Chapter 7

The morning began with persistent nudges from Lisben, who had clearly been waiting for hours.

Usually, the neighbor lady took her out — a kind-hearted old woman who adored the giant golden-haired beast living next door. She happily added Lisben to her pack of three small dogs and marched them all to the park every morning. But today, she had not shown up.

Lisben had decided, quite reasonably, that her owner would do.

Mark tried to burrow under the pillow. Lisben started digging at it with her claws, tail wagging so hard her whole body shook.

He groaned, checked the time, and swore. He had overslept. Badly. He scrambled for his phone, nearly knocking it off the nightstand.

“Good morning, Sleeping Beauty.” David’s voice was cheerful. Too cheerful. “The prince’s kiss is canceled. Go back to sleep. The captain gave you the day off. For your heroic efforts yesterday.”

Mark hopped on one foot, trying to get his leg into his jeans while balancing the phone between his ear and his shoulder. “Did he hit his head?”

“Not him.” David shuffled papers in the background. “But he suspects you did. So he figured you would want to lie down.”

Mark snorted. Lisben circled his feet, pulling his pants back down with her nose and making everything worse.

“Do not get too comfortable,” David added. “I will find you work. Tomorrow. Next week. There is an audit suddenly. For the church case.”

“What?” Mark finally got the button fastened. His bandaged hands made everything clumsy. He clipped on the leash, and Lisben dragged him out the door before he could grab cigarettes. “The case is two days old. What audit? Did we step on someone’s tail? Or is this the mayor’s doing?”

“I do not know.” David’s voice darkened. “But something is off. We will cover our tracks. And the captain’s too. Just in case. He is already on edge.”

“Great.” Mark let Lisben pull him down the stairs. “I am going to the church today. Want to talk about Father Frederick. Got a lead. Weak, but something. I will call you tonight. You got anything?”

“Nothing. Chris does not remember a thing — even though he was only out for three minutes, and that was already in the ambulance. Anna is conscious but weak. Could not really talk to her yet. Peter is still sedated. No statement.”

“Richie?”

Mark realized he had forgotten his cigarettes. He thought about going back. Lisben gave him a look — that particular look that said do not even try — and he decided the burns on his hands were enough trouble for one day.

“No change,” David said. “But they are hopeful. Lucas stayed with her most of the night. They kicked him out this morning to sleep. I did not talk to him. I have got a nurse I know — she will call me if anything changes.” He paused. “The evidence is useless. The blood is human, but they added something to it. Chemicals. Will not know what for another five days.”

Mark remembered Silas’s words. The blood is not supposed to clot. Chemicals were one thing. But the other stuff — the real stuff — no lab test would catch that. He would have to ask the priest again. How to handle the evidence. Because if he was starting to believe — and he was, somewhere deep down — then they needed to cover their tracks. No one would buy a possession story. They would lock him in the room next to Peter’s and pump him full of something strong.

“Hello? You fall asleep?”

“Sorry. I was thinking.” Mark turned back toward the apartment. Lisben whined in protest.

“I could tell.” David’s voice dripped with sarcasm. “Call me tonight. You need a warrant?”

“No. Hopefully they will just show me what I need.”

Mark hung up and fed the dog first — because if he did not, she would stand by the bowl and stare at him until he did. Irish wolfhounds were supposed to be dignified. Lisben was. Mostly. Except when it came to breakfast.

She buried her face in the bowl, tail high, ears flopping. Mark filled her water dish, then stood at the counter, staring at his bandaged hands. His right arm throbbed where the yellowish stain had spread overnight. The bandage had come loose — frayed at the edges, slipping down toward his wrist.

Lisben finished eating and sat down in the doorway, watching him with those calm, knowing eyes. She did not move. Just stared, head tilted, as if she knew something he did not.

Mark shifted under her gaze. “What?”

She blinked. Did not look away.

He turned and walked into the bathroom. Lisben stayed in the doorway, still watching.

Standing in front of the bathroom mirror, he started unwrapping the bandage on his right arm. The medic had told him to keep the dressing on for a couple of days, then come back for a change. But it was already coming apart — and Mark did not see the point. It was not an open wound. He would wear a long-sleeved shirt and be done with it.

