Page 7 of The Sinner and the Scholar
I open the final door, and sure enough, my things are packed neatly on the cot. But no manuscript and no Prudence. She’s probably at the indoor pool doing laps. That woman works out like clockwork. Dedication to her role is the reason she is the oldest active Sinner. Being captured and tortured by the Cartel hasn’t slowed her down. Most Sinners either perish in the line of duty or, if they’re lucky, they’re one of the two who escaped.
I glare across the hallway at my old cell. Fury bubbles over, and I almost throw the severed hand. God help the person who lost that manuscript.
Slipper kitten heels click as Mercy comes to stand by me.
“It could have been worse.” Her eyes meet mine. “You could be sharing with Raven.”
I open my mouth, but a cane slamming rhythmically stops my reply. Mercy stills. Under her breath, she whispers, “The Reverend Mother.”
I face the hallway just in time to see the Rev storming toward us, using her cane for support. Her black robes swish like the wings of death herself. Two years ago, the elderly woman took over the top role at the Sisterhood. Round eyes, a hook nose, and flat lips. She looks like a wrinkled old prune and acts like she needs one, but she’s grown on us.
She’s the only Rev who hasn’t treated us like lost causes.
“Chop-chop, girls,” she barks, voice ragged with age. Her face twists in confusion when she sees Mercy’s robe and my filthy state.
“What on earth happened to you?” the Rev asks me, blinking.
“The mark exploded in my face,” I reply with a scoff of disbelief. “Here’s his hand. Strange tattoo on the wrist. It seems new but looks archaic. Could mean something.”
A secret smirk lurks in the Rev’s pale eyes. I know that look. It’s her plotting face. I last saw it when Father McBride, the only male on-premises, said he knew better aboutpunishingus girls because he is ordained and she’s not. Father somehow missed out on his laundry being cleaned that week. The Rev never admitted anything, but I saw her afterward in the church saying her Hail Marys at an alarming rate.
The Rev says, “There’s no time to change now. They might as well see what they’re in for from the moment they arrive. Saves us trouble later.”
They?
“Can I at least dump this hand at the archives? It’s starting to go squishy.”
“No time. Bring it with you.”
She continues down the hall and smacks her cane on the wall, rousing anyone within earshot. Like troops following their drill sergeant, we walk down the stairs and out the front door. We line up on the landing and wait, staring at the front gates in the mist-covered distance.
Mutters of dissent rumble out of us. I’m the worst. This is ridiculous. After my night, I want to get rid of the damned hand, shower, and fall into bed.
“Who are they?” I mumble, but no one replies.
Tawny and Leila are the only Sinners wearing their prescribed uniform—something akin to hooded, black yoga attire and a blood-red scarf pooled around the neck. But no weapons.
Mercy fixes her disheveled robe. And by fix, I mean she makes the shoulder fall more. That’s when I realize she knows exactly who’s coming, and this is her rebellion. She straightens her spine, pushes out her ample breasts, and then arches a manicured brow at me.
Prudence arrives from somewhere with a bagel in her hand. From the dampness of her slick brown ponytail, I was right about laps in the pool. Only one Sinner is absent. Raven.
“Why are we here?” I ask, blinking widely to ease the irritation from my contact lenses. “And why have half our rooms been cleared out?”
The Reverend Mother shares a knowing glance with Mercy and then faces the front. “I suppose there’s no hiding it from you now.”
She opens her mouth to say more, but a roar fills the air. A black limousine pulls up at the gates simultaneously with a leather-clad rider on a black Suzuki motorcycle. Raven’s rainbow ponytail swishes from the back of her shiny black helmet.
Both vehicles won’t fit through the gate at the same time. Raven doesn’t care. She angles her visor at the limo driver. She revs the engine in warning. Once. Twice. The instant the gates open, the limo goes in first. My eyes widen. Raven won’t like that. She revs harder, spins her back wheel, and spits gravel. Then she rips up the curved driveway, speeding to catch up with the limo. Side by side, they approach the one-lane bridge across the lake. You’d think Raven would overtake, but she holds steady next to the limo, daring them to a silent game of chicken.
Unlike the limo driver, we’re not concerned. At the last moment, Raven zooms ahead and cuts them off to take the bridge first. She stalls the bike at the base of the abbey steps.
The Reverend Mother clutches rosary beads secured to her belt. “Heaven help us.”
As the limo completes its coast along the drive, Raven removes her helmet and shakes out her ponytail: black at the roots with rainbow tips. The Latino woman lights a cigarette and squints kohl-lined eyes at the vehicle. She’s probably seen the guests arrive in one of her prophetic visions.
“Fall in line, Raven,” the Reverend Mother says. “They’re here.”
“Who’s they?” I ask, exasperated that I am the last to know.
