Chapter 34
Thirty-Four
Cisco
In the abbey proper, it’s a different world. Warm. Bright. I am drawn to the heat and bustle of the dining hall, already running at full throttle in preparation for this evening’s meal. Nuns glide about in their black-and-white habits, hair netted, hands busy.
In the kitchen at the back, massive stockpots are bubbling, and the sharp tang of vinegar and spice hangs in the air. My mouth should water, considering I’ve fasted for most of the day, but food isn’t what I want. I wonder if I’ll hunger for it again.
Certainly not with Mercy around.
It’s not her fault.
Mea culpa.
Frowning, I walk straight up to the kitchen counter. The nuns’ vow of silence ensures they don’t speak, but their energy is a thousand times more alive than the flies were at my window.
“Buona sera,” I greet anyone who glances my way.
Some widen their eyes and then offer a quick smile.
Sister Beatrice, a young nun with a strip of lavender tucked in the cross pinned to her lapel, claps in joy.
She runs the flower gardens and the apiary.
She provides the honey, the beeswax for the church candles, and the pollination that keeps the entire ecosystem running.
A few nuns touch their palms to their hearts, bow their chins. Another taps her lips with two fingers, then her wrist. It’s Sister Edith, the one who is keen to learn Italian.
“Sì, Sorella.” My eyes crinkle. “Confession is at the same time, same place.”
Some of these women saw me unravel in the pool hall, but no one looks at me differently than before. It feels safe here, a bubble of ritual that’s lasted centuries.
I turn to anyone who is watching. “Thank you for tending to the church.” I gesture at myself. “And keeping the priest looking presentable.”
Portly Sister Martha is in the kitchen, face rosy and hands dusted with flour. She bobs her head and shoves a basket of dinner rolls across the counter toward me, then makes a subtle gesture toward the bubbling pots.
They want to feed me, but I shake my head and smile back. “Save it for those hungrier than me. I just wanted to stop by and say thank you.”
Still, I grab an apple from the bowl on the counter.
The shine is perfect, and the red is lush.
I take a bite, but it tastes like cardboard and dirt.
The core is mushy brown. Even the rot is tasteless now.
I spit it into the trash and grab another, but it’s even worse.
Black rot winds through the pale flesh in a perfect spiral, from the stem to the pit.
Frowning, I toss it into the trash. Third time’s the charm.
I pick up a green one and startle at the big, fat fly beneath it, sitting on the bowl between two more apples.
This thing is easily the size of my thumb, electric blue with oil-slick rainbow stripes. It just sits there, flexing its wings, staring up at me with bulbous, wet eyes.
For a crazy moment, I meet its fearless gaze.
Before I can squash it, Sister Martha charges over with a frying pan and upturns the bowl. The instant the giant fly is free, she slams down the pan, splattering the bug into oblivion. A wet pop, and then a blackish streak of innards flings across the steel counter.
She grunts with satisfaction, wipes the pan clean, then mimes the action of being bitten on her neck, and then points to Sister Edith, who flutters away in the dining room setting tables.
“It bit her?” I ask.
Sister Martha nods and mimics walking with a cane, but rolls her eyes as if to say, the fly is just another pain in her ass.
I raise my brows. “The Reverend Mother, too? Are they okay?”
But Sister Martha has moved on to another topic. She points at the apple still in my hand, shakes her head, and swaps it for a new one from behind her back. Only the best, her eyes promise. Then she squints and waits for my reaction.
I bite. It’s crisp and sweet.
“Perfetto.” I thump my fist to my chest in thanks.
The burly woman slaps my shoulder and bustles away, already moving to break up a silent scuffle at the bread oven, as if nothing happened. The bug’s remains are gone, dumped in the bin like a bad dream.
But I can’t shake it. The weight of that stare. The way the flies at the oratory’s window seemed to know me. Bugs are biting the nuns. Fruit is rotting from the inside. It’s not random. I should tell Mercy about this.
I thank the nuns for the food and head for the archives.
I take the stairs two at a time, letting the ache in my muscles burn off the shame still clinging to my bones. The dormitory level is one below the archives, and eerily quiet. I pause at the landing. The halls are lined with closed doors, the faint thrum of forced air, and nothing else.
Except her.
Mercy slips out of my old room, dressed in her usual Sinner black hoodie.
Unlike when she interrogated me, she is now zipped up and modest. No slouching shoulders revealing a glimpse of lace.
She’s distracted, yanking the band of her yoga pants higher on her hips.
The instant she notices me, her hands drop, her spine straightens, and I catch a flicker of surprise in her eyes before the scowl descends.
