Page 34 of The Sinner and the Priest: Part Two

“Are you hurt?” Cisco asks gruffly. Water still pours down his face, reflecting the sparks like twinkling stars.

“I’m fine.”

“You’re not bleeding?”

“Maybe.” My palms are kind of sore. It’s probably a gravel rash.

“Where?” Frantic hands fumble over me. “Don’t play games with me.”

“Stop.” I shove him with my shoulder, freeing my arm so I can lift the sparking sword he’s ignoring. “I have the relic. We’re alive. Relax.”

His breath hitches, and he eases away from me, the whites of his eyes showing.

“I thought . . .” He makes a pained sound. “I thought something bad happened.”

“I told you I was fine.” I soften my tone. “Didn’t you hear me?” I gesture upward, to the cliff we can’t see. “Wait. I heard you shout from up there. I never had a chance to pause and think. Did you jump . . . on purpose?”

For me?

“You went quiet,” he growls, wading around and searching for something. “Hold the sword higher so I can see better.”

“Yes, boss.” I lift it higher.

“The bag must be here somewhere. Cazzo! The phone—the book. They will be ruined.”

My arm suddenly feels heavy. I lower the sword. The cold temperature drills into my bones, triggering a slow, creeping numbness. Self-preservation instincts kick in, and I wade for the shore.

The sparks dim to a ghostly light when I emerge onto a sandy bank. No, it’s not sand. White powder adheres to my wet robes, turning the black to mottled gray. I think it’s chalk.

The air feels thick and frigid, like I’m breathing in a freezer. Before I know it, my teeth are chattering. I shiver and sit down hard, stabbing the blade into the chalk so I can hug myself.

Just before the light completely winks out, I glimpse the remains of a vaulted ceiling high above us.

Splashing in the water tells me Cisco is wading closer, but I can’t muster the effort to care.

“Found it.” Something heavy and wet squelches beside me.

I sense him move in the dark, and then he’s by my side, large hand on my shoulder.

I shrug him off. Say nothing.

He exhales in a rush through his nose, reminding me of a snorting bull. But if he’s irritated at me, he’s more mature than I am. He keeps it buried in the darkness.

“We need to stay warm.”

Deep, smooth, and accented. God, I love the sound of his voice. I hate that it’s my kryptonite, especially in the darkness like this, like inside a confessional booth, where his word is my anchor.

I hide my face in my knees and hug them closer.

“Can you make the sword spark again?” Cisco asks.

I pull the blade from the sand, but now it only splutters and hisses with smoke. I toss it aside with disgust.

“Your exorcist friend lied to us,” I say.

“No.” His reply is instant. “Bianchi would not do this. More likely, the passage is just old.”

“Blind faith will get you killed.”