Page 102 of The Sinner and the Priest: Part Two

“Mamma mia,” he mutters, forgets about his gun, and instead faces me to make the Sign of the Cross.

It annoys me. It reminds me of how Cisco’s family used that symbol on him, and how I was both afraid and awed. Fury fills me, amplified by the sword’s righteous energy, and I raise the sword about to smite him, but then the thug starts praying, begging for mercy.

The sound of my name on his lips freezes me.

I glance over at the mural, then at the sword and scowl.

“I used to think mercy was about power,” I tell the man on his knees, lowering my flaming sword to point at the floor. “That only those with power had the right to judge, to decide who lives and who dies. But mercy is about understanding, about empathy. It’s about compassion, not that.” I point at the mural. “Mercy is not that. Do you understand me?”

He babbles incoherently.

I don’t think he gets it.

“I won’t kill you,” I say to be clear.

He rocks on his knees, fingers laced before him, thanking me. I retrieve the gun from beneath the table, eject the magazine, then the live round.

“Let me be clear,” I say. “I’m not killing you because of my compassion. I’m leaving you alive so you can learn some.”

The gun and bullets drop at my feet. The bastard looks at them, then at me, then back at them as if he’s actually calculating his chances.

For heaven’s sake.

“This sword belonged to your Patron Saint Michael.” I point the flaming sword at the mural. “To him. An archangel. It also belonged to Joan of Arc. Maybe even to Mars, the God of War, and probably hundreds of worthy heroes. And now it’s mine. Do you understand what that means?”

He makes little whimpering sounds. Snot goes everywhere as he shakes his head.

“I don’t know if you’re working with Beelzebub, a fool to believe Hannah’s lies, or just an evil man, but know this—” I lean forward, right up close to his face. “I’ll be watching you, and if you even so much as think about doing to any other woman what you were about to do to me, well . . .” I lean back and lower the sword’s flaming tip to where a stain has darkened the fabric at his crotch. “At least when I cut off your dick, the heat will be so intense that the wound will cauterize. You’ll live.”

He gasps and scrambles backward.

To prove I have control of the sword, and to be honest, to test its strength, I touch the flames to the discarded firearm until the metal melts down to a pool of shiny liquid.

Once only the bullets are all that’s left—can’t burn those without setting off the gunpowder—I will the sword to go to sleep. Nothing happens.

“Now be a good girl,” I whisper to it. “And flame off.”

The flames sputter and spark, defying me. It did this last time at the abbey—tried to fight me. I still doubted myself back then. I don’t now.

“Do as you’re told,” I grind out. “Mama’s got this. Flame. The fuck. Off!”

The fire dissipates with a whoosh until only warm metal remains. A residual thrum of excitement travels from the sword up my arm to tingle my teeth. It tasted righteous action, and it wants more. It wants real evil melting beneath it, not metal.

Which is why it needs someone who understands mercy to wield it.

“I still have hopes you’ll learn to be a good human being first,” I tell the man. “You will, won’t you?”

He nods vehemently, and I pat his cheek with the flat of the warm blade. “Good boy.”

The blade vibrates for attention, as if it wants praise too. A grin splits my lips, and I kiss the blade.

“You’re a good girl, too,” I croon. “Now let’s go save your daddy.”

Thirty-Six

Cisco

The road to Hell is paved with faces and names I once knew. It’s not lined with emotions like rage or fear, or even shadowed walls.