Chapter 3
Three
Cisco
By some miracle, we touch down in Rome the following morning. Mercy took a sedative and slept the entire flight. It was just as well because there was a food-spoilage issue, and meals had to be rationed. Not that I was hungry.
Leaving the plane, my body aches in every cramped muscle. Ten hours in a pressurized cabin is a penance I did not ask for. Every joint grinds. My skin feels too tight. The fabric of my shirt is a coarse irritant against the ink, which seems to still buzz beneath the surface.
I’d forgotten the toll eating sin takes on my body, or rather, I don’t remember it being this bad. Maybe I’m just getting old, or maybe the curse is like an atrophied muscle—the longer I stop using it, the more it will hurt until I flex it into shape again.
And that’s exactly what it wants me to do. Every person in that cabin buzzed with a sense of evil, taunting me, testing my control.
The second miracle of the journey is that I resisted shoving my face into Mercy’s neck, hunting for that sweet floral scent to help drown out the noise. A priest necking a nun in coach is not exactly traveling inconspicuously.
Now we’re walking through the airport, heading straight to customs, and I’m desperate to get outside.
The terminal is a riot of noise. Children scream and cry, passengers moan and complain. It’s the selfish shuffle of a thousand souls in transit, each with their own flavor of evil more distinct since the last time I traveled.
Three rows ahead, a businessman in the crowded customs line gives off a heavy, oily feeling. It crawls over my skin and leaves a metallic tang of greed on the back of my tongue. If I taste him, I’ll bet I’ll find a career criminal or a corrupted banker, someone who cheats the vulnerable.
Beside him, a woman lies to her husband over the phone, her voice a sickly sweet rot that makes the back of my throat itch. Then there is the man she’s standing with—definitely not her husband. He’s—
“You’ve not said a word since we left the States.” Mercy’s voice interrupts my thoughts.
It’s probably a good thing. Too much thinking about things I shouldn’t be thinking about is a slippery slope into sin.
“Neither have you.” I give Mercy a sideways glance, searching for hints of her mood in her expression.
The black veil and white wimple frame her face, drawing attention to her natural beauty.
Blue eyes are bluer. Dark eyelashes are longer.
Skin is dewy and lickable. Freckles previously hidden by makeup are now visible.
And those lips, Dio mio, those lips. They’re plump, rosy, and oh-so biteable.
The little beauty spot at the corner of her mouth disappears.
My gaze flicks up to her narrowed eyes as she watches me.
She shuffles forward in the line. “Perhaps we need to find somewhere private before we visit the Vatican.”
An image of last night flashes in my head—her on the oratory desk, thighs parted for my cock sliding through her pink, glistening folds. Hunger roars through my blood, and I have to clamp it down hard.
“What for?” I manage to say, tugging my collar.
“We haven’t had much time to talk, just you and me.” A single brow on her forehead arches. “About what we’re walking into.”
“That’s because you slept almost the entire way.”
“Trust me,” she drawls. “Mercy after a plane ride without sleep is as bad as Mercy without sex.”
The old lady behind her must speak English because she gasps. Without skipping a beat, Mercy turns to her and smiles gently. “Peace be with you, my child.”
The customs officer calls me forward, sparing me the need to comment on Mercy’s suggestion.
The truth is, I don’t want to talk about what’s inside me, or what I am.
I don’t want to speculate or hypothesize.
I just want to get into the Vatican, smooth things over with my superiors, and find that missing sword hilt so we can deal with the Paolo situation and then go home.
Dealing with the Paolo situation is part of the Vatican situation, which is part of my curse situation. This is where it all tangles into a knot, and I’d rather stop thinking about it.
“Buongiorno, Padre.”
I tense and wait for it. I can almost feel Mercy’s smugness rolling into my back.
We are in Italy, and a stranger has called me Padre.
I can just imagine her retort when we are alone again.
The title is more of a preference for me, and—I exhale and hand my passport to the officer—I suppose that’s Mercy’s point.
“Buongiorno,” I greet. “Tutto bene?”
It’s a fair point. I’ll give Mercy that.
But I don’t want her calling me Padre. I don’t want her calling me Don.
As the officer waxes on about the recent heatwave, I hear Mercy’s soft, wicked huff of a laugh.
I turn and find her at the next checkpoint, flirting with the young male customs officer.
She leans in, flatters him with her words, and lingers a little too long on his hand as she exchanges her passport.
Her moves are so subtle that, to a regular person, she doesn’t come across as flirting. She’s simply an attractive, charismatic nun.
But I know her. I know that touch.
The old lady behind me makes another scornful sound.
Okay, maybe Mercy is not being so subtle.
Maybe I want to choke that young man.
Logically, I know the act is part of her job.
It’s a diversion tactic to endear him to her cause in case of an issue with her fake passport.
Or an issue like Wesley’s spell failing to hide the holster housing a dangerous weapon between her shoulder blades.
We made it through security, but that doesn’t mean the spell is foolproof.
She is a good operative.
But I hate that man looking at her like he wants to eat her, and I hate that I am not allowed to eat him first.
“Padre? Scusi, Padre?”
I whip my head back around to my officer, who is holding out my passport.
I snatch it, grip tight enough to indent the cover.
“You’ll have to excuse him.” Mercy, having already been approved, is now at my side. “He’s been in America so long that he’s forgotten how to smile in his own language. Isn’t that right, Padre?”
