The Merciless II (11 page)

Footsteps pound against the hall behind me. I'm too terrified to turn. I rack my brain, trying to come up with some excuse for why I was outside. Why I'm bloody and muddy and wet. My head goes blank. I have the sudden, foolish urge to run.

“Sofia?” Sister Lauren says, again. She's right behind me now. I release the breath I'd been holding, and turn.

Sister Lauren's eyes widen at the sight of me. She frowns, and a crease wrinkles the skin between her eyebrows. She opens her mouth, and then closes it again. She tilts her head to the side and understanding crosses her face.

“Oh, Sofia. Were you outside looking for Leena's bunny?”

Her words fall into my hands. The perfect lie, fully formed and waiting. All I have to do is take it.

“Yes,” I say, surprised by the confidence in my voice. Like this was planned.

Sister Lauren smiles and shakes her head. “You're such a good friend,” she says. “Leena's lucky to have you. Now go back upstairs and get cleaned up before anyone else sees you.”

She nods at the staircase behind me, winking.

I
don't sleep for the rest of the night. I lie on my back in bed, staring at the twisted crack running across the ceiling. I didn't have time to find new sheets, and the rough fabric of the mattress chafes my skin. I roll onto my side. A tiny spider clings to the glass outside our window. He casts a shadow over my bedside table as he scurries away.

The red numbers on my alarm clock tick past.

3:01. 4:15. 5:07.

I close my eyes, but the numbers are seared into my lids. Only now they look like eyes. Heathcliff's beady red eyes.

At five forty-seven, I crawl out of bed and dress silently. Leena fell asleep crying hours ago, but I still check her face to make sure her eyes are tightly shut. A strand of hair sticks to her cheek, fluttering when she breathes.

I creep past her and ease the door open, holding the knob to close it without catching the latch. Then I hurry down the staircase, out the main door, and across the grounds to the chapel.

It's empty this time. Silent. I head to the first pew, cross myself, and kneel. First the trapdoor, then Leena's bunny. And what's worse—I
liked
it. Both times I felt a spark of happiness that something horrible had happened. Brooklyn said there was evil inside me. She said I was just like her. I close my eyes and clasp my hands in front of my chest, but I'm not quite sure how to form a prayer. One question circles my head, instead.

Is the evil taking over my soul?

I dig my teeth into my lower lip, focusing on the pain until the question fades to the back of my mind. I'm nothing like Brooklyn. An evil girl wouldn't be kneeling inside a chapel at six in the morning. Possessed girls would never try to pray.

I stay kneeling, my back and shoulders stiff, but it's not the Lord I think about. It's my mother. I can practically smell the soapy scent of her skin and hear her
soothing me in her calm voice. She would know exactly what to say if she were here.

“Mom,” I whisper. “Please tell me what to do.”

Pain pounds through my knees. I clench my hands together so tightly that my fingernails leave tiny, crescent-shaped marks on the backs of my hands. But nothing happens. My mother doesn't speak to me.

Thwap!

The sound breaks the silence of the chapel. Chills dance up the backs of my arms. My eyes shoot open and I jerk around, expecting to see someone standing at the chapel door.

But there's no one. The door stays shut.

I take a deep breath and twist around, still balanced on my knees. Tiny white candles flicker from the altar at the front of the room, sending a kaleidoscope of light and shadow across the chapel's floor. Leena told me they're called prayer candles. Apparently, they stay lit day and night, until their tiny wicks finally burn out. I never found them creepy before but now I can't help noticing how the tiny spots of brightness leave the corners even darker. Anyone could be hiding there.

Thwap!

I stumble to my feet, hugging my arms to my chest. The darkness seems to pulse. I can practically see it
pressing in against the tiny spots of light. Threatening to extinguish them.

Thwap!

Heavy velvet curtains cover the wall behind the altar. I can just make out their edges in the light of the prayer candles. I open my mouth to call out, but something stops me. Maybe it's the silence. The chapel is so quiet that I hear the flames flickering, the wind rubbing up against the glass in the windows. I move forward, my footsteps soundless on the marble.

Thwap!

The noise echoes from the other side of the curtains, making the velvet flutter. It sounds like something wet and heavy slapping against the floor. I lower my hand and push the curtains open. Just an inch.

Thwap!

