Chapter 5

It took Mark the better part of two hours to get free.

He made the rounds through the precinct — talked to the paramedics, let them smear burn cream on his hands and wrap his forearms in loose bandages. The skin was still pink and angry, but nothing worth a hospital trip. He signed a waiver. The medic gave him a look but did not argue.

The precinct was still buzzing, but the panic had settled into something quieter. People moved slower. Talked softer. The smell — that sweet, rotten, sulfur stench — had faded from the air, replaced by coffee and floor wax and the usual hum of fluorescent lights. Someone had already mopped the worst of the blood. The dogs were gone. The symbols on the wall had been covered with sheets.

Mark walked the halls, climbed to the second floor, then went down to the basement. No one had seen Silas since they had taken Pete away, since Mark had stumbled out of Wolf’s office with bandaged hands and a head full of questions.

He cursed his own gullibility — which, if he was being honest, surprised him almost as much as the supernatural bullshit he had just witnessed. Mark Brennan did not trust people. Mark Brennan did not take strangers at their word. And yet here he was.

He fished his phone out of his pocket — awkwardly, because his fingers were stiff — and stepped outside.

Silas was sitting in Mark’s car.

The priest had pushed the seat back, stretched out his legs, and closed his eyes. He looked comfortable. Like he owned the damn thing.

“What the —” Mark stopped himself.

Silas cracked one eye open. “How are your hands?”

“Fine.” Mark dropped into the driver’s seat and slammed the door. “How did he take me down?”

Silas stared out the window, his expression distant. “You are not going to believe me. Again.”

“Try me.”

Silas glanced at him. Then looked away. “Let’s get something to eat first.”

His phone buzzed. He pulled it out, listened for a moment, said, “Good,” and sighed. Tucking the phone away, he turned his head toward the window. The rain had stopped, but the sky was still the color of old bruises.

Mark stared at the road. The wipers were useless now — the rain had turned to mist, clinging to the glass like breath. He reached out and clicked the radio off. Static had been hissing for the last ten minutes, and he hadn’t even noticed.

“How much further?” Silas asked.

“Ten minutes. Maybe fifteen.”

Mark glanced in the rearview mirror. Empty street. Empty sidewalks. Like the whole city was holding its breath.

Then Silas spoke again. “Your colleague,” he said, tucking the phone into his jacket. “They gave him sedatives. Antidepressants. He’s asleep now. He’ll be able to give a statement in a day or so.” He paused. “But take it from someone who’s seen this before — he won’t remember any of it. Retrograde amnesia. Nothing about what happened in the precinct will be there.”

Mark slammed his palms against the steering wheel — then immediately regretted it. Pain shot up his arms, all the way to his shoulders. He hissed through his teeth.

“Do you want me to drive?” Silas asked, utterly calm.

Mark snapped. A string of curses poured out of him — at Silas, at the car, at the whole fucking situation. He stopped just long enough to take a breath, then started again, slower this time, running through every word he knew.

Silas did not say a word. He just sat there, watching the street, his face perfectly neutral.

When Mark finally ran out of steam, he dropped his forehead against the steering wheel and closed his eyes.

Silas, wisely, kept his mouth shut.

Half an hour later, they were sitting in a small diner.

It was the kind of place that never saw a rush hour — just a slow trickle of customers at odd times. Now, mid-afternoon, the place was nearly empty. A tired-looking waitress leaned on the counter, scrolling through her phone. An old man sat in the corner booth, nursing a cup of coffee and staring out the window at nothing. The fluorescent lights hummed, casting a sickly yellowish glow on the scuffed linoleum floor.

Mark and Silas had tucked themselves into a booth near the back, away from the windows, away from the door. A cracked vinyl seats. A wobbly table. A napkin dispenser that had seen better decades.

The waitress shuffled past with a pot of coffee, refilled a mug at the counter, shuffled back. Somewhere behind the grill, a pan clanged.

