Morning brought hidden silence. Scrolling through his phone, Al searched, seeking reports of his discovery. None emerged. Nothing mentioned the decapitated corpse that washed upon Vell’s shore. Unusual, given how ravenous reporters acted when such stories arose, stories of spectacle, of the sensational and the morbid. Absence, therefore, implied suppression—someone’s determination in hiding the occurrence. Pocketing his phone, Al looked aside.

“Found nothing, huh?” Bram asked, walking ahead.

“I don’t understand,” replied Al. “There should be headlines everywhere. Instead, there’s nothing, not even a passing reference. Any idea why?”

Bram hummed, strolling along. “Serial killers.”

Al faltered. “Uh. What?”

Still walking, Bram shrugged. “Serial killers. Plenty of cities have them, why not Vell? If those officers suspect—or know—about something like that, then they might want the situation to remain hush hush. Publicity might interfere with their own investigation.” He paused. “They might have mentioned keeping quiet before letting me go.”

Now he tells me. Quickening his pace, Al rushed behind Bram.

Bram had insisted he avoid direct involvement. Despite finding the body, Al retreated from the scene, leaving before the police arrived. Similarly, Cynthia excused herself, unnerved upon the discovery. Bram alone was interrogated. Before parting, Bram explained his reasoning: Al, being possibly targeted, should avoid drawing any attention until the Mother Goose situation was resolved. Plus, Al was injured. His fall left him bruised all over. Without arguing, Al had agreed.

The Mother Goose situation…

Scoffing, Al acknowledged his twist of fate. Years spent searching for Mages, terminating into hiding upon first contact. Magicians, Al had assumed, were paragons of wisdom and knowledge, unhindered by impulse or emotion. His lone reference had set that standard. Mother Goose had proved otherwise. Still, despite her vicious welcome, Al considered the possibility of arranging another meeting. What were his options? Direct confrontation ended poorly, suggesting different tactics would be necessary. Al obsessed over breaking the current stalemate.

“Disappointed?” Bram asked, checking his phone for directions.

“No?” Al frowned. “What would I be disappointed about?”

Bram rounded a corner, guiding them closer. “Yesterday’s find. You hate it, right? Feeling stumped. Getting stuck solving other problems while your personal mysteries get sidelined.” He yawned. “Zero progress on Cynthia’s ghost. Adding another errand today. Boring. You’re searching for clues and finding nothing but dead bodies. So disappointing!”

“Funny,” Al mumbled, looking away. “I’m not expecting quick answers. Besides, after today, your schedule won’t be so overloaded. Cynthia already backed out, right?”

“She already suggested another search.”

Jolting, Al stumbled before stepping forward. “You’re kidding! The dead body didn’t scare her off?”

“Nope! We’ll return to Vell’s shore within the week. Excited?”

Slumping his shoulders, Al grumbled beneath his breath. Juggling multiple cases was beginning to noticeably limit his own time. Cynthia alone, he could manage; issues began when Bram’s interests entered the mix. Their current mission screamed useless anyway—what would chasing an old priest accomplish? Although Al wasn’t familiar with the specifics, he knew churches and churchgoers meshed poorly with the magically inclined. Effort would be rewarded with scowls and contempt. Al shook his head.

Minutes passed without words, Bram focusing on finding their destination. Westward, they marched, passing people and buildings alike, Vell lulled with morning fatigue. Similarly, Al’s body ached, whining for further rest. Early rises treated him poorly. Regardless, on Bram’s insistence, he found himself here, walking through unfamiliar streets. Steadily, the pair advanced.

They stopped. Spaced away from surrounding places, the structure stood, oblivious of modern designs. Neighboring buildings displayed raw utility; their target rebuked them, rejecting the minimal, favoring the outlandish, parading quirks and extrusions like relics from distant days, superstitions made solid through stone. Above, three spirals crowned themselves with an unmistakable symbol, sanctifying the space below. Windows, stained with color, obscured its contents. Saint Christopher’s Cathedral beckoned them forth.

Following Bram, he shuffled towards the building.