Candlelight spills past the curtains, bathing my feet in gold. It takes a moment for my eyes to adjust to the sudden glow.

Jude kneels on the floor inside the small room. Naked. Sweat clings to his bare skin, and deep red welts crisscross his shoulders. Tangled flesh bubbles up around his spine and twists down his back and around his waist. Fresh cuts overlap the old ones, the skin raw and angry. He stares at the floor, his wooden cross clenched in his fist.

A shadow moves behind him. I recognize Father Marcus's dark robes and the silver ring glinting from his gnarled finger. A length of leather rope dangles from his hand. He raises it over his head and, for a second, he just holds it there, the tapered end hanging between his shoulders.

The muscles in Jude's jaw tighten. He squeezes his eyes shut.

Father Marcus lowers his arm in a smooth, quick arc, bringing the whip down across Jude's back.

Thwap!

Something wet hits my cheek.
Blood
. My mouth falls open and I want to scream, but my voice gets trapped in my throat. I take a step backward and the sole of my sneaker squeaks against the marble.

Jude's head jerks up. His eyes lock on mine. A hundred emotions flicker across his face, all of them ugly.

Jude says something but I don't stick around long enough to find out what it.

I just run.

• • •

Leena hobbles around backstage, leaning into the crutches wedged beneath her arms. She stumbles, her crutch snagging on the edge of her costume.

“This is a disaster,” she mumbles, untangling her skirt. “I'm going to fall flat on my face.”

It's the opening night of
The Tempest
, a week after I witnessed the unsettling scene with Jude. I've been avoiding him, trying to keep a low profile and comforting Leena over Heathcliff's disappearance. Thankfully, I've convinced her to give up the search and told her that I'd even help her sneak a new pet into our room. She wants a mouse named Rochester.

The air around us buzzes with voices and the occasional nervous giggle. Actors flit across the stage dressed in stiff costumes, their faces caked with makeup. I'm helping glue the last tattered sails into place while Sutton crouches on an overturned milk crate, studying an ugly cut that twists across her thigh.

“You'll be fine, Leenie-bean,” she drawls, picking at the scab.

“You're going to make it bleed,” I warn, watching her dig her nails around the edges of her skin.

“Ugh, I know.” Sutton makes a face. “It's
so
gross. But I want it gone before I see Dean.” She starts picking at the scab again. “Stupid field hockey.”

Leena balances on her good leg and waves her crutch between us. “Guys, focus. This is an emergency. I'm supposed to be onstage in like ten minutes.”

“Can't you go without the crutch?” Sutton asks.

“Not if I want to walk.”

A wicked smile crosses Sutton's face. “All the more reason to lean on Jude's big, strong arms.”

Hearing Jude's name makes me flinch. I absently wipe my cheek with the back of my hand. I can still feel his blood on my face.

“I'm going to see if there's something I can use in the prop closet,” Leena says, pushing through the stage curtain.

Sutton waits until Leena's gone and then leans forward, the milk crate creaking beneath her weight. “What's up with you?”

I turn my attention back to the sails I'm supposed to be working on, my heart beating so loudly I'm sure Sutton can hear it. I haven't told anyone what I saw in the chapel. I'm not sure they would believe me. “What do you mean?”

“Every time someone says Jude's name, you make the same face my mom makes when I bring up my dad.” Sutton screws her face up, demonstrating. “It's like someone walked across your grave.”

I laugh but it sounds hollow, even to me. I keep seeing Father Marcus's silver ring glint in the darkness, blood arcing through the air. I tell myself there must be some reason, but what explanation could there be for
that
? It was sick. Twisted.

My hands start to tremble. I curl them tighter around the glue gun so I don't drop it.

“Damn, Sofia,” Sutton says, touching my shoulder.
“You look like you're about to lose it. Are you still thinking about that bunny? I'm telling you, Leena must've forgotten to close his cage. He used to get out once a week.”

If only—Heathcliff feels like the least of my problems now. “I think it's just stage fright,” I manage.

“You're not even in the play,” Sutton says.

The hall door slams open before I can answer. The sudden thud makes Sutton and me jump. Sister Lauren pokes her head backstage.

“Five minutes to curtain!” she calls. She glances at Sutton and raises an eyebrow. “Funny, Sutton, I don't remember casting you.”