Mark pinched the bridge of his nose, then rubbed his eyes with the heels of his hands. His head was still pounding. The coffee smell was making it worse.

Mark had his phone laid out on a napkin, face-up, in case David called. According to David’s version of events, Mark had been with him at the hospital. That was the cover. Because if the truth came out — that Mark had been in that room — he’d be stuck writing reports for days. And in about a week, when the dust settled, there would be a board of inquiry. Internal affairs. Psych evaluations. The whole nightmare.

David had given him a window. A chance to talk to Silas without the machinery of the department grinding him down.

Mark didn’t look up. Just stared at the coffee rings on the table.

“Talk,” Mark said, after taking a sip of his coffee. It was terrible — burnt and bitter. He did not care. “I will believe anything at this point. Though honestly —” he set the cup down — “it feels more like someone slipped us a batch of bad drugs. Except if that is the case, this whole city is going to crash and burn.”

“Excellent theory.” Silas raised his tiny cup — the diner served hard alcohol in what looked like chemistry glassware — and downed it in one shot.

Mark stared at him. “So what is your deal? You chase women too? Or is everything allowed?”

“I do not chase women.” Silas smiled with one corner of his mouth. “As long as my… eccentricities do not interfere with my purpose, I can stand on my head if I want to. The human body needs release. It cannot hold His word for too long.”

Mark’s frown deepened. For a split second, he seriously considered calling a psych ward — not just for Peter, but for the man sitting across from him. And maybe for himself too, because he was still sitting here, still listening.

Silas must have seen something on Mark’s face. Or maybe he had just seen that look a hundred times before. A thin smile crossed his lips.

“I work at a clinic,” he said, reading Mark’s thoughts with unsettling ease. “I am not a patient.” He leaned back. “You promised to listen. I promised to explain.”

“I am listening.”

Silas took a deep breath, folded his hands on the table, and leaned forward — close enough that his voice would not carry. No one was paying them any attention, but still. Caution.

Mark waited.

And waited.

“Well?” he finally snapped. “What? You want me to swear on a Bible? I am paying attention.”

“You do not believe me anyway,” Silas said. “Swearing would be a waste.” He tilted his head. “Did you go to Sunday school?”

“They made me.” Mark shrugged. “Didn’t stick. You see a lot in this job. Christian forgiveness has a short shelf life.”

He turned his head toward the window. A man in a gray coat was walking past, shoulders hunched, hands in pockets. He didn’t look up. Didn’t look anywhere. Just walked.

Mark took a sip of water — cold, tasted like metal — and set the glass down.

“Forgiveness is a luxury,” he muttered. Then he nodded at Silas. “Go on.”

Silas did not argue.

“The Hounds of God have a shitty job too,” he said. “We track, we clean up, we heal, we exorcise, or we destroy. Investigation, judgment, and execution — all in one. Or if you prefer — simple submission. Of course, we do not shout about our order on every street corner, but certain high-ranking officials know that sometimes a person cannot handle what is standing against them. Like with Peter.” He paused. “Remember that feeling?”

Mark grimaced and raised his bandaged hands in a sarcastic salute. He remembered. He remembered very well.

“Look,” Silas said, leaning back. “This is not Sunday school, fine. But you watch movies, do not you? So you know — all that stuff, it is not just made up.” He paused, choosing his words. “Our world is too fragile. One wrong move, and reality tears apart at the seams. Neither side wants that. What is the point of destroying the chessboard when the game itself is the reason for existing?” He let that sink in. “So the forces of Light and Darkness can only act through intermediaries. That is how it has always been. Throughout the ages, both sides have searched for those who could accept a fragment of their power and carry out their will.”

“Wait.” Mark held up a hand. “You are telling me Peter was possessed?”

“Yes.”

“By what?

