Page 27 of Eclipse Born

Sean stopped pacing, rubbing his jaw thoughtfully. The stubble there was more salt and pepper than I remembered. A reminder of time passed, of things lost. “So, what? Some freak with a vendetta against religious types?”

I shook my head, digging deeper into public records, the familiar excitement of piecing together a puzzle fueling me despite the grim circumstances. “Not just religious. Devout. The kind that prays before bed and never misses Sunday service. The kind that sees angels in dust motes and demons in shadows.”

I pulled up Moore's social media profile—daily scripture posts with lengthy personal interpretations, dozens of church event photos, fundraisers for missionary work, heated debates in comment sections defending theological minutiae. “Look at this. Guy was practically a walking Bible verse. 'The light of the divine shines upon us all, but only the worthy can truly see.' He posted that three days before he died.”

“Jaysus,” Sean muttered, leaning over my shoulder to look at the screen, his breath smelling faintly of coffee and the whiskey I knew he kept in his flask. “Same as Reeves. That guy had his office decked out with crosses and those cheesy inspirational posters. Called his clients 'flocks' according to his secretary.”

“More than that,” I said, opening another tab, accessing files Skye had forwarded. My fingers flew across the keyboard, piecing together the digital breadcrumbs of a life that had ended in horror. “Both men increased their church donations dramatically in the last three months. Moore was giving almost forty percent of his income to the church.”

“Forty percent? That's not tithing, that's financial suicide.” Sean whistled low, grabbing a beer from the mini-fridge, the cap making a satisfying hiss as he popped it off against the edge of the table.

I nodded, scrolling through bank records Skye had somehow acquired—our tech genius with questionable ethics but unquestionable loyalty. “He took out a second mortgage last month. Listed it as 'investment opportunity' on the application, but the money went straight to the church. Special fund called 'Revelation Project.'”

The mark on my chest throbbed at those words, a dull burn that spread through my ribs. I pressed my palm against it, trying to quiet the sensation. The memory of flames, of screams, lingered at the edges of my consciousness.

“You okay?” Sean's voice cut through the fog, concern barely masked beneath gruffness.

“Fine,” I lied, focusing back on the screen. “Just thinking.”

I clicked through more records—credit card statements, phone logs, email headers. The picture emerging was troubling. “Both Moore and Reeves were communicating with someone via burner email accounts. Sending messages at odd hours, mostly around 3 AM.”

“Witching hour,” Sean muttered, taking a pull from his beer.

“Exactly. And they were both researching obscure religious texts. Gnostic gospels, Mesopotamian prayer rituals, pre-Christian worship practices.” I pulled up Moore's search history, highlighting patterns. “Look at this sequence. He starts with standard Bible study, then moves to apocryphal texts, then to truly ancient stuff. Like he was looking for something specific. Something older than Christianity.”

Silence settled between us, heavy with implication. The ceiling fan clicked rhythmically above, casting slowly rotating shadows across the room. Outside, a car alarm went off briefly,then fell silent. The world continuing its mundane dance, oblivious to the horrors lurking in its shadows.

Then Sean exhaled, the sound sharp in the quiet room. “Shit.”

Our eyes met, and I knew he'd reached the same conclusion I had. This wasn't random. Someone—or something—was hunting these men down, selecting them with purpose. Marking them. Changing them. And then killing them in a very specific way.

“We need to see the church,” I said, already closing the laptop, the information stored and cataloged in my mind. “And talk to whoever's running it. Find out what kind of 'Revelation Project' turns devoted family men into obsessed zealots.”

Sean nodded, checking his gun with practiced efficiency before tucking it into his waistband. The familiar ritual was oddly comforting—the click of the magazine, the smooth slide of metal, the certainty of a weapon that would do exactly what it was designed to do. Unlike the supernatural, which played by its own twisted rules.

“And we need to figure out what made these poor bastards special enough to die,” he added, grabbing his jacket. “And how many more are on the hit list.”

The wall of our motel room had transformed into an impromptu investigation board—crime scene photos taped haphazardly beside newspaper clippings, red string connecting related elements, maps marked with victims' homes and the church, a timeline scrawled in my cramped handwriting on motel stationery. The kind of thing that would make a normal person call the police. The kind of thing we'd done dozens of times before during our months working together.

I stood back, trying to see the pattern hidden in the chaos. The ceiling light flickered intermittently, casting strangeshadows across our work. Every man killed had deep ties to their faith. More than just belief—obsession. Fanaticism.

“Four victims in twelve days,” I said, tapping the timeline we'd constructed with the capped end of a marker. “Martin Reeves, Joseph Daniels, William Thornton, and now Zac Moore.”

Sean handed me a beer from the mini-fridge, popping the cap off his own with his ring—a trick he'd perfected years ago and never tired of showing off. The familiar gesture was almost comforting. Almost normal.

“Who would target guys like this?” he asked, taking a long pull from the bottle, Adam's apple bobbing as he swallowed. “Religious hate crime? Some satanic cult thing?”

A laugh escaped me, bitter and hollow. “Satanists are mostly harmless atheists with a flair for the dramatic. This is . . .” I gestured at the crime scene photos, the burned-out eye sockets captured in clinical detail. “This is something different.”

My fingers tightened around the beer, the cold glass grounding me as my thoughts raced down familiar paths. Analysis, connection, theory. The detective work that had kept me sane all these years, that had given purpose to a life that might otherwise have been lost to darkness.

“Someone with a grudge. Or something.” The words hung in the air between us, loaded with all the supernatural horrors we'd faced over the months we'd been working together. Vengeful spirits. Ancient gods. Demons. Things from beyond the veil, beyond understanding.

A siren wailed somewhere in the distance, rising and falling like a cry for help. My head throbbed in rhythm with it, a counterpoint to the persistent burning of the mark on my chest.

I turned back to my laptop, perched precariously on the rickety motel desk, its screen the only reliable source of light in the dim room. My fingers flew across the keyboard,flipping through news reports and old case files we'd compiled over months of hunting. The beer sat untouched beside me, condensation beading on the glass and pooling at its base, as I searched for similarities, precedents, anything that might make sense of what we were seeing.

While Sean made the call, pacing the length of the small room, I continued digging through church records, looking for anything unusual. Recent events, special services, visiting speakers. The page was generic—potluck announcements, choir practice schedules, Bible study groups. Normal. Safe. Until I saw it—a prayer revival held three weeks ago, led by a visiting Franciscan monk named Brother Michael.

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