THE SINNER'S SHRINE.

That night I slept for just one hour before the bell shook me to life. And before that I had prayed like I only had one day to live. From 9 p.m. to 3:30 a.m.

I prayed vigorously, disregarding a creeping fatigue, pushing 𝘏𝘢𝘪𝘭 𝘔𝘢𝘳𝘺 through persisting yawning and leaden eyes. But I did not mind the lack of sleep, and that one hour felt enough, for this was the first time in a month that I felt hopeful.

In fact I was so hopeful I had finally approached Valeria. And what a relief it was talking to her, apologizing to her for the hurtful words I had told her. For all I knew, it was Asmodeus's black energy that had turned my tongue foul. But now I felt like myself again, more or less, and was ready to apologize to the whole world.

Val forgave me, of course, didn't even blink, hugged me tightly and demanded to never go through childish crap again. "Come on, bitch, we're adults. We gotta stick together," she laughed. "Especially when we're trying to leave this dump."

We were back on good terms, ready to support each other through thick and thin. But I did not tell her about Asmodeus and what was about to go down in the chapel that upcoming night, as the voice of the fiend still alarmed when I thought about it. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘶𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘪𝘵𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘶𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘪𝘵𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦. 𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘴𝘶𝘧𝘧𝘦𝘳𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘪𝘴 𝘪𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘪𝘵𝘢𝘣𝘭𝘦!

I waited eagerly for twilight, and then for the nightfall. My itching got worse then, maybe because I was highly stressed about the outcome of the event. "I hope you burn in you hell," I muttered as I tiptoed across the dark halls, through the grand silence and many cells of sleeping bodies, and outside towards the chapel, clutching the 𝕎𝕚𝕔𝕔𝕒 𝕊𝕡𝕖𝕝𝕝𝕤 in my hands. "God is with me, god damn it! God is good!"

I entered the building.

William Dene was already there, standing near the glimmering altar in his immaculate garment, in the holy, candlelit environment, polishing his instruments and sprinkling nearby objects with holy water to low humming chants.

He sensed me because he halted momentarily, yet he did not look at me but resumed his preparations. His hand only beckoned me to approach. I did. I opened the book on the right page and handed it to him.

"Thank you, father," I murmured.

"It is my duty. Hand me that cross over there," said the archbishop with authority. He sounded stern and looked the part, highly concentrated on his task. I found it soothing. After all, we needed all the concentration in the world to send that demon back into his smoldering shit hole.

I gave him the cross and just stood there for a while, at intervals observing the things his hands were doing and the expressions on his face. I thought he was in his late fifties, though if that was true, he looked good for his age, and not that intimidating as I thought him to be when I first saw him. And yet the air of superiority never faded. I still felt like a complete minority next to his presence, a pawn next to a king.

With all the observation, I did not even notice the pig that was sitting in the dim corner, at the end of the front pew. It sat there silently, with ears down and head drooping, did not move one bit as if it was already dead, or practicing to be dead. I asked no questions about it, just averted my gaze, feeling sorry for the poor thing.

"Can I help you somehow?"

The archbishop, who still wouldn't look at me, nodded his head yes. "Go fetch me three wafers while I am arranging the altar. Also, a bowl of fresh water and a towel. Be careful not to be seen."

"I'll be right back."

By the time I brought the needed items, the number of candles had increased, and with it increased the heat in the chapel. Especially bright was the altar, adorned with many gilded candelabras on which twinkled dozens of iridescent flames.

The pig now was transferred closer to William Dene who chanted some complicated prayer over its back while crossing it again and again. In his right hand: bible. In his left: the cross. I placed the bowl with water, the towel and the wafers on the pew.

"We may begin," he uttered, still as gravely, eyes sharp on the animal beneath him.

"I'm ready when you are, father."

"Take the bowl. Come forth," he ordered.

I did.

"Place your left hand on the Bible."

I did.

"Dip your other hand into the holy water and make a sign of cross."

I did.

"Grab that cross over there and bring it to your heart."

I did.

"Now, repeat after me. Saint Michael the Archangel, defend us in battle. Be our protection against the wickedness and snares of the devil."

