Page 16 of The Sinner and the Priest: Part 1

One more item.

I remove a journal from a stack, but the binding cord is attached to another bundle. I accidentally tug that too, and a long, canvas-wrapped stick falls heavily on me, pluming dust. A name on the dangling tag startles me.

Joan.

No one’s called me that in years. Weird seeing it, particularly after the Rev’s comment yesterday dredged up bad memories of my past. I try to shake it off, but my heart beats faster, and my mouth goes dry. Fractured glimpses from my childhood arise. Me, being jerked roughly from the neighbor’s backyard pool. Wrapped in a towel so big I couldn’t breathe. The muffled apologies of my mother…

“Look at you, Joan,” she hissed, tugging me by the earlobe home. “Flaunting it for all the neighborhood men to see. It’s no wonder your father gets dirty looks.”

“What did I do?” I wailed, fumbling my hold on the towel. My mother had bought me the swimsuit.

“You’re a little Jezebel.” She huffed and yanked the towel tighter around my body. “Just asking for trouble. Don’t you come crying to me when you get it.”

Sharp pain in my palm snaps me back to the present. I glance down. Blood smears a line along the gaping wound in the canvas bundle from where I gripped too tightly. It must be a blade. Without a clean rag in sight to stanch the bleeding, I shove my palm against my mouth and suck once, tasting copper and dust.

I can’t stop looking at the bulky package and lean in for a closer inspection. I’m almost disappointed that I don’t find any telltale fingerprints on the packaging.

But it’s just a sword.

Then why can’t I look away?

Whatever calls to you is important.

A frenetic energy skips over my flesh. Before I know it, I’m unwrapping the cord with haste, heedless of the pain in my cut palm. I need to see the blade. I need to find out why my birth name was on the tag.

The journal gets in the way, so I cut it free and resume unwrapping. With each layer revealed, that pull grows stronger.

It belongs to me.

Mine.

The canvas gives way and pools on the floor with another plume of dust. I don’t realize I’m hoping for a flash of holy light or a surge of power until I see the sword is dull. Rusty. The blade is battered and pitted with scars. The grip is missing from the dented hilt. It’s the kind of broken weapon you’d pawn for cash or use to gut a pig. Absolutely not relic material. But something about it is wrong, in that dangerous, overlooked way all Sinners are familiar with.

My breath stutters. There, at the base of the handle: Five crosses have been burned into the steel, and below them is a fleur-de-lis.

Goosebumps break out on my skin as I brush off dust from the companion journal. The name on the sword’s tag is Joan, but when I open the journal, it’s labeled: Jehanne de Vouthon.

I pull out the manifest. Jehanne is listed, but not Joan … but she was never known by that name until after she was dead.

I flip to the first page of the journal. French words have been scratched into the paper so hard that they’ve torn clean through: “La relique requiert miséricorde parfaite.”

I gasp, slam shut the journal, and then press my palm to my fluttering heart. My French is good enough to get a man into bed and out of his wallet, so I recognize it well enough. But this … this is something else. The script is all fussy, spiked letters, and the words are … off. Puffy. Old. Medieval.

Cautiously, I open the book again and read the words to be sure I wasn’t hallucinating: The relic demands perfect mercy.

Holy shit.

This belongs to Joan of Arc, and … my name was Joan, and … my new name is inside the journal.

Is this really mine?

They say the archangel Michael himself gave Joan this sword. They say it erupts into flame and … that’s all I remember from the stories in the history lessons I took after joining the Sisterhood.

Is it a divine relic, after all?

Prickling panic engulfs me, and I take a step back. I shouldn’t want it to be mine. If it is, then the prophecy is real—I shudder.

An eternity of time seems to pass as I stare at the sword and journal. I feel as though it’s calling to me, latching onto me through the air and urging me forward.