Chapter 3

David was already leaning against the car, arms crossed, glaring at the building like it owed him money.

“What?” Mark did not like the look on his partner’s face.

“Three more calls just came in,” David said. He did not move from his spot against the car. “We are not going, though. The captain wants us personally.”

Mark waited for the rest.

“But in one of the calls, there is more blood and more writing.” David’s jaw tightened. “A patrol unit got there first. Someone dropped something in the puddle, and half the symbols are smeared now.”

“And?”

“And you know who it happened to?” David finally looked at him. “Andreas Schnach.”

Mark drew a blank. “Who?”

“He was at the church yesterday. Forensics.”

Something cold settled in Mark’s stomach. “So we are missing something.”

“Maybe.” David shrugged — a sharp, irritated gesture. “Or maybe you are just obsessed with those damn scratches. What do you think they will tell you? The killer’s name?”

Mark did not answer. He pulled his baseball cap out of his back pocket, snapped it on backwards, and walked toward the car. There was no point arguing. David was wound too tight. And Mark could not explain it anyway — this itch, this certainty that the symbols meant something, that the answer was hiding in plain sight, written in blood, if only someone could read it.

Back at the precinct, an irritated captain spent half an hour chewing them out. He threatened every punishment in the book — up to and including taking their badges. Then he calmed down a bit and promised to ship them off to patrol duty in some absolute sewer of a district. Mark thought to himself that you could call just about any district that, except maybe the fancy west side.

Mark could not have cared less what the high-ranking officials wanted. He would have dug into this case with everything he had anyway. But now that people he knew had been hurt — Richie, Rusty, that forensics guy — it was personal.

He wondered, just for a second, what would happen if he filled the captain in. Two more incidents on top of the church case. Both victims were cops who had been at the murder scene yesterday. Would the captain have a stroke right there on the spot? Or would he stop screaming and quietly go drown his sorrows in whiskey?

His thoughts must have shown on his face. David moved closer, hooked his foot around the leg of Mark’s chair, and mouthed one word, slow and deliberate: Idiot.

Mark did not argue.

He barely made it to the end of the lecture. The moment the captain told them to get the hell out — and he used some very colorful language to do it — Mark shot out of the office and took up position by Veronica’s desk like a hunting dog on point.

Empty. She was out.

David walked past him without a word, stone-faced, pretending he did not know the lunatic lurking by the secretary’s chair.

“Brennan.” The captain’s voice boomed from his doorway. “You have not had enough yet?”

“I need Vera.”

Anyone else would have been skinned alive. The captain’s secretary was forbidden fruit — touch her and lose a limb. But Mark stood there with a face so earnest, so focused, so pure — no smirk, no charm, just a man working a case — that the captain just waved a hand and closed his door. Mark heard the lock click.

Five minutes later, Veronica came back with a round tray balanced on her hip, loaded with everything from napkins to cookies. Mark took it from her, set it on her desk, and gave her his best pleading look.

“Do not bother with the act,” she said, dropping into her chair and kicking off her heels.

Under her desk lived a small army of colorful flats — not quite slippers, not quite heels, something in between. Mark did not know what they were called. He just knew that every time Vera dug through them, he had to fight the urge to laugh.

“Sorry,” he said.

“For what?”

“I do not know.” He shrugged. “Did you find out?”

She sighed. “Charming.” But she let it go. “Yes. No one knows what those scratches are. But — there is a specialist in town. Something about history. Some kind of order. They do ancient languages and secret writings. That is all I have got.”

“Perfect.” Mark straightened up. “Where do I find him?”

Veronica raised her eyebrows. “Oh, please. Since when does a woman need a thank-you?”

“Thank you,” Mark said. “Really. Where do I find him?”

Veronica sighed again. She knew the drill. Once Mark locked onto something, everything else fell away. She sometimes wondered what it would be like if he ever had a serious relationship — coming home at night, describing in loving detail how someone had been turned into hamburger.

She scribbled an address and a phone number on a piece of paper. Mark leaned over her desk, kissed her on the cheek, and was gone before she could react. He was already on his phone by the time he hit the hallway.

A woman answered. Mark introduced himself — fast, direct — and took the bull by the horns, asking if Mr. Voss could help him with something related to an investigation.

