Page 88 of The Sinner and the Priest: Part Two

The usual incense and candle wax smells greet me, reminding me of the church back at the abbey. A pang squeezes my chest. What will happen to it if I am not there to run Mass?

The nuns will keep it tidy, but will they use it? How will they have their break from their vow of silence?

Will they ask the local diocese for another priest? Will they be granted one?

Who will guide them back to faith when they learn about the truth of their church?

Who will guide me?

Thirty

Cisco

Idip my hand in the holy water font, make the Sign of the Cross, then head to the front of the church. My footsteps echo across the ancient floor. An acolyte is at the altar, preparing for morning Mass. He barely looks at me as I genuflect before the tabernacle and then remain on my knees. Fingers laced together at my front, head bowed, I close my eyes and soak up the atmosphere.

It’s hard not to feel God’s presence in his house, but I never know if it’s from a lifetime of fear and holy respect, from imagining it, or if he truly lives here.

I heard a story in the seminary that centuries ago, a walnut tree outside this very basilica was found to be frequented by demons. Any person nearby was infected and influenced. Chaos reigned in the town until they exorcised the tree, dug it up, and discovered Nero’s bones tangled in the roots.

The demons couldn’t enter the sanctified church, but humans influenced by them could.

I wonder if this is why Jasmine was able to enter the church at the abbey. She had a demonic fly attached to her, yet the flies swarming my oratory window couldn’t enter the church themselves.

It’s possible, though, that the fly was not attached to Jasmine when she entered the church. The effects of the infestation in her mind stayed, but the fly returned in the crypt.

Temporary.

The sound of the door opening and closing reminds me of why I am here. I clear my throat, empty my mind, and pray.

It is the same prayer as always—the one I never expect an answer for.

God, what do you want from me?

I brace for the inevitable silence and wait for my usual reaction of hollowness, loneliness, and a road ahead filled with never-ending guilt. Only, this time, something different happens. The silence is still there, yes, but I don’t feel heavy. I don’t feel empty at the thought that He is not guiding me toward a higher purpose.

Maybe this is because I now know that it’s not His will bringing me peace. It’s not the fear of being evil. It’s Mercy, the woman I’m in love with.

With a sigh, I make the Sign of the Cross and then retreat to a pew in the back row away from the entrance. There, I pull out the small, leather-bound book, but something makes me hesitate to open the cover. It’s almost as if I know that nothing will be the same afterward, so for a moment, I just sit and lift my gaze to the vaulted ceiling, seeing the aesthetics in a new, fragile light.

I never gave my relationship with God much thought before I met Mercy. I’d just assumed my faith and vocation were the same. But strangely, as I look at the iconography I’m so used to associating with my faith, I feel zero connection. I realize I’m not connected to this building. It’s not the imagery on the walls. On some level, it’s not even the Bible stories that I feel close to.

My God is in the sunrise, in the hope born with every new day. He’s in the peace and warmth I feel when parishioners walk away from my confessional, feeling that connection too, especially in darker times. He’s in the sense of purpose I have when I’m at the Sisterhood, helping both teams work together to fight this demonic enemy of ours. And yes, He’s in the miracle I feel in my heart every time Mercy looks at me.

A small smile touches my lips, and I open the book. I lift it to my nose and inhale. It smells old, and it looks much older than Mary’s Gospel, but it’s not crumbling apart at my touch. Strange. The first page is in Latin, and the Pope’s private stamp is in the corner. I flip to the back and find occult imagery etched there. When I touch the symbols, tingles travel up my arm.

A protection spell.

It would explain the lack of deterioration.

Flipping back to the front, I start reading.

In principio erant duo.

In the beginning, there were two.

In handwritten ancient Latin and etched artwork, it tells the story of the first man and woman, Adam and Lilith. It tells of her defiance, and of Eve as her replacement. It also tells the story of their temptation of sin and subsequent ejection from Eden.

I look up suddenly, breath lodged in my throat at the end of another passage. It loosely translates to the story of Cain and Abel, only . . . there is no Abel. But there is an Abella.