The Sinner (Black Dagger Brotherhood 18)

He’d been hoping for light at the end of the tunnel with all the packed prose he’d been wading through. Now that he was coming to the final chapter, he was worried he wasn’t going to get one. For all the knowledge he’d gained, he still didn’t know what to do.

That changed in the last four pages.

Like the finish line of a marathon, the solution arrived only after he had expended assiduous effort through the twists and turns of an uphill slog. And at first, when his eyes traced the words, he almost kept going.

Something drew him back, and as he reread them, he realized it was only because they were set in the middle of the page, the lines indented, each one of them.

Stanzas. Like it was a poem.

There shall be one to bring the end before the master,

a fighter of modern time found in the seventh of the twenty-first,

and he shall be known in the numbers he bears:

One more than the compass he apperceives,

Though a mere four points to make at his right,

Three lives has he,

Two scores on his fore,

and with a single black eye, in one well will he be birthed and die.

An end before the master? Or an end of the master?

Mr. F thought back to the night before, to the Brother who put his mouth over that slayer’s and started to inhale, the Brother who the Omega took on as an enemy of special importance. Mr. F wasn’t sure what to make of all the passage’s threes and fours, two scores and the single black eye, but he knew what he’d witnessed. The Omega and that particular vampire were tied together, and the strings that linked them were in these stanzas.

If lessers that were stabbed with steel sent their evil back to its source… maybe that male vampire with the prodigious set of lungs circumvented that process. Maybe he was the reason the Omega that was described in this book was so diminished in person.

Mr. F thumbed through the pages he’d read. The master as depicted here was an all-powerful scourge, capable of great and terrible things. What had shown up in that alley? Mystical, sure. Magical, yup. But all-powerful? Not in that dirty robe. Not with whatever the master had thrown at that vampire.

That shit had only knocked the Brother back.

If you were really the root of all evil, if you were truly the powerful demigod in this book? You would have blown your enemy apart, little bits of flesh and tiny slivers of bone all that were left to drift down onto the pavement, mortal snow to fall from the sky.

Not what had happened.

Mr. F closed the book. He was not a strategist by nature. But he knew what he had read. He knew who he was in this game, and he knew who controlled him. He also knew how he and the Omega were connected.

So he knew what he had to do.

He had to pull all of the slayers together here in Caldwell. And they had to find that Brother from the night before.

It was the only way he was going to come through this. Besides, according to the book, it was all but preordained.

* * *

St. Patrick’s Cathedral was some real Catholic majesty, Butch thought as he sat in a pew in the back-back, as he’d called it when he was a kid. The church was the seat for Caldwell and many surrounding towns, and the stone building could handle the responsibility. With Notre Dame-like stained windows and arches, and the seating capacity of an NFL dome’d arena, it was exactly where he liked to go to services, take confession, and enjoy moments like this where he just sat with his hands folded in his lap and his eyes on the great marble altar and the statue of Jesus upon the cross.

It was important to feel small and insignificant when you talked to God.

Taking a deep breath, he smelled incense and lemon-scented cleaner. There was also the faded pastiche of the colognes, perfumes, and fabric softeners of everyone who had left the midnight service that had concluded about forty-five minutes ago.

He should probably head out, too. In spite of V’s shut-in proposal, Butch was allowed to go into the field tonight. He was allowed to search for lessers, and he was going to be on hand if any of the brothers or the others found any. And every time he inhaled one of those sonsofbitches down, they were one step closer the end—

Butch winced and focused on the depiction of Jesus’s downcast face. “Sorry,” he whispered to his Lord and Savior.

You shouldn’t cuss in church. Even in your head.

Taking a deep breath, he exhaled long and slow. In his mind, he pictured himself standing up. Hitting the center aisle. Going out into the narthex. Going out into the night. Going over to the R8 in the parking lot.

At which point, he would head downtown and—

The creak of the pew refocused him, and he jumped a little as he realized he was no longer alone. A nun had joined him, taking a seat about three feet away. Funny, he hadn’t noticed her walking in.

