Page 129 of The Sinner and the Priest: Part 1

I must be dreaming.

But she smells real. She feels real. I grab her by the waist, pull her closer, bury my face in her throat, and inhale.

Not right.

The scent is too sweet.

But she’s gone, sliding back down my body before I can grasp the thought. It doesn’t matter. She belongs to me.

Her hands find my zipper, her mouth at my stomach. She palms me through my trousers and mumbles something I can’t catch. Something about eating.

The devil in me wakes, stirs, and for a heartbeat, it’s not hungry for sex. It wants to unmake. To devour.

“Mercy?”

She rubs my cock harder. Pleasure explodes. I throw my head back, gasping for air. The sound of my zipper is obscene in the silence. Fabric slaps against skin, and then I’m out, shaft thick and throbbing.

Her moan travels in the dark, and then she has me in her hands.

But the smell, Cristo, it’s everywhere now. Too sweet. Almost like⁠—

She takes me into her mouth, and my mind blanks, making way for Heaven. Wet, hot, perfect. Mercy sucks me down, deeper, swallowing like she’s starving. My hips snap up. I don’t care if I choke her. I want to ruin her face with it, want to mark her as mine.

Growling, I reach for her head to hold her in place. To fuck her mouth good. My fingers curl in her hair, and I freeze. It’s smoother than Mercy’s. Long, but shorter.

It’s not her.

A spike of horror shoots into me. I jackknife up and shove the woman away. She falls backward, off the couch, and onto the floor. Flickering candlelight spills through the open oratory door, landing on her face.

Madonna Santa.

Jasmine blinks innocently at me with black, inky eyes. Mercy’s pink silk robe falls from her shoulder, and my skin crawls. The devourer thrashes against my ribs, screaming for a meal. Recognition. Kin.

“It’s time to feast, brother.”

Brother?

She launches at me, climbing over the couch with unnatural speed. I try to shove her off. She’s light, but strong, and her mouth snaps at my cock like a trap.

I kick her off this time, harder. She flings off me with a yelp, landing on her ass and sliding through the door to the nave. Her robe splits open, and the scent is putrid.

She scrambles, but I’m on my feet now, tugging my trousers up, instinct screaming. The sense of black ants skittering up my spine spreads to my shaking limbs. This is more than familiarity that I sense in her. This is evil.

One hand fumbles for my zipper, the other digs in my pocket for the rosary. The zip jams halfway. I wrap my fist in the rosary, crucifix sharp and between my knuckles, then I stumble into the nave. Try not to trip over my falling trousers.

Jasmine is standing now, still grinning at me, still eyes black as a demon’s. Candlelight flickers and so does her face. For a fleeting moment, I see another face swarm beneath hers, just as it did on the window of flies. It’s hideous, perfect, male, and as pale as a ghost. And then it’s gone.

I furiously tug at my zipper again, advancing on her between two pews.

“What are you?” I growl. “How did you get in here?”

It’s sanctified ground.

“Same way as you. Through the front door.”

“You’re like me. But you’re not.”

Cazzo, why won’t my zipper go up?