Sancte Diaboli

Saint

There are echoes that live within these walls, and they whisper all of the secrets the Hayes family keep locked away.

Brantley glances down the hallway behind the staircase, before coming back to me. “We’ll take you.” Truthfully, I probably should have gone straight home. I don’t know if I’m ru

Bishop stares at Brantley, and I feel the shift of whatever is happening begin to move between them. They’re hiding something from me. I can sense the tightness in the air.

Making my way down the hallway, I pass the contemporary art that’s hanging on the wall and the large Victorian-style mirror. It has metal claws on all four corners, which wrap around the edges like the sharp nails of a woman. Weird décor that doesn’t match this house at all. Brantley stops me before my hand is on the door handle. “We’ll stay out here.”

I shake my head. “No. I want you both in there.” But I won’t tell you why…

Brantley’s hand is on the handle again, pushing until it splits open, revealing the vast office space of Hector Hayes. They say you can tell a lot about a man by how he keeps his office. This is more like a small library, with floor-to-ceiling bookshelves that fill the walls, a glass cabinet built into the wall, a long rectangular office desk clearly crafted from wealth, and a puffy leather chair tucked behind it, which is where Hector is staring at me from. He rolls a thick cigar between his thumb and forefinger, curling his other fingers up to signal Bishop to close the door.

Bishop closes it behind us, but I don’t move my focus from Hector. His smile looks deceiving, and I don’t know if that’s just how he is or if I’m reading him wrong. If I had to judge him by his office, I would say clean. There’s a problem with clean, though, and that’s because no one with the reputation of Hector Hayes is clean. So I’m left with the word fraud rolling around inside my head. Aside from that, he looks good for his age. Tattoos cover his skin, a trimmed beard around his mouth, and a full head of healthy hair.

He unbuttons his suit jacket and gestures to the four chairs in front of his desk. The idea to get this conversation over with was a decision I made on a whim. Bishop taking the gavel tomorrow means I want it done for him. I know how much he wants this conversation to happen, and I think deep down I have questions that I would like to know the answers to, whether he wants to share those with me or not.

Bishop falls onto the chair to the left of me, and Brantley to the one on the right. He scoots his chair forward farther so he’s slightly in front of me.

Hector notices, a small smile flicking over his lips. “Still don’t trust me, nephew?”

“The Godfather? Of course. Just not with this.” Brantley winks at him.

Hector shakes his head, his eyes finally coming to mine. “You look more like my family than you do your mother’s.”

Bishop leans into me. “That’s supposed to be a compliment.”

“Hmmm,” Hector huffs. “I guess you’ve got a lot of questions for me.” He flicks the ash off his cigar. “All of which I’m willing to tell you honestly. Brantley and I have both agreed it’s best you know everything that we know. That is, if you think you are able to handle the truth.”

“I can,” I say, looking to Brantley, who’s ru

Hector leans forward. “Do you remember anything before being with Brantley?”

I shake my head. “No. I don’t even remember the day I arrived there. Where was I before if I didn’t go to Brantley until I was two?”

Hector pauses, his focus buoyantly on Brantley. He leans back in his chair. “You were in an orphanage in Vatican City.”

“An orphanage?” I ask, shocked. “Why in Vatican City?”

Hector remains passively focused on me. “This orphanage isn’t for any child. It’s for—well—”

“Here we go.” Bishop kicks out his leg.

“For kids with special abilities.”

The confusion must be evident on my face, because Hector continues. “It’s for kids who may suffer from issues that could separate them from society. It is owned by friends of The Kings, and has been there for generations. It’s in Rome because it’s far enough away from our enemies.” Hector stands. “Or so we assumed.” He turns to the bookshelf behind him and runs his fingers over worn spines.

Bishop groans. “Do not give her Tacet a Mortuis.”

“I’m not.” Hector laughs, finally picking a burned red leather spine and dropping it so hard on his desk that dust particles explode into the air. “This is our family history book.”

“Jesus Christ.” Bishop snickers. “Why so many fucking books?”

“Because it’s how our ancestors could communicate with us. I tried to get you to read it once. Not a chance.”

Bishop flips off Hector.

“It’s true. I read once that people would journal a lot, speak to their future from the grave,” I say futilely to no one in particular.

Hector ignores him and slides the book across the table. “Read it if nothing I’m telling you makes a lot of sense. But it all started with one of my great-great-great-grandmothers.”

I pause.

Hector points to the book that’s now in my hand with his cigar. “She escaped Salem.”

My fingers flex over the aged leather of the book. “Salem? As in the Salem witch trials?”

He nods. “The very same.” Taking a seat back on his chair, he puffs on his cigar until the sweet scent of burnt tobacco drifts around my face. “That was her journal, in her own words. The papers are all bonded together with wax. A lot of the words may not make sense. Majority of it is written in early modern English. She escaped the trials, ended up in Riverside, and well—” Hector raises his hands around the room. “She became a legend amongst most. Mainly for putting up with a Hayes, but because the year 1694 was the year she gave birth, and then 1695 was the year The Hayes Curse was born.”

I blow out a loud exhale of breath, shifting in my chair.

“I don’t understand what any of this means,” I answer honestly, placing the heavy book on my lap. “But what I really want to know, is what do you mean, The Hayes Curse?”

Bishop turns toward me. “They called it a curse, but it isn’t really. Have you heard of clear sight and psychometry?”

“Yes. Clairvoyancy?”

Bishop nods. “Yeah. So, they say there’s one in every Hayes generation. When it skipped me, we all figured we were fine, but that was until I found out Daddy Dearest was hiding another kid, along with his closet full of side bitches.”

Hector flashes a cocky smirk.

Bishop continues after glaring at him. “You’ve experienced things, right?”

Silence. Undiluted silence. I close my eyes, pulling my knees up to my chest. “I—I don’t know.”

Brantley turns toward me, leaning his elbows on his knees and looking up at me behind his shoulder. “I’ve caught you a few times.”

I look to him. “That was sleepwalking.”

Brantley glares at me, and the way his eyes flick between my mouth and back to my eyes, makes me shuffle uncomfortably. Pins and needles pinch over my skin. “Yes, but no.”

“The boys are right,” Hector says. “And over the years I was against you ever finding out. I didn’t think you needed to know. When Brantley stepped in and took you, it was agreed that when they started—if they started—he was to manage it.”