Knock Three Times

20. The Marksman

                 CHRISTINE WOKE TO THE enticing aroma of steaming pancakes as the sun peeked through her bedroom curtains. Her stomach rumbled a she threw her housecoat over her shoulders and made her way to the kitchen, her unkempt ginger hair still askew from slumber. She hadn't even realized just how awake she truly was until she was half-way down the hall. It was not the sound of her alarm that had woken her that morning, but the smell of breakfast. Now that she thought of it, there wasn't a single fragment of any dreams she could recall. Had the gummies actually worked? It was the first night in weeks she hadn't woke in a cold sweat, and the calming sense of serenity suggested a full night's sleep, at last. She felt wonderful—better than she had felt in a long time.

    As she entered the room, Miranda was already sitting at the center island, working away at her blueberry pancakes while watching make-up tutorials on her cell phone. She twirled her long black hair, taking a quick pause to pull out a chair for her friend. The guest seemed humble—perhaps even happy fitting in well with the Davidson family. Christine didn't seem to mind in the slightest; in fact, she was overly delighted that her new surrogate sister was doing so much better in school, and taking her future seriously as of late.

    A plate of pancakes stylishly slid before her like a well executed curling move. The steaming cakes were topped with strawberries, drizzled with thick maple syrup, and heavily dusted with icing sugar. Josh Davidson smiled delightfully in his wife's overly feminine pink apron, complete with ruffles and all, the sight rather funny to behold given his usual masculine persona.

    'G'morning, my love. How'd you sleep?'

    'Okay, I guess.' she shrugged. 'Thanks Dad; this looks great. This, on the other hand,' she gestured to the pink ruffles. 'I'm not too sure about.'

    'Takes a secure man to wear pink. Mine is still covered in BBQ sauce from the ribs last week.' he shrugged.

    'Hey,' Miranda leaned toward her, showing a video on her phone, a dusted red eye shadow affect she was considering to match her costume for the Halloween dance that evening. 'You think that would suit my eyes okay?'

    It took her a moment to consider the unique look. Christine wasn't used to having gal pals—certainly no one beyond her mother to discuss such things as make-up or fashion. It pleased her to feel included, as she didn't really have any close friends until now.

    'Yeah, I think that might work for you.' she answered honestly. 'Hey, you think you can maybe do my make-up too, before the boys come to pick us up tonight?'

    'Yeah, sure; I'll find something in blue to match your costume.'

    'Thanks.' she nodded appreciatively as she stuffed a forkful of pancakes in her mouth, then reached for a napkin and caught a drizzle of syrup from her lip before it dripped onto her pajamas.

    'The boys huh?' Josh overheard the conversation as he began cleaning up the mess from breakfast. 'Sounds like you two are getting a little comfortable—not too comfortable I hope?'

    'Nothing to worry about, Daddeh.' Christine grinned playfully. 'Miranda's known them both for years. You'd probably like them, actually; they're good guys.'

    'That's true.' she agreed, mouth half full. 'I can vouch for them, Mr. D. Though I'm not entirely sure my judgement is valid in this case.'

    'Please, call me Josh. "Mister" is far too formal when wearing pajamas in the kitchen.' he insisted. 'And your judgement will always be valid, at least until you've given me reason to doubt. Milk?' He offered them both a glass, waving the carton before them.

    'Coffee for me, please.'

    'I'll have some.' his daughter pushed forth an empty glass.

    'And, one cup of coffee coming up. Your trusted validation aside, no boy will ever be good enough for a Davidson girl, not without an official stamp of approval from yours truly, anyway.'

    'You'd have better luck seeking the Holy freaking Grail.' Christine smirked.

    'Well, she's not wrong.' he winked, and then when about his task.

    Miranda wasn't used to having a protector in the house. She found him overly sweet, just how much he cared for Christine. She forced a half-smile, silently wishing she knew what it felt like to have someone care for her so deeply, that no boy would ever be good enough. Bringing up her texting app, she starred at the last message she had sent her biological father, begging that he come rescue her from the likes of Adrian and her mother's addiction problems. Of course, that was before she was taken away to the looney bin, and executed the pig she called a boyfriend. Still, she wondered what would have happened if her father would have only come to get her that day.

    Miranda scrolled up, silently counting just how many text messages there were from her end, spanning over several years; he had replied to four in total, all short answers and as vague as possible, all but one to let her know he wasn't showing up yet again. The rest were never replied to at all, including her last.

    'You alright?' asked Christine.

    'Yeah.' she lowered her phone and watched Josh Davidson in his ridiculous glory, humming playfully as he danced around the kitchen like a crazy person, which only made her chuckle. He was a shining example of the father she would never know—the type of dad she had dreamed of in her early childhood; an ideal to which her sperm-donor, deadbeat father would never live up to. 'Yeah, I'm good.' She then held down the contact labelled "Houdini" and deleted every message from her phone—contact included.

    Taking her mind off the subject, she located a suitable tutorial that would work for her would-be sister.

    'That might work for what you're looking to pull off. Imagine that but in a vibrant blue and white.'

    'Not too much, if you wouldn't mind.' Josh intervened. 'The point of make-up is to bring out a girl's natural beauty, to which you are both overly blessed.'

    Miranda smiled, humbled by his compliment.

    'It's a new world out there, Pops. Make-up exists as an art form these days.'

    'You are the art work, Sweetie. No point in trying to perfect what has already been perfected.' he winked.

    'You also don't want to put a dollar store frame on the Mona Lisa.' she countered almost cocky, but more sarcastic.

    'Touché, madam. That debate team has really got you on the counter these days; I'm impressed.'

    'So . . . you don't mind if I get a little creative?' asked Miranda.

    'Parenting tip,' he began.

    'Oh, here we go.' Christine chuckled. 

    'One day, if you decide to have children, there are certain guidelines to which you must adhere as a general rule. One in particular has always been iron clad in this household. Reasonable arguments will never be ignored. In this case, you pose a very reasonable argument, and alas you have convinced me. Seeing as this is technically your first date, and it is Halloween, after all, I see no harm in it. Just don't make it the norm, okay?'

    'No worries, Mr. D—Josh.' Miranda corrected herself as he placed a steaming mug of coffee next to her almost empty plate.

    'Well, I have work to do, so I'll leave you girls to it. Make sure you rinse off your plates; syrup is a bitch to wash if left out, and attracts ants.'

    'Thanks for the grub, Josh.'

    'Not a problem, little lady.' he passed by them, kissing his daughter on the back of the head and patting Miranda on the back.

    'Man, it is nice to have loving parents.' Miranda sighed, rubbing her full belly, smiling as the October sun shone through the sliding glass doors. 'I'm used to instant coffee and toast in the morning . . . if we just happened to have bread that day.'

    'I'm pleased you're comfortable.' Christine beamed with enthusiasm. 'You seem to fit in well. When I walked into the kitchen, it felt all too normal—like a sister—'

    'I'll be your sister!' Miranda cut her off, excited with the thought. It was a strange sight, as she wasn't hiding her true feelings like she usually did. The old version of herself would have corrected the statement immediately, ashamed to show her emotions.

    'Sure?' Christine laughed. 'I'll talk to them about adoption.' she replied sarcastically, but she had a feeling her friend took the suggestion seriously. 'Is that something you would want . . . seriously?'

    She shrugged, just now realizing how needy she must have come off.

    'Miranda, be honest with me. Is legal adoption something you've been thinking about?' The moment grew awkward, but the answer was on the tip of her tongue, like an itch she couldn't help but want to scratch. 'Well, I'll take your little outburst of enthusiasm and lack of response as a resounding, yes.' Christine smiled happily. 'I'll bring it up next time they're both in the same room together.'

    'Hey, since we're talking about sisterhood and all, can I ask you a question that's been on my mind?'

    An awkward moment lingered between, the young ginger knowing exactly what she was about to ask.

    'You want to know why I didn't tell you about my intentions with James, don't you?'

    'It's been bothering me, I'll admit.' Miranda lowered her brow, turning from her to mix cream and sugar into her coffee cup. 'I mean, it's cool and all.' she shrugged. 'You probably like him for the same reasons I do, so I can't exactly fault you. No one's going to get it more than I do. I just wish you would have told me.'

    'You're right, and I'm sorry. I just didn't want to hurt you, what with all the stuff that's being going on with your mom, and all.' she grimaced, unsure if it was appropriate to bring up such a sore subject at breakfast.

    'You're all about weighing the odds and figuring shit out. What do you think would have hurt more, telling me—flat out—that you were interested in him, or letting me find out through Hamish?'

    Christine lowered her brow, knowing she had messed up.

    'Yeah, I see your point,' she thinned her lips with regret. 'The news probably hurt a lot more coming from someone else, I suppose.'

