The Blessed - By Tonya Hurley Page 0,61

to get me closer to God, Doctor?”

“No, to sanity, Sebastian.”

Sebastian could still feel the struggle. His muscles flexed, cramped, as he remembered being dragged, inch by inch, toward the table. The restraints hung loosely, waiting for arms and legs. The IVs were bloated with anesthesia and hungry for his veins. The rubber bite plate sitting on the metal tray next to the gurney sat idle in anticipation of his clenched teeth.

“You’ll need more than one guy to help you.”

The arrogant smirk on the orderly’s face suggested otherwise.

“Sicarius is nearby if I need him.”

“On a leash?”

“Sedate him.”

“Relax. Just a little pinprick and you won’t remember a thing.” The orderly approached Sebastian, who evaded his grasp. Sebastian spun him around facing the doctor and put him in a vise grip headlock. The orderly struggled and gagged, flailing his arms, his face turning red, then purple, and then a ghostly white as Sebastian continued to apply pressure with all his strength. Sebastian stared directly at the doctor, who did nothing, as the lackey was on the verge of unconsciousness. A final silent squeeze of Sebastian’s arm, and the orderly slipped helplessly to the floor.

“Well done,” the doctor said. “Now you are not just psychotic; you are a murderer.”

“He’s not dead.”

Sebastian rushed at Frey and slammed him against the wall, pinning him there with his forearm pressed hard against the doctor’s throat. He didn’t resist.

“Is it my turn now?” Frey taunted.

“The chaplets,” Sebastian demanded.

Frey handed them over.

Sebastian reached into the doctor’s pocket and took his keys and removed the battery from his cell phone. He stepped out quietly and locked Frey in the treatment room.

“Go ahead and scream for Sicarius now,” Sebastian shouted. “Him, I will gladly kill.”

“Does killing evil make you yourself evil?”

“That’s just what I’d do. I’m not the judge.”

“I’ll see you again, Sebastian,” he said through the thick glass window of the metal door.

“God help you if you do, Doctor.”

He could see Jude’s sweet face poke out of his room, startled by the unusual late-night commotion. The boy was clearly frightened for him. They’d gotten close in the time they’d both spent on the ward, despite the age difference. Sebastian had become like a big brother. He pointed in the direction of Sicarius’s room, a silent warning, but Sebastian waved him off. If Frey had intended to bring out the big gun, it would have been done already.

Sebastian kissed one of the chaplets and tossed it to Jude.

“Give it to her for me,” Sebastian said. “And be careful.”

The boy nodded, not needing any further instruction.

“You. Be. Careful,” Jude said haltingly, his eyes squinting and lips trembling.

“I won’t forget this,” Sebastian said, rushing for the stairwell. “Remember everything I told you.”

Jude smiled and pulled his head back inside his room.

A giant wind gust followed by the loudest silence he’d ever heard knocked Sebastian back into the moment. The air around him crackled and his ears clogged painfully and then popped, sending him sprawling off balance to the deck of the tower.

He rose slowly to his feet, fighting a stiff wind.

However painful the recollection of his captivity, he was proud that he’d gotten away from Frey. Against all odds, he’d escaped and had nearly fulfilled his mission.

Sebastian raised his fists in triumph, challenging the wind and the rain, daring the lightning to strike him.

The old tower began to quiver violently from the wind and sonic assault from the thunder, shaking loose mortar from between the stones and some of the fairy dust from his memories. At once, he felt a sickness in his stomach. Not from what he’d accomplished but from what he’d missed, what he’d overlooked. Had he really escaped after all or had his hubris in that moment clouded his judgment? He replayed the scene over and over in his mind, trying to make some sense of it. Frey didn’t resist. Why? And then it struck him. Hard as the impending tornado bearing down on Precious Blood.

“What have I done?” he repeated, dropping his head into hands, allowing himself a rare moment of doubt and self-pity.

A sudden burning across his arms and legs. The colored glass, splintered timber, and finishing nails that had been lying at his feet began to swirl upward like a vortex in a hurricane-force gust, almost revolving around him like a swarm of hungry mosquitoes. The storm was upon him. He covered up as plywood and planks crashed down relentlessly in the belfry around him, knocking him to the cement floor. It was loud as a battlefield,