Chapter 35
Thirty-Five
Mercy
My mind is reeling.
The mural has it wrong. Whoever painted it mixed up the line from Mary’s Gospel, or rewrote it to suit their purpose. Her line was about compassion.
The greatest danger to the world is judgment without mercy.
But the mural twists it into sounding like mercy and forgiveness are for the weak. To strike your foes down without quarter. To judge and kill without questions.
I glance down at the sword, then over my shoulder at the mural, and back to the two thugs about to lunge at me. I need more time to think, but I don’t have time.
The gangly guy is already unbuckling his belt.
Shit. Think, Mercy. Think.
The sword. Joan’s diary. Mary’s prophecy. This out-of-context, misinterpreted line on the mural. It’s all linked.
My mind races. Where else have I seen something that made me pause?
The frescoes in the ruins beneath the Vatican—they also revealed how information can change over time, and stories can grow to become something else. History is rarely accurate when people rewrite it over and over again. The facts aren’t perfect.
Perfect.
Perfect.
The word echoes in my mind until something clicks.
The relic demands perfect mercy.
Joan of Arc wrote that in her journal. I remember the details clearly because we both had Joan as a name, and then seeing the word mercy—my Sinner name—felt like a double whammy of relevance. I was sure the relic was meant for me—Mercy, the person.
But what if the mercy she warned about was actually mercy in the literal sense?
What if that line is the sword’s instructions for use?
What if “perfect mercy” isn’t me, the person, literally having to be the perfect Sinner or team leader to activate the sword . . . but me practicing perfect mercy.
Mary’s Gospel, the other half of that same verse on the wall behind me, spoke about forgiveness.
Tears prick my eyes as I look at the sword. “Is that what you’re waiting for?”
For me to forgive myself for not being the kind of woman a mother could love? Or the kind a father would stick around for? Or even the kind of team leader who never missed a clue or got anything wrong?
For not being perfect?
Because I do, I realize. I do forgive myself.
I have to.
I must.
If not me, then who will take this burden from my soul?
I’m not perfect, and that’s okay. My family at the Sisterhood, the Sinners, the nuns, the Rev . . . they love me anyway. And even though he hasn’t said it in so many words, I know Cisco loves me too. I feel it in my bones.
So it’s time I loved myself too.
A weight lifts from my shoulders, and I want to laugh. These men look over to me like I’m insane.
These are the men Hannah thinks will hold me?
Disbelief courses through me. I know she’s not that delusional.
She spent years running circles around politicians, and she knew this prophecy would bring her brother and me together, and that when it did, she’d finally get the chance to take back her half of the curse.
Would she really set me up to be eliminated by amateurs like these two?
Unless . . . unless this is all Beelzebub’s work. His influence.
Unless . . . a part of her is still fighting to be loved, to belong.
My heart aches with the truth of it. I might have parents who didn’t love me enough to care, but I’m fortunate to have learned what love means from others in my life. Hannah was never around the Sisterhood enough for anyone to get close to her.
But her brother loved her. She knew this. He loved her so much, he somehow ended up taking half the curse. I’ll bet that’s what happened. He must have wanted to protect her somehow, but she thinks he stole it.
And Beelzebub . . . he fed her lies to suit his purpose.
He won’t care who wins, who ends up with the entire curse.
He used Hannah like a puppet from the beginning, manipulating her as a child.
He sent her to an organization entirely devoted to women who’ve been hurt and oppressed by a patriarchal society.
He wants her blinded by her sense of injustice.
“She’s going to fail,” I murmur. “Hannah’s plan to manipulate Cisco is going to fail, and she doesn’t even realize it.”
He’ll kill her.
The stocky guy must understand a little English, because he laughs at me and says in Italian, “Lady, we don’t give a shit about her plans failing.”
He puts his gun on the table and then joins his friend beside me. He puts his hands over my duct-taped wrists, leans down, and smirks in my face.
“We only—”
“Oh, buddy.” I cut him off, shaking my head. “You should care.”
Annoyance flashes in his eyes. “And why’s that?”
“Because if she’s failed at something as big as a twenty-year revenge plan, then she’s failed at something small . . . like strapping me into the chair properly.”
He frowns, glances down at my wrists, and then looks at his friend. “Can you believe her?”
I tilt back on the chair’s hind legs and hoist my legs up, ankles latching onto either side of his neck. I throw the rest of my weight backward, taking him with me to the ground.
The flimsy wooden chair splinters with the force of our crash.
The wind knocks out of me as the stocky guy falls on top of me, his body slamming onto mine.
Something sharp pierces my side, but I ignore it and put every ounce of strength into finishing what the fall started.
I snap the now wobbly chair arms clean off the backrest, then elbow the ground.
The impact pushes the wooden arm through the sweaty duct tape at my wrists an inch, then stops.
The stocky guy’s head whips to the sound, then gives me a smug look.
“Stupid woman.” He grins in my face. “You hit the wrong end to make it fall out.”
“Oh, I didn’t want it out.” I grin back. “Just loose so I can do this.”
I use the floor to twist the broken length in my right wrist, wincing as the duct tape burns my flesh. I grab the sharp splintered end, then make like Buffy and stake that fucker in the neck. The tape reinforces my one-handed blow and helps me drive the strike home.
My opponent’s eyes widen. He gurgles blood, and then he slumps over me, a dead weight.
“Fucking bitch!” The gangly guy shouts.
A gunshot fires, and then the body blanket shielding me jerks.
I freeze, hold my breath, and pretend to be dead. I’m also desperately trying to work out if I’ve been shot, or if I’m just going numb from the weight.
