Page 4 of Nightshade

As he slid his hand into the file, I shook my hands and my head. “No, no! I don’t need to keep that!”

Frowning, he slid the image with the carved stone onto the desk, and I let out a relieved breath. “To reference the symbol.”

“Of course. Thank you. Detective.”

“Have a good day, Miss Ravenshaw.”

Once he’d exited the office, I fell back into my desk chair, tossing the card onto a stack of papers I’d planned to shred later. An itch at my arm had me lifting my sleeve from over the birthmark hidden beneath. One that bore a striking resemblance to the symbol carved into the stone on the image in front of me. A striking similarity, no doubt, but personally, I’d never acknowledged it as anything but a weird-looking blemish on my skin, its edges too undefined to make that link. My father, on the other hand, believed it’d not only prophesied my mother’s untimely death, but made me a harbinger, of sorts. A messenger of the angels, whatever that meant.

Thankfully, he hadn’t included that part in his paper.

It’d been years since I’d given any thought to the marking. Even longer than that since I’d considered opening wounds that’d long since scabbed over. Problem was, they hadn’t healed right. Even then, the mystery of my father called to me, tearing open the stitches all over again.

And like the masochist I was, my interest was piqued.

3

Farryn

“How do we know this world isn’t Hell, Father?” Palms sweating, I knelt before the confessional screen, the unforgiving wood sending an ache to my bones.

“We are still graced by God’s presence.” The priest’s raspy voice filled the small, cramped space that smelled of cleaning oils and age.

I’d known Father Bane for about ten years, thanks to Aunt Nelle dragging me to church every Sunday since I was fifteen. I didn’t know why I continued to attend confession every few weeks. I’d never really found comfort in the church; in fact, the confessional box itself left me feeling claustrophobic. Maybe just for a sense of loyalty to my aunt.

“Are we?” I asked. “What I’ve seen … I find that hard to believe.”

“I can assure you, there are places where the suffering is far worse.”

“Maybe. I’ve had the most terrible dreams, Father,” I whispered.

“Tell me of these dreams.”

“I’m walking through a dark field. With a blood red moon. Bodies lie scattered everywhere. Burned bodies. Mutilated bodies. Blood spattered across dark wings. But I remain unharmed.”

“Dark wings, you say?”

“Yes. Angels’ wings.”

“Pah!” he dismissed. “They’re just dreams, child.”

“It’s how I feel when I’m … dreaming them that concerns me.”

“And how is that?”

I pondered the question, recalling my most recent, which had felt more of a premonition than a dream. “Uncertain. I’m not even sure I entirely believe that angels exist.”

“Ah.” An air of intrigue lit the tone of his voice. “Well, you cannot be faulted for such things. It is the temptation surrounding us that lures us to sin and blinds our eyes to the devil’s work.”

In the quiet that followed, I lifted the sleeve of my shirt from over the birthmark on my arm. “Father, are you familiar with a group who called themselves the Pentacrux?” On glancing up and toward the screen, I just caught the quick movements of his hands.

The sign of the cross.

“I’m sorry, I do not.”

“They were a group believed to be from ancient times.”

“I said I do not know!”