Silas hesitated. “They have a name, but — you would not remember it sober. You could not pronounce it even if you tried. And honestly?” He shook his head. “You do not need to know. Best not to wake that kind of trouble when it is already walking free through your city. Call it a demon if that is easier for you.”

“And that is why I could not take him down?”

“A body afflicted by… by them gains abilities — temporarily — that are beyond any ordinary human.”

Mark signaled the waitress for a beer. He knew he should not drink — not after the medics, not if he was driving. But his head was too full of nonsense to stay sober for this conversation.

The waitress who came over was pretty — hair the color of ripe pomegranates, tied back in a loose ponytail. She set down a tall mug, winked at him, and walked away, weaving between the tables with an easy sway of her hips in tight jeans.

Mark’s eyes followed her for a second. That kind of “evil” he understood.

Whatever the priest across from him was selling — it sounded like delusion.

And yet.

Some part of his brain was starting to believe it.

“Okay.” The beer tasted worse than the waitress looked. “All right. Theoretically, I believe you. A demon, then. So what the hell does it want in my city? We do not have any special holy sites. No cults. Crime rate is average — even a little below. Last time the captain yelled at us, he said we were not saints, but there are not that many murders.” Mark shook his head. “Not exactly something to be proud of. If there were none at all, that would be something. But we would have to live in a desert for that. So why is this happening?”

Silas made a small sound — half scoff, half laugh. “You want me to lay out the whole conspiracy for you right now? The inner workings of Satan’s master plan? It has been two days. I just got here.”

“By the way — why did you come?” Mark asked. “And you headed straight for that church? I did not see any luggage back then.”

Silas poked at a wedge of fries sticking out of his plate. “Father Frederick was studying some old books. He found something in the church basement. Called an acquaintance of his. That acquaintance called my order. I was the closest, so the abbot asked me to come check it out.”

“What kind of book?” Mark already had a cigarette between his fingers. He flicked his lighter, cupping the flame to the tip. “Something from the archives?”

“I do not know. I did not have time to ask. On the phone, Father Frederick said it was an old edition of some ancient encyclopedia. But that could mean anything. A lot of these old churches — like yours — were used as hiding spots for various orders back in the day. The book could be anything.”

Mark stared at the glowing tip of his cigarette, turning it slowly between his fingers, running through possibilities. Silas watched him with an unreadable expression.

“You think he was killed because of the book?” Mark asked, tracing scratches on the table with his finger.

For a moment, he could have sworn the chaotic little gouges in the wood shifted — squirmed — rearranged themselves into familiar symbols.

“Maybe.” Silas finally speared a wedge of potato and put it in his mouth. “But—”

“But why go after the others?” Mark cut him off. “That is what I do not get. The motive. Even if we assume this is a possession or whatever — what is so special about that book? What, does it say — ‘slaughter every cop in the district who laid eyes on you’?” He shook his head. “Even if the book is worth a fortune — you could not pay for this kind of craziness. Not even illusionists charge that much.”

Silas shrugged. “I do not know. I cannot even say if it is connected to the book at all. Maybe it is. Maybe it is not. Either way, we need to see the book. Then we might have some answers. Or not.”

Mark started shoveling fries into his mouth, washing them down with beer, not noticing that he was smearing grease on his bandages. His appetite had returned with a vengeance — saliva nearly running down his chin. He was starving. Strange. He had never liked fried potatoes that much.

He looked down at his empty plate, then at Silas’s raised eyebrows.

“Sorry,” Mark said, wiping his mouth with a napkin. “I was… thinking.” He set the napkin down. “That could be a motive. We need to find that book. It was not in the evidence log. We need to search the church again. If it is still sealed off — we have a chance.”

“The police tape came down today,” Silas said, leaning back in his chair. He folded his arms across his chest and narrowed his eyes. “I wanted to go in this morning, but one of your people was there talking to Maria. She is the nun — Father Frederick’s assistant for many years. I can call her, arrange it. She will meet us tomorrow.”