"Saint Michael the Archangel, defend us in battle. Be our protection against the wickedness and snares of the devil…"

He spoke and I repeated like his echo, praying for it to work while I prayed to saints.

"…thy mercy, Lord, descend on us."

"…descend on us."

𝘗𝘭𝘦𝘢𝘴𝘦 𝘸𝘰𝘳𝘬, I begged.

"We drive you from us, whoever you may be. Unclean spirit, satanic power, infernal invader."

"We drive you from us," I muttered, "whoever you may be. Unclean spirit, satanic power, infernal invader."

The archbishop circled around the pig, once, twice, thrice, sprinkled it some more. "With God's power be driven into this beast, Asmodeus. In the name of Christ."

"With God's power be driven into this beast, Asmodeus. In the name of Christ." I repeated steely.

"Who suffered for our salvation. Descended into hell. Rose again the third day from the dead, and ascended into heaven."

"Suffered…Descended…Rose….Ascended…"

"Be gone, fiend! Be gone!"

"Be gone!" I barked at the pig.

"In the name of the Father, the Son, and the Holy Spirit be gone!" Archbishop nearly roared, swaying the cross as if fending himself off flies.

"Be gone!"

"Amen." Concluded William Dene.

"Amen." I exhaled with finality.

There was an indefinite interval of silence. There was the pig, watching me with its clueless piggish eyes. There was the archbishop, pulling out something shiny out of his vestment and dipping it into the bowl of holy water. And then there was me…for some reason spacing out into my earlier confession.

𝘏𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘪𝘥, 𝘎𝘰𝘥 𝘪𝘴 𝘨𝘰𝘰𝘥, 𝘎𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘪𝘦𝘷𝘦. I replayed. 𝘉𝘦 𝘧𝘰𝘳𝘨𝘪𝘷𝘦𝘯. 𝘏𝘦 𝘴𝘢𝘪𝘥, 𝘎𝘦𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘪𝘦𝘷𝘦. 𝘉𝘶𝘵 𝘐 𝘥𝘪𝘥 𝘯𝘰𝘵 𝘨𝘪𝘷𝘦 𝘩𝘪𝘮 𝘮𝘺 𝘯𝘢𝘮𝘦. 𝘖𝘳 𝘥𝘪𝘥 𝘐?

"…and complete it."

I winced back to present. "What, I'm sorry?"

"You must now kill the animal to complete the rite. Otherwise it is not finished." The archbishop stretched a silver dagger of a decent size, blade slick with dripping water.

"I…must 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵? 𝘒𝘪𝘭𝘭 it? But–but–but—" I threw a pitiful glance at the innocent snout. "I can't!"

"Unfortunately, we have no other choice. The one who conjures a spirit must send it back. Death is the only route to the underworld."

I watched the pig sitting under my feet with its swollen belly looking exactly like a little dumbfounded kid. My heart began to race, head began to spin.

For an instant I shut down.

I do not remember how the knife ended up in my hand, but I do remember feeling how deathly cold its handle was, and how nausea rose to my throat almost instantly.

I took a deep useless breath. It was too hot inside to breathe for tranquility. I needed fresh air.

No. First, I had to finish what I'd started.

No. I couldn't kill the poor creature.

But what about Samson and Ronan? I killed them.

No! The demon killed them. I would never—

"You must hurry, Genevieve, while our prayers still hold the fiend inside."

I gawked at the preposterously innocent looking pig.

"Yes, I, I just—" I halted, spaced out and in once more. "Father," I uttered, averting my eyes from the animal to the man next to me. "Forgive me, but…I never gave you my name."

He was staring at me now, for the first time right into my eyes, scrutinized me with unreadable face.

Yet I thought I'd caught a shadow of a smile.

There was a micro drop of my heart, a feeling of climbing a staircase with a foot suddenly missing a step. I almost did not want to believe what was forming in my mind. Almost did not want to say it.

"You're not father William." Another micro drop of my heart, another missing step.

The man kept staring, not a word escaping his sealed crooked mouth. And another micro drop. I was falling down the staircase now.

