Page 41 of The Sinner and the Scholar
Mercy points to Wesley’s room. “Thea, you stay and keep him honest. Raven and I will check the training room and replenish blessed weaponry from the Sin Bin. Just in case.”
I follow Wesley. His room doesn’t appear too different since I had it, except it smells like a man. He shoves a book into my hands before going to his suitcase. I turn it over and check the title:Ars Goetia Lemegeton Clavicula Salomonisor loosely translated toThe Little Key of Solomon.
King Solomon was rumored to have gained power through affiliation with demons. I flick through the pages to learn this is a grimoire in summoning them. It’s in Ancient Greek and full of circles, seals, and magic spells. It’s not an edition I’ve seen before, but old. Very old.
“Is this your first summoning?” I ask as Wesley returns with an armful of supplies.
“Sort of.” When my brow lifts, he adds, “I was present at one in my youth. An uncle. I guess he thought he was fancy or something. Poor sod ended up dragged to hell instead.”
“What do you mean?”
He looks me squarely in the eyes. “A demon climbed out of a hole in the ground and dragged him down. I tried to save him but almost got taken myself.”
“I’m so sorry.” I mean it. “That must have been hard to see. How old were you?”
He drops an unlit candle into the increasing load of supplies I hold. “Twelve.”
“It’s the same age I was recruited into the Sisterhood.” Another strange fact that connects us. “That’s rough.”
“I thought I was the fucking dog’s bollocks back then.” He shakes his head, laughing bitterly to himself. “I thought I was invincible, but I was only a kid.”
My heart squeezes. He’s seen some shit from a young age, and no one probably believed him. It must have been lonely growing up with that knowledge in his head.
As if reading my train of thoughts, he scrubs his hair and says, “I was in an institution for a few of my teen years before I figured out how to tell them what they wanted to hear. I said I made it up. Hallucinated. When I got out, I scoured the internet message boards and dark web to find stories of anyone else in similar situations.”
“You found Team Saint?”
“Sort of. The church found me first, putting me through school, then university. They saved my life.”
He touches my neck. I’m hyperaware of my skimpy attire, his lack of a shirt, and even more aware of my lack of a bra. His gaze skips to my throat, where his touch turns confident. His thumb brushes the hollow. Electricity zips through my body, making everything tight.
“Where’s the charm?”
I can’t tell if his deep tone is a warning, a danger, or something else my body wants more than my brain.
“I ripped it off.”
A line appears between his brows. His grip on my throat flexes, and then his hand slides to my sternum. Irritation flashes in his eyes. Tension. Every line of his body has pulled taught as though he’s trying not to release his anger. But I see it in the flare of his nostrils, in the flashes of violence on his face. His honeyed gaze turns dark. He knows my hands are full of items, and he knows if I want to stop him from touching me, I have to drop everything—just like he had me in the archives.
His devious streak is showing, and from the thrill skipping in my blood, I think I’m excited for it. I want to coax it out of that scholarly exterior. I want those hands all over my body, which makes me the worst sinner because my friend is fighting for her life outside this room.
He has no idea about what’s passing in my mind. His eyes are still glued to my neck as he says, “The instant we clear the path to your room, you’ll put the charm back on and never take it off.” He smooths my shoulder like he’s brushing lint away. “Not even when you shower. Promise.”
“You’re cute when you’re demanding.” I mean to throw him off his game, but I blush when he does the same.
“Promise.”
Something in his tone makes me answer, “Okay.”
Appeased, his stormy eyes soften, and he steps back. “Good. Let’s go.”
* * *
Wesley draws another complicated,arcane circle with chalk on the rubber training mats. At different intervals around the circle—at the apex of his pentagram—we place candles and offerings.
Five points to the star.
I’m not the only one who notices. The other Sinners watch warily.
