Next Step
Next Step
Three days had passed since the chaos at the library, and the town of Greenly Bay remained eerily quiet. There had been a slight recession of the floodwaters, and all that was left were several waterlogged landscape, smelling like damp earth, rotten vegetation, and the brine of the old river. Puddles still filled the streets and the residents moved with caution. They all looked quite afraid as whispers spread around about the strange eerie silence that had wrapped itself around their beloved town like the heaviest blanket.
Eleanor Hawthorne remained unconscious in a private room at Greenly Bay Medical Haven; the town's only hospital. The old librarian was looking pale and frail in the hospital bed. Several machines were beeping softly beside her, and she had tubes snaking into her arms. Her breathing was shallow but steady, her chest rising and falling in a slow, rhythmic pattern. The doctors had said she was stable—alive, but her mind seemed trapped somewhere between this world and the next. No one knew when, or if, she would wake.
Vera stood in the hallway outside the room, arms crossed tightly over her chest. The sterile scent of antiseptic and old linoleum filled the air, mixing with the faint, underlying smell of sickness that clung to every hospital. She hadn’t slept properly in days. Her eyes were heavy, her shoulders tense. Kane Baker stood beside her, his hand resting gently on her lower back, a silent anchor in the storm.
“We can’t stay here all day waiting for her to wake up,” Vera said quietly, her voice rough from lack of sleep. “The town still needs us. The deputies are stretched thin. And we don’t know when she’ll wake up, or even if she ever will.”
Kane nodded, his thumb tracing small circles on her back. “Kivior offered to stay. He wants to be here when she wakes. Thinks it’ll be good if she doesn’t interact with something else before us.”
Vera glanced through the small window in the door. Kivior was already inside, seated in a wooden chair beside Eleanor’s bed, his hands clasped in prayer. The preacher looked calm, almost at peace, despite the fresh grief etched into his face. Vera had forced the hospital staff to allow only Kivior in the room—no other visitors, no nurses unless absolutely necessary. He would be the first person Eleanor saw if she woke. No one else could get to her before them.
“Yeah, I think he’s right. She’s too valuable to be left alone. Fine,” Vera said. “But he alerts us the second she opens her eyes. No exceptions.”
Kane squeezed her shoulder gently. “He knows.”
They stepped inside briefly. Kivior looked up, his eyes warm but tired. “I will stay with her. Read to her. Pray for her. She needs to know she is not alone. Hopefully, it’ll be enough to pull her right back to us.”
Vera nodded. “Thank you, Kivior. For everything.”
The preacher smiled faintly. “There’s no need to thank me. This is where I am meant to be.”
As they left the room, Vera heard Kivior’s voice begin to rise softly, reading from the Psalms. “The Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want…”
The words followed them down the hallway, a quiet comfort in the sterile silence of the hospital. It was good that he was there with her, to comfort her soul with God’s word. She sure had been through a lot.
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Back at the precinct, Vera sat behind her desk, staring at the stack of reports that had piled up over the past three days. The bullpen was quiet, the new deputies moving with a subdued efficiency that spoke of the strange calm that had settled over Greenly Bay. No new disappearances. No bodies by the river. No possessions. Just the steady, relentless rise and drop of the floodwaters and the growing unease that something worse was coming.
Kane leaned against the doorframe, watching her. “Everything’s been quiet for three days now.”
Vera looked up, rubbing her temples. “That’s what worries me. It’s too quiet. Like the town is holding its breath.”
Kane crossed the room and sat on the edge of her desk. “Maybe it’s a good thing. Maybe we actually broke something when we cast Elena and Martin away.”
Vera shook her head. “I don’t know. Orishirishi has both daggers now. Moriah is still out there. The plague is still rising. I can’t sleep, Kane. I keep wondering what they’ll do next. Will another child be taken? Will someone else be possessed? Will the flooding get worse until the whole town drowns?”
Kane reached out and took her hand, squeezing it gently. “We don’t have the answers. No one does. Only Eleanor Hawthorne… and she’s still in a coma.”
Vera leaned her head against his shoulder for a moment, breathing in the familiar scent of him—gun oil, coffee, and safety. “I just feel like we’re waiting for the other shoe to drop.”
Kane kissed the top of her head. “Then we’ll be ready when it does.”
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On the other side of town, in an old abandoned fancy house tucked away behind overgrown hedges and flooded gardens, a woman in a sleek skirt suit stepped through the creaking front door. The air was stale. Also dusty. It carried a faint smell; wood, mildew and lost wealth. Her heels were loud, clicking sharply on the marbled floor as she walked through the hallway, which was dimly lit. So many faded portraits hanging on the walls, with chandeliers draped with thick cobwebs.
She reached the study at the end of the hall, and she pushed open the heavy oak door. Inside, another woman waited—this one dressed in a sharp pantsuit, sitting behind a large antique desk. Moriah looked up, her crimson eyes gleaming in the low light.
“Ori,” she said, her voice smooth and welcoming. “Come. Sit.”
Orishirishi stepped inside, her beautiful, real body finally restored—long silver hair cascading down her back, golden eyes sharp and predatory. She approached the desk and saw what waited there: a set chessboard, all pieces arranged and ready to play.
She smiled at her sister, sitting across from her. “What is this?”