Page 101 of The Sinner and the Priest: Part 1

A snort of derision slips out of me. I lift my gaze to the ceiling and count to five. Exhale. Face her again and smile. “Grazi.”

Together, we systematically search the room, fluff the sheets, look under the bed, and into every cranny. No sign of infestation. Nothing at all.

“This is good,” I say. “I will make the wards now.”

“I’ll double-check their hair. Who’s first?” Mercy waves them inside the fort and goes to work like a mother monkey grooming her babies. To stop myself from chuckling, I slice my palm and use the blood to fingerpaint the first Enochian sigil onto each corner of the window. Next, I paint above the door, and then the cracked patch above the pillow-fort. At each stop, I mutter the incantation: “Per potentiam Michaelis, exi ab hoc loco, spiritus immunde.”

Mercy’s voice filters out from the fort. “By the power of Michael, get the fuck out.”

A harsh laugh barks out of me. Eyes wide, I crouch and find the girls are giggling too.

“I should not laugh.” I give Mercy an overly dramatic frown. “Swearing is fucking bad, no?”

I gasp and clamp my hand over my mouth. Most languages recognize that word. True to my theory, more giggles erupt from the orphans, and then they’re teasing me about things I don’t understand. But my smile stretches, and Mercy gives me a wink that soothes something in my soul.

She breaks eye contact first.

“This place is now sanctified,” I tell the girls. “Sleeping here now is as protected from evil as if you were in the church. Nothing can touch you.”

While Mercy translates for each of them, I marvel at her intelligence. She has a knack for noticing things others don’t. I can see why she is their leader.

A beat of silence passes, then the smallest—Eliska—leans close to Mercy and whispers something. All three of them burst out giggling.

Mercy flashes me a smirk. I wait for the translation, but it doesn’t come.

“Am I missing the joke?” I ask.

She shakes her head. “Girl talk.”

They pile back into their fort, already plotting how to weaponize the new wards. Probably. I don’t know. Outside, Mercy closes the door behind us.

“That was nice,” she whispers. “What you did for them.”

I shrug. Clear my throat. “It’s the least I can do.”

The silence stretches.

“Did you find bite marks?” I ask. “On the girls?”

She takes my upper arm and directs me away, down the corridor. Once out of earshot, she lets go of me and heads into the bathroom, returning with a first aid kit. She finds a plaster, unwraps it, and takes my cut palm.

“I didn’t find any bite marks,” she answers, layering the bandage over my hand. “No, but Lucia said something unusual.” Her eyes grow distant, worried. “When she mumbled into your leg. She kept repeating, ‘They found us. They found us.’”

My palm still tingles after she’s done and puts away the first aid kit.

“The flies found them?” My brows raise. “I had an incident with flies today, too.”

“Oh?”

She steps closer, and I tell her about the church window and then the kitchen. It feels good. Right. This is where I’m meant to be. I finish with, “And don’t forget what I found in the garden a few days ago.”

She rubs her chin. “Yeah, that’s not good.”

“We should interview them,” I suggest. “About Spain.”

“I know,” she sighs. “At first, I wanted to let them settle in. Now I don’t want to dredge up painful memories when they seem to finally be happy.” Her beauty mark disappears when she presses her lips together. “Is it worth asking them if it’s not going to change anything?”

A lock of hair falls in her eyes. She blows it away, but it falls again in the same spot. Dio mio, she is beautiful. Even more when she is like this, worried and fussing about those she cares about.