Chapter 4

At first glance, nothing looked unusual inside the precinct. Just an overturned table. A chair lying on its side near the stairs. But the smell hit Mark before his eyes could catch up — copper, sweat, and something else. Something sweet and rotten.

Then he saw the glass partition.

Beyond it, the hallway leading to the captain’s office had become a horror show.

Two service dogs lay sprawled across the threshold, their bodies torn open. Not cut — torn. Ribs exposed. Fur matted with dark, sticky blood. Their eyes were still open.

Mark stopped breathing for a second.

The wall behind them was covered in symbols — floor to ceiling, a dense scrawl of jagged lines and curves, the same damn scratches he had been staring at for two days. Blood. Still wet. Dripping in slow, thick drops.

The floor was worse. Blood smeared and trampled, footprints leading in every direction, some barefoot, some booted. Someone had walked through this. Several someones. The whole place looked like a slaughterhouse. The smell matched.

Three heavy-duty tactical officers stood in a loose semicircle, their rifles aimed at a flimsy cardboard door — the storage closet, Mark realized. David was pressed flat against the wall, his face tight with anger.

“Pete, do not be stupid!” David shouted. Then he spotted Mark and pushed off the wall, moving toward him. “It is Peter. He has got the captain and the secretary. Hostages.”

Mark unholstered his weapon. “He write the wall?”

“Must have.”

From inside the office came a sound — someone breathing loud and wet, like a hog at a trough. Snorting. Growling on the exhale. Low and animal.

“What is the situation?” Mark asked, keeping his voice low.

David jerked his head toward the tactical team. “Peter has lost it completely. We called in backup. No one is visible from the street — if the press finds out about this, on top of the church thing, we will not live it down until the second coming.” He wiped sweat from his forehead. “The captain already promised to grind us all into dust. That was just for show, though. Before all this.”

“And the dogs?”

The tactical officers glanced at them like they were crazy. Like they were the ones wasting time.

“No idea,” David said. “Have not had time to figure it out. By the time anyone realized what was happening…” He shook his head. “Half the precinct is throwing up. The other half is praying. We cleared everyone out quietly.” David’s eyes locked onto Mark’s. “Pete will not talk. Anna has been relaying messages for him. They shoved a note under the door demanding that they call you in. What did you do to piss him off?”

Mark blinked.

“Me? Nothing. I had lunch at his place last Saturday, that is it. Played with Mia. Talked to Leah. Sat on the porch with Pete and had a beer. That is all. No fights. No bad blood. And we had never crossed paths on the job before that damn church,” Mark said.

David opened his mouth, but Mark had already turned to the team leader.

“Brother, you going to let me in?”

The leader’s voice was muffled behind his mask — Mark did not recognize him, though he knew a lot of these guys. “I would make you sign a waiver saying you are walking into gunfire on your own. But we do not have time.” He hesitated. “Fine. Go. But if anything happens — our orders are to shoot to kill. I would rather not.”

Somewhere deeper in the precinct, glass tinkled — a sharp, nervous sound. The tactical team flinched. One of them turned toward the noise, rifle up. Another shifted his position, covering the corner. The leader gave a quick hand signal — fingers slicing the air — and almost instantly, two masked officers peeled off from the group and moved down the hallway. Silent. Fast. One of them disappeared around the corner. The other melted into a doorway.

David handed Mark a vest. Mark took it, shrugged off his jacket, and pulled the vest over his head. The Velcro straps shrieked as he tightened them. His hands knew the motion — left side, right side, pull, check.

David stepped in close. His fingers ran over the straps, tugged at the plates, made sure everything was seated right. He did not say anything. He did not have to. That was the ritual.

When he was done, he gave Mark a short nod and stepped back.

Mark tapped the chest plate once. Solid.

“I am coming with you.”

Mark spun around. Silas was standing right behind him — close enough to touch. No footsteps. No warning. Just there.

