Page 28 of The Sinner and the Priest: Part 1

An exasperated sigh slips out when I find my Roman collar on the floor. In the dirt.

My mind wanders to where I spent my night and what I did there.

I should confess. Talk about it. But the Monsignor is dead, and I no longer have a regular confessor. Without guidance and reconciliation, it is too easy to forget why I am here. Cardinal Valerio is too narrow-minded to approach, and it’s not as though I can request another from the local diocese. More Saints at the Hildegard Abbey could speed up the prophecy, and we still don’t know if it’s self-fulfilling and triggering the End of Days.

Sure. This is why you don’t want another priest here.

Scowling, I open my desk drawer where my only spare collar is. The leather case creaks open. I pull the clean white strip out and snap the leather case closed. This is all I need to stay the course. I should never have removed it. That’s where I went wrong last night.

It must always stay on. Even when I sleep.

No more sleeping here in the church.

Clenching my jaw, I stride to the mirror and fit the collar, yanking it so tight around my throat that it nearly chokes me.

Mea culpa.

I fasten the collar to the shirt with studs.

Mea culpa.

I pull the shirt straight, smoothing the fabric down.

Mea maxima culpa.

I check my reflection one last time. Shaved jaw. Short, clean hair combed. Black and whites.

The priest is here.

Eleven

Mercy

Istroll into the archive’s boardroom at noon the following day, scowling because I slept like shit and I’m starving. By the time I reached the dining hall, all the food was already gone. The rot in the garden has reduced our supplies more than we expected. I’ve learned my lesson. No more sleeping in.

My thighs itch from wearing the cilices higher than usual to avoid the old bruises, but I’m still so tightly wound that I could fuck a statue and not come. It’s all because of what’s written on the chalkboard—Mary Magdalene’s prophecy. One line in particular: Five sinners of saints to mend…

I tear my gaze away and glower at the room, our ground zero for defense against this biblical apocalypse. I took Joan’s journal back to my room last night, but the entries ended up sounding like the ramblings of a madwoman. I had to take a shower to wash the bad vibes off. Now I’m convinced it’s all a load of baloney. The sword is just a hunk of metal. The Sisterhood is exceptionally good at spinning stories and publicity. I wouldn’t be surprised if they set Joan up to be the martyr.

It was just another dead end.

Before I register a single face at the table, my eyes lock on the snack bar in the corner. Baskets of sweets, savories, coffee, and tea. Energy drinks and soda fill the mini fridge. The nuns keep it stocked, but Tawny oversees the shopping list.

My mouth waters, but I don’t want to look desperate and run to it and stuff my face. Instead, I casually stroll to the long table where the other Sinners sit amongst high-powered laptops and ancient manuscripts. The Rev flips through Mary’s gospel with Thea standing, reading over her shoulder. The two are a pair—both wearing spectacles and identical perplexed expressions.

“You’re late, Mercy,” the Rev notes without glancing up.

A dry smirk touches Leila’s lips as she licks her finger and turns the page of her book. “Too busy breaking into rooms.”

“Whose fault is that?” I snap.

She takes one look at my face, and her smile drops. She swings back on her chair’s hind legs and opens the bar fridge within reach. Two seconds later, a Diet Coke is tossed at my head. I snatch it from the air but don’t crack the seal.

“I need something harder than that,” I mutter.

Raven snorts a laugh and then pulls a flask from somewhere beneath the table as if she’s got a whole cache of contraband there. She waggles it in the air toward me and arches her eyebrow. “Vodka?”

A warning look from the Rev stops me from accepting. That’s all she gives, and shame washes over me. I bite my tongue until I taste liquid copper. She’s right. This isn’t helpful.