Page 100 of The Sinner and the Priest: Part 1

The child trembles so hard that I feel it through to my bones. Mercy and I meet eyes across the mop of short, unruly black curls. Her confusion morphs into determination when she sees my grim expression.

“We kill it,” I mouth, so as not to upset Lucia.

Mercy nods once, then joins me as we hunt through black curls. Every so often, a buzzing starts and abruptly stops. Lucia’s muffled screech follows, her little fingers bruising in their grip. She mumbles something inaudible on repeat. I look to Mercy for translation, knowing she is good with languages.

“It’s not going to bite you, don’t worry,” Mercy tells Lucia. “We’ll get it.”

The child says something else that makes Mercy tense, and I renew my search.

It’s here, I know it. Must be like the one down in the kitchen. I didn’t notice the sense of evil there, but now I do. It’s just so thin that it’s hard to nail down. It’s alive and hungry, but also the filth and grime and rot are there too. Goosebumps prick my flesh as I narrow down the location and flick my fingers out to stop Mercy from disturbing the hiding spot.

There it is, tangled behind her ear, monstrous wings tucked behind the hair.

“Hold her steady,” I murmur.

Mercy cups Lucia’s head and gives me a nod. I snatch the bug out, crushing it between my thumb and forefinger before it can bite me. Like the one in the kitchen, it pops and oozes black innards. The sense of evil snuffs out.

“Finito.” I pull out the bottle of holy water and hand it to Mercy. “Please open it.”

“We got it, babe,” Mercy exhales and rubs Lucia’s arm. “Fucker got what it deserved.”

She then takes the bottle from me and screws off the lid. I drop the carcass into the holy water and watch it sink. By the time it settles on the bottom, it has broken into pieces.

Lips pursed, I screw the lid back on and put the bottle in my pocket, out of view.

Lucia’s still shaking. “Are there more? In … our room?”

The other two orphans still peer out from their room, eyes wide, not daring to cross the distance.

I soften my voice. “Would you like me to check?”

“Let’s do that.” Mercy guides Lucia toward her room. She continues the conversation in Portuguese, and the child seems to calm down. She even answers Mercy a few times.

I detour to wash my hands in the bathroom and then join them at their open door. The other two children tense upon seeing me, but then take in the cassock and relax a little. Maybe it reminds them of a nicer priest than the one in clerical pants and a shirt.

“If it’s okay with you two,” Mercy tells them. “Father Angelotti is going to help me search for bugs.”

Every time Mercy calls me Father instead of Padre, something inside me feels lighter.

Despite mocking me privately, when it comes to the souls and safety of the vulnerable, Mercy never fails to respect me.

I watch, a little dumbfounded, as she steps into the bedroom, giving it a furtive look. “And then,” she says, “Father is going to bless the room so they can’t find you again. Does that sound good?”

One of them asks something—the sharp-eyed, French one. Mathilde, I think her name is. It’s too fast for me to decipher.

Mercy glances at me, then at Mathilde, and nods. “He’s the best there is.”

Warmth under my ribs is hot and sudden.

I clear my throat and gesture into the room, “May I enter?”

A pillow fort in the middle dominates their cramped cell, its sheets draped like a tent between the two beds. The window is closed, and the curtains are drawn. Enochian protective words are already painted in blood on the walls, but there is no holier blood than a priest’s.

I whisper to Mercy, “Your dagger?”

She hesitates, but then unzips her hoodie a fraction to reveal her cleavage. When she reaches into it, I quickly look away, cheeks heating.

Something cool, rounded, and hard touches my palm. “All yours, Padre.”