Chapter 7
Seven
Cisco
Being able to sense evil has its advantages.
All my life, I could tell when someone was lying to me by the flare of evil coinciding with their words.
But sometimes, when the lies are so convoluted, the sense of evil isn’t even a blip on the radar.
They believe the lie so much that it feels as if they’re telling the truth.
Take now, for example. These men are either lying about Father O’Malley being the exorcist for the Spanish team, or he’s newly appointed to that role since the massacre, yet somehow important enough to be included in this high-level meeting.
My guess is he’s new and simply a pawn to gauge my reaction.
Which means they know little about what really happened in Spain, except that everyone is dead.
“You’re new?” I ask him.
“Why would you ask that?” O’Malley replies in a thick Irish accent.
“I think you know why.”
He darts a glance at the cardinals, then back to me. “So you know. About the attack?”
“Sì.” I flick my gaze to Valerio, who knows exactly what my curse does and why I’d know about the massacre. “The woman responsible for the carnage is no longer with us.”
Something eases in Valerio’s shoulders, and it makes me uncomfortable.
“These Sinners are out of control,” he grumbles. “We are fortunate for your loyalty, Francisco.”
There it is. After everything, they still believe I’m theirs.
“So we’re in agreement.” Lars leans forward, resting his elbows on his knees. His towel gapes indecently, and I have to look away as he finishes, “We must destroy the tares before they choke the wheat.”
My eye twitches at the reference to the parable about an enemy of heaven.
“You misunderstand me.” I swing my gaze his way. “The one responsible did not act alone. I warned you about the infestation at the abbey.”
“You warned of one in the States, not Spain,” Valerio corrects.
“I also said I need more time. I believe the same demonic infestation is to blame for the massacre, not the women of the Hildegard Sisterhood. They are innocent in this, and are fighting the same evil as us.”
Valerio sighs heavily. “You speak with such passion about these women, Francisco. You have always been so eager to save the lost. But I worry that this . . . pastoral charity . . . is blinding you to the reality of the board.”
“The relics are real, Eminence. They are fighting the same holy war we are. You should listen to their representative—”
He holds up a finger weighted by a gold signet ring. “The American was invited to speak with us, but she is not here. One can only assume she has changed her mind.”
I arch a brow and glance around the steam room, at the pornographic frescoes. “You invited her here?”
He shrugs. “Why not? They claim to want equality, but when it comes down to it, they do not.”
Mercy is not the type to refuse a meeting in a steam room with half-naked men. But I say nothing, because if they’re trying to play the weak-female card, they must not realize she is a Sinner.
“It’s probably a good thing she is not here,” Valerio continues. “We can speak candidly without her.”
Another two ladles of water onto the stones thicken the air. When condensation drips rivers down the tiled walls, more erotic artwork is revealed.
The men all react differently. Lars scowls and averts his gaze. Gunther slumps and stares with heavy-lidded eyes. Valerio is more of a closed book. Interestingly, it’s the young priest who is the easiest to read. Rather, it’s the growing bulge between his legs.
“Do you know the story about these rooms, Francisco?” Valerio asks.
“Everyone in Rome knows,” I reply.
“They think they know. We keep them to remind ourselves that we are not perfect men. We never have been. It’s through God’s love and forgiveness that the church has the power to endure for centuries against all odds.”
The others nod. Another scoop of water is added to the stones, keeping the condensation thick enough to drip so the images stay clear. Valerio is watching me.
“We brought you here today because we want you to know you aren’t the first to relapse, my son. Dalliances are more common than you think.”
Tension creeps into my posture. “Relapse?”
“Come now,” Lars chuckles.
Gunther waves his hand across his face, displacing steam in wafts. “It is natural for men to have urges.”
“We hardly blame you. After all, you were in prison for a decade.” Valerio chuckles. “In fact, I thought we’d have dealt with this a lot sooner.” His voice turns hard. “But you are not a normal man, are you?”
“Speak plainly,” I clip.
“You look spiritually fatigued, Francisco. The collar is a heavy yoke for a man with your . . . unique appetites. We gave it to you to keep you alive. To keep the darkness contained. But when a priest’s focus drifts to earthly temptations, the grace that protects him, or those he loves, begins to thin. ”
Tiny devil horns prick up from beneath my tattoos. “My vows remain intact.”
Mostly.
“I am so relieved to hear you say that because an unfocused shepherd cannot protect his flock.” Valerio pulls a damp file from beneath his bench and passes it to the cardinals, who pass it to me.
My fist clenches on the soggy cardboard. There’s no need to open it.
“I received it from the Naples diocese this morning,” Valerio explains. “A tragedy of bureaucracy, really. It seems the parole board is facing severe overcrowding, and so they are reviewing several life sentences for early release. Your uncle’s name was at the top of the list.”
Shadows swarm across my vision, buzzing inside my skull.
“We had an understanding,” I grind out. “I took the collar. I serve Rome. And Paolo stays in his cage.”
My family has suffered enough.
“Rome honors its devoted sons, Francisco. When our priests are fully committed to the Holy See, we are happy to use our . . . administrative influence . . . to keep such violent men off the streets. But lately, your reports are vague. Your loyalties seem divided. For all we know, this tragedy in Spain could have been avoided if you’d been more open with us.
And let’s not forget the poor Monsignor, God bless his soul.
” He makes the sign of the cross and lifts his gaze to the ceiling.
“The Curia is questioning whether we can justify expending our political capital on a priest who advocates for heretics.”