"Who am I looking at?" Deep down I already knew the answer.

The man's eyes glistened when he opened his mouth to say, "You may call me 𝘈𝘴𝘮𝘰𝘥𝘦𝘶𝘴."

If it wasn't for the altar top, I would surely collapse. It was a miracle I didn't faint after hearing that name. I wanted it all to be a joke, or just another one of my nightmares. Anything but the truth.

"This isn't funny," I whispered, my trembling arm barely supporting my weight from falling. "Father William!"

"You are absolutely right, sugar, it isn't. It's 𝘩𝘪𝘭𝘢𝘳𝘪𝘰𝘶𝘴," he sneered. "Especially your physiognomy with those dumb eyeballs."

With gaping jaw I goggled at him, appalled. Then breathed out, "𝘏𝘰𝘸?" For nothing better could enter my petrified head.

"Holy titles do not make sinners holy, just like your habit does not make you a nun."

I refused to believe it. How could I? Before me stood a grown-ass man of 50+. And not just any man but a high figure of the Catholic hierarchy! There was no way in hell—

The knife was yanked from my hand. I staggered back. The archbishop — Asmodeus, the demon, the evil, the monster — kicked the pig with his foot so that the animal, too, staggered to a squeak and rolled on its side.

It all happened fast, the fatal slash of William Dene's hand, the pig's surprised snort and a painful yelp, and its ripped belly glowing with oozing blood. I was rooted to the spot by undiluted horror of the scene. Animated were only my ceaseless tears.

The archbishop crouched next to his kill. "Let's see now," he stretched nonchalantly, rolling up one sleeve.

His hand submerged deep into the animal's belly, swirled around to a nasty slimy sound. When he pulled out a knot of intestines, I puked, and puked, and puked until it felt as if I puked all of mine.

"As expected. The pig has more guts than you." He threw the organs down, rose to a full height and spat on the bloody carcass with contempt.

I wiped my mouth with a shaking sleeve. "Wh…h'at…"

"Look at you. You are pathetic," he snorted, taking his time to close the distance between us. "How can a weakling like you even begin to think of slaughtering what is undying when you can't raise your hand at the clumsy hog?" A wicked 𝖍𝖆-𝖍𝖆-𝖍𝖆 reverberated through the chapel's walls. "Or are you more inclined to sacrifice men over pigs? Because I 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 take this body. And you 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 be blamed for not keeping your mouth shut. What do you say? Ready to take on yet another sin upon a soul that is hardly yours?"

"Go…to fucking hell!" I croaked through bile-burning throat and immediately felt blood-wet fingers squeezing it to a further burn.

"𝐈 𝐀𝐌 hell, you brainless, gutless swine."

We glared into each other's eyes with so much enmity that I could have sworn I saw a light bolt flash between them. His grip became tighter, but I no longer resisted. Resistance was useless, that I could see.

"Oh yes, I 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 take him. And in due time I 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 take you. But!" A wicked smile. "Before another Holy Joe bites the dust, let's make it fun, for the three of us sinners. After all, this charade has been nothing but sheer pleasure. Might as well end the act on a high ecclesiastical note. Sounds like a plan, sugar?"

I attempted to shake my head no but couldn't move it one bit, face statically purple under the pressure of William Dene's grip.

"What was that?" He mocked. I writhed. His fingers eased abruptly. I clutched at my neck, gasping for air. "Speak."

"Fuck. You." I wheezed.

He pushed me towards the communion stone. "You read my mind!" His nasty mirth filled the space, his hands began working swiftly around the complexity of his clothing.

𝘛𝘩𝘦 𝘢𝘳𝘤𝘩𝘣𝘪𝘴𝘩𝘰𝘱 𝘸𝘢𝘴 𝘶𝘯𝘥𝘳𝘦𝘴𝘴𝘪𝘯𝘨.

I froze precisely how he yanked me, crooked and shocked at what I was witnessing. His shadow stretched behind him. It was not human but something big and beastly, something that ate all the scarce light around it, something that made me look away and never glance its way again.

