Chapter Three: The Marked Ones
CHAPTER THREE: THE MARKED ONES
The early afternoon sun spilled through the blinds of my office as I spread the case files across my desk. After our meeting with Sarah at Sullivan's Rare Books, I needed to organize what we knew and what we only suspected. Gabriel had given me copies of the files to review—six missing persons in six months, all connected to Renaissance Path in some way, all undergoing some kind of major personal transformation.
Michael Matthews: Two years sober, found faith during recovery. Tom Davidson: Recent widower attending grief counseling. David Miller: Former addict rebuilding relationships with estranged children. Anna Lowell: Cancer survivor reassessing life priorities. Marcus Chen: Veteran transitioning to civilian life after three tours. Rebecca Winters: Divorce after twenty years, starting a new career.
Six people who were changing their lives in significant ways. Six people who had vanished, leaving behind personal items with spiritual or emotional significance. Six people with marks identical to the one now forming on Sarah's wrist.
I picked up Michael's file again, studying the photo of the mark on his arm. My Blood Gift for pattern recognition activated subtly as I examined it—the broken circle with strange script flowing through it matched the symbols from the church basement and the frost patterns left by the shadow entities. My fingertips tingled as I traced the image, Covenant energy responding to the pattern even in a photograph. According to Gabriel's research, similar marks had appeared throughout history during periods of spiritual awakening.
My head was still throbbing from using the Sight earlier. I leaned back in my chair, pressing the heels of my hands against my eyes, trying to ease the pressure behind them. I should have used the Breath Techniques Gabriel had taught me, but the pain made it hard to focus. Seven counts in, hold for four, out for eleven. I managed three cycles before the pain began to recede, a faint silver mist forming around my exhales.
The office was quiet. No calls, no foot traffic. Just the faint hum of the ancient ceiling fan pushing around the stale air. Business had been slow lately, which meant my bank account was even more anemic than usual. My last invoice for a poltergeist removal remained unpaid, and the landlord had slipped the third rent reminder under my door this morning. I really needed Sarah's case to pay, but if I was right about Renaissance Path, this was going to get messy.
I pulled out my father's journal from the locked drawer of my desk. The leather-bound book contained his notes from the 1920s religious revival investigation, when he'd encountered similar phenomena. His precise handwriting filled pages with observations about "energy harvesting during spiritual transformation" and "vessels selected for maximum yield."
As my fingers touched the worn leather cover, my perception shifted involuntarily. A flicker of Sight activated, showing me traces of my father's Covenant energy still lingering in the journal after all these years. The pages glowed with a faint blue-white light similar to my own manifestation, but with subtle differences—his patterns were more structured, disciplined. Mine always had a wilder edge to them.
My father's disappearance had left more questions than answers. He'd vanished during that investigation, leaving behind only Judgment Call and cryptic messages about "maintaining the balance." Gabriel believed he'd sacrificed himself to prevent something worse from happening. I wasn't so sure. Faith came harder for me than it had for my father.
The revolver sat on my desk, partially disassembled for cleaning. Even in pieces, it radiated a faint energy that responded to my proximity. My heritage. The weapon had been my father's, and his father's before him. A celestial armament passed down through generations of Nephilim. Each piece seemed to hum with an eagerness to be whole again, like it was alive in some fundamental way I'd never fully understood.
A memory flashed through my mind, sharp and sudden—my Blood Gift for memory activating without my conscious control.
I was sixteen, angry and confused about the changes happening to me. My eyes had begun shifting to silver when my emotions ran high. Windows would crack when I slammed doors during arguments with my mother. Strange dreams of flight and falling.
"It's your heritage, Ezekiel," my mother had explained one night after I'd accidentally shattered every light bulb in the house during a particularly heated teenage outburst. My first uncontrolled manifestation of Covenant energy. "Your father's blood runs strong in you."
She'd taken me to Gabriel the next day. I still remember that first lesson in the back room of Sullivan's Rare Books, surrounded by ancient texts and artifacts.
