Page 10 of The Sinner and the Scholar
I take back my earlier comment. Anyone who can ignore Ravenisa Saint.
The Monsignor nods to the Rev and speaks with an Italian accent. “Our journey is, ah, very pleasant and, ah… how you say… we are most humble to be sharing these accommodations with you.”
He pats his sweaty forehead with a handkerchief.
My gaze darts between the men. None of them speak English. Good. Then I can ignore them, too. They don’t need to know Sinners are multilingual. Easier to garner state secrets and assassinate that way.
The Monsignor and the Rev continue polite chit-chat. I tune out in favor of studying the guests, as I am sure my sisters are doing. We like to get the lay of the land before it lays us.
The man in torn jeans has brown, medium-length hair. Olive skin—perhaps Mediterranean or Turkish in his heritage from the cut of his features. He could pass as a supermodel if it weren’t for the smudges beneath his eyes. He looks rough… the kind of rough that comes from experiencing hardship. He moves like a panther as he wheels a heavy suitcase made of metal. Knuckles are scarred. He’d be a dirty, unpredictable fighter.
Proceed with caution,my subconscious warns.
The other Suit can’t be older than thirty-something, yet his attire screams stuffy old professor. White. Messy blond hair. Ray Ban spectacles. His vest is crumpled. A pocket watch on a chain. He’d be attractive if he weren’t sucking on a sour lemon as he looks at us. I catch distaste when his gaze flicks toward me, and immediately I want to shove this severed hand down his throat. That arrogant mouth looks like a great place to rest it.
I shift my attention to the younger priest. He is also in his thirties… but maybe a touch older than the others. Brown hair, tanned skin, tall, clean-shaven, and wearing his clerics—white roman collar and black shirt. My eyes say priest, but my gut says something about him is unsuitable for sermons on humility and turning the other cheek. It’s how he fills out that shirt, how his broad shoulders stretch the seams, and how it hugs his trim waist like a glove. A scar runs across his upper lip, and I swear there is a hint of tattoo at his collar and wrist. Mercy is right. Those lips are made for kissing, but those hands are made for choking.
Apart from the old priest, they are all in their prime, fit and handsome. Even the scowling scholarly type.
Each Sinner is plucked from orphanages and foster care homes because of her looks first and grit second. All the better for us to lay honey traps. Can the Vatican possibly use its Saints the same way as the Sisterhood uses us?
Maybe they’re not so pious after all.
“Let me introduce our Sinners.” The Rev’s voice filters back in, and I flinch. She points at each of us and says our names. The men watch with veiled curiosity behind their wariness. The Saint lingers on Raven, the blood over my body, and the severed hand in my grip.
The professor-type coughs when Mercy curtseys and flashes boob. The younger priest hastily looks away, which makes Mercy virtually preen.
The Monsignor points at the torn jeans guy. “Zeke is our gunman, yes?”
Zeke lifts his chin in greeting. I sense Leila stiffen beside me. She’s probably feeling the pinch of competition as our weapons expert.
“Next is man who turns pages of books, yes. He is, ah, how you say—our… ah…”
“My name is Wesley,” says the blond with spectacles. Liverpool hints in his crisp, British accent. Not Italian. Interesting. The hint is almost too thin to detect. It’s like he’s tried hard to erase his roots. He gives the Monsignor a tight smile. “Perhaps I can finish the introductions?”
Gratitude washes over the old man. He pats his forehead and nods.
“Right,” Wesley says swiftly, all business. “I’m Wes, the occult and demonology scholar. You met Zeke, our weapons specialist. This is Father Angelotti, our exorcist. And that well-dressed chap at the end is Saint Dominic. I think the name explains itself. Nice to meet you all.” He adjusts his spectacles with a finger. “A point of note, I’m the only one fluent in English.”
Right. How convenient for them. So the game is afoot already. Perhaps that’s what prompts me to drawl, “Only one Saint? I thought there’d be more.”
Raven snickers. Dominic’s gaze snaps to her, then to me. As do the rest of them. Oh yeah, they understand, all right.
The Monsignor clears his throat.
“Si,” he says and glances at Wesley for help. “One. There is… ah…”
Wesley finishes for him. “What he’s trying to say is that there aren’t many saintly souls left in the world.” His finger returns to his spectacles at the bridge. A nervous habit, I realize. Or perhaps tell of a lie. “But I suspect you know that already.”
“Welcome inside.” The Rev seizes control of the conversation. “The girls will show you to your cells and around the abbey. Dinner is at six, lunch is at noon, and breakfast is at seven. I suggest we meet in the archives tomorrow morning to begin our merger discussions and education.”
Merger!
Sinners’ eyes snap to the Rev, who studiously ignores us. This is why she kept the details secret. She knows we would never allow men—the word leaves a bitter taste in my mouth—fivemen—to come intoourhome and tell us how to run the place. We can’t even stand needing a man to absolve us during confession.
Five?
She gives us a look that says we’ll discuss it later. We know better than to challenge her authority in front of interlopers.
