Chapter 30
Thirty
Cisco
Idip my hand in the holy water font, make the Sign of the Cross, then head to the front of the church.
My footsteps echo across the ancient floor.
An acolyte is at the altar, preparing for morning Mass.
He barely looks at me as I genuflect before the tabernacle and then remain on my knees.
Fingers laced together at my front, head bowed, I close my eyes and soak up the atmosphere.
It’s hard not to feel God’s presence in his house, but I never know if it’s from a lifetime of fear and holy respect, from imagining it, or if he truly lives here.
I heard a story in the seminary that centuries ago, a walnut tree outside this very basilica was found to be frequented by demons. Any person nearby was infected and influenced. Chaos reigned in the town until they exorcised the tree, dug it up, and discovered Nero’s bones tangled in the roots.
The demons couldn’t enter the sanctified church, but humans influenced by them could.
I wonder if this is why Jasmine was able to enter the church at the abbey. She had a demonic fly attached to her, yet the flies swarming my oratory window couldn’t enter the church themselves.
It’s possible, though, that the fly was not attached to Jasmine when she entered the church. The effects of the infestation in her mind stayed, but the fly returned in the crypt.
Temporary.
The sound of the door opening and closing reminds me of why I am here. I clear my throat, empty my mind, and pray.
It is the same prayer as always—the one I never expect an answer for.
God, what do you want from me?
I brace for the inevitable silence and wait for my usual reaction of hollowness, loneliness, and a road ahead filled with never-ending guilt.
Only, this time, something different happens.
The silence is still there, yes, but I don’t feel heavy.
I don’t feel empty at the thought that He is not guiding me toward a higher purpose.
Maybe this is because I now know that it’s not His will bringing me peace. It’s not the fear of being evil. It’s Mercy, the woman I’m in love with.
With a sigh, I make the Sign of the Cross and then retreat to a pew in the back row away from the entrance.
There, I pull out the small, leather-bound book, but something makes me hesitate to open the cover.
It’s almost as if I know that nothing will be the same afterward, so for a moment, I just sit and lift my gaze to the vaulted ceiling, seeing the aesthetics in a new, fragile light.
I never gave my relationship with God much thought before I met Mercy.
I’d just assumed my faith and vocation were the same.
But strangely, as I look at the iconography I’m so used to associating with my faith, I feel zero connection.
I realize I’m not connected to this building.
It’s not the imagery on the walls. On some level, it’s not even the Bible stories that I feel close to.
My God is in the sunrise, in the hope born with every new day.
He’s in the peace and warmth I feel when parishioners walk away from my confessional, feeling that connection too, especially in darker times.
He’s in the sense of purpose I have when I’m at the Sisterhood, helping both teams work together to fight this demonic enemy of ours.
And yes, He’s in the miracle I feel in my heart every time Mercy looks at me.
A small smile touches my lips, and I open the book.
I lift it to my nose and inhale. It smells old, and it looks much older than Mary’s Gospel, but it’s not crumbling apart at my touch.
Strange. The first page is in Latin, and the Pope’s private stamp is in the corner.
I flip to the back and find occult imagery etched there.
When I touch the symbols, tingles travel up my arm.
A protection spell.
It would explain the lack of deterioration.
Flipping back to the front, I start reading.
In principio erant duo.
In the beginning, there were two.
In handwritten ancient Latin and etched artwork, it tells the story of the first man and woman, Adam and Lilith. It tells of her defiance, and of Eve as her replacement. It also tells the story of their temptation of sin and subsequent ejection from Eden.
I look up suddenly, breath lodged in my throat at the end of another passage. It loosely translates to the story of Cain and Abel, only . . . there is no Abel. But there is an Abella.
Brother and Sister.
God was upset at the second generation of sinners and decided to wipe the slate clean on humanity, but then two divine beings, one from above and one from below, entered a contract.
A wager.
Heart pounding, I remember how Bianchi intentionally led us down that passage to the ruins, and now he wants me to read this book. All by the Pope’s request, no doubt.
This is an olive branch, an invitation to the truth. It has to be.
I continue reading, eyes scanning the pages, brows pulling together in concentration. My pulse quickens as the story of a contract over the fate of the human soul takes shape as a version I know well.
The Mark of Cain. One devil and one angel. One condemned to devour sin, and one of goodwill charged with balancing the scales.
My stomach curdles when I reach the page where the supernatural beings involved in the wager are depicted with symbols.
Beelzebub and the Archangel Michael.
What’s worse is the fate of the descendant’s soul if the scales tip wholly to shadow . . . they would ride out among the Four, and the final days would begin.
Dio. My hand clutches the fabric at my chest, scrunching it. It hurts beneath, aches and tightens. I can’t breathe. My lungs constrict. My skin prickles with sweat.
Fear hammers my senses, and for a moment, I think I’m going to vomit. But then I look down and remember who gave me this book, who mentioned the corruption in the church, who covered up what I did to the Cardinals.
On top of all this, he asked me to consider whether I would remain a priest if I were allowed to continue my relationship with Mercy.
Bianchi and the Pope would not do this if they thought I was evil. They would not give me this book. Would they?
No.
The evil was with Valerio.
I force myself to keep reading. Two more pages. There must be an answer, but all I find is this:
Since the Saint loved the Sinner beyond reason, favor was able to penetrate the dark inheritance, to undertake it, and to bear it. For the darkness can neither be stolen away nor snatched by any power under Heaven. It yields to only one thing, and that thing is devotion.
Frustrated, I close the book.
I had thought my nightmare this morning was just a figment of my imagination, my fear given shape. But when I also think of the picture of Maria hanging on that wall, and how it doesn’t match my memory of her, I start to wonder.
What if the nightmare was real, and what I remember is the dream? What if Maria was the original marked sibling—the sinner? What if Beelzebub influenced her as a child?
In my dream last night, she spoke to the flies as if they could understand her.
A prickling premonition passes over my skin like a wave.
What if that summer day in Naples, when Maria accused me of stealing her birthright . . . I did.
I open the book and read the words again, translating twice in case there’s an alternate meaning. But I keep thinking one thing: It’s a sacrifice of family duty, or devotion that has the power to undertake the burden of the dark gift.
Mind reeling, I tuck the book under my arm, pull out my phone, and dial as I head toward the exit.
Only one person can help me now.