Page 105 of The Sinner and the Priest: Part 1

“You see words?” Hannah asks quietly.

I lift my gaze. “The five of us who touched it when the halves joined can see the words. Thea copies them out, and Wesley helps her translate.”

“Cool.” She slinks back to her chair. It seems Jasmine has more to say but is holding back, giving Thea the floor.

Thea looks at the Rev. “Should I talk about Beelzebub?”

“I want to hear about the Gospel,” Hannah says.

Jasmine straightens. “Me too.”

“Okay.” Thea pulls out a translated note. “I’ll read this new passage first.”

When the silent steel seeks its perfect heart, follow the Lamb who takes away the sin of the world to the City of the Seven Hills. There, the Saint must rise above the black smoke to descend into the House of his Fathers’ Sin and ignite the flame after the angel falls sideways upon the black vaults of the root of all Lies.

Only then shall the great fast be broken. But beware the feast of the righteous: For every sin devoured to cleanse the world also fattens the beast within. Judgment who seeks to slay the dark with merciless pride shall deliver the gaping maw of grievous first blood, and the sevenfold vengeance shall ride forth on a black horse.

Thirty-Six

Mercy

“Shit,” I blurt out when Thea is done reading.

Everyone stares at me. Standing, I keep my eyes unfocused, my expression passive.

“I think I know where the next relic is,” I mumble. “Wait here.”

I head into the reliquary, retrieve the bundled sword and journal, then dump them on the table. Dust still blooms as I unwrap the twine on the package.

So stupid of me to assume the sword was a dud because it failed.

“I found this the other day when I was cataloging. The label caught my eye.”

Thea leans over, wincing when she moves her bad arm, but pushes through the pain and reads the label.

“Joan—” She gasps as I pull the sword free. “As in Jehanne de Vouthon?”

“Who?” Tawny asks.

“Joan of Arc,” Wesley answers, awe in his voice.

“Nerds,” Raven mutters, but her eyes are on the blade, just like everyone else’s.

It feels dead in my hands as I lay it on the canvas. No smoke. No reaction. No call of the divine. I want to tell them how they called me on that day, but it feels foolish. It’s broken. Just a dull blade.

“The journals are in medieval French,” I explain, “but I understood enough to learn that the sword was given to her by the Archangel Michael.”

Thea glares at me. “Why didn’t you tell us? Because we lied to you?”

I squirm in the seat, press down on the cilices until the sharp sting of pain burns the inadequacy away. Still, I can’t bring myself to reveal the truth—that I was stupid enough to think the sword was for me.

I clear my throat and ask, “Is it authentic?”

Wesley thumbs through the journal. “It appears so.”

“Of course it is.” The Rev stamps her cane. “This establishment has been the safe harbor of Sisterhood relics for decades. Far, far away from those who might steal it.” Then quieter: “We just didn’t think to look.”

“It’s broken,” Tawny points out. “There’s no hilt.” She picks it up and miscalculates the weight. The sword almost slips from her hand until she corrects it. “It’s heavy.”