The skin underneath looked fine. Normal. A little red on the inside of his forearm, but nothing unusual. He flexed his fingers. No pain. No stiffness.

Encouraged, he tore the bandage off his left arm.

And froze.

From wrist to elbow, in neat, orderly columns, ran the symbols. Familiar now — but no less unsettling. Jet-black characters with sharp, clean outlines, like a high-quality tattoo. No inflammation. No damage to the skin. Just the writing.

Mark stared at his own arm.

Then he shoved his other hand under the faucet, grabbed the soap, and scrubbed. Hard. The water ran pink from the old ointment, but the symbols stayed — dark and clear, as if they had been there for years.

He dried off, still staring. His mouth was dry. He chewed on his lower lip, tasting copper from a split in the skin. Just to have something besides the taste of panic.

His phone jumped on the toilet lid.

Mark glanced at the screen. Unknown number. He frowned and answered. “Yeah?”

“What is wrong?” The voice was calm. Too calm.

Mark blinked. He knew that voice. Silas. He had given the priest his contact yesterday — but never bothered to save the number in return.

“Good fucking morning to you too,” Mark said. “I found more symbols.”

“Where?”

“On me.”

“Where exactly?”

“Left arm.” The priest’s calm was starting to work on him — the anger draining out, replaced by something colder. “Up to the elbow. Should I start drinking holy water?”

Silas laughed — a short, genuine sound. “You can try. It will not help. Come to the church. We need to see.”

“Will I even be able to get in?”

“Of course.”

“Right.” Mark’s voice dripped with skepticism.

The thought of ending up like Peter — strapped to a bed, pumped full of sedatives, his mind erased — did not appeal to him. He needed to move. Think. Find whoever killed Father Frederick. That person — or thing — was the source of this infection. Cut off the head, and maybe the symbols would stop spreading.

The thought of ending up like Peter — strapped to a bed, pumped full of sedatives, his mind erased — did not appeal to him. He needed to move. Think. Find whoever killed Father Frederick. That person — or thing — was the source of this infection. Cut off the head, and maybe the symbols would stop spreading.

He pulled on a long-sleeved shirt, checked his pockets for his wallet and phone, and headed for the door. Then he stopped. The car was still parked outside the diner. Of course it was. Because two shots of whiskey and a near-possession apparently disqualified him from operating a vehicle like a normal human being.

He could call David. Or take a cab.

He swore under his breath and grabbed his phone to call a taxi. The last thing he needed was David’s questions. Why are not you at home resting? Where is your car? Why do you look like you have not slept in a week?

Cab. Definitely a cab.

The weather had turned to shit.

Half an hour ago, uncertain clouds had trembled across the sky. Now everything was covered by an opaque white-gray veil. Gusts of icy wind drove thick masses of clouds overhead. Rain had started — slow, heavy, reluctant — but on the horizon, thunder rumbled.

The church stood out against the dark storm front, oddly lit, as if someone had put a spotlight behind it.

Silas sat on the steps, ignoring the weather completely. He was turning something over in his hands — a short stick, Mark thought at first. But as he got closer, he saw it was a heavy iron key. Thick chain links clinked softly with each movement.

When Mark reached the steps, Silas stood up, took the detective’s arm without asking, and pushed up the sleeve of his shirt. His prominent nose nearly touched Mark’s elbow. Mark felt like an idiot.

An elderly couple walked past the church — parishioners, probably, coming to check on the place or just paying their respects. They gave Mark and Silas a long, strange look. A young woman followed, averting her eyes. Maybe mourners. Maybe just the curious. Either way, they did not stop.

Mark tried to pull his arm back. Silas let go immediately — so fast that Mark nearly tumbled off the steps, flailing for balance.

“It is fine,” the priest said, exhaling.

“What is fine?”

“Your arm. It is fine.” Silas tucked the key back into his pocket. “It is not an invitation. Not a summons. Nothing like that. You can go on living. Relatively.”

“Meaning?”

“Do not worry. It does not mean anything. You just got splashed by Peter.” He nodded toward the church door. “Come on. Maria is waiting for us.”

The church felt wrong.

