The hallway outside the storage room felt like it was shrinking.
Felipe paced back and forth. Every few seconds, he would glance at the door, then away, then back again. His hands kept opening and closing at his sides like he did not know what to do with them.
Glenn stood against the opposite wall. He had not moved in five minutes except to breathe.
Guillermo and two of his men flanked the door itself, armed and ready but looking increasingly uncomfortable with what they were hearing. Or rather, what they were not hearing.
At first, there had been nothing at all.
Then something slammed against the floor with a violent crash.
CRASH.
Glenn pushed off the wall, moving toward the door.
"Wait." Guillermo held up one hand, stopping him.
A voice drifted through the door. It was Lucien's, though Glenn had never heard it sound quite like that before.
Then the prisoner responded. His words were slurred and indistinct, as though he were speaking through a mouthful of cotton.
"What is... what are you... no. No, that is not..."
The screaming began.
"YOU ARE A DEVIL!"
Felipe lunged for the door. His hand closed around the handle.
Glenn caught his wrist. "Lucien said not to—"
"I do not care what he said!" Felipe tried to yank free. "That kid is in there alone with—"
"With a man twice his size who is tied to a chair," Guillermo said quietly. "Lucien can handle himself."
"Can he?" Felipe's eyes were wild. "Because that does not sound like he is handling anything! That sounds like—"
Another crash came from inside. Something heavy struck the floor. The prisoner's voice rose and fell in frantic babbling. Words tumbled together.
"God."
"Shepherd."
"Purification."
They blended with sobs and what sounded disturbingly like prayer.
Then came a shrill cry. "How could you do this to a believer of—"
The scream cut off abruptly.
Silence.
Felipe looked at Guillermo.
What the hell was happening in there?
"The drugs," Glenn said, more to convince himself than anyone else. "Lucien said he had... he called it a hallucinogenic potion. Something to make them see things."
Felipe let out a short laugh, but there was no humor behind it. "Because that somehow makes this better."
More sounds drifted through the door. They were duller now. After a while, the noise shifted into low, broken sobbing that continued long enough to make Glenn want to cover his ears.
When the door finally opened, they all took an involuntary step back.
Lucien stepped out, and something about him felt off.
He was not injured, and there was no blood on him. Yet his complexion had faded to the color of old newsprint, and deep shadows had formed beneath his eyes. He moved stiffly, as if every muscle in his body ached.
Guillermo pushed past him into the room and stopped dead.
The cultist was slumped in the chair, head hanging at an angle that would have been uncomfortable for a living person. His throat had been opened from ear to ear in one slash. Blood soaked the front of his shirt and pooled on the floor beneath the chair.
Lucien's voice came from behind them. "It is done. But I need to verify the intelligence. I am going to question the second one."
"Lucien." Glenn moved to block his path. "That is enough. We can handle the rest—"
"We do not have time! Every minute we waste is another minute Rick and the others are in danger. I need to cross-check what he told me."
He pushed past Glenn before anyone could stop him and walked to the next storage room, where the second prisoner waited.
The door swung shut behind him, and a moment later the lock clicked into place.
"What is he doing in there?" Felipe asked quietly.
Nobody answered.
---
Inside the second room, Lucien leaned against the door as he let out a slow breath.
His hands were trembling.
Across from him, the second prisoner was already awake, bound to a chair identical to the first. This cultist was younger, perhaps in his mid-twenties. He glared at Lucien.
"Whatever you think you are going to do, it will not work. The Shepherd protects the faithful. Your tricks mean nothing."
Lucien did not respond. He was too busy running through his mental checklist of what had just failed.
The Cruciatus Curse had failed. The prisoner had screamed, but only because Lucien had used a simple Wand-Lighting Charm to cast flickering shadows while delivering vague threats. The rest had come from the man's imagination. Fear had done more work than any spell.
Legilimency had been an even greater disappointment. When he cast it, he felt a faint buzzing pressure behind his eyes that left his skull aching, yet he gained nothing from the attempt. Either the spell required far more precision than he possessed, or it simply did not function the way the books had described.
He had not even attempted the Killing Curse. That one likely demanded killing intent paired with refined magical control, and he refused to waste energy on what would probably amount to a few decorative sparks from his wand.
The Imperius Curse fell into the same category. Advanced magic demanded more than correct pronunciation and confident wand movements.
So much for being a dark magic prodigy.
The so-called demonstrations he had managed amounted to little more than parlor tricks. Lumos and Nox allowed him to control the light. The Levitation Charm let him lift objects into the air, which had been enough to make one prisoner fall to his knees and ramble about angels while another insisted it was proof of demonic influence.
Neither reaction had produced results. Even after he had presented himself as something divine or supernatural, neither man had been willing to betray the Shepherd. The indoctrination ran too deep.
That left him with older, less elegant methods. He relied on his knowledge of anatomy, controlled application of pain, and the few healing spells he had truly mastered.
