Page 127 of The Sinner and the Priest: Part Two

There is not a doubt in my mind now that Mercy’s sword worked its magic on me because I felt no premonition of evil tingling up my spine.

I felt nothing.

Not a single itch.

I should be ecstatic, praising the Lord for the miracle, but instead I am frozen like an ice statue. Evil is literally at our gates, strolling down the driveway as if he owns it. I am just a man, powerless to do anything but watch Tawny bypass Raven and close the distance between herself and Jinx. She’s too busy chasing the recalcitrant ex-demon to notice the silent, ghostly apparitions slide through the gaps between iron bars like liquid. But Raven does. We all do.

As the shadows darken, color seeps from the lawn, from the lake, from Mercy’s face beside me until everything looks like a photograph left too long in a window. The sweet smells of the wilderness go next. Hay, cut grass, herbs and pine—all gone.

This isn’t like before.

I shield my eyes and squint to see through the distance, recognizing something familiar in the approaching figure with a jolt.

Fractured memories from the piazza pelt me—visions of a waxen-faced youth, flies crawling from his eyes and mouth, Maria’s expression just before she stepped in front of Mercy’s sword to save me.

The laughter.

“It’s Beelzebub!” Mercy shouts.

Tawny whips her gaze to us, then back to the gate and the newly appeared figure approaching. She stumbles to a stop.

“As in the Demon Prince of Hell?” Thea’s wide eyes dart our way, voice pitching higher with each word. “The one linked to Famine?”

Behind Beelzebub, long, thin shapes pour through the gaps in the gate like water, then pull themselves together again on our side.

Jinx, still free of Tawny’s arms, gets within range of Beelzebub and leaps in an attack. She sails straight through the demon as if he’s not there.

“I’m not really here,” Mercy mumbles beside me. “Not yet. And then I ride. That’s what he said.” She gasps, eyes wide. “He taunted me about winning whether I rid you of the curse or not, Cisco. I thought he was confused, that he’s Famine, but you were.”

Warmth drains from my face. “It is as I thought—we’re fulfilling the prophecy. We’re creating our doom.”

Mercy nods grimly. “And he’s Death.”

Her final word is like a bullet, spurring our team into action.

“No.” Dominic breaks into a run down the driveway. He’s fit, fast, and powerful. But he’ll never make it to them in time.

I’m not even sure they can hear us at this distance. Raven is . . . my gaze darts between her and Tawny, back to her and then toward Beelzebub as I try to work out who the target is. The demon prince isn’t looking at Tawny as he approaches them. His eyes are locked beyond her, on Raven.

The giant moth fluttering his wings won’t make it in time, and unless Asmodeus teleports himself there, he won’t either.

“Babe, get your exorcist kit.” Mercy’s hand plants against my chest and pushes me up the steps. “Move your ass, Padre!”

I turn, and Leila is there, shoving a bundle into my arms. I grab them with one hand and my blanket with the other, stopping it from falling. I glimpse Leila’s hard, determined eyes and then she’s pushing past me, already cocking her pistol and aiming.

“It won’t work!” Mercy chops down with her sword, knocking Leila’s aim to the ground. “Save your blessed bullets. My sword sailed right through him in Rome.”

“Then what the fuck do we do?” she returns, concerned eyes tracking the progress of Wesley, Zeke, and Thea as they race across the lawn to the gravel driveway.

Beelzebub strolls as if he exists in another world. Same two holes as eyes, in a pale suit cut from another time, and flies gathered on his collar.

No shadow.

He leaves no shadow on the ground behind him, and it’s not because the sun keeps hiding behind clouds. He’s not fully here yet, not corporeal.

He looks at Noctis flapping toward him, then at Asmodeus, who now thankfully stands between him and Tawny. Beelzebub slows for half a step, says something to them, and then continues to Raven.

Miraculously, Dominic is almost there, only twenty-odd feet away. His bare feet pound the gravel, leaving blood stains behind. Bellowed Italian makes it to my ears, something like, “He can’t take a living man. He can’t, he can’t.”