He was half naked when he move on to tearing off my habit like it was a gift wrapper, with playful briskness. In moments I was fully naked, body pressed against the altar, blistered skin glistening with anxious sweat and candle heat.

I was mortified, even more so when he lifted me by the hips, fingers digging into sores, sat me on top of the altar and fitted himself between my legs like a puzzle piece. The archbishop and me…𝘐𝘵 𝘩𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦 𝘢 𝘯𝘪𝘨𝘩𝘵𝘮𝘢𝘳𝘦. 𝘏𝘢𝘴 𝘵𝘰 𝘣𝘦, I pleaded.

Where are you when I need you? My heart wept. Why aren't you answering to my prayers? Don't you see how sorry I am, how much I repent? Why do you laugh at me so? Aren't you the forgiver of wickedness? The one who remember sins 𝘯𝘰 𝘮𝘰𝘳𝘦?

My rage for God grew bigger the longer William Dene's eyes traced my bare modesty and hands stroked my curves. Hot tears flooded my face.

"𝘏𝘰𝘸 can he possibly let you do this…𝘸𝘩𝘦𝘯 𝘐 𝘱𝘳𝘢𝘺𝘦𝘥 𝘴𝘰 𝘩𝘢𝘳𝘥?" I whispered, too humiliated to even talk. "How can he possibly let you walk into 𝘩𝘪𝘴 home?"

The gentle hands that caressed the sores on my aching thighs formed fists that banged hard against the altar, each landing at my side to a wave of a deep echo. I winced.

"𝙈𝙮 home!" He roared. "Ignorant cunt! Do you not know who builds these shrines?"

I gaped at him, transfixed, with even sprinting tears halting midway.

"Sinners like you! To have dens to sin in! Look me in the eyes, dirtbag!"

His face now barely resembled William Dene's for how dark and furious it had become. It was not the archbishop, I had to remind myself again and again, staring by force into the wrath of inhumanly black eyes.

"This sanctum is 𝘮𝘪𝘯𝘦 to the very last pebble, to the dimmest candle. And only because of pests like you who had come and turned it to filthy dump that I have no desire to call it mine no more. You parasites adorn it with glittering gold, raise stone idols on pedestals, paint celestial battles in vivid color, with scarcely a century-old hand rewrite eon-long history, claiming 𝘮𝘺 𝘩𝘰𝘮𝘦 as the enemy's fane. And then you exorcise me with unreachable prayers and shiny trinkets. Attempt to drive out what is meant to dwell in there! Ha! Fools!"

He threw his head back in a mad laughter. His eyes changed when they met mine a moment later; they glowed — fire from the very bottom of hell that he was.

"Oh, Eve…" he exhaled my name slowly, like one exhales cigarette smoke. "Eve, Eve. Eve...Oh, he 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 let me in. He has no authority here no matter the number of prayers you chant to him, or the amount of candles you burn in his name. This spectacle of faith is nothing but a child's play."

"You are poison. And every poison has its own antidote. So do you, demon." I retorted.

My response amused him. "A little advice for you, nun. Next time practice on ridding the sky of the sun before coming for me."

"I will keep that in mind." I snarled.

"Do that for me."

His caressing resumed, hands exploring places that turned my spirit black. I went numb, body rigid, lips pressed together, eyes frozen on nothing in particular, some space beyond father William.

Anything to escape the present.

"What's the matter, sugar?" He smirked, aging breast pressing to mine, nose nearly touching nose, as he went on in a low voice, "Withering flesh is not up to your liking?" His closeness brought back sickness.

"Don't. Please. I will—throw up."

"By all means. And do it all over me," he encouraged. "After all, you have summoned the vilest of all sins."

"𝘑𝘦𝘴𝘶𝘴—" I gagged into my hand, trying hard to not actually erupt.

"Say it one more time and I 𝘸𝘪𝘭𝘭 rip your tongue out." His tonality hardened. His arms interlaced around my back to a full repulsive embrace, his cheek grazing mine, his hot breath blowing in my ear. "My slaves moan 𝘮𝘺 name, or no name at all. So shall you moan it for my pleasure."

