Page 16 of The Sinner and the Priest: Part Two

Empty wine glasses on trays sit beside scattered cushions on brocade sofas. Nearby desks have papers and open files, haphazardly arranged. A single, long dining table against a windowless wall is covered with an untouched high tea wrapped in film to protect it until the guests are ready to eat: sandwiches, cakes, fruit, cheese, cookies. Nothing here looks as if it’s suffering the same malignancy as outside.

But the Renaissance-era fresco on the domed ceiling is the real showstopper. Painted on all eight segments of the curved surface is a snapshot of the inferno. Grotesque demonic figures are rendered with visceral realism. Human forms and faces are contorted in agony and futility. Muscles strain, and tendons are taut. Their mouths are gaping soundless voids. Their eyes seem to follow me when I move.

I recognize silver symbols and protection wards against evil around the border at the base. When I peer more closely, some of the lines are off. A line zags when it should zig or closes when it should be open.

My fingers itch to take a photograph, but I have no doubt now that the prickling sensation I felt when crossing the threshold is a spell. It could be something simple, repelling demons, or it could be something casting me into an inferno like the one on the ceiling if I commit an act of betrayal. I don’t really want to test it, not with Mercy somewhere out there without me. I commit as much as I can to memory instead. Hopefully, that is enough.

Hollow, muffled male voices filter in from a narrow corridor.

I place my coffee cup on the table, sling my bag over my shoulder, and venture forward. The passage narrows the voices, sharpening their muffles into clarity. Just like the staircase, this room has been engineered so there are no secrets.

I emerge into a locker room lined with cedar doors, more benches, wash basins, and mirrors. A single, larger closed door emits tiny puffs of lavender-scented steam from vents.

Littered among the benches are red-trimmed papal vestments, clerical blacks, and shoes. Going by the number of items, there must be at least three cardinals and one other priest inside the steam room.

Pinching the bridge of my nose, I sigh.

I wish I could say I’m surprised, but my family had similar systems. A steam room means every man who enters is naked apart from his towel. Sometimes, complete nudity is required. No place to conceal a weapon, and thus all enter on equal footing.

What else am I expected to do but undress and join them?

Shaking my head, I toe off my shoes and work at my collar’s studs. My gaze drifts to the cabinets and the male clothes. They were never going to take Mercy’s request for a parlay seriously, or they wouldn’t be holding the meeting here.

A low simmering fury has settled beneath my skin by the time I’m folding my trousers and briefs and placing them on the bench. Cardinal Valerio is a clever, whip-smart man who enjoys moving people about as though they’re pawns. He never admits it, but I see it in his eyes every time we speak—he thinks he’s playing a game no one else notices.

Naked, I wrap a towel around my waist and then shoulder my way inside.

A wall of white heat hits me, and I have to stop to gather my bearings. It’s hard to see or breathe from the thick steam. What’s worse, tiny black ants crawl up my spine, tingling in waves across my flesh. It’s not enough to be demonic. More like the kind of evil I imagine someone would sense inside me.

My senses go on high alert.

I always knew there were men with pasts here, men like me who want absolution. I assumed that, like me, they had been ordained and God had thus decided they were worth saving. But I also heard rumors whispered among the halls, particularly between exorcists, fears that the devil has entered the temple of God.

I thought they were just talking about me, but after the situation with Jasmine, I wonder . . . how many out there are like me?

Cool air vanishes from my back as the door closes. The waft of air pushes clouds away from me, briefly clearing enough steam by a wall. More frescoes. Even blurred as they are through the condensation, it’s easy to see that these are completely pornographic.

“Francisco, so glad you could join us.” Valerio’s thick Italian-accented voice slithers through the steam. “Come in, my son. Sit.”

He speaks in English, which likely means the other men here are multinational.

I take a step. Still can’t see. Take another, and another until four shadowy figures on a bench take shape. Between us is the culprit behind all this steam: a pit filled with smooth, hot stones. Beside it is a baptismal font with a ladle.

The central misty figure beckons me. Gold glints on his ring finger, winking through the mist.

“Don’t be shy. We are all friends here.”

Friends of the Vatican. It’s the elusive language I was instructed to use when speaking about my work as a member of the Entity. We never know each other’s faces. We work in secret, even from each other.

I guess until now.

One more step and I see enough to recognize the heavy jowls belonging to Cardinal Marcus Valerio, front and center. The two aging men on his right, closest to me, are likely the other cardinals whose clothing I noticed outside. Given their sagging skin, both are in their sixties or early seventies, like Valerio. One is much taller, with short white hair. The other is shorter, heavy-set, and with a dense mat of gray chest hair to compensate for his bald head.

The younger man on Valerio’s left must be the priest. He also seems bald, but I think a touch of reddish hue means it’s shaved. He is the furthest away, and the steam conceals more than the others, but it’s obvious that his frame is lean and packed with hard muscle.

“Eminence.” I nod respectfully and take a seat closest to the door.

“See, Gunther?” Valerio swats the bald Cardinal beside him, displacing steam. “Did I not tell you he is the perfect specimen of sin?” He gestures at my body, more specifically, my tattoos. I think. “This is the body of a life well lived.” At my frown, he quickly adds, “I mean no disrespect, Francisco. Only that you have experienced much.”