I can’t remember ever experiencing this level of rage. I’m controlled, balanced, disciplined, and this…this is anything but. I can’t seem to rationalise it or tamp it down. My chest is so tight that I’m reduced to short gasping breaths. My grip on the steering wheel tightens in a bid to stop my hands trembling. What is this?

  All I can see is the broken look on Eden’s face, the tears. She’s been so strong, fought for her brother, and that is what broke her. She said she loved him once? Does she still? He had the love of an angel, and he disregarded it. He let her go. Betrayed her. I would never let Eden go. Never.

  I pull up to Sanctuary and hurry inside. I hear Jase call my name as I pass through the catacombs, but I ignore him. I can’t talk to him right now. I slam the doors to the lounge and rush to pour myself a drink. I need to calm down. I reach for my usual cool control, but it’s absent. In its place is this burning hot rage that will not dissipate. It drives my heart in a pounding rhythm, sending it colliding against my ribs like a caged animal. I feel…crazed, rabid even. I pace the lounge back and forth, but it’s not working. I need…I don’t even know what I need.

  There’s a knock at the door. “What?” I snap. Jase pokes his head in, frowning at me.

  “Ashton Haines is here. Security won’t let him down, but he says you’ll want to see him.”

  A slow smile works over my lips. Brave, or foolish. I don’t care. Either way, this little surprise is very welcome. “Let him in.”

  “Uh, Saint…”

  “Let him in,” I repeat. “And Jase, give me your knife.” His lips press into a flat line, and he hesitates. “You sure you want to do this?” He tentatively takes the knife from his inside jacket pocket and hands it to me.

  “Let. Him. In.”

  I take the blade, flipping the thick, curved hunting blade from its carbon handle. I gifted Jase this blade when he first came to work for me. It’s beautifully crafted, perfectly balanced. I close it again and slide it into my jacket pocket.

  A few minutes later and Jase shows Ashton into the room. “You may leave, Jase.” My brother hesitates, and I wonder if he’s worried for me, or our friend here, after all, they are associates. Isn’t that how Jase described him when he first brought me Eden? An associate. The door closes, and it’s just him and me.

  Ashton’s entire body vibrates with tension. His fists ball, his jaw clenches…He’s angry, and I almost laugh at the notion, because my rage is a formidable thing right now.

  “You need to stay away from Eden,” he growls.

  I laugh. I can’t help it. My head falls back, and tears cling to the corners of my eyes. “An interesting request from the very man to cause her grief.”

  “I love her!” he snaps, taking a step forward. “There’s nothing I wouldn’t do for her.” His words stoke the flames of an already roaring fire. My pounding heartbeat intensifies until it’s all I can hear, a driving rhythm that seems to push me towards something spectacular.

  “You made her cry.” I move forward, clasping my whisky glass tightly in my hand, my fingers longing to wrap around something else. I circle him, eyeing all his weaknesses, the soft tissue, the throbbing artery at his neck, eyes, and the spot at the base of the throat. Then, of course, there are the more painful, drawn-out ways of making a man suffer. Breaking of the fingers, kneecaps…testicles. The possibilities unfurl inside my mind, driven by anger and raw, venomous hatred.

  And every time I close my eyes, all I see is my angel, broken, crying. He took her brother from her. Hurt her. He made her suffer.

  “We both know you’ll kill her eventually. I won’t let that happen.”

  “You made her cry,” I repeat. Boom-boom, boom-boom, boom-boom. My pulse rises frantically like a wave, and I can feel it like a grand orchestra reaching the crescendo. This is the pinnacle, the peak, the build — the grand finale — rage and hatred, and angel’s tears. He’s a sinner, a heathen. The devil’s work.

  Ashton takes a step toward me, his fist tightens, and then he strikes. His fist collides with my jaw, and my head jerks to the side hard. I snap. A switch buried somewhere deep inside me flips, and red mist descends, blocking out everything but the need to hurt him. The monster that dwells within me breaks free of his chains. I smash the edge of my whiskey glass on the coffee table before taking the remaining half and ramming it straight into the front of Ashton’s throat. His eyes go wide, blood instantly pooling around the jagged shards now penetrating his skin. But it’s not enough. On a hoarse roar, I punch the thick bottom of the glass, burying it in his neck several inches deep. His body jerks. A sick choking sound emanates from him, and he falls like a felled tree, hitting the ground with a dull thud.

