Chapter 11

Something was dripping. Drip. Drip. Drip. Drip… plop.

Cold. So cold his teeth were chattering. And bright. Very, very bright. He was afraid to open his eyes — because even through his closed lids, the light was trying to burn out his eyeballs.

Mark tried to figure out where he was. The last thing he remembered was a thin, angular woman with the face of a stern headmistress and prickly, freezing eyes — unnaturally pale blue. And the white symbols on Silas’s back. And the wound.

Then — nothing. A blank.

He tried to cover his face with his hand and sit up. His arms would not obey. Neither left nor right. He took a risk and opened his eyes anyway — no protection, no warning.

The source of the brightness was obvious immediately. Someone clever had positioned a strange-looking lamp directly in front of his face, the bulb aimed right at him.

His hands were cuffed to the bed frame. His legs too.

Mark turned his head.

A few feet away, Silas sat on a small wooden chair. He was sitting sideways, leaning his shoulder against the backrest, and appeared to be dozing.

He looked terrible. His face was gaunt, grayish under the harsh light. Dark circles had settled deep under his eyes. He wore a cassock — black, buttoned to the collar, the fabric wrinkled and stained. At his throat, a stark white clerical collar stood out against the dark cloth. A rosary was wrapped around his right wrist, and a silver crucifix hung from his neck — larger than the one he usually wore. The sleeves of the cassock were plain, unadorned.

“What is going on?” Mark’s voice came out louder than he intended. “Why did you chain me up?”

The priest blinked. Sleepy. Slow.

“How do you feel?”

“Silas, are you out of your mind?” Mark’s voice rose. “How am I supposed to feel like this? Why did you chain me up? Unlock these. And move that lamp — it is burning my eyes.”

“Not so fast.” Silas pushed the chair back against the wall and stood up. He moved closer — slowly, carefully, like he was approaching something dangerous.

Mark noticed for the first time that the priest was wearing full vestments. The cassock was buttoned all the way up. The collar was crisp and white.

“Are you going to explain what is happening?” Mark asked, sensing something was wrong — but genuinely confused about what, exactly. Silas was looking at him the way you would look at a wild animal in a cage. Trying to figure out if the bars would hold.

“You do not remember anything?”

“No. Should I?”

Silas sighed. He opened a thick book bound in black — no title on the cover — and spoke a phrase in Latin. Not the familiar kind. Something older. Harsher.

Mark was about to ask what was going on. Then he felt it — warmth spreading across his chest. Like someone had pressed a hot stone against his skin, right over his heart. The heat was seeping through his shirt, burning without burning.

Another phrase. The warmth spread — across his ribs, up toward his collarbone, down toward his stomach. The air filled with the smell of burnt fabric.

“What kind of tricks are these?!” Mark roared, jerking against the cuffs.

The metal bit into his skin. He did not feel it. No pain. Just pressure.

Instead of answering, Silas made the sign of the cross — wide, sweeping, theatrical. The rosary beads squeaked against each other — a high, unpleasant sound. The light from the lamp became unbearable — white-hot, searing.

Another Latin phrase. This one pushed the air out of Mark’s lungs — all of it, at once, like a fist squeezing from the inside.

Then lightness.

Then darkness.

The next time Mark woke up, it was from pain.

The cuffs were gone. His hands were free. His legs too. The lamp had been moved — no longer blinding him. The light in the room was softer now, muted, coming from somewhere behind him rather than directly in his face.

But the pain was still there. Everything hurt — like he had been slammed against a concrete wall, or maybe run over by a truck. Everything hurt, even his tongue. It was swollen, thick, uncooperative. He could taste blood. And smell it too — iron and salt, heavy in the back of his throat.

Someone stopped beside him. Something cool and wet settled on his forehead — a cloth, maybe. Pleasant. Soothing.

Mark licked his dry, cracked lips and forced his eyes open.

Silas stood over him. Still in his cassock, but the collar was open now, the top buttons undone. He looked awful — worse than when he had been bleeding out in Mark’s car, slumped in the passenger seat, barely conscious. His face was gray, his eyes sunken, his skin slack like it had been stretched too thin.

Mark tried to focus on his surroundings. The room felt wrong — the walls seemed too far away, blurred at the edges like they were fading into a gray haze. The floor beneath him was not solid — not wood, not stone, something soft and unsteady, like packed earth after a rain. He glanced up. No ceiling. Just more gray nothing, stretching up and up until it disappeared.