    'You've let me into your home, shared your clothes—your family for God's sake. Words cannot express my gratitude for how you've been there for me in my darkest hour. I will never forget how you've helped me . . . Little Sis.' Miranda smirked, trying it out. The term of endearment felt right, and rolled off the tongue with grace.

    'Hey, I'm the same age as you.'

    'Yeah, but I'm six months older, don't forget.' she smirked. 'Besides, stepping aside and out of your way is the least I can do to repay you—a debt that can never really be settled, in my opinion.'

    Though Christine's heart warmed with her kind and compassionate words, she couldn't help but reflect.

    'Every child deserves a chance.' she smiled. 'You owe me nothing, and I don't want to hear that shit again, you understand?'

    'Way to kill the moment.' Miranda shook her head. 'Just take the damn compliment, jeeze.'

    Christine leaned her head on her shoulder, allowing her actions to speak what she felt could not be said.

    This was a moment she would never forget. It had been such a short period of time since she first met the young ginger. Miranda had been rude—hostile even; a lingering guilt she still carried. Now more than ever, she felt like a different person—a better and brighter version of the would-be hopeless case most people were expecting, including her own mother.

    'So, Hamish . . . you have a fine taste in men.' Christine changed the subject as she moved her attention back to her plate. There was a hint of awkwardness in the air just waiting to be addressed.

    'Yeah, Hamish has always sort of been there for me, you know? I mean, it makes sense, right?' Miranda shrugged, still undecided in her feelings.

    'Perhaps; but what makes sense doesn't always work out. Some guys work best as friends, others not so much. I mean, he really is a great guy.' Christine replied, not making eye contact as she thought about Hamish.

    'Wait . . . you don't like him too, do you?'

    Christine shrugged nervously.

    'Hey, you can't have your cake and eat it too.'

    'I know.' she sighed.

    'Which one are you attracted to? No bullshit, now. Don't think about it; just let it roll off your tongue.'

    'Both.' Christine replied honestly.

    'Well . . .' Miranda lost herself in thought for a moment. 'I guess we have more in common than I thought. I hope you enjoy some healthy competition, Ginger Snap; but let's agree right now not to let them get between us, deal?'

    'Deal.' she agreed with a smile, swallowing the last bite of her strawberry pancakes.

    'Come on,' They both stood up, and Miranda put her arm around the young ginger. 'Let's clean this up and get ready for school, Sister from another Mister.'

                                                                ~

        A blazing fire filled the night air as a blackened sky echoed the sound of screaming and clashing blades. A battle raged somewhere beyond the roaring flames, though nothing could be seen. The intensity of the heat dried his eyes, pulling sweat from every pour. As the view lowered, Hamish's heart pounded as he looked upon several human bodies, hung upside-down on inverted crosses. Their legs were pried apart, every inch of their flesh rippling with fire as the smell of burning meat lingered thick the air. The screams were like nothing he'd thought possible from a human throat, never imagining that any amount of pain could cause such a horrific noise. The way their bodies shook and convulsed, nerves sealing and cooking in the blaze, cries intermittent, as though vibrating a shaky finger to one's throat, almost inhuman if he hadn't been witnessing the human inferno first-hand.

    There was no time to think—no time to react in any way but to scream, as Hamish looked down to see his bare legs parted to the breaking point and bound tight like his wrists. Suddenly, he felt his mount rotate until his naked body hung upside-down on the cross, a vast midnight sky below him, and the roaring flames reaching for the crimson stained clouds like desperate hands hopelessly yearning to be free.

    A dark silhouette stood unscathed and eerily still within the inferno of the inverted crucified, recognizable by shape alone. He had known the hat well, the unmistakable shape of a Bishop—or clergyman of sorts, but the intensity of the heat yielded no distinguishable features beyond this. If there was the briefest pause between his own cries of horrific agony, Hamish would have asked them who they were, or what was happening, but when fire scorches skin, no reasoning remains . . . just utter insanity.

    His hair caught the flames first, a main of fire encasing his scalp as the heat boiled and cooked his brain. All went utterly black as he felt his eyeballs swell and burst in their sockets. Lips cracked and teeth popped from their roots, tongue instantly swelling, splitting as the blood dried too quick to fall. Fat sizzled like cheap bacon on bone as skin melted like chocolate left in the summer sun, sanity long since slipped until his frantic cries echoed through time and space, and he felt two strong hands violently shaking him awake.

    Hamish woke from his bed, jolting from the mattress as if it too were set ablaze. Every inch of his body was drenched with sweat, his throat sore from screaming in the night. Felicity Hanover held out her hands in a cautious manner, eyes locked in frantic solicitude, unsure if the teen was fully conscious or still trapped in his night terror.

    'Y—you're safe in your b—bed.' she tripped on her own words. Like the burning figures in his dream, the attentive caregiver had not thought the human body capable of making such noises. 'Y—you're okay, Hamish; you're okay, now.'

    He looked to Felicity, an unrecognizable note of terror in her hazel eyes, one he had never seen before. It took a moment for him to realize he was still alive and well, and not trapped and bound in a blazing inferno. His eyes still burned, the scent of charred human flesh somehow lingering in his nostrils.

    'What the fuck was that!' he cried as his eyes finally found moisture. The nightmare had felt just as real as mattress beneath him, and the loving surrogate who reached forth and embraced his trembling and saturated body.

    'You had a night terror, sweetie; but you're back now, safe and sound.' his hands finally met her shoulder, Hamish grounding himself to reality as the horrible images of blasphemed fire execution and the sinister clergyman faded with every passing second. 'You were screaming.'

    'I . . . I usually don't have nightmares—nothing like that anyways.'

    'What did you see?' she asked, but he refused to answer, as though speaking of such atrocities would somehow wish it into fruition.

    'What the hell is burning me?' Hamish suddenly felt a torrid heat between his pecks, not nearly as intense as his dream, but more of a chemical burn. Lowering the collar of his t-shirt, a circular mark looked as though it had branded his flesh, and the small medallion he wore around his neck steamed as though it had been cooking in the oven as he grasped it and ripped the leather necklace from his neck.

    Alarmed, Felicity flicked on the light and examined the burn, noting the mark of tree burned into his skin, its trunk noticeably split in two. She had seen this emblem once before, but said nothing as she was far more concerned with his wellbeing.

    'Looks like an allergic reaction.' she thought at first, the now swelling redness not unlike other allergies the career teacher had seen amongst her students throughout the years.

    Hamish thought of his nightmare, the fiery theme, though horrific to say the least, he assumed was the probable cause of his own burning flesh in reality. The mind works in such ways, he was certain, but only at first.

    'The steel was hot to the touch, Felicity.' he mentioned upon second thought, his reason catching up to him. 'Besides, I've worn this crest under my shirt for years and haven't had a problem until now.'

    Felicity had never seen him wear the medallion before, but had only heard of its existence until now. His biological father had left it behind for him, the only clue to his paternal heritage Hamish owned. As she turned and watched the steaming metal searing its brand onto a pillowcase, her eyes widened, now recalling where she had seen it before.

    'This belonged to your father?'

    Hamish nodded, his mixed feeling on the man who had abandoned him and his mother notwithstanding.

    'Just about the only thing I got from him, actually.'

    'I wouldn't say that.' she replied, holding the trinket in her hand as the metal began to cool to the touch. Felicity narrowed her eyes, and examined the growing teen, a haunting resemblance never pieced together until this very moment.

    'What?' he asked awkwardly as Felicity gazed upon his features.

    'I have seen this crest before.' she revealed, catching Hamish's curiosity.

    'Where?' he asked, as the symbol had only shown up once before, in the strange book of family dynasties his friend Christine had "borrowed" from the backseat of an unmarked police cruiser. 'You've seen the Robichaud family crest before?'

    'Long ago,' she sighed with regret, recalling the encounter many years prior. 'Though I never caught his last name. He was a man I had met at a local pub, who went by the name of Percy.'

    A she completed the sentence, a note of excitement mixed with curiosity.

    'Percival Robichaud, that's my old man!' he smiled. 'I didn't know you'd met him before.'

    Felicity lowered her brow, clasped his hand and gave him a gentle squeeze.

    'You should go back to sleep.'

    'Wait, how did you meet him?' he asked, and she could tell he wasn't going to go back to sleep until she answered the question.

    'I barely knew him, Hamish.' She replied as the teen's shoulders slumped in disappointment. 'I met him in a bar long ago, and had pretty much forgotten all about him until now. I do, however, remember him showing off this emblem—this exact crest the night I met him. Percy was a boastful man, from what I recall; kept on bragging about family money, and how he was connected to a powerful and historic dynasty, but he drove a rust bucket.' she shrugged. 'Pretty sure he was just talking out of his ass. I was rather young and quite drunk that night, so I don't recall much more than that.' she lied, but the vague answer seemed to satisfy his curiosity, at least enough to get him to lay back down. His eyelids appeared heavy and bloodshot pink, as he seemed conflicted weather to stay awake and keep talking, or go back to sleep.

