Chapter 3
Three
Cisco
The sun lingers well past its due here, but once it clears the hill, the tree line gobbles the rest. Night arrives fast, and by the time I’m halfway up the hilly path to the walled garden, I walk in darkness.
While waiting for Zeke to catch up, I stare down at the abbey’s monolith shadow and think about how much has changed in the few short weeks since I arrived from Italy.
Then, I was simply an exorcist for the Vatican.
Now, I am the spiritual shepherd to a flock of assassins, heretics, and …
heroes? The abbey is quiet, but it’s the silence of a held breath.
Still shaken by Asmodeus’s influence, and now from the threat of Famine, the nuns move like ghosts through the halls.
My own team is fractured. The Monsignor is dead.
Wesley and Zeke have chosen their sides, and Dominic is lost in a crisis of faith, leaving me isolated in my duty.
My superiors expect a report and a strategy for dismantling the Hildegard Sisterhood. But how can I condemn them when I spend my days listening to their confessions?
I have heard it all this week. I have heard tales of righteous murder, of seduction for the greater good, of pain inflicted and endured.
I have listened to the sins of every woman in this abbey, and the experience has not hardened my resolve; it has corroded it.
These are not the unremorseful reprobates I was led to believe them to be.
They are soldiers, broken and remade by a cruel world, fighting a battle I am only now beginning to understand.
My faith in God is absolute, but my faith in His Church, the institution that hid Mary’s gospel, that would see these women destroyed, has never been more fragile.
And then there is her. Mercy. The one Sinner who has refused to come, despite her promise at her last confession a week ago. I don’t know whether to feel relieved or concerned.
When penitents come to me, they usually kneel.
They clasp their hands. They whisper their transgressions in a voice kept small, as though God might not hear if they speak quietly enough.
They confess to missing Sunday Mass, to a sharp word said to a mother, or to coveting a neighbor’s car—things like that.
I absolve them, assign their Hail Marys, and send them back into the world lighter.
Mercy did none of that. She dropped into my confessional booth like a grenade with the pin already pulled, and then she let herself explode.
The low, husky timber of her voice filled every corner of the cramped space while I sat very, very still on the other side of the lattice and tried to remember I was a man of God.
She spoke of urges, of the lengths she goes to silence them, of how she punishes herself so she doesn’t punish others.
And then she pulled her yoga pants down, innocently, to check a wound.
But I saw her bare legs through the lattice …
and for one unforgivable moment, I thought about opening her door.
Stepping inside. Putting my fingers inside her—
I stop walking and drag a hand across my face.
Heat crawls up the back of my neck and settles in my cheeks when I think of Mercy staring at me from across the dinner table that night, eyes a challenge, a promise of damnation.
She is the living embodiment of every temptation I renounced, a walking, breathing test of the vows that are the bedrock of my soul.
My past as an enforcer taught me to recognize a predator, and she is circling me, waiting for a moment of weakness.
An owl hoots somewhere, reminding me we’ve been at this security sweep for hours.
I swing my torch downhill behind me. The light beam illuminates the weeds and bushes, shrubbery, and grasslands.
A misty, moonlit lake, a forest behind it, and the dark silhouette of an opinionated gunslinger struggling to keep up.
“The prophecy,” Zeke pants, “is a loophole, you see.”
“Is that so?”
“It’s like God”—another breathless pant—“just shrugged and said, ‘Go on, son. Have at it.’”
He is remarkably unfit for a man whose cancer was miraculously eradicated by a holy relic weeks ago. But I suppose healing from lung cancer isn’t the same as returning to his fitness level. I must remember to increase his gym time.
He arrives at my side, wincing, bends over at the gun-holstered hips, and catches his breath.
“I mean,” he pants, “if you really think about it—”
“I don’t.”
“—you can have your pussy-cake and can eat it too.”
My mental translation from English to Italian stutters. “You make no sense.”
“Which part?” He straightens and cocks his head. “The pussy or the cake?”
I keep walking.
“Think about it.” He catches up and elbows me in the ribs.
“A lifetime membership. No reservations required. Just roll up, tongue out, and do God’s work until you can’t walk straight.
You get to stuff your face with holy cooch, and not only does nobody care, but you’re also a goddamned hero when you’re done. ”
“Cristo, dammi pazienza.” I pinch the bridge of my nose. Give me patience.
He slaps my shoulder like we’re old friends at a bar, not two armed men creeping through gardens at midnight, hunting demons.
“Tell me you’re not hungry, Cisco.”
I close my eyes and see Mercy’s red hair.
I see her hands twisting damp strands into a knot, exposing her graceful neck.
The sudden vivid fantasy of my mouth landing on that skin nearly buckles my knees.
I shove my hand in my pocket and exhale the moment my rosary beads tourniquet my palm, cutting the flow of arousal.
“I am not.” I push onward, increasing my pace.
“Wait!”
“Andiamo,” I growl, tossing a glance over my shoulder. Hurry up. “You have the stamina of a child.”
“That’s not what Leila said last night.”
“Can we focus on the job?”
“Sure.”
“Good.”
We are almost at the final, unchecked location—the walled garden. I scowl at the approaching gate and open my senses. So far, I have felt nothing. No demons. No evil.
