Page 15

FAITHFUL SHADOWS

SEAN

T he scent of old wood, candle wax, and incense hit me like a wall as we stepped into the dimly lit church.

Saint Augustine's—a massive gothic structure that looked like it had been plucked straight out of Dublin and dropped into this backwater American town.

Stained glass windows filtered the afternoon sunlight into colorful patterns across worn pews, while overhead, ancient chandeliers hung from vaulted ceilings like sleeping metal spiders.

“Jaysus,” I muttered under my breath. “Place looks like it's straight out of a horror flick.”

Beside me, Cade shot me a disapproving look. Always the respectful one, even after everything we'd seen. Everything we knew about what lurked behind the veneer of religion.

“It's a church, Sean,” he whispered. “Show some respect.”

“Yeah, yeah. Churches, respect, hallowed ground. I get it.” I ran a hand through my hair, scanning the empty sanctuary. “Still doesn't change the fact that four poor bastards who prayed here are now dead with their eyes burned out.”

The place was empty except for a lone priest near the altar, arranging flowers with careful precision.

He must have heard our footsteps echoing on the marble floor because he turned, offering a gentle smile that didn't quite reach his eyes.

He was older, maybe mid-sixties, with thinning gray hair and thick glasses that magnified his pale blue eyes.

“Welcome to Saint Augustine's,” he called out, voice warm but tired. “I'm Father Thomas. Are you here for confession? I'm afraid evening mass isn't until six.”

We approached the altar, and I reached into my jacket, pulling out the fake badges we'd been using. Credentials from the Center for Investigation of Theological Discrepancies—a completely bogus organization that sounded just official enough to open doors.

“CITD,” I said, flashing the badge quickly before tucking it away. “I'm Agent Tennant, this is Agent Smith. We're investigating a series of murders. All victims were members of this congregation.”

Father Thomas's smile faltered, his fingers nervously adjusting his collar. “Yes, terrible business. Martin, Joseph, William, and now Zac. Faithful men, all of them.”

“We need to know if you've noticed anything . . . strange,” I continued, watching his face carefully. “Unusual visitors, odd behavior among the congregation, anyone showing particular interest in these men.”

The priest hesitated, eyes darting between us, then finally nodded. “I can give you a list of our regular devotees. Perhaps you'll see a pattern I've missed.”

He disappeared into a back room off the sanctuary, leaving us alone among the empty pews and watchful saints.

I glanced at Cade, who was scanning the church with that intense look he got when he was onto something.

Not just observing—searching. His eyes lingered on the altar, then moved to the stained glass, then the confessional booths.

“What are you picking up?” I asked quietly.

Cade shook his head slightly. “Not sure. But there's something here. Something . . .” He trailed off, his hand unconsciously moving to his chest, where I knew the mark lay hidden beneath his shirt.

“Your spidey sense tingling?” I tried to keep my tone light, but worry gnawed at my gut.

Before he could answer, Father Thomas returned with several printed pages in hand. “Here's our membership list, with attendance records for the past six months. I've marked those who've been most regular, and those who participated in our special events.”

I took the papers and started reading through the names, searching for patterns, connections, anything that might point us toward potential victims—or whoever was doing the killing.

Cade leaned over my shoulder, frowning. “The ages,” he said suddenly.

I raised an eyebrow. “What?”

He tapped the paper with his index finger. “Most of the men murdered were in their thirties or forties. Martin Reeves was forty-two, Joseph Daniels forty-five, William Thornton thirty-eight, and Zac Moore forty-three.”

I glanced back at the list, catching on quickly. “So we're looking for men in that age range who attended the prayer revival.”

“And who've shown increased religious devotion in the past few weeks,” Cade added.

Father Thomas cleared his throat. “If it helps, Brother Michael's prayer revival was particularly popular with our male parishioners. He spoke of rediscovering masculine spirituality, of men reclaiming their role as spiritual leaders.”

“Brother Michael,” I repeated, the name tasting sour on my tongue. “The visiting monk. Where exactly did he come from?”

The priest's brow furrowed. “A monastery in Northern Turkey, he said. He had letters of introduction from the diocese. Everything seemed in order.”

“I'm sure it did,” I muttered. Forged papers were easy enough to come by in our line of work. We'd used plenty ourselves.