    Felicity stood and placed the medallion on the dresser by the door, hoping that the night terrors would seize if he wasn't wearing it to sleep. She shut off the light, leaned in and kissed him on the forehead.

    'Get some rest.' she grazed his upped arms lovingly as Hamish felt his busy mind settle. 'You have a big day of dances and costumes tomorrow. We'll talk more in the morning if you're still curious.'

    'I . . . will be—' his sentence was cut short with a wide yawn, and seconds later he was snoring away.

    'Goodnight, sweetie.' said the maternal as she left the room, leaving the door open just in case he had another night terror. Her bedroom was right next to the spare room, and so she lay in her bed and stared at the ceiling for felt like an hour, but was probably more like a few minutes in all reality. Felicities thoughts ran ramped as she recalled the night she had met Percival Robichaud. The boy's likeness was uncanny, though she had only just pieced it together when her eyes met his medallion moments ago. The family crest itself was of little concern, the split trunk of a tree holding little to no meaning, but it was the last time she had seen it that bothered her.

    Her memory of this trinket stuck out in her mind, as she remembered it rocking to and fro as Percy ravished her in the very bed she now lay. He was her only one-night-stand—the man who had impregnated her. Felicity lay counting in her head, double checking that it had indeed been eighteen years ago.

    "Are coincidences of this magnitude even possible?" she wondered, in awe of the seemingly impossible odds.

        "How is it that the very same man who had impregnated me had knocked up another woman around the exact same time, and somehow, the boy ended up in my care?"

    In that moment she had seen Hamish in another light. As she lay in her bed staring at the ceiling and rubbing her once swollen pelvis, she thought of that horrible moment in the clinic. The sudden overwhelming sensation of utter loss and separation was a night terror on its own, her scarred psyche unwilling to let her forget, but it was the dark figure that watched the procedure that stuck out most in her mind that awful day.

    'What are you?' Felicity's tearful eyes roamed with great mourning to the thin wall that separated their two bedrooms, picturing the soul who mattered most in her life sleeping sound in his bed. "A ghost—a phantom sent to torment me?' She silently wept, as once fond thoughts of the boy she had loved for so many years, the source of her joy and motivation suddenly curdled like lemon juice and milk in her stomach. Hamish now reminded her of the one irreversible mistake for which the would-be mother would never let herself forget—never learn to forgive and move on.

    It took quite a while before she finally managed to slip into dreamscape, but the dreams of lost children and severed connections had not plagued her as she had so worried. No; that night she would dream of something else entirely . . . a door where strange but elegant writing marked the wood paneled walls beyond, and a young girl—a student once thought possessed awaited her within with a message she had yet to comprehend.

                                                                ~

        Deep in the underground, beneath the historic harbour city of Belleville, a single candle flame accented a clean-shaven and perfectly groomed face. The blackness beyond masked the interior of the temple, as the hooded man raised his arms in ritualistic practice, and several more dark figures stepped into the dim candle light, each draped in thick red cloaks. Their eyes were vacant of all empathy—or any emotion whatsoever, human only in appearance, it seemed.

    'Bring me the Ellis girl.' The man ordered, and a moment later Chelsea entered the underground temple, naked and exposed to the strange onlookers who watched from the darkness all around her. Though its features were cloaked in darkness, only the twisted statue of the blasphemous version of the Savior was visible in the background. Still and eerie cement eyes looked down upon them, the dim, flickering candlelight casting moving shadows upon every surface as a low hum rumbled the base of many throats at once.

    The hooded figures stood in a circular formation around an antique, golden candle stand, its design that of an ancient time, an old artifact of ancient Egyptian design. A thick, single black candle sat upon it, many strange symbols carved into its outer wax surface which illuminated like tiny fluorescent signs. The low hum changed in tone as the naked woman stepped forth, the circle of cloaks breaking to allow access to the eerie flame.

    Chelsea's eyes were as black as the deepest night sky, her features blank and hollow of all emotion. Her soul was not present, as she was being prepped far in the distance, in the deepest crevices of the fiery underworld, though her vessel remained naked and exposed on the earthly plane.

    Each person standing in the room was of significance to the dark agenda of the Shadow Man. The common goal was no less than the birth of an Antichrist and the destruction and enslavement of the known free world. Only one among them was present of their own free will, all others were coerced in one way or another. By blackmail, contract, threat, fear or possession, each was bound by infernal chains from which they could not be liberated—slaves to their demonic master, Caine. The only soul present of their own free will was the man who spoke; his silver hair perfectly slicked, iris a deep midnight black though he was not possessed, as there was no need for a Devil worshipper such as Charles.

    He was Caine's right hand, an age old creature who had a particular talent for blending into the background. Ever the quiet observer, Charles always sided with whomever he was speaking, allowing his victims to reveal the worst of themselves. The strange soldier of darkness had a way about him—an unspoken gift, how most would instinctually trust him with their secrets. His position was always of service; a therapist, a bartender—ever playing a personal role designed to comfort and make vulnerable, his victims consistently and sometimes unknowingly divulging their innermost secrets and desires. Only when they were inebriated, emotionally vulnerable or open to suggestion would the subject be studied and manipulated according to his master schemes. Like an apex predator, he would only strike when the victim least expected, when their tender spots were exposed and ripe for the bite.

    Charles has been many people over his countless years. In that moment he was Samuel Higgins, commonly known as S-Dawg on the downtown streets of Belleville. His identity was stolen from the real Samuel; a disappointment to his historic family name, and replaced with great purpose. The Higgins family tree was complexly interwoven within several powerful secret societies, most notable the infamous Illuminati.

    Samuel was not a devout man like his father and grandfather before him, but a reckless, self-serving man-child. He was unreliable, and hence could not be trusted with the simplest of tasks. He had already let slip too much information to the Jenson woman, allowing himself to be captured on film attempting to enter an important location—one which Caine had planned to keep secret from the authorities. He had jeopardized the most crucial of missions for a self-serving endeavor—one which put everyone at risk.

    And so, Charles was sent to replace the streetwalker, the cellular manipulation of form one of the loyal demonic soldier's many unique talents.

    Charles hated portraying such a simple-minded fool, he would admit. The less than reputable scumbag persona of Samuel Higgins, however, allowed for a more covert and incognito existence. His general appearance, face tattoos, flat visor and baggy pants, always reeking of body odour, smoke and alcohol; nobody took him seriously—a joke amongst the populous. True, Charles could blend into the background much easier with his tattooed disguise, but who could possibly trust such a person?

    The real S-Dawg remained hidden in solitude for some time, the dark minions of the Shadow Man unable to dispose of him due to his family connections; at least, that is what Charles had revealed to the minions of Caine all around him. To kill a member of the Higgins Dynasty was to put a price on your own head, the threat second only to a few more lethal dynasties around the globe. Like the Rothschilds, Soros, Rockafellers or Clintons, to threaten such a man would find you hanging from your bunk bed while facing life in prison. The name was considered Illuminati royalty, and so Samuel was not to be touched no matter how tempted the others longed to take him out, and many itched for the opportunity, if only they were brave enough to make a move.

    Within the circle stood a high school teacher by the name of George Dixon; a man who played his part well bringing the Rhoads boy and the Davidson girl to their blood benediction without incident. An escaped mental patient stood to his left, the unhinged mind of Jocelyn Hillier. Music producer Harris Hangman stood at his right, the only person in the room who fought his own conscience about whether or not he should be there. The deceased walking corps of Jason Rhoads watched off to the side, the candle light revealing his one vacant eye and the other which seemed to roll around of its own accord. His chewed lips were caked in dried blood, a decaying black mouth reeking of rot.

    Outside the circle, many more observed in silence. Their identities remained concealed by the hoods of their red cloaks, each one of them deeply rooted in politics, the Hollywood elite, well known members of the mainstream media, and unknown members of many secret organizations. Theirs was a gathering anticipated for many centuries, the approaching hour of darkness planned with careful and utmost consideration. That very evening was the rising of the first of four blood moons—one that would mark the sewing of infernal soil. The womb to be sewn stood before them, soulless and as bare as the day she was born, one Chelsea Ellis.

    'What wretched filth stands before me this eve of the first blood moon? State your name, minion of Caine.' said Charles, his words ritualistically selected and orchestrated to the letter.

    'Her name is Chelsea Margret Ellis.' her vessel replied in a monotone, completely lacking any personality whatsoever.

    'And what does Ms. Chelsea Margaret Ellis bring before the Infernal Flame this most sacred eve?'

    At the mention of the strange fire, the single flame turned a vibrant red and grew large as though heightened by an invisible fuel source. Suddenly, a trembling voice could be heard through the fire's surging wickedness, Chelsea's true voice echoing from the deepest crevices of Hell.

