Chapter 22: Saint’s Blood

The corridor behind the altar room twisted like a serpent, carved deep into the bedrock and soaked in rot. Mara pressed her hand to the cold stone wall, steadying herself as the echo of the girl's voice receded like mist. He’s still down here. The words clung to her skin. She didn’t believe in ghosts, not truly—but something in the girl’s voice wasn’t spectral. It was knowing.

Her flashlight flickered as she moved. The deeper she went, the narrower the passage became, until it funneled her into a vault-like chamber, round and sealed shut by a rusted metal hatch. The air stilled, heavier than before. On the hatch: a symbol scorched into the steel—an inverted cross entwined with a laurel crown. The same sigil Mara had seen carved into Colton’s childhood desk, years before he disappeared.

She braced herself, twisted the wheel, and heaved the hatch open.

It groaned, resisting, then gave.

Inside was darkness and the scent of old iron.

And blood.

The room was a dome—a forgotten sanctum hidden beneath Saint Eustace. Every wall bore scripture, but not the kind found in any holy book. These were twisted, repurposed. Scrawled in Latin, then crossed out and rewritten in English. Phrases like Only the chosen are reborn through flame and Justice is sacrifice. Candles sat in crumbling sconces, long extinguished. Bones littered the floor—small ones, neatly arranged. Fingers. Toes. Children's bones.

At the center of the chamber stood a stone baptismal font filled with dark, clotted liquid. Around it: seven robes hung on iron hooks, the fabric stiff with soot. Mara's flashlight passed over a sigil stitched into the breast of each: the mark of the Saints.

Then she heard it—movement.

Not above.

Behind.

She spun.

A shape moved in the corridor. Footsteps. Deliberate. Slow. Closer.

“Who’s there?” she called out, gun raised.

Silence answered.

Then a whisper.

“Do you think he remembers you?”

The voice was low, male, and maddeningly familiar.

Mara advanced into the tunnel again, heart pounding. The passage curved, and there, in the distance, a single light flickered to life. A naked bulb dangled from a wire above a wooden door. No sigils. No markings.

Just a name etched into the wood.

VEX.

She reached for the handle and turned it.

The door swung inward.

It was a dormitory. Crude bunks. Footlockers. Personal effects—worn books, sketches, trinkets. On the far wall, above a desk covered in half-burned photos, was a framed group picture: seven children in uniform. All in white. Standing with solemn expressions. A man in priest’s garb behind them, smiling faintly.

Mara stepped closer.

She scanned the photo.

There, third from the left, staring blankly into the camera—

Colton.

No older than twelve.

And beneath it, in faded ink: The First Class. 9B.

Her knees buckled slightly.

He had been one of them.

Trained. Molded. Burned clean.

A rustle behind her.

She turned, gun ready.

But this time, it wasn’t a ghost or a whisper.

It was him.

Colton Vex.

Older. Hardened. Standing in the frame of the door like a revenant. His face bore a jagged scar across his jaw, his eyes hollow with years of shadow. But the resemblance was undeniable.

He stared at her like she was the illusion.

“Mara,” he said, voice hoarse.

She lowered the gun slowly, unable to breathe. “Colton…?”

He didn’t move.

For a long moment, silence passed between them—too much unsaid, too many years lost.

Then he spoke.

“You shouldn’t be here.”

“I’ve been looking for you,” she whispered.

“You shouldn’t have found me.”

Her eyes welled despite herself. “You’re alive.”

He stepped further into the room, gaze drifting past her to the mural. “Alive’s a stretch. I’m not the boy you knew.”

Mara searched his face. “You’re my brother.”

He gave a bitter smile. “You don’t know what that means anymore.”

Her throat tightened. “They took you. They—”

“I went willingly.” His voice was flat. “The Saints saved me from a life of meaninglessness. They gave me purpose.”

“No,” she said, stepping forward. “They used you. They turned you into a weapon.”

“They turned me into what this city needed.” His eyes sharpened. “You think your badge makes you righteous? You think following the law brings justice? Look around you, Mara. You’ve seen what they hide, what they bury. This place—Saint Eustace—it wasn’t a prison. It was a forge.”

She shook her head. “You were a child.”

“And now I’m not,” he snapped. “I’ve done things you wouldn’t believe. I’ve burned the wicked. Silenced the devils in uniforms. You chase ghosts in evidence rooms—I kill them.”

Mara’s fingers trembled around her gun. “You’re part of the Saints?”

“I was.” His voice softened. “Not anymore.”

Her heart paused. “Then help me. Help me expose them.”

He looked at her—really looked—and for a flicker of a second, something broke through the mask. The boy he used to be. The brother who taught her to fight bullies in the schoolyard. The one who made shadow puppets when their father raged in the kitchen.

“I’ve kept something,” he said. “Files. Names. Everything from the old orders. I was their archivist once.”

“Where?”

“Hidden,” he said. “But I’ll take you. On one condition.”

She tensed.

“You leave him out of it.”

“Who?”

“Julian. The lawyer. He’s not ready.”

Mara hesitated.

Colton’s voice dipped lower. “He poked around too close. They’ll target him next. And you. You’re already marked.”

“I don’t care,” she said.

“You should,” he replied. “Because the moment you leave this place, they’ll know you’ve found me.”

He stepped closer, expression grave.

“And they’ll come for us both.”

Mara raised her chin. “Then let them.”

Colton exhaled, a sound like defeat and pride wrapped into one. He walked to the desk, pulled open a drawer, and removed a leather-bound folder. “This is the first page. The rest is deeper. I buried it beneath the bones.”

She took the folder. Inside: a list of names. Seventeen. Some she recognized—judges, cops, pastors. Others were blank aliases. All marked with symbols she’d seen before.

“They’re not just Saints,” Colton said. “They’re part of something older.”

She looked at him. “How old?”

He looked toward the ceiling, as if listening.

Then he said, quietly, “They called the first one the Seraph. And he died in this very room.”

The bulb overhead flickered.

From somewhere above, distant footsteps echoed.

Colton’s hand went to his sid

earm. “They’re here.”

Mara’s grip tightened on her gun.

For the first time in decades, the Vex siblings stood side by side.

Ready to fight ghosts with flesh and fire.