Chapter 10

The woman who opened it could have been carved from ice and old wood. Tall, angular, with sharp cheekbones and thin lips pressed into a line that had forgotten how to smile. Her gray hair was pulled back so tight it looked painful. She wore a plain dark dress, no jewelry, no ornament. Everything about her said efficiency — every crease ironed, every hair in place.

But it was her eyes that stopped Mark. Behind thick, no-nonsense glasses, they were completely unreadable — as calm and empty as a winter sky. She looked at Silas hanging in Mark’s arms, at the blood soaking through his shirt, at the scratches on his face — and did not blink. As if half-conscious, bleeding priests from obscure orders showed up on her doorstep every single day.

“Get him upstairs, young man,” she said. Her voice was dry, clipped, used to being obeyed. “Do not let him walk on his own. He is stubborn.” She pointed toward the staircase. “Second door on the left. Put him on the bed face-down. Take his clothes off.”

The house was dark and cold, the kind of place that held onto shadows even in daylight. The stairs groaned under their combined weight — a tired, mournful sound, like the house itself was complaining.

Silas did not resist. He hung limp in Mark’s arms, breathing in shallow, labored gasps. Mark could feel the sleeve of his own shirt getting wet — the blood was still flowing. By his count, Silas should have passed out miles ago. But those black eyes stayed open, staring down at his own feet, watching each step.

They made it to the second floor.

The room was small — barely larger than the narrow, hard bed that stood against the wall. A wooden chair. A nightstand with a single candle. Whitewashed walls, bare except for a wooden crucifix. No pictures. No decorations. A cell. A monk’s cell.

Mark lowered Silas onto the bed, then peeled off his jacket and unbuttoned his shirt. He threw both on the floor. The wet fabric landed with a sick, wet slap.

Silas rolled over on his own — face-down into the pillow — and lay still.

The wound was a gash across his back — diagonal, from his left shoulder down toward his right hip. It crossed his spine, where the skin was torn out in a raw, ragged circle, like someone had ripped out a plug of flesh. Older scars crisscrossed his lower back and right shoulder — pink and healed, but still visible.

And across the whole surface of his back — white scars, pale against the skin — ran the symbols.

Mark’s breath caught. He yanked up his own sleeve, baring his left arm, then laid his palm flat against Silas’s back. The symbols matched. Perfectly. Every line. Every curve.

“I appreciate the gesture,” Silas’s voice came from the pillow — muffled, but still carrying that dry edge. “Trying to heal me with a laying on of hands. But that gift is given to very few in this world. Unfortunately.”

“I was not…”

“Though,” Silas’s voice shifted — a hint of mockery creeping back in, “if that is what you are offering — let me get my strength back, and you can put your hands on me again. I will think about it. Though I doubt it will do much good.”

“What?!”

“Quiet, young man.” The woman came in carrying a large tray piled with bottles, jars, cloths, and a big bowl of clear liquid in the center. “I need to wash it. Hold him down.”

“I am used to it, Ingrid,” Silas said, propping himself up on one elbow. “There is no need to hold me down.”

“I am calmer this way, if you do not mind,” she said, setting the tray on a chair. She picked up a cloth and looked at Mark. “Press his shoulders down. This is going to hurt.”

Mark had treated gunshot wounds in the field. He knew what unpleasant meant. This was definitely unpleasant.

The woman — Ingrid — wet a cloth, pushed her glasses up with her index finger, and did not hesitate any longer. She started wiping away the blood.

A faint hissing sound came from Silas’s back. Yellowish foam bubbled up from the wound. Silas pressed his face into the pillow, his body going rigid, his fingers curling into claws.

“What is that?” Mark asked.

Ingrid looked at him over her glasses. For the first time, Mark noticed her eyes — piercing, cold, pale blue. Like a glacier under sunlight.

“Holy water.”

Mark asked no more questions.

She washed the wound thoroughly, then sprayed something from two different bottles. She pulled the edges of the gash together and applied adhesive strips — no stitches. Then she poured something sharp-smelling from another bottle onto a fresh cloth, laid it over the torn-out patch of skin, and secured it with self-adhesive tape.

Mark kept Silas pinned to the bed automatically, but he could feel that the priest was not moving. Not fighting. Just lying there.

“Can not bandage it,” Ingrid said, pulling out a roll of thick medical tape. “Have to seal it.” She looked down at Silas. “This time, Father, you have outdone yourself. I will have to report this to the abbot.”

“Ingrid, what is the point of reporting such a minor thing?” Somehow, Silas gathered what strength he had left and sat up — quite quickly, actually.

The woman stared at him with disapproval. Her thin lips pressed together, and the temperature in her eyes dropped another few degrees. You could freeze flies on the wing with that look.

“There is no time,” Silas said. “Please. Someone is trying to create a Foundation. We cannot wait. If we do not stop the ritual, a single scar will be the least of our problems.”

“Foundation?” Ingrid’s gaze snapped to Mark.

