Page 3 of The Sinner and the Priest: Part 1

But I can’t help myself. It’s like an invisible hand turns my head. I swear the air gets thinner at the moment of visual impact. My mouth waters at the sight of Cisco, all broad-shouldered and tattooed in his clerical blacks. Sleeves are rolled up, revealing corded forearms. Just above his white Roman collar is a square jaw with a five o’clock shadow.

I follow that stubble up to his lips and decide God is a sadistic bastard. Why else give a man such sensuous lips if he was never using them on a woman? What a waste. My gaze lifts, and my lungs seize. Brown eyes already look my way. Cisco’s expression is impassive, but somehow still full of judgment. The holy man either looks at me like I’m the scum he scraped off his boot or like I’m the local charity case. And right now, I can’t tell the difference.

Traitor.

I spent the past week watching him, studying him. I see him in the dining hall, a stoic, unmovable mountain. I see him in the church with his broad shoulders hunched in prayer, and his rosary beads clenched so tight in his fist I’m surprised they don’t turn to dust. Every Sinner has seen him for confession and Mass this past week. Every single one but me.

The others think I’m avoiding him out of stubborn defiance or distrust over his loyalties. They’re not entirely wrong. But the truth is darker and uglier. I’m avoiding him because I know what will happen the moment I’m alone with him in that confessional booth. I’ll either tear him apart or beg him to do the same to me.

From the moment I first laid eyes on him and those kissable lips, I’ve wanted to shatter his pious calm. The feeling has only grown. I want to make him see the filth he presides over, to force him to acknowledge his lies. I want to make him break his precious vow, and then I want to shove it up his tight, virgin asshole so deep that he chokes. The thought is a venomous thrill, a self-destructive fantasy that’s become my sole focus in this new, fractured world.

The Entity is coming to destroy us. Another Horseman is on the horizon. But the battle I didn’t choose, the one I can’t walk away from clean, is the one between the priest and me.

And it’s a war I plan to win.

Two

Mercy

The priest is still looking at me when Zeke opens his mouth.

“Yo, wildcat!” he shouts at Leila and then stretches out the hem of his shirt as he detours off the walled garden path toward us. “Check it!”

A glower darkens Cisco’s face, and he checks his watch. Since the tasteless food debacle, both teams have taken turns patrolling the estate for signs of demonic activity. Tonight is Team Saint’s turn.

So far, we’ve had no signs of evil. No more omens. The vegetables and fruit in the walled garden are bouncing back from their withering. Even the food tastes better. We’ve had zero signs of demonic activity related to the arrival of the Third Horseman of War, Famine. But that doesn’t mean Famine isn’t here somewhere. Pestilence and War behaved differently to each other; the only unifying factor was that each Horseman was also a Demon Prince of Hell.

It feels like we’re waiting for the penny to drop.

Still breathing hard, Leila meets Zeke halfway. The rest of the Sinners aren’t far behind, but I hang back to face the lake one last time before the evening mist swallows it. A prickle on the back of my neck tells me the priest is watching.

With casual, deliberate movements, I fix my long, sweat-damp hair into a top knot. Every twirl of hair, tilt of my head, and jut of my hips is designed to make the most devout men weep. A smile tugs at my lips when I hear Cisco’s brusque reminder: “Ezekiel!”

I twist around and see him a little too flushed in the cheeks for the sun, and glowering at his watch. When I start toward the abbey, his gaze flicks to me, and then he walks in the opposite direction. I’d feel triumphant if not for the way he’s tucked a large wooden crucifix and a bottle of holy water into his rear pocket. It wobbles when his tightly black-clad buttocks flex, drawing my attention, raising my temperature.

Zeke’s lips flatten briefly, but then he kisses the air in Leila’s direction and jogs after the man, already five steps along the long winding perimeter path.

“Is that on his shirt what I think it is?” Tawny scratches her head.

Leila groans and drags her palm down her face. “I didn’t think he’d actually do it.”

Raven snorts. “Did he make one for all of them?”

“Yes.” Her groan deepens.

“Why so glum?” I clap her on the back, lips twitching with the urge to stifle my smile. “I’m sure you’ll look perfect.”

“I will not.”

“I think it looks great!” Tawny adds with a bright smile. “Anyway, we’ve been trying to get a straight answer out of the priest for days now. He’ll either agree to wear the shirt—proving his loyalty—or he won’t.”

We all stare at Tawny. Blink. Stare some more.

“Like torture?” Leila asks, eyes narrow.

“Babe.” I soften my tone for Tawny. “I don’t think this would prove a lot. Cisco could just pretend.”

“I still think it’s cool,” she mumbles.