"The Sight is both gift and burden," Gabriel had explained, his voice gentler then, before years of loss had hardened him. "It allows you to perceive what others cannot, but that perception comes with responsibility."
He'd taught me to focus, to see beyond the physical. That first glimpse of the world with the Sight had been overwhelming, terrifying. Shadow and light taking on new meaning, energy patterns visible around every living thing, the hidden traces of supernatural passage revealed in ordinary spaces.
"You are Nephilim," Gabriel had said. "Not fully human, not fully celestial. You will always stand between worlds, Ezekiel. That is both your strength and your struggle."
The memory faded as my phone rang, jerking me back to the present. Sarah's number flashed on the screen.
"Mr. Cross," she said when I answered, her voice tight with controlled fear. "There's someone watching my apartment. They've been there for an hour, just standing across the street. They don't move like... like normal people."
My pulse quickened. "Don't approach them. Don't let them know you've noticed. Where are you now?"
"Just finished my shift at the hospital. I'm about to head home."
"Don't go home," I said firmly. "Has anyone besides you or Michael crossed your threshold recently? Anyone new been invited inside?"
"No," she replied, sounding confused. "I've been too busy with work to have visitors. Why?"
That was one small blessing. Thresholds were natural barriers against supernatural entities—the stronger the sense of home and belonging, the stronger the threshold. An invitation across that boundary would weaken its protection significantly. If Sarah hadn't invited anyone in, her threshold might still offer some protection, but the mark was likely creating a connection that bypassed that defense.
"Go somewhere public with lots of people," I continued. "I'll meet you in thirty minutes."
I gave her directions to a busy coffee shop downtown, somewhere the shadow entities would be unlikely to attempt anything. The Veil Principle meant they rarely acted where exposure risk was high—too many witnesses, too many cameras. And public spaces lacked the defined thresholds that entities could be invited across.
After hanging up, I reassembled Judgment Call with practiced efficiency, the pieces clicking together like they were eager to be whole again. The weapon hummed with energy as I slid it into my shoulder holster, its Covenant resonance aligning with my own, creating a subtle warmth against my side. I checked that Truth mode was primed—the most effective against supernatural entities.
Gabriel had taught me that shadow entities rarely acted in daylight. They preferred darkness, feeding on the fear it generated. The fact that they were watching Sarah's apartment in broad daylight suggested either desperation or confidence. Neither was good news.
I grabbed my coat and the case files, locking the office behind me. Lazarus groaned to life when I turned the key, the old Corolla's engine protesting the interruption to its rest. The grinding noise when turning left had gotten worse. Another problem for another day.
Twenty minutes later, I pulled into the parking lot of Confluence Coffee, scanning the area for anything unusual. I shifted briefly into Watcher Stance, my perception heightening as I surveyed the surroundings. Nothing jumped out at me, but that didn't mean nothing was there. Shadow entities could hide in plain sight if they wanted to, appearing as just slightly off human beings to those who couldn't see their true nature.
Sarah sat at a corner table, her hands wrapped around a mug, eyes constantly moving to the door whenever someone entered. Her nurse's scrubs had been replaced with jeans and a sweater, but the professional composure remained. When she saw me, visible relief crossed her face.
"Thanks for coming," she said as I took the seat across from her. "I know it sounds paranoid, but after what you told me about Renaissance Path and the mark..."
"It's not paranoid," I assured her. My Blood Gift for detecting deception remained quiet—she was genuinely frightened, not exaggerating. "What exactly did you see?"
"A man in a dark coat, just standing across from my building. He didn't move for over an hour, not even when it started raining. And his shadow..." she hesitated, clearly questioning her own perception. "His shadow seemed wrong somehow. Too dark, and sometimes it moved when he didn't."
Classic shadow entity behavior. They weren't even trying to be subtle anymore. The mark on her wrist was pulsing faintly, visible even without my Sight. It had grown noticeably since this morning.
"Did it ever try to approach your door?" I asked, thinking about threshold magic.
She shook her head. "No. It just watched. But I felt like... like it could have come in if it wanted to."
