Smith approached him with measured caution, boots firm against the blood-streaked stone but not hurried. He carried himself like a man used to command.
"Are you the special agent?" Smith asked.
Julius was still looking toward the chapel doors.
He gave a low hum in reply. Neither yes nor no.
Smith's jaw tightened slightly. "FBI? CIA?"
The man certainly looked the part: dark coat, unreadable expression, eyes that were either half-dead or running on something stronger than Adderall. But protocol was protocol.
"Identification, sir."
Only then did Julius turn.
He did not reach into his pocket.
He did not speak.
He simply looked at Smith.
The silence lengthened. Enough to make the fluorescent lights feel louder.
Smith held the stare for two seconds.
Three.
Four.
A hand tapped his shoulder.
Smith turned sharply.
The man standing behind him was tall, broad-shouldered, wearing square glasses that caught the chapel light at a harsh angle. His hair was tied neatly at the back, though strands had slipped loose as if he'd run a hand through it too many times.
Without a word, he pressed a leather badge wallet into Smith's palm.
Smith opened it.
Federal credentials.
Sealed.
Authorized.
He looked back up.
The tall man's eyes had already shifted past him toward Julius.
There was history in that look. No joy.
Agnes exhaled through his nose and muttered under his breath, just loud enough to carry.
"Fucking prick."
Julius did not respond.
If he heard it, he gave no sign.
But the faintest shift touched his jaw before he turned back toward the altar.
The door gave way with a long, tired groan, and the murmur inside the chapel shifted as he entered.
He did not look at the bodies first.
He saw the shoe.
It lay near the aisle, half turned on its side, blue fabric darkened at the edges where blood had reached but not soaked through. The Velcro strap hung loose, torn from where it had once held small, certain feet.
He stepped toward it without hurry and crouched.
For a moment, he simply looked.
Then he reached out and turned it upright. His thumb brushed over the stain. The blood had begun to dry, flaking at the seam. He wiped it gently with his bare hand, as though removing dust from something precious, then drew a folded cloth from his coat pocket and cleaned what remained, careful not to press too hard.
He set the shoe aside, upright, away from the smear that ran through the aisle.
A medic stood nearby, speaking softly into a radio.
He rose and nodded toward the shoe.
"The child," he said. "Is she alive?"
The medic followed his gaze. "Yes. She's shaken. Trauma, but not harmed."
He held the medic's eyes a second longer than necessary, measuring something unseen, then inclined his head once.
"Good."
Only then did he walk toward the altar.
Officer Smith fell into step beside him. "We secured the scene. Witnesses say Father Elias began shouting, then…"
"I know what they say," he replied, his tone level but final.
They reached what remained of Father Elias.
The body lay twisted near the altar steps, skull fractured, blood pooled thick against the stone. The air still carried the metallic weight of it.
He stood over the corpse for a long moment, not recoiling, not kneeling yet. Then he slipped a lighter from his coat pocket and flicked it open.
It caught instantly.
A steady tongue of fire rose and held.
He watched it without expression, as though confirming a private suspicion. The flame reflected faintly in his eyes before he snapped the lid shut and returned the lighter to his pocket with deliberate care.
Only then did he crouch.
He leaned closer to the ruined skull.
There, impressed into the exposed grey matter, was the mark.
3.
Not carved. Pressed outward from within.
Smith saw it too and swallowed hard.
He did not look at Smith when he spoke.
"From once we came," he said quietly, almost to himself. "From once we go."
Smith heard it. He did not ask what it meant.
He stood, his gaze shifting from the body to the stone floor.
There were faint shoe prints near Elias, partial, un-interrupted by the chaos, leading not away from the altar but toward it.
Someone had stood there.
Someone had knelt.
The outline of disturbed dust and smeared blood near the steps told the rest.
Someone had prayed.
He followed the faint trail with his eyes and then looked at Smith.
"There was someone beside him," he said. "Where is he?"
Smith hesitated. "A young priest. Emanuel. He's… out of bounds."
Julius' gaze lingered once more on the altar, on the mark, on the thin line where blood from the steps had begun to dry. His voice was quiet, measured, but it carried through the still chapel.
"He is not here."
Then he turned toward the doors.
"Find him," he said.
And this time, it was not a request.
***
Emanuel did not return to the chapel.
He stood two streets away from it.
He could see the flashing lights bleeding against the sky, hear the distant murmur of gathered people, shouts of families or their loved ones. The building that had shaped him. The place that had broken him.
His feet refused to turn toward it.
Something inside him recoiled.
Not grief.
Something else.
Wrong.
The word settled in him like a stone.
Instead, he turned the other way.
Toward the hospital.
