The Merciless II (14 page)

I
head to the dormitory kitchens as soon as I wake up on Christmas Eve. Students aren't technically allowed to cook here, but Sister Lauren snuck me the key so I could raid the pantry over the holiday break. I'm basically alone until after New Year's, but I didn't have anywhere else to go, so the school agreed to let me stay in the dorms. It's a relief to have the place to myself. There's no one around for me to hurt.

I dig through the cupboards until I find flour, baking chocolate, and a dusty bag of red-striped peppermint chips nearing their expiration date. My
abuelita
used to make the best cookies. On Christmas morning, she'd fill
our kitchen with
biscochos
and
garabatos
and gingerbread men and—my favorite—double fudge cookies with peppermint chips. Mom and Grandmother didn't agree on a lot, but every year I'd find them standing shoulder to shoulder next to the oven, whipping up batter and dancing to old Christmas carols.

Mom and I started making the cookies together after Grandmother got sick. And now . . . my mother might be gone, but there's no way I'm giving up this tradition. It's part of my plan for redemption. I'm going to do exactly what Sister Lauren told me to—I've already freed myself of the distraction of Jude, and now I'm going to seek communion with other believers. My grandmother is the most religious person I've ever known. If she can't help me repair my relationship with God, no one can.

I gather my ingredients and pull up some of Grandmother's favorite Christmas carols on my phone. Then I get to work. I thought it would make me sad to do this alone, but instead it's the opposite. Music floats through the air around me, and it feels familiar to crack the eggs and stir up the batter. It's almost like being home.

Someone raps at the kitchen door after I've been working for an hour. I flinch, nearly knocking my mixing bowl off the counter.

“Sorry, Sofia.” Sister Lauren steps into the kitchen,
holding both hands out in front of her. “I didn't mean to startle you.”

“It's okay.” I wipe my hands on my jeans without thinking, leaving two streaky white flour prints on the denim. “Crap,” I mutter.

Sister Lauren grabs a towel off the counter, and tosses it to me. “Are you making Christmas cookies?”

“For my grandmother,” I explain, wiping the flour from my jeans. “I'm going to go visit her at the retirement home today.”

“That's so nice of you. Take a cab, though. There's a storm moving in—I don't want you on the roads when it starts to snow.” Sister Lauren leans against the fridge, folding her arms across her chest. She's dressed in full habit, and her long black robes hide her feet.

“I thought you only wore your ‘penguin suit' for Mass and class,” I say. Sister Lauren grins.

“Father Marcus and I are visiting the children's hospital today,” she explains. “We like to pray for the sick during the Christmas season. But we'll be back in time for Midnight Mass.”

I wrinkle my nose. “Mass is at midnight? Why?”

“Tradition,” Sister Lauren explains. “I wanted to invite you to attend. There aren't many students staying on campus over the holidays, but Father Marcus holds a full service, anyway. It's really quite beautiful. It'll
be in the auditorium this year since the chapel's out of commission.”

“Sure. I'll be there.” I pull open the oven door to check my cookies, and a chocolatey, pepperminty smell wafts through the kitchen. Sister Lauren sighs.

“Those smell amazing. I'm sure your grandmother will love them.” Sister Lauren starts back toward the door, then pauses, rapping her knuckles against the wooden frame. “And please be careful on the roads today. Mississippi never gets snow. They're closing half the town in preparation, so you should head back early.”

“Thanks for the tip,” I say.

“Have a good time. You deserve a merry Christmas.”

“Thank you,” I say.

Sister Lauren smiles and sweeps back out into the hall, her black robes billowing behind her.

• • •

It's raining and freezing cold when my cab arrives at Hope Springs Retirement Homes. I pay my driver, balancing the cookie plate in one hand as I push the door closed. Muddy water slushes around my heeled booties, making it difficult to walk without slipping. I teeter toward the front entrance. The automatic doors whoosh open, blasting me with hot, dry air.

Beige walls and thin, worn-down carpeting lead me through a narrow hall to an empty receptionist's desk.
Fluorescent lights flicker above me. I'm not really sure what the procedure is, so I poke my head down the hall twisting off to my left.

“Hello?” I call.

A beat of silence. Then a voice echoes back, “Hello?”

The voice wobbles, sounding weak and confused. I take a step back, suddenly uncomfortable. That clearly wasn't a receptionist. It sounded more like an old man who doesn't know where he is.