Arms crossed, Al shifted his glance, frowning while his stomach tightened. Churches, even when distant, affected him, granting an instinctual discomfort. Entering only amplified the effect. Past encounters probably factored, Al having never attended any services except funerals. Walking through, feeling dwarfed, he noticed the arches overhead, alongside stained light filtering from above. Walls were decorated with images whose meaning evaded him, his knowledge restraining his perception. Present ahead was an altar: placed there, a golden statue, seeming to glare with its multitude of eyes. An icon of sorts? Al wondered…

Few people littered the area, unsurprising given their timing. Remaining quiet, Al watched as Bram asked around, eventually being referred towards administration. Exiting the main room, they entered an office, having found someone worth interrogating.

Al coughed. Dust hung, ubiquitous within the air, filling the meager space. This place… Bookshelves, flanked by cabinets, covered one wall. Everything was rather plain. The room… looks normal. Huh. Frankly, the oddest feature was the man behind the desk.

His clothes were black garbs. Looking up, the wrinkled face stretched into a smile, eyes brightening behind circular lenses. “Welcome! Looking for me?”

Not quite.

Bram handled the conversation with the priest, Father Klay, starting with throwaway questions—distractions—before steering towards their goal. Various sources confirmed Bram’s information, that the clergyman recently contacted another associate of the church. Bram attempted the question.

“Father Markos?” Klay asked, smile faltering. “What would you possibly want from him?”

“Just an interview,” said Bram. “We don’t need his help regarding, well, you know. We’re just interested in his history, how he found such an unusual profession. Any chance you could help us contact him?”

Klay leaned back, then shook his head. “I’m afraid I can’t. Father Markos fashions himself a recluse, refusing any communication with the public except when face-to-face. He briefly visited yesterday, then wandered off. For all I know, he could be anywhere, even outside the city.”

Bram nodded. “Understandable. Still, exorcists are in short supply. He must have an emergency contact, or something like that. He communicates with others from your church, doesn’t he?”

“He does. However, those channels are private, mostly reserved for higher officials. Outside my ranking, in fact. I’m sorry but there’s nothing I can do.”

Humming, Bram crossed his arms. “Longshot, but did he mention any locations? Places we could luck out, meeting him in person?”

“Well…”

Soon afterwards, they exited the office, Father Klay having suggested visiting a certain chapel. Their search turned eastward. Moving through the cathedral, wooden doors ahead, Al spared a final glance, eyes drifting towards the altar. Al blinked. That statue stared, golden eyes watching until he escaped their sight.

***

Two years ago, Al met Bram. The circumstances, unsurprisingly, involved the supernatural, though the specifics weren’t worth recalling. Back then, Bram already named himself an expert, an investigator, whose knowledge focused on the paranormal. Sheer luck crossed their paths. Al seized the opportunity. Desperation, never quite resolved, pushed him into attempting a consultation, sharing pieces of his grandfather’s notes in hopes of unraveling the riddle Al had inherited.

Quickly, Al realized Bram was a fraud.

Harsh? Perhaps. Bram meant well, worked hard, and developed his skills from scratch, lacking even Al’s barebones education. Starting from zero, Bram explored, tested, searched; every victory expanded his knowledge, accumulating like grains of sand.

Those grains formed the weakest of foundations.

Bluntly, it was pathetic, but who could blame him? Bram had discovered magic by pure chance—which raised several questions, namely, how said discovery had occurred.

Beyond those two years, however, Bram’s history was an unknown quantity. Bram himself never lingered on specifics. Details did occasionally surface, mostly minor, revolving around places or people, but an overall picture remained obscured. Al speculated from time to time; once, he suspected nothing noteworthy had happened, Bram’s silence being honest rather than deceptive. Certain oddities suggested otherwise. Currently, for example, Bram revealed his fascination with exorcists, already admitting past considerations of joining their ranks.

His fascination pushed them towards Dimitri Markos.

Father Markos was more myth than man, most rumors focusing on the disproportionate authority he held within his faith. Originating from either Greece or Italy, Markos had trained for the priesthood before vanishing from public records, his disappearance neither mourned nor noticed. Eventually, decades passed. He returned without incident. Years later, the questions began.

