Chapter 5
Five
Mercy
The relic is still strapped between my shoulder blades, which means either Wesley is a genius, God is finally on my side, or the Vatican is too busy to check for holy objects tucked down the back of a fake nun’s dress.
The sour nun in blue marches me down the corridor of a large residence.
She’s the furthest thing from the magpies at the Hildegard Sisterhood.
Our nuns don’t speak, but they feel more alive than this woman.
They slam drawers, hide sweets, and judge us with warmth in their eyes.
This nun walks as if concrete had been poured into her clothes and left to harden.
My car arrived shortly after Cisco’s, but he stopped at the papal apartments and was ushered off, probably to speak with his superiors.
I am being marched to what I suspect is a guest room, but the nun has yet to explain.
She stops at a narrow wooden door and unlocks it with an electric fob, swings it open, then steps back.
I peer past her into a room with a single bed, a lonely desk, and a bathroom. A narrow window overlooks the public spaces and, farther back, I see Rome in the distance.
I smile broadly at my guide and speak in English. “This is where they hold the conclave, isn’t it?”
“Yes.”
“Interesting word . . . conclave.”
“Not really.”
I step into the room. “It wasn’t always called that.” I spin back to her, habit whirling, tapping my lip, and frowning. “It was Latin, though, right? Still something to do with a key, but not quite . . . goodness, what was that word?”
“Cum clave,” she replies coldly.
My smile broadens. “Of course.”
Typical men. Give celibates one Latin phrase with cum in it, and suddenly they’ve built a whole religion around locking themselves in rooms until something white and important shoots out of a hole.
Something in the nun’s stony face makes my smile waver.
“You wrap yourself in our cloth, child,” she intones, “but you cannot hide the sin sweating from your pores.”
Well, there goes the fun.
“Didn’t think I smelled that bad after the plane ride.” I lean my hip against the desk. “But since you confiscated my bag upon entry—”
“We did not confiscate it,” she snaps. “We are bringing it up for you.”
“Right.” I peer out the door. “So where is it?”
Her gaze skims over me with open disgust.
“I have seen many girls like you,” she declares. “Girls who mistake a man’s weakness for devotion. Girls who think offering their bodies makes them powerful.”
Something ugly stirs beneath my ribs, but I keep smiling. Barely.
“Speaking from experience?” I counter.
“You think you are saving him,” she spits out. “You are merely a fever. When it breaks, he will remember his God and feel nothing but exhaustion.”
For a filthy second, she reminds me of my mother.
The nun steps back and gives me a final parting word. “You are not his salvation, child. You are his relapse.”
Then she closes the door. The electric lock whirrs and clicks.
“Bitch.”
I stare at the closed door for far too long, pretending I’m not affected by her words, but the truth is, she could be right.
Cisco and I aren’t like Thea and Wesley, or Zeke and Leila. They’re perfect matches. Their relics worked the first time they needed them. The girls don’t look like Lilith, and the men aren’t afflicted by a violent, evil-sensing, sin-eating curse that could be killing them slowly.
I’ve noticed Cisco isn’t eating well. He’s not sleeping either. Since Jasmine, he’s not been himself at all.
I pace the length of the tiny room, my robes swishing. I don’t like that they’ve deliberately separated Cisco and me. It’s even more strange that they’ve housed me here, a place traditionally reserved for important male-only events.
And locked me in.
I pivot at the window, and the oversized rosary beads around my hips clink together.
“I’m just a relapse.” I scoff and pace back to the door.
“Who does she think she is?” I turn back.
“She doesn’t know us. She doesn’t even know the prophecy.
She probably thinks I’m just a regular heretic.
” I stop at the window again and glower.
“They have no idea I’m a Sinner. If they suspected, I’d have been frisked or strip-searched. ”
Breathe, Mercy. Breathe.
Calm the fuck down.
But the moment I will myself to relax, I become hyperaware of the feeling of fabric against my skin. The loose robe somehow feels too tight.
Fuck.
I drag out the desk chair and sit hard, air puffing from my lungs. Strumming my fingers on the desk, I stare at the closed door and consider the plan.
We helped Cisco draft a message on his phone to request a formal meeting with Cardinal Valerio, his superior.
In that message, we mentioned news of another Sisterhood Chapter’s demise and our chapter’s wish to parlay.
Even though Cisco witnessed bloody murder in Jasmine’s sin, both Sinners and Saints were fighting.
Frankly, we still don’t know for sure who caused the conflict; we only know that something supernatural was involved, and one of our own is missing.
In the message, we said Saint Dominic would remain behind to oversee our cohort’s morality and keep a close eye on the divine relics in our care. Cisco would bring a representative from the Hildegard Sisterhood with authority to speak for the Reverend Mother.
They agreed to our terms, and here we are.
Cisco may be speaking to someone, or doing something, that is none of my business. But I highly doubt it. Based on his behavior since I arrived, he’s been taken to parley without me.
Bastards.
If they’re stupid enough to believe I’m a nun because of my attire, and not an assassin, then that’s their problem.
And if they’re stupid enough to think the metal detector didn’t go off upon my arrival, that I don’t have any weapons on my person, then that’s also their own fault.
Everything can be a weapon if you use it right. Safety pins in my veil can pick locks. The oversized rosary is custom-made at the abbey and strong enough to withstand the weight of a bus.
“I’m a relapse.” I snort. “Whatever, bitch. I’ll show you relapse.”
The thought lights a fire in my soul, and I cross to the door.
I run my fingers over the frame and test its structural integrity.
Definitely can’t kick it down. The lock is electronic, so a safety pin won’t pick it.
Without my bag, I have no phone. The signal jammers are likely on anyway.
That’s why they brought me to this building used for the conclave.
The window is probably welded shut. I test it to be sure, and sure enough, it doesn’t budge. Breaking glass would be useless. I won’t fit through the narrow strip.
Being locked in here with only my fingers for company makes me break out into a nervous sweat. My mind replays the dirty looks I received upon entry, the nun’s disgusted expression, her belittling words, the guards’ dismissal of me as irrelevant, and the confiscation of my bag.
All my life, I’ve been judged for my appearance. Even in a nun’s habit and without a drop of makeup, I’m still branded as a whore. But what annoys me more is that I’m still upset over it.
The sword feels heavy, not magic. I roll my aching shoulders and crack my neck. If I don’t get out of here soon, I’m going to lose it.
Maybe I can use the sword to jimmy open the door, or lift it clean off its hinges, but I’m hesitant to strain the already flawed metal blade.
Hope deflating, I face the room and slump back against the door. The steel length digs into my spine, and I squirm in agitation. A soft whirring sound answers from inside the door, and I grow still.
Silence. Did I imagine it?
I wriggle my spine and sword against the door again. The same whirring response happens. One more time, I test the reaction. I rub and roll my spine and hidden sword along the entire wooden surface as if I’m a bear scratching its back on a tree trunk.
The whirring grows louder every time I near the lock.
“Wesley’s cloaking spell,” I gasp.
He said any metal the spell touches would be undetectable. If the sigils are engraved onto the holster, then when I connected with the door, the spell must have transferred through my clothes.
This would probably be easier if I removed the holster and applied it directly, but if I open the door and a guard is outside, they’ll see the sword. I need to protect it for as long as possible.
I squat and press my back against the door, rubbing the bulky package on my back directly against the lock. The whirring is accompanied by a clicking, as if the lock is opening and closing repeatedly. The barrel mustn’t be able to detect the pin, or vice versa.
Grinning, I slip my hand behind me and turn the knob. The door opens uncontested.
“Brilliant,” I mumble, and step into the empty corridor.
Now, which way is the cardinal’s apartment?