“I'm calming your crew with my witty commentary,” Sutton says.

“Thanks for that. Now it's time to take your seat.”

Sutton squeezes my arm and stands. “We'll talk later,” she says. I nod and she follows Sister Lauren back into the hallway.

Band members tune their instruments in the pit below. The air fills with strings screeching and horns honking. I hear muffled footsteps on the other side of the curtain as the audience takes their seats. I shake my hand out to stop the trembling and put the final touches on the sail. It's almost showtime.

The stage curtain rustles. “Hey.”

The muscles in my shoulders tighten at the sound of Jude's voice. I fumble with the glue gun, accidentally dropping a hot bead on my finger.

“Crap,” I mutter. Jude kneels next to me. He's already dressed as Ferdinand, with an emerald-green tunic buttoned up to his chin and a gold sash knotted at his waist. His wooden cross hangs from a leather cord around his neck. It looks as though the makeup crew loaded his hair with some product to make it look windblown, and a few days' worth of stubble covers his cheeks and chin. Sister Lauren must've wanted him to look disheveled. His character has been shipwrecked, after all.

“Are you okay?” He reaches for my hand, but I jerk it back. Hurt flashes across his face.

“I'm fine,” I say. Jude leans back on his heels, hands folded in his lap. He was sitting in the same position that morning in the chapel. I think of the sweat glistening from his bare skin. I hear the crack of the whip hitting his back.

“Sofia,” he says. “I was hoping we could talk.”

I squeeze my eyes shut, forcing the horrible memory away. “I'm sorry,” I say. “I have a lot of stuff to get ready before you—”

Jude grabs my wrist. “
Listen
,” he says in a low, urgent voice. “There are things about me that you don't know. Things about my past, and what I did to . . . it's complicated.”

“Complicated?” I repeat. What I saw wasn't complicated. It was disturbing.

“Father Marcus is helping me work through some stuff,” Jude explains. “What you saw . . . it's a really old Catholic tradition. It's supposed to bring you closer to God. We thought it might help.”

“Help with
what
?” I ask.

Sister Lauren's voice blares over the loudspeaker. “Five minutes to curtain! Take your places.”

Actors shuffle across the stage and duck into the wings. The stage manager hisses at me to get off the stage.

“I told you,” Jude says, his voice low. “I have trouble sometimes, with anger and self-control. Father Marcus says I have a ‘hero complex,' whatever that is. Like wanting to help people is supposed to be wrong. He thought this might help me give in to God.”

Jude's eyes flicker over my face, concern etched into his features. For a second, I forget about what I saw in the chapel. I stare at the curls lying against his neck. The freckle next to his upper lip. A familiar mix of anxiety and want flares to life in my chest.

“Can I ask you a favor?” Jude stands, offering his hand to help me up. This time, I take it without flinching.

“What is it?”

Jude drops my hand to untie the wooden cross from his neck. “This was my father's,” he explains. “I wear it
every day, but Sister Lauren says it doesn't go with my costume. I was wondering . . . could you hold on to it for me?”

“Of course.” My voice sounds thicker than usual. Like it belongs to someone else. The corner of Jude's mouth curls into a smile. He leans in close, lifting the leather cord to my neck. His fingers brush my skin, leaving trails of heat along my collarbone.

He finishes knotting the necklace, but he doesn't move his hand away. My throat goes dry.

“Sofia,” he murmurs. His breath tickles the side of my face. He curls his hands around my shoulders, pulling me to his chest. “I can't stop thinking about you.”

“We shouldn't.” I feel his heart beating through the fabric of his tunic. He's close enough to kiss. All I have to do is lift my face. I lean in closer. “Jude . . .”

“Jude?” The curtains rustle, and Leena hobbles backstage, plastic vines wrapped around her crutches. “I thought I saw you . . .”

I jerk away from Jude, but it's too late. Leena freezes. Her eyes move from Jude to the wooden cross hanging around my neck.

She blinks, and in that instant it's like something in her breaks. Her mouth goes slack and all the color drains from her face. Her stage makeup looks heavy and garish against her pale skin.

“Leena,” I start, but she stumbles away from me. She grips her crutches so tightly that her knuckles turn white.

“We're needed onstage, Jude,” she mutters before pushing through the curtains. “We're starting.”