Chapter 13

Mark’s hand worked just fine, though David could not stop making jokes about the strange new tattoo that had appeared out of nowhere. His partner had stared at him for a long time, then at the battered Silas, and when he saw Matteo, his face twisted into an expression Mark had never seen before. He had never witnessed David take an instant dislike to anyone — not like this. But the head of the Order managed to ignore it completely all four times they had met.

Matteo had strictly forbidden both “patients” from getting out of bed for twenty-four hours. He sat with them the whole time, leaving only occasionally for short stretches. When he was gone, Ingrid took his place. The woman did not look her best either — she was moving with a slight limp, favoring one leg. Mark did not let himself think too hard about how much she reminded him of the cat. How similar they were. The same eyes. The same way of moving — quiet, deliberate, like she was listening to something no one else could hear. He pushed the thought aside and focused on breathing.

During those long hours of recovery, Mark learned something firsthand: sarcasm was a truly powerful weapon. And Matteo wielded it with devilish precision — no pun intended. The man could not open his mouth without a cutting remark, a dry observation, or a perfectly timed needle of irony. It should have been exhausting. Instead, it was oddly comforting. Silas laughed at his superior’s jabs — then winced, clutching his bandaged chest, because laughing hurt almost as much as the wounds themselves. But he kept laughing anyway.

“See?” Matteo said once, not looking up from the wound he was treating. “He is still alive. That means I have not been mean enough.”

Silas groaned — whether from pain or exasperation, Mark could not tell.

Recovery moved surprisingly fast, all things considered. Silas had drifted in and out of consciousness for the first day — never fully under, never fully awake. It was not until the middle of the next day that he finally opened his eyes and stayed that way. He was sternly reprimanded, force-fed some foul-tasting concoction, and ordered back to bed. All his wounds were left open — and they dried and healed quickly, almost visibly, shrinking by the hour. Every four hours, Matteo treated them himself with holy water and something thick and pungent that smelled strongly of incense. The priest endured the pain in silence, only going paler than before, and after each procedure, he asked for water.

Compared to Silas, Mark felt obscenely healthy. Compared to his own normal self, he felt obscenely weak. He could barely hold a glass on his own. The first two times he asked for water, Matteo had to support his head and hold the cup for him. It was humiliating. He wanted to swear and cry at the same time.

It took them about a week to get back to something like normal.

David pulled strings and got Mark medical leave. Then, grudgingly, he muttered that the “damn holy man” had smoothed things over with the captain and the higher-ups. The case was closed as an ordinary homicide with aggravating circumstances. Jan’s body went to the morgue and was cremated three days later.

The captain was so happy about the quick resolution that he almost — in David’s words — “lost control of his bodily functions.” A commendation was issued. A formal letter of gratitude. The whole department got a pat on the back. Mark’s picture was almost put in the local paper, but someone — David suspected Matteo — quietly made sure that did not happen.

No one asked too many questions. No one wanted to. The official version was clean, simple, and everyone agreed to stick to it. A madman. A ritualistic killing. A lucky break.

The fact that half of the evidence did not fit that narrative was quietly forgotten.

Silas said goodbye to Ingrid, picked up his bag, and tossed it onto the back seat of the car.

They were leaving — both of them. Called away again by duties Mark could only guess at. Matteo had insisted they needed to get going, that there was work waiting for them somewhere else. And besides, he had added with a glance at Silas, he had to patch up his leaky colleague until he was at least somewhat functional.

“You sure you are okay to drive?” Silas asked Mark, who had volunteered to take them to the airport.

“If I pass out, I will let you know,” Mark said. The joke landed awkwardly, but it was the best he could do.

They had not had a chance to talk properly over the past week. First, Mark had to tidy up all the loose ends of the priest’s murder case — stretching the truth to fit the official version was hard work, but at least he had had help. Matteo had been the most useful; the man seemed to know every high-ranking official in the city, including the mayor. After that, there just had not been any time. So Mark felt a certain awkwardness sitting here now, driving two holy men to the airport.

His mind, surprisingly, had taken everything in stride. He had not lost it — despite David’s insistence on a psychiatric evaluation. All his wounds were mostly physical. Surface damage.

“Deal,” Silas snorted, rolling up the sleeves of his black shirt. His jacket lay on his lap, and there was no clerical collar at his throat. He looked like any other traveler — tired, rumpled, human.

“Does this happen to you often?” Mark asked.

“Does what?”

“Conversations with monsters like that.”

“Not often, thank God.” The priest laughed — a short, dry sound. “We do not run into high-ranking Hell-spawn every day. Rare enough to be grateful.”

“That is good to hear.” Mark paused at a red light and glanced over. “But you are just as good at holding things back as they are.”

Silas settled deeper into his seat, leaning slightly toward the door, and crossed his arms over his chest.

“What do you mean?”

“You only told me half of it. As usual. And honestly…”

“Honestly, I will admit — I did not even tell you a third.” Silas’s eyes were half-closed, but Mark could feel him watching. “And I will not. Not yet.”

“Reassuring.” Mark accelerated through the intersection. “There is one thing that has been bothering me, though. Jan — or whatever was inside him — was right about one thing. You get freedom from consequence for your faith.”

“That is not how it works.” Silas’s shoulder jerked — a sharp, almost involuntary movement. “Not at all. At best, I have gotten a little more freedom. But also more restrictions. More obligations.” He turned his head to look at Mark. “Come visit us. I will show you.”

Mark shook his head, unsure. Unbidden, images rose in his mind — the pictures the demon had shown him. Silas’s face twisted first with rage, then with something that looked like pleasure.

“Well, are not you two a bundle of joy,” Matteo said, appearing beside the car as if he had materialized out of the pavement. He stuck his head through the open window, beaming. Mark had only seen him frown once — during those first twenty-four hours. After that, the man had been all smiles, radiating warmth and good humor. His glasses were pushed up onto his forehead, and they looked really like horns in the right light.

“Silas, have you already invited our brave officer to join our ranks?” Matteo’s grin widened. “Think about it. You did well.”

“Sure,” Mark said dryly. “Lying around like a piece of meat.”

“I would not say that.” Matteo reached through the window and punched Mark lightly on the shoulder, then stretched and settled into the back seat.

Mark noticed a ring on his finger — an unusual design, gold, something he had seen before. He could not remember where. The head of the Order reached forward and tugged Silas’s curls like a child teasing a younger brother, then settled back.

The drive to the airport was silent. Silas dozed. Matteo hummed something under his breath — definitely not a church hymn. Mark tried to remember where he had seen that gold trinket.

He promised to visit the Order’s headquarters in three weeks, waved goodbye to Silas and Matteo as they walked toward the departure gate, and then it came back to him.

The hazy vision. The one where someone had been holding Silas by the neck, forcing his head down. A hand reaching out of the darkness. On the finger of the one holding him — that same ring.

Mark sat in the car for a long moment after they disappeared into the terminal. The overhead lights of the parking lot flickered once, casting strange shadows across the dashboard. He stared at the sliding glass doors where Silas and Matteo had walked through, already lost in the crowd. Then he started the engine, pulled out of the parking lot, and drove home. The image of the ring stayed with him — burned into the back of his eyelids like a brand.

THE END