Page 13

HOLLOW PRAYERS

CADE

I stared down at the half-eaten burger on my plate, surprised to find it already disappearing.

My stomach growled again, demanding more.

Strange. I couldn't remember the last time I felt this ravenous, like my body was desperately trying to make up for lost time.

Like something inside me was hollow, demanding to be filled.

The greasy spoon diner buzzed with late-night energy around us—fluorescent lights buzzing overhead, the clatter of plates from the kitchen, sporadic bursts of laughter from the truckers at the counter.

The smell of burnt coffee and grilled onions hung in the air, comfortingly familiar yet somehow foreign after . . . after wherever I'd been.

“Didn't think you'd be this hungry,” Sean remarked, watching me from across the booth with a hint of amusement in his eyes.

The harsh lighting cast deep shadows across his face, highlighting the new lines that hadn't been there six months ago.

A small scar above his right eyebrow that I didn't recognize.

Dark circles that spoke of too many sleepless nights.

I swallowed the bite in my mouth, reaching for a napkin to wipe away a smear of ketchup. “Didn't think I'd be back,” I said, the words feeling foreign on my tongue, leaving an ashen taste behind.

I took another bite, barely tasting it now, just filling the void. The waitress swung by, coffee pot in hand, eyebrow raised in silent question. Sean nodded, pushing his mug forward.

“You want another shake, honey?” she asked me, pen poised over her pad.

“No, I'm good.” My voice sounded rough even to my own ears, like I'd been screaming for months and only just stopped.

She shrugged and moved on to the next table, humming something off-key under her breath. Just another customer, another face. She had no idea what walked among her, what I'd seen, what might be watching us even now.

Sean took a long swig of his freshly poured coffee, studying me over the rim.

The diner bustled around us—midnight truckers playing at normalcy, night shift workers grabbing a quick meal before heading to jobs that kept the world turning, insomniacs seeking refuge in pancakes and bad coffee.

Normal people with normal problems. Not people who'd stared into the abyss and had it stare back.

“What about your—“ Sean gestured vaguely at my chest, his voice dropping, eyes darting to ensure no one was within earshot. “The mark. Your visions. Anything?”

My hand instinctively went to my sternum, where beneath my worn flannel and t-shirt, the mark still burned—a quiet ember waiting to be stoked into flames.

Since waking up in that field three days ago, I'd felt it pulsing, responding to things I couldn't see or name.

Sometimes it flared with heat so intense I thought my shirt might catch fire; other times it cooled to an icy brand that made me shiver despite the summer heat.

“I don't know,” I admitted finally, grabbing a fry and dragging it through a pool of ketchup, watching the red smear across the plate like blood. “Haven't exactly tested it.”

Sean leaned back against the vinyl booth, the material squeaking beneath him. Lines deepened around his eyes as he ran a hand through his hair, shorter now than I remembered. “Well, you missed one hell of a party. Six months of pure chaos.”

“Anyone I know bite it?” The question came out harsher than I intended, but I needed to know. Six months was a long time in our line of work. People died. Good people. Friends.

Sean's jaw tightened, then relaxed. “Sterling's fine. Crankier than ever, but fine. Been running hunt coordination from his place. Took three bullets two months back trying to rescue some kids from a shifter nest, but you know that ornery bastard. Told the reaper to go screw himself, then stitched himself up with fishing line and whiskey.”

I almost smiled at that. Almost. The image of Sterling, whiskey bottle in one hand, needle in the other, cursing up a storm as he patched himself together again. Some things never changed.

“The Harding sisters got taken out by a nest of vamps in Oregon,” Sean continued, voice flat, emotionless.

The hunter's way of dealing with loss. “And Jim Tucker .

. . well, no one's seen him since that werewolf case in Montana. Left his motel room spotless, guns gone. Could be dead, could be retired.”

I frowned, the unfamiliar names washing over me. Hunters I'd never met, part of Sean's world that remained largely a mystery to me. Sean rarely shared details about his former Hallow connections.

“Were they . . . friends of yours?” I asked cautiously, watching his face for any reaction.

Sean's jaw tightened almost imperceptibly. “We don't have friends in this business, Cross. Just people who aren't dead yet.”