The woman seemed taken aback by his pushiness, but after a moment she asked him to hold. A minute later she came back and said Mark could come over right now.

“What are you doing?” David looked up from his paperwork, watching Mark tear through his desk like a tornado.

“Someone recommended a guy for the symbols,” Mark said, shoving his phone into his pocket. “I will check it out. Be right back.”

David stared at him for a long moment. Then he shook his head and went back to his forms.

To Mark’s surprise, the address turned out to be a small mansion, the kind that might have been elegant a hundred years ago. Now it just looked grim. Dark brick, stained with decades of rain. Narrow windows like squinting eyes. A wrought-iron fence, rusted at the tips, leaned slightly toward the sidewalk as if trying to escape.

The street itself was too narrow — barely wide enough for a single car. Mark had to park at the very beginning of the road, almost at the intersection, and walk the rest of the way on foot. The whole block felt empty, unnaturally so. Not abandoned exactly, but hollowed out. Like the houses had forgotten anyone lived in them.

Somewhere in the alleys, a dog was barking hysterically, its voice bouncing off the walls. A dry, bitter summer wind threw dust into his face and under his feet.

Just before the porch, two steps from the door, a dirty newspaper flew straight at Mark’s legs. The torn paper wrapped around his ankles like a rope, tightening as he tried to step forward. He stumbled, grabbed a scrawny little fence for balance, and nearly planted his face into the asphalt. The newspaper held on with a death grip, and to his surprise, Mark realized it actually hurt. He cursed under his breath as he tore the paper off, one furious rip at a time.

“Need some help?”

The voice came from above. Mocking.

Mark looked up.

In the doorway stood the curly-haired, short man he had already seen at the crime scene. From this distance, Mark could not make out his expression, but the man was openly smirking.

“I have got it, thanks.”

Mark ripped off the last clinging scrap and threw it aside. The newspaper, as if nothing had happened, rustled on down the street.

“Does the police academy teach you how to handle rabid newspapers?”

Mark frowned, trying to figure out if the man was mocking him or just joking around.

“Depends on the day,” he said. “What are you doing here?”

“Living here. Temporarily.” The man stepped back, holding the door open. “Come in. You wanted to see me.”

Mark blinked. “I did?” Then he put two and two together. “You are Voss?”

“At your service.” Another smirk, just as mocking as the first. “Come inside. No need to talk on the street.”

As if anyone could overhear them. Who? The whimpering dog? Mark grimaced, rubbed the back of his neck, and glanced over his shoulder. The street remained unnaturally empty. Maybe it was not a main road, but for a city, this silence felt wrong. Too quiet. Too still.

“That is an unusual name for a priest,” Mark said as he stepped inside, looking down at the man from his greater height.

“Why is that?”

“I thought when you took your vows…”

“Things happen.” The man’s smirk softened into something almost sincere. “Believe me. In our order, we do not change the names we were given at birth.”

“And you just walk around in regular clothes?” Mark’s voice carried a hint of sarcasm as he studied the unbuttoned collar of the man’s black shirt.

The man smiled again — a slow, easy thing. “Yes,” he said with a shrug, pulling out a cigarette. “And many other things are allowed, in exchange for just one.”

Mark watched him light it, watched him take a long, deep drag.

“Allowed in exchange for what?”

“For faith.” The man’s voice was serious now, no trace of mockery. He raised the cigarette slightly, as if making a toast. “This is my cross. I am allowed certain things in exchange for faith.”

“That is an interesting way to put it.”

“Tell me,” the man said, nodding toward a wooden chair by the window. “Do you believe?”

“Probably not.”

“Why not?”

Mark sat down heavily. “That is a long story.”

“Are you in a hurry?” The mockery was back, light but unmistakable.

Mark did not answer right away. He looked around the room instead. A lamp stood on a cabinet in the corner — switched on even though it was still daylight outside. It flickered weakly, occasionally blinking. Somewhere just at the edge of hearing, electricity hummed. A tense, irritating buzz.

“No,” Mark said finally. “Not really. But let us hold off on the confession for now.”

The man inclined his head in agreement. He leaned his shoulder against the wall and continued smoking, studying Mark with dark, watchful eyes, waiting for him to begin.