    'I—I don't want to say it.' her voice quivered in fear, no doubt in tears, though she could not be seen through the flame. Her fleshly vessel stood before them all, but she was far away from the land of the living, trapped and terrified beyond measure, imprisoned in the worst of hellish nightmares.

    'You haven't a choice, slave.' said a chilling voice which startled many in the room, that of several speaking in unison, male, female, youthful and elderly alike. The unseen demon's tone was so vile and sinister it could only be from Hell. 'Say the words or watch your loved ones perish.'

    'I—I bring you my . . . my womb.' her voice broke down in devastated sorrow as Chelsea sobbed uncontrollably from the other side of the Infernal Flame.

    'Silence, mortal!' said the demonic multi-voice, and the sounds of slashing, carving and breaking bones, screaming and torture could be heard through the fire. Many cringed in the darkness beyond, though they dared not speak out or intervene in any way. 'Speak you fucking whore! Say the words granted by the Great Deceiver, the Most Unclean, so that he may bestow his blessed filth within your unworthy cun—'

    'I won't—' Before Chelsea's voice could continue, her screams echoed through the room, many spectators cringing at the horrible sounds of her gruesome torture beyond. A moment of silence caused the flame to diminish only just, but then, a defeated tone recited words which echoed its throb with each syllable.

    'Puinnsean . . . m'uterus le grodadh an . . .' she struggled to pronounce the words properly, the language ancient and spoken with great difficulty, though Chelsea knew not what they meant. 'diabhail agus ullaich . . . m' ùir airson an t-sìol . . .'

    'Finish it!' the hellion's voice commanded.

    'As naomha.'

    Suddenly, the ground began to tremble beneath their feet. The group joined hands in unison, both inner and outer circle as the Infernal Flame burned and surged hot and bright red, the wax melting away rapidly as a puddle formed around the base. Together they spoke as one; a chant of diabolic blasphemy.

    'To the corners of the earth, and dimensions far and wide, we call you forth oh fallen one, to bless this unholy, rightfully stolen child of Satan. We, your chosen cursed, shall rise a throne of tyrannical hate, birthed in human blood and global turmoil, so that you may march your legions to the gates of Heaven, and burn them to ash.'

    Chelsea's voice echoed in ultimate suffering, the low hum of many voices drowned out by her cries of anguish. The flame grew larger and burned hotter still, warping the shape into liquid, thinning into a rope-like stream of fire and mist while it swirled into the vessel's open mouth. Her voice cried out from her body, vessel and soul joined together once more as the black gloss of her eyes turned their normal shade of green. The stream of fire completed its journey, and rested as normal as ever around the black candle's single wick now melted less than an inch from the candle stand. Chelsea's screams turned to sobs as physical pained turned inward and morphed into emotional desolation.

    All went silent for a brief moment, and Chelsea looked around in a panic, unsure of where she was—or who surrounded her . . . all but one.

    'Harris?'

    'Look sharp, Chelsea.' he sniffled, mourning what had been done to his friend. 'You're not going to like what's about to happen.' Hangman lowered his gaze, ashamed of himself in that heartbreaking moment of betrayal.

    'What did you do to me—' eyes widened, a searing pain deep within her stomach caused her to hit the floor like a sack of bricks. She held her pelvis tight, crying out in horrible agony. 'It hurts! Please someone make it stop!'

    'I'm sorry.' Harris Hangman backed away from the circle, holding back tears.

    'What are you doing?' said a high-pitched voice from a much shorter cloak.

    'I—I can't be part of this.' Harris turned and stormed out of the temple an emotional wreck. He had come to care for Chelsea, and though he had tried his damnest to keep his emotions in check, he could not stand the sight of her suffering any longer. It mattered not, however, as the first part of the ritual had been completed regardless.

    'Take her away.' said Charles, his black eyes lacking any and all empathy for the poor woman who had unwillingly sacrificed her body to the Shadow Man's dark cause. 'Keep an eye on Hangman. He lacks the stomach to take control . . . pathetic.' he spit with disgust. 'That is why he'll never rise above his status, born to follow and never to lead.'

    'What now?' asked a short, weasely man from the outer circle, a vile and crooked grin on his callow features behind wire-rimmed glasses. Charles looked to the perverse little man, a political advisor he had come to know well, but had not much cared for, given his questionable appetites. The sick follower had an insatiable preference for the company of young boys, and was a high ranking member of the Illuminati, but recently exposed and currently being disciplined for his carelessness.

    'We wait, Podesta . . . we wait.'

    'Wait for what?' he asked, still unclear of what to expect.

    Charles had little patience for the twisted pedophile.

    'The Witching Hour, you brainless pervert.' his eyes narrowed at the sight of the known sexual deviant. 'Upon the crux of the blood moon, the first of four to come, her womb will be sewn.'

    'What then? Nine months later the baby will be born, right?' he asked, and a short elderly woman commonly seen on the news, representing a corrupt political house replied, the very same that had tried to prevent Harris Hangman from leaving a minute prior.

    'Insemination must be completed under the crux of the second blood moon—on the eve of the spring equinox.' she looked to Charles with her mouse-like persona. 'Tonight, however, Chelsea Ellis must be ravished so that our master may establish his dominance over the soon-to-be mother. On the eve of the fourth blood moon, our earthly master will born in human flesh, and walk amongst us, as prophesized.'

    'What do you need from me?' asked the Mayor of Belleville, who—like all but one—seemed to have absolutely no empathy for the well being of Chelsea Ellis.

    'Pull your forces back.' Charles replied. 'Tonight, Caine's children shall walk the earth as they once did in the days of Hamelin. Tonight . . . the Piper shall finally be paid in full.'

    'And the girl, this . . . Oracle; what if she intervenes?' asked Jocelyn Hillier.

    'She will not. I will see to it personally.' he grinned, putting on his baseball cap as his face muscles shifted, and tattoos appeared over his neck and cheeks, the completed faux persona of Samuel Higgins revealed.

    'She's too powerful.' George Dixon argued. 'The Oracle will surely kill you. The Jenson woman already put a gun to Higgins' head once, and she won't hesitate to do it again, only next time she'll pull the damn trigger. Let us not forget who is guarding her, Charles—or Higgins, as it were.' he reminded him with a smirk.

    'That is why you are not in charge, you cowardous mess. You would tuck and run with your tail between your legs at the sight of an elderly priest and his naive apprentice. Some of us, however, do not lack the testicles to stand and fight. Loyalty and bravery shant be forgotten when the Man of Sin rises to take his throne, and you will be just another lap dog.'

    The teacher lowered his gaze, unwilling to argue.

    'It's not the old man you'll have to worry about, but his protégé who threatens our cause.' said Podesta in his usual weasely tone. 'You know what he is—what he is willing to do in the name of the Creator.'

    'Just do your job and let me worry about the fucking priests. The girl may be an Oracle, but she's still trapped inside a human vessel, and as we are well aware, humans are . . . fragile in nature. Besides, we need Ashley's blood to complete the ritual, and I don't plan on merely taking a small sample.'

    'I should hope not, Charles.' A clean cut man stepped forth, his features mostly hidden in the shadow of his cloak, but his jaw line did little to mask his identity. 'Klaus and I have little patience for incompetence. This ritual has failed twice before; let us not forget Joan of Arc. Twice has our ambitions been thwarted because a little girl managed to thwart the entirety of the Papacy and the Church of Rome. Our people have fulfilled every minute detail of prophecy to prepare for this night; the girl must die.'

    'Patience, Justin.' Charles lowered his brow like an alpha male challenged. 'You can tell Klaus that everything is on schedule, as planned.'

    'And where, might I ask, is Cardinal Merrill? He was supposed to be here—'

    'His whereabouts are unknown at the present time.' the mousy woman named Nancy replied.

    'You'd better find out where the hell he is.' Justin ordered. 'He alone carries the infernal knowledge to carry this ritual out according to our scripture.'

    'Is that an order?' Charles' black eyes narrowed in challenge, and Justin's spine straightened.

    'You forget whose land you stand upon, creature.' the smug politician's jaw muscles shifted. 'This country belongs to me, as does the souls within its borders. The only reason you're standing here is because I have allowed it.'

    'And the only reason you're still breathing is because I allow it, slave.' the look in his eyes was that of power and malice, and the man called Justin laxed his posture, bending to the alpha in the group. 'This land was chosen by our master long before the dawn of man, lest you forget. Just because we have allowed you to remain in power doesn't give you authority over the chosen dynasties; Klaus should know this more than anyone. Merrill will show himself in time, I am certain.'

    'And if he does not?' All backed away at once with the threatening tone, the callow Podesta, mousey Nancy, and the cowardly but cunning George Dixon—even the mentally unhinged Jocelyn Hillier seemed apprehensive with the clash of the two powerful dynasties. 'Will the great son of Caine finally concede to Klaus' might? I mean, how else are you to proceed without Merrill—'

    'You will wipe that look off your smug face—or I will tear it off your skull, and bath in your unworthy blood.' The threat instantly sparked a fierce reaction all around them, beastly growls and teeth gnashing in the darkness, as the minions stood divided, civil war seemingly on the cusp.

