Chapter One: The Judgement Call
CHAPTER ONE: THE JUDGMENT CALL
Cold rain slashed across Pittsburgh's Strip District, turning brick alleyways into slick channels. I moved with practiced precision, my boots finding purchase where others would slip. The shadow entity left a trail of frost patterns along the wall, each handprint crystallizing in the freezing air.
"Getting sloppy," I muttered, tracking the unnatural cold.
These things normally didn't leave such obvious traces. Either it was injured or arrogant. Either way, advantage me. I'd been hunting supernatural garbage long enough to recognize when I had an edge. And tonight, I needed every advantage I could get.
I shifted into Watcher Stance without conscious thought, my body automatically adjusting for enhanced perception and defensive positioning. The stance came naturally after years of training with the Breath Disciplined, my weight balanced perfectly for quick movement in any direction. I vaulted over a fallen trash can, my leather coat flaring behind me. The entity was fast, but I had been hunting its kind long enough to anticipate the pattern. Left at the T-junction, then right into the narrower passage that dead-ended behind the old fish market. Classic rookie mistake. Always know your escape routes before you need them. This thing clearly wasn't local.
I slowed my breathing, implementing the controlled pattern Gabriel had drilled into me for years. Seven counts in, hold for four, out for eleven. The familiar rush of power hummed just beneath my skin as my Covenant energy responded to the disciplined breath. Not time to tap into that yet. The revolver at my hip grew warm against my skin, responding to my focus. Judgment Call, I'd named it years ago. Not the most original name for a weapon, but it fit. The gun knew what it was made for.
The weapon had been my father's once. I'd found it among his things after he... disappeared. Sometimes I swear the damn thing has a mind of its own, growing hot or cold depending on what we're hunting. Tonight it was practically burning through my coat pocket. This entity had Judgment Call's full attention.
The alley narrowed, brick walls pressing in from both sides. I heard it then, the soft hissing like steam escaping a broken pipe. I drew Judgment Call in one fluid motion, the weapon's barrel gleaming with blue-white energy that illuminated the rain around it. My personal Covenant manifestation appeared as wing-like patterns of the same blue-white energy, faintly outlining my form. Droplets sizzled as they hit the barrel, tiny bursts of steam forming a mist around the gun.
At the dead end, the entity finally turned to face me.
Its form was humanoid but wrong, like a sculptor had forgotten key details. Where a face should be, swirling patterns of darkness shifted and coalesced. Ancient symbols crawled across its skin, pulsing with sickly yellow light. I'd seen these markings before in Gabriel's books. Old magic. Pre-Christian. Not the kind of thing you want crawling around your city on a Friday night.
"Nowhere left to run," I said, leveling Judgment Call. The gun's energy pulsed, almost eager, Truth Mode activating automatically as I faced the supernatural threat.
The entity's head tilted at an impossible angle. "Nephilim," it hissed, voice like fingernails on glass. "Your kind were purged."
Great. Another one that knows what I am. That's never a good sign. Beings that recognize Nephilim tend to be old. Old means powerful. Powerful means dangerous.
"Seems they missed a few." My finger rested on the trigger, the gun's energy responding to my touch, growing brighter. I could feel my Blood Gift awakening, celestial heritage fighting to surface. My vision sharpened, the world gaining a faint silver-blue outline as my perception expanded. Not yet. Don't need the full power yet.
"The Collector comes for vessels of transformation," the entity said. "You cannot stop what has already begun."
The Collector? Now that was a name I hadn't heard before. File that away for later, assuming there is a later.
It lunged forward with impossible speed, darkness stretching like taffy.
I fired.
Judgment Call released not a bullet but a blast of blue-white energy that tore through the rain. My Covenant manifestation flared brightly, wing-like patterns expanding briefly with the discharge of power. The entity shrieked, its form dissolving into frost and shadow. The blast hit the brick wall behind, leaving a scorched pattern that steamed in the cold. The smell of ozone filled the air, mixing with the rain and the faint scent of something ancient and rotten.
Silence fell, broken only by the patter of rain. I approached cautiously, holstering Judgment Call, which was still warm against my side, satisfied with our night's work. Where the entity had stood, a complex frost pattern spread across the wet ground. I knelt, examining the intricate symbols. Not random, but a language I'd seen before in Gabriel's older texts. Pre-Babylonian maybe? Hard to tell with the rain washing it away.
I pulled out my phone, snapping several photos. The rain was already washing away the evidence, the delicate frost melting into nothing. Gabriel would want to see this. He lives for this ancient symbol crap. Me, I just want to know what I'm killing and why it's in my city.
Police sirens wailed in the distance, growing closer. Someone must have heard the blast or seen the light. Normal people. Always showing up at the worst possible time.
