Page 89 of The Sinner and the Priest: Part Two

Brother and Sister.

God was upset at the second generation of sinners and decided to wipe the slate clean on humanity, but then two divine beings, one from above and one from below, entered a contract.

A wager.

Heart pounding, I remember how Bianchi intentionally led us down that passage to the ruins, and now he wants me to read this book. All by the Pope’s request, no doubt.

This is an olive branch, an invitation to the truth. It has to be.

I continue reading, eyes scanning the pages, brows pulling together in concentration. My pulse quickens as the story of a contract over the fate of the human soul takes shape as a version I know well.

The Mark of Cain. One devil and one angel. One condemned to devour sin, and one of goodwill charged with balancing the scales.

My stomach curdles when I reach the page where the supernatural beings involved in the wager are depicted with symbols.

Beelzebub and the Archangel Michael.

What’s worse is the fate of the descendant’s soul if the scales tip wholly to shadow . . . they would ride out among the Four, and the final days would begin.

Dio. My hand clutches the fabric at my chest, scrunching it. It hurts beneath, aches and tightens. I can’t breathe. My lungs constrict. My skin prickles with sweat.

Fear hammers my senses, and for a moment, I think I’m going to vomit. But then I look down and remember who gave me this book, who mentioned the corruption in the church, who covered up what I did to the Cardinals.

On top of all this, he asked me to consider whether I would remain a priest if I were allowed to continue my relationship with Mercy.

Bianchi and the Pope would not do this if they thought I was evil. They would not give me this book. Would they?

No.

The evil was with Valerio.

I force myself to keep reading. Two more pages. There must be an answer, but all I find is this:

Since the Saint loved the Sinner beyond reason, favor was able to penetrate the dark inheritance, to undertake it, and to bear it. For the darkness can neither be stolen away nor snatched by any power under Heaven. It yields to only one thing, and that thing is devotion.

Frustrated, I close the book.

I had thought my nightmare this morning was just a figment of my imagination, my fear given shape. But when I also think of the picture of Maria hanging on that wall, and how it doesn’t match my memory of her, I start to wonder.

What if the nightmare was real, and what I remember is the dream? What if Maria was the original marked sibling—the sinner? What if Beelzebub influenced her as a child?

In my dream last night, she spoke to the flies as if they could understand her.

A prickling premonition passes over my skin like a wave.

What if that summer day in Naples, when Maria accused me of stealing her birthright . . . I did.

I open the book and read the words again, translating twice in case there’s an alternate meaning. But I keep thinking one thing: It’s a sacrifice of family duty, or devotion that has the power to undertake the burden of the dark gift.

Mind reeling, I tuck the book under my arm, pull out my phone, and dial as I head toward the exit.

Only one person can help me now.

Thirty-One

Cisco

Wesley’s accented voice crackles through the handset. “Cisco. We’ve been worried.”