“Are you well?” I ask, concern threading my voice.
Before she can respond, all hell breaks loose on the stairs behind me.
Screaming. Little feet. A blur of short black curls and arms flailing.
It’s Lucia. She howls and swats at her hair, tears streaming, pure panic as she runs up the level.
Mercy jogs over just as the orphan barrels into my legs, shivering and trembling, face buried at my hip.
“Whoa, babe,” Mercy coos. “What’s wrong?”
Lucia flings her slim hand out and points at her head.
“What is it?” I drop to a crouch, taking the writhing girl’s shoulders gently. “Lucia? What is the matter?”
I hold her back to see her face. Tears stream down her cheeks. Buzzing starts and stops nearby. I tense. She does too, eyes wide as the moon.
“Fly?” My brows pull together. “Bzz?”
On the one hand, I make a chaotic gesture, as if my hand is flying about the room, and I buzz again. She gives a tiny, imperceptible nod.
“Shh, it’s okay,” Mercy croons. “Father will get it. Promise.” She soothes Lucia’s back with her hands, but her eyes are sharp and already scanning the little girl’s body. “He won’t let anything hurt you.”
“Yes.” I force a confident smile onto my face. “Nothing to worry about. Put your face back—”
Lucia slams her forehead against my hip and grips me tightly. A door creaks open down the hall, and I catch two little heads poke out.
“Nothing to worry about, girls,” Mercy calls. “Lucia will be with you in a moment.”
The child trembles so hard that I feel it through to my bones. Mercy and I meet eyes across the mop of short, unruly black curls. Her confusion morphs into determination when she sees my grim expression.
“We kill it,” I mouth, so as not to upset Lucia.
Mercy nods once, then joins me as we hunt through black curls.
Every so often, a buzzing starts and abruptly stops.
Lucia’s muffled screech follows, her little fingers bruising in their grip.
She mumbles something inaudible on repeat.
I look to Mercy for translation, knowing she is good with languages.
“It’s not going to bite you, don’t worry,” Mercy tells Lucia. “We’ll get it.”
The child says something else that makes Mercy tense, and I renew my search.
It’s here, I know it. Must be like the one down in the kitchen.
I didn’t notice the sense of evil there, but now I do.
It’s just so thin that it’s hard to nail down.
It’s alive and hungry, but also the filth and grime and rot are there too.
Goosebumps prick my flesh as I narrow down the location and flick my fingers out to stop Mercy from disturbing the hiding spot.
There it is, tangled behind her ear, monstrous wings tucked behind the hair.
“Hold her steady,” I murmur.
Mercy cups Lucia’s head and gives me a nod. I snatch the bug out, crushing it between my thumb and forefinger before it can bite me. Like the one in the kitchen, it pops and oozes black innards. The sense of evil snuffs out.
“Finito.” I pull out the bottle of holy water and hand it to Mercy. “Please open it.”
“We got it, babe,” Mercy exhales and rubs Lucia’s arm. “Fucker got what it deserved.”
She then takes the bottle from me and screws off the lid. I drop the carcass into the holy water and watch it sink. By the time it settles on the bottom, it has broken into pieces.
Lips pursed, I screw the lid back on and put the bottle in my pocket, out of view.
Lucia’s still shaking. “Are there more? In … our room?”
The other two orphans still peer out from their room, eyes wide, not daring to cross the distance.
I soften my voice. “Would you like me to check?”
“Let’s do that.” Mercy guides Lucia toward her room. She continues the conversation in Portuguese, and the child seems to calm down. She even answers Mercy a few times.
I detour to wash my hands in the bathroom and then join them at their open door. The other two children tense upon seeing me, but then take in the cassock and relax a little. Maybe it reminds them of a nicer priest than the one in clerical pants and a shirt.
“If it’s okay with you two,” Mercy tells them. “Father Angelotti is going to help me search for bugs.”
Every time Mercy calls me Father instead of Padre, something inside me feels lighter.
Despite mocking me privately, when it comes to the souls and safety of the vulnerable, Mercy never fails to respect me.
I watch, a little dumbfounded, as she steps into the bedroom, giving it a furtive look. “And then,” she says, “Father is going to bless the room so they can’t find you again. Does that sound good?”
One of them asks something—the sharp-eyed, French one. Mathilde, I think her name is. It’s too fast for me to decipher.
Mercy glances at me, then at Mathilde, and nods. “He’s the best there is.”
Warmth under my ribs is hot and sudden.
I clear my throat and gesture into the room, “May I enter?”