Page 107 of The Sinner and the Priest: Part Two

Vibrations zip up the metal into my hand. At first I think it’s agreeing with me, but then Bianchi and the cardinal suddenly turn toward the swarm. I follow their gazes to a pale, youthful figure standing amid the whirling darkness, watching us. His image is ghostly and disappears every so often when the flies become too thick.

He can’t be more than fifteen or so. At least, that’s my first impression. But his clothes are from a bygone era, perhaps the nineteenth century. The sword hums again, stronger and more intensely.

A warning? Or is it eager to be used?

I point with my sword and ask the men, “Do you see him, too?”

Bianchi gasps, “You see it?”

The cardinal urges, “Describe it.”

“I see a young male,” I answer. “But in the clothes of another time. I thought you could see him because you both turned in the same direction.”

They share another look, and I sense what I’ve revealed has taken another step toward winning the cardinal’s trust.

“We cannot see the demon,” he confirms, “but we sense his evil.”

“The same as Cisco?” I ask, then my brows slam down. “Are you cursed?”

“Not that we know of. Many of us in the Pope’s circle have a gift of some sort,” Bianchi explains. “But none so blessed as yours.”

“We have faith you will do the right thing.” The cardinal dips his head at me, almost reverently. A rush of relief, and something lighter hits me square in the chest. It gives me hope, and I can’t explain it. Don’t have time to ponder it. We need action right now.

“I’m going in,” I announce, and start barefoot down the steps.

“Wait!” Bianchi shouts, jogging down after me. He unwraps his purple exorcist’s stole and hands it to me. “You might need this.”

“Good idea.” I take it and wrap it around my face, shielding my airways. “Thank you.”

From the look of confusion on the old priest’s face, I don’t think this was his intended meaning, but I give him a quick thumbs up and say, “Pray for me, Padre.”

For the first time in my life, I mean it.

Thirty-Eight

Mercy

No plan. No backup. No hope.

But at least I can breathe through the flies pelting my face as I walk across the piazza.

I must be halfway to the obelisk monument by now, but all I see apart from flames along the sword is black. I don’t think I’m going in the wrong direction.

Keeping my eyes sharp, I lift the sword like a visor before my stole-wrapped face. The flames repel the swarm a little, clearing my view enough to see cobblestones a few paces ahead. But with each step forward, the flies grow thicker and larger, the buzzing louder, and the air more congested. The darkness between each bug flows, reminding me of the ribbons of shadow attached beneath Cisco’s tattoos.

I push the thought aside and keep going.

The next wave of buzzing carries voices raised in an argument.

“You stole everything from me!”

“I just wanted to protect you!”

A third voice slides through the buzzing and lands right against my ear. “This is all your f⁠—”

I whirl with my sword, and the voice stops as if cut off mid word by a hand clamped over a mouth. My eyes narrow at the darkness. Those final words sounded familiar in the way the first lot wasn’t. I recognize the cadence too. I spent the first third of my life learning it, the last two unlearning it, and this morning, in a room smelling of bleach, I finally stopped flinching from it.

Hannah admitted to messing with my mind. This is obviously another ploy.