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PROLOGUE
ZEPH
Icould still hear her cries as the girl fell on her knees in the confessional booth.
The agony in her voice while she confessed and repented for being a sexual temptation.
The grinding of my molars and the crack of my knuckles when I forced myself to remain seated and murmur scripted words of forgiveness.
With my words, I’d forgiven a sin that wasn’t hers but instead belonged to the man who lay sleeping peacefully in his bed in front of me now. Blissfully ignorant of the trauma he’d caused. Completely unaware I watched him with hate in my heart.
She was fourteen years old. Four-fucking-teen.
The room around me was not unlike my own. A cross nailed on the peeling wall above the bed. Rectangular prayer cards depicting saints on the bedside table. A well-used Bible with a creased spine and tattered pages within arm’s reach on the queen-sized bed. Like he’d been reading it before he’d fallen asleep, filling his head with promises of good, when his soul was black as the night outside.
In and out. His chest rose and fell as he breathed.
In and out for the last time.
I moved silently, my footsteps soft on the carpet until I loomed over him. My fingers itched, knowing what they needed to do.
The church would do nothing if I reported it. They’d sweep it under the rug, like they had so many times before. His unholy sins would go unpunished.
I couldn’t let that happen. Not again.
Like he sensed his impending doom, the priest’s eyes flew open. He blinked rapidly in the dim light, his vision trying to adjust, clearly attempting to make sense of the hooded, masked figure who stood over him, fingers wrapped lightly around his thick neck.
Panic set in, filling his gaze, then my soul.
I liked it. The confusion in his eyes. The smell of his fear.
I tightened my grip, enough that his fat hands grabbed my wrists in terror, but not so tight he couldn’t speak.
“Help!”
It was supposed to be a scream, that much was clear, but it came out a gurgled noise, as pathetic as the man who’d made it.
Anger mixed with the hate. I leaned in closer. “Is that what she said? Did she beg someone to help while you used her? Did she cry, the way you are now?”
Water puddled in his eyes, perhaps tears of fear and regret, or perhaps just a bodily response to me cutting off his airflow. Either way, they had no effect on me. I loosened my grip, playing with my prey, even though I knew I shouldn’t.
The scent of piss filled the air.
“Who are you? I’ve done nothing. Please. Don’t—”
Another squeeze when I leaned in, lips to his ear. “Liar, liar, pants on fire.” The words were deep. Dark. Deadly. His lame attempt at excuses only fueled the rage that had nowhere else to go except through my fingers, pressing against his jugular.
“I never hurt her. She wanted it!”
“Stop. Talking.” Squeezed. Waited for him to turn purple. Released.
“I know you…your voice…”
He did. I knew him, too, and many others just like him.
I’d joined the priesthood because I didn’t want to be like him. I wanted to do good.
Yet here I was, about to commit a mortal sin.
