Chapter Six
Retracing his steps out of the Per Spiritum Sanctum entry, Peter paused, sending a desperate prayer to the Lord to protect him. He made the sign of the cross over his chest, then again with the tip of the sword in front of the door he had not entered before.
Holding the polished weapon out, he pushed, a loud creek wafting up. He stepped through. Abrupt silence filled the air.
The lantern’s glow fell on a row of individual cells, their thick steel bars disappearing into the darkness of the room. Shadows cloaked the interiors, but he knew something dangerous waited.
“Peter,” Christian rushed towards him, face pale with sweat beading on his forehead. He yanked at the bars on his cage.
Peter stepped closer to examine the lock, setting the lamp on the ground nearby. None of his keys would fit into the small opening.
Christian lunged, his hand shooting out to grasp Peter’s arm, his grip bruising. Peter gasped, locking eyes with the man—his pupils were dilated, and his expression twisted with a ravenous hunger.
Peter yanked back, but Christian’s grip held firm, dragging him forward. Christian’s other hand flailed, striking the blade, which clattered to the floor.
“Forgive me,” Christian rasped, his gaze softening for a moment. “The hunger … your flesh …” A deep wail escaped his lips and his grip slackened.
Peter steadied himself, backing up just out of Christian’s reach. “How did this happen?”
A sudden rush of footsteps mixed with a guttural growl erupted, as a hand shot out from the next cage which Peter had neared. Peter stepped away, the fingers barely missing him. A feral James gnashed his teeth, his hand desperately reaching for Peter. He snapped his head side to side, trying to free himself from a wide iron band around his neck attached to the back wall by a chain.
Peter returned to Christian, but kept a safe distance. His heart raced, fear mixing with horror.
“Keep back, so I can’t smell you. The scent overrides all reason. The bite …” He held up his palm, the tissue purple and hanging off in pieces.
“What is this evil?” Peter nodded down the line.
“I swore an oath to never share the truth outside the Sacred Rite.” Christian’s eyes clung to Peter, as if warring with himself. A sigh escaped, bubbles of drool sliding from the corners of his mouth. He tapped the iron cuff chained to his throat.
“The blood of Christ … soon I will become as inhuman as James. The poison from a bite is slower to cause the change than consuming a large portion directly.”
Peter tried to comprehend, but his mind swirled too fast. “But if the wine was contaminated … the congregation would be …”
“James stole a bottle of the pure extract that came direct from the source. The Communion wine only contains small drops, enough to bring the flock close to God without tipping into evil.”
“The source?”
The caged priest nodded down the row of cages.
Trying to keep fear from filling his body, Peter picked up the lantern.
“Don’t leave me,” Christian whispered, yanking on the bars.
Staying close to the far wall, Peter took hesitant steps.
As he passed James’s cell, the teen’s mouth snapped, his bloodshot eyes tracking Peter’s every move. Fingers clawed the air with a desperation that tightened Peter’s gut. The chain tethered to the iron cuff around his neck clinked with his movement.
The figure in the next cage lunged, skin hanging in ragged strips, exposing sinew and patches of dark, necrotic flesh. One milky eye lolled in its socket. The other, missing entirely, left a gaping void. It snarled, its jaw moving unnaturally above the thick steel collar. A putrid stench seeped from its open wounds, nearly overpowering Peter as he passed.
He stepped faster. In the fourth cage, a skeletal figure clawed at the bars with hands reduced to leathery skin stretched tight over bone. Its hairless scalp gleamed under the dim light, and its sunken cheeks gave it the appearance of a skull draped in parchment. A toothless mouth gaped wide, releasing a wet, choking hiss. A deep gash across its chest oozed a congealed substance.
Peter recoiled as it slammed against the bars, leaving a streak of grayish ooze in its wake. The metal throat binding bent its head at an unnatural angle.
The fifth occupant staggered forward, little skin covering its tattered muscles. It leaned heavily against the bars, fingerless arms reaching through. Its head jerked toward Peter with a creak, revealing a lower jaw that dangled by a few strands of sinew. Only a tiny gurgle escaped its mouth, the sound wet and labored.
Peter’s legs felt like lead as he neared the sixth and final cell. He clutched the sword tighter, the cold steel his only anchor against the growing dread that threatened to swallow him whole. He breathed in shallow gasps, each step heavier than the last.
Unlike the others, no growls or clawing met his approach. The flickering light of his lantern crept into the space. He froze, unsure if he could trust his eyes. Adrenaline coursed through him keeping every muscle taut, ready to react to any sudden movement.
He edged closer, careful to keep his distance, his senses on high alert. As the shadows parted, they revealed a startlingly mundane sight. Confusion swirled in his brain. Behind the bars, the last cage appeared similar to Peter’s quarters, with a simple bed covered in a neatly arranged coverlet and a table with two chairs.
Peter gasped as the light finally fell on the cell’s occupant. A man with an unblemished, olive-toned complexion and dark, curly hair sat with his head bowed in prayer, his fingertips touching his short beard. Unlike the others, he was unrestrained by metal bindings at his throat.
Peter stared, mouth agape. The man stirred, lifting his head with deliberate slowness. His posture remained eerily calm, almost serene. The man opened his gentle brown eyes.
“Are you my savior?” The man’s thick Aramaic accent pressed on each syllable. “Or has God forsaken me once more?”
“Who are you?” Peter whispered, his voice shaky as the bars around him rattled with violent desperation. The growls and screeches crescendoed, pressing in on him.
“Ēnā Yeshua bar Yosef,” he said in Arabic. “My tormentors call me Jesus.”
