Page 122 of The Sinner and the Priest: Part Two

I lift my chin, summon my courage, and face my fate head on.

But it’s not a Hell gate opening. I don’t think. It’s not even a demon . . . is it? It’s large enough for one, but why would a demon carry a sculpture of something scorched, warped, and still hissing with smoke in its arms? Why would it be looking at me with alarm? And why is it stomping this way on cloven feet, draconic wings flapping, bellowing, “Get the staff!”

“Wha-what?”

“Raphael’s relic, Raven!” The enormous beast bends on one knee and gently places the melted blob on the grass. It smells like barbecued meat. A metal rod skewers the mass.

The beast’s draconic wings and scales melt away, and the demonic figure grows smaller in shape until it’s the size of a man—a familiar, sinfully attractive man in Armani.

“Asmodeus?” I gasp.

“In the tawdry flesh,” he snarls out.

Then his features soften as he reaches for the twisted, hissing, and smoking mess—specifically toward a tuft of copper that somehow survived the fire. I blink—wait, is that hair? Further along the charred mess is a patch of skin—a finger with a tattooed crucifix.

My hand flies to my mouth, the wind punches from my lungs, and a choked sound rips out of me.

Asmodeus’s hand balls into a fist. He lifts his head, dark eyes blazing, and bellows at me, “Get the fucking staff, witch!”

I drop Jinx and bolt toward the abbey steps, but before I make it up one, the others are already pushing their way out the front doors. Thea leads the way with the archangel Raphael’s divine relic already glowing in her hand. She gives me a dark look and barges past.

“Out of my way!” Leila is next with her relic already out, Helwing pistol cocked and aimed.

One after the other, Wesley, Zeke, Tawny, and Dominic run down onto the lawn—all in various states of morning attire. The men are shirtless—Zeke and Wesley in pajama pants, Dom in tight boxer shorts. Tawny still wears her pink donut pajamas and fluffy slippers, but she wields a blessed sword. They all run straight to help Asmodeus, but I’m frozen, stuck with my back against the porch balustrade, hand digging into my pocket and pulling out the totem I made from Dominic’s hair and bodily essences.

I was wrong. How could I be so wrong?

Death isn’t coming for one of us.

It already came.

Forty-Three

Mercy

My first thought after blacking out is that my mouth is full of fluff. I’m lying down somewhere, and it smells sweet and outdoorsy like a farm. Chaotic sounds nearby are muffled, filtering from a distance. People are arguing. An animal growls. A dolphin barks.

Nothing makes sense.

Love me anyway.

Cisco.

The sword.

The flames.

Everything rushes back. I stabbed my love. Oh, God. The fire. Heart squeezing, my eyes flip open, but all I see is shadow. It moves and tickles my face, my mouth. I try to breathe but suck in fluff and cough. Oh no, am I so burned so badly that everything feels like—what is this?

“Get that thing out of the way, or so help me God I’ll make you sorry.”

Thea’s nearby determined voice almost makes me cry. I’m not dead. Surely.

“Thea?” I shout. More fuzz. “Pfft.” It’s in my mouth. I try to spit and push it away, but my hands fly through it like clouds. What’s going on?”

“Mercy!” she cries. “Are you okay under there?”

Under there?