“I told you to stay in the car.”

Silas did not flinch. “Without me, you will get three dead bodies. I know how to handle people like this.” He nodded toward the office. “You saw the symbols on the wall? They are different from the ones at the church. Your colleague is not himself anymore. I can distract him.”

Mark stared at him. The priest’s dark eyes were calm and certain — no hesitation, no fear.

“You have got two minutes,” the team leader said. “Then we come in.”

David stared at his partner, then at the strange, disheveled man arguing with him. His face was a mask of confusion. When he caught Mark’s furious look, he reached out and carefully took the priest by the shoulder.

Silas caught David’s wrist and squeezed — hard. “I can help,” he repeated, his voice calm but insistent. “Think of him as a violent psychotic. I have been working with people like that for five years. Otherwise, you might as well just shoot him now.”

Mark glanced at David. David shook his head — a short, sharp no.

But Mark had already made up his mind. “Fine,” he said, surprising himself for the second time that day. “Give him a vest.”

The Velcro hissed as someone handed Silas a vest and he pulled it over his head. He rolled his shoulders, getting used to the weight, then reached into his pocket and pulled out a set of rosary beads.

“Suits you,” Mark said. “Very tactical priest.”

“I prefer ‘clerical with benefits.'”

David stared at them both. Then he turned away and muttered something that sounded like “I’m too old for this.”

Silas made the sign of the cross — quick, practiced — and nodded.

Ready.

David started giving short, clipped orders. The SWAT leader, clearly unhappy with the whole situation — standing around in a police precinct, trying not to kill one of their own — scowled and muttered curses under his breath. The tactical team stepped back half a step, clearing a path for Mark to approach the door.

Mark took several deep breaths. It was always hard working a scene when you knew the person on the other side.

Then, without any warning, a sound hit him — a high-pitched whistle, sharp enough to make his eardrums throb. The pain shot straight to his brain.

He squeezed his eyes shut, grabbing at his ear.

Then it stopped.

“Mark?” David was at his right shoulder, his voice low and urgent. “You okay?”

Mark shook his head, trying to clear the last traces of the noise. “Fine.”

“Fine.” Mark shook his head, trying to clear the last traces of the noise. He raised his voice. “Pete! I am unarmed. Can I come in?”

“He says yes,” Anna called out. She was still relaying for Peter. “Are you alone?”

Mark glanced over his shoulder. “No. There is one more with me. His name is Silas. Pete does not know him. No weapons.”

“Okay. Come in.” A pause. Then Anna’s voice cracked. “Mark — get us out of here.”

The last word ended in a sharp cry of pain. Mark did not wait any longer. He pushed the door open and stepped carefully over the threshold, hands up, scanning the room as fast as he could.

Every blind on every window was drawn. The glass partitions had been draped with some kind of cloth. Light came through in thin, cruel strips — not enough to see by, just enough to create shadows that moved when nothing was moving.

The same choking smell hung in the air. Damp. Cold. Like a basement in the middle of winter. A draft pulled at his clothes, carrying a whiff of sulfur.

Mark’s stomach lurched. He held his breath for a few seconds, forcing down the nausea through sheer will.

Behind him, he heard Silas’s footsteps. Then the soft creak of the door closing.

Captain Christopher Wolf sat in his own chair, staring at a single point on the wall. His hands rested on the desk — and the desk itself was covered in symbols. The same damn scratches. But here, they had been carved into the wood with a knife. Dried blood traced the lines up to the captain’s elbows. Peter had done this before they even arrived.

Anna sat on the floor in the corner, pressed against the wall, her hands clamped over her nose. Red streaks ran between her fingers. She was crying silently, her makeup smeared into ugly brown-and-black streaks that mixed with the blood.

From the opposite corner came a furious hiss.

Mark turned his whole body, blocking Silas with his shoulder and pushing him back.

