, Lord.”
Hours later, they went to sleep with full stomachs and hope. There were leftovers-enough for a small bowl tomorrow for every man, woman, and child.
In the middle of the night Isa woke to the familiar sound of many Jeeps. Fear clutched his heart. Evil lived in darkness.
He emerged from his hut and saw that the tribal chief had also stepped out. “We must hide,” Isa told him.
He shook his head. “It’s too late.”
“No-”
“Save the children.” Children were being brought from their huts as gunfire rang out nearby.
There were thirty-six children under age thirteen in the tribe, but he could find only fifteen of them. They silently followed Isa to their hiding spot in the ground. They hid for hours. Through gunfire. Screams. Cries for mercy that did not come. Isa prayed. The gunmen were above them but did not see their camouflaged entry.
When the silence outside matched the silence of the children inside the cramped shelter, Isa stepped out.
The stench of blood filled his senses.
Winged predators-vultures-were already feasting on the remains. There would be more predators soon. He walked slowly through the village.
The women had been butchered, the men tortured and killed. The children that had been left behind were no longer there. They’d been taken for slaves.
He turned, saw one boy who’d been left. The boy who had hunted the snake. His hands were cut off. His feet. His tongue. Isa realized then that the child had stolen, not hunted, the snake.
As he watched, baby snakes poured out of the boy’s body, from every limb that had been severed. Isa screamed and closed his eyes. When he opened them, the snakes were gone. But the boy was still butchered.
The slaughter was for revenge. One theft and nearly two hundred innocent people were dead.
Isa fell to his knees and cursed God.
Rafe sat upright in bed, the scent of blood wafting through the motel room, the air so hot his tongue was dusty and dry. For a split second he saw snakes, hundreds of them, slithering around the room, and he stifled a cry while praying for deliverance.
Then the snakes were gone, and the reality of his nightmare hit him.
Father Isa Tucci was one of the priests who’d been murdered at the mission. For months Rafe had encouraged Father Tucci to talk about the demon he’d confronted in Africa, but he’d refused. What he’d suffered then, the choice he’d had to make, had tormented him for more than a decade. Rafe understood now, understood as he never had while Father Tucci was alive.
“You had no choice, Father,” Rafe whispered. “God forgives you; you must forgive yourself.”
The room grew cold and the door between the rooms slowly shut without sound.
A flutter of wings sounded, but Rafe saw nothing.
