Chapter 36
Thirty-Six
Mercy
“Shit,” I blurt out when Thea is done reading.
Everyone stares at me. Standing, I keep my eyes unfocused, my expression passive.
“I think I know where the next relic is,” I mumble. “Wait here.”
I head into the reliquary, retrieve the bundled sword and journal, then dump them on the table. Dust still blooms as I unwrap the twine on the package.
So stupid of me to assume the sword was a dud because it failed.
“I found this the other day when I was cataloging. The label caught my eye.”
Thea leans over, wincing when she moves her bad arm, but pushes through the pain and reads the label.
“Joan—” She gasps as I pull the sword free. “As in Jehanne de Vouthon?”
“Who?” Tawny asks.
“Joan of Arc,” Wesley answers, awe in his voice.
“Nerds,” Raven mutters, but her eyes are on the blade, just like everyone else’s.
It feels dead in my hands as I lay it on the canvas. No smoke. No reaction. No call of the divine. I want to tell them how they called me on that day, but it feels foolish. It’s broken. Just a dull blade.
“The journals are in medieval French,” I explain, “but I understood enough to learn that the sword was given to her by the Archangel Michael.”
Thea glares at me. “Why didn’t you tell us? Because we lied to you?”
I squirm in the seat, press down on the cilices until the sharp sting of pain burns the inadequacy away. Still, I can’t bring myself to reveal the truth—that I was stupid enough to think the sword was for me.
I clear my throat and ask, “Is it authentic?”
Wesley thumbs through the journal. “It appears so.”
“Of course it is.” The Rev stamps her cane. “This establishment has been the safe harbor of Sisterhood relics for decades. Far, far away from those who might steal it.” Then quieter: “We just didn’t think to look.”
“It’s broken,” Tawny points out. “There’s no hilt.” She picks it up and miscalculates the weight. The sword almost slips from her hand until she corrects it. “It’s heavy.”
My fingers curl into a fist, and I gently thump my thigh. Anger flashes in Cisco’s eyes when he sees the motion. Before he has the chance to rebuke me, I put my hands on the table and ask, “This sword is the silent steel the Gospel talks about, right?”
“Maybe.” Wesley rubs his jaw, turns to Thea, and points to a line on the translation. “It mentions igniting the flame … and a heart is another name for a sword’s hilt.”
Thea stares at me, and I see it in her eyes. She knows I thought it was mine.
“Pass it to Raven,” she tells Tawny. “See if the sword reacts to her. When I first touched Raphael’s staff, it glowed.”
“Mm.” Leila nods. “The Helwing gun did the same. It also called to me. Maybe the sword will burst into flames as the legends say.”
“Does it call to anyone here?” Hannah asks, shrewd gaze darting from face to face.
Raven takes it. Nothing happens. “Just a lump of metal.”
I bite my bottom lip as an unsettled feeling swirls through me. Maybe I should tell them I felt it call to me. I open my mouth to speak when Hannah elbows Jasmine, and she reaches for it.
“Give it to me.” Jasmine holds out her hand for it.
“Why bother?” Raven deadpans and puts it down, out of reach. “You’re not one of the five.”
“Who says?” Jasmine waves between herself and Hannah. “We could be.”
“We have beatific vision.” Raven’s brow arches. “You don’t.”
Hannah, who is closer to Raven, picks up the sword. She tosses it in front of Jasmine. “Nothing,” she grinds out. “Argument over.”
“Not yet.” Jasmine does the same.
Sparks crackle along the sword when she makes contact, and I feel sick.
She’s the one.
She replaces it on the table and rubs her palm. “That was … um. That was weird, right?”
I can’t look at her.
“Is that what you mean?” she asks the others. “It reacted to you?”
“How can she b-b—” Tawny stutters.
Even Raven looks perplexed, eyes on the whiteboard where the original prophecy is written out.
“That’s it? A few sparks?” Hannah sits back on her couch, unimpressed. “Looks broken to me.”
“Maybe…” I start. Take a breath. “Maybe we’ve been interpreting the gospel wrong.”
“No fucking way.” Thea folds her arms. “We interpreted it well enough to find the first two relics.”
Wesley folds his arms, scrutinizing the blade. “It could have been static electricity.”
I shake my head. “Or it could have been a divine relic trying to work but failing, like Hannah said.”
“You might be right,” he replies. “The gospel calls the steel silent. Then it talks about igniting the flame.”
Thea shifts her stare to Cisco, then back to the translation. God, I can read her like an open book. She’s now starting to realize the second reason I thought of getting the sword. The translated verses talk about a Lamb who takes away sin. Who else can that be than Cisco?
But if Thea thinks the same thing, she keeps it to herself.
Clearing my throat, I force my voice to sound steady. “Okay, so then what are we thinking? How do we repair the sword?”
Wesley taps on a line in the prophecy. “Seven Hills. That’s the Vatican.” He looks at Cisco, missing the simmering glare from his girlfriend. “Have you been down to the scavi? The crypts?”
“A few times.” His answer is gruff.
“Did you see St. Peter’s tomb?”
“Sì. Why?”
Wesley rubs his jaw. “I think … I think I read something in the news a while back. God, when was it?”