Markos commanded respect within the Vatican. How? Why? What feats could he claim, granting him access across the departments and organizations nested within the Catholic Church? Furthermore, several references emerged, suggesting Markos was an exorcist—nothing indicated he performed exorcisms before his disappearance, prompting curiosity over the development. His missing years became subject to scrutiny. Online, niche communities took note, speculating over the specifics, theorizing about his history and abilities. Conclusions varied. Bram, collecting information from questionable sources, discovered the infamous priest, learned of his arrival, and decided he was worth investigating.

While driving eastward, Bram explained why: Markos possessed expertise on everything occult, beyond what his occupation demanded. Bolder rumors threw accusations. They named Markos as a Mage.

Suddenly, Al found this search very interesting.

Their destination was also interesting—also frustrating. Al debated between the two. Assuming Klay was correct, yesterday’s tradeoff between Cynthia and Markos was unnecessary, coincidence allowing them to investigate both. No such luck. Unaware, they had neglected the location housing the infamous priest.

Arriving, Bram parked and trekked forward, Al following as usual. Nearby, waves crashed. Seagulls lingered near shore. Stopping, they surveyed the location, looking over the lighthouse and chapel before them.

Rather small, the building stood disconnected from the lighthouse, both structures formed from bleached stone. Abandoning normal proportions, the chapel stretched, elongated in its shape. Windows line the walls, round, high, and beyond them, preventing anyone from peering inside.

A sign indicated regular services had been halted.

“Unbelievable,” said Bram, staring ahead. “We were this close! To think—”

“—we might miss him again,” said Al, “unless we search before losing our lead. Who knows? Maybe you’ll luck out?”

Bram paused. “Yeah. Yeah, that’s right!” He nodded, marching towards the entrance.

Did he not notice the sarcasm or—?

Seagulls shrieked, fleeing as Bram began thrashing the twin doors, knocking with abandon, impact ringing throughout the air. Testing the handle revealed they were locked; minutes passed without answer. From within, neither noise nor movement suggested the chapel was occupied.

Bram whistled. Moving aside, he gestured for Al. “Honors are all yours.”

Shrugging, Al stepped up and withdrew his amulet. Click. With both hands, Al pushed against the doors.

He stumbled backwards. The doors refused to budge. Trying again, failing again, Al frowned, readying another attempt before Bram stopped him. Positioning himself against the left, Bram suggested Al handle the right, combining their strength. So, they tried. Shifting against the door, Al pushed, throwing his entire weight forward, Bram doing likewise. Pressure stung, reawakening his bruises. Al pressed on. Slowly, the doors opened, scraping heard from beyond their frame.

Again, Al stumbled back. Coughing, hacking, he turned aside, fleeing from the poisoned air. Something sterile overwhelmed him, sight watering on contact. Bleach? Clearing his lungs, he rubbed his eyes and looked.

The culprit revealed itself. Inside, pushed in parallel with the doors, was a wooden bench, a pew, the object that had braced—no, barricaded the entrance. Bram sidestepped it and entered. Al followed.

Despite the smaller proportions, the chapel, in theory, held equivalent purpose with their earlier location, the cathedral. Contrasting the two, Al scoffed. Blank walls flanked him, agnostic in regard to style. Light filtered without color. Pews were worn, wooden frames, only notable because their symmetry was broken; one side was short, having donated its furthermost piece towards reinforcing the doors.

An oddity was apparent. Stretching from ceiling to floor, furthest from them, hung a black curtain, covering the space housing the altar. The fabric camouflaged among the shadows. Those shadows wavered. From behind, the curtains parted. A person emerged.

Facing them, face tight, the man froze. Wide without blinking, his eyes shone with suspicion. Sharply, back and forth, they turned, glancing from Bram to Al to Bram to Al, finally settling upon Bram. Brown hair was matted with grease. His garments mimicked those of Father Klay. Grasping the curtain, he stood, free hand twitching against his side.

Racing, Al’s mind considered the possibility. Is that…?

Bram raised his hands. Ending the silence, he asked the question, “Dimitri Markos?”

The man flinched.