Mark pulled out his phone, opened the first photo he had taken — the one from his apartment, the wrapper with the symbols — and placed it on the narrow, wobbly little table between them.

“Are you familiar with these symbols?”

The man bit down on his cigarette filter. He pulled a pair of glasses from his pocket, put them on, and leaned in to study the image. His eyebrows drew together immediately. The mocking expression vanished from his face, replaced by something serious and focused. He shot Mark a sharp glance, his dark eyes glittering in a way that was not quite right.

“Where did you get this?”

Mark laced his fingers together on the table. “Does it matter?”

The man’s eyes narrowed slightly. Then he smiled — a slow, knowing thing. “Everything matters,” he said. “Is not that what you told me?”

Mark did not answer. Just waited.

He could feel it — deep in his gut — that he had hit something. Something important.

“Your symbols,” he said, with the air of a man stating something obvious, “are the language of demons.”

Mark stared at him. “What?”

Silas set the phone down on the table between them and leaned back, folding his arms. He did not look like a man telling a joke. “It is believed — and by ‘believed’ I mean ‘known by those who need to know’ — that demons are easy to summon if you know their language. It is not about Latin or Hebrew or any of that nonsense. It is about intent. Written intent. You scratch the right symbols in the right order, and you are not praying anymore. You are inviting.”

Mark opened his mouth. Closed it.

“In Christian culture,” Silas continued, pulling a fresh cigarette from his pack but not lighting it yet, “demons are fallen angels. Cast into hell with Satan. They cannot just walk into our world on their own. They need an invitation. A doorway.” He tapped the phone screen with one finger. “Most people think it takes blood rituals, chanting, candles — the whole theatrical production. But there is a simpler way. Much simpler.”

He paused, letting the silence stretch.

“Write them a letter.”

Mark stared at him. “You expect me to believe that?”

“I expect nothing, Detective.” Silas shrugged. “You asked. I answered.”

“Great.” Mark started the engine. “Next you’ll tell me they pay postage.”

Silas’s thin smile returned — smaller now, but still there. “You asked what the symbols are. I’m telling you.” He finally lit the cigarette, took a slow drag, and exhaled toward the ceiling. “What you do with the information is your problem.”

Mark stared at him, caught somewhere between disgust and the strange, unwelcome feeling that the man was not lying.

“Do not look at me like I am insane, Mark.”

“I never gave you my name.”

Silas smiled. “I am not blind or deaf. And when you forced poor Mrs. Gerner to invite you over, you introduced yourself.” He leaned back slightly. “If it is easier for you, call me Silas. Now…”

“This is a letter?” Mark interrupted.

“Exactly. An invitation, essentially. Into our world. The world of the living.” Silas’s eyes narrowed. “Where did you find it?”

“At my place. I heated up dinner wrapped in it.”

Silas’s eyes narrowed further. “Someone brought the paper to you?”

“Listen, Father…”

“Silas.”

“Silas,” Mark corrected himself, grimacing, fighting the urge to shout — to demand that this man stop filling his head with mystical nonsense. “I am familiar with Christian doctrine. But right now I do not quite understand…” He took a breath. “Are you telling me there is a psycho running around my city killing priests in churches, then — then planting some stupid note on me with a — a letter for a demon?”

“Someone else died?” Silas leaned forward, his dark, burning eyes boring into Mark.

“Sorry, we do not disclose —”

“Yes or no?”

“No.” Mark leaned back in his chair, surprised at himself for giving in to this complete stranger — this highly suspicious character. “But some people ended up in the hospital.”

“The ones who were at the crime scene? At Father Frederick’s murder?”

Mark’s hackles went up, just like a good hunting dog’s. There had not been any details of the case in the newspapers. No one had connected the attacks to the church murder yet. “How do you know that?”

Silas smiled calmly. “I figured it out. Sorry.” He had switched to using Mark’s first name now, as if they were old acquaintances. His gaze remained steady, unafraid.

Mark opened his mouth to say something —

His phone jumped across the table and started screaming.

He flinched. Years of habit — he always kept his phone on vibrate, minimal ringtone. But this thing was shrieking, rattling against the wood like it was having a seizure.

“Brennan,” Mark snapped into the phone.

“Get to the Eighteenth Precinct. Now.” David did not wait for a response. The line went dead.

Mark stared at the silent phone. Then at Silas.