I swallow and try again. “Is anyone here?”

“Is anyone here?” the old man repeats back to me. The phone on the receptionist's desk starts to ring. The tinny sound echoes down the halls, but nobody comes to answer it. I shift my cookies from one hand to the other, and the cellophane crinkles beneath my fingers.

I play a quick game of eenie, meenie, miney, moe—landing on the hallway twisting off to my right. Framed pictures of leaves and flowers line the walls, all painted the same muted pinks and dull browns. I turn a corner and practically walk into a set of double doors. I think I hear voices coming from behind them. I lift a hand to knock, then change my mind and push the door open.

Little old ladies and tiny, wrinkled men crowd a large, L-shaped room. A group watches
Family Feud
from an ugly plaid sofa, while others slump around scattered folding tables covered in dominos and playing cards and
puzzle pieces. They stare up at me with vacant, cloudy eyes. I step inside, letting the door swing shut behind me. A woman stands.

“Can I help you?” she asks, her voice tired. She's the only one under seventy-five in the entire room, so I assume she must be a nurse. She wears wrinkled khakis and a stained yellow polo that's several sizes too big.

“I'm here to see my grandmother,” I say. “Roberta Flores?”

The nurse tilts her head, giving me a puzzled look. Deep wrinkles trace lines from the corners of her nose and down each side of her chin, making her jaw look hinged on—like a doll's. Her hair is exactly the color of used dishwater.

“I'm sorry,” she says. “I didn't realize Roberta had any relatives.”

I shift my weight from one foot to the other. “I've only been here once before, to help her get settled in. I wanted to come more often, but I have school . . .”

“Mmhmm,” the nurse murmurs, pressing her thin lips together. “Well, come on. She's just over here.”

I follow her through the folding tables, past the plaid sofa, and around the corner. Grandmother slouches in a faded green chair, the blanket my mother knit for her draped over her thin shoulders. She stares out the window, hypnotized by the water trickling down the
glass. The familiar wooden rosary dangles from her trembling fingers.

“The rain has gotten them all worked up,” the nurse explains. I frown and glance around the room. The man directly behind me has fallen asleep. A trail of drool stretches from his mouth to his chin. The woman across from him stares at her cupped hands, seemingly fascinated by the whirls and wrinkles on her palms. If this is what they look like worked up, I can't imagine how they act when they're bored.

“Roberta?” The nurse kneels next to my grandmother, gently touching her on the shoulder. “Your granddaughter is here to see you.”

“It's Sofia.” I take a tentative step forward. “
Hola, Abuela. Feliz Navidad
.”

Grandmother turns to look at me. She moves in slow motion. It takes her ages to twist around in her chair, a century to lift her head. Her neck is no longer strong enough to hold her head steady, so her head rocks back and forth on her shoulders, looking as if it could tumble off her body and roll away. Loose skin hangs from her cheekbones, giving her face a sunken, hollow look. Her bloodshot eyes stare out from beneath paper-thin eyelids.

“I made cookies.” I place the cookies on the table next to Grandmother's chair. “They're double fudge with peppermint chips. Our favorite, remember?”

Grandmother swallows and smacks her dry lips together. Tiny cracks split the corners of her mouth. I kneel on the floor next to her chair, folding my hands over her armrest. Rain slaps against the window and rattles the trees outside. Grandmother stares straight ahead, as if she doesn't know I'm here.

“
Abuela
,” I say, again. “Grandmother, can you—”

Something dark appears in her left nostril. It seems almost solid, like something reaching out from the depths of her brain. It balloons just below her nose, then pops, sprinkling her wrinkled skin with blood. A thicker trail oozes from behind it. It winds down her face and seeps into the cracks in her lips.

I flail backward, catching myself just before I slam into the stained linoleum.

“Oh no.” The nurse stands, looking around for a box of tissues. “This has never happened before.”

Blood streams down Grandmother's face. It looks thicker than it should, and almost black. Like tar. I dig my fingers into the cracks in the floor and pull myself away from her. I feel responsible, but that's impossible. I didn't even touch her! My arms tremble, barely holding my weight.

The nurse swears and hurries away, muttering something about finding a towel. Grandmother's cloudy eyes search the room for a long moment before finally focusing on me.

“
Diablo
,” she croaks.

