Chapter 10
Ten
Mercy
Cisco watches me fit the veil, but I can’t look at him.
If I do, I’ll overthink things, and emotion gets you killed in a war zone.
The moment we leave this room, that’s essentially what we’ll be in.
So I focus on fastening the holster over my tunic and under the veil.
No time to worry about hiding it beneath the robe.
The ship has sailed on being completely incognito. Easy access is preferable.
Because he did his sin-eating thing, I still have a few doses of poison in my ring. It could come in handy. I pat down my pockets and feel something lumpy in one of them. It’s the Twizzlers that Tawny and the orphans gave to me. I offer one to Cisco, but he shakes his head.
“Right. You’re full.”
I put his back, and pop mine into my mouth.
“Mercy.”
“I’m a professional, Cisco,” I garble around the Twizzler. “We don’t need to sing Kumbaya and hug out our issues. Let’s go.”
He sighs and then collects his bag. “Do you know where they took yours?”
“No.” I rifle through the red vestments until I find what I’m looking for—Cardinal Valerio’s security tag. “We don’t have time to hunt it down.”
“I have a few of your . . . things in my bag. If you need them.”
The awkward tone in his voice lifts my gaze. “What do you mean?”
“I had a feeling they might take your bag.” He rubs the back of his neck. “So while I waited in the taxi at the abbey, I swapped a few vital items.”
Vital? I pull out the Twizzler. “Like what? Clothes?”
Please tell me I don’t have to wear a habit the entire trip.
“Your passport.”
“Oh.” I slump. Pop the Twizzler back into my mouth. “Thanks.”
“And—”
“Let’s go.”
I don’t get far past him. He grabs my arm, stopping me.
Our eyes lock. His mouth opens, but nothing comes out.
We came here with high hopes, knowing our chances of reconciliation with the Vatican were slim. But I wasn’t prepared for the fallout or the personal cost to him. I wasn’t prepared to have his life in my hands . . . worse, his soul.
Hunger still roams behind his eyes, prowling and gnashing its teeth. It’s there in every line of tension in his body.
“We can talk later,” I promise. “Right now, we’ve delayed enough.”
He winces and lets go of me.
I glance at the steam-room door. “Maybe we should burn them or something.”
“No,” he replies. “There’s nothing left this time.”
“What?”
“You walked out before you could see.”
“Do I want to?”
He shakes his head and strides out, one hand in his pocket, the other carrying his bag. The shame in his posture makes my heart clench.
I know what it’s like to feel like a passenger in your own body, a slave to your urges. It’s why what just happened between us isn’t anyone’s fault. I’m usually the one who instigates situations like this.
When I meet him in the main room, I find him frozen stiff, eyes wide and face pale, staring at something on the table.
Heart leaping into my throat, I reach his side and almost swallow my tongue when I see what he’s looking at.
The food left for their lunch has gone rotten.
Flies buzz about, laying eggs in the dead, putrid meat.
Fruit is brown and black, rancid and oozing.
Mold grows on bread and cheese. It’s as if someone’s come in and sprayed a chemical over them that somehow advances the passage of time.
I swallow the last of my Twizzler with a gulp.
“It’s me,” Cisco gasps. “Madonna mia . . . I must be Famine.”
The prophecy.
“It could be a coincidence,” I say.
He looks at me as if I’m mad. “After I just—”
“A coincidence,” I repeat.
He mutters, “For her sins have reached unto Heaven, and God hath remembered her iniquities.”
“Hold up. You better not be talking about me.”
“Babylon.” He gestures everywhere. “Humanity.”
“What’s your point?”
His eyes grow wild, darting around the room. “We thought Him gone. But he’s not. He’s watching, and He’s passing judgment.”
Cisco starts mumbling, praying, I think. He’s spiraling, and for what? Because he thinks he’s going to Hell? Buddy, join the club. We made T-shirts.
Maybe this is why Mary Magdalene said the Sinners are the world’s only hope. We’ve made peace with our post-life destination, and we’re still willing to do the dirty work to get the job done.
I suppose we’re fortunate in a way to have found each other.
My sisters have kept me sane and supported me.
Never once have they strung me out to dry like Cisco’s superiors just did.
Never once have they put conditions on my belonging—apart from the sanctioned sinning for the sake of the world shit. My point is, once I was in, I was in.
No matter how many people I fucked, or how many times I went off the rails trying to drown my insecurities or fuck my way through mental health issues, they didn’t turn me away.
I look at Cisco, and the first thing that strikes me is that my Beatific Vision still gives zero warning signs that he’s a demon, evil, or anything I have to worry about. I have to trust that.
“Hey!” My shout echoes off the domed ceiling.
He stops pacing and looks at me, chest heaving. But then starts again, mumbling and grabbing his hair every so often. No, not hair. His ears, as if to block out a sound I can’t hear.
Instinct, intuition, that thing a woman should never ignore—it urges me to go to him.
I’m there in two strides, taking his face between my hands, and smashing my lips onto his.
