Page 38 of The Sinner and the Priest: Part Two

He’s not the Horseman of War.

Not even terrifying.

Asmodeus is a tortured wreck. He’s in tattered clothes, a dirty hooded blanket, and has dark circles beneath his eyes. By the size of his empty bottle pile and cigarette butts, he’s been down here for a while. Probably stewing in the misery of having a soul.

My fingers tighten around the sword, but it only gives me an embarrassing splutter, a sizzle of smoke, and a single spark that fizzles out before it hits anything.

His eyes drop to it, and his lips slowly curve on one side. “Having a little performance issue, are we, sweetheart?”

My blade is at his throat before he finishes his question. “It cuts well enough.”

Tiny hairs lift on my skin when he chuckles. It’s such a confident, smug, and foolish thing to do when I’m pressing a holy blade to his neck, and Cisco is . . .

My thought trails off when I realize Cisco hasn’t said a thing. My pulse quickens, and I’m too afraid to look.

Why hasn’t he spoken? Or moved? Oh God, is he not breathing? I can’t hear it.

Slowly, painfully, I turn in Cisco’s direction and gasp.

He’s frozen, petrified as if time has stopped only for him. Wholly black, demonic eyes glower at Asmodeus, and his snarl is locked in place. Even the shadow ribbons curling from beneath his tattoos are petrified, suspended midair.

“What have you done to him?” I whisper, horrified.

“Don’t worry, he’s just taking a nap. It’s completely harmless.” Asmodeus flicks his cigarette butt away and yawns. “Honestly, wish I could join him. Just looking at you two makes me tired.” He scrubs his face, exasperated. “The jealousy, the denial, the sheer, staggering volume of your constipated emotional baggage . . . it’s giving me a migraine.”

“Let him go,” I growl, pressing the blade against his throat. “Wake him up.”

“Not until one of you learns to project your agonizing sexual tension a little quieter. Some of us are trying to have a miserable existential crisis in peace, thank you very much.”

Asmodeus ignores the sword at his throat and yanks the hooded blanket off, revealing an open black tailored jacket with a simple black shirt beneath.

I could be wrong, but I swear he wore that same suit after he crawled out of Prue’s mouth. I remember because Dominic was wearing one just like it. Only, this version has a bullet hole in the T-shirt . . . right over his heart, where Leila shot him with the Helwing gun.

He fumbles around the mess beside him for another cigarette, finds a squashed packet, and tips it upside down. Nothing comes out. He pouts, then continues searching for another.

Have I walked into an alternate dimension? What the fuck is happening?

Snap out of it.

I move the sword to his chest and press the tip until I feel threads fray.

He stills.

Lustrous, dark lashes lift until our eyes clash. “Darling, at least wait until I find another smoke.”

“This is an archangel’s blade,” I warn. “Can’t you feel the divine power purring against you?” I scoff. “What am I saying? Of course you do. It probably hurts, doesn’t it? Imagine how much it will hurt going through your insides, which is exactly what I’ll do if you don’t release Cisco.”

“Oh, please do. I’m begging you.” He deadpans and taps the bullet hole with a black, clawed finger. “Just aim a little to your⁠—”

“Chirp.”

Something moves inside Asmodeus’s jacket, and his face goes pale.

“What’s that?” I ask.

“What’s what?” he replies, eyes bulging.

“In your pocket.” I use the sword tip to peel open his jacket on one side.