He used Episkey to close wounds between sessions so his prisoners would not bleed out before they spoke. The Bandaging Charm allowed him to splint broken fingers and maintain structural damage without causing permanent loss. On one occasion, after he had been too forceful with a cultist's wrist, he even resorted to Brackium Emendo to reset the bones properly.
The process was grotesque, undeniably effective, and utterly draining.
Lucien looked at the cultist.
"I am going to ask you questions. You are going to answer them. And when I am satisfied you are telling the truth, I am going to ask you the same questions I asked the others to make sure your stories match."
"Go to hell."
"Probably," Lucien agreed. He raised his wand.
"Lumos Maxima."
The room flooded with light so bright it was like staring into the sun. The cultist squeezed his eyes shut with a yelp, turning his head away.
Lucien let it shine for five seconds before dimming it back to normal levels.
"That was a warning. The next time you refuse to answer, I will do something less pleasant."
He pulled over a chair and sat down, making sure to keep his wand visible.
"Where is the Shepherd's compound?"
"I will never—"
"Diffindo."
The Severing Charm sliced a shallow cut across the back of the cultist's hand, no more than two inches long. He gasped and stared at the wound in disbelief as blood welled to the surface.
"Where is the compound?" Lucien asked again.
The cultist said nothing.
"Diffindo."
A cut opened along the man's forearm.
"How many guards?"
The cultist was breathing hard now, eyes fixed on the wand in Lucien's hand. "You... you cannot..."
"I can. And I will continue until you answer or until you pass out from blood loss. Then I will heal you and start again. I have all night. Do you?"
It took three more cuts before the cultist started talking.
Thirty minutes later, Lucien had a list of locations, guard numbers, shift patterns, and weak points in the compound's defenses. He also had confirmation that it matched what the first prisoner had said, give or take a few details.
He healed the cuts with Episkey, watching the skin knit back together while the cultist watched.
"What are you?" the cultist whispered.
Lucien did not answer. He stood, walked to the door, and slit the man's throat before he could process what was happening.
The blood hit the floor with a splash.
Lucien stared at the body for a moment, then turned and left.
---
Outside, more people had gathered.
Felipe continued pacing, while Guillermo's men stood nearby with the unmistakable look of men who wished they were somewhere else.
"Two down," Lucien said, his voice rough. "One more to go."
Glenn opened his mouth to argue.
"I know what you are going to say," Lucien cut him off. "But I need three confirmations. Two are not enough."
He did not wait for an answer. He simply walked to the third storage room, stepped inside, and shut the door behind him.
This prisoner was older, perhaps in his early forties, with the kind of face that seemed friendly at first glance. It was only when you looked into his eyes that the illusion faded. He had the eyes of a man who smiled while inflicting pain.
And he was already smiling.
"Well now," the cultist said cheerfully. "You must be the devil they have been screaming about. But you do not look like much."
Lucien set down his medical kit and pulled out a chair.
"I have questions."
"Oh, I am sure you do!" The cultist's smile widened. "And I will tell you everything you want to know. I am very cooperative. Not like those other two idiots."
Lucien frowned. "You are going to tell me the truth? That easily?"
"Of course. I have no loyalty to the Shepherd." The cultist leaned forward as much as his restraints would allow. "Between you and me, he is a lunatic. All that talk about the Lord and purification? Insane. I am only with them because they have resources."
His smile took on a slimy quality.
"But you are powerful. I can do anything you need. Back on the highway, when some fools tried to hide medicine, I crushed a woman's hand myself until she handed it over. I can help you deal with the Shepherd too. I can make him submit to—"
The bat caught him mid-sentence.
Lucien had picked it up from the corner of the room and swung it.
The cultist's head snapped to the side. He let out a startled yelp.
"What... you cannot..."
"I can." Lucien set the bat aside. "And I will. Because you disgust me."
He raised his wand.
"Cruciatus."
The spell hit the cultist in the chest.
For a moment, nothing happened.
Then the cultist's eyes rolled back, his body went rigid, and he started screaming. His back arched against the restraints so hard Lucien heard something pop.
Lucien held the wand steady, focusing everything he had on the spell.
After five seconds, he lowered his wand.
The cultist slumped in his chair.
"Please," he wheezed. "No more. I will tell you anything."
"You are pretending," Lucien replied calmly.
"What? No, I am not."
"Someone under the Cruciatus Curse cannot scream that loudly. The pain is overwhelming. You would barely be able to breathe, let alone shout." Lucien picked up the bat again. "Allow me to demonstrate the difference."
He had studied anatomy, memorizing nerve clusters, pressure points, and the areas where pain could be inflicted with maximum intensity and minimal permanent damage.
Now he applied that knowledge.
"Ahh!"
This time, the cultist's screams sounded real.
When Lucien finally stopped, the cultist was a sobbing mess. Snot and tears ran down his face. His earlier smugness had evaporated completely.
"What are you?"
Lucien did not answer. Instead, he raised his wand and aimed it at the man's forehead.
One final attempt.
"Legilimens."