The Sinner's Bible: A Novella (The Natalie Brandon Thrillers)

by Wiltz, Jenni

  The gunman proceeded through the last two rows, sending everyone into the storage room except for herself, Crawford, and the big man he’d come in with. When the last student, a skinny kid in a Bill Murray T-shirt, had shuffled into the storage room, he leaned against the door and let his gun arm fall to his side. “Guy with glasses,” he said. “Give me the keys.”

  They jangled as Avi tossed them into the air.

  The gunman caught them neatly in his left hand. “You make any noise, and someone out here dies. Nod if you understand.”

  “You’re locking us in?” a scared voice asked. “What about oxygen?”

  “Hold your breath.” He kicked the door shut and locked it, tossing the keys onto the lectern. Then he stepped toward the first row of folding chairs, propping one leg on a chair seat. “This won’t take long if you cooperate. There’s no reason we can’t all get what we want.” He used the gun as a pointer, aiming the muzzle at her. “You, with the weird eyes. Come here.”

  Memories of Russia cascaded over her, a nightmare fabric woven with guns and blood. There, she’d had Constantine to protect her. Now, there was no one. I can’t do this, she thought.

  You are strong, Belial said. And I am strong, too.

  She forced herself not to look at Beth as she stood up. She didn’t want to do anything that would give him something to use against them. “All right, I’m coming. Don’t hurt anyone.”

  He watched with a bemused expression as she moved toward him. Strands of shaggy blond hair fell over his eyes and he made no move to sweep them away. “Your eyes always looked like that?”

  “Every damn day of my life.”

  “Were you scared the first time you saw yourself in a mirror?”

  “I’m still scared today. What do you want me to do?”

  “Open the lid on that cart and bring me the book.”

  “Why can’t you do it?”

  “I asked you first, and I’m the one holding the gun.”

  “Scared you’ll leave fingerprints?”

  “Just bring me the goddamn book.”

  She frowned. What was the point of worrying about fingerprints when they’d all seen his face? Did that mean he planned to kill them, leaving no witnesses? But how was she supposed to stop him? The pair of scissors was in her bag on the floor in the back row. She had no weapon and no way of fighting back.

  You have a weapon, Belial said. The same one you’ve always had.

  She gulped. That was exactly what she was afraid of. She couldn’t forget what Belial had done last year, in the motel room in South San Francisco. He’d begged her to give him control, and she’d done it to save her own life...at a tremendous cost. What if something like that happened again? Even if the Stuart curse wasn’t real, Belial was, and she was far more scared of him.

  I want that book, the angel said. The curse is alive inside it.

  She focused on the gunman. “You don’t want this book.”

  A ghost of a smile flickered on his lips. “A Jedi mind trick? Really?”

  “It’s not a—” She stopped and took a deep breath. “Trust me. You don’t want this book.”

  “It’s the only reason I’m here. Bring it to me.”

  I want it, Belial said, extending the arch of his wings. I need to touch it.

  You don’t even have fingers, she thought.

  I have you, the angel replied.

  “Open it,” the gunman said. “Now.”

  Open it, Belial said. Now.

  “Natalie, what the hell are you doing?” Beth said. “Give him the book.”

  She bit her lip until tears stung her eyes and she tasted blood. “I can’t…something bad will happen.”

  “Damn right it will.” The gunman slid his finger through the trigger guard. “Jacob, lock the door.”

  The big man in the back row stood up and moved to the door.

  “Wait!” Crawford raised his hand, as if he were a student in class. A sheen of sweat glistened on his forehead. “Young man, that lock triggers a silent alarm.”

  “You’re lying.”

  “This is my university. I wrote the protocol and procedures myself.”

  “Did you?” The gunman kicked aside folding chairs as he strode toward Crawford. He grabbed Crawford’s throat with his left hand and pointed at the door with the gun in his right. “That bolt doesn’t even touch the frame. There’s no contact to break, and no silent alarm. The next time you use a Parthian shot, you better be damn sure there’s an arrow in that bow of yours.” He dragged the gun across Crawford’s lips, as if painting on a smile. “Jacob, please lock the door.”

  The man named Jacob slid the bolt home and blocked the door with his body.

  Bring me the book now, Belial said. Let me touch the pages cursed with their blood.

  “It’s not real,” she whispered.

  I am an angel of the Lord, and your constant companion for twenty-two years. Do you still believe that only the things you can see are real?

  “Don’t hurt them,” she said. “Not through me.”

  The gunman released Crawford and whipped his head toward her. “What did you say?”

  She held up both hands in surrender. “Don’t take that book. I can’t explain why, I just know something terrible will happen if you do.”

  “Ezra,” Jacob called. “Come on, man. Just get the book and let’s go.”

  “Don’t!” She blinked back the hot tears building behind her lashes. “I think someone will die if that happens. I think I might hurt them.”

  Ezra narrowed his gray eyes at her. “What in holy hell are you talking about?”

  “I don’t want to hurt anyone. I don’t want anyone to die.” She grabbed his arm. “What if it’s you?”

  He pointed the gun at Beth. “What if it’s her?”