  A series of choked gurgling noises work up his throat. And there’s blood. So much blood. Everywhere. The firelight bathes him, and the ambient glow could almost make the scene look peaceful, a dying man’s last breaths.

  Moving over to the bar, I pour myself another drink, my bloodied fingers smearing red over the sides of the glass. Ashton’s blood-filled rasps are like music to my ears, and that monster I so rarely allow any length of leash dances in glee.

  I stand over Ashton’s dying form, watching waiting, and when he finally draws his last breath, it’s nothing short of biblical. The air hisses from his body in a soft sigh, and the panic leaves his eyes as though the hand of God were placed upon his forehead, stealing his pain, and calming his soul before it’s final journey. I have no doubt that Ashton’s soul is going down, not up, but in his final moments, I believe God mourns his children. There’s something strangely peaceful in the way the body relaxes before that last trace of light finally leaves his eyes. A separation of the soul and the physical being. I’ve never felt power like it, and it’s such a heady sensation.

  I’m so entranced by the sight of Ashton’s blood creeping over the stone floor that I don’t notice the door open.

  “Saint.” Tearing my gaze away, I look at Jase. His brow is crumpled, and he approaches slowly as though nearing a feral animal.

  I look from him to the bleeding body and back to him again. Like the high of a drug, the sense of power abates, and in its place is a stone-cold reality. I killed him. I killed! Bile rises in my throat and dread settles over me like a lead weight. What have I done?

  “I have to go.” I rush from the room, not stopping until I’m in my car. I drive, somewhere. Anywhere. My heart hammers like the panicked fluttering of a trapped bird. The white glow of the dashboard highlights the red tinge on my skin — blood on my hands. I frantically wipe it over the material of my trousers, needing it gone.

  Bad boys go to hell.

  ‘Then the devil, who led them astray, was hurled into the lake of fire and sulphur, where the beast and the false prophet are, and their torture will not come to an end, day or night, forever and ever.’

  Sinner, sinner, sinner. I will drown in the lake of fire with the devil. Tortured over and over. Bad boys go to hell. Bad boys go to hell. My mother’s words echo around my mind on repeat. Did she not warn me? She tried.

  Blood, and fire, and sins, racking up on my soul. I can feel them, crawling through me like maggots, eating away at my flesh.

  The church looms in front of me, a few hundred yards down the street. I didn’t mean to come here. God guided me. He knows I need him.

  ‘If we confess our sins, He is faithful and just and will forgive us our sins and purify us from all unrighteousness.’

  Yes, forgiveness, I need forgiveness. He’ll forgive me. He has to.

  Abandoning my car at the kerb side, I stumble into the church. A place that usually brings me such peace suddenly feels like a walk to the gallows. Walking up the aisle, I fall to my knees in front of the virgin. Her gaze falls on me — motherly pity cast upon me.

  Closing my eyes, I bow my head and clasp my hands together.

  “Remember, O most gracious Virgin Mary, that never was it known that anyone who fled to thy protection, implored thy help, or sought thy intercession was left unaided. Inspired with this confidence, I fly to thee, O Virgin of virgins, my Mother; to thee do I come; before thee I stand, sinful and sorrowful. O Mother of the Word Incarnate, despise not my petitions, but in thy mercy hear and answer me. Amen.”

  I don’t know what I expect, but I know I’m not forgiven. This dark sickness inside me churns uncomfortably, choking me.

  “Saint?” I look up at the sound of my brother’s voice. Judas lingers a few feet away, confusion blanketing his features. “What are you—” He trails off, his gaze falling to my shirt, my hands. He rushes forward. “Get up,” he hisses, grabbing my bicep and hauling me to my feet. “Come on.” He glances around nervously, dragging me towards his office out the back.

  “No.” I fight his hold. “I need to confess.”

  “You need to take that shirt off, and wash the fucking blood off your hands.” He gives another nervous glance to the church doors. “Jesus, do you want to get arrested? You can’t just walk in here like that.”

