Page 133 of The Sinner and the Priest: Part 1

Light behind me blooms brighter.

Thea’s coming.

The devil roars and swells inside me, stronger than before. It fills me up with emptiness and⁠—

“Stop!” Mercy shrieks.

A blow to my back jerks me forward, onto my hands and knees. Blinding white light washes through me, and it’s euphoric. It’s the feeling I get when I’m close to God, the holy presence, the fucking universe in a breath. And it’s the feeling when I devour. It’s all one.

But I’m still here.

Still me.

The silence is louder than a gun.

I glance up and see Mercy gaping at me, confused. Awed.

“He’s not,” she mutters. “He’s not a demon, see?”

“Then what the fuck is he?” someone shouts.

I can’t tell who because Mercy’s limping closer, wounded arm hanging, and it’s wrong. I see it on her face; she thinks I’m not evil.

I’m not a priest. I’m not a demon. Not even a man. I’m something worse, something a divine relic can’t kill.

The void howls with laughter in my belly, black and infinite.

It whispers, You’re almost there. One more mouthful. Just one⁠—

“Cisco.” Mercy reaches for me.

I snarl, jerk away. “Don’t⁠—”

She flinches, making a noise like a kicked dog, and I hate myself for it.

But it’s better this way. It has to be.

Leila’s still aiming at me with the gun. The rest are too shocked to move.

My gut is lava. The void inside me claws at my ribs, desperate to get out and feed again. I fight it, wrestle it with every ounce of will left. At some point, both my hands are on the floor.

Get out. Now.

I need to go.

Bitter blood rises in my throat when I force my limbs to move. Concrete rips the skin off my palms, but I keep crawling for the stairs to the exit.

Up, up, and up. Hannah flattens herself against the wall as I pass, mumbling something nonsensical. No one shoots me. No one stops me. Somehow, I make it out. My feet barely land where they should, but even blinded by pain, I know where to go.

I need to rebuild the cage. Make it stronger than before.

Down the path, around the building, and through the church’s front door. I stagger into the nave and stop. I hold my breath, tensing, half expecting—half hoping—for the wood and stone to combust in flames. For God to finally say, “Enough.”

But nothing happens.

The only thing burning is my insides.

I make it to the altar and collapse at the base. The last of my willpower bleeds out, and I prostrate myself, head down, arms wide. It’s just like the day I was ordained, only this time, I’m not praying for God’s strength. I’m praying that when I had to choose between who lives and who dies, I chose right because I can’t remember.