Eileen Wilks: Blood Lines

Like her. Cynna sucked at math. But when it came to spell-craft, she had the knack, the desire, and the patience.

The air had broken out in a cold sweat, emphasis on the cold. There wasn't enough precip to call it a drizzle, just a clammy dampness that fuzzed the streetlights and numbed her cheeks.

Great weather for staying inside. That's where respectable citizens were, no doubt—comfy and cozy at home, maybe with a fire burning in the fireplace and a glass of wine in hand.

Well, she couldn't manage the fire, but wine sounded like a fine idea. Something fizzy, maybe. Another two blocks, and she'd hit a busy intersection. She'd get a cab, get back to the hotel, and order something from room service. Even after years of prosperity she got a kick out of room service. Maybe that would wipe out this stupid, let-down feeling.

For God's sake. Let down? Had she wanted a fight?

Yes. She had. That's why she'd headed for the worst neighborhood in Washington.

Dammit, dammit, dammit. When was she going to learn? Cynna scowled at her feet and walked faster.

Some people had the whole good-and-bad thing down. She was working on it, but when the shit hit the fan and there wasn't time to think things through, she didn't have the right instincts. Her default setting hit a lot closer to kill the bastards than turn the other cheek.

Not that she went around killing people. That had only happened twice, both times in self-defense. The Bureau had agreed she'd handled the second situation correctly. They didn't know about the other.

Well, Abel Karonski did. He was a friend as well as a fellow agent, and she'd spilled the story to him years ago. He might have told Ruben. But the deets weren't in any official file. She'd checked.

But she did like a fight. Especially on nights like this, when the nameless feeling clawed its way up from her gut and wrapped her in its barbed-wire coils, there were only two things she really wanted to do: fight or fuck.

That wasn't the way good people dealt with a bad mood.

She stopped at the light, scowling. The neighborhood had improved some in the last three blocks. The four corners at this intersection were held down by a Mexican food place, a car wash, a resale shop, and a convenience store.

Okay. She took a deep breath, let it out slowly. She couldn't control what she wanted to do, so she'd settle for controlling what she did. And what she was going to do now was get back to the hotel. Skip the wine, get some sleep. She could borrow a phone book at the 7-Eleven, call a cab, and let the driver figure out how to get from here to there.

Halfway across the street she noticed the church.

It was on the other end of the block, separated from the 7-Eleven by a couple of small stores and a big parking lot. Bound to be locked up this time of night, her reasonable side pointed out.

It wasn't that late, though. Just after ten. And there were cars in the parking lot. As soon as she hit that side of the street, her feet veered that way.

Probably isn't a Catholic church, the voice of reason said.

Probably not. Couldn't hurt to check, though. It wasn't like she had something important to… hey, look. People.

The side door had opened. An older couple and a younger one emerged, followed by another small knot of folks—Hispanic, looked like, though with everyone bundled up for the weather, she wasn't sure. The last one out wore a black cassock.

Sure looked like a priest. And… yes, she was close enough to read the sign now: Our Lady of the Assumption.

Ha. Take that, voice of reason.

People called cheerful good nights; car doors slammed and cars backed out of their parking spots. But one older couple seemed uninterested in leaving. They stood on the narrow porch by the side door, and the woman was talking a mile a minute to the priest about flowers and tables and the number of guests.

Wedding rehearsal. That's why they were here at this hour. Damn, she'd make a detective yet.

As Cynna drew near, the husband told his wife to let Father Jacobs go inside—it was freezing out here. One by one, they noticed her and fell silent. The woman clutched her husband's arm, eyes wide. He rose to his role as protector by giving Cynna a go-away frown.

At least this bunch wasn't likely to jump her. "Father Jacobs?" she said tentatively.

Despite the cassock, he looked more like an altar boy than a priest. He was a true towhead, with white-blond hair and skin the color of an old parchment, slightly reddened now from the cold. His smile was surprisingly sweet. "Yes? May I help you?"

"I was hoping… I know it's late, but can you take my confession?"

INSIDE, the scent was wood, incense, flowers. The kneeler was hard. Cynna could have gone around the screen to sit in an upholstered chair, but she'd take sore knees over face-to-face confession any time.

She crossed herself, wishing she'd waited and gone to her home church in Virginia. This priest didn't know her history.

His voice came quietly from the other side of the screen. "In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit, may the Lord be in your heart and help you to confess your sins with true sorrow."

Start with the easy stuff. "Bless me, Father, for I have sinned. It's, uh… it's been five weeks since my last confession, and I've missed five Sunday Masses. The first one couldn't be helped because there wasn't a church there." No duh. Hell was seriously short on houses of worship. "The others… I've been busy. Okay," she admitted. "That's lame. But I like to be confessed when I take communion, and I guess I've been putting this off."

He waited.

"Uh… I lusted after a man. Two men, really, but one of them is taken, so that doesn't count. I just have to get over it, you know? But the other one…"

"Have you acted on your lust?"

"No. But I want to. I'm not married or otherwise committed," she added. "Neither is he." Another understatement. "So we wouldn't be breaking any vows if we did, uh, you know."

"Sex can be a joyous expression of love within the sacrament of marriage. Outside that union, it's an inherently selfish act, the pursuit of pleasure for selfish reasons."

This was one of those areas where she and the Church disagreed. Cynna couldn't see what was so wrong about sex. Back a zillion years ago, yeah, sex outside marriage had led to lots of ugly consequences, so abstaining had made sense. But now?

Of course, Father Michaels said it was hubris to put her own reasoning above the collected wisdom of God's holy Church. He was probably right, but Cynna figured she'd have to come to her own understanding in her own way. "I've been guilty of pride. And anger. And…" Her heart jumped in her chest and started pounding hard, as if she were pushing something uphill. "This is hard to say."

"Do you have a specific act in mind? Something you did that troubles you?"

"Yeah."

"Was this act a venial sin or a mortal sin?"

"I don't know." That was the problem.

"I couldn't help noticing your tattoos. You were once a Dizzy?"

Like most people, he referred to the street-born cult by its nickname. Not many had ever heard of the movement's real name: the Msaidiza. In Swahili, it meant helpers.

"Not since I came to the Church."

"Have you practiced other forms of forbidden magic or otherwise been drawn into superstition?"

That was a hard one. Father Michaels said the Church's stance on magic was so tangled you practically had to call a conclave before casting a spell. He'd advised her to consider her skills in the same light she did her weapon—to use her Gift and her spell-crafting only for self-defense or in pursuit of her duties, and only when it clearly served the greater good. "I think I'm clear there," she said after a moment. "That isn't what's bugging me."