“It’s just a relic, Sister,” Alistair said.
By midnight, a team from the Congregation for the Doctrine of the Faith arrived: two exorcists, a canon lawyer, and a cardiologist (for irony, Alistair suspected). They sealed the chapel. They recorded the finger’s movements. They transcribed its prophecies—a coming civil war within the Church, a false pope, a city of bones rising from the Tiber.
Not yet. Not yet.
The scream that followed was not her own. It was a man’s voice, roaring through her throat, ancient and terrified. “The relic is not the saint. The relic is the cage. I am the cardinal. I was never holy. I was hungry.”
“Watch.”
The Cardinal’s Relic Draft
“Finally,” it said, “a hand to write my own canonization.”