  “I need to confess.” Our eyes meet, and for once the tension between us is absent. I need him right now, and he sees it. “Please. I need you to hear my confession.”

  On a deep sigh, he drags a hand through his inky hair. “Fine. Fine.”

  He lets go of me and walks over to the confessional, stepping inside. I follow him, slipping into the other side and pulling the curtain closed behind me. I’m in the judgment seat, and for the first time, I don’t feel ordained or close to God. I’ve never been so far from him.

  I cross myself. “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, it has been two weeks since my last confession.”

  “I will hear your confession,” Judas says from the other side of the lattice divider.

  “I killed a man.” The horror of hearing those words aloud sends an icy shiver down my spine, as though the devil were teasing me, laughing at my spiritual demise.

  “Why?” That is the question.

  “I don’t know. He… I lost control.”

  “You don’t lose control, Saint.” But I did, and with a man of no consequence to me. I have damned my soul for Ashton Haines: a sinner, a filthy blasphemer. How can this be? How did this happen? “You fear God’s wrath far too much.” He’s right, but he’s not helping!

  “He hurt her.” He hurt her, and it drove me insane. I stare down at my hands, a narrow shaft of dim light penetrating the curtain, giving me just enough to see the rusted coppery colour staining my skin.

  “Who?”

  “Eden.” I bend forward, my head falling into my hands as I try and suck air deep into my ailing lungs. “He hurt an angel. Lied, corrupted. He was a sinner, Judas. A sinner!” Silence is the only response I get, and my heart thumps erratically. “Thou shalt not kill. I’m eternally damned.” Doomed.

  The silence continues, seemingly endless until he finally speaks. “You believe in God absolutely?”

  “Of course.”

  “Then have you ever thought about the fact that he made you this way? You’re a psychopath, Saint.” I remember the first time I ever heard that word, sitting in a psychiatrist’s office at eight years old. The doctor said I exhibited psychopathic behaviour. I can still picture the look on my mother’s face, the horror, the way she clutched at the gold crucifix that always hangs around her neck, even now. “To kill is your very nature. Maybe that’s the way he intended it.”

  “It’s his test for me, and I failed.”

  “Perhaps, or maybe you’re not the evil person you think you are. If a bad man fights his nature to try and be a good person, does that simple rebellion of himself not make him good by default?”

  I want to believe his words, but I can’t. “Murder is the devil’s work in its purest form.”

  “Don’t you see, this was always destined to happen? It’s your nature, the way he made you.”

  “Do you think He’ll forgive me?”

  “I don’t know, Saint, but your remorse will surely allow you into heaven.”

  “Remorse,” I whisper. “Yes, I’m remorseful.”

  “Are you though?” Of course I am, can’t he see that? “I know you, brother. The desires that plague you. Did you enjoy killing him?” I press my fingers into my temples, screwing my eyes shut. Did I? I remember that feeling, that moment when he finally took his last breath — the power. “Is your remorse for taking his life? Do you feel guilty that this man is no longer walking this earth?”

  I don’t need to answer him. We both know I don’t. “Cut me.”

  “Saint...”

  “You need to cut me.” Allow the sin to mar my body so as to lessen the weight on my soul. Bleed the foulness from my body.

  “You can’t just bleed for this, Saint. This is different.”

  “Don’t sit in judgment of me, Judas. You’ve killed many times. You’re a heathen.”

  “We aren’t talking about me. Thirty-two years, and that has been the only line you refused to cross.”

  “Because it cannot be forgiven!”

  He lets out a long sigh. “All sins can be forgiven, but to achieve true absolution you cannot have remorse only for your punishment. It must be for the sin itself. Genuine heartfelt guilt.” I hear the creaking of wood, and the confessional illuminates with the soft glow of candlelight as he tears the curtain back on his side. “You need to search yourself, Saint. I’ll be here when you’ve found the answers you seek.” And then my brother, the heathen, leaves the confessional the more righteous of the two of us.

  By the time I get home, my head feels like a swarm of bees have taken up residence. Nothing is clear. I need relief, but there is none. Blood, I need blood. Only through sacrifice can salvation be found. Judas has betrayed me, left me to my sin, cast me into the devil’s arms.