“Forgive me, Sister. Do you need me to leave?”

The nun had her head lowered, the hood of her habit falling forward so he could not see her face. “No, my son. You stay as long as you wish.”

The voice was soft and gentle, and he closed his eyes, letting the peace of the place, of his faith, of this woman who had given her life in service to the church and to God, wash over him. The resulting cleanse of his anxieties was similar to what Vishous did for him. The strengthening, too.

It made him feel like he could handle what was coming. Later tonight. Tomorrow night. Up until the last moment.

“What do you pray for, my son?” the nun asked him from under her habit.

“Peace.” Butch opened his lids and stared at the altar which was draped in red velvet. “I pray for peace. For my friends and my family.”

“You say that with a heavy heart.”

“It will not come easy, and there’s a lot on me alone. I wouldn’t have it any other way, though.”

“What is on your conscience?”

“Nothing.”

“A pure heart is a blessing. Mostly because it does not require us to tarry after services for this long.”

Butch smiled a little. “Sister, you are right.”

“So speak unto to me.”

“Are you from Italy?” He looked over and found himself wishing he could see her face. “The accent.”

“I am from a number of places.”

“I’m from Southie. Boston. In case you can’t tell from my own accent.” He exhaled again. “And I don’t know if it’s something on my conscience. It’s more like I can’t control the outcome.”

“We never can. That is why our faith is important. Do you believe, do you truly believe?”

Butch took his gold cross out from his shirt. “I truly believe.”

“Then you will never be alone. No matter where you are.”

“You’re so right, Sister.” He smiled again. “And I have my brothers.”

“Then you come from a big family?”

“Oh, yes.” He thought of Vishous. “And I can’t do… what I have to… without them.”

“So you worry about them?’

“Of course.” Butch rubbed his cross, warming the solid gold with the heat of his mortality. “My roommate in particular. I literally cannot do this without him. He is… well, it’s hard to explain. But without him, I can’t go on, and that is not hyperbole. He is integral to me. To my life.” quo;d been hoping for light at the end of the tunnel with all the packed prose he’d been wading through. Now that he was coming to the final chapter, he was worried he wasn’t going to get one. For all the knowledge he’d gained, he still didn’t know what to do.

That changed in the last four pages.

Like the finish line of a marathon, the solution arrived only after he had expended assiduous effort through the twists and turns of an uphill slog. And at first, when his eyes traced the words, he almost kept going.

Something drew him back, and as he reread them, he realized it was only because they were set in the middle of the page, the lines indented, each one of them.

Stanzas. Like it was a poem.

There shall be one to bring the end before the master,

a fighter of modern time found in the seventh of the twenty-first,

and he shall be known in the numbers he bears:

One more than the compass he apperceives,

Though a mere four points to make at his right,

Three lives has he,

Two scores on his fore,

and with a single black eye, in one well will he be birthed and die.

An end before the master? Or an end of the master?

Mr. F thought back to the night before, to the Brother who put his mouth over that slayer’s and started to inhale, the Brother who the Omega took on as an enemy of special importance. Mr. F wasn’t sure what to make of all the passage’s threes and fours, two scores and the single black eye, but he knew what he’d witnessed. The Omega and that particular vampire were tied together, and the strings that linked them were in these stanzas.

If lessers that were stabbed with steel sent their evil back to its source… maybe that male vampire with the prodigious set of lungs circumvented that process. Maybe he was the reason the Omega that was described in this book was so diminished in person.

Mr. F thumbed through the pages he’d read. The master as depicted here was an all-powerful scourge, capable of great and terrible things. What had shown up in that alley? Mystical, sure. Magical, yup. But all-powerful? Not in that dirty robe. Not with whatever the master had thrown at that vampire.

That shit had only knocked the Brother back.

If you were really the root of all evil, if you were truly the powerful demigod in this book? You would have blown your enemy apart, little bits of flesh and tiny slivers of bone all that were left to drift down onto the pavement, mortal snow to fall from the sky.

