Page 120 of The Sinner and the Priest: Part Two

His fingers claw at me, rip into my hair, and scrape down my back. I’m not sure whether it’s the death throes of the demon or the angel in him trying one last time to keep me safe, but it doesn’t matter.

“I’m not leaving you, my love,” I whisper, and tighten my grip on the sword.

I pray to every divine power in existence—to God, to the archangel this sword once belonged to, and to Asmodeus himself. I pray for the strength to hold on. I pray that the purifying flames will spare our lives. I pray for help to keep me fighting for my love, to bring him back whole. And if he can only be brought back in pieces, then I pray to love him anyway.

I always knew I would go down in a blaze of glory. That I’d be fucking, living, and fighting right up until the end. I never imagined the end would look like this—me clinging to the love of my life, to a sword I helped put through his shoulder, surrounded by a holy bonfire lit through my will alone.

Our world narrows to a ball of light, burning as hot as the sun. Except, I don’t even think I feel it anymore—the pain. I’m not sure if I felt it in the first place. All I feel is sweet relief when Cisco stops fighting me, and he starts holding onto me.

And then all I feel is peace.

Forty-Two

Raven

Iwake with knots in my stomach and a weight of dread sitting on my chest.

Today is the day.

There’s no use denying it. I’ve tried everything I can think of, worked every angle, cast every spell, and the result is still the same.

Today, one of us goes to Hell.

With a sigh of resignation, I throw off my covers and swing my legs over the edge of the cot. Bare feet grounded on the cool wooden floorboards, I stare through the dim, pre-dawn light of our monastic cell toward Tawny’s side. A tuft of blond hair peeks out from her cocoon of blankets.

Still asleep. Thank God for small mercies.

Apart from the bed and a few empty dinner plates, everything else on that side of the room looks like a scene from an occult horror movie. Bones, candles, chalk lines, hair, feathers, hex bags, herbs, blood stains—you name it, I used it. I tried every type of magic I could get my hands on to protect Tawny from what’s coming.

There’s nothing else I can do.

Ignoring the ball of knots growing tighter, I head to the bathroom and wonder for the millionth time this week about the futility of my actions. Will any of this matter in Hell?

Will taking a piss, showering, or brushing my teeth matter? Will braiding my hair matter? Will dying the tips in color so I don’t feel dead matter? Will tailored leather pants, boots, or cigarettes matter?

God, I hope so.

After dressing in silence, I return to our room and collect a stack of letters from beneath my mattress. I rifle through them, reading the labels until I find the one I need. I tuck it under my arm and wedge the rest in the back of my waistband, so my leather jacket keeps them hidden. The knots in my stomach are growing painfully uncomfortable, urging me into action.

Fuck it.

One more cigarette won’t kill me.

I grab my almost empty packet from my nightstand, pull one out, and tap the filter on my leg to compact the tobacco. The familiar ritual brings order to my chaotic life. I feel more relaxed before I even pop the filter on my lip. I light it up, take a drag, and then take a last look at my sleeping roommate.

An ache blooms in my chest. I must have dirt in my eyes because they start to water. Blinking rapidly to clear my vision, cigarette perched on my lower lip, I check the handwritten label on the letter I’d tucked under my arm.

Tawny.

Sniffing, I toss it on the floorboards and walk out, closing the door softly behind me.

The sounds and smells of the abbey awakening break through my cigarette smoke. Freshly baked bread, ground coffee, and a rooster crowing outside.

If Mercy were here, she’d probably be up and showered already, dragging our lazy asses out of bed. Fucking bitch. With a smile and another sniff—I’m not crying—I find the letter with her name on it and slot it under her empty door.

I deliver the rest in the same efficient, mechanical manner. All except one. Last door on the left.

The ball of knots is so tight again that it’s traveled up to my throat. I almost lose my nerve and turn around, but force myself to take a moment. I rest my back against the closed wooden surface and stay there, staring at the empty corridor I’ve spent half my life walking.