Page 99 of The Sinner and the Priest: Part Two

“It is a joke, isn’t it?” She laughs and flicks her hair. “The idea that someone like you is holy enough to use a divine relic is laughable. You’re so conceited it’s delusional. No wonder your mother hated you.” She leans in close until I smell her coffee breath. “No wonder your father preferred death over you.”

Pure, unadulterated fury surges through me. I can’t believe I almost felt sorry for her.

She spins and walks away, taking the swarm of flies with her.

I stare after her for too long, letting her words get to me. Not in the way she intended, but because I think she’s kind of right. I am delusional. I should have seen this coming. Scowling, I turn back to the mural, suddenly feeling as exhausted as Hannah looked.

I sigh and mumble in Italian, “I’m so tired of this shit.”

“We don’t need you awake to have fun with you, slut.” The gangly one’s hands move to his belt.

The other one chuckles, but I ignore them. I keep staring at the mural, at the words ‘Judgment without Mercy,’ at the angel’s hate-filled expression as he stabs the serpent. All those candles from people praying for his protection, wishing death on their enemies, praying for justice, for validation over their wars and violence. How many times would Michael have had to swoop in and save the day for them?

It’s fucking exhausting.

No one, not even an archangel, can spend eternity being the thing people pray to. At some point, he gave up. Must have. Otherwise why do we have his sword?

“You think the pressure got to him?” I ask the gangly guy as he peels off his jacket.

“Who?” He glances at his friend, who returns a shrug.

“Saint Michael.” I nod at the mural, then at the sword. “Do you ever wonder if the pressure to be the perfect warrior was too much for him? Or that he ever got sick of trying to fix everyone’s mistakes when they don’t even try to fix it themselves?” The more I talk, the more it feels right. “I’ll bet that’s it. He just got fed up with the bullshit, so he just . . . gave his sword away. He thought, I’m fucking done. Fix your shit yourselves, losers.”

The men say something, but I’m not really listening. Goosebumps are breaking out over my body, erupting on every inch of skin because I’ve just realized why that line is familiar—judgment without mercy.

It’s from Mary Magdalene’s Gospel.

Thirty-Five

Mercy

My mind is reeling.

The mural has it wrong. Whoever painted it mixed up the line from Mary’s Gospel, or rewrote it to suit their purpose. Her line was about compassion.

The greatest danger to the world is judgment without mercy.

But the mural twists it into sounding like mercy and forgiveness are for the weak. To strike your foes down without quarter. To judge and kill without questions.

I glance down at the sword, then over my shoulder at the mural, and back to the two thugs about to lunge at me. I need more time to think, but I don’t have time.

The gangly guy is already unbuckling his belt.

Shit. Think, Mercy. Think.

The sword. Joan’s diary. Mary’s prophecy. This out-of-context, misinterpreted line on the mural. It’s all linked.

My mind races. Where else have I seen something that made me pause?

The frescoes in the ruins beneath the Vatican—they also revealed how information can change over time, and stories can grow to become something else. History is rarely accurate when people rewrite it over and over again. The facts aren’t perfect.

Perfect.

Perfect.

The word echoes in my mind until something clicks.

The relic demands perfect mercy.