Mark had been inside the day of the murder, and even then — with blood everywhere, with a body nailed to the ceiling — there had been something alive in the space. Now it was dead. The light had been turned off. Not literally — the windows still let in the gray storm light — but the colors on the frescoes seemed muted, drained. The gold leaf on the icons looked like old brass. The air was cold and still, heavy with the smell of old incense and damp stone.

The hairs on the back of Mark’s neck stood up, like he was walking past a live wire.

Maria was waiting for them near the altar.

She was a short, elderly woman with a kind face that had been crying recently — her eyes were still red-rimmed, the skin around them swollen and raw. She clutched a wet handkerchief in one hand and a rosary in the other. Her knuckles were white.

“Father Frederick never talked about his studies,” she said, dabbing at her eyes. “Not the ones outside of services and church business. He was a good man. He just thought — it was not anyone else’s business. His… hobbies, if you can call them that. He studied books. Reread them. Compared them. Wrote reports to someone. But I — we — did not interfere.” She took a shaky breath. “Otherwise, he was wonderful. Understanding. Very attentive. Strict, but not too strict. No one hated him. He was an old-school priest, if you understand.”

“Not really,” Mark said. His eyes kept drifting to the altar. The blood was gone — scrubbed clean — but the air still felt wrong. Heavy. Like something was pressing down on him from above.

“He did not understand some modern things,” Maria continued. “Young people. The middle generation. Some of their choices.” She sighed. “But he never thought he had the right to force his opinion on anyone. He could point out mistakes — even in things he did not accept at all. That is a rare quality. Not to judge. But to help.”

Silas had been circling the pews, walking slowly, lost in thought. He sat in the farthest one, then the first on the left, leaning over, squinting through his heavy black-framed glasses. Looking for something.

“Could anyone he pointed out mistakes to have held a grudge?” Mark asked, choosing his words carefully. “Someone who did not take it well?”

“No, no!” Maria’s voice rose, trembling. “I told you — no one was angry with him. People got upset sometimes, yes. But they always came back. They apologized. They understood he was right. I assure you…”

“I see.”

“Sister Maria,” Silas said, appearing beside them, “could we see his office?”

“Yes, yes, of course, Father.” She wiped her eyes again. “Forgive me. I am talking too much. This way.”

The woman led them through a narrow corridor that felt like something out of a medieval castle — low ceiling, rough stone walls, the kind of place that made you think of knights and secret passages. It was cold and damp, and Mark’s footsteps echoed in a way that seemed too loud for such a tight space.

Father Frederick’s office turned out to be tiny. Completely crammed with books. Stacks of them — on the floor, on shelves, on every available surface. A narrow path wound through the mountains of volumes, leading to a desk at the far end. The window was barred with thick iron grates and covered by a heavy velvet curtain. No light got through. The only illumination came from a single bare bulb hanging from the ceiling, casting everything in a sickly yellow glow.

“I will leave you,” Maria said from the doorway. She did not cross the threshold — just pushed the door open and stayed on the other side. “If you need anything, I will not be far. Thank you, Father.”

Silas smiled — a tight, nervous smile. Mark noticed. That thank you had not sounded right to him either.

“So,” Mark said, sneezing. The dust was thick enough to taste. He rubbed his nose and looked around with visible disgust. “We are going to dig through all this junk?”

“No. We need to find his office.”

Mark raised an eyebrow. “And this is…?” He caught the look on Silas’s face and grimaced. “Right. Of course. He hid what he was working on. In the best traditions of secret scholarship, he would have a hidden room. But there is not even room for a cat to sneeze in here.”

Silas nodded but did not answer. He squeezed between two towers of folios, making his way toward a bookshelf against the far wall. He started studying it — not the books, but the shelf itself. The edges. The seams.

“Have you ever had to find hidden rooms before?” Silas asked.

“Not in homicide,” Mark said, trying to maneuver toward the desk. “But back in narcotics? Sure. We found stashes all the time. On the other hand, when you think about it — the principle is the same.”

He knocked over a stack of thin pamphlets. They fluttered to the floor like startled moths, scattering in every direction.

“How did he even move around in here?” Mark grumbled, finally reaching the desk.

“His mother did not feed him the way yours fed you,” Silas said, not looking up from the bookshelf.

“Right. I can see they pick you for the Order based on scrawniness.”

