Page 26 of The Sinner and the Priest: Part Two

“I had a feeling they might take your bag.” He rubs the back of his neck. “So while I waited in the taxi at the abbey, I swapped a few vital items.”

Vital? I pull out the Twizzler. “Like what? Clothes?”

Please tell me I don’t have to wear a habit the entire trip.

“Your passport.”

“Oh.” I slump. Pop the Twizzler back into my mouth. “Thanks.”

“And—”

“Let’s go.”

I don’t get far past him. He grabs my arm, stopping me.

Our eyes lock. His mouth opens, but nothing comes out.

We came here with high hopes, knowing our chances of reconciliation with the Vatican were slim. But I wasn’t prepared for the fallout or the personal cost to him. I wasn’t prepared to have his life in my hands . . . worse, his soul.

Hunger still roams behind his eyes, prowling and gnashing its teeth. It’s there in every line of tension in his body.

“We can talk later,” I promise. “Right now, we’ve delayed enough.”

He winces and lets go of me.

I glance at the steam-room door. “Maybe we should burn them or something.”

“No,” he replies. “There’s nothing left this time.”

“What?”

“You walked out before you could see.”

“Do I want to?”

He shakes his head and strides out, one hand in his pocket, the other carrying his bag. The shame in his posture makes my heart clench.

I know what it’s like to feel like a passenger in your own body, a slave to your urges. It’s why what just happened between us isn’t anyone’s fault. I’m usually the one who instigates situations like this.

When I meet him in the main room, I find him frozen stiff, eyes wide and face pale, staring at something on the table.

Heart leaping into my throat, I reach his side and almost swallow my tongue when I see what he’s looking at. The food left for their lunch has gone rotten. Flies buzz about, laying eggs in the dead, putrid meat. Fruit is brown and black, rancid and oozing. Mold grows on bread and cheese. It’s as if someone’s come in and sprayed a chemical over them that somehow advances the passage of time.

I swallow the last of my Twizzler with a gulp.

“It’s me,” Cisco gasps. “Madonna mia . . . I must be Famine.”

The prophecy.

“It could be a coincidence,” I say.

He looks at me as if I’m mad. “After I just⁠—”

“A coincidence,” I repeat.

He mutters, “For her sins have reached unto Heaven, and God hath remembered her iniquities.”

“Hold up. You better not be talking about me.”