The Merciless II (18 page)

“S
ofia? Oh my God.” Rapid footsteps pound against the driveway. Sister Lauren kneels next to me. She touches my cheek, her hand warm against my skin. “What happened? Are you okay?”

I try to lift myself off the ground but my arm wobbles beneath my weight. “We have to get out of here,” I say. “He's
coming
.”

Sister Lauren frowns. “Who's coming? Who did this to you?”

“Jude! He's right—” I turn and look back at the dormitories.

The kitchen window is empty.

“No,” I whisper. Cold sweat breaks out on the back of my neck. My eyes dart, wildly, around the grounds, but I can't see farther than three feet in any direction. Snow gusts around me, turning everything white. He could be here now, watching us. I picture him standing in the shadows between the trees, smiling that manic smile, the carving fork sticking out of his bloody shoulder. I have to choke back a scream.

He could be
anywhere
.

Sister Lauren pulls a cell phone out of her pocket and dials. “We have an emergency at St. Mary's,” I hear her say into the receiver. “I have a student badly injured . . .”

She pauses, a frustrated look on her face. “Fine,” she says after a moment. “Just please send someone as soon as you can.

“Come on.” Sister Lauren tucks the phone back into her pocket and slides my arm around her shoulder to lift me up. I stand, gasping as the tattered soles of my feet press into the ground. Blood gathers between my toes.

“You need a hospital.” Sister Lauren eases me forward, one arm wrapped tight around my waist. “But the roads are a mess because of the blizzard. The police are on their way, but we'll have to make do with what we have in the infirmary until an ambulance can get through.”

“The infirmary?” I freeze. The thought of heading
back to the dark, empty dormitory fills me with dread. “No, we can't go back there—”

“You're losing too much blood, Sofia. You need a sling for your arm, and there's dirt in your wounds. You're going to get an infection if we don't clean you up.”

“But—”

“There's a lock on the door. No one's going to hurt you.”

Sister Lauren coaxes me forward, her forehead creased in concern. I take one step, and then another. The dormitory looms over us, windows dark and empty. I picture Jude hiding in the shadows beyond the glass. Waiting. Watching. Goose bumps climb my arms.

Something rustles through the bushes behind me. I flinch out of Sister Lauren's grip, stumbling backward. A scream claws at my throat. I whirl around.

Nothing there.

“It's okay,” Sister Lauren says, her voice calm, like she's talking to a spooked animal. She approaches me slowly, her hands held in front of her. “The infirmary is right inside. You'll be safe.”

“Yeah,” I breathe. “Okay.”

I let her lead me into the dormitory. I can barely feel my broken arm. I wonder if I'll ever be able to move it again. The door slams shut behind us. I jump, muscles going suddenly tense. But no one leaps out of
the shadows. The hallway stretches before us, silent and empty. The infirmary is only three doors down. I spot the familiar sign, its black letters so badly peeled that they read
FI MA Y
instead of
INFIRMARY
. Sister Lauren fumbles for the right key and fits it into the lock. The door clicks open.

“Come on,” she says. She ushers me inside and I collapse facedown onto the narrow hospital bed, my chest heaving with ragged, shallow breaths. Sister Lauren closes the door behind her and flips the dead bolt. It slides into place with a heavy thud.

We did it. We're safe.

It's dark in the infirmary. I can just make out a short row of carefully made beds, each separated by a thin, threadbare curtain. I lift my head and spot a metal cart next to the door, covered in rust stains that look almost like blood. A skeleton stands in the corner behind it, positioned with one arm lifted above its head. Like it's waving.

Sister Lauren hurries over to the sink on the far wall. She fumbles with a drawer, and then a match sparks to life, filling the tiny room with a warm orange glow. The flame illuminates a row of cupboards just above the sink. Dusty blue and green bottles wink from their shelves. Sister Lauren lights a candle and sets it on the counter.

“Emergency candles,” she explains, shaking out the
match. “We have them in every room in case of a power outage.”

