Page 51 of Of Angels & Absolution

My heart starts hammering harder as adrenaline slowly courses through me, uncoiling inside me from where it was nestled, waiting like a snake to strike. Luckily I was already angry, thinking about Aunt Lucy making other plans, as if she eagerly washed her hands of me the moment I moved out. She probably didn’t even keep my room for me, instead using it to display the porcelain dolls she collects at flea markets. My fingers tighten into fists, but I don’t address the Sinner.

“A master of your skill doesn’t start fights,” our sensei told us before adding a good-natured wink. “We only end them.”

I pray I get the chance. Violence churns inside me, restless as a storm-tossed sea, seeking a way out. It’s too soon to return to the Slaughterpen, but this could be an even better outlet. Dynamo never books me a steep enough challenge. I always know I can win. Tonight, I’m uncertain, charged with fear as well as anticipation.

Paying me no mind, the Sinner clasps his hands, resting his forearms on the back of the seating in front of him, and bows his head. The acoustics in the nave make it impossible for anyone to sneak up on me, but I remain alert. I watch him pray, his lips moving almost imperceptibly, his throat working to swallow. I wonder if he’s really missing a tongue, and that’s why it looks so difficult for him. I wonder if it’s my fault.

His head snaps up, his gaze piercing into mine, and in the blazing hatred I find the answer.

He pulls one of the tiny pencils and a prayer request slip from the holder in the back of the bench seat and scribbles on it. Then he slides along the pew, hesitates, and stands. When he does, the slip of paper flutters to the floor in the center aisle.

He gives me one more long, loathing look before he dusts off his shoulder, turns on his heel, and walks out with long, rapid strides, as if he can’t put distance between us quickly enough. I slump back against the pew, dropping my forehead to my folded hands. Maybe feeling slightly sick at the thought of what my brother did to that boy, and for so little reason, makes me a hypocrite. After all, I beat girls to a bloody pulp for nothing more than my need for validation.

But those girls sign up for it. That violence is controlled, scheduled, chosen. That violence is warranted, wanted even. The pain is temporary. I’ve seen people do permanent damage at those fights, but I know how to avoid it, how to maximize blood loss and minimize severe injury. So, while I’ve caused a few visits to the dentist and trips to the hospital to get a broken nose set, it’s rare and unintentional.

I’ve certainly never disfigured someone in such a brutal way. I shudder at the thought of them holding him down, slicing through the organ while he choked on his own blood, drowning in it, and the agony he must have felt.

And for what?

I don’t even know him, don’t know if he deserved such a cruel fate as to not even be able to utter a cutting word to the girl who caused his dismemberment. Without talking to the Sinners, I have no way of knowing if they’re as bad as the Hellhounds make them out to be, or if they’re simply the enemy and therefore abhorred. Even Annabel Lee, whose family is in the opposing gang, didn’t seem to think they’re particularly dangerous or loathsome. What if they’re not the bad guys? What if the Hellhounds are?

I slide down the pew and pick up the prayer request, my stomach queasy with certainty that he’ll have asked God for his voice back.

Instead, scrawled in boyish handwriting, are five words that freeze me in place.

I know who you are.

I struggle to understand what it could mean. That they know I’m the Hellhound’s sacrifice? Or does he know I fight in disguise? I can’t see why he’d care about either of those things. But there are other options, ones that make me weak with dread. Heath could have shared the confession or uploaded it somewhere that Nate Swift hacked into in exchange for a favor from the Sinners. Do they know I’m the girl who said those things?

Or do they know that I’m the girl who ratted out her friends in juvenile court, three boys who are in their rival gang? Saint warned me that if I started digging, the Disciples would find out. And now, it looks like they have. I can’t tell yet if that’s a bad thing. Maybe this is some kind of peace offering, a reward for the same crime the Hellhounds are punishing me for. I got their enemies locked up, after all. This could be a notice of respect, a ceasefire, if they think that I’m on their side.

Saint said the Disciples were responsible for Eternity’s disappearance. But what if he was only saying that so I wouldn’t talk to his enemies? What if they know the truth, and they’re willing to tell me, and that’s why the Hellhounds have been trying to keep me from them all along.

There’s only one way to find out.

sixteen

The Merciful

I stand, ready to go after the Sincero boy and see if I can catch him, but when I turn to go, Father Salvatore is standing in the doorway. Our eyes meet, and my heart stops. It’s like that day in the library, when he watched, except today, we’re alone. I swallow hard, my heart racing. After a long moment’s hesitation, as if he’s giving me a chance to flee, he begins moving slowly down the aisle toward me.

“Lamb,” he says, that velvet voice rolling across the pews, echoing in the rafters overhead. “Why haven’t you gone home yet?”

“I’m—I’m not going home,” I say, retreating into my pew. “I got an exception to stay on campus. I don’t have anywhere to go.”

To my horror, my voice cracks unexpectedly. I don’t want him feeling sorry for me. I want to be fine with being alone, to be a strong, independent woman now that I’m eighteen. But the truth is, I’m not that kind of girl. I’m not fierce and careless like Eternity, or droll and blasé like Annabel Lee, or tough and practical like Ronique.

I’m lonely, and I ache for somewhere to belong, someone to belong to. I want somewhere to call home, somewhere safe, that I can call my own, where I can be myself. I want to find the person that I can be myself with too,myperson; the one who accepts me and loves me just as I am, for who I am.

And I’m terrified he doesn’t exist.

I’m afraid I’ll never find him, because I am unlovable.

“Can I offer you some comfort?” Father Salvatore asks, stopping in front of the first pew.

I nod, swallowing hard and willing myself not to cry. He doesn’t want to sit next to me, won’t even sit in the same pew. He must think I’m dirty and disgusting after all I’ve said to him, all he’s witnessed.

He sinks onto the pew in front of me, and his scent envelopes me, that masculine scent of sandalwood and leather that makes my head spin and my knees squeeze together. I close my eyes and take a breath, my fingers moving automatically to my cross, wrapping around it. When I open my eyes, he’s watching me from behind his glasses, his gaze watchful and sympathetic. His pose is casual this time, his body slanted at a sideways angle, elbow resting on the back of the pew that separates us.

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