Page 33 of Wicked Believer (Original Sinner #2)

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Lucifer

I find myself standing alone inside the cathedral Charlotte took refuge in the other morning, the rage coiled inside me a very living, breathing thing.

I don’t truly understand what it is about this establishment that draws me, but I drop down into the first-row pew, burying my head in my hands.

A short while later, I feel an unexpected presence join me.

“I’m not surprised to see you here.”

I look up to find the priest who cared for Charlotte watching me.

Father Brown, if I recall.

Not that I honestly give a fuck.

He sits down on the other end of the pew, looking up toward the altar, where an array of candles and gold fixtures frame the image of Christ on the crucifix. Behind it, a stained glass window depicts several of the disciples bearing witness to Christ’s ascension.

I wasn’t the only child my Father chose to sacrifice.

Just the only one whose pain was never allowed to mean anything.

“What brings you here, Lucifer?” the priest asks.

I scowl. I’m not exactly pleased by his sudden appearance, nor the prospect of his company. “You tell me,” I challenge, my eyes narrowing at him.

It’s petty and foolish, particularly by my usual standards, but I have little respect for those in the clergy. For those responsible for the numerous lies humanity believes of me. Even if there was once a time when I was more like them than I care to admit.

My Father’s eager servant.

And for what?

For Him to cast me out at the first sign of doubt in Him?

To my surprise, Father Brown doesn’t flinch away, like this is exactly the sort of devil-may-care attitude he expects from me, and the fact I’ve played so readily into his trite, human expectations only infuriates me even more.

“She still prays, you know.”

There’s only one woman he could possibly mean.

The one and only person who has ever truly mattered to me.

“And why tell me this? For your own amusement?” I sneer, lifting a furious brow. “To remind me that she is unfaithful to me in the only way that matters?”

“Why should she have to choose, Lucifer?” he asks.

Bloody hell.

As if the answer isn’t obvious.

When I don’t deign to respond, he sighs. “You fear losing her.”

“I fear Him stealing her from me. Like He’s taken everything from me. My pride. My purpose. My wings. My ability to create. And now ...” My jaw tightens, my lip curling in disgust at the unguarded admission that just fell from my lips as I gaze up toward Heaven.

The stained glass image of Christ stares back at me.

My brother. Or my Father, as it were.

According to humanity, they’re one in the same.

Whatever the fuck that’s supposed to mean.

“Already, He nearly stole her from me, thrust her into Azrael’s waiting arms, and if I were to tell her everything .

..” I hang my head, no longer able to look at the image.

At the reminder that, to her, I am still exactly the villain my Father made me to be.

“He may be your favorite deity, but He’s a piss-poor excuse for a Father, if you ask me. ”

The priest remains quiet, and I think I might have finally accomplished the minor feat of scaring him off, though that doesn’t inspire as much amusement in me these days as it used to.

“The only thing that will push her away is if you force her to choose.” He comes to stand at the far end of the pew. “Don’t make her choose, Sammael.”

With that, he turns and leaves, abandoning me to the early morning quiet as some light begins to seep in, making patterns on the floor through the colored glass.

And yet I sit there, unmoving, more confused and at war with myself than I’ve ever been since the moment I first chose to tempt Eve with that damn apple.