Page 108 of The Sinner and the Priest: Part Two

A prickling warning of evil vibrates up the sword.

“Nothing else to add, Mom?” I shout, still scanning the darkness, trying to lock onto the demonic entity. “Or should I call you Beelzebub?”

When no answer comes, I strengthen my grip on the sword. Flames flare as if fueled by my resolve.

“Typical,” I mutter and keep walking. Pretty sure every demon I’ve met so far is a coward.

One more step. Another. A third. Every inch closer to the storm’s center where the marked siblings are only solidifies my resolve.

Until the wind suddenly fades. My hair drops against my sweaty neck. The stupid sunflower dress stops billowing and hangs limply against my legs. Ahead of me, the wall of shadowy flies peels apart like the Red Sea for Moses.

Goosebumps race up my bare arms. Evil, evil, evil. I sense it coming at me from a clean path cutting straight ahead into the heart of the dark storm. I glimpse Cisco’s tattooed arms as he gesticulates in argument—same way he’s often done with me. The rest of his body is hidden by the corridor’s black wall on my right. On the left, I see smaller, feminine arms covered in leather, gesturing just as passionately. Hannah.

“You stole everything from me!” Her high-pitched voice tunnels to me, clear as day.

“I just wanted to protect you!” Cisco bellows back.

Evil, evil, evil.

Before I take a single step forward, a youth appears and blocks my way. It’s the same figure I glimpsed from the basilica’s steps. Up close, he is even more weirdly perfect. It’s unsettling. Pale, slicked back hair. Waxen skin. His vintage clothes belong in a funeral-home museum. Flies crawl along the seams of his woolen jacket, along the collar, and then up the shell of one ear. They’re unhurried as if grooming something they love rather than foraging for food.

The most frightening part of the youth is his eyes—black orbs that seem both solid and empty at once. A single fly crawls out of one and down his waxy, pre-pubescent cheekbone.

The best way to ignore demon princes begging for attention is to ignore them completely. I tug Bianchi’s purple stole up over my nose and mouth, step around the figure, and then continue walking.

The boy falls into step beside me, hands in his pockets, matching my strides.

“Hannah left you too early,” he croons with a sigh. “She missed the best part.” A pause. A glance at my sword. “You. On fire.”

Something cold slithers down my spine, spurring me forward. Any doubt I had that this is Beelzebub evaporates. I sensed something in the air around Hannah in the room she’d taken me to, but going by his words, he stayed and watched me after she left.

“You forgave yourself,” he continues, purring the words. “Finally. For twenty years I watched you flinch at your own reflection and then this morning, in that ugly little room, you stopped.” The corpse-smooth face turns to me, delighted. “Well played. I confess, I think I actually applauded.”

I stop. It takes every ounce of self-control to battle my instincts to look sideways at him, to slice my sword through his face in a fit of righteous anger. My whole life I wanted someone to look at me and be proud, and here it comes, from a dead-eyed boy who smells of rotten meat.

Is this a joke?

Is it reverse psychology?

Whatever it is, I don’t have time for it, so file the wrongness away and keep moving.

“You know what your mother never understood?” Beelzebub drifts ahead of me now, walking backward, so those two holes stay zeroed in on my face. “She thought you ruined what you touch. Said you push people away. She was so wrong, though, wasn’t she? You’re the only one who actually finishes things.” He smiles. “It’s a gift.”

“Are you always this chatty?” My voice is muffled but loud through the stole. “Or is this a special occasion?”

Beelzebub’s smile doesn’t move, and neither does he. It’s either run into him, or I have to stop too.

“Wait.” I raise my brows as I grind to a halt. “Are you trying to be friends with me or something? Is that what this is?” I gesture between us. “This . . . sycophantic business?”

Again, no answer. Just a thousand thoughts calculating in those empty eyes.

“I hope not,” I add with a scoff. “Because I’ve already got one Prince of Hell bestie. Sure, he drinks and smokes too much. And he’s a little emotional, crying over croissants and all that.” I sidestep Beelzebub as if he’s an afterthought, my lips kicking up. “But he still had more presence than you.”

“Asmodeus.” He falls in line beside me again. “He does love a soft landing. Croissants. Blankets. A deranged moth for company.” A small, fond tut. “But only those desperate to be seen need presence.” Two voids settle on me. “I gave that up a long time ago.”

“Great. I love a riddle.”

His chuckle seems real, boyish and carefree.