I pour everything into the kiss, using my whole body.
This isn’t something I do. Pretty Woman warned me never to kiss on the lips . . . unless you want to fall in love.
But I do.
I feed all of my longing, love, and emotion into it: the pain, the need, the angst. I give him the confession he’s desperate to hear, the truth I’m too afraid to say aloud.
I don’t want to be alone anymore either. Stay with me.
I feel the moment he’s mine again. The rigidity of his muscles relaxes.
He exhales through his nose. He kisses me back, hands fluttering to cover mine.
It’s the most honest we’ve been with each other.
It aches, and I don’t know why. We allow ourselves another slow, indulgent moment of being in each other’s arms before we break.
“We’re going to figure this out,” I whisper.
He nods. Closes his eyes and frowns. “I saw something. In their sins.”
“Tell me.”
“They wanted your sword. If it’s fixed, it can also fix me.”
My heart soars.
“So then let’s go.” I drop my hands. “Let’s fucking do this before it’s too late.”
I sense there’s more he’s not telling me, but don’t push it. He’s functional and sharpening by the second.
“Where to first?” I ask.
“We take the back exit through the courtyard.” He collects the bag again and walks to the door, only hesitating when he sees the guard I drugged, slumped over himself on the floor.
After one last check of our appearance—each of us fixing the other—we cautiously leave the apartments.
As we’re in a forbidden wing, no one is outside.
To give us an extra bit of time before we’re found out, I jam a hairpin into the locking mechanism and force the door shut.
It’s now stuck. They’ll have to remove the door to get inside.
Cisco leads the way down the dark stairs, and we fake it until we make it outside the palace and into a private courtyard.
It’s empty and concrete, likely just for events.
Through a gate, we hit the public estate and veer right after the palace, staying tucked into the shadow of the Basilica’s massive stone skirt.
“You know where you’re going?” My gaze darts around at the wall of manicured green gardens on our left.
The buzz of tourists filters over the high wall, but there are no gift shops here. No selfie sticks. Just a couple of black-tinted Audis idling nearby at a restricted gate.
I duck my head.
“I don’t think they completely revoked my access,” Cisco says, voice low. “They were waiting for me to . . .” He frowns, shaking his head.
“I heard. I’m sorry, they’re all corrupt assholes.”
“Not all of them,” he mutters. “Many are good men. Some, I know.”
We reach a massive stone tunnel guarded by two brightly dressed Swiss Guards, their halberds gleaming.
“We will soon find out,” Cisco adds beneath his breath and then grins amicably and flashes his credentials too fast for the young guard on the left to read.
“Buongiorno, Kasper,” he greets in Italian.
The guard snaps to attention, eyes flicking to Cisco. For a moment, the guard’s robotic discipline wavers, and he smiles back.
“Buongiorno, Padre,” he replies. “It is so good to see you.”
His accent has a soft Swiss-German lilt, hushed as if he’s not meant to be talking.
“How is your sister?” Cisco asks softly. “I heard the surgery in Zurich was difficult.”
The young man’s chest swells. “She is recovering. The doctors . . . they say it’s a miracle. My mother says it was the candles you lit in Santa Maria.”
Cisco gently touches the boy’s colorful sleeve before the other guard’s scrutiny draws him away.
“I will keep praying for her,” he says.
Kasper nods, his throat bobbing. He looks at me then, and my pulse skyrockets.
“The nun is with me for the Scavi archives,” Cisco explains, tone shifting back to one of authority. “Evil doesn’t wait, so neither shall we.”
“Of course, Padre. My apologies for delaying you.” Kasper steps back. His halberd strikes stone with a clack. “Go with God.”
I follow Cisco deeper into the shadows beneath the arch. He just lied to a boy who thinks he’s a saint. This sword had better do what he thinks it does. It better be worth it.
A nondescript glass door leads us into our next roadblock.
The Scavi office is beige, with a bored-looking clerk behind a counter staring at his computer. Cisco leans over and speaks to him in rapid-fire, low-register Italian. The clerk looks at me, then quickly looks away. He hits a buzzer that opens a door to our left.
Cisco nods his gratitude and then places his hand on the small of my back, leading me to the door, taking me inside, and down a metal grate staircase. As the door closes behind us, the sounds of the Vatican disappear—bells, cars, distant murmurs all vanish.
And then it’s just us in the dim light, descending into air smelling like ancient stone and damp earth.
We bypass the grottoes where most of the popes are buried, and keep walking until we descend a final, cramped metal staircase.
Polished walls give way to a series of narrow dirt-and-brick alleys.
Artificial yellow light makes everything look sickly.
Fortunately, we make the lunchtime lull, so encounters with scholars or specialists are thin, and the busy clerics seem used to priests and nuns. No one stops us. A few even nod to Cisco.
We make it to the bottom level, where endless brick and mortar is hollowed out by centuries of ruin, where St. Peter’s tomb is. Two steps in, an alarm blares.