A hollow space opens up in my chest. “Grandmother, no. It's Sofia. It's
me
.”

Her lips start to move. They twitch at the corners, and curl up over her teeth. At first I think she's trying to smile. But then her mouth twists into a horrible, animal grimace. Blood drips from her lips in a solid sheet, staining her teeth red.

“
Diablo
.” Grandmother's low, scratchy voice rips through the room. The drooling old man jerks awake, and the woman across from him looks up from her hands, startled. The nurse stops right behind me.

“Roberta's never spoken before,” she says, twisting the towel between her fingers. She seems to have forgotten about wiping the blood from Grandmother's face.

“She's confused.” I push myself back up to my knees, and reach for Grandmother's hand. She reels away from me. Her rosary clatters to the floor.

She lowers her hands to the sides of her chair and tightens them around the armrests. The wood creaks beneath her gnarled fingers. She pushes herself to her feet, swaying on her skinny legs. I can't remember the last time she stood on her own. It's been years.

“
Diablo
.
Diablo!
” Her voice is a creaky rasp. Blood cascades over her chin and splatters the knit blanket draped around her shoulders. She lurches forward, arms
outstretched. She claws at the air in front of her, her curled yellow fingernails flashing under the fluorescent overhead lights.

Grandmother takes another shaky step forward, and her leg gives out beneath her. She drops to her knees.

“
Abuela
!” I move forward, but the nurse's hand shoots out in front of me, holding me back.

“You should go,” she says. Whispers erupt around me, and I know without turning around that they're all watching me. Staring. Heat rises in my cheeks.

“But she might be hurt!”

“
Please
. Just go.”

A part of me wants to yell. I listened to her favorite Christmas songs all morning. I made cookies from scratch. I wore the ugly velvet dress she bought me three Christmases ago, even though it's too tight across the chest and the sleeves don't even go to my wrists.

The nurse hurries to my grandmother's side, and helps her back into her chair. The nurse lifts the towel to Grandmother's face to stop the relentless flow of blood. I nod at the cookies on the side table.

“Those are for her,” I say. “For Christmas.”

The nurse glances at them, almost suspiciously. “Thanks.”

I'm suddenly sure no one will eat them. The nurse will throw them away the second I'm out the door. Anger
flares inside of me. I want to throw the cookies against the wall, just to hear the glass plate shatter. But I don't. I walk past the nurse, leaving the sad, beige-colored room without another word.

“
Diablo!
” my grandmother shouts after me. The other residents join in, their voices merging together in a single, horrible chorus. “
Diablo! Diablo!
”

“J
ust drop me off here,” I say.

My cab rolls to a stop in front of St. Mary's main entrance. I hand the driver a crumpled twenty-dollar bill and climb out. The rain has thickened into slushy snow during the ride. The cabbie's radio was tuned to news of the upcoming blizzard. It's going to be the biggest snowstorm in history, the newscasters say. Half the streets in Hope Springs have already been shut down—it took us twice as long as it should have to get back to St. Mary's.

Frozen grass crunches beneath my boots and wet flakes catch on my scarf. The cab peels away as soon as
I step onto the curb, its tires spitting up an icy spray of water behind it.

My grandmother's voice echoes in the back of my head.
Diablo
. I shiver, and hurry across the grounds without stopping to think about where I'm going. Wind gusts around me, rustling my hair and the hem of my velvet dress. Darkness seeps into the sky like spilled ink.

I walk past trees with bare branches frosted with a thin layer of snow. I don't stop until I reach the burnt husk of the chapel.

Only the skeleton of the building remains. Snow floats through the blackened beams of the ceiling, and broken windows reveal bits of gray sky instead of walls. Soot sweeps across the white siding. I step forward. The chapel calls to me, whispering my name. I'm the one who destroyed it, after all. A criminal always returns to the scene of their crime.

The front door swings open, and then bangs closed in the wind. I hear my grandmother's scratchy voice:
Diablo. Diablo.

I tug at the front door, and it falls open with a crash, raining ashes down on my feet. I step inside.

Fire burned through the pews, leaving piles of blackened wood and singed Bibles in its wake. The massive wooden cross still stands near where the altar once was, blackened but still intact. The smell of smoke
hangs in the air like a memory. Colored glass shines amid the piles of burnt wood, and an empty bottle of coconut rum lies beside what's left of the altar.

