Page 158 of Wicked Believer

“What in our Father’s name are you wearing?” Seraph wrinkles her nose in distaste.

“When in Rome.”

I’m standing in the junction of the four arms of the cruciform church in St. Peter’s Basilica inside Vatican City, Bernini’s statue of Longinus looming over our heads. The basilica and its surrounding city-state are so heavily warded with protective spells and other talismanic exorcist sigils that evenIwould never readily show my face here.

Not that anything they’d ever manage could keep me at bay.

Seraph glances down at my cheap “I Rome” T-shirt, purchased from a tourist stand in one of the human markets around the corner, and frowns. This is how low I’ve sunk. Coupled with the low black ballcap I’m wearing and the kitschy Italian flag fanny pack I forcibly strapped across Azrael, we could be any other pair of uncomfortably queer tourists.

Or some child’s fathers, really.

A little girl darts past, squealing and nearly colliding with Seraph as she runs into her “Papa’s” waiting arms.

My posture stiffens.

Despite the sordid fantasies Charlotte and I’ve been chasing in the playroom, I have mixed feelings about the idea of creation.

I am meant to corrupt. Not create.

No matter how the prospect might tug at the remains of my heartstrings.

Seraph follows my gaze knowingly, her angelic features softening. In her current form, she appears Indigenous, her skin russet and her cheekbones cutting. Her long dark hair falls in a sleek sheet down her back, serving to cover where she’s hidden her many wings. Our Father created more than one set for her when she first became the guardian of His throne.

Not that she’s ever offered to gift me one of the extra pairs.

“She would make a lovely mother, you know.”

Charlotte, she means.

My chest constricts painfully. “Of course she would.”

Attentive, kind, loving. She possesses every admirable quality a good mother should.

But I am no one’s “daddy” but hers, I’m afraid.

And I likely never will be.

Seraph clears her throat, stepping closer as she whispers to me, “I wasn’t certain I believed it when Michael first told me, but now I can see ...” Her gaze drops to the floor with momentary pity. “You really do love her, don’t you?”

My closest angelic sister was always a hopeless romantic.

I place my hands in my pockets, offering her a bitter grin. “Does it surprise you to find that I’m still capable of it?”

She holds steady as she offers me another pained look. “No, not really.” She turns away, tilting her chin up at the statue of Longinus. The blind Roman soldier who speared Christ during the crucifixion. Seraph always did see the best in me.

Which is why she’s here, I suppose.

I follow her view up to the loggia, one of several architectural structures that support the work of Michelangelo. A spear is clutched in the statue’s hand, the Holy Lance, the celestial weapon that, thanks to the blood of my only human brother, will sway any battle in its possessor’s favor. According to humanity, the spear is reportedly buried here deep within the Vatican’s private vaults, save for the rare occasions and ceremonies where they bring it out to display. Or at several other locations, depending on who you ask.

But the real spear is not here.

Nor in any other human church or museum that allegedly possesses it.

It never was to begin with.

“The others cannot know I’m here,” Seraph says, still peering up at Longinus.

The marble statue is over four meters high, towering over both her and me. Azrael has disappeared somewhere within the basilica’s shadows, presumably to give Seraph and me some privacy.