Page 30 of House of Sin
I extended my hand. “Lovely to meet you, Father.”
He took it, firm and practiced. “The pleasure is mine ... Bernadette, was it?” His gaze swept to the others, lingering an extra beat on Violet. I saw it, the admiration, that spark of curiosity men get when they see something they want but know they shouldn’t. Typical. Still, he masked it well, and when FatherCyrus asked if we’d enjoyed the sermon, I smiled sweetly. “Oh, it was quite ... memorable.”
Maeve made a noise in her throat. “Bit much, if you ask me.”
I gave her a look, somewhere between warning and affection, and held it a moment longer, as if to remind her just how serious I was. She met it without flinching, unbothered, maybe even a little amused. Father Cyrus laughed, clearly entertained, but poor Father Frederick looked like a boy who’d wandered into the wrong saloon. Elona, bless her, chose that moment to drop the match into the tinder. “Well, at least the good Father gave the town something new to whisper about besides the whores in the back pew.”
Violet added, her smile sugar and sin, “Who’d have thought we’d ever get this far?”
I turned back to Father Frederick and decided to twist the knife, just a little. “You’ll have to forgive us, Father. We joke about being whores because, well ... weare. I own a brothel.”
His eyes widened, disbelief momentarily breaking through. His jaw didn’t quite drop, but it twitched, a subtle betrayal of the shock he tried hard to mask.Father Cyrus stepped in, gentle as ever, and explained my history and my so-called “community contributions.” I gave him a silent 'thank-you'. No need to push the poor new priest off the edge. Still, I wasn’t done with him. “So,” I asked, changing gears, “what brings you to Butte, Father Frederick? I assume it’s more than just shadowing our dear Father Cyrus.”
He glanced away, brushing over it quickly. “Think of it like an internship,” he voiced. “Father Cyrus is letting me learn from him before I move on to St. Patrick’s in Arizona.”
“You’re not staying, then?” I asked, a note of sincerity slipping in beneath the curiosity.
“No, ma’am. But I’m grateful for the time here.”
I gave a small nod. That was enough for now. “Well,” I chimed, turning to the girls with a subtle flick of my wrist, “it was lovely to meet you, Father Frederick. Father Cyrus, I look forward to your next sermon.” We swept past them, the soft rustle of skirts and quickened steps echoing off the polished floorboards as we made our way down the aisle. The voices of the few remaining parishioners faded behind us, swallowed by the heavy wooden doors just ahead.
“Until next time, Birdie,” Father Cyrus called out.
“Try not to miss me too much, old man,” I called back over my shoulder, just loud enough for him to hear. He chuckled, low and genuine, the sound following me as thedoors closed.
18
…I WOULD MUCH RATHER BE THE PREDATOR
HIM
From the moment I saw her, I knew I wanted her. She looked untouched by the rot of this world, like something God had crafted in a moment of indulgence.
And I knew I had to be the oneto have her.
Despite the sanctity of the moment, my body betrayed me. Beneath the vestments, beneath the collar, the beast stirred. I had spent hours,hours, last night and this morning on my knees, begging for deliverance. Pleading for the Lord to burn the wickedness from my bones.My Father in Heaven, thanks to You for this chance to begin again. Cast out the demon that lives in me. Make me clean, make me untouchable.But I knew better. Even then, with bloodied palms and a voice hoarse from whispered prayer, I knew I could never outrun the thing inside me. Not completely.
The journey to Butte had been long, but not unusual. These things, transfers, recommendations, the quiet reassignment of sin, happen without much noise in our world. There is a kind of unspoken mercy among men of the cloth. We protect each other and we absolve one another long before confession is required. No priest is ever cast out, not truly. Not when we carry His name. When Father Cyrus extended his invitation for me to lead Mass this morning, I accepted with the same gracious humility I’d practiced for years, voice soft, eyes shimmering with gratitude. Butbeneath that calm, I was overflowing. This was my redemption. My resurrection.
The sacred ritual of dressing, the tactile comfort of it, never failed to soothe me. “Give virtue to my hands, O Lord,” I recited, scrubbing them raw under the cold tap, “that being cleansed from all stains I might serve You with purity of mind and body.”
The amice, the alb, the cincture, the stole, each layer slipped on like armor, each prayer a ward against the darkness that still lingered within me.
“O Lord, who hast said, My yoke is easy and My burden light ...”
Amen.
St. Ann’s was modest, worn but proud. The stained glass shone color across the pews like spilled wine while the air carried the scents of incense and age. The church was quiet when I arrived, almost reverent in its stillness.
Until she walked in.
At first, I thought she might be a trick of the light. The kind of distraction the devil sends just before Mass to test a man’s resolve. But no, she was real. More than real. That updo, carelessly perfect. Thestrands that defied gravity and fell like whispers over her shoulders. The curve of her neck, the quiet arrogance in her posture. She didn’t fidget, she didn’t smile, she didn’taskto be seen. And so, of course, I couldn’t look away. I tore my eyes from her long enough to reach the pulpit, but every word I had written now felt stale and lifeless in my throat. I forced my voice to steady.
“Good morning,” I began. “Today, we gather to reflect on the theme of redemption.”
Redemption. The irony tasted bitter.
I delivered the sermon like I always did, confidently, articulately, and steadily. I quoted the Psalms, I spoke of the mercy of Christ, I gave them what they came for. But under it all, my mind spun with impure thoughts, with devious thoughts.