He had no idea where he was. No idea if he was even still in the house. The air was thick and heavy, smelling of old incense and something sweet underneath — something rotten.

This is not right, he thought. This is not real.

But the pain in his body was real. His tongue was swollen, thick, uncooperative. He could taste blood. And smell it too — iron and salt, heavy in the back of his throat.

“What…” Mark coughed. His throat was raw.

Silas carefully supported his head and brought a cup of lukewarm water to his lips.

“Drink. You will feel better.”

He did feel better. Not much. But better.

“Can you stand?”

Mark would have loved to stand up and punch someone in the face. But he barely had the strength to shake his head — a slow, weak motion.

Silas glanced at his wristwatch, did some quick mental math, and nodded to himself.

“We have about three or four hours before the main event. You have some time.” He paused. “I am sorry — I cannot send you to the hospital. It is too dangerous.”

“My head is splitting from your riddles. Can you just say it straight for once?”

“I exorcised a demon from you,” the priest said calmly.

“What?!”

“You wanted straight.”

Silas took Mark’s hand carefully, turning it over to look at the symbols. They had faded — pale, almost colorless, like old scars.

“The writing on my back — and on your arm — came from contact with a possessed conduit. Foundations do not just appear. It is a long, multi-stage process. A piece of absolute Evil comes down to earth.” He paused. “First you need a vessel. You have to empty it. Then fill it again.”

“More nonsense.” Mark tried to sit up. Failed. “So you pulled a demon out of me? Is that why I feel like a well-done steak?”

“Well… you could have died during the ritual. In your case, that would have been bad. An empty body is perfect for a Foundation. So I had to keep you alive.”

“Thanks.” Mark managed to sit up on the second try. Silas dropped onto the bed next to him.

“Do not mention it.” The priest shrugged. “If it came to it, I would have just burned the body.”

Mark expressed his gratitude in two phrases he had once overheard in a homeless shelter, back when they were pulling out an addict. His joints ached like someone had twisted him backward, folded him up, beat him, and strangled him. His neck hurt.

“Did you try to unscrew my head?”

“No. You did that yourself.”

Silas sighed heavily and looked at his own hands — a strange, distant look. A raw red burn crossed both his palms, from thumb to wrist.

Mark searched his memory for any trace of what Silas had just described. Nothing. The only thing he remembered was pain. He did not need to remember that — his body was doing a very good job of reminding him.

Silas suddenly twitched — a nervous jerk. He jumped up from the bed, threw the door open, then stepped back toward the window.

A large black cat walked into the room. Blue eyes. Slow, deliberate steps. It let out a long, drawn-out meow, flicked its tail, and walked back out into the hallway.

Mark tried to stand. His legs would not obey. When he shifted his weight, his head started spinning — hard — and a fresh wave of pain crashed behind his eyes. He gave up and stayed where he was.

“I miscalculated,” Silas said, dragging both hands down his face. He grabbed fistfuls of his own hair and pulled — hard. “There is no time left.”

“There is no time for what?”

“Stay down.” Silas shoved Mark back onto the mattress with a quick, efficient push. “Listen to me. Do what I say. Do not be afraid. The most important thing — keep your sanity. Skepticism is your best friend. You know the theory. They will tempt you. Promise you everything you have ever wanted. Then they will scare you.” He leaned closer. “You have to trust me. The battlefield is inside you right now. Focus. Do you hear me?”

Mark grunted in response, trying to focus his vision. A wave of nausea hit him — unwelcome and poorly timed. He could barely understand what Silas was saying, but he could feel something approaching through his skin. Something large. Something dense.

Outside the windows, the sky went dark. Mark turned his head. The window openings were filling in — solid stone growing across the glass like fast-forwarded construction. Someone was drawing brickwork in real time. Blueish light flickered on automatically around the perimeter of the ceiling, tracing the edges of the room.

Silas slipped a maniple over his left forearm and picked up a Bible.

From downstairs came a desperate, drawn-out yowl. A cat. Then — the stairs creaked. Someone was coming up. Calm. Confident. And heavy — easily two hundred kilograms, by the sound of it. The stairs groaned under the weight, sighing with each step.

Silas shot Mark one last look. Stay down, he mouthed — no sound — and retreated to the corner of the room.

Mark steadied his breathing. He relaxed as much as he could, trying to gather whatever strength he had left. He had a feeling he was going to need it.

The heavy footsteps came closer. Paused at the doorway for just a second. Then a man walked into the room.

