It had become his private sanctuary, just like the girl in the book. When he couldn't go to the beach, he'd come here. Father Patrick had fed and clothed him and kept him safe, even if that meant calling DSHS when a foster parent gave him a new broken bone or black eye. He would walk with Drake through the paths and tell him stories of Italy and the Pope and of his life before the Church.
When Father Patrick had to take confession, Drake would play hide and seek among the giant angel statues that stood watch over the roses. He would tell them his secrets and talk to them about the ocean. He knew Father Patrick had heard him sometimes, but the priest never interrupted or discussed what he'd heard. This garden had been his confessional, the angels his priests and guardians.
A scream broke Drake's reverie.
He rushed toward the sound, his heart pounding in his chest.
One of the large stone angels lay on its side, a young man pinned underneath. His screams filled the small courtyard.
Mrs. Maypol sat on the cobbled floor and held the boy's hand. She cried so hard her plump face matched the orange-red of her hair. "I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry."
Father Patrick stood a few feet away with a cell phone in his hand and a deep frown on his weathered face. Despite the fear that Drake knew the priest must have felt, Father Patrick stayed calm and commanding as he spoke to the 9-1-1 operator.
Drake assessed the situation. The young man's leg had been crushed by the angel. Blood spurted from what was likely a severed artery, spreading a crimson stain over the garden's path and into the soil. The roses would grow on the blood of this boy.
The ambulance wouldn't get there in time. The boy already looked a breath from death with his pale skin and glazed eyes.
Drake tore off his shirt and twisted it into a tourniquet, then handed it to Mrs. Maypol. "Keep him still! As soon as I lift the statue, immediately tie this around his leg above the injury. Make it tight."
She nodded, sweat pouring down her face from fear.
He looked into the terrified eyes of the trapped worker. The statue that pinned his leg probably weighed two thousand pounds. "Just hold on. I have to get this off you. When I do, the pain will be unbearable. Be ready."
The young man didn't look ready for that at all, but Drake couldn't wait. He gripped the angel around the shoulder and pushed. Power flooded his veins and muscles. Superhuman strength flowed into him. His muscles bulged, his thighs stretched his jeans to near tearing, and his arms and torso turned rock hard. He pushed, willing the angel to fly.
And it did.
In a heartbeat, the statue stood on its base and the now-freed man screamed again and passed out. Mrs. Maypol did her job, tying the shirt around the top of the boy's thigh. He'd likely lose his leg, but at least he would live.
The surge of power spent, Drake slumped against a bench and hung his head. He wasn't tired, exactly, just depleted.
The offending angel looked down on him, red dripping from her chest; a fallen angel stained with her victim's blood. Drake wanted to offer her a chance to confess, just as she had done for him so many times, but Father Patrick's voice interrupted his thoughts.
The priest looked between Drake and the boy and spoke rapidly into the cell phone. Sirens blared in the distance.
It took him a moment, but as the reality of his situation settled in, Drake realized he'd made a mistake. He'd just exposed himself to two people who didn't know about his powers, and at a time when he needed to be more careful than ever. No one could know about his strength.
He sought answers in the eyes of his priest who covered the phone with his hand and spoke quietly to Drake. "Go to my office and stay there until I get you. We'll figure out something to tell them."
Again, Drake couldn't help but admire the calm assurance Father Patrick radiated. It would have been easy to believe that everything could work out okay, but he'd long since stopped believing in happy endings. Still, he obeyed the priest in a way he never obeyed anyone else, and slipped back into the church moments before the medics crashed through the garden.
***
Drake paced the small office for so long he could have sworn there would be ruts in the hardwood floor.
He read every title on the bookshelves that lined the wall—mostly religious books, but, surprisingly, some fiction, and a few books on psychic powers and occult studies.
The small golden cross on the wall behind the desk looked recently polished and gleamed in the light. He felt no power from it, and had no attachment to a symbol that just represented death to him. Still, the cross had hung there longer than Drake had been coming to the church, and its familiarity offered a small comfort, albeit fleeting.
Despite every attempt to distract himself, his mind returned to what had just happened.
He worried about the man he'd saved. He worried about Father Patrick and Mrs. Maypol and what they'd say. And he worried about himself. Would Father Patrick be able to protect him, or would he finally be exposed to the world?
He rarely felt vulnerable. With the powers he controlled, he didn't know anyone who could pose a risk to him. So why didn't that reassure him this time?
A creak sounded from the hall.
The doorknob twisted.
Drake froze and waited, ready to attack if anyone but Father Patrick walked through that door.