Chapter 13
Thirteen
Mercy
Jasmine’s blade finds a target, but it’s not Wesley. Before her chair thuds to the ground, Thea shields her boyfriend with her body, curling to face him and taking the hit in the back of her shoulder. The impact topples her into his arms, scattering books and papers.
The shock on her face when she realizes she’s been stabbed.
The agony on his face when she falls into him.
“Love…” He holds her up, blood oozing from where the dagger erupts from her front. “Why did you do that?”
Pandemonium breaks loose. Jasmine, furious at her foiled attack, releases a bloodthirsty scream so loud it almost shatters my eardrums even from outside the room.
I’m on my feet as she reaches for another weapon, but Hannah takes hold of her.
The girls are crying. Jinx runs out from somewhere deep in the archives, a bolt of shimmering scales and frills toward Jasmine, dolphin yapping and about to attack the bitch who hurt her savior.
Sinners spill out of the room to run interference, but I linger. When Thea fell into Wesley, he fell backward into Dominic, who upended the already jolting table with his bulk. The Rev has fallen from her chair and is groaning on the floor.
Heart leaping into my throat, I rush to her aid, ignoring the burn of metal grating against my thighs. The Saint joins me on the alternate side, apologizing profusely in Italian. In my periphery, I see Jinx latch onto Hannah’s ankle by mistake. She screams again, shrill and sharp.
“Rev.” I place a gentle hand on her shoulder. Her wimple and veil are dislodged, revealing her short, white hair. “Rev!”
Another groan is her answer.
On his knees, Dominic’s hands hover over the old woman, unsure what to do. He lifts his wide eyes to meet mine. More apologies. I ignore them all and focus on the Rev.
“Are you hurt?” I ask softly, leaning forward, checking for blood, for swelling. “Did you knock your head?”
She manages a shake of her head, but her eyes are dazed.
“Please forgive me.” Dominic’s stilted English is filled with angst.
“It’s okay,” she tells him. “It wasn’t your fault.”
“Wildcat!” Zeke’s booming voice cuts through the din.
Another shriek from Jasmine has me turning back. Hannah now holds Jaz in a bear hug from behind while she kicks and bucks to get free, murder in her eyes. Jinx still hangs from her ankle; slick little serpentine body tossed around like a rag doll.
That woman is a machine, I swear.
“Someone get Jinx off Hannah,” I bark and search for a free Sinner.
Tawny is trying to corral the girls backward into safety.
Leila is striding toward Zeke, already half the way to the staircase.
Raven is back with us at Thea’s side, ordering a gagging and green-faced Wesley to stand back so she can stanch the wound.
I whistle through my teeth to get her attention.
She looks up, meets my eyes, and I give a subtle nod in Jasmine and Hannah’s direction.
The first rule of any disaster scene is to contain the danger. We can’t very well triage with a livewire flinging about the room.
“Leila!” I bark. “Take over for Raven.” She halts dead in her tracks, shoots me a guilty look, and then about-faces to return to the room.
“Raven, help Hannah sort out Jaz.” To Tawny with the girls at the staircase, I raise my voice to carry, “Tawny, go and wake Sister Theresa. Tell her to prepare the medical bay.”
She says something soothing to the girls and then leaves, skirting past Cisco at the landing, his eyes widening at the unfolding drama.
“I’m fine, Mercy.” The Rev pats my arm.
“You don’t look fine.” I support her shoulders and help her sit upright. God, she’s heavy. She’s not a big woman by any means, but with little muscle mass to call upon, she’s a dead weight in my hands.
“The Saint will take care of me. You see to the girls.”
“Dom,” I murmur, looking at him. “Help her.”
He jolts at my voice, as if waking up from a dream. Two large, strong hands slot in behind the Reverend Mother. The instant he has her weight, I climb to my feet and start toward the three girls clustered together by the balustrade.
Cisco is already crouched and talking to them. I can’t see his face, but the fear in their eyes and the stillness of their bodies flip a protective switch in me. I break into a jog, and then a run. Within seconds, I’m slotting myself between them and the priest.
The physical barrier of my body calms them instantly. Shoulders drop. Fear turns to hope in their eyes. Their cries turn into blustering words in three different languages. It’s too hard to decipher, but I understand it well enough. These girls are victims of trauma, and they fear a man. A priest.
Gathering them behind me, I face Cisco and find him not with a baffled expression, but that flat look again. It’s the kind of mask that hides secrets. I know because Sinners are trained to use it. We wear it like a second skin.
Over his shoulder, I see Thea hobbling out of the room into the main archives space, with a peaky complexion but eyes sharp.
Her hand is around the knife at her front, Leila’s hand on the back.
Raven peels Jinx off Hannah’s ankle with an odd look that gives me pause, but it’s gone when Wesley scoops Jinx up protectively.
Zeke says something I can’t hear. Jasmine is too loud, blustering, and stuttering with broken sentences.
What the hell is going on?
Sinners don’t break like this. We’ve been trained in the harshest climates and circumstances.
“I think it’s best if you stand over there with your team,” I say.
His brows pinch slightly, but he nods and moves. More than one exhale is audible behind me. Facing the girls, I smile gently and introduce myself.
“Hello. I’m Mercy.”
That’s all I get out before another shriek pierces the air. Whirling, I catch the tail end of Raven and Hannah ricocheting backward like pins knocked in a bowling lane. Jasmine launches at Cisco, screeching, “YOU! You’re one of them, aren’t you?”
My feet are moving before my brain catches up.
I make it to him a split second too late.
