Page 40 of The Sinner and the Priest: Part Two

“I feel sorry for him, that’s all.”

“And you call him . . . ?”

“Noctis Mothieu Daemos.”

I clear my throat. “Creative name.”

Asmodeus gives me a flat look, knowing exactly what he’s just done. You only name a pet if you intend to keep it.

“Shut up.” He scowls and swipes his bottle of communion wine. Gulps a few mouthfuls down. Burps smoke. “Just let me die in peace.”

“If you really wanted to die, you wouldn’t have frozen Cisco.”

Noctis chirps in agreement, but doesn’t come out of the pocket. Asmodeus adjusts his body’s angle ever so slightly so the pocket is farther away from Cisco.

“Wait a minute.” I point at the priest. “You froze him not because he was about to attack you, but because your pet would have been collateral damage. Oh my God, Leila said, you couldn’t hurt her now that you have a soul. But this . . . you really have gone soft.”

“He is not my pet. He’s a psychopomp. And if I can’t off myself, then he’s my only chance at finding the way back home.”

“To Hell.”

“You’re on fire today.”

“You’re an asshole.”

He looks me dead in the eyes, manifests a new cigarette between his lips, and then snaps his fingers before it. Embers light up at the end, and his lips curve around the filter. He holds it steady with two fingers and inhales smoke, cheeks hollowing. But as he pulls it out of his mouth and exhales, the fuzzy little white gremlin lets out an alarmed chirp and zooms out of the pocket to snatch the cigarette from his fingers. It flies off to land out of arm’s reach on the limestone retaining wall and starts gnawing at it with relish.

Meanwhile, Asmodeus is staring at the space between his fingers in absolute, broken defeat.

“I hate everything.” He flops onto his back with a dramatic thud and a groan. “I hate this soul. I hate this catacomb. And I hate this defective lint ball.”

I can’t stop smiling. “Wait until the others hear about this.”

A single arm raises and points at me. “You talk, and I’ll flay the skin from your body and bathe in your blood.”

“Yeah . . . I don’t think so.”

“Fine. Then I won’t tell you what I know about this guy.”

His pointer finger swings in Cisco’s direction.

My smile drops. “Start talking.”

But his arm drops again to his side, and he moans at the ceiling, “Can’t smoke myself to death. Can’t walk in front of a bus. Can’t even electrocute myself with a toaster in a bath of holy water. Can’t even drink holy water.” He rubs his chest as if his newly acquired soul is physically burning his ribs. “Tried that yesterday. Did I burst into majestic, purifying flames? No. I got irritable bowel syndrome. I’m trying to die with dignity, and this fleshy meat suit prison refuses to expire!”

“Asmodeus!”

He jackknifes up with a pout, dark hair disheveled. “Did you know that what goes in one end comes out the other?” He shudders. “I never knew mortals were so disgusting.”

“What do you know about Cisco’s curse?”

He stares at me with unblinking eyes.

I start to wonder if my first assessment of him was correct and he’s actually insane.

Noctis chomps on the cigarette embers, happy as a dog with a bone. Water drips somewhere. A choir starts singing again, their voices filtering down from the ceiling on a draft.

Asmodeus pats a spot next to him on the ledge. “Take a seat, sweetheart.”