Page 2 of The Sinner and the Priest: Part 1

“Fuck you,” Raven mutters, lowering to kiss the grass. Her rainbow-tipped black braid pools on the ground like a coiled snake.

“Don’t make promises you can’t keep,” I shoot back.

A glance down the line reveals trembling arms and drooping cores. Abysmal effort. But at least they’re stubborn. Even Tawny refuses to admit defeat. Since we heard the news about Famine and the prophecy a week ago, she’s been as fractious as I am.

I only have myself to blame, I suppose. I’ve spent most of the time hiding out in the reliquary, sneaking Sisterhood relics into our secret bunker beneath the barn before the Entity turns up. If they turn up. I expected to see stuffy old cardinals on our doorstep days ago.

“Fifty more!” I climb nimbly to my feet, breathing hard as I pace the line, and assess their form. Raven gives me a dark look from beneath her lashes when I nudge the outside of her wrist into a better position. But she doesn’t collapse. She adjusts her form and continues. Tawny’s push-ups are going to give her posture issues. She stares at the grass, chin dipped too low. I grab her blond ponytail and yank backward, lifting her gaze to the correct form. Spine and core straight. Much better.

“Ow.” She scowls at me.

“Don’t like it?” I bend over to her eye level, still with my fist tangled in her silken hair. “Then don’t look down.”

“Fuck you.” She swats my hand away and collapses with a groan.

“No thanks.” I straighten, looming over her. “I don’t fuck girls with poor push-up form.” I keep walking. “Forty more.”

“I hate you.” The grass muffles her voice.

“I hope you remember saying that when your life depends on you being stronger than your opponent.”

Thea is next. Her arms tremble the most. Her hips sag too low.

“Fucking the scholar has made you weak, sister.” I sigh, shaking my head. “Use the bridge position next time. At least you’ll strengthen your core.”

She opens her mouth to say something, but thinks better of it. Good. I’m not in the mood for smarty-pants commentary. Leila is last in the line and, as always, her form is perfect. Each push-up is well-timed. Each move is precise, like a machine. Her black, glossy bob swings and swishes, hiding her face, but I know she feels smug.

She shouldn’t. I don’t tolerate liars in my team, and she and Thea still need to prove they’re trustworthy. I plant my foot on the small of Leila’s back, apply force, and bark, “Ten more.”

A chorus of groans answers me. Leila’s form trembles under my weight, but she grits her teeth and adjusts. Tawny hasn’t quite recovered from her collapse, only half-heartedly attempting the final set.

“Get your Cheeto-loving ass off the grass,” I growl at her, “or you’ll be first on the balance board tomorrow.”

The dirty look she slings my way hints at death, but then she locks it in and attacks the remaining repetitions with single-minded tenacity.

“Three.” I press harder on Leila when she hits the ground. “Two.” She snarls, fights me, and tries to rise. “One.” Lower again. Up. “Last one.” I grin as she releases a string of curses. “Done.”

I ease off and move to the front, folding my arms and glaring. Everyone sends hate my way, but they know I’m right. We can’t afford to get soft, now more than ever. The groaning and promises of death slowly fade away as each climbs to her feet.

“You’re all a bunch of dicks.” I grab my sweat towel and shake my head at their abysmal effort. “Limp, wrinkled dicks.”

“Why are you so mean today?” Tawny crawls to where she dropped her drink bottle, pops the lid, and holds the opening over her mouth. She glowers at me as though it’s my fault that no water comes out.

“Is this because I confiscated your cilices?” Leila pants.

“Maybe you should go into town tonight,” Raven offers. “Find a fuck boy and blow off some steam.”

“This isn’t … I can’t even…” I bluster, cheeks heating, rage building. Can’t even get my words out.

Thea steps toward me, then stops. “This is because we lied to you.”

“You didn’t just lie! You left me blind. And a blind leader gets her team killed.”

Why don’t you trust me?

Leila knew for weeks that Zeke was the foster brother she thought was dead, and then she lied about the prophecy linking a Saint and a Sinner romantically. Thea lied first. Tears sting my eyes, and I have to look away. My gaze swings immediately to the two figures exiting the abbey’s front doors. Zeke jogs down the porch steps, hands in slouchy jeans pockets, pistols holstered low on his hips. Arcane tattoos freshly re-inked on his bronzed forearms. His usual tattered band T-shirt has been replaced with a newer, slightly too-small one. Leila trimmed his brown hair, but it’s still somehow shaggy. The shit-eating grin is all trouble as he speaks to the priest beside him.

Don’t look.