I nodded, sensing the weight behind his words. In his world, attachments were liabilities. In mine, they had once been the only things keeping me human.

“What about Phoenix?” I asked, remembering the shadowy organization that had orchestrated Asmodeus's release. They'd been a persistent threat before my time in Hell. They'd moved like ghosts through the supernatural world, manipulating events from the shadows.

Sean's expression hardened, a subtle tension appearing in his shoulders, fingers tightening around his mug. “Gone. Silent. Right after you disappeared into Hell, they just . . . vanished. No bases, no operatives, nothing. Like they were never there.”

I frowned, pushing my plate away, the remaining food suddenly unappetizing. “Just gone? No trace?”

“Nothing. Sterling tried calling in every favor he had.

No one knows shit. Or if they do, they're not talking.” Sean checked his watch, then pulled a ten from his wallet and tossed it on the table, the bill landing in a smear of ketchup.

“Maybe Phoenix got what they wanted when they freed Asmodeus.”

“You think they knew what would happen?” The thought sent a chill through me.

“Don't know,” Sean's eyes met mine, searching. “But it's convenient timing. They unleash hell, you get dragged down there, and then they disappear.”

Outside, the night pressed against the windows, a darkness deeper than it should have been. I had the sudden, irrational feeling that something was out there, watching us. Waiting. The mark on my chest pulsed once, painfully, as if in confirmation.

Before I could press further, Sean's phone rang. The opening riff of Metallica's “Enter Sandman” cutting through the ambient diner noise. He glanced at the screen, then answered, sitting up straighter.

“Yeah?” His expression sharpened as he listened, eyes finding mine across the table. “You sure? Alright. Text me the details.”

He hung up, already sliding out of the booth, throwing some extra cash on the table. “Get your laptop out,” he said, voice tight with urgency. “We've got a name.”

Back at the motel, I booted up my laptop while Sean paced the cramped room like a caged animal.

The place was a dive—peeling wallpaper curling at the edges revealing patches of mold beneath, carpet that had seen better days in the '90s with suspicious stains I didn't want to analyze, and a persistent smell of cigarettes despite the faded “No Smoking” sign hanging crookedly by the bathroom.

But it had decent Wi-Fi and no questions asked at check-in, which made it perfect for our purposes. We'd stayed in worse. Much worse.

The ancient air conditioner rattled and wheezed in the corner, pumping out barely-cool air that did little against the summer heat. Sean yanked off his overshirt, tossing it onto the second bed alongside his duffel bag.

“Zac Moore,” Sean said, voice tight with controlled anger.

“Devout guy. Church regular. Pretty much lived by the damn Bible. Wife found him this morning in their bedroom, kneeling like he was praying. Eyes burned out, brain fried from the inside. Just like Martin Reeves last week.” He paused, running a hand over his face.

“Skye said the wife told cops he'd been acting strange for weeks. More religious than usual. Talking about visions and voices.”

I typed the name into the search engine, fingers moving automatically across the keyboard, the familiar rhythm of research settling my nerves. The screen's blue light cast ghostly shadows across the dingy room as information populated the display.

“Found him. Forty-three. Accountant at Knox and Miller Financial. Married fifteen years to Rebecca Moore, no kids. No criminal record, not even a parking ticket.” I paused, clicking through local news articles, scanning the headlines.

“But . . . he was at the same church as the last victim. First Baptist on Hawthorne Street.”

Sean stopped pacing, rubbing his jaw thoughtfully. The stubble there was more salt and pepper than I remembered. A reminder of time passed, of things lost. “So, what? Some freak with a vendetta against religious types?”

I shook my head, digging deeper into public records, the familiar excitement of piecing together a puzzle fueling me despite the grim circumstances.

“Not just religious. Devout. The kind that prays before bed and never misses Sunday service. The kind that sees angels in dust motes and demons in shadows.”

I pulled up Moore's social media profile—daily scripture posts with lengthy personal interpretations, dozens of church event photos, fundraisers for missionary work, heated debates in comment sections defending theological minutiae.

“Look at this. Guy was practically a walking Bible verse.

'The light of the divine shines upon us all, but only the worthy can truly see.

' He posted that three days before he died.”