Not what had happened.

Mr. F closed the book. He was not a strategist by nature. But he knew what he had read. He knew who he was in this game, and he knew who controlled him. He also knew how he and the Omega were connected.

So he knew what he had to do.

He had to pull all of the slayers together here in Caldwell. And they had to find that Brother from the night before.

It was the only way he was going to come through this. Besides, according to the book, it was all but preordained.

* * *

St. Patrick’s Cathedral was some real Catholic majesty, Butch thought as he sat in a pew in the back-back, as he’d called it when he was a kid. The church was the seat for Caldwell and many surrounding towns, and the stone building could handle the responsibility. With Notre Dame-like stained windows and arches, and the seating capacity of an NFL dome’d arena, it was exactly where he liked to go to services, take confession, and enjoy moments like this where he just sat with his hands folded in his lap and his eyes on the great marble altar and the statue of Jesus upon the cross.

It was important to feel small and insignificant when you talked to God.

Taking a deep breath, he smelled incense and lemon-scented cleaner. There was also the faded pastiche of the colognes, perfumes, and fabric softeners of everyone who had left the midnight service that had concluded about forty-five minutes ago.

He should probably head out, too. In spite of V’s shut-in proposal, Butch was allowed to go into the field tonight. He was allowed to search for lessers, and he was going to be on hand if any of the brothers or the others found any. And every time he inhaled one of those sonsofbitches down, they were one step closer the end—

Butch winced and focused on the depiction of Jesus’s downcast face. “Sorry,” he whispered to his Lord and Savior.

You shouldn’t cuss in church. Even in your head.

Taking a deep breath, he exhaled long and slow. In his mind, he pictured himself standing up. Hitting the center aisle. Going out into the narthex. Going out into the night. Going over to the R8 in the parking lot.

At which point, he would head downtown and—

The creak of the pew refocused him, and he jumped a little as he realized he was no longer alone. A nun had joined him, taking a seat about three feet away. Funny, he hadn’t noticed her walking in.

“Forgive me, Sister. Do you need me to leave?”

The nun had her head lowered, the hood of her habit falling forward so he could not see her face. “No, my son. You stay as long as you wish.”

The voice was soft and gentle, and he closed his eyes, letting the peace of the place, of his faith, of this woman who had given her life in service to the church and to God, wash over him. The resulting cleanse of his anxieties was similar to what Vishous did for him. The strengthening, too.

It made him feel like he could handle what was coming. Later tonight. Tomorrow night. Up until the last moment.

“What do you pray for, my son?” the nun asked him from under her habit.

“Peace.” Butch opened his lids and stared at the altar which was draped in red velvet. “I pray for peace. For my friends and my family.”

“You say that with a heavy heart.”

“It will not come easy, and there’s a lot on me alone. I wouldn’t have it any other way, though.”

“What is on your conscience?”

“Nothing.”

“A pure heart is a blessing. Mostly because it does not require us to tarry after services for this long.”

Butch smiled a little. “Sister, you are right.”

“So speak unto to me.”

“Are you from Italy?” He looked over and found himself wishing he could see her face. “The accent.”

“I am from a number of places.”

“I’m from Southie. Boston. In case you can’t tell from my own accent.” He exhaled again. “And I don’t know if it’s something on my conscience. It’s more like I can’t control the outcome.”

“We never can. That is why our faith is important. Do you believe, do you truly believe?”

Butch took his gold cross out from his shirt. “I truly believe.”

“Then you will never be alone. No matter where you are.”

“You’re so right, Sister.” He smiled again. “And I have my brothers.”

“Then you come from a big family?”

“Oh, yes.” He thought of Vishous. “And I can’t do… what I have to… without them.”

“So you worry about them?’

“Of course.” Butch rubbed his cross, warming the solid gold with the heat of his mortality. “My roommate in particular. I literally cannot do this without him. He is… well, it’s hard to explain. But without him, I can’t go on, and that is not hyperbole. He is integral to me. To my life.”