Gunther places a paternal hand on my tense shoulder. “We are your sanctuary, Francisco. As long as you remain an obedient, focused servant of the Church, we have the resources to protect your dear mother and your Nonna.”
I am three seconds away from breaking that man’s fingers if he doesn’t remove them from my body. My glare must work because he slides his hand back to his lap.
“As far as your immediate team’s betrayal,” Valerio continues, bristling. “All will be forgiven. They can return home if they bring the stolen manuscript. That’s the most important thing.”
The sense of his evil spikes, and I fight the urge to beat his head against the wall. Wesley was right. The instant they return, they will not live to see the next sunrise.
“I thought stopping the apocalypse was,” I counter.
Another ladle pours. Water hisses on stone.
“But is there an apocalypse?” Gunther lets out a low, incredulous chuckle.
My jaw slackens. “The rise in demonic activity says yes.”
“Bah.” Lars waves me down. “When aren’t demons causing mischief? This is no different.”
“It’s true,” O’Malley adds. “You are an exorcist. You should know this.”
“Demon princes aren’t normal.” I flatten my gaze, ignoring the urge to pulverize his face with my fist. “You should know this.”
Valerio shrugs. “We’ve seen no evidence of higher-tier demonic activity. Could you perhaps be mistaken, my son?”
The buzzing becomes a pounding hurricane in my head. Show them. Show them what they’re up against.
“You do look tired,” he continues. “Go to your room. Rest.”
Gunther gestures to the frescoes. “Fuck your beautiful American.”
“This is why we put you both in an unused wing.” Valerio wipes sweat from his brow. “Get it out of your system without anyone else knowing.”
The more they speak, the more I want to choke them.
Do it, the buzzing urges me. There are no cameras in here.
“And then after she is no longer of use, you go to confession, reacquaint yourself with your vows, and pray. We’ll deal with that.” He gives the crunched-up folder in my fist a pointed look. “And the American.”
Shadows creep into every corner of my vision. I no longer hear buzzing in my head, but screams. Ribbons of movement slide beneath my tattoos.
It takes every ounce of self-control I have to get the next words out without breaking.
“The American is not something to be dealt with. She is the closest thing to a miracle any of you will ever experience.”
They look at me with pity, not seeing how close to death they sit.
“We are all men of the world here, Francisco.” Valerio spins his gold ring, eyes raised to the frescoes. “We know the flesh is weak.”
“That’s not what I meant,” I growl.
“Just admit you’ve been compromised so we can move you to a safer assignment.”
“I’m curious, Eminence,” I say, “why do you think you can blackmail me with Uncle Paolo’s release from prison?”
He fiddles with his golden signet ring. It is not so steamy now that I can’t see the look in his eyes, the weighing of my words.
“Because this was the only thing you bargained for,” he answers. “When you agreed to go to the seminary.”
“Why?” I prompt.
“Paolo tried to kill you in prison unsuccessfully many times, but after he realized you were not spilling his secrets, he stopped.”
“Mm.” I rub my jaw. “Go on.”
“It’s one thing to leave the family,” he says, voice growing confident. “But it’s another for someone of your sort to join the Church. You feared his reaction.”
I cock my head. “I don’t think that was it.”
“Semantics.”
“Is it?”
I say nothing else. Just crack my knuckles. The pops echo like bullets in the small room, and Valerio’s hands start to tremble. The others have no idea what we’re talking about; their gazes ping-pong between them.
“You weren’t afraid of your uncle,” Valerio murmurs, fear creeping into his eyes. “You weren’t afraid for your family either, were you? Just as you walked into prison, you could walk out at any time.”
Feast. Taste their sins . . . know how they plot against you.
“And?” I raise my brows.
“You moved your family to Rome.” He swallows. “Bought them an osteria . . . to get away from . . . you, not Paolo.”
I bare my teeth in a wolfish grin. “But I’m here, now. Aren’t I?”
“Do not give up everything you’ve built here,” Valerio says. “All the progress with your penance. You made a promise to God.”
Do they not remember who you are?
“Sì.” I nod, my chin tilting toward the gilt ceiling.
“To Him. Not you.” I let a sneer curl my lip.
“Not you, who does not even believe the apocalypse is real. Not you, who are afraid of women coming to take your power away. You, who fabricate stories and let them suffer. You, who let black smoke pour through the cracks in His temple.”
A cold, violent pressure builds behind my eyes. Hunger yawns beneath my ribs, whispers into my mind: You are omertà incarnate. Silence given shape. The condemned never see judgment coming until it’s too late.
“We are not afraid of the women.” Valerio’s nervous chuckle fools no one. “You shouldn’t be either.”
“Agreed,” Gunther adds. “Don’t worry. We will teach them their place.”
Pray for them.
My lips start moving. “Requiem aeternam dona eis, Domine.”
They all know those words, and their faces turn ashen. They’ve whispered them over a thousand mahogany coffins—Eternal rest grant unto them, O Lord.
“Francisco,” Valerio gasps. “That prayer is for the dead.”
I rise from my seat and continue.
“Et lux perpetua luceat eis.”
And let perpetual light shine upon them.
They scramble but can go nowhere. O’Malley reaches for something beneath his seat, probably a weapon, but the void is already leaking in ribbons from my skin, curling through the steam toward each of them.
“Fidelium animae, per misericordiam Dei, requiescant in pace.”
May the souls of the faithful departed, through the mercy of God, rest in peace.
I don’t get to say Amen. The door opens, a draft of cold air hits my back, and then Mercy’s husky purr is behind me.
“Sorry, I’m late. My invitation must have been lost in the mail.”