Devil at the Vatican (BL)

Chapter 12

Oliver had everything prepared for Elio—clothing, toiletries, books. It was as though he'd prepared for this day long before Elio ever stepped foot in his home. Cecil brought the items into the parlor where they kept him for now. Apparently, he was to leave for Rome immediately.

"Can I see my mother?" Elio asked Cecil as he placed the suitcases by the doorway. 

Edith entered the room then, carrying a tray of lunch. She set it on the table in front of Elio. Sliced ham, biscuits, and a baked pear. She left silently, exchanging a knowing glance with the stoic Cecil.

"Mr. Ellsworth believes that it would be best if you see her when you come back," Cecil explained. "She is not well."

"Not well?" Elio asked, jumping to his feet. His knee hit the French oval coffee table and clamored the silver tray. 

"What you have become has taken a toll on her dear heart. She can't see you until you are cleansed, Mr. Ofir."

He didn't understand. This made the least sense out of absolutely everything else. If Elio knew one thing, it was that his mother loved him. She cherished him more fiercely than any other mother on the planet. To not see him at such a pivotal moment was simply ludicrous.

"Tell me where my mother is," Elio demanded. Anger bubbled up in his chest, spreading over his lungs like a claw. The veins in his face blazed with heat and pulsed blackly to the surface.

Cecil did not seem impressed or threatened in the least. He was as disinterested as a lake during a forest fire.

The door then opened to a man about a few years older than him, wearing a plain brown tunic and curious blue eyes. This man's hair was ridiculously styled—a traditional tenure, which was nothing more than a completely bald crown and a halo of hair around the edges. He looked ridiculous to Elio, even by priestly standards. 

"I'm Petru," the man said. "I've come to see to you." His smile disarmed Elio's rage, which cooled to a light simmer.

Petru waved Cecil away and Cecil left the room, noticeably locking them inside together. Petru's posture was naturally slouched, making him shorter than Elio by several inches. He took notice of Elio's gaze on his hunched-back and smiled again.

"Father Marcel told me you were informed of the voyage to Rome."

Elio furrowed his brow. "Yes, but..." 

"Do you not wish to go?" Petru asked. His expression held a puppet's stare. 

"Do I have a choice? Where is my mother?" 

"God gives all of his creatures a choice, my boy. There are consequences either way. That's why I am here. These matters should be discussed delicately. Father Marcel is not delicate." 

That was an evident fact. 

Petru took large steps over to the adjacent seat and sat down. His smile and empty stare chilled Elio's nerves, but Elio decided to sit down as well, mostly because it seemed as though looking so far up at Elio standing strained his crooked neck.

"As for your mother... she has fallen ill," the priest said. Tentatively, he reached over and squeezed Elio's knee. His face warmed some from its emptiness. "Father Marcel believes you are Pueri Maledicti—a Cursed Child."

Despite himself, Elio began to tremble. He loved his mother, and any bad news involving her would send him spiraling. Once, when he was a child, she fell down a hill and cut her leg on a branch. Elio screamed as though her pain were his own. He slept at her feet every night until the wound healed.