Page 44 of The Sinner and the Priest: Part Two

“Hope is disgusting, isn’t it?”

I cock my head and stare at him. “But didn’t you say earlier something about only failing if you stop believing?”

“Not quite, precious.” He gives my head a patronizing pat. “But close.”

We stand in silence for a moment. He’s lost in the past, and I’m trying to summon the courage to speak because it’s finally hit me—this being standing beside me is incredibly ancient and powerful. If what he’s insinuating is true, that he was somehow instrumental in the events on this fresco, then he’s no simple Demon Prince of Hell.

“It’s all bullshit, anyway.” Asmodeus takes a swig of sacramental wine, which he must have manifested while I wasn’t looking. He spits smoking wine over the mural. “There. Put that on a fresco.”

He tosses the empty bottle, only to manifest another—lid already off. He guzzles deeply, looking at me from beneath his lashes, and swaying drunkenly on his feet. Smoke leaks from his nostrils. He drinks the entire bottle down in one go and then spits the last mouthful onto the wall.

“We should burn it,” he slurs and tosses the bottle over his shoulder. It smashes somewhere behind us.

“You’re the one with the torch, buddy.”

He blinks. Looks at the torch in his other hand.

“Oh yeah.” He swings it like a baseball bat until it hits the wet wall. But when the flame touches the wine, nothing happens.

“Oh, that’s right.” He laughs. “Bullshit doesn’t burn!”

“The wine can’t hear you. Also, spitting is gross.”

“You know what your problem is?” Asmodeus points his sputtering torch at me, squinting with one eye and swaying.

“I’m sure you’ll tell me anyway,” I drawl. “Men love doing that.”

“Your problem is that you need more of this.” He lifts another open bottle that’s appeared out of nowhere.

“Communion wine?”

He rolls his eyes and stares at the banquet again, this time with a touch of melancholy. “At least when I used to carouse with mortals, there was a payoff. They drank to become interesting. To loosen. To confess. To gamble away titles, marriages, and common sense. It was magnificent.”

I’m starting to think he’s just lonely. There’s no real point to this excursion.

“A little wine.” He waggles the bottle. “A little music.” He clicks his fingers, and choir music grows loud again. “A little dancing.” He swings his hips jauntily. “And suddenly every man in the room remembers the thing he actually wants.” He sighs wistfully. “I loved them like that. Loose. Honest. Ruinously alive.”

“No offense, Asmodeus, but I really don’t know why you brought me here.”

“Isn’t it obvious?” He jerks the bottle toward the fresco. Wine sprays and lands like blood spatter.

“Um . . .” I blow air through my teeth and scrutinize the mural. “I guess . . .” I graze my fingers over Venus in the net. “If you’re going to have an affair, don’t get caught?”

He lifts his face Heavenward, closes his eyes, and smashes his lips together as if he’s about to explode. A few deep breaths later, he calms down and faces me with forced stoicism.

“Mercy. Darling.” He touches his heart. “As one of mine, your answer offends me.”

“You keep calling me that, but you don’t explain why!” Frustration wells within me. “Just admit it. I’m a slut. I like to fuck.”

“Yes!” he roars, grinning from ear to ear. “Finally, some truth! We like to fuck, and there’s nothing wrong with that, but—” He swings his bottle at the banquet, to the carousing gods and revelers behind them, to the battle on the next panel, and then the lovers embracing beyond that. “It’s not what fucking produces. It’s what wanting and liking produces. You don’t see babies here, do you? No sniveling runts running around.” He slams his palm on the banquette. “This is what your holy man gets wrong. This is the bedrock of lies on which his religion is built. Saints think they are good because they deny their nature. Sinners think they are damned because they have one. But we know better.” He waves between us, wild-eyed and manic. “We know that hunger is not the disease. Shame is. Judgment is. The lie is that they think wanting makes a monster of you.”

Bedrock of lies?

Didn’t Mary’s gospel say something about that somewhere?

I look back at the fresco, desperate to decipher what Asmodeus sees. Nothing in these ancient works of art was painted without meaning. I cast my eyes over the panels again, the passion, the battle, the betrayal. The lovers are caught in a net. The gods at the table laugh and sneer. But a single god, the haloed one—Apollo, the God of the Sun and the Law—stands all the way at the end of the final panel, pointing at them with a sword.

I rush to the far end of the mural so I can see better. I run my hand over the rough cracks across his face.