Page 20 of Lake of Sin

I said none of this, but when I looked up at Dantalion, its eyes were bright and hungry.

“Do you wish to find out?” it whispered.

A gasp escaped my lips. “Another fantasy?” I whispered. “I—I could want that. Idowant that. I would want to enter Oliviero. I want?—”

“If it were not a fantasy, what then?”

I didn’t understand. I frowned at the demon and gestured to the grand structure of its bibliotheca. “I am dead, my Duke. I committed a mortal sin to enter here. I am no human any longer.”

And Dantalion smiled, faces and lips oscillating in shape and size and colour. “This is something I can give you. This is what I, Duke of Hell, can do. A small amount of time, anywhere in the mortal realm. When the time is up, youwillreturn: there is no way for you to survive longer than my allowance. Your spirit will return here, to the bibliotheca, to me. But if you have unfinishedbusiness, as it appears you do, then how will you be my Lord’s plaything wholeheartedly?”

I swallowed and gestured at it. “You cannot pretend you have no interest in me, if you are willing to do this.”

Dantalion conceded with a shrug. “I have an interest.”

“It is my duty to bring you pleasure. If I don’t?—”

“What I want to do is akin to torture for you,” Dantalion snapped quickly. “Perhaps in your mind, there is still denial at what your brethren think of you. You think:perhaps they never rolled the rocks away. Perhaps they never found the bishop and mine corpses. My death might be a holy tragedy to them. But the real holy tragedy is your true nature, and if you go to them now, they will know with certainty exactly what creature you are. What kind of man they supped with all those years. I am curious to see if you will follow through.”

But Dantalion’s words had stirred me. Rather literally—the thrill of the transgression filled my body with untampered heat. I wanted that.

I wanted them to see me. I wanted them all to know. I desired both the humiliation and the ultimate freedom of their knowledge: I would never be able to hide again.

I would never return, not ever, to anything other than this.

So I met Dantalion’s eye with defiance.

“I want that,” I told it. “I want them to know exactly what kind of man I am.”

8

The abbey smelled as I remembered it: altar candles, amber, frankincense, the aged books, and the sweet summer air of Italy. A cloying and inescapable mix. I used to think I was breathing in God with every breath.

It happened like this: Dantalion spoke in some infernal language I could never hope to understand, and when I next opened my eyes, I was standing in the nude in one of the abbey’s many halls.

To return was jarring. I’d been deposited in a thankfully empty hallway. The windows to my right, a simple paned glass, showed me it was night time—a swathe of black shadow hid everything. I could see nothing much inside, either: no candles were lit in the wall sconces this evening. It was past the time that many priests entered their silent hours, where they wouldn’t speak again until morn.

I didn’t know what I was doing, but I felt anxious. Not frightened, but certainly surprised at myself for going through with this. In a way, it all felt like a dream—the consequences I would face would always end in my inevitable return to Hell. ButI would still have to face the look of disgust on my brethren’s faces.

When I oriented myself, I decided first to visit Oliviero’s room. This involved feeling along the walls and letting my eyes adjust, though I found I had much better sight in the dark than I had when I was alive. When I found his door, I rapped my knuckles softly against the wood and waited tensely to be admitted.

My knocking was not answered.

Reluctantly, I pulled away from the door and began to walk towards the main chapel. My feet touched the cold stone. Breathing felt difficult, like I hadn’t truly done it in months.

How long had I been gone?

Unabashed at my nakedness, I continued toward the chapel. I turned corners, and slowly but surely, more light began to filter in as dozens of candles had been lit and seemed to guide me onwards.

It took little for me to recognise this layout. I had been wrong in my initial assessment: the silence was not because many monks and priests were in silent hours but because all of them were attending a vigil.

“Quod autem vobisdico omnibus dico vigilate.”Secundum S. Marcum

“What I say to you, I say to all: keep watch.”Gospel according to St. Mark

Vigils—aperiod of watchfulness, a night spent in prayer, community, and reflection. I pressed my body to the cold stone wall and peered around the bend, where the doors to the chapel were shut. Candles dotted the floor and cast a sunset glow over the double doors. From within, I could hear the murmurings ofcommunal prayer; the voice of a single man and the occasional answer from his gathered flock.

I understood what Dantalion meant by torture. This was not as simple as a confession to one man. This was humiliation drawn out.Allof them would know me for what I was.Allof them.

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