  The book, Belial said. Get it now. He dragged a wing down the side of her skull. Every tiny feather point felt like a solar flare, burning her skull from the inside out. She shrieked and dropped to her knees, holding her head in her hands.

  “Shut up!” Ezra flung himself down beside her and clamped his left hand over her mouth. “What the hell’s wrong with you?” His right hand, still holding the gun, snaked around her waist and pulled her against him.

  “Let her go!” Beth cried. “She’s sick. She has epilepsy.”

  Crawford gasped. “Is this true, Ms. Brandon?”

  That old lie again, Belial said.

  Tears streamed from her eyes as the flares of pain ebbed and flowed. It would hurt to speak. It would hurt to shake her head. But she had to stop them both—Belial and Ezra.

  “Epilepsy,” Ezra said calmly, his wide gray eyes searching hers.

  “Let me help her,” Beth said. “I know what to do.”

  Ezra ignored Beth, speaking only to her. “Why is she lying? It’s something in your head, all right, but it’s not epilepsy. You didn’t lose consciousness. You didn’t bite your tongue. You didn’t arch your back.” He pulled his hand from her mouth. “What do you really have?”

  “P — peanut butter,” she said. “Your hands smell like peanut butter.”

  “Listen, both of you.” Crawford stood up slowly. “She clearly needs a doctor. Just go, right now, and we’ll get her to a hospital. Don’t make this any worse.”

  “Worse?” Ezra said. “How could things get worse? Do you think I’m here because I give a shit about some old book?”

  From the corner of her eye, she saw Crawford move one hand toward his jacket pocket. “Don’t,” she moaned.

  But it was too late.

  Ezra raised his right hand and fired.

  The bullet struck Crawford in the chest. The cell phone fell out of his hand as he collapsed onto the next row of folding chairs. The crash echoed like a firecracker in a tin can.

  “No!” Beth sc
reamed, scrambling toward him.

  Jacob leapt for her, catching her around the waist and clamping a hand over her mouth.

  He is gentle, Belial said. But it is too late.

  Panic dimmed the pain as she scrambled in Ezra’s arms. “Tell him to let her go!”

  Ezra wrenched her shoulders to the ground, leaning on them to keep her pressed to the floor. The gun in his right hand dug into the hollow above her collarbone. “What do you really have?”

  “I d — don’t know.”

  “You had a headache. I saw it. I saw you.”

  Beth let out a strangled sob and Jacob tightened his grip on her.

  Cold, the angel said. His hands are so cold.

  “Cold,” she moaned. “His hands are so cold.”

  A shock went through Ezra’s body. She felt it move through him, originating in his gut.

  I am the weapon, she thought. I’ve always been the weapon.

  Very good, little one. Now tell him that your sister can feel the cold, spreading through her veins like ice.

  “But it’s more than his hands, isn’t it?” she said. “Maybe his whole body is cold where it touches you.”

  She looked up into Ezra’s eyes. The soul inside them was old, like hers, calcified into hardness from break after break after break. She remembered the way he’d said the other man’s name — it was the same way she said Beth’s name. Suddenly, she understood why Jacob wore so many layers of clothing, why he was cold, why Ezra was so interested in her head …

  “You love him,” she said, “but you can’t save him.”

  He pushed down on her shoulders. “You don’t know what you’re talking about!”

  “Love is strong, but other things are strong, too.” She slid her fingers down her right arm and then her left, reaching for the sleeves of her shirt. She pulled them up to reveal her scars, two opaque trails that looked like curdled milk.

  I told you I was sorry, Belial said.

  Ezra gasped. “What the fuck is wrong with you?” His eyes traced each scar, lingering on the puckered ends, tiny starburst nubs of pinched flesh. “Some people fight so hard for what you tried to throw away.”

  “It wasn’t just me this thing was killing.”

  He held one finger over her wrist, stopping just short of touching her. “Did it hurt?”

  She bit her lip, remembering the night she’d opened her veins. Dante had asked her to do it, but that wasn’t why she’d obeyed. “No,” she lied.

  “Goddamn, woman. Are you brave or crazy?”

  “I know how it feels to watch someone you love suffer because of something you can’t control. You can’t fight it, and suddenly there are two things killing you.” She blinked, remembering the cold sting of the night air as it whispered to her open veins. “I just wanted to help one of them win.”

  Ezra blinked. “I want Jacob to win.”

  “He doesn’t want this for you.”

  “I want him to live!”

  “Maybe that’s not your decision to make.”

  “You don’t understand.” Ezra shook his head. “You can’t. I’ve been doing this all wrong.”

  She nodded, scraping her head against the floor.

  He swung his right hand and pointed the gun at Beth. “You can’t understand because you don’t give a shit what happens to you. But what about her? Do you give a shit about her? Bring me that book or she gets a bullet in the brain.”

  You cannot let them have it, Belial said. It does not belong to them.

  She gritted her teeth. Every muscle in her body wanted to contract, to curl up in a ball to protect herself. But a ball wouldn’t save her from a bullet, and it wouldn’t help Beth.

  Seth had a math test next week, full of polynomials.

  He needed her. Beth needed her. And she needed them.

  I am the weapon, she thought.

