Chapter 15 #2
I look back at the fresco, desperate to decipher what Asmodeus sees.
Nothing in these ancient works of art was painted without meaning.
I cast my eyes over the panels again, the passion, the battle, the betrayal.
The lovers are caught in a net. The gods at the table laugh and sneer.
But a single god, the haloed one—Apollo, the God of the Sun and the Law—stands all the way at the end of the final panel, pointing at them with a sword.
I rush to the far end of the mural so I can see better. I run my hand over the rough cracks across his face.
“I missed it before because his sun halo is so bright, but he stands in the shadows—alone.”
I glance at the net, at the lovers still clasping hands and still gazing into each other’s eyes. Then back to the white-robed Sun God standing in the dark with a bitter, jealous look on his face. He isn’t the one being loved. He is the one pointing the sword.
“That’s Peter, the Apostle,” I whisper, the realization punching me in the stomach.
I take Asmodeus’s torch and hold it before the lovers caught in the net. Mars stares at Venus, and she stares at him. They’re not looking at the laughing gods. They’re not looking at the net. They see only each other, entwined hands between them like a heart.
“They changed the story,” I say. “The Church. They saw this mural and realized they couldn’t erase the man, so they just swapped the roles. They gave Peter the halo and the bedrock, and they turned the actual Savior into a God of War—a monster to be feared and contained.”
“Not such a golden boy now, is he?” He gets up in the fresco’s face and shouts, “Are you now!”
I look at Apollo again, and that’s when I see it. The dull sword in his hand.
“Holy shit.” I raise mine and hold it beside the one in the fresco. “His sword has no hilt either. No pommel. No cross-guard. Just the tang.”
As if it’s designed that way.
Now that I’m this close, I see the same crosses on my sword are also painted on the one in the fresco. The blade isn’t on fire, though. But . . .” Holy shit!” I run back to the battle, to where Mars leads his soldiers up a mountain of foes, his fiery sword held high.
Same pose—palm out as he grips his sword. No hilt, pommel, or cross-guard. The same fucking crosses are engraved on the sword.
“It’s not broken,” I gasp, exhilarated. Then droop. “I still don’t know what that means.”
“Anyway.” Asmodeus claps his hands, suddenly sober. “Story time is over. You ready to go?”
“Wait!”
He groans, “I can’t give you all the answers. That would be boring.”
“But we can’t go. Cisco should see this.”
He lets out a sharp bark of laughter. “Why? His hunger has nothing to do with ours.”
“But . . . you just said that it’s the whole point. The passion. The wanting. The—what did you call it?—ruinous life. If I’m one of yours, then so is he!”
“Mayhap that was true, darling, but his was inherited long before he was born. It’s not mine .
. . at least, not anymore.” His nose crinkles as he looks in Cisco’s direction.
“I didn’t realize the difference before, but now I see there is the hunger that fills your soul, and there is the one that empties it. ”
A sick feeling churns in my gut. Back at the abbey, I’m sure Cisco mentioned something about never feeling satisfied. “Are you saying he’s losing his soul?”
“I’m saying it’s time to go.”
“But . . . he needs to see that his savior was also a god of war.”
“You’re digging in the wrong grave, little sinner. Your priest’s truth doesn’t live here. It lives in kitchens. In family stories. In old women who keep saints beside knives and recipes beside curses.” He glances at the mural, then back at me and the sword. “This is your truth, not his.”
With that, he takes my shoulder, and everything goes dark.
A blink later, and I’m standing in a narrow street.
The smell of oncoming rain hangs in the air, and the sun-warmed cobblestones beneath my shoes feel like a welcome reprieve from the cold underground at the Vatican.
Ancient and modern architecture mix around me, with a few restaurants and stores further down the street.
The sun is setting, casting long shadows, but I hear a crowd nearby. I think we’re still in Rome.
Someone groans behind me. I turn, sword raised, but drop it when I see a familiar bag and Cisco pushing himself off the ground. I rush to his aid.
“You okay?”
“Mercy.” He shakes his head. “Forgive me, I—”
“Oh, Father, you don’t need absolution. You need genealogy.”
I spin and see Asmodeus lounging against an enormous, ancient doorway nearby. The graffiti sticker art above his head depicts the Lady of Our Sorrows, Mary, holding a heart stabbed by knives. I think it’s the same image as Cisco has on his large back tattoo.
“You,” he growls, hair disheveled, shirt untucked, and pointing at Asmodeus. “What have you done?”
“I brought you home. You’re welcome.”
“You expect me to thank a demon?” Cisco’s upper lip curls, twisting the scar. “We want nothing from you.”
Asmodeus hops off the stoop and casually strolls around Cisco, keeping his distance as he scrutinizes the priest’s attire.
“Do you know what I find most offensive about you, Father? You and your holy clergy? It’s not the piety or the judgment.
It’s not even the collar, or how the Power of Fuck compels you.
” He stops, slips his hands into his pockets, and sneers.
“It’s the arrogance of thinking that when it does, your cock is so formidable, it can undo God’s work. ”
The shadows grow darker in the alley, as if Cisco’s pulling them from every corner, sinking the sun faster.
Asmodeus merely smirks and then says to me, “See what I mean? If this were mine, it would at least have the audacity to be entertaining.”
Cisco’s snarl isn’t human. Heart leaping into my throat, I step in front of him and put my palm on his chest, effectively blocking his path.
I glance over my shoulder at Asmodeus. “You should go. Thank you for your help. And the talk.”
“Nothing like a heart-to-heart for a fresh perspective.” He glares at Cisco, steps back, then hesitates. His face tightens into a grimace. “Tell Tawny—”
A series of high-pitched trills interrupts him. Violent movement inside his jacket erupts before a white, fluffy head pops out of his collar. For some reason, Asmodeus’s cheeks flush a bright red, and he attempts to shove the white fluffball back in.
“Shut up,” he hisses to Noctis. “You’re ruining my exit.”
“Tell Tawny what?” I ask, feeling the heat of twitching muscle beneath my palm.
Asmodeus stiffens. He looks up at me. “Tell her . . . I like the blue ones better.”
He snaps his fingers and vanishes, leaving us alone in the dark, the faint sound of Noctis’s happy chirps echoing into the night.
Rome sounds filter in, people walking and talking, eating, and carousing. Cars and scooters buzz by at the end of the alley.
“What did he mean?” Cisco growls.
“About the blue Twizzler?” I wince. “Sorry, I gave him your ration since you didn’t want it. He seemed hungry.”
“I’m not talking about that,” he snaps. “The heart-to-heart.”
I blink at the tone, and have to rewind my brain to register what he’s asking.
“What did Asmodeus say? We talked, and you would not believe what—”
“And that bullshit about the hunger not being his?” He takes a step closer, eyes narrowing to slits. “You spent time with a Demon Prince of Hell. Discussing me.”
“It wasn’t like that,” I choke out.
He’s not himself. He needs a moment to calm down after losing control to his curse. I busy myself with collecting our belongings. Bags, veil, and my sword are scattered across the cobblestones.
Wait. I spot two bags, not just one.
“Is that my bag?” I point at the overnighter on the stoop that Asmodeus lounged on. “Did he retrieve it from the nuns?”
Cisco grabs my arm as I pass, and I halt. Tensing, clenching my fists, I slowly face him and gasp at the sheer violence and animosity radiating from him.
“What did you tell him?” he growls, eyes flashing.
“Let go.”
His fingers tighten on my arm, but then he lets go. I catch the look of betrayal in his eyes before he turns away, and it shocks me. Stuns me. I’ve done absolutely nothing wrong. He just assumed.
Fuck that.