“Father Frederick was not in the Order. He was an ordinary priest. But he knew about us.”

“And not everyone does?”

“Far from it.” Silas ran his fingers along the edge of a shelf. “The Hounds of God are a last resort. For things ordinary people cannot handle. For preaching and heresy and the everyday problems every priest deals with — they do not call us.”

“Like using a cannon to kill mosquitoes?” Mark leaned over the desk, examining it from underneath. No drawers. No doors. Just a solid block of wood.

Behind the desk, tucked against the wall, stood a low corner whatnot made of worn mahogany. The lacquered surface was covered in hundreds of scratches. In a couple of places, chunks of the top layer had chipped off entirely.

Mark shifted his weight, stepping over another pile of ancient wisdom, and grabbed the whatnot for balance. He had expected the flimsy-looking thing to tip over. It did not even wobble.

He straightened up, running his palm across the top shelf. A doily shifted under his hand, revealing not wood — but stone. Smooth, dense stone. And in the middle of it, a hole.

“Silas. There is a keyhole here.”

“Good.” Silas slithered between the book stacks — how he moved so quietly in such a tight space, Mark had no idea. “Your intuition is excellent.”

He pressed himself against the whatnot, reached into his pocket, and pulled out that ridiculous oversized key. It clicked into the lock with a heavy, satisfying sound.

Behind the bookshelf, the wall groaned. A thin stream of dust puffed out from the edges. Then the wall pushed back, sliding open.

Lights flickered on automatically — harsh, fluorescent, nothing like the warm glow of the office.

Mark tried to turn around. He and Silas nearly knocked each other over.

“Damn it,” Mark swore, grabbing the priest by the shoulders and shoving him upright. “You cannot move in here. No sane person would ever think to look for anything in this mess.”

Behind the bookshelf was a semicircular niche and a door. A modern door. With a keypad lock.

Mark clicked his tongue in disappointment. “You know the combination?”

“No, but it does not matter. Let me through.”

The priest said a short prayer, crossed himself, and placed his palm on the lock.

The built-in computer beeped — a confused, hesitant sound. A red light flashed on the keypad. Then it flickered, turned blue, and emitted a series of short, rapid beeps and clicks. The door sighed and swung open.

The smell hit Mark first — incense and candle wax, thick and ancient, like walking into a cathedral at midnight.

“You know, Father,” Mark said, “you could make a living as a burglar.”

“Do not.” Silas’s voice carried a quiet reprimand. “That is not a joke. I just used — as you said — a cannon to kill a mosquito. But there was no other way.”

The room was round and windowless, but equipped like a high-tech bunker.

A narrow glass table stood in the center, facing a wall-mounted monitor that displayed live feeds — the interior of the church, the main entrance from the street, the back door, the side exit. On the table itself sat another monitor, a keyboard, and a mouse. A system unit hummed quietly underneath. A second computer was wedged into a recess in the wall.

Mark tilted his head back, studying the low ceiling. For a moment, he could have sworn the gray plaster was covered in symbols — the same damn scratches — but no matter how hard he stared, he could not make them out. His nerves, probably. Whose nerves would not be shot after the last two days?

Besides the computers, only one book lay on the table.

It was in good condition — a sturdy leather binding with metal corners. Embossed on the cover was a pentagram crossed out with two lines, its points facing upward.

Silas touched the cover carefully, then opened it at random, about halfway through. His eyes scanned a few lines. His frown deepened.

“How bad?” Mark asked.

“Pretty damn bad, to be honest.” Silas picked up the book, turned to the first page, and showed it to Mark. “It is an addendum to the Bible. A supplement. Here are collected — well — let us say certain rituals for resisting His will.”

“And what does that mean in plain language?”

Silas’s smile was thin. “In plain language? It is a handbook. A guide on how to bring demons into the world of men. It is banal, really. Simple. There is a war going on — for human souls.”

He turned another page, then another, scanning the text with growing intensity.

“Everything we believe in must exist somewhere in the universe?” Silas said. (A line from Priestley’s The Thirty-First of June.) “In two words — as long as we believe, everything exists. God included. In ancient Greece, they believed that if you stopped bringing sacrifices to an altar, the deity died. That rule applies to all religions.” He paused, his finger tracing a line of text. “But we also believe in Satan and his servants. And the number of believers determines the strength of each side. The war is not really for souls as such — it is for belief itself.”