Jasmine clashes with him, clawed fingers aiming for his eyes, striking to maim.
A flood of fear hits me, of panic and ill portent.
But when tattooed hands effortlessly maneuver hers, twisting her into a defensive headlock, I am reminded of his dark past.
He might be a holy man now, but muscle memory from decades of violence lingers. He contains her pretzeled body within his arms, her spine against his front, somehow making it impossible for her to strike him. It’s like watching a wolf’s jaw lock around a lamb.
Jasmine knows she’s done. Her eyes meet mine, pleading. “Make him stop, Mercy,” she whimpers. “I don’t want to die like the others.”
The penny drops. I cross the room and take Jasmine’s wrist, yank her toward me, glowering at Cisco. “Release her. Now.”
He hesitates. No, worse than that. He tenses, as if contemplating twisting her neck and snapping it.
I feel a wave of violence emanate from him, or her, or both.
His eyes are black, pupils swallowing the brown.
I realize then that I’m not looking into the eyes of a priest, but the enforcer.
The man who was feared by murderous mafiosi.
Just as quickly as it appears, his hesitation dissipates. The priest returns, and his body softens. Shame flushes his cheeks.
“Forgive me,” he mutters and lets go. “It was instinct.”
Jasmine tumbles into me, but I don’t coddle her. For all this drama, she’s a Sinner with over a decade of field experience under her belt. This vulnerability is probably a ploy. We all know how to use it.
Shoving her behind me, I give Cisco a stern warning look. Don’t fucking move. Then, I turn to Jasmine and school my features.
“Explain.”
Calculation flickers in her eyes. She is like Tawny in this regard, so adept at projecting an innocent face that I sometimes forget what dangers lurk beneath, even when seeing them only seconds ago.
“Try it,” I warn, “And I’ll punch your lights out. Sit.” I point at the nearest table. “Explain. Fast.”
As suspected, her vulnerable expression completely drops to match the viciousness in her eyes. She slices a death glare at Cisco, doesn’t sit, but lifts her chin. “The priest is one of them.”
“I know.” It’s an effort not to roll my eyes. “And?”
Her jaw drops. “What do you mean, ‘And?’ Look at me. At them!”
I glance at the girls. Then at Jasmine. I share a confused look with the other Sinners.
Jasmine whirls to face the Rev. “Did you tell them nothing?”
But our matriarch is still looking dazed. Dominic has moved her to a chair outside the boardroom, but her veil is still disheveled.
“Tell me, Jaz,” I clip. When she doesn’t look at me, I snap my fingers in the air between us. “Tell me.”
Disgruntled, she gestures roughly to the priest. “They’re the reason Sisterhood chapters have been dwindling all these years.”
“I beg to differ,” Wesley interjects. “Not us precisely.”
“This is the first Sisterhood I’ve visited,” Zeke says, hand over heart. “Scout’s honor.”
“I don’t mean them, them. I mean another Team Saint.
The fucking Vatican!” Every word causes Jasmine’s complexion to darken.
“You come in all sugar and molasses, saying you’ll help us learn to hunt demons, all”—she puts on a mocking tone—“savior complex and friendly intentions. It’s just a merger.
Right? It’s just a way to pool resources.
You forgive the dirty heretics for going rogue.
You give us absolution.” She jabs a finger in the air at Cisco, brows slamming down.
“But instead, you just want our relics. You wanted us destroyed. Dead. Annihilated.”
I grab her shoulder. “What do you mean?”
Tearing her gaze from the priest, she meets mine and holds.
But I don’t think I really need an answer. The heavy burden of failed responsibility is clear in her eyes, behind the defensive fire. Evil heretics. Annihilation. I’ve seen that look in the mirror before.
“How many are dead?” I ask softly.
She glances at the young girls still huddled by the staircase. “We’re all that remains.”
Three children and a Sinner—two Sinners if you count Hannah.
The Spanish chapter was one of the oldest in the history of the Hildegard Sisterhood.
“The other European chapters?” I ask.
One look. That’s all she gives me. That’s the difference between enemies and allies. I glance at the priest. His stoic facial expression reveals the ugly truth. He’s not surprised.
Ringing grows loud in my ears. White crowds my vision.
I’ve allowed the enemy into our home.
“We trusted you,” I whisper, glaring at him.
I hate that I allowed fears I locked away decades ago to cloud my judgment. I should have known from the moment the priest asked me to trust him that I should have killed him.
For all of our fucked-up family faults, my sisters and I have one thing going for us. Our bond isn’t forged in boardrooms or schoolyards. It’s not knitted together at bake sales or church fundraisers. It’s forged in blood and gouged in muscle and bone with every battle fought together.
Years and continents may divide us, but we are always sisters. We are always soldiers. We are Us.
My hands curl into fists. Knuckles pop. Crack.
My bitches see it and know exactly what to do. A change comes over every single one of them. It’s as though a switch is flipped in some deep, dark, violent place we’re all linked to.
Any doubt I had about Thea’s or Leila’s loyalty vanishes as I sense the change in them, too. It’s for them that I hold back from murder. It’s this loyalty I honor by taking a breath before dealing death.
“Take them to their separate rooms,” I announce. “Confiscate their phones, sharp instruments, and anything that might let them go gently into the night. Then lock the doors.”
When every Sinner springs into action, not a single member of Team Saint protests. Not the Saint. Not Zeke. Not Wesley, and certainly not Father Angelotti.
Bastards.
They all knew.
“Put the abbey on lockdown,” I add, gesturing for Tawny to set the security protocols. “No one goes in or out unless the Rev or I say so.”