Page 32 of Soulmarked

“Wonderful.” Sean's voice dripped sarcasm. “Because nothing good ever lives in deep dark holes under cities.”

He turned away from the screens, attention caught by something else. The altar itself was older than the church, its stone dark with age and stained with substances I didn't want to identify. But it was the markings that drew Sean's focus.

“These...” Sean traced one symbol with a gloved finger, his usual irreverence replaced by something darker. “I've seen these before. In books about demon gates.”

The temperature in the church seemed to drop ten degrees. I stepped closer, studying the carvings. They seemed to shift under my gaze, like trying to focus on something underwater. “You're sure?”

“Spent enough time in Dublin cleaning up after idiots tried opening portals.” His jaw tightened. “These are older though. Much older.”

Phoenix wasn't just experimenting with supernatural energy, they were trying to open something. Something that should stay closed.

A sudden wail of sirens pierced the night, distant but getting closer. Multiple vehicles, heavy ones. Not regular police.

“Time to move,” Sean said, already gathering his weapons.

“Where?” I asked, disconnecting my drive.

Sean met my gaze, something almost like respect flickering in his eyes. “My place. We need to analyze what you pulled, and I've got resources you won't find in your government databases.”

“Don't push your luck.” I checked my weapon, mentally cataloging the night's events for the heavily redacted report I'd have to write. “I'm heading home.”

“Are we not gonna talk about this?” Sean gestured at the altar, the dead vampire, the whole bloody mess we'd stumbled into. “About demon gates and corporate conspiracies and whatever the fuck those grey things were?”

“No.”

“No?” His eyebrows shot up. “Just like that? We find out Phoenix is trying to open some sort of a gate under Manhattan and you want to, what, sleep on it?”

The sirens were closer now, accompanied by the distinctive thrum of helicopter rotors. Whatever cleanup crew was coming, they were coming in force.

“Some of us have actual jobs to get to in the morning,” I said, heading for the door. “With paperwork and supervisors who ask questions about suspicious absences.”

“Right, because filing reports about 'animal attacks' is more important than...” Sean cut himself off, head tilting likea predator catching a scent. “We've got company. Multiple vehicles, coming in hot.”

I was already moving toward the back exit, gun ready but not drawn. “Then I suggest we table this discussion for another time.”

“Fine.” Sean fell into step beside me, his longer stride easily matching my pace. “But this isn't over.”

“Story of my life.” I pushed through the door into the cool night air, letting years of training guide me into the shadows. “Try not to kill anything else tonight.”

His quiet laugh followed me into the darkness. “No promises, fed. No promises.”

8

OFFICE POLITICS

Idragged myself through CITD's glass doors at exactly 7:45 AM, running on caffeine fumes and sheer stubbornness. The fluorescent lights were merciless, turning everything stark and harsh, including my reflection in the lobby's polished surfaces.

Dark circles shadowed my eyes, and despite a rushed shower, I could still catch traces of blood and smoke clinging to my jacket. The coffee in my hand, my third since dawn, wasn't doing much to keep me upright, but it was better than nothing.

The elevator ride to the 47th floor felt endless. Each ding marked another floor of normal government employees doing normal government work, blissfully unaware of what really lurked in their city's shadows. What I'd seen just hours ago in that church. What Sean and I had...

No. Not going there. Not now.

Director Sterling's office dominated the corner of the executive floor, all floor-to-ceiling windows and calculated intimidation. The space was aggressively ordered, every pen perfectly aligned, every file precisely stacked. It was the kindof meticulousness that made you acutely aware of your own dishevelment, which was probably the point.

Morning sunlight streamed through partially closed blinds, cutting harsh lines across Sterling's desk. The man himself sat like a statue, studying me with eyes that cut straight through my bullshit. I'd known James Sterling for years, but in moments like this, I was reminded that he hadn't reached his position by playing nice.

“You look like roadkill, boy.” His voice was gruff, no attempt to soften the blow. “The hell have you been getting into?”

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