Page 45 of The Sinner and the Priest: Part Two

“I missed it before because his sun halo is so bright, but he stands in the shadows—alone.”

I glance at the net, at the lovers still clasping hands and still gazing into each other’s eyes. Then back to the white-robed Sun God standing in the dark with a bitter, jealous look on his face. He isn’t the one being loved. He is the one pointing the sword.

“That’s Peter, the Apostle,” I whisper, the realization punching me in the stomach.

I take Asmodeus’s torch and hold it before the lovers caught in the net. Mars stares at Venus, and she stares at him. They’re not looking at the laughing gods. They’re not looking at the net. They see only each other, entwined hands between them like a heart.

“They changed the story,” I say. “The Church. They saw this mural and realized they couldn’t erase the man, so they just swapped the roles. They gave Peter the halo and the bedrock, and they turned the actual Savior into a God of War—a monster to be feared and contained.”

“Not such a golden boy now, is he?” He gets up in the fresco’s face and shouts, “Are you now!”

I look at Apollo again, and that’s when I see it. The dull sword in his hand.

“Holy shit.” I raise mine and hold it beside the one in the fresco. “His sword has no hilt either. No pommel. No cross-guard. Just the tang.”

As if it’s designed that way.

Now that I’m this close, I see the same crosses on my sword are also painted on the one in the fresco. The blade isn’t on fire, though. But . . .” Holy shit!” I run back to the battle, to where Mars leads his soldiers up a mountain of foes, his fiery sword held high.

Same pose—palm out as he grips his sword. No hilt, pommel, or cross-guard. The same fucking crosses are engraved on the sword.

“It’s not broken,” I gasp, exhilarated. Then droop. “I still don’t know what that means.”

“Anyway.” Asmodeus claps his hands, suddenly sober. “Story time is over. You ready to go?”

“Wait!”

He groans, “I can’t give you all the answers. That would be boring.”

“But we can’t go. Cisco should see this.”

He lets out a sharp bark of laughter. “Why? His hunger has nothing to do with ours.”

“But . . . you just said that it’s the whole point. The passion. The wanting. The—what did you call it?—ruinous life. If I’m one of yours, then so is he!”

“Mayhap that was true, darling, but his was inherited long before he was born. It’s not mine . . . at least, not anymore.” His nose crinkles as he looks in Cisco’s direction. “I didn’t realize the difference before, but now I see there is the hunger that fills your soul, and there is the one that empties it.”

A sick feeling churns in my gut. Back at the abbey, I’m sure Cisco mentioned something about never feeling satisfied. “Are you saying he’s losing his soul?”

“I’m saying it’s time to go.”

“But . . . he needs to see that his savior was also a god of war.”

“You’re digging in the wrong grave, little sinner. Your priest’s truth doesn’t live here. It lives in kitchens. In family stories. In old women who keep saints beside knives and recipes beside curses.” He glances at the mural, then back at me and the sword. “This is your truth, not his.”

With that, he takes my shoulder, and everything goes dark. A blink later, and I’m standing in a narrow street. The smell of oncoming rain hangs in the air, and the sun-warmed cobblestones beneath my shoes feel like a welcome reprieve from the cold underground at the Vatican. Ancient and modern architecture mix around me, with a few restaurants and stores further down the street. The sun is setting, casting long shadows, but I hear a crowd nearby. I think we’re still in Rome.

Someone groans behind me. I turn, sword raised, but drop it when I see a familiar bag and Cisco pushing himself off the ground. I rush to his aid.

“You okay?”

“Mercy.” He shakes his head. “Forgive me, I⁠—”

“Oh, Father, you don’t need absolution. You need genealogy.”

I spin and see Asmodeus lounging against an enormous, ancient doorway nearby. The graffiti sticker art above his head depicts the Lady of Our Sorrows, Mary, holding a heart stabbed by knives. I think it’s the same image as Cisco has on his large back tattoo.

“You,” he growls, hair disheveled, shirt untucked, and pointing at Asmodeus. “What have you done?”