“Forget about the date,” I say.
“Right.” He pushes his glasses up his nose. “I’m sure it mentioned that Joan’s sword is with St. Peter’s tomb. This might be a fake.”
“It’s not,” the Rev insists.
“How can you be certain?”
Her look silences him. “Women have bled to bring this sword here, boy.”
“Right. I mean no disrespect.” Another pensive moment passes.
Thea rifles through her notes and shows him something. He raises his brows and takes another look at the sword. Then the journal. He flips through the pages.
“This could give us a clue, but it’s in medieval French. I’ll need time.”
“I’ve read a few pages,” I remind him.
Wesley flips to the end and hands me the open book. “If there’s anything we can use, it should be around her death.”
I drag the book to me, but my arm feels like lead. Whatever I find will likely lead to—I cut the train of thought off before it grows roots and suffocates me.
I read for a few minutes but find nothing else of interest. The others get bored and move on to chasing down different leads. My hand slides down to my leg and presses against the barbed metal. The sting used to help, but now it just makes me feel shit.
I turn a page, and a passage jumps out at me.
September 8, 1429
I am wounded. An arrow from a crossbow lodged deep in my thigh. I pulled it out myself and returned to the fight, but the men’s faith wavered. For the first time, they saw me bleed. They saw a girl, not a saint.
The sword felt heavy today. The steel scarred.
The fire within it flickered, uncertain.
Is it the sword that is weary, or is it me?
That sounds like the sword stopped working for Joan. The next journal entry all but solidifies the theory that it’s the relic.
May 24, 1430
Betrayed. The Burgundians have me. I was defending the retreat at Compiègne, the last to leave, and they closed the gates on me. The Lion’s priests have taken all from me.
I hear them whisper through my cell door like serpents. They speak of their vaults in Rome, deep beneath the bones of the First Apostle, where they hide their treasures. They don’t even know they hold a key that unlocks the heavens.
May God protect what they have stolen until a sister can reclaim it.
“Thea, look.” I reluctantly point to the page.
She gasps, reaches for another note, and flinches.
Hannah glances up from her book. “Maybe you should rest.”
“I’m fine,” she grits out.
Wesley touches her good shoulder. “Let me get it.”
The lovey-dovey eyes they give each other feel like nails in my lungs, making it hard to breathe.
He reads Thea’s notes and grins at her. “I think you’re right.”
“Care to share with the class?” I ask.
“The sword needs to be mended before it can cut the cords of deception.” He puts the note paper down and points to the line I remember reading this morning. I’d been more focused on the Saint devouring the Sinner part that I missed the link between an archangel’s flame cutting and this.
Wesley turns to Cisco, who is sitting quietly beside Dominic and Zeke. “And if the missing piece is in Rome, then that’s where Father Angelotti must go.”
“Why me?”
I’m surprised at the tone of disbelief in his voice. He knows the prophecy notes Wesley and Thea refer to. He read them before we entered the pool hall. Still, he acts like he doesn’t know. Maybe he’s in denial.
“You’re the Lamb who takes away sin,” I point out. “You’re the Saint.”
“The line about the judge,” Wesley adds. “Surely it’s you, mate.”
Dominic mutters something to Zeke, who glances at me, and then quickly looks away with a glower.
Beneath the table, I squeeze my thigh until the sting there is stronger than the one in my eyes.
“It’s you, Father.” My words are barely audible, but I know he hears because his jaw tightens, and now, he refuses to look at me.
He says to Jasmine, “Pick it up.”
“Pardon?”
“The sword.” He gestures. “Do it.”
“I don’t take orders from you, priest.”
His phone pings loudly with an incoming message. He drags his gaze from Jasmine to it, then to me. Waiting for permission.
I pick it up and type in the passcode, then the encryption code.
The message isn’t what I expect, and once I’m done reading it, I flick back to read the multiple messages I missed today.
Shit. Each escalates the warning from the previous one.
My gut twists into knots when I read about the threat to Cisco’s family.
“What is it?” the Rev asks, but it’s not her I look to.
“Your friends want you back in Rome,” I tell Cisco, and slide the phone across to him. “And your uncle is up for parole.”
He sits as still as a statue, fists on his knees, expression blank.
“This could be a good thing,” Wesley says, voice pitched a little too high.
“How so?” Cisco snaps.
“It’s just … I mean—” Wesley glances at the sword.
“He means, Father,” Thea explains, “that if you’re in Rome on official business, it won’t look so suspicious if you bring a Sinner with you.”
“Especially if she’s dressed as a nun.” Raven nods, gesturing at the Rev’s robes. “The habit is great for hiding weapons. While you’re dealing with diplomacy, she can infiltrate the tombs and find the missing piece of the relic.”
An ugly, twisted, sick feeling wraps around my stomach and lungs. If Jasmine is the one the sword reacted to, then she’s the one Cisco needs to take.
I stand up and look at him. “If you can get Jasmine into the Vatican, she will take care of the rest.”
“Okay,” he eventually replies, voice flat. “I will pack my bags.”
“Good.” The Reverend Mother stomps her cane. “Book a flight for tomorrow.”