I stare at the bottle and an image flashes through my head: Leena's mouth wet with rum. Candlelight reflecting in her glazed eyes. I drop to my knees in the middle of the wreckage, ignoring the glass and wood digging into my shins. My chest tightens. I take fast, shallow breaths just to get the oxygen to circulate to my brain.

I did this. I destroyed the chapel. I killed Leena. Even my own grandmother thinks I'm evil. I push the words to the darkest corners of my mind and try to focus on other things. Like the cold air hitting the back of my neck, and the recorded church bells chiming in the distance. Smoke tickles my throat and I start to cough.

“
Please
, God,” I choke out. I fold my hands together, squeezing so tightly that the tips of my fingers start to turn blue. The coughing subsides, but I can't catch my breath. It feels like someone's gripping my lungs and squeezing. Darkness creeps in from the walls. The floor seems to lurch beneath me.

“Please,” I whisper. I squeeze my eyes shut. Tears sting the corners of my eyes. “Please . . . just take me. I can't do this anymore.”

I hear Brooklyn's voice in the silence that follows my clumsy prayer.

We don't kill our own
.

A cold hand touches the back of my arm.

I jerk forward, falling to my hands. A shard of glass jabs at my palm, but it doesn't break the skin. I hear a shuffle of movement and a shadow falls over the floor.

“Sofia?
Dammit
, are you okay?”

I recognize Jude's voice and push myself back up to my knees, my arms trembling so badly I can barely hold my own weight. “I'm sorry . . .” I say. “I . . . What are you doing here?”

“I stay for every holiday.” Jude kneels next to me and wipes the tears from my cheeks with his thumb. “Save your breath, okay?”

I nod, and focus on breathing.
Just breathe
. I close my eyes.
Breathe
.

My chest loosens. Air comes easily now. Things stop spinning and the darkness fades. Jude draws me into his arms. I stiffen automatically, my heart racing.
I can't . . . Leena . . .

But all I can think about are Jude's strong arms wrapped around me, his shoulder beneath my cheek. I relax, letting myself lean into him. He holds me tighter. For the first time since my mother died, I don't feel alone. I feel wanted. I feel safe.

Jude brushes my hair over my shoulder and kisses my temple. A shiver shoots down my spine.

“Is that okay?” he asks.

“Yes,” I whisper. He curls his hand around the back of my neck and pulls my face to his. Our lips touch. He tastes like spearmint and there's a musky smell to his hair. I wrap my arms around his shoulders, pressing my body against his chest.

Jude shrugs out of his jacket and starts working on the buttons of mine. He unfastens them quickly, and I peel my coat off and toss it aside. I slide my hands beneath his thick sweater, running my fingers over the muscles in his stomach and chest. He moans and tilts me back, pressing me into the floor. I pull him down with me. His skin is hot.

“Sofia,” he murmurs, his voice muffled by my hair. Something in the back of my head tells me I shouldn't do this. It's wrong. I think of Jude kneeling in the back of the chapel, the whip cracking against his back. I hear Leena's voice:
Be careful what you wish for . . . God punishes sinners
. I'm supposed to free myself of distractions. Rid myself of the Devil.

But then Jude moves his hand up my leg and over my waist, his fingers brushing against the edges of my bra. My dress rides up around my hips. His kisses get harder. Hotter. Hungrier. My doubts fade. I wrap my legs around his legs and move my hands down to the button on his jeans. I feel the cool metal edges against
my fingers.
This can't be wrong
. I don't want to be alone, and Jude cares about me. He might be the only person in the world who still does.

“Are you sure?” he asks, and I nod without thinking. I unhook the button and unzip his jeans. Jude kisses my cheeks and my neck and my shoulders.

Steel-gray ash separates from the burnt ceiling beams and flutters toward me, landing on my wrist. I jerk back as if I've been burned.

Jude stops kissing me. “Are you okay?”

“Of course.” I pull away from him, and prop myself up with one elbow, brushing the ash away with my hand. It leaves a streaky black line across my skin. I lick my thumb and rub, but the mark only seems to seep deeper into my skin.

Fear lodges itself in my throat. I've read stories like this in English class. About birthmarks that symbolize mortality, skin deformities that mark someone as evil. I press my thumb into my hand and rub so hard that my skin burns. But the black mark doesn't go away.

