Page 32 of The Sinner and the Priest: Part Two

My fingers clench around the sword as I arrive at St. Peter’s Tomb in the main cavern, and I stop. I hear Cisco behind me, shoes shuffling on the dirt. I still feel him in that aching, crushed center of my being.

But I don’t look at him, and he doesn’t look at me. We stand in silence for a few seconds, staring at the shrine, which is actually just a box of preserved, pale Roman brickwork set into a vast wall of even older, rougher stones. The actual tomb is a glassed-in, foot-wide hovel in the wall.

“What now?” I ask, pointing with the sword. “Mary’s Gospel said it was buried beneath the bones.”

There are no actual bones in the tomb. It’s empty. Even if I thought they were beneath the shrine, the layers are made of compacted limestone and earth. There’s no way we’ll even scratch the surface before people arrive.

“I don’t know,” Cisco grumbles. “Did they not think of this before sending us here?”

“Don’t blame them. You had every opportunity to scrutinize this plan at the abbey.” So did I, which makes this even more frustrating. I fucked up too, and now we’re almost out of time.

“We were locked in our rooms for too long,” he grumbles.

“So this is my fault? All I wanted was to keep my family safe. You should know all about that.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Forget it.”

His lips press together, puckering his scar. “If you have something to say, piccola, say it.”

Grinding my teeth, I shake my head and look at the hole through the glass. It’s solid rock.

“Maybe use the sword,” he offers behind me.

“Maybe shut up so I can concentrate.”

But I can’t. My head is a mess. I can’t think. He is everywhere, and he tugs me back by fisting my veil.

I bring the sword to his throat as our eyes clash, ready to stick him with my frustration, but I hesitate.

“People are coming,” he says, letting go and collecting his bag. “We must go.”

“But we found nothing.”

“Perhaps that’s because there is nothing.”

Panic scores my insides, and I look around the excavation desperately trying to find a clue—something that will lead us to the missing hilt piece. I close my eyes and try to feel with my body, my heart, tapping into the same sensation the sword gives me.

But the only thing it feels like is a part of my soul is walking away toward the third sarcophagus, tattooed hand gripping the bag at his side.

Tears sting my eyes.

I don’t cry. I never cry. Not really.

“Fuck this,” I mumble.

Clamping down on my emotions, I stride toward him, robes swishing behind me. He pulls open the concrete panel Bianchi mentioned and tosses his bag in. Then he waits for me to go first, alert eyes on the area behind us, waiting for the first sign we’re not alone. I hear the voices too. They’re almost here.

I toss the sword into the small crawlspace and then dive in headfirst.

It’s a stupid thing to do. I can’t see in the dark. I’ve been trained better than this.

When my hands connect with a downward slope of fine gravel, my stomach drops.

“Oh n⁠—”

Gravity steals the word from my lips and yanks me downward, sliding on my stomach. Pitch-black engulfs me. Stones and fine rocks flick up at my head. I tuck and roll to my side, hands protecting my head, praying to every god in existence that when I land, it’s not on the sword.