Peter stood against the wall where the sunlight broke and disappeared into shadow. His face — usually round, good-natured, friendly — was twisted into something ugly. His eyes were bloodshot, his chin wet with dark saliva. His lips were pulled back from his teeth, and his tongue was coated white.

His hands never stopped moving. The gun in his grip swung left, then right, then up toward the ceiling, then down toward the floor. But when Mark tried to take a step closer, the barrel snapped back to center — aimed right at Mark’s gut.

“You have to go,” Peter ground out through clenched teeth.

“Go where?” Mark kept his voice calm, tried another step.

He just needed to get within arm’s reach.

“In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spiritus Sancti. Amen.”

The words rolled off Silas’s tongue like honey — smooth, practiced, but not mechanical. There was weight behind them. Something old.

He slipped out from behind Mark’s shoulder, moving like water — no hurry, no hesitation. His steps were soft, almost soundless on the floor. He raised his hand, the rosary beads dangling from his fingers, catching what little light bled through the blinds. The small crucifix swung in a slow arc, back and forth, back and forth.

Peter’s face contorted. The change was instant — like someone had yanked a string inside him. His lips peeled back from his teeth, and a sound crawled out of his throat. Not human. An animal snarl, low and guttural, vibrating in the stale air.

He crouched low, his spine curving, his fingers twitching around the gun. His shadow on the wall stretched and warped, too large, wrong shape.

Mark felt the temperature drop. Not gradually — a sudden cold, like someone had opened a door to somewhere else. The hairs on his arms stood up. He wanted to move, to do something, but his feet felt nailed to the floor.

Silas took another step forward. Calm. Unhurried. His voice was steady, filled with something Mark could not name — not anger, not fear. Certainty. Like he had done this before. Like he knew exactly what was happening.

“Exsurgat Deus et dissipentur inimici ejus: et fugiant qui oderunt eum a facie ejus.”

The air in the room seemed to thicken. Mark could feel it pressing against his skin, humming faintly, like a wire pulled too tight. The shadows in the corners deepened. The weak light from the windows dimmed — or maybe that was just his imagination.

“Sicut deficit fumus, deficiant: sicut fluit cera a facie ignis…”

With every Latin word, Peter crouched lower. His knees bent until he was nearly squatting, his back arched, his head thrust forward. The snarl rose in pitch — higher, thinner, more desperate. Not a threat anymore. Something else.

“…sic pereant peccatores a facie Dei.”

Peter’s mouth opened wide. Too wide. His jaw seemed unhinged, and the sound that came out was not a snarl anymore. It was a shriek — thin, brittle, like glass breaking under pressure.

Silas did not flinch. He stood his ground, rosary held out before him like a shield, his eyes never leaving Peter’s face. His lips moved, forming the next words before the last ones had faded.

The crucifix swung. The shadows breathed. And Mark stood frozen, caught between the man he knew and the thing wearing his face.

Anna broke. She lunged for the door, screaming, but something slammed her back — an invisible force that threw her against the wall. She hit hard, shoulder first, then collapsed in a heap, her arm bent awkwardly beneath her. Unconscious.

Mark stared. His brain refused to process what he had just seen. Nobody had touched her. Nobody had been close. The air between her and the door was empty — and yet something had shoved her. Hard.

What the hell?

The captain jerked in his chair, trying to stand, trying to raise his hands. His knuckles were white on the armrests. But the same invisible thing held him down — pressed him into the seat like an iron fist. He could not make a sound, just strained in silence, his face turning red, his veins standing out on his neck.

Mark’s hand went to his gun. Not drawing — just checking it was there. A reflex. Something to hold onto.

This is not real. This cannot be real.

But the captain was still pinned. Anna was still unconscious. And Peter was still crouched in the corner, snarling like an animal.

Mark grabbed for Silas — a fistful of the priest’s sleeve, trying to pull him back, trying to stop whatever the hell was happening. But Silas twisted out of his reach, smooth as water, not even looking at him. He kept speaking Latin in that low, steady voice, holding the rosary out in front of him like a shield, his eyes locked on Peter.