Mark stared at the book. The pages were thick, yellowed, but the ink was still sharp. Somewhere in the middle, he caught glimpses of engravings — dark, intricate, wrong — but Silas flipped past them too quickly for him to focus.

“So what does the book say?” Mark asked. “If you start possessing people — everything changes?”

Silas finally looked up. He spoke slowly, carefully — like a lecturer unsure whether to answer a student’s loaded question. “There is a distinction. The possessed are not all the same. Let us just say there are two categories — roughly speaking.”

He turned back several pages, searching.

“The first — like Peter. You saw him. They are soldiers. Guards. The front line. Expendable, if necessary.” His voice was clinical, detached. “They can be exorcised relatively easily.”

“And the second?”

“The Foundation.” Silas’s fingers stopped on a spread of pages. “The Foundation is a possessed person — but with a high-ranking demon. Not just physical strength. Information. A legate of Hell. An authorized representative.” He looked at Mark. “You understand the consequences?”

“A lot of bodies.”

“Dead. Turned. New possessed.” Silas nodded slowly. “A Foundation can raise an army. Then the world turns to darkness — as pretentious as that sounds. Of course, even the strongest possessed cannot do it alone. But where there is one, there will be two. And so on.”

He turned the book around to show Mark — a detailed description of the ritual, the signs, the symptoms.

Mark leaned in, studying the page. The Latin was dense, but the illustrations were unmistakable — diagrams of ritual circles, stages of possession, something that looked like a map of the soul.

“And this book?” Mark asked. “This is what started it all?”

Silas was quiet for a moment. He closed the book carefully, running his palm over the embossed cover.

“I do not think the book itself is the cause,” he said finally. “But it seems to have been the trigger. When Father Frederick found it — when he started reading — something woke up. Or someone. The book is not evil. It is just information. But information in the wrong hands…”

“Like bringing a nuclear bomb to a fistfight,” Mark finished.

Silas’s smile faded. “Even pure light kills in the hands of someone who wants to kill.”

Silas flipped a few more pages, then stopped and turned the book toward Mark.

“Familiar?” he asked.

Mark did not understand a word of the handwritten Latin text. But the illustration — a full-page engraving — made him flinch.

It showed a priest nailed to the vaulted ceiling of a church. Beneath him, the familiar symbols. To the left, a group of people watching as something humanoid — but not human — crawled out of a schematic pool of blood.

“So we saw the remains of the ritual?” Mark asked.

“Exactly.” Silas’s voice was grim. “That is what I was afraid of. There is not much you can do on consecrated ground. But they are clearly hoping to find a Foundation nearby. The stakes are high. This is bad.”

Mark perched on the corner of the glass table. He could accept it. Believe it, even. The symbols on his arm were real. What he had seen in the captain’s office was real. But how was he supposed to work with this? How did you build a case when the evidence pointed to something that did not officially exist?

“This is all wonderful,” he said, his voice thick with frustration. “I mean — I get it. But how do I tie this to actual people? How do I find these lovers of hellish energy? What, I start dancing with a tambourine? Throw some tarot cards? I still have to write a report. I cannot exactly attach this to it.”

He jabbed his finger at the book — and immediately yanked his hand back.

Pain shot through the symbols on his arm. His elbow seized up, and his arm went limp, hanging useless at his side.

Silas snapped the book shut, muttering something under his breath.

The pain stopped. The feeling in Mark’s arm returned — except for a faint numbness in his fingers. He glared at the priest.

“What the hell was that?”

Silas did not answer directly. He tucked the book back into its place on the table.

“We need to talk to Peter. You are coming with me.”

“He is on sedatives,” Mark said, flexing his hand behind his back. Opening. Closing. Testing.

“Does not matter. Let us go.”

Mark felt like a donkey on a rope — led around by someone who knew where they were going while he stumbled behind. But he followed.

Silas left the book where it lay, then closed the door behind them carefully, making sure the lock caught. Mark would have happily burned the damned thing, but he just sighed and shoved his hands into his pockets.

The keypad on the door beeped once — a sad, whining sound — then sighed pneumatically and fell silent.