Chapter 43 #2
But nothing happens.
The only thing burning is my insides.
I make it to the altar and collapse at the base.
The last of my willpower bleeds out, and I prostrate myself, head down, arms wide.
It’s just like the day I was ordained, only this time, I’m not praying for God’s strength.
I’m praying that when I had to choose between who lives and who dies, I chose right because I can’t remember.
Normally, I see every sin I taste, experience it in my head. The feast feels righteous. Deserved.
Before tonight, I was hungry, but I was contained. Maybe even killable.
Now … now I am afraid of what I am becoming.
The aftershocks last forever.
Sweat stings my eyes, every muscle shudders, and the bitter taste in my mouth morphs into dirt and ash.
Time crawls, and I count each second, waiting for someone to come drag me out. Maybe Leila and the gun, maybe one of the others. I should pray. Say my rosary. A Hail Mary. Something. But every time I try to open my mouth, a wash of shame steals my words.
It’s different now.
Everyone knows.
People I care about know.
Eventually, someone enters the church on soft, hesitant feet. Mercy. I feel it. Smell it. And I hate myself because as she gets near, I want it. After everything, Dio mio, how I want it. How I wish for it and yearn for it.
It’s not going to happen.
She’s the one they send in when everyone else fails.
Breathing shallow, I watch Mercy’s bare feet circle me, and then she kneels by my head. Black yoga pants. Black cotton singlet. I look up into a freshly showered face. Clean and dry. Not a single bruise on her. Thea must have healed her. Thank God.
And she’s here.
Emotion clogs my throat. I roll my forehead on the cold floor, facing downward, and close my eyes.
“If you want me to go, just say so,” she whispers.
I nod. “You should go.”
Silence stretches. The rain has stopped. The rafters creak. I almost think Mercy will do as I tell her, but then the warm press of her body aligns with mine.
My eyes flip open. “What are you doing?”
“What does it look like?” She tucks herself into my side, rests her neck against my splayed arm, and stares up at the ceiling. “Counting fucking sheep.”
“Mercy.” My voice breaks. “You need to go.”
“I don’t think so.”
“Why not?”
She faces me. “Because the sword is mine. It’s still broken, but it’s mine.”
“The smoke.” I remember it curled from the blade when she stood at the church’s door. “It glowed.”
“You know what that means, don’t you?”
“You’re the next Sinner.” I swallow hard. “In the prophecy.”
“And you’re the Saint—”
“I’m not.”
“Shut the fuck up and listen, bitch.”
My brows raise, but I say nothing. It appeases her somewhat, and she snuggles into my side, slinging her arm over my bare back. And I let her. It feels good.
“Mercy?”
“Mm?”
“I’m listening.”
“What?”
“You said for me to shut up and listen.”
“Oh yeah.” She slings a leg over mine. “I was wrong when I said there is no us. There is.” Her sleepy sigh tickles my face. “I’m not going anywhere until you start believing it too.” The beauty mark at the corner of her lips vanishes. “Except maybe I’ll go to a softer surface. This floor is hard.”
I can’t help it.
I laugh.
It starts small, a deep rumbling from beneath my aching ribs.
But then she snort-laughs, and the feeling inside me grows.
It fills all the sore spots with warm relief.
And then, just when the laughter dies down, I think, I’m lying face down in a church, shirtless, covered in blood and bug gore, and Mercy is hugging me.
And then I’m laughing all over again. I can’t stop.
“So…” she asks hesitantly. “Does that mean we can move somewhere more comfortable?”
Somehow, I nod through my laughter. She helps me stand.
Then she helps me limp down the aisle, through the predawn fog, and into the abbey.
Every step up to the dormitories is a reminder that there shouldn’t be an us.
I’m still a priest, and she’s still a Sinner.
But then she’s helping me into the narrow cot, sliding in next to my disgusting body, and tossing a blanket over us.
And then I’m holding the sun, and she’s falling asleep. But I need to stay awake, just in case.
I gently shift a lock of coppery hair from her shoulder. I press my lips to her freckles and breathe in her scent until the cobwebs clear from my head.
She thinks I’m her Saint, but she doesn’t know yet. None of them do.
I thought Jasmine was the evil familiar thing, but she was just a victim.
The ribbons of shadow rippling over her skin weren’t like mine.
They weren’t a curse at all. They were just flies crawling in a single file, their wings flicked up like devil horns.
When I tasted Jasmine’s sin, I saw the massacre in Spain.
It was a chaotic, bloodthirsty mess. In my heightened state, that had been enough for me to feast.
But now I’m remembering things I saw in the sin that I should have paid attention to.
Things like the orphans hiding behind a corpse—a priest—but he was freshly killed, not days old.
And there were flies in Spain, swarms of them, enough to block out the sun, and to hide the horrific view from the young girls.
In a way, at least I’m glad about that part.
It means they never saw that Jasmine wasn’t the only murderer.
Other Sinners were killing too. Once they were done dispatching the Vatican representatives, they turned on each other.
Every time one died, a giant fly fell from their neck …
just like it did with Jasmine in the crypt.
Someone else was pulling on her strings, and I don’t think it was Beelzebub. I think it was the same person who muttered something as I staggered from the crypt. At the time, I thought it was nonsensical, but now I remember every word: You’re stronger than I remember.
So I don’t sleep. I count freckles, I watch the door, and I wait.
I pray for a tomorrow that never comes.
The End of Part One!