She cringes, looking over my shoulder at my tattered, bloody back. “I'm going to see if I can find any bandages. And maybe a needle. You might need stitches.”

I nod, barely lifting my head. The bed feels warm and soft beneath my cheek. I hear drawers slide open and closed. Cupboard doors creak.

Sister Lauren rushes back to my side, her arms filled with ointments and bandages. She drops them on the metal cart. Jars and bottles roll everywhere. A tube of Neosporin hits the floor.

“Sorry.” Sister Lauren jerks a hand back through her hair and I realize, for the first time, that she's scared. “I didn't know what you'd need, so I figured I should just grab it all.”

She deals with my broken arm first, disinfecting and bandaging the cuts, before carefully looping a sling around my shoulder. Then she takes a deep breath and picks up a bottle of disinfectant and a bag of cotton balls. She seems a little calmer now, her movements less erratic.

“I'm going to lift up the back of your dress so I can take a closer look at your injuries,” she says. “Is that okay?”

I nod. A second later, I feel Sister Lauren's cool hands
on my back, peeling away the tattered remains of my dress. She lowers a cotton ball to my skin. I expect the disinfectant to sting, but it feels cool. Nice. My eyes flicker closed.

“Why don't you tell me what happened?” Sister Lauren says, dabbing my back with the cotton. “Start from the beginning.”

“It was Jude,” I say quietly. Sister Lauren spreads some disinfectant over one of my cuts, and I cringe. “He said he wanted to save me.”

The rest of the story comes in a rush. I tell Sister Lauren about how Father Marcus performed an exorcism on Jude when he first came here. I tell her about the morning I saw him being whipped in the chapel, the horrible scars on his back, and how he tied me up. How he beat me. By the time I'm done talking, Sister Lauren has finished disinfecting my back and started on the cuts covering the bottoms of my feet. She wraps the wounds in thick cotton bandages.

“We need to get the police here,” Sister Lauren says. She shuffles through the closet and the cupboards until she finds an old St. Mary's sweatshirt and a pair of scrubs. Her fingers tremble as she helps me slide my broken arm through a sleeve, and then gingerly places it back inside its sling. “
Immediately
. I don't care if there's a storm. That boy needs to be locked up.”

Something bangs into the door, making the wood shudder and creak. I flinch.

Sister Lauren stiffens. “What was that?”

I curl my fingers into the stiff mattress, my heart beating so hard I'm worried it's going to rip out of my chest. Every nerve in my body flares to life. Every muscle tenses. I picture the axe in the kitchen, hidden beneath a layer of thin glass.

BREAK IN CASE OF FIRE.

The infirmary door groans and shudders. A blade slams through the wood, its edge sharp. Glinting.

“I
t's him.” I try to stand, but my legs are numb. I stumble backward, whacking my ankle against the cot leg.

“Sofia, calm down.” Sister Lauren lowers a hand to my shoulder, her other hand fumbling for the silver cross hanging from her neck. “We must have faith.”

I want to shake her. Doesn't she understand how serious this is? How dangerous?

The axe crashes into the door. The wall shudders. A long, narrow sliver separates from the wood with a crack and flutters to the floor. Jude wrestles the axe back. I catch a glimpse of his dark eyes through the hole in the door. They focus on me.

“Sofia, please. Just open the door,” he says.

I shake my head, and he slams the axe into the door again. The blade tears into the narrow opening, widening it into a large hole. Jude lowers the axe, gasping, and reaches through the hole. His hand slides through easily, but he can't get his arm past the jagged wooden edges. He swears and pulls his arm back.

“The Lord will not forsake us,” Sister Lauren says, her voice trembling. “The Lord will not forsake us. The Lord will not . . .”

She sounds as if she's in shock. Her hand tightens around my shoulder, and I think of Jude's thick fingers circling my wrists, holding me in place. Her fingers seem small and fragile in comparison.

