Chapter 112

Myositis's body had endured many kinds of pain, and yet the searing heat of the bullet wound in his chest felt profoundly foreign to him. Deep and grave. Not a wound of the flesh… but closer to the soul. He opened his eyes, trying to see, but the rain on his face buried his vision. He could feel powerful arms holding him, carrying his limp body like a rag doll, his black cassock flapping.

Lifting a weary arm, he mopped his eyes and saw the man holding him was Amorth. He was struggling down a sidewalk, shouting for a hospital, his voice a heart-rending wail of agony. His red eyes were focused dead ahead, tears streaming down his face.

"My son," Myositis whispered, "you're hurt."

Amorth glanced down, his visage contorted in anguish. "I am sorry sorry, Father." He seemed almost too pained to speak.

"No," Myositis replied. "It is I who am sorry. This is my fault. I was too eager. Too fearful. You and I were deceived."

Myositis was unconscious when the doors of St Luke's hospital hiss