The priest looked like an owl watching the world from its tree — curious, patient, unblinking.

Mark’s mind raced.

“You are coming with me to the precinct.”

Silas’s eyebrows shot up. “Why?”

“Because I still have questions, and this is urgent.” Mark stood up. “Get your things.”

The priest sighed.

“So this could just be a psycho,” Mark said, cranking the wheel, “or some cult follower?”

He hit the siren and pressed the gas. The car lurched forward. He ran a red light — carefully, but still a red light — and cut off a blue Ford at the intersection. The driver hit the brakes and disappeared in the rearview mirror.

Silas lit a cigarette without asking — just took one out, sparked it, and rolled down the window. He stuck his hand out into the wind. The air ripped the smoke away instantly. He made a face — annoyed, like a cat that had just been sprayed with water.

“Honestly?” Silas said, flicking ash into the wind. “I have no idea who it could be. And besides — you do not believe me anyway.” He glanced at Mark. “Need a consultation on occult mysteries? Come find me. Need a partner in a murder investigation? Do not look at me. I am just the weird priest who talks about demons.”

Mark’s jaw tightened. “I know those damn symbols showed up at my house. And they were at the murder scene too. I want to find the psycho behind this. If he believes in demons — fine. He can believe whatever he wants from a nice padded room.”

“That I understand.” Silas took a long drag, then let the cigarette hang loose between his fingers. “That I can work with.”

“Then two questions.” Mark’s eyes flicked to the rearview mirror — the blue Ford was already gone. “How did you know the victims were cops from yesterday’s murder? There is nothing in the papers. No names. No details. And tomorrow’s news will just say ‘several injured’ in a tiny paragraph somewhere on page ten.”

Silas didn’t answer right away. He just watched the street scroll by.

“You always this chatty?” Mark asked.

“Only with people who believe me,” Silas said.

“Then we have a problem.”

“We have several.”

A moment passed. Then Silas spoke again.

“How many were there?” he asked.

Mark shot him a look. “Do you always answer a question with a question?”

Silas’s mouth twitched. “Does it annoy you?”

Mark surprised himself by letting out a short laugh — almost a huff, really. He glanced at the priest, then back at the road. “You sure you are with the church?”

“Positive.”

“Right.” Mark ran another yellow light — this one was pushing it. “Two so far. Two cops. And maybe it is just a coincidence.”

“It is not a coincidence.”

Mark gripped the wheel tighter. “Listen. I have met you twice in my life. But I cannot shake the feeling that you know something. And you are keeping your mouth shut.”

“I am keeping my mouth shut?” Silas lit another cigarette — this time keeping his hand inside the car, not letting the wind steal it. The smoke curled up toward the ceiling. “I told you they are demon letters. I told you someone wrote an invitation. What more do you want? A name? An address? A written confession signed in blood?”

“Or you are feeding me nonsense I cannot use.” Mark’s voice was flat. “Stories I cannot take to my captain. Things that will not help me find whoever is doing this.”

Silas was quiet for a moment. He rolled the filter of his cigarette between his fingers, watching the ember glow and fade.

“Not everything in this world comes from man,” he said finally. His voice had lost its edge. “There are forces that sometimes use us for their own games. Their own purposes. To stand against them — to even see them — you have to know them. Track them by the smallest signs.” He paused. “That is what certain people are for.”

“People like you?” Mark’s voice dripped with irony.

Silas did not rise to the bait. “I am on one side of the fence. There are others on the other side.” He smiled — thin and cold. “You would be surprised how many of them wear badges.”

Mark stared at him for a beat too long. “More riddles. Great. Can I get something concrete? Something that is not poetry?”

Silas pointed toward the precinct building. “You will get it,” he said, his voice suddenly grim. “There.”

Mark followed his finger.

Two gray-haired patrol officers were bent over the scrawny bushes by the entrance, shoulders heaving. On the other side of the door, a female dispatcher — Anna, Mark knew her — sat hunched against the wall, her face whiter than paper.

Mark had seen Anna at crime scenes with more blood than a transfusion station. She had never flinched. Not once.

Now she looked like she had seen something that had peeled back the skin of the world.

“Stay in the car,” Mark said.

He yanked the keys from the ignition, slammed the door, and ran toward the precinct.