I shifted back from Watcher Stance to a more casual posture, feeling the subtle drain from using Covenant energy. I adjusted my weathered leather coat, checked that Judgment Call was properly concealed, and slipped away into the rainy night. By the time the first patrol car rounded the corner, the alley was empty save for the rain and the last traces of frost melting into ordinary puddles. Just another unexplained incident in a city full of them. The cops would scratch their heads, file a report, and forget about it by morning coffee. Lucky them.
I wish I could forget as easily. But that's not the job. Not for someone like me.
Morning light filtered weakly through the office windows of Broken Halo Investigations. I sat at my heavy wooden desk, Judgment Call partially disassembled before me. The weapon's internal mechanism defied conventional firearm design. Beneath the barrel, ancient engravings glowed faintly as I cleaned each component with practiced care.
I never fully understood how Judgment Call worked. My father left no instruction manual, and Gabriel's guesses were just that, guesses. But the weapon responded to me, to my blood, and that was enough. Four distinct firing modes, each with its purpose: Truth for combat against supernatural entities, Mercy for non-lethal encounters, Justice for serious threats, and Revelation for unveiling hidden supernatural elements. Point at the bad thing, pull the trigger, bad thing goes away. Simple enough relationship.
The office had seen better days. Worn wooden floors creaked with every step, and the faded rug concealed protective sigils older than the building itself. Filing cabinets from the previous century lined one wall, while bookshelves sagged under the weight of leather-bound volumes and case files. Not exactly the polished detective agency you see in movies, but it serves its purpose. It's not like my clientele cares about Feng Shui.
A framed verse from Ephesians 6:12 hung beside the door: "For we wrestle not against flesh and blood, but against principalities, against powers, against the rulers of the darkness of this world, against spiritual wickedness in high places." My mother hung that there, before she died. A reminder of what we're really fighting. Some days I could use the reminder.
The door opened without a knock. Gabriel Sullivan entered, spry despite his seventy-some years. His cardigan and wire-rimmed glasses gave him the appearance of a retired professor rather than what he truly was. Gabriel had been my father's friend, then my mentor after Dad vanished. He knew more about the supernatural world than anyone I'd ever met, and still managed to make terrible jokes about it all.
"One day you'll actually knock," I said without looking up, continuing to polish Judgment Call's barrel.
Gabriel smiled. "When you actually lock your door, perhaps." He settled into the chair across from me, the leather creaking under his weight. "I hear there was an incident in the Strip District last night."
"News travels fast." Especially in the hidden network Gabriel maintained throughout the city. Sometimes I think the man knows about supernatural incidents before they even happen.
"Only to those who listen." Gabriel leaned forward, his expression growing serious. "What did you find?"
I reached for my phone, pulling up the photos I'd taken. "Shadow entity, more corporeal than the usual kind. Left frost patterns with these symbols." I handed the phone to Gabriel. "It knew what I was, Gabriel. Called me Nephilim."
Gabriel's expression grew serious as he studied the images. "Binding rituals," he said quietly. "I haven't seen these since..." He hesitated. "Your father tracked similar markings during the religious revival of the 1920s."
My jaw tightened almost imperceptibly at the mention of my father. Always back to him. Always his shadow hanging over me. I reassembled Judgment Call with swift, practiced movements, focusing on the task to hide my reaction. "The entity mentioned something about 'The Collector' and 'vessels of transformation.'"
Gabriel's eyes narrowed. "The Collector. That's a name I'd hoped not to hear again." He handed the phone back. "These symbols were used to bind humans during periods of significant transformation. The energy generated during profound personal change has power, Ezekiel. Certain entities feed on it."
Just what I needed. Another ancient evil with a taste for human suffering. Why can't these things ever feed on something benign, like joy or contentment? Why is it always pain, fear, or in this case, transformation?
"So what's the connection to Pittsburgh now?" I asked, checking Judgment Call's action with practiced hands.
"Each harvesting cycle requires specific coordinates, convergence points. The Three Rivers make Pittsburgh ideal—a natural power nexus where energies converge." Gabriel paused, looking troubled. "I'll need to check the historical records, see if there's a pattern emerging."
Great. Research. My favorite part of the job. Give me something to shoot at any day over dusty books and eye-straining symbols. But Gabriel's instincts were rarely wrong.
A knock at the door interrupted us. A real knock this time, hesitant and uncertain. Client knock. They all sound the same – desperate but trying not to show it.
I finished reassembling Judgment Call in three practiced movements, the weapon vanishing into a concealed shoulder holster. Gabriel stood, heading toward the back door. He knew the drill. Clients ask fewer questions when they think you're a normal PI, not a half-angel monster hunter with an ancient weapon.
"We'll continue this later," he said quietly, slipping out as I called, "Come in."
The woman who entered appeared to be in her late twenties, dressed in practical clothing, her brown hair pulled back in a simple ponytail. She carried herself with the composure of someone accustomed to crisis, but shadows under her eyes betrayed recent stress. Medical professional, my instincts said. Used to emergencies, but this one's personal.