    'I do not threaten, Charles.' the politician merely smirked. 'Though one does wonder what really happened to Samuel Higgins. If I were so bold, I might take this opportunity to remind you what happens to traitors of the faith, whoever the culprit may be . . . though I am admittedly not.'

    'He's alive, and will remain so until the ritual is complete.' Charles' lip curled with anger. 'Until then, I suggest you keep your tongue in check, or you will answer to Caine, I assure you.'

    'I suppose we'll just have to take your word for it.' Justin raised his arms cautiously.

    'Why do you care what happens to a man like Higgins, anyways? It's not like he has your ambitions, Justin?'

    'You know the answer, Charles. Is it really so difficult to believe that some of us have grown rather fond of one another over the years?'

    'Trauma has a way of binding the scarred mind, I suppose.' The man suddenly found the slightest of empathy for the thirteen boys of powerful dynasties who all shared the same link. 'St. Marks was a long time ago. Perhaps I misunderstood just how closely tied you all have become.'

    'He's not like us, Charles. Samuel Higgins was not pampered and privileged as we once were, but abused and tormented by a sadistic mother who should have never been allowed to claim such a title. When he was first sent to St. Mark's he seemed the strongest of us all, but time revealed just how broken and vulnerable the boy truly was. He protected us, once upon a time.'

    'I didn't know.' he admitted. Though the shape-shifter took on Samuel Higgins' likeness, he knew little of his upbringing, or how the once protective young man had turned into the streetwalking scum he knew today.

    'Even in darkness, lost souls must learn to stick together to survive.' Justin reminded. 'I remember well that sadistic doctor, and what he did to young Samuel merely for fighting back . . . for protecting me, Charles. We skinned the fucker alive for it . . . broke his bones as he deserved, but Higgins was never the same—not after that.'

    'Yes, I recall.' said Charles as he nodded with the slightest note of compassion, remembering the very night the thirteen children had escaped from the metal facility, leaving behind a bloodbath the likes of which had never before been seen by human eyes, and striking terror into a vulnerable community who feared the unstable and murderous children at large. Beyond empathy, it was a reminder of how powerful these demonic bloodlines could be when acting as once—a palpable threat not taken lightly, most certainly now that they had grown up—most of whom were standing in that very room.

    Justin backed into the surrounding darkness, his thoughts locked on the doctors and nurses at St. Mark's when he was just a boy. Countless horrible acts of sadistic and sexual perversions had plagued his nightmares for years, and Higgins got the brunt of it. It was no wonder the boy had separated himself from his destructive lineage, where Justin had been raised with a silver spoon in his mouth, groomed to rise to the very top of Canadian politics, his master Klaus guiding his every movement.

    As everyone within the darkened cathedral felt the tension subside, Charles continued the meeting now that the ritual had been completed—at least that portion anyways.

    'Are there any other matters of concern? We have much to do today, so we mustn't doddle.'

    'Before we adjourn, there is a matter which must be addressed.' George Dixon spoke up.

    'You may proceed.' Charles allowed.

    'Father Amaral . . . the priest has been slain as planned, removing the protective spells from St. Anthony's Church, but we have not heard from Elizabeth in many days. What has become of the Countess?'

    'Her whereabouts are currently unknown.' replied the son of Caine. 'What occurred after the priest's slaughter remains unclear. The Countess has played her part well, but she was charged with nothing more. The agenda will move forth as planned.'

    'Too much has been altered, Charles.' Nancy seemed apprehensive. 'We mustn't lose focus now—not when so much is at stake.'

    'Tonight will go off without a hitch, as long as we all do our part. Now is not the time to lose your courage. The light has never—and will never go out without a fight. Before this night is through many of us will be dead; it is an inevitable certainty. No matter how ill-prepared or weak they may seem, the soldiers of light are not to be underestimated. The Maker always has an ace up His sleeve—a harsh lesson learned throughout human history, and this night will be no different.'

    At that moment the group separated, and Charles turned and blew out what remained of the Infernal Flame. As the darkness consumed them all he fell into a state of worry, knowing Cardinal Merrill would not have missed such an important part of the ritual without a good reason. Something had gone wrong, he was sure of it. Justin was right to worry, as their plans had indeed been thwarted before, but as long as they had the Ellis girls in their custody all would be well, and the wrath of Caine would not fall upon him.

                                                                ~

        The staff at Belleville General Hospital seemed more overworked than usual, as the approach of a full moon somehow had a way of bringing out the crazy in people. Most care workers could attest to the odd behavior of some patients during such lunar activity, as though the moon somehow brought out the strange in an otherwise normal mind. The general consumption rate involved in the festivities leading up to Halloween always brought more injuries than usual to the local emergency room.

    Detective Jennifer Jenson and her partner for the day, Dr. Malcolm Turner, stepped past the waiting area and toward the information desk, noting the tired expressions on each face. Speaking through thick panes of protective glass, she inquired about the room number of one Marc Richot. Before the receptionist could remind them of hospital policy and visiting hours, a quick flash of her detective badge cut off the conversation instantly. They were given precise directions to the assigned room straight away, but as they stepped toward the hallway leading to the elevators, one of the doctors overheard the name and halted in his scheduled task to speak with the officers.

    'You're here to see Marc Richot?' said the bright-eyed resident doctor.

    'Yes, are you his attending?' Jennifer asked.

    'No, I'm Dr. Chase Becker, Chief Resident here at Belleville General. Are you officially working Mr. Richot's assault case?'

    'I am currently leading the investigation, yes. What's this about, Dr. Becker?' asked Jenson, unsure of what he could possibly want from her.

    'I have something to show you.' There was a note of worry in his tone—a glimmer of fear in Dr. Becker's worrisome glare.

    'We're rather busy at the moment, Doctor. It is prudent that we talk with Mr. Richot right away; can this not wait?'

    'No . . . it can't. Please, come with me. You're going to want to see what I have to show you. Don't say a word, just follow me.'

    The two officers were confused with the Doctor's cryptic demands, but obliged nonetheless. Jenson kept her hand at the ready, prepared to reach for her firearm at a second's notice, knowing how few people she could trust, much less a stranger.

    Moments later, they entered a small board room on the fifth floor, in the east wing of Belleville General Hospital, which seemed to be under construction for the most part. Dr. Becker quickly scanned the hallway before closing the door, a precaution to ensure they weren't being followed, confirming Jenson's silent suspicion of his paranoia. The slight odour of drywall and mud filled the air as he closed the blinds, assuring nobody could see through the glass walls of the room.

    'A bit paranoid, aren't we, Dr. Becker?' asked Malcolm, as he and his partner exchanged looks of concern.

    'With good reason, Detective; please, have a seat.' he gestured to the chairs opposite a white board, and a light box to display x-ray imaging. Along the baseboard below were many construction tools, the room used as storage while the wing was under construction.

    They sat next to one another, Malcolm Turner feeling somewhat cramped and uncomfortable as his round belly pressed against the board table, not nearly enough space between its edge and the wall at his back. Dr. Becker opened a locked briefcase that had been stored under the table, and he began searching through files as his guests attempted to get comfortable.

    'Stuck, are you, Malcolm?' Jenson chuckled, watching him struggle.

    'You mind if I just . . .' Turner pushed the table out and breathed a sigh of relief, loosening his collar and feeling a bit less claustrophobic. 'There, that's better.'

    'Wouldn't kill you to eat a salad now and then, old man.' Jen smirked, noticing he looked a bit flustered.

    'Just you mind your business, ya bean pole.' he replied and the detective turned her attention to the matter at hand. Dr. Becker was rummaging through a large stack of files as they waited for him.

    'This better be good, Doctor. We have quite a lot on our plate at the moment—'

    'Just . . . shut up and listen.' his patience was wearing thin, the information he was about to divulge far too unusual to bother with niceties or hospitality for the two police officers. 'What do you know about Black-eyed Children?' he flopped a thick file in front of them, watching and studying each of their reactions carefully.

    The mention of the word took them both by surprise, and the old friends glanced at one another, unsure of how to reply. Their current case was ongoing and confidential, so they would have to remain discreet in divulging the specifics—even to a doctor.

    'I'll take it by your reaction that you are familiar with the term—or should I be speaking with someone else?'

    'No, you're talking with the right people.' said Jenson with utmost confidence.

    'Good; mention of anything of the like could very well challenge my integrity as a medical practitioner, so I would ask that you keep what I'm about to show you between the three of us. You must leave my name out of any official reports, agreed?'

    'Yes, of course.' Jenson concurred curiously, and Dr. Becker wasted no time cutting to the chase, knowing they were on a time crunch.