He did not think about it long. He did not allow himself to. He walked. Steady. As if this were simply another pastoral duty.
Carol was hurt. She had been there. She had seen it. She had lost something too.
He could not go back to the church. Not yet. But he could go to her.
That made sense. That was righteous. That was… safe.
Halfway down the street, he slowed.
His hand drifted to his coat pocket. His phone. He had her number for months. But its weight was seldom wound for him. He remember Father Elias gave it to him when she missed Mass once.
Elias had said gently. "Just check on her, my boy. As a neighbor. The girl is too kind for world."
Elias had always cared.
Always noticed who was missing.
Always remembered names.
Emanuel had never used the number again.
He told himself it was discipline.
Celibacy was not just an oath of the body. It was an oath of proximity. Of boundaries. Of distance.
And yet he had remembered it.
His thumb hovered over the screen. What would he even say?
Are you alright?
Too intimate.
The Lord is with you.
He almost laughed.
He was a goddamn priest.
Bound by vows.
Bound by discipline.
Bound by something that felt thinner today than it ever had before. He closed his eyes briefly.
This is pastoral care, a duty.
His thumb moved before he could reconsider.
He called.
The ringing felt louder than the bells that morning.
Once.
Twice.
Click.
A soft inhale on the other end. "Hello?" Her voice was small. Fragile.
Something in his chest tightened violently.
"Carol." His voice came out lower than he expected. "It's… Emanuel."
Silence.
"Yeah, I know, I saved your contact." she said quietly. A pause.
He swallowed.
"I heard you were taken to the hospital."
"Yes."
"Are you hurt?"
"No. Not… not like that."
He could hear the tremor she was holding back. The effort.
"I… I wanted to come back to the church," he said, surprising himself with the honesty of it. "But I couldn't."
Another silence.
"I didn't want to either," she whispered. ""You were closer to him than anyone."
Her voice lowered.
"…Was it still him?"
Emanuel's throat tightened. The memory flared, the burn along his hands, the clawed marks, the dream that had pressed on him until he almost forgot it all.
He hesitated, swallowed hard, voice caught between fear and uncertainty.
"I… I don't know," he admitted, low, ragged, as if even saying it might summon the memory again.
Carol's voice softened. "He… he looked tired, but there was something in his eyes… like he knew something. Like he carried it all, as he always does… and still, he tried to bear it."
Emanuel swallowed, the memory pressing. In that weight, he felt something quiet… understanding. A shared burden, fragile and unspoken.
He turned the corner toward the hospital entrance, the white building rising ahead like something sterile and detached from the world. "I'm coming to see you," he said.
"You don't have to."
"I know," he replied, stepping onto the worn concrete. "But I want to." The word lingered between them… want. He shouldn't have said it that way, but he let it stand.
"I'm in Room 9," she said.
The call ended. Emanuel stood for a long moment, letting the quiet settle before he pushed open the doors and stepped inside.
***
Agnes' mood was foul. Every step Julius took, every quiet movement, stirred something sharp in him. He did not like taking orders. Not from anyone. Not unless it came from the Old Man himself. And certainly not from Julius the Liar.
The man was efficient, yes.
Methodical. Precise. Agnes hated it. And yet… he could not deny the weight behind it. The results. The quiet competence that made men follow, whether they wanted to or not.
It made his teeth grit. Made him want to rail against it. Made him want to do everything differently, just to remind himself he could.
Fucking heathen gods. The prophecy was coming true. The Old Man had been right all along.
Agnes clenched his fists, feeling the tension coil through his shoulders. He did not like this man, he did not trust him fully. And yet… he respected him.
Because Julius had proven, time and again, that he could bend the chaos without faltering.
And that, of all things, made Agnes angrier than anything else.
"Find him," he said, voice tight, controlled.
The Woe straightened, alert. "Him, sir?"
"The fucking priest, Emanuel. Do not… do not kill him," Agnes added, the caution deliberate. "That is… Julius' task. Not yours. Your job is simple: locate. Observe. Contain, if necessary. Nothing more."
The Woe inclined his head once, silently acknowledging the clarity. No hesitation. No questions beyond what was necessary.
Agnes turned his gaze toward the darkened windows of the city beyond the cathedral, imagining the path Emanuel might take. His jaw tightened. He hated relying on anyone else's sense of direction, but the Woe did not falter.
Movement shifted behind him. Orders executed without a sound. The Woe moved. Precise. Methodical. Their steps ghostlike on stone floors, vanishing into shadows.
Agnes watched until the last trace disappeared, then exhaled sharply. He did not trust Julius. He did not like Julius. But the man had a way of bending outcomes. That, and that alone, would have to be enough for now.
The hunt had begun.