“You’re sulking like someone pissed in your holy water,” Zeke notes.
“Stop talking.” I turn on him. “Prepare.”
Don’t say “cat” until you have it in the sack, I hear the Cardinal say in my head.
The grumpy prick was my mentor at the seminary, my confessor, and the reason I became a priest. Well, technically, the exorcist Don Bianchi was the reason I became a priest. But Cardinal Valerio shaped me into who I am. He was usually right.
“Speaking of pissing in holy water,” Zeke continues, oblivious to my mood, “you gonna tell me why you lied about being Entity?”
“The Entity does not exist. We are simply—”
“Yeah, yeah. You’re simply a trusted network of friends of the Vatican. Some friends they are, though, if Wes is shitting his pants thinking they’re going to kill him for taking Mary’s gospel.”
“I would never let that happen.”
“How would we know?” He scrutinizes me.
My patience is wearing thin. It’s late. Cold. And he is the least of my worries right now, so I stop and stare at Ezekiel. “You have something to say?”
“Maybe I do.”
“Okay.” This should be good. “I am waiting.”
He swipes a hand through his messy hair and averts his gaze. I am about to suggest we move this conversation to a more appropriate time when he turns back to me.
“I get it that you don’t want to wear my gift.
” He gestures to his new Team Sinner T-shirt.
“Not everyone can look this good in distressed cotton. But this Entity thing is bullshit. You’ve given us nothing concrete about where we stand with the big guys in Rome.
Makes a man wonder if all that talk about love and truth was just for show. ”
It feels like years ago, not far from where we stand, that I told him love made a man a better person. But to question my loyalties…
“You wonder?” I keep my voice quiet and measured, the way I do when I want a man to see that his next words must be chosen carefully.
To his credit, he doesn’t flinch. Just cocks his head.
“I wonder about lots of things. Like, why my teammate, my brother, was sent here on a secret fucking mission separate from ours. I wonder if he’s been gathering confessions only to weaponize them.” He steps into my personal space. “But most of all, I wonder whose side he’s really on.”
“Same side as always.”
“The Vatican’s.”
“God’s,” I correct, exasperated, and point at the night sky. “Dio.”
He scoffs. “Right. ‘Cause God is the one making the decisions here.”
“We are not here to judge,” I remind him. I left that life behind me long ago. “Our job has always been to come in, assess, and if necessary, dismantle.” I pause. “To destroy evil, wherever it hides.”
That last bit no longer feels black-and-white. While parts of this organization are bad, others are good. Unfortunately, more is in the grey, and the problem with that is like mist at the foot of a hill, hiding a lake. When there is no clarity, one must tread carefully.
“Things are different now, Cisco. You’ve read the prophecy.”
“Ezekiel,” I snap, gesturing to my Roman collar. “When it’s on, I am Father Angelotti.”
“Sorry. My bad.” He clears his throat and salutes. “Father.”
“Bene.” Good.
“But why fight it?”
“Fight what?”
“The prophecy?” He plucks his T-shirt. “We’re all here telling you to go for it, no judgment, get your jollies—”
“Basta!” Enough. “I am a priest. I am not one of the Saints who will fuck the Sinners.”
“Whoa.” He shows his palms. “No need for the language.”
I scrub my hand down my face.
Does he think I do not wish for a different life, that the collar is not a noose I tighten every morning? I am not simply a man. I am a convicted monster walking a razor’s edge.
From the moment we joined the Team Saint ranks, we had one directive: Destroy evil.
That’s it. No room for distractions. No mercy for the wicked, not even when the wicked looks back at you from the mirror every morning.
There is no room for error or temptation.
Not for me. I must keep my head down, my vows ironclad, my hands fucking clean.
And very, very far away from a certain red-headed Sinner who seems to like pushing my buttons.
Zeke blinks at me like a wounded puppy. Perhaps my tone was a little harsh.
“I am not one of the chosen Saints,” I insist, voice softened.
“Because if I were, then I would no longer be an exorcist. We”—I gesture between us—“would no longer be a team.” He tries to interrupt, but I hold up my finger.
“And most importantly, if I were not a priest, I would not have friends in Rome. I would not be able to keep my other, closer friends safe. Capito?”
I let that sink in for a moment.
The only reason I have been able to avoid punishment for Wesley’s treasonous act is my elevated position. If I were to lose my clerical state, I would lose that advantage … among other things.
“Okay.” His eyes search mine. “Forget about falling in love with a Sinner. What about the dismantling part of our mission? The nuns here are innocent, faithful, and devout. Even if they’re not exactly sanctioned, they need this sanctuary.
You saw what Thea and Wes … what Leila and I …
you saw what we did, how she healed me, how we gave a demon prince a soul. So I’ll ask again. Whose side?”
A muscle in my jaw jumps.
“The men in Rome are not here,” I grind out. “They don’t see what I see. They don’t … understand … the board as it is now.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It is the only one you get.” I hold his stare. “The prophecy changes the mission, sì. I understand this. I am changing the mission, too, but it takes time. You either trust me, or you stay out of my way. Capito?”
Zeke’s eyes narrow. I see the calculation, the weighing of loyalties. He knows I’m not telling him everything, but right now, I can’t. I need time to think things through.
“We will talk later,” I say, and put the matter to rest.