Divine Temptation (31 page)

Her hands went automatically to the waist of her robe, and Evan somberly nodded. With shaking hands, she untied the plush sash and let the robe fall open. In the mirror she saw the red lines peeking through.

“Look at it,” Evan instructed, his voice harsh.

Her lips trembled as she slid the soft fabric from her shoulders and opened the robe wide. Staring back at her, branded across her body, was the outline of a seven-headed dragon. She was familiar enough with the book of Revelation to recognize it immediately as the sign of the devil.

She screamed.

And she kept screaming, seeing only pulsating redness around her. She was aware of Evan shouting in the background, and for a moment she had the impression he was coming to her, but then she heard other voices. All the while she kept screaming, blinded by the sight of the redness.

When her shrieks subsided, she found herself on her knees on the cold bathroom tile. Her throat burned as Evan shouted her name. Hunched on the ground, she turned to look at him. He was struggling to get to her, but two burly angels, dressed in white linen like Evan’s, towered over him, gripping either of his arms to restrain him.

“That’s enough,” a white-haired angel said, stepping into Maggie’s view. He wore a full white robe with a golden rope tied around his waist. He was tall, statuesque, and unlike Evan, his glow extended outward, surrounding him in a pale but visible light. “Take him away.”

“No!” Evan screeched before he disappeared with the two angels holding him, leaving Maggie cowering on the floor with the authoritative angel before her. She sat up straight and watched him, daring to hope he’d be able to help her.

The angel stepped more fully into the doorway and examined her, a look of mild curiosity etched into the rigid lines of his elegant features. “Hm,” he grunted. “They never look quite like I expect them to.”

She bent her head in deference. “Please don’t hold Evan responsible for any of this. He always tried to do the right thing. I’m afraid I was the one who kept pushing. But this isn’t what I’d intended. I thought it was Evan, which I know is bad enough, but if I’d known who it was that came to me last night, I never would’ve…”

The angel’s features softened, and he regarded her through gentle eyes, his mouth turned slightly downward in a compassionate frown. “You may not have intended to invite Satan’s most dedicated and powerful follower in, child, but invite you did.”

She bowed her head once again. “There has to be a way, some way for me to erase this mark from my body, my soul.”

The angel let out a mournful sigh. “I see the task of fully explaining lies with me. It wasn’t you he was marking, per se.” A shard of hope pierced Maggie, and she snapped her head up. “He was claiming the womb that carries his heir.”

“His heir?” Maggie’s belly lurched and boiled, and she instinctually knew it was true, although her brain told her it was impossible.

“I’m sorry, Magdelyn, we can’t help you now.
Alea iacta est
. The die has been cast. The best I can do is return to my realm, where I must prepare to deal with what you’re now doomed to bring into this world. Be brave, child.”

Within seconds, Maggie was alone and trembling. She pulled her robe closed, clutching it high on her chest, and prayed for the mark—and what it signified—to disappear. But her entreaty rang hollow, unable to extend into her heart while her fear dominated. She huddled and shook, her skin icy cold despite the inferno raging beneath it.

None of this could be real. She tried again to pray, to wake up from this nightmare, but that connection now felt lost, severed, and she ached to have it back. Evan had told her many months earlier that willfulness was a harsher sin than weakness, and her determination to have the angel, despite all his warnings against it, had become a pure act of will that night. But even while she accepted that sting of guilt, she knew she didn’t deserve to be marked as Satan’s property. She’d thought she’d invited Evan into her body, not…this. She hadn’t known she was greeting evil with open arms and legs and couldn’t recall one single moment when she’d doubted it was Evan.

Just as her indignation and wrath began to rise, it plateaued, overtaken by dread of the indisputable truth of what she harbored in her womb. Its father—or his master—was surely going to come back for her.

