Page 1 of The Sinner and the Scholar
Prologue
Rain drizzles in Cardinal City.
Gloom bathes the streets, but citizens still go about their day, ducking and weaving around a lone figure ringing a bell and wearing a signboard with the wordsJudgment is Nighwritten in shaky handwriting.
A hoarse voice shouts to anyone and everyone, “The lambs are breaking the seals! First, Pestilence will bring disease. Second, War will spread dissent and revenge. Third, Famine will unfurl starvation. Fourth, Death will ride a white horse and cleave a path so that Fifth, the Antichrist will rise to claim the earth for the Sixth, when the Heavens fall.”
The lone figure turns, revealing the back of the sign:
Have you made peace with your sins?
One
Thea
Across the street from a nightclub called Purgatory, I check my cell phone and confirm my location. Yes. Right place, right time, but the wrong outfit.
I glance down at my black dress. The neckline is too high, and the hem is too long. It’s almost midnight, and the club is pumping. I unclip my dagger from my thigh holster and use it to shear off a good two feet of fabric. Then I slice down from the center of the neckline, freeing my breasts from captivity. Well, almost. A lace bra stops me from completely exposing the world.
Once satisfied with my alterations, I sheath my weapon and fluff up my hair. Lastly, I poke the silver crucifix on a necklace deep into my bra.
Business time.
Walking like I live in stilettos, I strut across the street, tossing my long dark hair and swaying my hips.
As predicted, the bouncers are too busy checking out my goods to bother with ID or, I don’t know, the fact that I just cut the line. The trick is to look like you’re expected and unhappy about being late.
Once inside, I hold that persona and move down a rabbit hole with thumping music vibrating the walls. Cigar smoke keeps what happens inside the seedy club hidden. I crest the foyer and take a moment to gather my bearings.
High-class women in skimpy clothing tend a bar to the right. A sunken dance floor is perfect for lusty voyeurism from wealthy businessmen sprawled in booths around it. I have no doubt the women dancing between lascivious men are hookers or wannabe sugar babies. I continue hunting until I find what I need—the man with the fattest ego, copious women on his arms, and men groveling at his feet. He’s bald, wears a gold chain, and sits on a throne with a vantage point of the entrance.
He’s not my guy. He’s just in my way.
With my eyes on the prize, I stalk toward him, chin high and shoulders straight. As I pass the bar, a handsome man widens his eyes and opens his mouth. He takes a step toward me.
“No.” I hold my right hand near his face and keep walking.
He shuts his mouth and slinks back to the bar. I don’t have time to play tonight. Besides, ignoring every other man making eyes at me right now is part of the plan. Never once removing my gaze from the target, I walk across the dance floor. Perhaps it’s my confident carriage, devilish outfit, or God-given good looks, but dancers part like the red sea. When I hit the opposite end of the floor, I feel my target’s eyes groping me.
I climb the steps and stop at his table.
His gaze deliberately walks across my body, lighting up with every inch he covers. The women on either side of him pout. Their need to scratch my eyes out is like a hot poker in my side. They probably think I want to snort the two lines of cocaine racked up just for them. A few empty shot glasses, a Benjamin, and a credit card are also scattered across the table.
Pipe down, ladies. I’m not here for you.
The bald man licks his lips and states, “There’s a line, honey.”
I don’t know if he’s offering me a line or if he’s talking about the women waiting to be with him.Gross. Either way, I don’t smile, blink, or even glance at the smoldering cigar wobbling on his lip.
“I’m not here for the line,” I reply.
“Oh yeah?” He chuckles.
His big belly squashes against the table with each heaving breath. Two men behind him make a deliberate move to ensure I see the firearms holstered under their arms. Glocks.
I refocus on the kingpin. “You’re in my seat.”
At first, they laugh. The girls are cackling hyenas, and the men are weasels. The kingpin eventually slows his chuckle and glares at me. He’s smarter than I pegged him for because he seems to have recognized the death in my fearless eyes.
