Page 107 of The Sinner and the Priest: Part 1

Wesley taps on a line in the prophecy. “Seven Hills. That’s the Vatican.” He looks at Cisco, missing the simmering glare from his girlfriend. “Have you been down to the scavi? The crypts?”

“A few times.” His answer is gruff.

“Did you see St. Peter’s tomb?”

“Sì. Why?”

Wesley rubs his jaw. “I think … I think I read something in the news a while back. God, when was it?”

“Forget about the date,” I say.

“Right.” He pushes his glasses up his nose. “I’m sure it mentioned that Joan’s sword is with St. Peter’s tomb. This might be a fake.”

“It’s not,” the Rev insists.

“How can you be certain?”

Her look silences him. “Women have bled to bring this sword here, boy.”

“Right. I mean no disrespect.” Another pensive moment passes.

Thea rifles through her notes and shows him something. He raises his brows and takes another look at the sword. Then the journal. He flips through the pages.

“This could give us a clue, but it’s in medieval French. I’ll need time.”

“I’ve read a few pages,” I remind him.

Wesley flips to the end and hands me the open book. “If there’s anything we can use, it should be around her death.”

I drag the book to me, but my arm feels like lead. Whatever I find will likely lead to—I cut the train of thought off before it grows roots and suffocates me.

I read for a few minutes but find nothing else of interest. The others get bored and move on to chasing down different leads. My hand slides down to my leg and presses against the barbed metal. The sting used to help, but now it just makes me feel shit.

I turn a page, and a passage jumps out at me.

September 8, 1429

I am wounded. An arrow from a crossbow lodged deep in my thigh. I pulled it out myself and returned to the fight, but the men’s faith wavered. For the first time, they saw me bleed. They saw a girl, not a saint.

The sword felt heavy today. The steel scarred.

The fire within it flickered, uncertain.

Is it the sword that is weary, or is it me?

That sounds like the sword stopped working for Joan. The next journal entry all but solidifies the theory that it’s the relic.

May 24, 1430

Betrayed. The Burgundians have me. I was defending the retreat at Compiègne, the last to leave, and they closed the gates on me. The Lion’s priests have taken all from me.

I hear them whisper through my cell door like serpents. They speak of their vaults in Rome, deep beneath the bones of the First Apostle, where they hide their treasures. They don’t even know they hold a key that unlocks the heavens.

May God protect what they have stolen until a sister can reclaim it.

“Thea, look.” I reluctantly point to the page.

She gasps, reaches for another note, and flinches.