Her hands shot up to the marble countertop, and she pulled up to standing, barely able to support herself on unstable legs. The robe had fallen open again, but she refused to look at the malevolent tattoo. Instead she kept her focus straight ahead on the reflection of her eyes. The words “God help me” had never felt more poignant. She
had
to reestablish the connection—had to find a place in God’s grace again.

After staring for a moment longer, the answer came to her—Father Tom. He’d given her a warning, cryptic as it was. He’d understood that something wicked was simmering beneath the surface of their seemingly peaceful community. Her legs steadied, and she stood straight. She had to get to the priest. He’d help her.

Terrified of who might be waiting for her, she forced herself to step into her bedroom and was relieved to find it empty. Rushing to her closet, she pulled on the most accessible pair of jeans and a sweater before running out of the room, down the stairs, and to her car, barely thinking to grab her coat along the way.

As she sped away from her house, she wiped her palm flat across both sides of her face and inhaled deeply. Pinpoints of Christmas lights strung along shrubs and porch railings brought Maggie some comfort, but as she left the neighborhood and pulled onto the black, wet street, the bleakness again took hold. She’d cut herself off from the celebrations.

She kept herself calm enough to reach the former seminary and parked in the small lot. Instead of dashing out of the car, she stayed in the safety of her vehicle and studied the large twin wreaths on the front doors of the building. She should be home with her children right now, baking cookies while they decorated the gingerbread house she’d bought earlier that week.

Tears streamed down her face, and her breath caught in small gasps. She couldn’t go inside hysterical like this without drawing unwanted attention. She’d been given the direct number to Father Tom’s room when she’d called a few days earlier, so she pulled out her phone and steadied her hand to press the right buttons, then clamped her swollen eyelids shut, hoping he’d answer. He did. And she immediately began silently sobbing.

“Who is this?” he asked tersely, but his tone gentled when Maggie was able to convey in gasps that it was her. “Calm down, calm down,” he soothed, although she could hear the concern in his voice.

She hadn’t intended to tell him anything until they were face-to-face, but couldn’t keep this to herself for one more moment. “I’m so sorry, Father. I didn’t listen to you. I didn’t stay away from the angel.” Her sobs interrupted her speech.

“Tell me, Maggie,” the priest said in a commanding tone, bringing her around.

She managed to tell him the important points—that she thought she’d coaxed the angel into her bed, but she’d been tricked. She told of how Satan’s follower had come to her in darkness, that she’d thought it was Evan and consented to couple with him, and now she was marked as the mother of his child.

Father Tom stopped her only once, asking her to recall the exact words spoken as best she could, and when she finished her tale, he asked, “Who else knows?”

“Nobody. Only the angels, and they said they can’t help.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m in my car. In the parking lot in front of your building. I can’t…I can’t come in.”

“Don’t! Stay where you are. I’ll come to you—don’t move from where you are.”

“Hurry,” was all she said before she heard the click from his end.

She reflexively double-checked that her doors were locked and waited for what seemed a very long time before she saw Father Tom ambling around the side of the building. He was in his overcoat, crunching over the frigid ground that had yet to be covered in a true snow. In the darkness she could see his shoulders hunched, his head straining forward, peering at the cars. She waved to him before coming to her senses and opening her door so she could step out and rush to him.

He grasped onto the back of her arm and whispered, “Come along.”

Maggie was surprised when he led her back toward the building and along the side. “Where are we going?”

“I’m an old man, Magdelyn,” he huffed as he pulled her past the back of the building and toward the forested decline. “In over my head. This is out of my hands now.”

Chapter 22

F
ATHER
T
OM
C
ONTINUED
P
ULLING
M
AGGIE
along behind the old seminary. She balked when they took their first steps down the sloping hill that led into the shrouded forest, but the priest kept a firm hand on her. “We’re going to help you,” he said. “And to be blunt, we’re the only option left.”