I don’t look at her. I can’t. If I do, I’ll look at her mouth. Then I’ll think about all the ways I can fill it.
“Grazie.” I nod curtly to the officer.
“Prego.” He smiles. “Buona giornata.”
By the time I’m walking past the baggage conveyors alongside Mercy, I’m buzzing with jittery energy.
“Cisco,” she hisses, jogging to keep up.
But I can’t slow down. “If they ask why you are here, you are not my companion; you are my responsibility. Understood?”
“Goddammit.” She tugs my sleeve, forcing me to stop. We stand in the thoroughfare to the exit, and she ushers me out of the way until we’re against the wall.
Humid Italian air filters through the sliding doors as passengers leave. I used to love this smell.
“Look at me,” she demands.
Grinding my teeth, I do as I am told and lock eyes with the bluest of blue. “We should go.”
“Not until you tell me why you are so upset.”
“Why aren’t you?”
“What do you mean?”
She looks at me, baffled. Does she not recall the previous twenty-four hours? The newly translated verse from this morning? “You know what I mean.”
Her eyes narrow. “You seemed okay last night . . . considering what happened. Even this morning.”
She is too . . . calm.
“You are not bothered about what Wesley said?” I lean in and whisper into her ear, “The prophecy.”
Her hand flutters to my hip as if she wants to pull me in, and she tilts her head until her cheek brushes mine. Her scent invades my lungs and curls between the bars of the devil’s cage.
“You think I’m Lilith, too?”
“Lilith—no, that is bullshit.” Old news. “I am talking about the other part.”
“Ooh.” She pats her pocket. “I haven’t read that yet.”
I ease back and lift my gaze to the ceiling. God help me. Please. I beg of you. Save me from this woman.
“It’s fine, babe.” She pats my cheek with a fond look in her eyes. “I’ll find a quiet spot when we get there, read it, and then burn it in the sink.”
My cheeks flush with warmth at her affection, and I force it away with a frown.
“Do it now.”
I reach into her pocket and fish around for paper, but she giggles and squirms away playfully.
“That tickles.”
“This is not the time for games,” I grumble. “Come here before someone notices.”
Tugging her close, I press her spine against the wall, using my body to pin her motionless so that I can reach into her pocket uncontested.
“A little more to the right,” she moans into my ear. “That’s the spot.”
I can’t help but laugh. It’s a quick, sharp release of tension, and then I’m smirking at her, shaking my head, holding out the folded note Wesley gave her.
“You will be the death of me, Misericordia.”
She takes it from my hand and leans in, looking deeply into my eyes. “Promise?”
My gaze darts down to her lips, then back up. “Read it.”
“Do you know,” she murmurs intimately. “You’re the only person I’d rather spend time with instead of wanting to do actual work.”
I exhale and soften my gaze. “Sì, I understand.”
I tuck a lock of stray copper hair back inside her wimple. Footsteps clip beside us, loudly echoing on the floor. I jerk my hand back and shove it in my pocket. How quickly I have forgotten to deport myself like a priest. How quickly I am losing reasons to care.
“It is important, Mercy.” I try one last time. “Read it. Please.”
“On one condition.”
“This is ridiculous.” I raise my brows. “You must read it regardless.”
One shoulder lifts. “Probably.”
“Definitely.”
“So . . . that condition.” She taps the folded paper on my chest. “You will tell me what’s bothering you.”
“I won’t have to.” I give the note a pointed look.
She eases back and opens it. Her frown deepens as she reads. I track her eyes as they travel down the paper and then back up to read the verse again.
The new verse adds more context to the previous translation, and after last night, it’s obvious I’m the one it speaks of.
To slay the starvation of the world,
The Saint must devour the Sinner.
But beware the feast of the righteous.
For every sin devoured to cleanse the world only fattens the beast within,
and so shall the Sinner and Saint become one and the Grievous Hunger shall ride forth . . .
“You believe this?” she asks.
“It makes sense.” I look away. Even now, the sins of others call out to me, brushing against my nerves like a fly in the greenhouse. “They think the devourer is me. I will destroy you and become the Horseman of Famine.”
She rips the note into shreds. “According to them, it also makes sense that I’m the antichrist.”
I grab her arm, squeezing. “You are not evil. I would sense it.”
“I know,” she says matter-of-factly, patting my hand. “I believe you.” A pause. “And I believe in you.”
“Why?” I shake my head.
“Why not?”
She smirks, and her humor is contagious. My dark mood becomes the sun.
“Come on.” She bumps her hip against mine. “Let’s get out of here.”
“Yes, but you will be on your best behavior.”
She glances up at me. “Define best.”
“If I appear unable to manage one nun who is my guest, the trip is over before it begins.”
“Mm. Good point.” Her mouth curves. “The sooner we get the job done, the sooner we can fuck.”
“What?”
Mercy doesn’t answer. She’s already walking toward the exit, somehow making a habit look indecent with her swaying hips.
I collect both of our bags and follow her, my lips curving.
I am in trouble.
This woman just told me she intends to have sex with me, and I am smiling about it.
Even when she slows, waits for me to catch up, and links her arm with mine, I am still smiling.
It holds all the way to the taxi rank, where I stop short at the sight of my name on a sign held by a man in a dark suit and the nun in blue beside him, her seething stare fixed on Mercy.
More precisely, at how Mercy holds my arm.
At how I’m smiling.