Boots scuff the concrete floor, shuffling around us, most likely checking to see if I’m alive.
Idiot.
His friend might have survived that stake to the neck, but not the bullets.
Warm liquid oozes over my body. I’m not sure if it’s blood or urine.
Probably both. My head is to one side, squashed by the corpse’s sweaty head and hair.
I can’t see much except for the floor, the crates in the background, the legs of a table, and there .
. . a few feet in front of me is the sword.
As if we locked eyes, a thrum of divine energy jolts through me. Hot, prickling electricity buzzes and pulses at me from the direction of the sword. I feel as though it’s calling to me, telling me it’s there, willing and able.
Just reach.
Just believe in yourself, take a chance, and reach.
It’s mine.
“Stupid woman.” A flaky-skinned face appears before me. Two seconds later, something cold and hard presses against my temple. “Oh, I’m going to enjoy making you bleed, bitch.”
I whisper breathlessly, fast and inaudible as I act all weak, panicky, and pretend I can’t move the dead weight crushing me.
He instinctively leans closer. “Begging for your life already?”
The instant he’s within range, I whip out my hand and grab the man’s collar, pulling him closer as I lurch and latch my teeth onto his ear. I bite the lobe clean off.
He screams, drops the gun, and blood goes everywhere.
I spit out the chunk of flesh, shove the dead body off me the rest of the way, and then get to my feet.
Before the gangly guy can recover, I kick the gun away. It spins across the floor and stops under the table. I limp to the sword, pulling the chair’s arm from my left wrist, wincing at the pain in my side. Something had pierced me during the chair crash, but I don’t think I’m bleeding.
The instant my fingers close around the sword’s tang handle, flames erupt down the blade. Power surges into me at such a blinding force, my eyes water.
“Fuck me,” I choke out with a laugh. It feels like my entire body is an inferno. It’s like napalm in my veins.
It works. the fucking sword works. For me. I’m doing this. My throat clogs. “I’m so fucking proud of me.”
The flames ripple excitedly, as if agreeing.
I swing the sword and point it at my opponent.
He’s on his knees, one hand on his bloody ear, crawling toward the gun I kicked away.
Lips flattening, I stroll after him. It’s only a few steps, but the sword’s light burns brighter, casting shadows, drawing his attention to my arrival.
He stops, then turns to me with wide eyes reflecting firelight.
“Mamma mia,” he mutters, forgets about his gun, and instead faces me to make the Sign of the Cross.
It annoys me. It reminds me of how Cisco’s family used that symbol on him, and how I was both afraid and awed. Fury fills me, amplified by the sword’s righteous energy, and I raise the sword about to smite him, but then the thug starts praying, begging for mercy.
The sound of my name on his lips freezes me.
I glance over at the mural, then at the sword and scowl.
“I used to think mercy was about power,” I tell the man on his knees, lowering my flaming sword to point at the floor.
“That only those with power had the right to judge, to decide who lives and who dies. But mercy is about understanding, about empathy. It’s about compassion, not that.
” I point at the mural. “Mercy is not that. Do you understand me?”
He babbles incoherently.
I don’t think he gets it.
“I won’t kill you,” I say to be clear.
He rocks on his knees, fingers laced before him, thanking me. I retrieve the gun from beneath the table, eject the magazine, then the live round.
“Let me be clear,” I say. “I’m not killing you because of my compassion. I’m leaving you alive so you can learn some.”
The gun and bullets drop at my feet. The bastard looks at them, then at me, then back at them as if he’s actually calculating his chances.
For heaven’s sake.
“This sword belonged to your Patron Saint Michael.” I point the flaming sword at the mural. “To him. An archangel. It also belonged to Joan of Arc. Maybe even to Mars, the God of War, and probably hundreds of worthy heroes. And now it’s mine. Do you understand what that means?”
He makes little whimpering sounds. Snot goes everywhere as he shakes his head.
“I don’t know if you’re working with Beelzebub, a fool to believe Hannah’s lies, or just an evil man, but know this—” I lean forward, right up close to his face.
“I’ll be watching you, and if you even so much as think about doing to any other woman what you were about to do to me, well .
. .” I lean back and lower the sword’s flaming tip to where a stain has darkened the fabric at his crotch.
“At least when I cut off your dick, the heat will be so intense that the wound will cauterize. You’ll live. ”
He gasps and scrambles backward.
To prove I have control of the sword, and to be honest, to test its strength, I touch the flames to the discarded firearm until the metal melts down to a pool of shiny liquid.
Once only the bullets are all that’s left—can’t burn those without setting off the gunpowder—I will the sword to go to sleep. Nothing happens.
“Now be a good girl,” I whisper to it. “And flame off.”
The flames sputter and spark, defying me. It did this last time at the abbey—tried to fight me. I still doubted myself back then. I don’t now.
“Do as you’re told,” I grind out. “Mama’s got this. Flame. The fuck. Off!”
The fire dissipates with a whoosh until only warm metal remains. A residual thrum of excitement travels from the sword up my arm to tingle my teeth. It tasted righteous action, and it wants more. It wants real evil melting beneath it, not metal.
Which is why it needs someone who understands mercy to wield it.
“I still have hopes you’ll learn to be a good human being first,” I tell the man. “You will, won’t you?”
He nods vehemently, and I pat his cheek with the flat of the warm blade. “Good boy.”
The blade vibrates for attention, as if it wants praise too. A grin splits my lips, and I kiss the blade.
“You’re a good girl, too,” I croon. “Now let’s go save your daddy.”