Devious - Lisa Jackson [192]
Like the monster in her dreams. More evil and callous and malicious than Sister Ignatia. The bloody knife dripping from her hand.
A murderer dressed as a nun . . .
Fear coiled through Val.
“It’s over,” Devota said, smiling with a crazy, off-kilter grin that stretched her lips thin, snakelike, over her teeth. “You’re nexxxt!”
Oh, God.
Horror curdled her blood as she kicked free of the yellowed folds of stained lace, her ankle and leg throbbing. “No, you stupid bitch,” she whispered, her voice just as deadly, her hands searching, grasping for the gun. One fingertip brushed something cold and metal. The pistol! “You are. You’re next!”
“Valerie!” Slade’s voice echoed through the tombs.
“Here!” she yelled desperately, her fingers stretching over the .38’s grip.
Too late.
With a scream of fury, Devota kicked the pistol away. It skittered across the floor. So incensed she nearly lost her balance as she dropped to her knees, she grabbed Sister Charity’s veil and yanked hard, pulling back her head, exposing the mother superior’s white throat. A tiny gold cross dangled and winked from a tiny chain around Charity’s neck, where blood was already running.
“Stop! Don’t!” Val yelled, horrified.
Sister Charity closed her eyes and started praying, her vulnerable throat working as she whispered, “Hail Mary, full of grace . . .”
In the smokey blue light of the flashlight, Val watched in horror as Devota drew back her knife, then, with a quick stroke borne of hatred, sliced the soft tissue of Sister Charity’s throat.
“Oh, God, no!” Val cried.
Blood spurted from the reverend mother’s throat, showering Devota and spraying against the coffins and walls of the crypt, bloody drops hitting the fleshless corpse of Sister Lea.
The flashlight went rolling, its beam spinning crazily against the tombs. Val caught glimpses of the hollow-eyed skeleton and Sister Charity’s blinking, terrified face as she clutched her throat. Blood, dark and red, seeped through her old fingers, the silver wedding band on her finger disappearing in the ooze.
Their gazes met—mother and daughter. Val, her soul shredding as her mother bled, tried to stand, but her leg gave way and she fell, at the mercy of this beast. . . .
“Don’t,” Charity whispered, pleading with Devota. “Please don’t harm her . . .”
“Shut up!” Devota’s nostrils flared in outrage. “I’m done listening to you!” She kicked the mother superior away.
“Leave her alone,” Val said.
“And I’m not listening to you either!” Devota glared at Val. “You’re as bad as the lot of them. All those stupid women. The girls in this damned orphanage. I tried to point them out to God so he could punish them, but he didn’t seem to listen! Turned a blind eye to their sinful deeds. I meted out punishment, even back then, showed him the sinners. I even broke one girl’s arm as she tried to steal from the bakery, but did he punish her? No! It was all up to me.”
“She was only three,” Charity whispered.
Devota grinned. “Too young to talk.”
Damn it all to hell!
Val had heard enough. This monster had been hurting others, trying to destroy them, since she was a child. She’d probably been building to this point, bit by bit, and if anyone looked hard enough, they would find other victims who had been “punished” by her over the years. She’d escalated, her deeds getting more cruel as time passed. But what had finally pushed her over the edge to murder? Seeing Sister Lea with Father Frank? Falling in love with him herself? Hadn’t Camille’s cryptic message, a heart encased CALLED, included Devota as the D? Who really knew? Probably not even the murderess herself.
Eyes focused on Devota, Val slowly inched her way into the direction the gun had skidded.
But it was far too late.
“There is no essscape,” Devota hissed, blood splattered all over her twisted, hateful face. She stood slowly, her bloody knife dripping over the bridal dress she’d brought with her. Like a monster from a horror movie, a hideous beast maimed but still bent on its hellish mission, Devota walked forward, dragging the damned dress.
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