I catch sight of Jude through the hole in the door. He hoists the axe back over one shoulder, preparing to swing. I glance around the small room, looking for a weapon. Bandages and bottles of ointment crowd the metal cart, and dusty bottles glint from the shelves above the sink, but there's nothing sharp. Nothing heavy. There isn't even a window in here. We're trapped.

Sister Lauren bows her head. “Pray with me, Sofia,” she says, fumbling for my hand. “We will be saved if we pray.”

Jude slams his axe into the door again. Splinters fly into my legs, wood pricks through the thin fabric of the
scrubs and nips at my ankles. Sister Lauren weaves her fingers through mine, and pulls me down to the floor beside her. Fear makes me clumsy. My knees slam hard into the tile, and I wince at the sudden pain. Sister Lauren folds her hands around my trembling fist, and presses her forehead to mine, my slinged arm wedged between us. Sweat breaks out on my palms. The Lord has never listened to my prayers before. Why would He start now?

“Our Father, who art in heaven,” she whispers urgently, “hallowed be thy name . . .”

It's a prayer I've heard before, but I still don't know all the words. I listen to Sister Lauren recite it once all the way through. Her voice steadies as she speaks.

“Thy kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven.” She sounds strong now. Brave. It gives me courage.

“Our Father, who art in heaven,” I recite, joining in as Sister Lauren starts the prayer over. My voice shakes and I stutter once or twice, but I manage to follow along. My fear dulls, just a little, as the prayer flows through me. I feel like someone's lit a fire just below my collarbone. I'm speaking to God at last. He's actually listening—I know it. He hears me in my time of need.

The axe crashes into the door. Wood cracks, and then something heavy thuds to the floor. The sound raises the
hair on the back of my neck. I clench my hands together, my fingernails digging into my skin. My arms shake so badly that I can barely hold them steady.

“Thy kingdom come . . .” I pray. “Thy will be done . . .”

There's a beat of quiet. Then a lock clicks. Fear rips through my body.

He's in.

“On earth as it is in heaven . . .”

The door creaks open. Jude steps into the room. Cold seeps up through the tile, chilling my knees. But I'm not trembling anymore. The prayer has done what I always wanted it to do. I feel like God is with me, like He's protecting me. I glance up, still whispering the prayer under my breath.

Jude stands in the hallway, the axe hanging at his side. Crusty brown blood stains his shoulder, and a bite mark mangles the back of his hand. The skin around it has swollen and turned a deep, ugly red.

Good,
I think. Jude grunts, heaving the axe up so that he's holding it with two hands.

I sneak a look at Sister Lauren. Her head is still bowed, her lips moving silently. She looks . . . serene. Peaceful. Maybe it's my imagination, or maybe there's some light slanting in through the open door, but I swear I see a halo of white illuminating her body, turning her into something holy.

“Our Father, who art in heaven,” she starts again. She squeezes my fist, and I whisper the next part along with her. Our voices weave together, sounding like one. “Hallowed be thy name . . .”

Jude steps toward us, lifting the axe above his head. He releases a deep, animalistic cry that echoes off the walls of the tiny infirmary. My voice falters. I let go of Sister Lauren and throw my arm over my head.

Sister Lauren lifts her head and raises one hand. “Stop,” she says.

I expect Jude to drive the axe through her face. I brace myself to feel the warm spray of blood across my cheeks, to hear the wet thud of her body hitting the floor. I cover my mouth with one hand.

But Jude lurches to a stop, looking almost confused. His fingers spring open, and the axe crashes to the ground. Jude looks down at his hands and then back up at Sister Lauren.

“I told you to
stop
,” she says. Her voice sounds different this time, like it's layered with the sounds of dozens of other voices. I turn to her, amazed. Her eyes have taken on a golden cast. She looks like she's glowing from within.

The confusion drains from Jude's face. His skin looks pallid. Sickly. Desperation fills his eyes.

“What are you?” he asks. Sister Lauren stands and
moves toward him, her hand still raised in front of her. Her skin seems to radiate some unearthly light. Jude flinches and stumbles backward, smacking his leg against the ruined door. It swings open, slapping against the wall.