Conversation ceased as they had to watch out for every footstep in the dark night, leaving behind the meager comfort of the glowing residence windows. The ground was slick with pockets of icy leaves, and they often had to brace themselves on tree trunks to avoid toppling over. At least moving toward their mystery destination was doing something, and Maggie already felt stronger than she had while slumped on her bathroom floor.

She also knew Father Tom was right—she had no choice other than to trust him. But that didn’t stop her from asking “Who’s we?” once she’d found her footing. He squinted at her through the shadowy moonlight. “You’re not going to like it.” Then he resumed his trek down the hill. By now, needing both hands to keep balance, he’d let go of Maggie, but she stuck close.

“I’ve made mistakes,” he confided. “My entire adult life I spent guarding against his ways, trying to shield parishioners from him.” They made it halfway down before he leaned his weight on a tree trunk and held a finger up. “One slip. All it takes is one slip for him to gain his hold.”

Maggie dug her fingernails into the bark of the tree in front of her and watched the priest’s expression sag into a mournful scowl until it appeared pained. Tearing his eyes away, he continued the descent in silence, with her following. When they reached level ground, Maggie went straight to him and put an arm around his shoulders. “You’ve been a wonderful influence in my life,” she said. “Brought me into the fold when I was so, so lost and guided me ever since. You did all you could for me. None of this is your fault.”

The surface of his moist eyes glinted under the silver moon. “You don’t understand.” Pulling abruptly out of her embrace, he moved forward, appearing slightly aimless until Maggie caught up and laid a hand on his back. He stopped and looked at her, forlorn. “I’m the one who lead him right to you.”

Before Maggie could respond, footfalls crunched the leaves and twigs just ahead, and a silhouetted figure moved swiftly closer. Maggie’s instinct was to flee, but Father Tom stepped behind her and whispered, “Forgive me,” before gripping both arms and holding them firmly behind her back.

She moved to free herself, but went numb when the figure moved into the pale light where she could make out the pointed features of Monsignor Sarto. He was cloaked in black priest’s robes. Panic instantly flooded her. Her stomach boiled and her breath came in rapid bursts, but for all this adrenaline, her feet and arms couldn’t move. She merely pressed back into Father Tom as if she could melt into him and away from her nemesis.

Sarto smirked, moving closer, and Maggie’s insides burned hotter with his every step.

“You did well to call me,” Sarto said.

When Father Tom spoke, his voice quavered with uncertainty. “You promised not to hurt her.”

“I
promised
to take care of her,” Sarto sneered. “Which I fully intend to do.”

“With a witness present,” Father Tom said, the threat in his voice unmistakable. “Stop!” he ordered, halting Sarto’s footsteps. The priest’s hold on Maggie’s arms slackened. “If you move another inch, I’ll let her go and throw myself in your way.”

Sarto raised an eyebrow. “Really?” His smooth confidence didn’t waver. “I suppose this means you no longer wish to keep your secret?”

“My secret be damned!” Father Tom shouted. “I don’t know how I ever let you persuade me.” His hands shifted on Maggie, and he spun her around to face him. Gripping her biceps, he fixed his gaze beseechingly into her eyes. “I should’ve told you after you’d stumbled upon us in the church that night. The night I smashed the altar candle. I knew then it was beyond my control. I’m so sorry, Maggie. I honestly thought the less you knew, the safer you’d be.”

“Telling her now won’t do her any good,” Sarto called across the ten feet that separated them. But Maggie noticed he didn’t chance a step closer.

Father Tom continued, his focus only on Maggie. “When you told me about the angel, I was afraid, so afraid it was
him
. He’d appeared to me as a regular man, always approaching when no one else was around, pretending he needed to talk, feigning interest in joining our congregation, but in reality he was manipulating me into doing the talking. He let me vent on and on about the monsignor’s continuous blows to my precious pride—he encouraged it, fed my frustration. And then he offered to help me. When he was pleased that I’d answered his questions without posing any of my own, he hinted that it was within his power to lessen my woes. The monsignor suddenly eased up, even left town for a few weeks.”