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Only to realize he was trapped inside by daylight.

Chapter Four

The first thing Butch thought when he came around was that someone needed to turn that faucet off. The drip, drip, drip was annoying.

Then he cracked an eyelid and realized his own blood was pulling the Kohler routine. Oh…right. He’d been beaten and he was leaking.

This had been a long, long, very bad day. How many hours had he been interrogated? Twelve? Felt like a thousand.

He tried to take a deep breath, but some of his ribs were broken, so he picked hypoxia over more pain. Man, thanks to his captor’s attentions, everything hurt like a motherfucker, but at least the lesser had sealed up that gunshot wound.

Just to keep the questioning going longer.

The only saving grace to the nightmare was that not one thing about the Brotherhood had passed his lips. Not a thing. Even when the slayer went to work on his fingernails and between his legs. Butch was going to die soon, but at least he could look Saint Peter in the eye and know he wasn’t a squealer when he got to heaven.

Or had he died and gone to hell? Was that what all this was about? Given some of the shit he’d pulled on earth, he could see why he’d ended up in the devil’s guesthouse. But then wouldn’t his torturer have horns, like demons did?

Okay, he was flirting with Looney Tunes here.

He opened his eyes a little farther, figuring it was time to try to separate reality from mind-grinding nonsense. He had a feeling this was probably his last shot at consciousness, so he should make it count.

Vision was blurry. Hands…feet…yup, chained down. And he was still lying on something hard, a table. Room was…dark. Dirt smell meant he was probably in a basement. Bald lightbulb revealed…yeah, the torture tool kit. He looked away from the spread of sharp things, shuddering.

What was that sound? A dim roar. Getting louder. Louder.

As soon as it was cut off, a door opened upstairs and Butch heard a man say in a muffled voice, “Master.”

Soft reply. Indistinct. Then a conversation, with one set of footsteps pacing around, causing dust to filter down from the floorboards. Eventually, another door squeaked open, and the stairs next to him started to creak.

Butch broke out in a cold sweat and lowered his eyelids. Through the cracks between his lashes, he watched what came at him.

First guy was the lesser who’d been working him out, the guy from over the summer, from the Caldwell Martial Arts Academy—Joseph Xavier was his name, if Butch remembered correctly. The other was draped from head to foot in a brilliant white robe, his face and hands completely covered. Looked like some kind of monk or priest.

Except that was no man of God under there. As Butch absorbed the person’s vibe, he couldn’t breathe from his repulsion. Whatever was hidden by that robe was distilled evil, the kind that mobilized serial killers and rapists and murderers and people who enjoyed beating their children: hatred and malevolence in an upright, solid form.

Butch’s fear level shot through the roof. He could handle being knocked around; the pain was bitch, but there was a definable end point marked by when his heart stopped beating. But whatever was hiding under that robe held mysteries of suffering the likes of which were biblical. And how did he know? His whole body was revolting, his instincts firing off to run, save himself…pray.

Words came to him, marching through his mind. The Lord is my shepherd, I shall not want…

The robed figure’s hood turned toward Butch with the boneless swivel of an owl’s head.

Butch slammed his lids shut and hurried through the Twenty-third Psalm. Faster…needed to get the words into his mind, faster. He maketh me to lie down in green pastures; He leadeth me beside the still waters…. He restoreth my soul; Heleadeth me in the paths of righteousness for his name’s sake…

“This man is the one?” The voice that reverberated through the basement tripped Butch up, making him lose his rhythm: It was resonant and carried an echo, something out of a sci-fi movie with all that eerie distortion.