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His mouth—
My stomach churned. "You don't want blood on your hands, Conor. You're not made for that."
He frowned at me as McKenna's wails to God turned into an endless chant now Aidan was bashing him to fucking pieces with one of the altarpieces.
Conor swiped at his snotty nose, mumbling, "What am I made for?"
"I don't know," I told him, meaning it. Not in a bad way, I just knew Conor was special. Somehow, what I’d thought earlier about him either being like his da or Ted Bundy had shifted. Not because of what I’d seen, just what I’d realized. "I don't think blood is your path." He was way too fucking smart to be wasted on the streets.
"Grab his feet, Finn," Aidan growled, and I jerked my attention back to the scene, grimacing when I saw the state of the priest.
Blood had pooled beneath him, spattering around the pews, getting into the cracks in the tiles. His groin was a matted mess of torn flesh, and through it all, with every strike of that fucking candlestick to his body, McKenna prayed.
He begged for forgiveness.
He prayed for absolution.
Not once did he apologize to Conor.
Not once did he say he was sorry for what he did, just that he was sorry for falling into temptation.
Like a seven-year-old boy could ever be that.
As if he could fall into the same category as eating too many fucking cookies.
Aidan wanted me to hold him down, but I couldn't bear to hear him pray any longer so I turned to Conor and asked, "Do you have your Swiss Army Knife?"
His bottom lip wobbled as he nodded. I saw shame flicker over his face, crisscrossing his features and I knew he was thinking that I thought bad of him for not using the weapon.
But he was seven.
A kid.
Forced by a man who held our eternal souls in his hands to do something heinous.
Forced by a man who his father revered.
In our parish, a priest was not just next to God, he might as well have been God himself.
I clapped him on the shoulder as he passed me the pen knife, and I raced over to the bastard's side and smacked my fist into his jaw. That shut him up, thank Christ, but his head rocked back and forth, his eyelashes fluttering as I pressed my now-aching hand to his nose, squeezing the nostrils until his lips parted. After he gasped for breath, I let my fingers dart inside his mouth and pulled on his tongue.
"There's no forgiveness for you, you fucker," I growled as I hacked at it with the pen knife.
The second the blade was lodged deep, I grabbed his hair and dragged his head back as I sawed off the muscle that would let him talk with God.
Not anymore.
Let the motherfucker try to worm his way out of this without the ability to speak anymore.
He wailed and writhed, choking and sputtering, screaming and shaking as he gulped down blood, but Aidan did me a solid and held him down.
"May you burn in hell," I ground out, and it was eerie as fuck because Aidan said that at the exact same time as I did.
"May you burn in hell."
Blood gushed from his mouth, spurting all over us, and as the copious wounds on his body began to take effect, we watched as the mashed up flesh that had once been a son of Christ left this mortal coil and was slowly accepted into Satan's embrace.
As the light flickered in his eyes, I gave him the only last rites he deserved: "I hope demons fuck you in the ass with hot pokers for the rest of eternity."