Jude turns and tears down the hall.

Sister Lauren lowers her hand. She strolls into the hallway after Jude without another word.

I push myself off the floor with one hand, knees shaking. My chest heaves. I feel light-headed, as if everything inside my skull has been scooped out and replaced with helium. I allow myself one second to calm down. Then I stand and race into the hallway after them, my sling slapping against my chest as I run.

The dormitory is empty. I don't hear footsteps or voices. I jog down the hall and throw open the door to the quad. Icy wind and snow whirls around me, pushing me back inside. I lean forward, against the wind, and force my way out.

Jude kneels in the middle of the snowy field, head bowed, almost as if he's praying. I step outside, letting the dormitory door swing shut behind me. Snow soaks through the bandages covering my feet. Snowflakes kiss the tip of my nose.

Sister Lauren stands over him. She's saying something, but the wind carries her voice in the other direction. She lifts a hand and Jude's shoulders begin to shake.

He's not praying. He's sobbing.

I hobble toward them as fast as I can. The light that seemed to radiate from Sister Lauren's skin grows brighter. I stare, stunned. This isn't sunlight or a trick of my eyes. Sister Lauren is actually glowing. I stop in my tracks. I no longer feel the wind whipping at my back, or the icy snowflakes landing on my nose and forehead. I feel warm.

God hasn't forsaken me—he's been here all along.

Sister Lauren clenches her hand into a fist. Jude's face swells like a balloon. He lifts his hands to his throat and claws at his own skin, leaving deep red gashes on his neck. I watch, horrified, as blood seeps into his eyes and trickles from his nose. His cheeks grow redder and redder. Purple and blue veins stand out against his skin.

Jude's eyelids stop flickering. His pupils roll back in their sockets. He pitches forward and lands in the snow. Dead.

“He saved us,” I murmur, dropping to my knees. A giddy laugh bubbles up from my throat. “God saved us.”

Slushy snow wets the knees of my scrubs. It seems to be coming down faster now. Icy shards prick my hands and the back of my neck. Wind howls through the naked trees, making the branches tremble.

None of it bothers me. I press my uninjured hand to my chest above the sling, a smile spreading across
my face. God didn't forsake me. Tears pool in my eyes, freezing before they can slide down my cheeks.

Footsteps crunch through the snow. Sister Lauren lowers her hand to my head, her palm warm on my cold skin.

“Why are you crying?” she asks, brushing a lock of hair away from my forehead.

“Because God answered our prayers.” I wipe the icy tears from my cheeks. “I'm not evil. This proves I can be good. That God loves me.”

Sister Lauren throws her head back and releases a deep, strange laugh that sounds nothing like her normal voice. There's an edge to it. It could cut you.

“What's funny?” I ask. Sister Lauren stops laughing.

“
You
are,” she says, touching her hand to my cheek. “You're one of us, Sofia. God didn't save you.”

A chill that has nothing to do with the weather sweeps through my body. I picture it like frost spreading across a lake in winter. It freezes my lungs and chest, then crawls up my throat, turning my breath to ice.

“What are you talking about?” I want to look up, to prove to myself that this isn't really happening. But the cold holds me in place.

Sister Lauren kneels in front of me. I know it's Sister Lauren because she's wearing Sister Lauren's clothes. She has Sister Lauren's short brown hair, pulled back in
a messy ponytail. Sister Lauren's silver necklace glints from her collarbone.

But something isn't right. I watch, horrified, as the skin on Sister Lauren's forehead and around her eyes smoothens. Her cheeks grow fuller and her pupils darken. Her mouth looks too big, too full of teeth. She shakes her head and Sister Lauren's hair falls loose of its ponytail. It shortens before my eyes, transforming into Brooklyn's familiar spiky pixie cut. The color fades into an orangey bleached blonde.

“Hello, Sofia,” Brooklyn says. Her smile widens and, all at once, I realize why it seemed familiar that day in the van. It's Brooklyn's smile staring out at me from a stranger's face. “Did you miss me?”