Scanning the list again, two names jumped out at me.

Edward Hayes, forty-one, and Daniel Whitmore, thirty-nine.

Both had attended every service in the past month, both had participated in the prayer revival, and according to Father Thomas's notes, both had recently volunteered to lead new men's prayer groups.

“Look,” I said to Cade, pointing to the names. “Perfect fits.”

Cade nodded, expression grim. “Any chance you have contact information for these men, Father? Addresses, phone numbers?”

Father Thomas hesitated. “I'm not supposed to share personal information of our parishioners . . .”

I flashed him my most disarming smile. “Father, we're talking about saving lives here. Four men are already dead. We're trying to make sure no one else joins them.”

The priest sighed, shoulders slumping slightly. “I suppose, under the circumstances . . . Give me a moment.”

As he shuffled back to his office, I turned to Cade. “So, what's your theory? Some ancient god getting summoned through these prayer sessions? Demon making deals? Witch with a grudge against the faithful?”

Cade shook his head. “Nothing concrete yet. But that symbol on the book . . .” He gestured toward where Father Thomas had disappeared. “I need to research it properly before I start making assumptions.”

“And now it's cleaning house,” I finished. “Fecking lovely.”

Father Thomas returned with another sheet of paper, this one containing addresses and phone numbers. “Please, be discreet. And please, save them if you can.”

I folded the paper carefully and tucked it into my jacket pocket. “That's the plan, Father. In the meantime, might want to hold off on any special prayer services for a while.”

As we turned to leave, Cade paused. “One more thing, Father. This Brother Michael, did he leave anything behind? Books, pamphlets, prayer cards?”

The priest thought for a moment. “Yes, actually. A small book of prayers. He left copies for those who attended the revival. Said they were translated from ancient Aramaic.”

“Any chance we could see one?” Cade asked.

Father Thomas nodded. “I believe I have a copy in my office. Let me get it for you.”

When he returned, he handed Cade a slim, leather-bound booklet with no title on the cover. Just a strange symbol embossed in gold—a stylized eye surrounded by what looked like wings or flames.

Cade went still, staring at the symbol. His face drained of color.

“You recognize it?” I asked quietly.

“I've seen references to these symbols before, in some old texts I studied years back.” His voice was barely above a whisper.

“They're connected to ancient entities who observed and judged humanity. According to these writings, they existed before gods had names, before humans built temples. They watched from beyond the veil of reality.”

He rubbed absently at the mark on his chest, a gesture I'd noticed more frequently since his return from Hell. “The texts called them 'The Watchers' or sometimes 'The Great Observers.' Not much survived about their rituals, but what did . . . it wasn't pleasant.”

“And the poor bastards at that prayer revival accidentally got a peek behind the curtain,” I finished. “Great. So we're dealing with some primordial peeping Tom with anger management issues.”

Cade didn't smile at my joke. Instead, he looked at me with an intensity that made me shift uncomfortably. “Sean, these entities . . . they don't think like we do. They don't feel like we do. To them, being seen by a human is like . . . like a holy violation. An abomination.”

“So they burn out the eyes that saw them. Poetic justice.”

“More like cosmic horror,” Cade corrected. “These aren't demons we can exorcise or ghosts we can salt and burn.”

Father Thomas watched our exchange with growing alarm. “What are you saying? That Brother Michael brought something evil into my church?”

“Not evil exactly,” Cade said, tucking the prayer book into his jacket. “Just . . . incompatible with human existence.”

Rain pattered against the windshield in a steady rhythm, turning the world outside into a smeared watercolor painting of streetlights and shadow.

We sat in my Impala, parked across from Saint Augustine's, watching as evening mass let out.

A trickle of parishioners hurried through the downpour to their cars, collars turned up against the rain, umbrellas bobbing like black mushrooms in the gathering darkness.

“There,” Cade said, pointing to a tall man in a gray overcoat who was carefully locking the church doors. “That's Hayes. Edward Hayes.”

I squinted through the rain-streaked glass. “How can you tell from here?”

“Matches the description from the church records,” Cade replied, his eyes never leaving the figure.

“And the other one? Whitmore?”

Cade checked his phone, scrolling through information Skye had sent and showed him the guy’s photo. “Lives on the other side of town. Works night shift at the hospital. Should be heading there around eight.”