    'A couple of weeks ago, a patient was brought into the ER with some rather . . . unusual symptoms. Normally I would refrain from mentioning the specifics of my patient's treatment, but in this case, I think the authorities should be notified, and on high alert. Doctor—patient confidentiality goes out the window when lives are at stake, after all.'

    'What sort of symptoms would have you so flustered, Dr. Becker?' Malcolm pushed him to the point.

    'Erratic change of personality, high blood pressure, stomach cramps, sweating and acute headaches—nothing too bizarre, you would imagine. The subject in question was a thirteen year old girl, and the father was quite alarmed at his daughter's recent odd behavior.'

    'Sounds like pretty normal symptoms, especially for a female around that age.' Malcolm shrugged.

    'That's what we thought as well. Many of her symptoms could be easily mistaken for common signs of menstruation—again nothing we were really concerned about upon early examination.'

    'Then why are we here?' asked Jenson.

    'The father, however, claimed these weren't just your average pre-teen hormonal mood-swings. I had to witness it first-hand to believe it myself.'

    'What sort of mood swings?' she asked. 'Can you be more specific?'

    'She would say the most vile and personal things, Detective. Anyone who approached her, she would tell them specifics about loved ones, people that had passed years prior—how they died, every minute detail.' His gaze drifted for a brief moment, recalling something specific that was mentioned. 'Impossible things.'

    'Like, what sort of things?' Turner pushed, snapping him out of a momentary trance. For a moment, he looked as though he were fearful to continue. 'Look, Dr. Becker, we are on a tight schedule, so if you're not gonna spit it out, then we can't help you—'

    'It's a matter of public safety!' he yelled before they could move to get up and leave the room. The two police officers looked to one another and leaned back, waiting for him to get it together. The doctor took a moment to gather his thoughts and dab the sweat from his brow.

    'Are you alright, Doctor?' she asked, but he shook his head.

    'Nurses would hear their loved one's voices calling to them whenever they entered the room—voices of people long since deceased.' His eyes lowered to the floor, unsure of himself, knowing that he must have sounded like a mad man. 'We would hear strange growling sounds around corners, eyes watching us . . . always watching. Strange, dark figures stood in the shadows of the parking lot, and even follow us home. Objects would fly off counters, doors and cupboards slamming on their own, cold spots everywhere we turned.'

    Dr. Becker teared up, a man clearly at his wits end.

    'Tell us more, Doctor.' Jenson reached across the table and grazed his arm, trying to show support as best she could.

    'We haven't rested in weeks, you see. They just kept coming after patient zero—one after another, after another. My staff and I . . . it hasn't been easy.' he righted his composure. 'I've had twelve walk-offs and seven no-shows. My interns are throwing away their futures because they're too terrified to show up for work.'

    'Why don't you tell us about patient zero? How did this begin?' asked Malcolm, trying to make sense of the man's claims.

    'I am not a religious man, Detective. It is in our nature as physicians to always seek the most rational explanations first and foremost, but this patient had me stumped. For the first time in my career, I had no scientific explanation as to what was happening to this young girl, or how she could possibly know what she did. Needless to say, I've been in a state of spiritual turmoil ever since. I sleep maybe an hour a night, constant nightmares—'

    'What did she say that would have you so shaken?' asked Malcolm, but a lingering moment of silence persisted, revealing that the topic of the strange conversation was a personal matter.

    'She . . . mentioned my wife.' The detective had noticed a smooth mark at the base of his ring finger, the skin compressed from many years of wearing a wedding band. 'She passed a couple of years ago . . . automobile accident involving a drunk driver. I couldn't get to her in time.' he shook his head, recalling the horrific event all too vivid. 'Madeline died in the back of an ambulance before she even arrived at the hospital.'

    'I'm sorry for your loss, Dr. Becker.' Turner sympathized.

    'The child spoke with her voice, Detective.' he revealed as tears dripped from his eyelashes, and his cheeks blushed. 'It wasn't her, that much I was certain. I mean, she knew some private matters, but only things an outsider would know about our marriage. She came up short when I asked her about more intimate details. This deranged child tried to convince me that Madeline was burning in Hell, but was unsuccessful.' he stared off into nothingness as he recalled the incident. 'It was a horrible moment, disturbing regardless of the absurdity of the implication, you understand.'

    'We've come across this type of entity before, Doctor.' Jenson revealed to the shock of her partner, who wasn't quite caught up in the specific details of the case.

    'When the child lost her temper, objects would fly across the room, glass shattering, machinery going haywire. It took enough Propofol to sedate a small horse to finally put a stop to the madness. Only then were we able to get her into an MRI machine to have a look for ourselves.'

    Standing, he dimmed the lights and turned on the mounted backlight, then opened the file and displayed the inner workings of the child's brain.

    'What you are looking at is the patient's brain activity under heavy sedation. There's nothing extraordinary—pretty standard looking scan, any doctor would agree. But keep your focus on the frontal lobe area.' he pointed to the space between the girl's eyes, allowing the officers to memorize what a normal scan would look like. 'This is what happened when she woke half-way through the procedure.'

    Placing a second image next to it, something was alarmingly different. What looked to be tiny tentacles, like blackened veins seemed to be almost squeezing the pineal gland, right between the eyes.

    'What the hell is that supposed to be?' asked Malcolm, his jaw dropped as he stood to get a better look.

    'We don't know.' he answered honestly. 'But it seems to somehow retract and disappear when the patient was unconscious. I've consulted some of the foremost expert neuroscientists on the matter, and so far, nobody seems to have a clue as to what the hell this thing is.'

    'Why the frontal lobe, doctor?' asked Jenson. 'I mean, what's so significant about this particular area of the human brain?'

    'The frontal lobe is the part of the brain that controls cognitive skills such as emotional expression, problem solving, memory, language, judgment, and sexual behavior. It is considered, in essence, the "control panel" of our personality, and our ability to communicate with others . . . a soul, some would say. Whatever this thing is, it seems to have the ability to inhibit its host's personality and take control of their entire body, inhibiting their behavior, their speech and even seizing control of the human mind.'

    'Possession.' Malcolm concluded.

    'The mention of such a word would compromise my career, though it was on the tip of everyone's tongue while examining the case files; hence why the contents of this conversation must not leave this room. These weren't the only tests we ran on patient zero. One particular examination shows us which parts of the brain fire up whenever the patient is experiencing emotion—trying to solve a riddle . . . you get the idea.'

    They both nodded.

    'While the child's eyes were blackened, the part of the brain that expresses emotions like compassion or love went completely dark, as though this unknown parasite was able to turn off the part of the brain capable of feeling anything emotionally positive. Meanwhile, the part of the brain that inhibits hate, rage or sexual desire would fire up like the fourth of July.' 

    He then placed a third image on the mounted backlight, and Malcolm's brow crinkled with curiosity. The tentacle-like black vines seemed much thinner, almost like they were retracting.

    'What is this?' asked Jenson.

    'The child was strapped down just in case she woke during the MRI. She was somehow able to break free of her restraints; I've seen men your size incapable of such strength.' he gestured toward Malcolm. 'I was the first to run into the room to help pin her back down. This happened when I put my hand on her ankle, just as the machine was powering down. This was the very last image we captured before sedating her again.'

    'It's almost as if it's retracting . . . like it's afraid.'

    'What could cause such a reaction, Dr. Becker?' asked Jenson, hoping there was some sort of cure for this thing.

    'Medically . . . absolutely nothing.'

    'Off the record?' Malcolm pushed.

    Dr. Becker rolled up his right sleeve displaying a tattoo, a Christian cross just above his wrist. In Jenson's mind, this confirmed the religious aspect to the anomaly, and why Father Theron had been so adamant about baptism.

    'As a physician, I could not officially report—at least on paper—how we managed to help the child.'

    'She was released?' asked Malcolm.

    'Yes.'

    'With a clean bill of health, how?' he asked, overly intrigued.

    'I called the only man of faith I knew. Father Amaral had helped bury my wife, and I thought a quick consultation might be in order, considering the circumstances. You're probably aware that he was recently found dead in his own church.'

    'Yes, we are very aware.' Jenson assured and the two exchanged looks of compassion.

    'You see, when I touched the child's flesh, her skin seemed to almost burn, her core temperature rising to beyond human capability. Standard procedure, we put the child in an ice bath to cool her down. I had Father Amaral bless the water, at his suggestion. The first image I showed you was the result.' he pointed to the original scan he had displayed, and all three gazed at the perfectly normal image of the child's brain, the strange alien parasite now absent from the image completely. 'We've had over twenty cases of this strange anomaly since this first encounter, and have treated every one of them the same way, though we haven't professionally divulged our prognosis. If the medical board ever discovered we were treating patients with holy water . . . there would be an uproar, and the whole department would be under investigation as we speak.'

