Page 4 of Remorseless Sinner

My mother Diane was in her 40s, beautiful and elegant, and I whispered a prayer over her silver heels, that if it came to blessings, the Eye of Nimhe would bless her and not me. It was a daughter’s duty to serve her parents.

Mother came from great wealth and left it all to marry my father. After he had died when I was a teen, she had met my stepfather Rufus at church.

My stepfather was a tall, silent intellectual man, who worked at the local college as a theologian, and there was a crust on his shiny black shoes from walking the grounds to get to his courses, and I worked diligently on it, the dirt crumbling off and staining my gray skirt.

They had gotten married when I was 18 years old, and were both very active in the church.

Rufus was not the warmest man in the world, but he definitely was very devout and encouraged devotion in the family as well.

I certainly didn't blamehimfor what had happened.

It wasn’t his fault he had grown a sinner, instead of a saint. I knew he had tried everything.

Some sinners can’t be reformed.

The Service began as it always did, with the long-necked surveillance arms of the great serpent writhing about the Congregation members as we sung the opening hymn.

But I had done my daughter’s duty well, each pair of shoes was clean, the mud stainingmygown, as was proper, and I had no fear the Eye would find my obedience wanting.

Worshipers of the Eye of Nimhe had grown in strength since I was a girl, dozens of members now were packed into the small sanctuary as we sat still and waited.

The arms were there to tell us if anyone present was full of sin or not before our pastor gave the sermon.

They were there to be the mechanical eyes and arms of Nimhe.

We all made sibilant hissing noises as we waited patiently for the judgment, the repetitive sounds a prayer, a hope, and a promise.

Were we devoted or not?

The Eye knew.

Eyes wavered above our heads, the arms flowing like milk down a mountain, the gears grinding as our pastor waited in the pulpit, his arms gripping the sides as he looked down over the Congregation.

Suddenly, the machine above my head made a discordant grating sound, like a metal claw scraping across concrete.

My blood instantly ran cold, a terrible icy dread drawing down my spine like a knife.

What was happening?

I had been to services every week since I was a little girl, and the Eye had never made noise like this. And certainly never asloudas this.

I did not know the meaning of it, but I sat in my pew, waiting to see what would happen.

Had someone not tithed appropriately? Had someone not given their all to the Serpent?

I looked around anxiously.

Surely it was only a coincidence that the machine was hovering over my head.

“Grace O’Brien,” Pastor Mickelson rumbled.

He was a gaunt, strong man in his 50s with a lined face and sparse gray hair.

“Do you have a sin you’d like to confess?” the pastor asked me sternly.

My mind instantly went blank.

Could I have angered Nimhe in some way?

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