Page 102 of The Sinner and the Priest: Part 1

I tuck the lock behind her ear, realize what I did, and snatch my hand back to my side.

Silence descends again.

If I don’t talk to her now, explain my curse, then I might not get another chance. She wanted to know the details, and now, with this fly business, the memory of another like me is swimming back into focus.

“Mercy—” Fear clamps down on my throat, choking my confession. But she needs to know. “At the pool⁠—”

“No.” She walks toward the staircase. “What happened in the changeroom isn’t important right now.”

I hurry after her, cassock swishing, catching her just as she hits the first step. “Stop. Please.”

“Whatever it is can wait. Mary’s Gospel is more urgent right now. They just translated something about a demon prince.” She glances back at the orphan door. “Considering what just happened, I think this is big.”

“Which demon?”

She starts up the stairs. “Beelzebub. The Lord of the Flies.”

Thirty-Five

Mercy

Entering the archives always feels like stepping into the ribcage of an ancient, sleeping beast. It’s dim, cool, and filled with stolen knowledge. Rows of bookcases fan outward, the flicker of reading lamps barely breaking through their shadowy gloom. This place is a graveyard of every secret the world tried to bury, and right now, it’s our only hope.

Hushed voices and the occasional sound of movement come from deeper in the archives. I head straight there, not waiting for the priest to catch up. I cast a nervous glance at the arched stained-glass windows high on the walls, checking for flies. Nothing.

Cisco’s footsteps follow behind me. I feel his stare on the back of my neck like a warm touch. It drives me mad, honestly. Since I left him in the changeroom, I’ve twisted myself into knots over what I said to him. Why was I so defensive about him watching me from the belfry? Under normal circumstances, it would have turned me on. But with him … every emotion is heightened.

Then there’s the secret I’m carrying about his curse … and yet I know nothing about it still. Don’t I have the responsibility to tell my team? Or is it just something different I’ve never heard about? If the Vatican hasn’t persecuted him for it, then do I have a right to judge? Do I even have the right to speak about it with my friends?

I saw his eyes change. That’s it.

I even strapped the chain cilices on so that I wouldn’t let my desire for him muddy my decision. But now, as we walk through the archives, the only thing I can think of is that he’s not like other men who’ve failed me.

Every man I’ve cared about ran when things got ugly. They chose the easy way out. Eventually, I stopped caring and started fulfilling my own needs.

The problem is that I’m running out of excuses to distance myself from Cisco. He could have lost his shit at what I did to him on the floating board. He could have blamed everything on me, told me I hallucinated, or ignored me completely. He could have lost faith in my leadership.

But he hasn’t.

I was the first person he talked to about the flies. I’m the only one who knows there’s something else going on with him. I’m probably the only person he’s ever said makes him feel at peace.

And he took care of those children without hesitation. He dropped everything to make the girls feel safe, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.

Voices in conversation filter over the bookshelves from deeper within the archives. The boardroom is too small for our growing party, so they’ve moved shelves and built a makeshift war room out in the open. Manuscripts and scrawled notes, battered armchairs, and mismatched couches have been dragged in from every corner. Maps and relics litter surfaces. Mary’s Gospel is front and center on the largest table.

Thea and Wesley are hunched together, their heads bent low over the tattered pages, lips moving in a silent argument about translation. Thea’s spectacles flash as she jabs a finger at a passage, and Wesley’s jaw clenches in disagreement.

The Reverend Mother sits at the far end, sorting through a stack of Vatican correspondence with surgical precision. Her cane leans against her chair, nearby.

Two of the more studious nuns, Sister Hildegard (after our namesake) and Sister Mary Theresa, are perched at a side table, leafing through codices thicker than my thigh, scribbling notes in a code only they seem to understand. Now that the immediate Team Saint threat is over and the Vatican visit is delayed, I make a mental note to tell them about the relics in the bunker. Officially cataloging everything properly is important. The sword might have been a dud, but other items could be valuable.

Everyone else is here. Sinners and Saints, all hands on deck. Dom, Leila, and Zeke are at the table. Jasmine and Hannah sit close together, barely glancing up as we enter. But I don’t doubt the animosity remains when I see Jasmine’s trusty dagger sitting on her lap. Hannah gives Cisco an odd look.

“Finally!” Tawny groans around a straw in a takeaway cup, sitting on a beanbag beneath the whiteboard.

“Took your sweet-ass time,” Raven adds. She’s far away from Tawny, on another beanbag and beneath a windowsill with a book on her lap. The tension between them must still be unresolved.

Great.