Page 78 of The Sinner and the Scholar
My blood hums with the need to claim it. With trembling fingers, I use the glass cutter on the protective casing. Pulling the suction cup and removing the cutout, I pause and listen for an alarm.
Blood roars in my ears, but no footsteps thud toward me. No whining siren or shouts to freeze. Could I be so lucky? Have I tripped some kind of silent alarm, or is the second diversion we planned working? The same contacts who set fire to the local power station were also paid to light a garbage bin at the opposite end of the museum yard. With a grin, I spear my hand through the hole in the cabinet and claim the staff.
When my fingers wrap around the wood, a rush of pure energy rolls through me, and my vision goes white. The only word to describe the feeling is holy. I feel loved, pure, whole, perfect, and happy. Rapturous. Nothing is wrong, and everything is right.
Then the alarm sounds, and I crash to earth.
Realty hits me with a shock, and I let go of the staff. What the fuck was that? That energy—that light. It was how I felt reuniting the two halves of Mary’s gospel.
Something has changed in me again, and I don’t have time to work out what. The alarm blares and whines through the room. I yank the staff through the casing. It’s long—about five feet. I run toward the staircase leading back to the glass court.
Two security guards are coming up the steps. They see me and reach for their Tasers, but I don’t hesitate. I leap down and swing the staff like I’m Harley Quinn with her baseball bat.
I’m airborne.
Flying.
I knock the first in the head, land, then pirouette, and catch the second in the same motion. The wooden bo-staff returns to my side, and I pause, checking on every sense I own for immediate danger.
Nothing.
The guards are unconscious. I breathe again and continue down the steps. I’m already rounding the corner into the glass court when I have a surreal moment of thinking the staff didn’t approve of me using it that way. It’s for healing, not damaging.
“Wrong gal to call out to then,” I mumble as I tuck it under my arm and climb up the totem pole. When I climb onto the roof, the smell of fire accelerant assaults my nose. Panicked shouts filter up from another side of the museum. I hope it means the guards are putting out that trash can fire.
I catch my breath and check my surroundings before discarding the rope—I don’t have time to repack—and then I find the darkest point of the roof to scale down the columns. I pause to listen. Between the guards shouting, I hear the ding of a bell and another voice. It’s odd and familiar—harsh, raspy, an outcry.
When I get to the street, I face the location of the new voice. Down on another corner, near a deli of some sort, a lone figure wears a signboard over their chest. I squint to read the words scrawled in chalk.There is no sin—only you.
The person turns my way. A young female… barely a woman. She dings her bell and shouts between wet coughs, “Only you! Only you!”
It can’t be the same person I saw back home. Surely not.
The staff warms my hand, reminding me of my purpose. By the time I jog to Wes, I feel invincible again. This thing I’m carrying is like a nuclear weapon—napalm courses through my veins.
I round the corner of the alley where I stashed Wes but skid to a halt when I see the silhouette of a demon bent over him. Wes isn’t even fighting. He’s not moving. Panic grips my lungs, squeezes my heart, and stops time.
The archangel’s staff heats in my hand, reminding me of my power.
Get to Wes.
Save him.
Heal him.
But first… destroy that fucking demon.
I move so fast, Vepar doesn’t hear me coming. It’s not until the staff is inches from her pustuled head that she turns, balks at the glowing relic, and throws her hands up to shield herself. Unseen energy hits me, throwing me backward. The demon somehow attacked me with air. Pain lashes my face—it’s like I’ve belly-flopped into a pool, but there’s nothing before me. I land on my back, winded and blinking at the stars.
Get up.
I roll to my feet and crouch in an attack pose. Vepar steps into the streetlamp’s light, and I want to vomit at the disease and rot falling off her. She was disgusting to begin with, but now… pure horror. Water and puss slick her body like oil. The sickly smell is thick and suffocating. A shudder rolls through me.
My gaze flicks to Wes. He’s breathing—his hand moves on his chest. His eyes are closed but pained.
“Give him to me,” the demon hisses. “You don’t want him anyway. He slows you down, remember?”
My upper lip curls at the echo of my words. It’s even the same tone I used. Hearing them from someone else makes them so much worse. I see a side of myself I never wanted to confront, making me sick and hot with shame.
