Page 115 of The Sinner and the Priest: Part Two

It’s as if every Sinner who existed spoke from her lips. Every nameless, faceless woman whose legacy I helped preserve at the abbey. At some point, even with Beelzebub whispering in Hannah’s ears, she started believing in the Hildegard Sisterhood’s purpose.

Those who don’t know us think our mission is about putting men down, but it’s never been like that. It’s about raising women up, protecting the vulnerable. All those missions Hannah went on, all those times she met vulnerable girls—like the orphans—made a part of her realize they were all her once. A part of her never stopped fighting for change.

My throat clogs as my gaze settles on Cisco.

“You’re not doing it for him either, are you?”

Her breath hisses out through her teeth. “I know that makes me a bitch.”

The bitterness in her tone is familiar. I’ve heard it through every scorned woman’s lips . . . even my own. Not all orphans brought to the Sisterhood make it through training as a Sinner. We don’t talk about the ones that failed. Sometimes the trauma is too much to overcome and the Sinner in training folds. She gives in because she can’t see a path to healing.

Hannah is the name of every woman we couldn’t save.

“I get it, babe.” I squeeze her forearm again. “I’ll make sure our history books know your name.”

She takes a beat, then says, “Write it as Hannah. Not Babe. Not Maria.”

My eyes squeeze shut at the thought of another clue I failed to see. Not all do, but we can choose our Sinner name. I was shit at Bible studies, but I’ll bet the Hannah written about there was an awesome woman.

“Hannah it is,” I say.

She exhales sharply. “Ready to play the damsel?”

I nod, and she flips the dagger deftly in her fingers to aim the tip left of my heart. Her arm relaxes around my middle but remains locked, and the warbling vision around us crystallizes into sharp focus. I guess that means the invisibility cloak she cast on us has dropped, because when she shouts, “You can’t beat me the way you beat the others,” Cisco’s head whips our way.

Shadow tentacles retreat toward his body but don’t disappear completely. Part of me feels horrible about this deception, but I know it’s the right plan. Hannah, having never hosted the stronger half of the curse, will be weakened enough for me to use the sword.

“Just do it, Cisco,” I cry out. “Do it for us! Give it to your sister. Please!”

I see the calculation in his black eyes, the weighing of his odds against the speed of Hannah’s hand. She’s not like the others he feasts on. She has a supernatural power, just like him. Ribbons lash agitatedly around him.

What if it’s too late?

What if he’s too far gone?

“I won’t ask again!” Hannah punctures my flesh deep enough to release a crimson bloom that stains the ivory dress.

I exaggerate my cry of pain and lift my pleading gaze to Cisco. “Padre, please!”

His black eyes widen and flicker to brown.

“It’s okay, piccola,” he says to me, voice rough. “I have you.”

Agonized eyes shift to his sister’s face behind me. A litany of silent history and regret passes between them. His shoulders drop.

“Okay, Maria,” he says. “If this is your choice, then . . . I can no longer shelter you from your sins. I will give them back to you.”

He drops to his knees as ribbons of shadow peel away from his body, bleeding from beneath his collar, between his buttons, and from the untucked hem at his hips. Fear skips in my belly as they fly toward us. This looks like an attack.

But the first spiked ribbon completely eludes me and latches onto the one behind me. Then the second. The third. A choking sound of pain emits from Hannah’s throat. Her arm around my middle loosens, then falls. Next is the dagger arm, and then she slumps against my back, sliding down to her knees.

Alarmed, I instinctively try to stop her from falling, but then I see the shadows are helping her too.

The sword.

Get the sword.

I scramble backward on my ass, eyes darting between the two siblings attached by ribbons of spiked shadow. I think it’s working. It’s hard to tell with both their heads bowed, their faces hidden by hair or shadows, but neither is drying up like a corpse.