    'Your secret is safe with us, Dr. Becker. You have no idea how much this helps our investigation.' Malcolm grew excited to learn what Father Theron had already divulged, but Jenson was pleased to see the strange phenomenon was being taken seriously in the medical field.

    'Well, there's more to it.' the doctor continued, sensing they were getting ready to leave. 'After learning about this whole . . . holy water business, our nurses now carry a bottle with them at all times. If we spray the patient directly, the parasite will lash out aggressively, essentially making sedation nearly impossible. We've had to use tranquilizers a few times, just to get close enough. These . . . kids are violent beyond comprehension, especially when challenged with anything holy.'

    'You don't need to tell me, Doctor.' Jenson concurred. 'I've been hot on the case for many months now.'

    'Then you know of what they are capable. One of our nurses is now in a padded room on the third floor from an encounter with one of these . . . Black-eyed Children. We managed to stop her in an attempt to cut the voices out of her head with a scalpel. One of our caregivers smashed their own head against a concrete wall to make them stop. We're dealing with something beyond our comprehension—something rooted in pure evil.'

    Jenson sighed.

    'Though I share your concern, Doctor, you may consider yourself lucky. I've watched their victims skinned alive, burned to ashes and the like. Prepare your staff, and have a pastor or a priest ready and on call at a moment's notice, if possible. This will get much worse before it gets better, I assure you. Tonight may very well be the worst of it, I fear. If anything else of note comes up, you call me straight away.' Jenson handed him her card.

    'I'll keep the ice tub free and ready, I suppose. It would be prudent to stress that splashing said holy water will not cure the patient. We learned that the first time we placed a child in a tub full of holy water. It may scold their skin, possibly even disfigure their flesh. The key is to have them as submerged as possible. We're dealing with a parasite—and like any parasite, the only cure is to make the host's body uninhabitable. Do you understand?'

    'Perfectly.' Jenson nodded, recalling the glass bulb of holy water she had broken over a young girl's head, on the stage of the Empire Theater.

    'Good. Now, is there anything else I could do to prepare?' he asked sincerely, and Jenson had only two requests.

    'Pray . . . and for the love of God get me to Marc Richot.'

                                                                ~

        Tires squealed in the parking lot of the Country Motel as the navy blue Chevrolet hatchback pulled up to the spot before the encrypted room. Two women quickly exited the vehicle, slamming the doors as they rushed forth, a stern determination in their demeanor. Sister Mary-Thomas was unrecognizable when the curtain was pulled aside, and Father Theron looked puzzled through the double-paned glass.

    'Who are you—' his speech froze in his throat as he suddenly recognized her through the window. 'Sister Mary Thomas . . . is that you?'

    'Yes, I have recently lost my taste for such formal fashion as the habit, I'm afraid.' she smirked as he looked upon her flowing black locks and fair, radiating complexion. Upon sight of Meredith Rhoads, the priest's spine straightened, however.

    'It's okay, Father Theron.' said young Ashley, who was standing behind him. 'You can open the door now.'

    The priests looked to one another, unsure if it was such a good idea.

    'Sister Mary-Thomas has seen to my earthly mother's condition. We can trust them both.'

    Another glance and Theron considered the child.

    'You are sure, young lady? We can't afford any slip ups.' Father Jeremy warned.

    Ashley returned his worry with a comical lift of one eye brow.

    'As long as you're positive.' Theron chuckled and opened the door.

    Without a word the young girl leapt into her mother's arms, relieved she was alive and seemingly in good health. Meredith couldn't help but lose control of her emotions, tears flowing down her cheeks as she held her daughter close. As she inhaled her youthful scent, thoughts of Cardinal Merrill lying still and lifeless in her bedroom felt more than justified, knowing just how easily the events could have turned tragic. Ashley was alive and well, her guard only lowered at the slithering serpent tongue this vile clergyman. She was more than relieved he was dead, his evil grasp far from her little girl. Guilt turned to gratefulness in that moment, and for the first time in her adult life she found herself thanking God she was still alive, finally understanding how important the ritual of baptism truly was. She hadn't known for certain, but her heart was telling her that this decision had kept her from harm when Meredith herself wasn't around to protect her.

    'Thank heavens your safe.' she let out her worry.

    Father Theron shook the would-be nun's hand, but as Father Jeremy approached, his gaze caught her stunning beauty like a moth to the flame. For a brief moment, he lost himself in her bright—almost memorizing eyes. All his years spent at the Vatican, he had never seen her without her habit, and he suddenly found himself incapable of peeling his gaze away.

    'Father Jeremy . . . it's good to see you.' she smiled, and couldn't help but feel flattered at the way his gaze seemed lost in her.

    'Sister Mary Thomas . . . I—I didn't realize just how beautiful you are without the uniform. Please, forgive my reaction.' he bowed like a gentleman, embarrassed at his initial reaction. 'You have caught me off guard, I'm afraid.' The priest had always found her quite breathtaking, but had never allowed his thought to wander until now, as his initial vow of celibacy demanded.

    'Well, I'll take the compliment, Father; but it's just Teresa now. I'm afraid my devotion to the Papacy has died with our Pope, God rest his humbled soul.'

    'You've . . . turned from your faith?' Theron stood aback, shocked with the news. Sister-Mary Thomas was one of the most devout nuns he had ever encountered, naturally assuming she was out of the habit to remain under the radar and nothing more.

    'Never.' she replied pleasantly. 'My faith is stronger than ever, I assure you, Father Theron. However, my taste for humouring the Little Horn has thankfully come to an end.' 

    'Did he suffer?' asked Ashley, still in her mother's arms as the tiny legs of the Oracle wrapped around her waist.

    'He was . . . angry, that much is certain.' Teresa replied. 'He indeed suffered, but not for long, if it eases your heart, child. It was a death ill suited for such a man, in my opinion, but we are creatures of grace, after all. Suffering must not become us.'

    'Who, the Pope?' asked Theron, just as confused as his younger apprentice.

    'Cardinal Merrill has been judged this day.' Teresa officially announced, which took both of the priests by shock, but Theron seemed to get over it rather quickly.

    'May God have mercy on his pitiful excuse for a soul.' he bowed his silver-haired head, and made the sign of the Trinity.

    'God has nothing to do with it, Father.' Ashley lowered her gaze. 'We are bound to the Creator by birth; it is with our own free will that we sever that tie—a bond the Cardinal had forfeited when he swore allegiance to Caine. A more suiting phrase would be: May the Devil have mercy on his pitiful excuse for a soul, though I highly doubt it reasonable to assume.'

    'You have . . . taken a life?' Father Jeremy stepped forward with narrowed eyes, not comprehending how such a renown woman of faith could possibly do such a thing.

    'I'm afraid I have.' she held nothing back.

    'And you have conveniently ignored a commandment and surrendered your beliefs, for what purpose exactly?'

    'I have surrendered nothing.' she straightened her spine with the accusation.

    'Sometimes you have to pull a few weeds to let the garden flourish, Father.' Ashley defended.

    'Yes, I'm sure such excuses will convince St. Peter upon your judgment.' the sarcasm in his tone pleased no one. 'Perhaps it was rather suiting you abandoned your habit.'

    'I abandoned nothing, Father.' Teresa's tone turned stern. 'I tossed aside what is no longer relevant in the eyes of our Maker. Might I remind you that my judgment is a personal matter—a matter of no consequence to you?'

    The priest turned his back to the group, struggling with how breaking a clear commandment could be a Holy act, though he would reach no conclusion.

    'Did the archangels not kill in the name of God, Father Jeremy?' she continued.

    'Forgive me,' he bowed in a mocking manner. 'I was unaware you had been gifted with such a divine title. Apparently you have been appointed by divine law to take any life you deem worthy of execution; how silly of me to question, the mere mortal I am.' When she failed to reply, the priest slowly lowered himself onto the bed. 'It was no secret I was no fan of Cardinal Merrill, and if he is guilty of his crimes, he no doubt deserves what punishment he has coming in the afterlife . . . but killing is an act against all that is natural—against God, you must know this.'

    'With all due respect, Father, perhaps your knowledge of the will of God is misplaced.' Ashley countered.

    'Perhaps.' he sighed and looked away from the girl. 'Or maybe we have it all backwards, and it is you who has been misled. The world is filled with misguided fools, all willing to kill in the name of their gods. How sure are we really that you're on the right side of the chessboard, young Ashley?' he queried, and then rested his head on his pillow, desperately trying to quiet his mind.

    The young girl sighed, having no real way to convince the priest—none that would prove definitively her position in the tribulation that was still to come.

    'How can you say such a thing?' asked the child.

    'Because of your persistence that killing can be somehow be justified. Just this morning, you tried to convince me of the same, and Father Theron still insists on brandishing his firearm. Thou shall not kill, and I will not stain my soul in such ways.'

    'Then you face the hoards of Hell unarmed and vulnerable.' Theron threw in his two cents.

