The Wolf Esprit: Lykanos Chronicles 3
Chapter Thirty-Two

Toussaint led me across the chapel to another offshoot hall, where we came to a smaller chamber that separated me from my thoughts of Duccio’s words.

An iron chair stood at the center of the room. There were thick straps at the legs, arms, chest, and head. It was much like the device they’d contained me by for Chastain’s interrogation, but it sat upright.

Many instruments hung on the walls, each appearing more sinister than the last. Some seemed designed for flogging, others for bludgeoning, and some for cutting. A row of seven double-headed pitchforks in descending sizes gave me a chill, though I couldn’t grasp their purpose.

“I’m of a mind to release you from this ritual, son,” Toussaint said. “My heart bleeds for you. It’s obvious you’re a victim of those who knew better. Those who allowed… no, encouraged you to sin with them. And I would rather begin your tutelage as if you were a new lycan, with a child’s ignorance, deserving of the opportunity to learn of our worship before being held accountable for it. But I also know the severity of your many crimes, regardless of that ignorance. And for those crimes, and for the love of our Lord Father in Heaven, I must first seek to absolve you of your sins.”

I wanted to agree with him, this man who’d only ever shown me tenderness since arriving. But with nothing less than an arsenal of threatening instruments at his back, I could not bring myself to speak.

“Lift your arms.”

I did as he said, allowing him to lift my robe over my head, leaving me naked.

“Take a seat, Esprit, and we shall begin.”

With hesitation, I did as he asked, sitting on the cold iron chair. Toussaint drew the straps with slow reverence and sealed me in, saving my chest and forehead for last. When I gave an involuntary jerk to free myself, my limbs taken by anxiety, he paused and stared at me with concern.

“Trust me, my child,” he said with almost a tender whisper.

With this last bit of encouragement, I leaned back against the chair and allowed him to fasten the remaining straps without resistance.

Toussaint spoke in Latin, which I knew well from my lessons with Gabrielle. She’d once told me of her first experience with a priest when she was a young woman. He’d come to her home while she was too pregnant to venture to church and delivered the holy rites of confession and communion. He’d chanted in Latin, the magic language she’d called it. She later learned it was her father’s language, and she still marveled at its elegant, rhythmic beauty.

“Lord God our Father in Heaven,” he began, reaching his open palms to the level of his shoulders, “take mercy upon this child who blindly sought to offend your love and kindness with his many wicked acts. Idolatry, insolence, and pride for certain. But also his abandonment of your decree to rule over the beasts of this world you created for lycan kind. I beg you to allow me to spare this child, abandoned and betrayed by his heretical parents, from your just and wrathful punishment. Please, my Lord, allow me to deliver your punishment here on earth, so he will not come to you in Heaven one day with his soul stained by his many sins. I ask for your mercy, devoid of earthly vanity, but wishing only to give this child a chance that he might become your eternal loving subject and symbol of your divine love.”

Toussaint went silent, his eyes closed as if he waited for an answer to come to him. When his eyes opened, he stared at me with relief and sighed.

“Let us begin.”

He reached to the side of the chair and took hold of a lever. A dozen metal spikes drove into my flesh when he pushed it downward. From my calves to my shoulders, they assaulted my every limb. I released such a scream that I lost my breath in the act.

With almost greater cruelty, Toussaint returned the lever to its original position, and the spikes withdrew. Blood dripped out from my many small wounds, the sensation compounding my agony. I thought I would lose consciousness as I struggled to regain my breath, only to scream more.

“Yes, child,” Toussaint spoke gently. “Let the poison of sin drain from your body.”

I moaned like a wounded animal, and he reached to hold my face to assure me.

“You mustn’t fear this pain, for the Lord our God will never allow you to die from this ritual. He promises we lycan will endure until the end of time. And all you suffer now will be a minor scratch compared to the suffering awaiting us should we appear before him in Heaven with our souls stained by corrupting sin. This is mercy, my child, and you will show your love, devotion, and fealty by welcoming these minor sufferings. Now, breathe through it and show me your resolve. I cannot fail to save you if we show courage now.”

Tears streamed down my face as I whimpered in agony. I would’ve answered if I could, but the pain was too intense to allow me to form words. Please, my mind begged him. No more, please.

Toussaint reached for the lever again, and my heart raced at the implication. Instead of downward, he raised the lever, and a fresh set of spikes shot out from the chair, creating a new series of wounds throughout my body.

I lay shivering in my cell.

Bishop Toussaint had carried and laid me gently on the straw when he finished. He’d dressed me in fresh linen, but the weight of the robe did not keep me warm with so much blood loss. I would survive, he’d assured me over and over, but this knowledge didn’t ease my suffering.

In the morning, he promised to come again to begin my instruction on the ways of faith. But despite the excruciating pain, he assured me my body’s purification was over because he had saved me. To encourage my devotion, he left a single candle burning in the hall outside my cell to celebrate this accomplishment.

“The first of God’s light has entered your soul, child,” he assured me with his gentle voice. “It will not be the last.”

I closed my eyes against the light and turned my face toward the stone wall of my cell to hide. Defeated, all I wanted was sleep.

That’s the moment I felt her.

At first, I smelled her. A strange smoke filled my nostrils. I thought it was the candle flame outside my cell. But the more I breathed her in, the more I fell into a trance.

A rich orange of kindling lit inside my mind, an image of flame pushing through my dark despair. And with it came a sensation of anger I’d never felt before. It slithered through my mind like a massive serpent, squeezing my thoughts until I became enraged. The fury opened my mind’s eyes.

I saw Father racing in his wolf form against hoards through the smoke, and I ran just behind him. He was searching, desperate to replace the way through. I sent my flaming serpent to guard his every turn against those wolves who came for us. With each angry strike, another wolf exploded, their blood igniting from the inferno of raw heat I shot at them. Five and then ten and then twenty—their blood leaped from their bodies to splash against the satin-papered walls of the palace. I set the entire structure alight in this manner until the remaining wolves fled to save themselves, and it satisfied me the flames would consume this wretched place.

And then I sensed Esprit again.

My eyes shot open to the dim light of my cell. For a moment, I still felt her presence as keenly as I felt the pain in my body. I heard her voice echo through the silence of my cell as she called my name.

“Gabrielle!!” I screamed back at her with what strength I had left.

From above, a monstrous concussion ripped through the earth. It felt as if the many levels above me were collapsing. The ground rumbled and shook beneath me, and the lit candle fell over, leaving me in complete darkness.

Again, I called to Gabrielle, my mind grasping in vain to see again the vision I’d received. It was as if her sight, the eyes of this goddess whose fury-filled mind had opened to me, had severed forever.

From down the hall, a light approached. Wielding a torch, Duccio stumbled in, almost losing his balance as the earth trembled again.

Without a word, he slid a key into the lock and opened my prison cell.

I tried to get to my feet but was too weak. I wanted to escape him, but I had nowhere to flee. He dropped the torch on the ground, took me up like a child in both arms, and fled the cell.

Fatigue overtook me in seconds, and my limbs dangled freely as my head fell back. Even my mind hadn’t the strength to resist him.

The last thing I saw before unconsciousness took me again were carved angels staring down from the chapel’s ceiling before we left Hell behind to rise from the depths.