He was tall. Broad-shouldered. Dark hair, light eyes — pale gray, almost colorless. Good bone structure. Expensive clothes — dark trousers, a perfectly fitted jacket, no tie. He looked like he had just stepped out of a magazine. The face from the file. Jan Ammann.

But his eyes were wrong. Too bright. Too still. Like the person looking out through them was not quite human anymore.

Behind him, in the hallway, something crashed. Sparks rained down from the ceiling, and the lights went out everywhere except in this room. The blue perimeter glow was the only illumination now.

Jan smiled. Then tossed whatever he had been carrying — a casual, dismissive throw, like he was getting rid of garbage.

A black, furry body flew across the room and hit the wall with a sickening thud. It slid down and lay still. The cat. Its blue eyes were open but empty.

Then the cat’s dying whimper faded — and became a woman’s groan.

“Did not think His servants stooped to mingling with us,” Jan said. “So closely too.”

“Who are you?” Silas’s voice was steady.

“My name is Jan.” The man took another step into the room, scanning it slowly. “You have read my file, have not you?” His gaze slid over Silas — frozen like a statue — with polite disinterest, then returned to Mark. “It is all lies now, of course. Does not matter.” He waved a hand toward Silas. “Do not just stand there, priest. You are powerless against me.”

Silas said nothing. Did not move.

Mark pushed himself up on his elbows. “What do you want?” Mark asked.

Jan shrugged — casual, lazy. “Me? Nothing. But my master… he would not mind winning another round. Just one more game. There is not much left, really. A few small things.” His pale eyes drifted back to Mark. “And you. As his right hand.” He pointed. “Lie down.”

An invisible hand slammed into Mark’s chest, shoving him back onto the bed. His arms flew up on their own, and something unseen clamped down on his wrists.

“What the hell!” Mark yanked against the restraints. His strength gave out fast. “Silas?!”

“Shh.” Jan snapped his fingers. Something sweet and sticky — like melted cotton candy — jammed itself into Mark’s mouth, filling it, muffling any sound.

A light tickle started at his feet. Tiny legs skittered up his ankles, under his pants, crawling higher. Mark twisted in disgust, jerking his legs.

Invisible shackles locked around his ankles. The tickling thing reached his groin, wrapped around, and slithered up his spine — between him and the mattress — pressing hundreds of tiny needles into his skin. It reached his neck, coiled around, and stopped.

Now Mark was held in place by a strange cage of pressure. He could barely lift his head.

“Much better.” Jan smiled. “When I need you to speak, I will let you. Marvelous. Simply marvel—”

He stopped mid-word. His pale eyes — scanning Mark, enjoying the sight — went dark.

The man stumbled mid-sentence. His pale eyes — which had been scanning Mark with cold amusement — went dark.

“You really think you can cast me out?” He glanced back at Silas for just a second. “You, a stupid servant? Me?“

Silas did not even raise an eyebrow.

Mark jerked against his restraints — hard. The invisible thing holding him down tightened in response. Something warm trickled down his neck.

“Ad Sanctum Michaelem Archangelum. Precatio.”

The words came out of Silas’s mouth sharp and clear. He raised his hand.

Jan’s mouth twitched — a mocking, lazy smile. He rolled his shoulder and grinned. Mark felt a chill run down his spine at that grin. The man was starting to smell — sulfur and rotting flesh, thick and unmistakable. His skin had lost its healthy color, turning grayish, waxy.

“Starting in the middle?” Jan asked, settling himself on Mark’s stomach. The weight was crushing — like a boulder dropping onto his ribs. “No preparation? You think you have the strength?”

Silas continued reading the exorcism in a steady voice, his eyes locked on Jan. The priest’s gaze seemed to glow — not literally, but like light reflecting off a candle flame, gathering brightness.

Mark gasped for air. It felt like a tombstone had been dropped on his chest, pressing the breath out of him, crushing his insides. And it was cold. Freezing. He had expected something from hell to burn — like the symbols had burned. But Jan was ice-cold. Within seconds, the skin on Mark’s stomach went numb.

Silas kept reading. Steady. Unbroken.

Jan hunched forward, jutting out his jaw. He leaned in close, and between his lips, Mark saw a tongue — forked. Split. The man growled something in a language Mark did not recognize. A wave — invisible but heavy — lifted dust from the floor, carved a clean arc in it, and shot toward Silas.

The priest raised his left hand. A fresh welt bloomed across his palm — but the wave, whatever it was, broke apart and scattered. It did not touch him.

“Fine. Keep reading.” Jan was not disappointed. He waved a hand like he was shooing a fly.