Chapter 10 #2
I sink to the floor, my spine grazing against the stone. I wince at the burn and lift the bottle to my lips, but the whiskey is gone. Empty. And the spider in the corner is still watching.
“Judge all you want,” I slur. “You’re the one who eats your lovers.”
That makes me snort, which makes me laugh, which makes me want to break the empty bottle and bash out my own brains, because here I am.
Still hungry.
I wake up at dawn on the bell tower floor with a tongue tasting like it spent the night licking concrete. My spine feels fused to the cold. Every muscle aches, reminding me that I am a thirty-nine-year-old man with a violent past.
Before my mind is fully awake, I roll onto my stomach, straighten my body, and lie face down with my arms outstretched.
Hard stone presses against my forehead, ribs, and hips.
It smells of whiskey and mold, but I stay there, praying without words, a dead weight of nothing, until the rigid cross of my body feels less like a man and more like the unyielding surface beneath me.
Only then do I rise.
Downstairs, I check the time on my phone—barely after five a.m.— but another update request from Rome has already arrived: Status of assets Wesley and Ezekiel?
I toss the phone on the couch and shuffle into the tiny bathroom via the door behind the desk.
Originally installed to keep the Sinner’s extracurricular activities secret from the abbey, it isn’t big.
A quick, freezing-cold shower wakes me up.
When I’m done, I towel down, shave, and check my appearance in the mirror over the sink.
I felt the devil move last night and need to be sure the sigils and bindings are still intact.
First, I check my back by looking over my shoulder at my reflection.
The Madonna takes up the main real estate with her sorrowful heart stabbed by a stiletto.
San Michele Arcangelo’s wings span my shoulders, protecting her …
and failing. Her heart still bleeds. It was one of my first tattoos.
Apart from my prison tattoos, the ones on my front are more hopeful.
I face the mirror. Across my hips, above my belt, is the Rite of Exorcism in Latin.
Covering my pectorals and abdomen is the centerpiece—San Michele Arcangelo defeating the devil, driving his sword straight down from my sternum toward my navel, where it pierces the serpent’s head trapped beneath his foot.
The same serpent coils out from a haloed Memento Mori skull’s eye socket.
It’s all caged within an enormous pentagram, a protective Seal of Solomon.
I put my hands on my head to view my triceps and sides.
The gothic typed words Sangue Amaro are among the ornate, twisted, and curling ribbons on my left arm.
Omertà is on my right. Bitter Blood and Silence, old family mottos.
Twisting my torso, I check every bead of the rosary spilling down my left side, ending with the crucifix piercing between my ribs, making me bleed the way He bled.
Almost every patch of skin on my body is tattooed.
Sigils, prayers, prison numbers, and exorcist glyphs fill gaps between major pieces.
Even the burn scar under my ring finger is stamped with a crucifix.
As if sensing my attention, thin spikes of shadow ripple outward from beneath the ink. Ice skitters up my spine, and I clench my fists, tensing with the sheer force it takes to will the hunger to obey and settle. It’s been bolder these days, testing its cage.
It knows I am tired.
Tempted.
Hungry.
I double-check every line of ink to see if the shadows hiding beneath have grown or changed shape. The little spikes of darkness peek out like the horns of a thousand hidden devils, but they are no different from how they looked a few weeks ago. Good.
“You picked the wrong man to mark,” I mutter and walk out into the main oratory, where my black, long-sleeved shirt hangs over the desk chair. “I will fight you to my dying breath.”
Moving to the mirror on the vestment press door, I pull the stiff, clean fabric over my shoulders and watch the devils disappear as I slide each button through a hole with methodical precision. Click. The second. Click. The third. Click. The rhythm is a metronome against the silence in my head.
I dress into my pressed slacks and tuck my shirt, sliding fingers around my waistband. Twice. Belt, socks, and then polished shoes are next.
An exasperated sigh slips out when I find my Roman collar on the floor. In the dirt.
My mind wanders to where I spent my night and what I did there.
I should confess. Talk about it. But the Monsignor is dead, and I no longer have a regular confessor.
Without guidance and reconciliation, it is too easy to forget why I am here.
Cardinal Valerio is too narrow-minded to approach, and it’s not as though I can request another from the local diocese.
More Saints at the Hildegard Abbey could speed up the prophecy, and we still don’t know if it’s self-fulfilling and triggering the End of Days.
Sure. This is why you don’t want another priest here.
Scowling, I open my desk drawer where my only spare collar is. The leather case creaks open. I pull the clean white strip out and snap the leather case closed. This is all I need to stay the course. I should never have removed it. That’s where I went wrong last night.
It must always stay on. Even when I sleep.
No more sleeping here in the church.
Clenching my jaw, I stride to the mirror and fit the collar, yanking it so tight around my throat that it nearly chokes me.
Mea culpa.
I fasten the collar to the shirt with studs.
Mea culpa.
I pull the shirt straight, smoothing the fabric down.
Mea maxima culpa.
I check my reflection one last time. Shaved jaw. Short, clean hair combed. Black and whites.
The priest is here.