For a moment, Mark could have sworn she sniffed the air — like a cat scenting something unfamiliar. Her nose twitched. Then she looked back at Silas.

“Do you need my help?”

Silas shook his head.

“Fine. Then I will contact the abbot anyway. Report the situation.” Ingrid’s eyes moved to the pile of bloody cloths on the floor. “About you — I will keep quiet. For now.”

“Thank you.” Silas pulled the roll of tape from her hands with a gesture so smooth it was almost like magic. “And if…”

Mark watched from the sidelines and said nothing.

It hit him suddenly — a cold, clear realization. He had lost his mind a long time ago. Because here he was, standing with these people, watching a woman with glacier eyes patch up a priest who talked to demons, while his partner was back at the precinct digging through forensics like a normal cop.

And for what?

None of this made sense. None of it would ever hold up in a report. He was not leading this investigation anymore. He was just along for the ride. Tagging along. Carrying the bags.

The light flickered. The air filled with the sweet smell of burnt wood.

Should he run somewhere? For what? No. He would stay. Watch how it all played out. He had earned it — he had been in this almost from the first second. He had seen the thick, warm blood spreading, seen it flowing down the steps, covering the stupid symbols of faith. Who needed them anyway? Much easier to give up everything that was empty. Did not he see proof every day that the Light had long since left this country?

A pleasant tickle bloomed in his left arm. A warm wave spread up to his shoulder, wrapping around him, sending sparks toward his heart.

And that priest… a servant of God. Drinking, smoking, making strange insinuations, convinced that everything was allowed to him. Maybe… maybe he should rid the world of him first?

One of the symbol lines on his arm glowed red. The letters burned, flickered like living things, changed shape, crawled over one another. The lines split and wrapped around his arm in a tight ring all the way to his shoulder. Mark could feel their hot touch under his shirt. A pleasant tingle in his head. No pain. Just lightness. And irritation at the annoying distractions. He had to get out — so much to do. He had to get there…

“Mark?”

It took a real effort to surface from the warm, sweet haze. Mark forced his eyes to focus on Silas, who was sitting on the edge of the bed.

The priest looked drained. His face was pale — paler than before, almost waxy. Shadows hollowed out his cheeks. He had somehow gotten dressed while Mark was not paying attention — a loose black shirt, buttons undone, sleeves rolled up. He looped his rosary around his wrist, the beads clicking softly.

But it was his eyes that bothered Mark. Dark. Watchful. Studying him from under half-closed lids, like a hawk tracking a mouse.

Stop staring at me.

When had the woman left? Mark had not heard her go. But they were alone now.

“You need help?” Mark’s jaw was stiff. His teeth were clenched so tight his gums had gone numb. Only his tongue still worked — metallic taste of blood on it.

“No. Ingrid sealed it.” Silas held up a roll of medical tape — still unpacked. “You were deep in thought. About what?”

Mark shrugged. “Nothing important. What now?”

“Now I need about forty minutes to catch my breath and eat something.” Silas set the tape aside. “You wanted to ask about the symbols on my back.”

Mark had. He did not anymore. Symbols were symbols. Who did not have some kind of strange mark these days? But he nodded anyway — mechanically.

Silas tilted his head to one side, like a large bird suddenly interested in a strange noise. “They are identical to yours. I got them from the possessed. Just hit me harder than you.”

Mark nodded again. No enthusiasm. He was suddenly parched — like he had run ten miles through the desert. His breathing was off, his mouth dry, his tongue stuck to the roof of his mouth.

Silas slid off the bed, walked to a low table where a pitcher and two glasses sat, and poured one full.

Mark snatched it from his hand like it was the last water on earth.

“Hot?” Silas asked — solicitous, but measured. He kept his distance. A few steps away.

“Yeah. Stuffy in here. And it smells strange.”

“Hmm.”

Silas circled around him — silent, barefoot — shaking his hands out every few steps. The rosary beads clicked against each other, a nervous, irritating sound. Mark took a deep breath. Then another. Then poured himself a second glass without asking.

“Where are we going?” Silas asked.

Mark heard him open something — a wooden cabinet door creaked on its hinges — then move toward the door, one hand braced against the wall.

“You are not going anywhere.” Mark grimaced. “You are swaying. You said you needed to rest.”

“I did not say we are leaving right this second. I asked where.” Silas’s eyes had not left him. Still watching. Still waiting.

“Why are you asking me?”

“Just answer. First thing that comes to mind.”

Mark shrugged. If the strange priest wanted to play stupid games — fine. Crazy? Probably. A patient who had escaped from somewhere? Maybe. Who cared. It did not matter. Nothing really mattered.

Then something pushed — soft, insistent — at the base of his skull.

“We are not going anywhere,” he muttered, irritated. “I am fine here.”

“Perfect.” Silas’s voice brightened — too bright. Mocking.

A heartbeat later, the rosary slammed into Mark’s forehead. The beads wrapped around his head like living things, sliding down around his neck.

Liquid fire exploded in his eyes. A hundred car horns blared inside his skull.

And Mark shut down. Like an overloaded machine.