Page 101 of Boxed In

Chapter 15

Olivia watched in horror as the fire enveloped Luke so that he looked like a human torch.

“No!” she screamed over and over, even as she tried to shake off the grasping hands that held her firmly in place.

It couldn’t be real. It had to be an illusion created by the priests. They wouldn’t allow Luke's odyssey to end this way—would they?

But the priests’ panicked reactions told her this was no illusion. Chaos broke out in the sanctuary. Some of the men ran for the back of the room, out of her line of vision.

Others ran toward the altar where two of the priests leaped forward and threw themselves on Luke, pulling him from the heart of the fire.

All three of them fell to the stone floor, unmoving.

Fighting free of the hands that held her, Olivia struggled toward Luke. When she knelt beside him, she gasped.

His skin was so charred that he hardly looked human. The other two men weren’t as bad because their time in the fire had been much less than Luke’s.

The elegant suit he had worn to the temple lay in shreds—sticking to his body.

The box was still spouting fire. Two men dashed past Olivia, carrying a heavy, richly embroidered blanket which they threw over the altar, cutting off the fireworks. Smoke still seeped from the edges of the blanket, but the flames had been quenched.

At the same time, some of the priests joined Olivia on the floor beside the injured men.

First they carried away the two priests who had dared to pull Luke back. Then four more men picked up Luke and hurried out of the room.

Nobody stopped Olivia from trailing behind as they descended a flight of stairs to a room on the floor below.

When they laid Luke’s ruined body on a narrow bed, she asked God over and over to save his life.

But it looked like it was already too late. He lay still and lifeless. She could smell something like burned charcoal. And when she touched his charred flesh, some of it flaked away. Quickly she drew her hand back, afraid to injure him more.

“Is he dead?” she whispered.

“It depends on how you view life,” the priest named Father Delanos answered.

“This isn’t a semantic game,” she snapped, then wondered how she could be so disrespectful.

“It is not a game. I simply can’t give you a definite answer because his life on earth is hanging in the balance,” the priest answered in a calm, even tone.

Needing to steady herself, she clutched her own hands in front of her body. “You have magic powers. You told me you have lived for a long time. Can’t you cure him?”

“Not magic. And I have lived so long because I have not been injured.”

“Okay. It’s not magic. I don’t care what you call it,” she answered, hearing the desperation in her voice. “Can you save him?”

“No,” he said, his voice low and deep and very sure of the pronouncement. “I can heal the other two men because they were only briefly in the fire. But Luke’s body is beyond my skill.”

She felt as though the floor had dropped out from under her feet, and she had to steady herself against the bed to keep from falling.

It was hard to hear the priest over the roaring of blood in her ears, but finally his words penetrated her brain.

“But perhaps you can save him.”

A spark of hope leaped inside her. But only a spark. If the priest couldn’t do anything—what could she do? “How?”

The priest’s voice turned grave. “It is dangerous. You might not survive.”

“But if I take the chance—he may live?”

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