"Mr. Cross?" Her voice was steady, professional. "I'm Sarah Matthews. I need your help finding my brother."
I gestured to the chair Gabriel had vacated. "Tell me about your brother." Keep it simple, professional. That's what normal PIs do, right?
Sarah sat, back straight, hands folded in her lap. "Michael disappeared three days ago after a recovery meeting. He left his group in the church basement, and no one's seen him since."
"Recovery? Drugs?" Always start with the obvious. Sometimes a missing person is just a relapse, not a supernatural abduction.
"Alcohol, primarily. He struggled for almost a decade, but he's been sober two years now." Pride crept into her voice. "He found faith during recovery. It changed him completely."
Transformation. There's that word again. My Blood Gift for detecting deception remained quiet—she was telling the truth. My instincts started humming like Judgment Call before a fight. This wasn't coincidence.
"How did you find me?" I asked. I don't advertise, for obvious reasons. Most of my clients come through Gabriel's network or word of mouth.
"A nurse I work with mentioned you helped find her cousin last year. Said you take cases the police won't touch." Sarah met my gaze directly. "The police think Michael relapsed, that he's just another addict who fell off the wagon. But he wouldn't leave his Bible behind."
"His Bible?" Something to check with my other senses. Items of faith often retain impressions, especially if they're important to their owners.
Sarah reached into her bag and pulled out a worn Bible. "It was the only thing left in the church basement. Everything else was gone, his phone, his keys, his jacket. But this was just sitting there on the floor."
I reached for the Bible. The moment my fingers touched the leather cover, my perception shifted. My Blood Gift activated automatically, the world gaining a silver-blue outline as my Sight engaged, shadows deepening into pools of absolute darkness. The Bible glowed faintly with residual energy, and its pages suddenly flipped open to the Book of John, Chapter 3, without being touched.
The Covenant energy in my blood responded, reaching out to the lingering energy in the book. Something had touched this Bible, something not human. And it had left its mark.
I maintained my neutral expression despite the supernatural reaction. Years of practice hiding what I am, what I see. "Was there anything unusual about your brother's behavior before he disappeared?"
Sarah hesitated. "He showed me something strange last week. A mark on his arm, like a tattoo he didn't remember getting." She pulled out her phone, scrolling to find a photo. "Here."
My pupils briefly dilated with silver as I looked at the image – a reaction I couldn't fully control when my Blood Gift for perception activated strongly. A broken circle with strange script curving through it. The same script I'd seen in the frost patterns left by the shadow entity.
Vessels of transformation. The Collector. It was all connected.
"How much do you want to find your brother, Ms. Matthews?" I asked, my voice carefully neutral. I needed to know if she could handle what might be coming. Some clients break when they glimpse the real world.
"Whatever it costs." Her expression hardened. "He's all the family I have left."
I nodded, coming to a decision. "I'll take the case. Three hundred a day plus expenses. Half up front." The rent was due next week, and my last client had paid me in homemade casseroles rather than cash. Hunting monsters doesn't exactly come with a 401k plan.
Sarah's face fell slightly. "I don't have much savings. I'm a nurse, and most of my extra money went to helping Michael through recovery."
I sighed internally. This always happens. "Fine. Two-fifty a day, and we can work out a payment plan." Gabriel would lecture me again about undercharging, but what was I supposed to do? Let the monsters win because the client couldn't afford my rates?
Relief flooded Sarah's face. "Thank you. Here's my number and address." She wrote the information on a notepad on my desk. As she reached across, her sleeve rode up slightly, revealing a faint mark forming on her wrist, nearly identical to her brother's.
She didn't seem to notice it, but I did. My Blood Gift for pattern recognition flared, connecting this mark to everything else we'd seen. My blood ran cold. Whatever took her brother was marking her too. This wasn't just a missing person case anymore. This was a race against time.
After Sarah left, I remained motionless for several long moments, letting the implications sink in. The Collector. Vessels of transformation. Marks appearing on people undergoing significant life changes. This was bigger than one missing person.
I pulled out my phone and called Gabriel.
"The Collector has already started marking vessels," I said without preamble. "And I think I just met the next one."
The church basement was quiet when I arrived that afternoon. Folding chairs were stacked against one wall, and a coffee station occupied a corner table. Nothing outwardly unusual about the space, but I wasn't looking with ordinary perception.
I let my celestial Sight emerge, shifting smoothly into Watcher Stance as I did so. The world gained those familiar silver-blue outlines. Shadows deepened, and energy traces became visible, showing where people had recently moved through the space. My father called it the Sight. Said it was part of our heritage, the ability to see what others can't. Sometimes it feels more like a curse than a gift.
