Her Mark
The front door burst open, Kane charging in, his silhouette framed against the moonlight, axe in one hand, the reins of his horse— a sturdy bay he’d ridden from his cabin—tethered hastily to the porch rail. His eyes swept the room, locking on Vera as she crouched behind the ruined couch, bloodied but alive.
“Vera, hold on!” He swung his axe, aiming for the cloaked figure, but she was gone—slipping through the shadows like smoke, vanishing out the door or into the walls, leaving only the echo of her steps.
Kane reached her in two strides, grabbing her arm and pulling her up, his grip firm but gentle. “You hurt? Talk to me—what the hell was that?” His voice was rough, his face etched with worry, the medallion’s chain usually around his neck now conspicuously absent.
Vera leaned against him, panting, her thigh throbbing, blood dripping onto the floor. “Woman with an axe—fast, too fast. She tried to kill me. I’m pretty sure she’s Matilda’s killer.”
She limped to the table, her heart sinking as she scanned the wreckage. The spellbook was gone, its leather cover nowhere among the splintered wood. The medallion’s chain lay snapped on the floor, the artifact itself missing. “They took them,” she gasped, her voice breaking. “The book, the medallion—gone.”
Kane’s face darkened, his jaw tightening as he scanned the room, axe still in hand. Vera clutched her pistol, the weight grounding her despite the pain. “Moriah said it was someone in town. A local. We’re running out of time.”
.
.
.
Vera sat hunched over a chipped mug of black coffee, the steam curling up to meet the dark bruise blooming across her forehead, a souvenir from the cloaked woman’s grip. Her thigh was bandaged under her jeans, the axe’s cut a dull, persistent throb that flared with every shift in her chair. Her palm was wrapped in gauze, the glass shards from her living room floor having left their mark. The precinct buzzed quietly beyond her office door—phones ringing with a shrill insistence, deputies murmuring about Matilda Willock’s funeral, their voices hushed with the kind of fear that settled into a town like damp rot. But Vera’s office felt like a tomb, the stolen spellbook and medallion a gaping hole in her plans, their absence a silent accusation. She hadn’t slept, the cloaked woman’s silent swings replaying in her mind, her superhuman speed a nightmare made flesh, the memory of Moriah’s taunts in the foggy forest sharpening the edges of her exhaustion.
The door creaked open, a familiar sound that made Vera’s hand twitch toward her pistol before she recognized the visitors. Kivior and Lina Thames stepped in, their faces etched with the strain of sleepless nights, the kind that left shadows under the eyes and a tightness in the jaw. Kivior’s broad frame filled the doorway, his Bible tucked under one arm like a shield, its leather cover worn smooth from years of handling. Lina followed, her hands clasped tightly, fingers twisting a simple silver ring, her eyes red but resolute, the lines around them deeper than Vera remembered.
They carried the weight of their children’s safety, the Carey house’s vigil, and the ritual’s partial victory. “Sheriff,” Kivior said, his voice deep and steady, a preacher’s cadence honed by years of leading flocks through storms. “We need to talk. About last night. About what’s coming.”
Vera gestured to the two creaky chairs opposite her desk, wincing as she shifted, the bandage pulling at her thigh. “Sit. Coffee’s fresh, if you can stomach it.”
She pushed a second mug toward Lina, the ceramic chipped from too many late nights, but Lina shook her head, her lips pressed thin. Vera leaned back, the chair groaning under her weight, and took a sip of her own coffee, the bitterness grounding her.
“What’s on your mind? You look like you’ve seen another ghost.”
Kivior sat, his bulk making the chair seem fragile, and leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “Martin’s gone. We felt it in our bones—the moment the child’s soul rose, his spirit was cast away, scattered like ash in the wind. The house is quieter, the air lighter. But Moriah…” He paused, his eyes narrowing, the Bible shifting under his arm. “She lingers. Her power’s still here, in the air, in the fear that’s creeping back into this town. She’s not done.”
Lina nodded, her voice soft but firm, carrying the weight of a mother who’d prayed over her children through the night. “The ritual worked, Sheriff. We broke the tie, freed the soul. But it didn’t end her. She’s bound to something—or someone—else now. Her presence is like a shadow, just out of reach.”
Vera’s jaw tightened, her fingers drumming on the mug, the ceramic warm against her bandaged palm. She rolled up her sleeve, revealing the purple bruises blooming across her arm like storm clouds, then lifted her pant leg to show the bandaged gash on her thigh, the gauze stained faintly red. “This isn’t Moriah’s work. Flesh and blood did this. Last night, a woman with an axe came for me in my own damn house. Fast—too fast, like she wasn’t human. Dodged bullets like they were raindrops. Took the spellbook and the medallion before vanishing.”
Kivior’s eyes widened, his large hands clenching as he traced the wounds with a gaze that mixed horror and calculation. “A hunter. Human, but touched by her power—enhanced, maybe. Who else struck a bargain with the demoness? Who’s carrying her will now?”
Lina frowned, her fingers twisting the rosary she’d pulled from her pocket, the beads clicking softly. “Someone in Greenly Bay. A descendant of the mob, perhaps? Or a new soul, hungry for what she offers—power, immortality, revenge. The pendant you mentioned, the speed—it’s her mark.”
Vera leaned back, the chair creaking again, her mind racing through the town’s faces—shopkeepers, farmers, the new families like the Thames.
“Moriah showed me—in a vision, or something like it. Said it’s a local, someone afraid of her end. But who? We’ve got no leads, no names, just a damn axe and a ghost’s riddles.”