  “Saint?” Otto’s voice comes from somewhere deep in the apartment. No, he can’t see me. Hurrying to the kitchen, I take the large meat knife from the block and rush down the hall to the shrine. I close the door behind me and bolt it, ensuring the boy can’t get in. The Virgin’s disappointed gaze falls on me, and I drop to my knees in front of her, bowing my head.

  The prayer spills from my lips in a rush. The blood rushes through my veins as my heart pounds in anticipation. This will cure me. A sacrifice is what’s needed. Fisting the handle of the knife, I bring it to my skin at the top of my sternum. The sharpened point pricks me, and I feel a single drop of blood well up in response. A small smile touches my lips. Yes, I will bleed myself dry if I have to.

  Closing my eyes, I silently pray while dragging the blade straight down, all the way to the middle of my stomach. The sharp sting of the cut reverberates in waves, with each forced beat of my heart. Opening my eyes, I place the knife to my left pec and drag it all the way across to the middle of my right pec. The blood wells and pours over my skin so hypnotically that the sight of it entrances me. My body attempts to purge its taint through the sign of the crucifix. I swipe my hand, smearing blood over my chest and stomach. Yes, bleed. I lift my gaze to the Virgin, the blood-stained tears leaking down her cheeks. I bleed for her, just as she bled for her son. I weep just as she wept. And now, I offer her all that I am. Spreading my arms wide, I tip my head back, waiting for something: a sign, a feeling…

  My head starts to swim, and it feels as though the world is tilting on its axis. And then everything goes black.

  I stand on the ashy plain, my skin drying and cracking in the searing hot breeze. Whirlwinds of ash kick up and skitter erratically on the barren soil. I move to start walking, the same way I always do, but I can’t. I’m…stuck.

  My hands are bound behind my back, around a wooden post. What is this? I tug on the restraints, but with each movement they seem to tighten, biting into my wrists until I can’t feel my hands. My gaze darts around desperately looking for her. My angel. But she’s nowhere to be found.

  She’s abandoned me.

  The ground rumbles beneath my feet. There’s the overpowering scent of sulphur, and then the earth splits, billowing a wall of fire straight up into the air.

  I burn.

  21

  Saint

  The heavy scent of wood polish and incense surrounds me like a blanket, bringing small comfort to my fraught soul. Sunlight plays through a gap in the curtain, hitting the lattice divider and sending little speckles of light across my face. It reminds me of Eden.

  “Forgive me, Father, for I have sinned. In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, it has been one day since my last confession.” The words leave my lips, temporarily lifting the lead weight that’s been sitting in my gut ever since I left this very confessional twenty-fours hours ago.

  The priest releases a heavy sigh. “Son, you’ve been here for the last four days. There is only so much forgiveness I can grant. It’s not accumulative.” He’s tired of forgiving me, tired of listening to a sinner.

  But I’m not forgiven. I can feel the sin festering, rotting my soul with each passing minute. I need divine intervention, a healing touch from the Lords hand. Salvation. And that requires a true confession, a purging.

  “I didn’t tell you my sin,” I breathe, stepping out onto the tentative tight rope between the lord and his messenger. To confess such a thing…perhaps this is what He wants, for me to spill my ugly secret, to risk myself, to suffer in prison.

  “God, the Father of mercies, through the death and resurrection of his Son has reconciled the world—”

  “I killed a man.” Silence. “I killed him because he hurt her.”

  I count eight heavy beats of my heart against my ribs before he finally speaks. “Do you repent?” Father Maxwell whispers, a noticeable tremor in his voice.

  He finally sees me. For the first time, he truly see’s the monster that I keep leashed. I’m no longer just the strange boy who has attended his church for the last thirty years, or even the unsettling man he’s come to know. That niggling sense of danger he gets when he’s near me; the one he’s always told himself is so irrational, because I’m a devout man, a catholic, it finally all makes sense. I’m a killer, a sinner, a predator living amongst his prey. And how can that be? One of his own flock. A traitor, a false pretender. I can almost hear it all clicking into place in his mind.