My head started throbbing immediately. Using the Sight always came with a price – usually a migraine that would last for hours. Another bill my celestial health insurance wouldn't cover. I should have been practicing the Breath Techniques Gabriel taught me more regularly, but between paying bills, hunting monsters, and lately chasing Renaissance Path connections, I'd let the practice slide.
Near the center of the room, a struggle had taken place. The residual energy pattern showed someone backing away, knocking over chairs. On the floor, microscopic symbols had been burned into the linoleum, invisible to normal sight but glowing faintly under my enhanced perception. The same symbols from the frost pattern in the alley. This was the place. This was where they took him.
I crouched, examining the pattern. A ritual circle, hastily completed. The Collector, or whatever served it, had been prepared. This wasn't a random abduction. They'd been watching Michael Matthews, waiting for the right moment.
"Can I help you?"
I stood smoothly, turning to face the church volunteer who'd entered. An older woman with a cardigan and a suspicious expression. Time to play normal. I let the Sight fade, blinking away the silver-blue overlay as I shifted from Watcher Stance back to a casual posture.
"Jason Miller, insurance investigator," I said, producing a fake ID with practiced ease. One of many false identities I maintain. People talk to insurance investigators. They don't talk to monster hunters. "Following up on a claim. I understand one of your recovery group members went missing from this room?"
The volunteer's expression softened. "Poor Michael. Such a shame. He'd been doing so well."
"You knew him personally?" Keep it casual, keep it professional. Don't let her see your real interest.
"He attended every week for two years. Just gave a powerful testimony last month about his transformation." She smiled sadly. "You don't see many people change so completely."
There it was again. Transformation. Whatever the Collector was, it fed on change, on people becoming something new. The idea made my skin crawl.
"Did he have any close friends in the group? Anyone who might know where he went?"
"Tom and David were his accountability partners, but they haven't been to meetings recently either." She frowned. "Come to think of it, they both stopped coming right after Michael's testimony."
More missing people. This was getting worse by the minute.
"Could you give me their full names?"
As she wrote the names down, I noticed a pamphlet on the nearby table. "Renaissance Path: Discover Your Renewed Self." The logo featured a broken circle, identical to the mark on Michael's arm. My blood went cold, a faint silver glow momentarily visible beneath my skin before I suppressed it.
"Is this a church program?" I asked, picking up the pamphlet, keeping my voice casual despite the alarm bells ringing in my head.
"Oh no, that's a new self-improvement group. Several members have started attending. They say it complements recovery beautifully. All about personal transformation." The volunteer beamed. "I've been thinking of joining myself."
Of course you have, I thought grimly. Whatever this Renaissance Path was, it was connected to the Collector. They were identifying targets, people in transformation.
I pocketed the pamphlet. "Thank you for your help."
Outside, I called Gabriel again, the pieces starting to come together in my mind. "I need everything you can find on something called Renaissance Path. And run background checks on Tom Davidson and David Miller." I paused, looking back at the church. "They're targeting people in transformation, Gabriel. Specifically people changing their lives."
I can handle shadow entities and the occasional demon. But an organized group harvesting people? That was a different level of problem.
As I hung up, I caught my reflection in my car window. Tall, athletic build that never seemed to need a gym membership thanks to the celestial blood. Dark hair with those strange silver streaks that had started appearing in my thirties, despite being only 35. The perpetual five o'clock shadow that appeared regardless of how recently I'd shaved. The scar running along my jawline from a particularly nasty encounter with a glass-winged terror three years back.
For just an instant, my image shifted, showing something not quite human beneath the surface, before returning to normal. My eyes flashed pure silver, irises completely eclipsed by light. The faint outline of what might have been wings shimmered behind me—my partial celestial form manifesting briefly as my emotions ran high. I quickly looked away, adjusting the collar of my weathered coat, using a quick Breath Technique to center myself. Some days I don't know which I hate more, the monsters I hunt or the monster inside me.
I focused instead on the Renaissance Path pamphlet in my hand. I opened it to find testimonials from people who had experienced "profound personal renewal" through the program. Each before-and-after story showcased dramatic life transformation. Addiction to sobriety. Grief to acceptance. Anger to peace. All the kinds of changes that apparently made you a target.
At the bottom of the last page, in text so small it was barely legible: "Harvesting your potential since 2024."
Harvesting. Not helping, not guiding. Harvesting.
My expression hardened as I started the car. The engine made that grinding noise again, reminding me of another bill I couldn't afford to pay. The hunt was just beginning, and whatever the Collector was, it had made a mistake coming to my city. Nobody harvests souls on my watch.
Judgment Call grew warm in its holster, as if in agreement, resonating with my determination. Time to hunt. And maybe afterward, if I solved this case quickly, I could actually pay my electric bill before they shut it off again. Nothing like hunting monsters in the dark because you forgot to mail the check.