Mark stood there, empty-handed, watching a priest chant at a possessed man while invisible forces threw people against walls.

Son of a bitch, he thought. Maybe the academy should add exorcism to the curriculum.

Mark grabbed for Silas — a fistful of the priest’s sleeve, trying to pull him back, trying to stop whatever the hell was happening. But Silas twisted out of his reach, smooth as water, not even looking at him. He kept speaking Latin in that low, steady voice, holding the rosary out in front of him on his raised palm, his eyes locked on Peter.

The gun fell from Peter’s curled fingers with a dull thud.

Mark lunged forward. He kicked the weapon away — it skittered across the floor — then slammed his shoulder into Pete, trying to drive him to the ground.

It was like hitting a concrete wall. A concrete wall hooked up to a power source.

His entire right side lit up with pain. The air around them crackled, and Mark felt heat curl through his hair. He went down hard, cursing loudly. Then the high-pitched whistle slammed into his ears again — worse this time, drilling into his skull. The room swam. He curled up, clamping his hands over his ears.

Something warm trickled down his cheek.

Peter started to howl. Not a scream — a howl. Animal. Grieving. The kind of sound that got into your bones and shook them.

Someone started pounding on the door from the outside. Something heavy slammed against the window. But the flimsy-looking walls barely shuddered. The whole room felt sealed off — cut away from the world by something thick and sticky and strong. Inside, there was only the shrieking, the howling, the Latin words weaving through the air like threads, and the smell of sulfur and blood.

The pain swallowed every sound. For a moment — or maybe minutes, Mark could not tell — the world dissolved. There was only the ringing in his ears, the burning in his hands, the weight pressing down on his chest. He lost track of where he was. Of who he was. The room, the people, the chanting — all of it blurred into a single pulsing ache behind his eyes.

Then, slowly, the world came back.

The ringing faded to a dull hum. The weight lifted. He blinked, and the ceiling swam into focus.

“Mark?” Silas was kneeling beside him, one hand pressed to Mark’s forehead.

Heat radiated from the priest’s palm — not unpleasant, but noticeable. Mark flinched away. His shoulders ached. His right ribs screamed every time he tried to breathe. His hands throbbed — a deep, burning throb that pulsed with his heartbeat.

He forced his eyes open, pushed himself up onto his hands and knees. His palms screamed against the floor.

David and the SWAT leader were helping the captain to his feet. Chris was swearing — slurred, but unmistakably swearing — both his arms red up to the elbows, like he had dipped them in boiling water. But the symbols on the captain’s arms were gone. Just red, raw skin. Someone had wiped the symbols off the desk too. All that remained were red smears staining the wood.

“Easy. Do not jump up. Your head will spin.”

Mark shoved Silas’s hand away, grabbed the wall, and pulled himself upright. The nausea hit him hard. So did the dizziness. He ignored both.

“Where is Pete?”

“They took him out.” Silas turned away, pulling out a cigarette. “I will make sure they get him to a clinic. He needs rest now. Proper treatment. He will come back to himself.”

David handed the captain off to the paramedics, said something Mark could not hear, and walked back over.

“You need to see a medic,” David said. “Your hands—”

“Screw my hands.” Mark’s voice came out rough. “What the hell was that?”

He grabbed Silas by the front of his shirt — and immediately regretted it. Pain shot through his fingers, his palms, his wrists. He bit down on a scream.

Silas did not fight him. He just reached up and carefully, gently, peeled Mark’s fingers loose from the fabric.

“Let the doctors look at you,” the priest said quietly. “And I swear to God — I will tell you everything.”

David looked from one to the other, confused. But Mark was shaking with anger, and he was not arguing. That was enough.

David put a hand on Mark’s shoulder and steered him toward the door.