    'Ezekiel 25:17.' he whispered, and the seasoned priest sighed in dismay. Though he wanted to argue, a slight snore could suddenly be heard, Jeremy's lack of sleep finally catching up to him.

    'So, what's the game plan then?' asked Father Theron, turning his thoughts from Father Jeremy and sitting on the dingy couch. They all followed suit and sat down to discuss their next move.

    'Have you heard anything from your sister yet?' asked Teresa, and Meredith checked her phone and shook her head.

    'I've called her about ten times, left several voice messages and countless texts. She's not answering—or she's lost her phone, one or the other.' she shrugged, much more worried than she was letting on.

    'She's not going to reply, Mom.' Ashley reached forth and lowered her mother's wrist. 'She's too far gone. Aunt Chelsea doesn't belong to us anymore.'

    'What does that mean?' her mother asked with a breathy gasp, her heart slowly breaking with the thought.

    'You know as well as I she has been chosen. Aunt Chelsea signed an unbreakable contract with the Shadow Man—with Caine, himself. Her fate is already sealed.'

    'What do you mean sealed? You're not suggesting we—'

    'Kill her? She is no longer your sister, but a minion of the Devil. If we don't take her life, the Antichrist will rise to power and destroy this world.'

    'I will not kill my own sister! This is your Aunt Chelsea for Christ's sake.'

    'Is the fate of the world not a good enough reason?' she remarked.

    In that moment, Meredith had trouble trusting the words that escaped her young lips, and Father Jeremy's concerns that she may be on the wrong side of the chess board echoed through her head. The room felt thick with uncertainty, with no clear answers in sight.

    'What is Ezekiel 25:17?' Meredith asked, now questioning what Jeremy meant, and Father Theron obliged.

    'One of the more brutal Bible verses of the Old Testament. You'd know it best as a quote from the popular film Pulp Fiction.'

    'Enlighten me.' she pushed, not quite remembering the scene, though she had watched the hit film in theatres many years ago with her sister, Chelsea, ironically enough.

    '"The path of the righteous man is beset on all sides by the inequities and the tyranny of evil men. Blessed is he, who in the name of charity and goodwill, shepherd the weak through the valley of darkness, for he is truly his brother's keeper and the finder of lost children. And I will strike down upon thee with great vengeance and furious anger, those who attempt to poison and destroy my brothers, and you will know my name is the Lord when I lay my vengeance upon thee." It's a quote commonly used when determining the justification for taking a life.'

    'Yes, and this is where he is misguided, I'm afraid.' Ashley insisted. 'The meaning of this verse can be open to interpretation. He has always seen himself as the shepherd, blessed as the keeper and finder of lost children.'

    'Personally, I've always interpreted the meaning as: God will cripple any who get in the way of holy intent.' Teresa shrugged.

    'You're not wrong.' Ashley replied. 'What Jeremy has failed to realize is that he is not the shepherd he believes himself to be. Our priestly friend has been blessed with a unique gift of accuracy, a marksman unlike the world has ever seen.'

    'A marksman?' he leaned forth with a note of intrigue.

    'Yes, Father. Jeremy Santiago fears his god-given talent for obvious reasons. The good father is no shepherd, but the sword in which God will use to strike down His enemies with great vengeance and furious anger.'

    'He is meant to be . . . an assassin?' Theron exhaled a breath of realization.

    'Everyone must face their demons, and a great war of ethics now rages on within our friend's noble heart.' the young Oracle revealed. 'The only thing holding him back from his fate is the structured belief that had once tamed his soul. Once he relieves himself of the Papacy's stranglehold, as you have done, Teresa, he will be an unstoppable force of divine justice. I have tried to guide him toward his destined path, but he will not be moved until the time is right. Until then . . . the conflict rages on.'

    They all turned to Father Jeremy, snoring away quietly in the dingy queen sized bed. In that moment, he seemed so vulnerable—fragile even. Each of them had their own memories with the seemingly noble priest, but few would expect him as anything more than that.

    'Cardinal Merrill was but one of many weeds to be pulled, and our friend has much work to do, I'm afraid.'

    Suddenly, a deep silence was broken by the ring of a cell phone, and Meredith was quick to answer.

    'Jenson, I've been waiting for you—'

    'Meredith, where the hell are you?' she asked on the other line.

    'I'm with Ashley, at . . . the place.' Meredith replied, unsure if the voice on the other end could be trusted.

    'Good, stay where you are. I'll be there in a little bit; we gotta talk, the lot of us.'

    Putting the phone down, she felt confident to have Jenson by her side. The complex subject of the discussion awaiting, she was confident, would be another eye opening blow, as they seemed to just keep coming. Nothing would surprise her at this point, however, the concern for the safety of her son and her only sister was eating away at her conscience.

    'I don't understand.' Father Theron spoke up. 'Why Jeremy of all people? I mean, there has to be someone else more qualified . . . right?'

    'Try to understand our life's purpose is far beyond the comprehension of the Catholic belief structure. If you want to know why Jeremy was personally chosen, you must dismiss some of your core beliefs.'

    It was a strange sight to behold, the words of another from her daughter's youthful lips. With every passing sentence, Meredith felt distanced from Ashley, like she didn't even know her anymore.

    'Humour me.' he insisted, and she took a moment to compose what she was about to say.

    'The answer you are searching for has to do with the process of reincarnation.'

    'Reincarnation? Such a thing does not exist, Ashley.'

    'John 3:16, Father.' she replied. 'The answer has been staring you in the face your whole life, but you've never considered what it truly meant.'

    'What is this?' asked Meredith, completely ignorant of most scripture.

    '"For God so loved the world, He gave his only begotten Son, so whoever would believe in Him shall not perish but have everlasting life."' Teresa clarified perhaps the most popular verse in scripture.

    'What do you think everlasting life means?' Ashley sat back and let him come to his own conclusion.

    'Say you're right,' Theron humoured the girl, not entirely convinced. 'Let's assume reincarnation is real; you're saying Jeremy was chosen because of a past life?'

    'That's exactly what I'm saying.' she held confidence. 'Father Jeremy was chosen because of whom he once was; a man with a proven track record for overcoming the odds, fighting against the Papacy, and remarkable marksmanship.'

    'Who was he in a past life, Ashley?' Meredith now seemed more curious than anyone.

    'You would have known him by the name Locksley.' she replied as the familiar name struck a chord of recognition.

    'Locksley . . . as in Robin of Locksley?' Teresa gasped with disbelieve.

    'Robin Hood?' Theron chuckled and shook his head. 'It's a bloody fairy tale—'

    'Is it really? Someone hasn't studied their English history, it would seem. Are you not British, Father?' the child smirked.

    Teresa stood, observing the sleeping priest in wonder, her jaw dropped and eyes wide.

    'You're telling me, that within this man is the very same soul that held the throne of England for King Richard during the crusades?'

    'The very same.' she smirked with confidence, perhaps even pride.

    'Wow.' said Teresa, suddenly finding a whole new admiration for Father Jeremy.

    'You'd be surprised how many old names are just bouncing around us without our knowledge. His distaste for violence and brandishing weaponry did not come from nowhere. This is a natural result of a long life of struggle and bloodshed. Jeremy's is a tired soul, one that has loved and lost, and has seen enough blood to last ten lifecycles. Deep in his heart, he knows without knowing that the second he lifts his arm to take a life . . . there will be no turning back, and this is what he fears above all else. What he must realize is that God has not chosen him to bring peace, as he many believe, but to wage war on the false and corrupt. His life's purpose in this cycle is not much different from what it once was during the days of the Crusades. The time will soon come when a great awakening will jog his memory, and he will remember every crucial detail of his past life. Father Jeremy knows in his very soul what the Vatican is capable of, and will know instinctively how to take down the Little Horn. History, after all, has a way of repeating itself.'

    'Bullocks.' Theron chuckled again in disbelief. Robin Hood was perhaps his favourite story of all time when he was just a boy, but little did he know that he had been by his side, this very same crusader for many days. He narrowed his wrinkled eyes and studied the sleeping priest with a note of replenishing faith, a child-like sense of wonder guiding his uncontrollable grin. 'Is this really possible? I mean, you're not just yanking my crank?'

    Ashley watched the seasoned priest like a boy in his glory, quite entertained.

    'Did you really think the Almighty would send us into the lion's den with nothing?'

    'Wait . . . you're implying he's not the only one, aren't you?' the excited nun read between the lines.

    'Many old souls will come this night.' the Oracle assured, and everyimagination suddenly lost itself in wonder and perplexed curiosity, the eventsto come much grander in scale than any could possibly predict. 'The pieces aremoving into place upon the grand chessboard between light and darkness.' hereyes drifted for a moment, visions foretelling of the coming bloodshed whichcrept forward with every tick of the hand. 'One must be careful not to findthemselves a pawn. As useful as they may be, an inevitable demise is the commonpath.'