Leena's doing this,
I think
.
She's warning me.
God punishes sinners.

“Sofia?” Jude touches my arm and I flinch.

“Sorry,” I say in a voice that sounds nothing like my own. “I just . . . maybe we shouldn't.” I move my hand to my side so I don't have to look at the ashes on my skin.

“We don't have to do anything you don't want to.” Jude rolls off me, and pushes himself to his knees. He buttons his jeans. “Are you okay? Did I do something wrong?”

Jude lowers his hand to my back. The second he touches me, something inside snaps clean in half. Tears form at the corners of my eyes. I blink them away.

“Sofia, tell me.”

“I
can't
,” I whisper, and my voice cracks. I shudder so deeply that Jude has to wrap his arms around me to keep me from shaking. I can't stop replaying what happened with my grandmother, what happened with Leena.

Jude kisses the top of my head. “Hey, you're okay,” he whispers. “Tell me what's wrong. You can tell me anything.”

“Not this. It's too terrible. You'd . . .”
hate me
, I think. I press my lips together before I can say the words out loud.

“Anything you've done, I've done worse,” Jude whispers into my ear. He strokes my arm until I stop shaking. “We're the
same
. God forgave me. He'll forgive you, too.” I shift in Jude's arms, finally looking up at his face. A lock of dark hair falls over his forehead, and wrinkles the skin between his eyebrows. He looks so concerned. It loosens something inside me. I stop thinking about Leena and think, instead, of him. Us. I
want to rub the lines from his face and make his worry disappear. I want to trust him.

“Bad things keep happening,” I whisper. “I think there's something . . .
wrong
with me.”

“Wrong how?”

“
Evil
.”

Jude squeezes my arm, pulling me closer. “I know what evil looks like. You're not evil.”

“You don't understand.” I shift my eyes to my lap. I can't look at Jude as I say this next part. I don't want to see his face twist in disgust when he realizes how awful I truly am. “I was talking to Sister Lauren and she said she thinks that demons can . . . attach themselves to people who've done something terrible. It's like being possessed.”

Jude's arm stiffens, but he doesn't pull away. “But you haven't done something terrible.”

“Yes. I have,” I say in a quiet voice. Then, before I lose my nerve, I tell Jude what happened with Brooklyn and my friends last summer. I tell him about Leena and the bunny and the night the chapel burned down. I even admit what I did to Karen. How I lured her onto the train tracks. How I let her die.

“Brooklyn said I was like her,” I finish, my voice shaking. “She said I was . . .
evil
. And then, today, my grandmother said the same thing.” A sob escapes my
lips. I curl my hand into a fist, bunching it next to my mouth. “What if they're right?”

Jude is quiet for a long moment. Shadows hide his face, making it impossible to see his expression. He suddenly seems very far away. Fear curdles in my gut. I feel as if the floor could crumble out from under me at any moment. This was a mistake. I shouldn't have told him any of this.

“I was lost when I came to St. Mary's, but Father Marcus saved me,” Jude says, almost to himself. “I felt unredeemable, like you, but I was wrong. No one is ever lost to the Lord. There's hope for all of us.”

“You think I'm redeemable?” I whisper.

“Of course I do.” Jude brings my hand to his mouth and kisses my palm. Heat floods through me, erasing my fears. I squeeze his fingers.

“I . . . I think I love you, Sofia.”

A smile spreads across my face, so wide it makes my cheeks hurt.

“And that's why I have to do this.”

My smile freezes. “Do what?”

Jude doesn't answer. My chest feels weird. My heart's beating too fast, and my lungs seem tight, as though they're straining against the air inside of them. The skin along the back of my knees prickles.

“Jude . . .” A sour taste hits the back of my tongue.
I push myself to my knees. “What are you going to—”

Jude pulls his hand back and whips it across my face. His knuckles slam into my cheekbone. I fly backward, crashing into the floor. My head spins, pain blossoming just below my skin. I swallow, tasting blood and soot at the back of my throat, and try to force my eyes back open.

Jude stares down at me, a lock of dark hair falling across his forehead. He leans forward and touches my face.

“Don't be afraid,” he whispers, stroking my cheek. Darkness flickers at the corners of my eyes. I start to lose consciousness.

“I'm going to get the evil out of you,” Jude says before everything goes black.