Page 10 of The Sinner and the Priest: Part 1

“Come on.” I fumble around for my box of tricks. “Where the fuck are you?”

My fingers land on a broad velvet surface. Bingo. I locate the ribbon handle and yank, dragging the box out. Holy rays of moonlight bleed through the window and land on the box lid. God’s soul, I swear it’s true. The instant I lay eyes on my toys, a flood of anticipatory relief washes through me. Soon I’ll feel even better.

It’s been days since I’ve had a chance for a little self-care.

“I’m so sorry, babies,” I coo to them. “Momma’s been super busy.”

I grab the long, veined, sparkly purple dildo, but then realize it’s not going to give me what I need in the time I have. I toss it over my shoulder. Next is the clitoral suction vibrator. I hit the button. Nothing. Batteries are dead. Fuck. I check the wand. Nothing. The baby vibrating bullet is also dead. Dead. Dead.

My breath hitches. The frenetic need is back, sharper than before. Nothing will do. I squeeze my eyes shut against the rising sense of helplessness as arousal builds in my body. My skin feels like it’s about to strangle me as I fumble through the last of the toys, adding as many as I can to the power cable.

I look out the window. The sun has completely set now, and the church’s belfry looms like a black shadow against the moonlit sky. Even though there are no bells in the tower, I hear them, nonetheless. Bong. Bong. Bong. Between tolls, the creak of a swinging rope. My father’s open study door. A chair knocked sideways. My wailing mother.

This is all your fault, Joan.

I grab a clean set of clothes and storm off to the bathroom. Better to wait in line than in silence.

Already showered, hair wrapped in a white towel, Raven heads toward me down the hallway. Just before we’re about to clash, she stops dead, one hand braced on the wall, the other clutching her empty laundry basket like a shield.

What is this, a challenge?

“Move,” I snap.

She doesn’t flinch. Her eyes grow wide. Too wide. They look through me, fixed on something I can’t see.

“He’s coming,” she whispers, voice unnaturally deep. It’s a sound ripped from the gut.

“Who?” I demand. “Dom? He’s on patrol.”

“The Lord of the Flies.” Her voice is deep and wrong. Prophetic. A single drop of blood oozes from her left nostril. “His mark heralds the white horse who carves the path.” She groans. “The enemy is within.”

The sight of her blood is my tripwire.

I drop my laundry bundle and grab her face, forcing her eyes to meet mine. The black of her pupils swallows the color. I drag her into the monastic cell she shares with Tawny. The air is stale and thick with the scent of too much candle wax and something burnt, like bitter herbs.

“Stay on the bed,” I order.

She collapses onto her mattress, spine straight, eyes locked on the ceiling. I check her pulse, then press my hand to her forehead. Everything seems within range, given what’s happening. Just another intense vision. I hope.

A few moments’ rest, and she’ll recover. Exhaling my relief, I straighten and glance around the room. Tawny must already be at the archives or finding snacks for the meeting.

That’s when I notice Raven’s occult objects strewn about the room. I stalk across the wooden floor, intending to inspect a bundle of burnt herbs, but my bare toes disturb a salt circle and nearly crush a black taper stub. I sidestep and find a scattering of tiny, dried bones—bird, maybe—on a nightstand beside an ancient-looking tome bound in faded leather.

“Is that Wesley’s summoning book?” Horror tightens my voice.

I whirl to face Raven as she swipes her nose with the back of her hand, accidentally smearing the blood across her lips. She looks like a beautiful, terrifying monster.

“What. Is. That. Shit?” I hiss, pointing at the open salt circle.

Her eyes finally, truly, see me. They’re no longer black, just exhausted and calculating.

“Tawny doesn’t care.” She shrugs, nodding at the empty packets of food beneath the other bed. “Her habits are worse.”

“You know very well what I’m talking about, Raven.”

“Leila put your chain cilices on the shelf over her bed in her room.” Effectively dismissing me, she pulls out a cigarette from a crushed packet beneath her cot.

I stare at her. Grind my teeth. Watch as she puts the blunt between her lips and lights it up with a lighter gathered from a pile on her nightstand. Fire sparks from the flint as she breathes in deep. Finally, on her exhale, she meets my gaze and exhales smoke through her nose.