Page 6 of The Sinner and the Priest: Part Two

“I know you were told we’re heretics, but Mary’s Gospel proves we’re not. It’s too late for them to stick their heads in the sand.” Her fingers pick at the handle on her cane. “And we need to get ahead of Spain. To make sure they know it’s not normal.” She glances at the abbey building. “It’s not us.”

“Do you really want to go legit?” I scrunch my nose. “And join them?”

“We don’t have a choice,” she counters. “We can’t beat them.”

“So we join them?”

“We will always walk to the beat of our own drum, but we’re still women of the Faith.” She stares at the taxi, at Cisco. “We all believe in the same God. Besides—” She turns back to us. “Isn’t legitimacy what you all want? No more Sinner missions? We can build a better world for women without the killing.”

She talked about legacy in the reliquary a few days ago, and I get what she’s saying. I didn’t just catalog history in that room. It was tragedy, distance, and loneliness.

There has to be a better way to live.

Banging on the taxi draws my attention. Cisco stands beside the open passenger door, glaring at us across the roof.

“I’m coming!” I shout and start walking. “Don’t stress your dress, Rev. You’ve got the best Sinner on the case.”

I give a finger wave over my shoulder and meet Cisco on his side of the cab.

“We’re late,” he grumbles.

“It’s fine.” I smile. “We have plenty of time before check-in.”

He huffs, but in a resigned kind of way, a calming way. He looks my disguise over, and the crease between his brows completely melts away. With a heavy sigh, he straightens the veil framing my face.

“I suppose,” he says quietly, “if you’re going to sin, then at least let me make you presentable.”

“We’ll be fine.” I poke him in the abdomen, wishing it were a kiss instead, and slide into the cab. “Trust me. I have everything under control.”

He gets in after me and closes the door. “I thought I did, too.”

Three

Cisco

By some miracle, we touch down in Rome the following morning. Mercy took a sedative and slept the entire flight. It was just as well because there was a food-spoilage issue, and meals had to be rationed. Not that I was hungry.

Leaving the plane, my body aches in every cramped muscle. Ten hours in a pressurized cabin is a penance I did not ask for. Every joint grinds. My skin feels too tight. The fabric of my shirt is a coarse irritant against the ink, which seems to still buzz beneath the surface.

I’d forgotten the toll eating sin takes on my body, or rather, I don’t remember it being this bad. Maybe I’m just getting old, or maybe the curse is like an atrophied muscle—the longer I stop using it, the more it will hurt until I flex it into shape again.

And that’s exactly what it wants me to do. Every person in that cabin buzzed with a sense of evil, taunting me, testing my control.

The second miracle of the journey is that I resisted shoving my face into Mercy’s neck, hunting for that sweet floral scent to help drown out the noise. A priest necking a nun in coach is not exactly traveling inconspicuously.

Now we’re walking through the airport, heading straight to customs, and I’m desperate to get outside.

The terminal is a riot of noise. Children scream and cry, passengers moan and complain. It’s the selfish shuffle of a thousand souls in transit, each with their own flavor of evil more distinct since the last time I traveled.

Three rows ahead, a businessman in the crowded customs line gives off a heavy, oily feeling. It crawls over my skin and leaves a metallic tang of greed on the back of my tongue. If I taste him, I’ll bet I’ll find a career criminal or a corrupted banker, someone who cheats the vulnerable.

Beside him, a woman lies to her husband over the phone, her voice a sickly sweet rot that makes the back of my throat itch. Then there is the man she’s standing with—definitely not her husband. He’s⁠—

“You’ve not said a word since we left the States.” Mercy’s voice interrupts my thoughts.

It’s probably a good thing. Too much thinking about things I shouldn’t be thinking about is a slippery slope into sin.

“Neither have you.” I give Mercy a sideways glance, searching for hints of her mood in her expression.