Page 3 of The Sinner and the Gunslinger
She allowed him to slide it onto her wrist and tighten the red straps. It was creepy. But it helped her nerves a little bit.
“You,” Mr. Diplo shouted from amidst the hubbub, pointing at her. “Stop dawdling and get to detention.”
The boy stuck up his middle finger at the teacher’s back, and the girl chuckled.
“I’ll be here when you get out,” the boy said, his hazel eyes turning warm as he straightened her pigtails.
“Promise?”
“Cross my heart, hope to die.” He sliced a finger across his chest twice, then pointed to her and said, “Now you say ‘stick a bullet in your eye’ and pretend to shoot me.” He took her hand, folded it into a finger gun, and made her point it at his head and shoot. He feigned a dying action before continuing with the last bit. “Then we both say, eat a horse manure pie and make gagging, puking sounds.”
“That’s a weird game.” She frowned.
“But it’s fun. Do it.”
“What does it mean?”
“It means if I break my promise, you get to do all those things to me.”
“Oh.” She bit her lip. “That’s... serious. I don’t want you to die.”
“Neither do I. That’s why I’ll never break the promise.” He rubbed the back of his neck and nodded. “I’m not going anywhere.”
Three
Leila - Two weeks ago.
From the front steps of the abbey, I watch the male interlopers leave the limousine.Team Saint.The name churns in my stomach, and I spit to remove the bad taste. Five men invite themselves intooursanctuary, intending to tell us how to doourjobs. To say their arrogance grates against my bones is an understatement. I know what this is, and it’s not an offer of help. It’s the sharpening of a blade before it cuts.
Typical.
The world is in chaos, demons wreak hell on earth, and these patriarchal asswipes think it’s the best time to assert their authority over a secret society of female assassins.
As they unload their luggage, my brows lift. I expected doddering geriatrics who are set in their ways, but at least four are in their twenties or thirties. The Monsignor is the only old-timer among them.
My gaze skates over them, and I catalog interesting details that might aid in me unraveling their purpose here. The priest has a hard look about him—his eyes are unforgiving as he darts a glance at us all standing on the steps, scrutinizing him right back. Then his cheeks brighten in a very obvious, and, I sense, uncharacteristic blush.
One of my Sinner sisters says something I don’t quite catch because my attention has shifted to the fit black man in an Italian designer suit. His muscles virtually burst the seams on his jacket. But unlike the priest, his eyes are warm, and—dare I think it—even nervous as he takes us in. The third man looks like a blond version of Clark Kent. But less buff and in a crinkled, three-piece suit.
Another of the girls snarks something, and another shoots back a retort.
“Ladies,” the Reverend Mother warns.
I glance at my sisters. All of us are decently clothed except Mercy—our redheaded, voluptuous team leader. Her silk robe has fallen open, allowing her pale bosom and rosy-pink nipple to be out for all to see. No wonder the priest blushed. I roll my eyes.
“Put your tits away,” I mumble.
The girls keep bickering, drawing me into their drama. Usually, we’re not this fractious, but the tension in the air has us by the balls. Our organization has operated in the shadows of the male-dominated church for centuries. Now that the Vatican has discovered us, they’re here to control us. We all fear the possibilities. So when I tease Tawny about being lazy and she launches at me, I face her with a set jaw and a hard look. If she wants to fight me, so be it. She’s a hot-headed Sinner pretending to be a peaches and cream sweetie pie.Bring it.
Thea steps between us and gestures with a severed hand she brought back from a recent mission, complaining about us not warning her about this visit. Seeing the sweaty corpse limb flail about is enough to shock me back to the reality of our situation. I stuff my unsettled nerves down.
I had no idea Team Saint was coming either. None of us did.
The world falls away as I retrain my gaze upon the interlopers and finally take in the fourth younger man as he drags a heavy trunk toward us at the abbey steps. Voices warble. The sun dips behind a cloud. I shiver. There’s something familiar about him. Something in the way he moves. His gait is familiar, yet so foreign. When he stops at the base of the steps, straightens, and rubs the back of his neck with his hand, my heart stops.
It can’t be.
Zeke?
