Page 41 of Wicked Believer (Original Sinner #2)

Chapter Thirty-Five

Lucifer

I watch Charlotte walk out of my office, fully aware for the first time in my long existence that I might have made a grave error.

It isn’t until I’m standing in the middle of that blasted church near Seventh again, striding up the length of the center aisle toward the small prayer group gathered in the first several pews, that I realize how thoroughly the revelation has disturbed me.

“Back so soon?” Father Brown opens his arms in a welcome gesture.

When the few parishioners that join him lay eyes on me, they scatter like flies.

I watch them go, mildly amused at how they flee, as he sighs and forms a cone with his hands, calling out, “We’ll resume next week.” He turns his attention back to me as I start to pace. “What brings you here, Lucifer?”

Abruptly, I round on him, raking a rough hand through my disheveled hair “What did you mean when you told me not to make her choose?” I demand.

Father Brown quirks his head at me. “It depends. What did you think it meant?”

I shake my head, wagging a furious finger at him as I advance on him, my words rapid fire.

“Ah, ah, ah, Father, I have neither the time nor the patience for any of your cultish bullshit. I practically wrote the handbook on manipulation. You will not answer my question with another question. Answer me.”

To my shock, Father Brown doesn’t appear the least bit fazed by how manic I’m being as I continue to shake my head, pacing back and forth like a madman.

I’m coming out of my own skin like a bloody lunatic.

Perhaps I am.

Mad, that is.

Out of my mind in love with her.

This is what she does to me.

In my most private moments. The ones she never sees.

I’m unbalanced, distracted, unhinged, only for her. So ridiculously tormented, so deranged, that here I am standing in the middle of a bloody cathedral, for fuck’s sake, talking to a goddamn human priest who dares call himself a member of my Father’s clergy.

She makes me question myself in a way I never would have done previously.

As if she has become my moral compass.

My guiding light.

The best and worst parts of me.

I drop into one of the pews and bury my face in my hands.

Just when I thought I had everything under control, thought I knew what was best for her, for us, for the sake of our shared futures, I was forced to stand there and watch as she walked away with my heart pulsing in her hand.

Cut to the quick by my own choices. As if I no longer hold any true power here.

In the face of my love for her, I’m powerless ...

Exactly as I feared.

I cannot stand it.

“I don’t know,” I say. “I don’t fucking know, honestly. Just bloody answer me already.”

Father Brown watches me curiously. “Whatever meaning I intended isn’t as important as the meaning you gave it, especially if you—”

I sit bolt upright. “Do you think that perhaps she’s doing this on purpose? To undermine me? Could Michael have put her up to this?”

“Lucifer, did something—?”

“No.” I shake my head, instantly abandoning the idea.

“No, she would never do that. I’ve just been trying so hard to protect her that I’ve failed to see what was right in front of me.

Failed to take into account what she might want.

” I lift my gaze toward him unexpectedly.

“But love requires sacrifice, does it not, Father?”

Father Brown gives a skeptical nod. “In theory.”

“And sacrifice is a form of surrender? Giving up one’s power in service of the greater good?”

Father Brown sighs heavily. “I’m not certain I understand what you’re asking me, Lucifer.”

I beckon him forward, lowering my voice conspiratorially as he draws near. “Suppose I said that I wanted to change course, turn over a new leaf, wipe the ol’ slate clean as it were—only for her sake, mind you—how might a devilish chap like me go about doing that, humph?”

Father Brown gapes at me. “Are you ... are you asking for me to absolve you?”

I cast him a chastising look. “Don’t get cheeky now, Father.

We both know you don’t hold nearly that kind of power.

No matter what the Catholic church may claim.

But, yes, I’m asking that if I needed for my celestial slate to be wiped clean, to be forgiven, for my wife’s sake, what might you have me do?

Shall I say ten Hail Marys and then call it a day? ”

Father Brown presses his lips together like he’s not certain what to make of me. “Well, I don’t know if this idea will hold much appeal for you, but you could always”—he glances pointedly toward the ceiling—“ ask for forgiveness.”

I scoff. “Right. That’ll be the day.”

Father Brown smiles.

As if he knows exactly how desperate Charlotte’s made me.

“Honesty helps, too, of course,” he says.

I hesitate before I tilt my head at him curiously. “And if I did want to give that little idea of yours a go, do you ... do you think He would listen?”

Father Brown chuckles softly. “Only one way to find out.” He nods toward the confessional booth, and for a long moment I stare at it like a cobra prepared to strike.

Then I abruptly stand and stride toward it.

I glance over my shoulder to ensure no one is watching as I climb into the parishioner’s box. I seal the little wooden door shut.

Father Brown climbs in on the other side and sits down in the booth across from me as he begins to make the sign of the cross over himself.

I lean forward onto my knees. “We’re going to be here for quite some time, I’m afraid.”