  She forced a nervous smile to her lips, feeling the dry skin split as it stretched. “You asked if I was brave or crazy, but it’s neither of those things.”

  “What the hell else is there?”

  “There’s an angel inside my head.” She reached for his right hand and guided it to her temple, placing the muzzle of the gun against her hairline. “He’s already pissed at me. But let’s see what happens if we make him really mad.”

  “Natalie, no!” Beth cried. She stomped on Jacob’s insole and elbowed him in the gut.

  Jacob wheezed and let go, clutching his midsection.

  Ezra swore and wrenched the gun from her grasp.

  That second was all her sister needed.

  Beth dove, landing hard on Ezra’s right arm.

  He roared in pain as she crushed his wrist against the floor. He tried to pull his hand out from under her, but it didn’t work. So he rolled toward Beth and launched his left fist into the side of her head. Her sister’s limp form slumped over his elbow.

  Ezra jerked his arm out from under Beth’s body and scuttled backward, aiming the gun at her sister’s head.

  “No!” Natalie screamed. “Not her!”

  Suddenly, a blue-shirted blur flew past her. Jacob’s breaths were short and shallow. His ruddy face had gone pale. He fell to one knee in front of Beth. “I asked you not to hurt her.”

  “And I told you I’d do this my way!” Ezra said.

  It is too late, little one, Belial said. His brother cannot be saved.

  “Ezra,” she said, crawling toward him and holding out her hand. “Look at me, please.”

  Ezra turned his back on her.

  “You love your brother. I understand that better than anyone. But Belial says it’s too late.” Her gaze flickered up to Jacob. “I’m sorry.”

  “I know,” he said.

  A siren rang out across the quad.

  Beth moaned and struggled to sit up. Jacob touched her arm gently. She looked up at him and his face softened as he watched her hair fall across her cheek. “I never meant for this to happen,” he said.

  Then he walked to the metal rolling cart, unlatched the plastic lid, and pulled out the book. A red ribbon lay across the open page. He looked at it for a moment, then slammed it closed. “All this trouble over a damn book,” he said.

  Chapter Sixteen

  October 28, 1708

  Kensington Palace, London

  “Please, Your Majesty,” the serving girl said. “You must leave this room. He cannot be seen to properly with you here.”

  Anne Stuart, Queen of England, leaned across the bed and kissed her dead husband’s lips.

  “Your Majesty, the Duchess of Marlborough awaits you in your bedchamber. Don’t you wish to greet her?”

  “I am where I belong!” she cried, rounding on the girl. “Get out, and leave me be.”

  The girl’s cheeks reddened, but she curtsied and did as she was told.

  Anne turned back to George. “What will I do without you?” she said, sniffling as the tears streamed down her face. She stroked his cheek, resting her fingertips at the corner of his mouth.

  Seventeen times her cursed womb had grown quick with his child, and seventeen times it had ended in blood and pain and the closing of tiny eyes. If God did not wish her to have children, why had He allowed their hopes to rise so many times? Even the old drunks in the taverns grew tired of kicking the dogs at their feet.

  But God did not tire of tormenting the Stuart family.

  Perhaps He wanted to be sure there were no more of them.

  He had achieved that with certainty now.

  James, the first Stuart king of England, had married Anne of Denmark. Now there was only she, surely the last of them, weeping over the body of her husband, Anne’s great-nephew. The symmetry was as beautiful as the Great Court at Blenheim. When she was dead, they would say about her what they had said about her sister, Mary: “Go, see now this curs
ed woman, and bury her, for she is a king’s daughter.”

  Even the common priests in the pulpit knew her family was cursed.

  What they did not know was that while Mary may have disobeyed the Fifth Commandment and taken the crown from their father, it was she who had hardened Mary’s heart against him. Upon her sister’s death, the former Archbishop of Bath and Wells had said, “I hope the surviving Princess will consider, and take warning, and repent, lest God be provided to cut her life as short as her sister’s.”

  But she had not.

  She was glad that her father’s son, her stepbrother, was excluded from the line of succession. The English people did not want a Catholic monarch, and in any case, if the throne had gone back to her father and his Catholic children, it would have made her sin and Mary’s sin all for naught.

  It had to be worth something to be borne.

  She looked at the small, brown Bible resting at the foot of the bed. She had clutched it in terror as George struggled to fill his lungs with air. Please, she had prayed. Please don’t take him from me. Of all the names written here, he played no part in their affairs. He is nothing to You. Leave him be, I beg of You.

  Five minutes later, he was dead.

  So there was her answer, a private communication from the Divine.

  “George,” she sobbed, laying her cheek against his breast.

  The bedchamber door creaked open behind her.

  “I told you to leave,” she snapped at the serving girl.

  “Mrs. Morley,” said a familiar voice. It was the nickname by which she was known only to Sarah Churchill.

  “Go away,” she said. “You are not wanted here.”

  “Mrs. Morley, you must come away now. It is time.” Sarah strode up to her and placed her arms around her. But she did not wrap her arms around her for the sake of comfort. Sarah pulled, attempting to dislodge her from George’s side.

  Anne struck out at her, beating Sarah’s soft arms with her fists. “No! I cannot leave him!”