"Never," I growled, "you…fucking…monster."

He smiled. I felt those repulsive, elderly lips stretch delightfully against my face. Nausea rose up immediately; I swallowed it down, feeling faint. My throbbing, leaden forehead — despite how much I loathed the contract — slammed against William Dene's shoulder for a lack of a better support, where it stayed for some time.

"See, eons of experience speak otherwise: a man's 'never' 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 lasts."

I boiled with fury in his arms, listening to his unruffled mockeries. 𝘐𝘧 𝘰𝘯𝘭𝘺 𝘐 𝘸𝘢𝘴𝘯'𝘵 𝘧𝘦𝘦𝘭𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘴𝘰 𝘴𝘪𝘤𝘬, 𝘐 𝘵𝘩𝘰𝘶𝘨𝘩𝘵, 𝘐'𝘥 𝘴𝘢𝘺 𝘸𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘐 𝘵𝘩𝘪𝘯𝘬 𝘢𝘣𝘰𝘶𝘵 𝘺𝘰𝘶, 𝘥𝘦𝘮𝘰𝘯.

"In other words, sweetness," he continued, "monster, beauty, young, old, man, woman…all trivialities. In a gulf of desire you will not care in what shape or form I have you. So long as I come, Genevieve. So long as you moan. For my pleasure, and yours."

"Disgusting. You—" I had to pause. Nausea. "—you disgust me. How can you say those things…with such certainty…"

"It is written in the stars." He replied so calmly it made me beyond furious. I was the one writing my own history. I was the one dictating my own fate! Not some god forsaken stars!

"Fuck your stars." I spat.

He laughed, his body vibrated softly against mine. "You will call upon my name soon enough, like all the others 𝘢𝘭𝘸𝘢𝘺𝘴 do."

"Never. 𝘕𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳!" I hissed, my body rigidly hostile against his. "I said 𝘯𝘦𝘷𝘦𝘳 will I call for you!"

"As all the stars are my witnesses, you will. And when you do, do not forget to thank me. You hear me? Do not. Forget. To 𝘵𝘩𝘢𝘯𝘬 𝘮𝘦."

I shook my head in denial. "As all of heaven are my witnesses, Asmodeus," I squeezed out, pushing vomit in simultaneously, "I will…find a way…to…stop you."

Followed a contemptuous chuckle.

"In due time, little hero. Now, lie down on the Lord's table. Let me fuck the heaven out of you."

Once the excruciating hour of rape had passed, careless William Dene left me sprawled on the altar where I lay motionless for a long while, conjuring my torpid body to stir when it simply couldn't.

The strength came in slow, small bits, and when I had gathered enough of it, I cleaned Asmodeus's bloody mess. I had no tears left to cry, no voice to scream, no energy to move, so how I moved will always remain a mystery.

𝘞𝘩𝘢𝘵 𝘪𝘴 𝘴𝘰𝘰𝘵𝘩𝘴𝘢𝘺𝘪𝘯𝘨 𝘧𝘰𝘳 𝘢 𝘨𝘰𝘥? He said once.

I should have known… He knew what was going to happen, that bastard. That's why he sent me for a bowl of water and a towel. So that I could clean 'his' mess afterwards. And, humiliated, I cleaned.

I cleaned the altar, scrubbed dried blood off the floor, dragged the pig's foul carcass out and behind the chapel where I dug its shallow grave and attempted its orthodox funeral. It was already in the cold soil when I mumbled 𝘐'𝘮 𝘴𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘺, 𝘐'𝘮 𝘴𝘰 𝘴𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘺, 𝘐'𝘮 𝘴𝘰, 𝘴𝘰 𝘴𝘰𝘳𝘳𝘺, as if it could hear me. I imagined it could; it made me feel less shitty.

Then I trailed back into the monastery, had a long violent shower with tar soap and harsh scrubbing, and, desensitized of all emotion, went straight back to that chapel to Vigils, and later to Midday prayer, and then to Vespers, and to Compline. I prayed hard for William Dene's soul. For my soul was clearly…hardly mine.