That concerned me. Shadow entities typically couldn't cross a threshold without invitation, but the mark might be serving as a kind of spiritual invitation, weakening the natural boundary of her home. The fact that it stayed outside suggested there was still some protection at work, but I wasn't confident that would last as her mark grew stronger.
"We need to go to Tom Davidson's apartment," I said, keeping my voice low. "He was one of your brother's accountability partners, and he disappeared shortly after Michael did. There might be connections we're missing."
"Shouldn't we call the police about the man watching my place?" she asked.
"The police can't help with this, Sarah. Trust me." I'd learned that lesson the hard way years ago when a well-intentioned officer ended up possessed after investigating a case I'd warned him away from. "Besides, standard procedure in missing persons cases is to check in with friends and associates. That's all we're doing."
She didn't look entirely convinced but nodded anyway. "Tom lived in Shadyside. I've been to his place once when Michael was helping him move in after his wife died."
We took my car, Sarah giving directions as we went. The Corolla complained the entire journey, the grinding noise drawing a concerned look from Sarah.
"You might want to get that checked out," she said as we turned onto Tom's street.
"It's on the list," I replied. "Right after 'pay rent' and 'buy groceries.'"
Tom Davidson's apartment was in a converted Victorian house, split into four units with separate entrances. His was on the ground floor in the back, away from street view. Perfect for someone who valued privacy. Or for someone who might be targeted.
As we approached the building, I felt a subtle resistance—a threshold, not as strong as the church's, but noticeable to my senses. Victorian homes often developed their own kind of subtle protections over time, accumulated energy from generations of families. This one felt... off somehow. Like the natural threshold had been tampered with.
"Do you have a key?" I asked as we approached his door.
Sarah shook her head. "But I know Michael had one. They exchanged keys in case of emergencies, part of their accountability arrangement."
I studied the lock briefly before pulling out my picks. Sarah raised an eyebrow but said nothing as I worked the mechanism. The lock yielded after a minute of careful manipulation. Just another skill Gabriel had insisted I learn along with the more esoteric aspects of my training.
"Insurance investigator skills?" she asked dryly.
"Something like that."
The apartment was neat but sparse, the furnishings minimal and functional. A widower's space, devoid of the touches that make a house a home. Photos of Tom with his late wife sat on the mantle, their smiling faces a stark contrast to the emptiness of the apartment now.
I shifted subtly into Watcher Stance as we entered, enhancing my perception without the full activation of the Sight. Even without the complete silver-blue overlay, I could detect faint traces of energy—someone or something supernatural had been here recently.
"What exactly are we looking for?" Sarah asked, glancing around uncertainly.
"Anything connected to Renaissance Path. Journals, books, pamphlets. And any sign of the mark or unusual frost patterns."
We worked methodically through the apartment, checking drawers, bookshelves, and closets. In the bedroom, I found what we were looking for. A journal hidden between the mattress and box spring, its pages filled with Tom's increasingly erratic handwriting. As I touched it, my Blood Gift for perception flared—the book carried the same energy signature as the mark on Sarah's wrist.
"Found something," I called to Sarah, who was searching the living room.
She joined me as I flipped through the journal. The earliest entries were grief-focused, documenting Tom's struggle after his wife's death. Then came mentions of the recovery group, meeting Michael, finding purpose again. And finally, Renaissance Path.
"He writes about a transformation workshop," I noted, reading the entry dated three weeks ago. "Says it changed how he saw everything, like scales falling from his eyes."
"That's a biblical reference," Sarah said. "From when Saul became Paul after his conversion experience."
The later entries grew stranger, describing dreams of frost and shadow, visions of a "great collector" who would "harvest what had been sown." The final entry, dated just two days before Tom disappeared, sent a chill down my spine.
"The mark is nearly complete. I can feel the change coming. Michael says his has already brought him visions of the other side. The Collector is coming to gather His vessels. We are being prepared for a greater purpose."
"Michael knew," Sarah whispered, reading over my shoulder. "He knew something was happening to him before he disappeared."
I turned the page to find a crude drawing of the broken circle mark, surrounded by the same symbols I'd seen in the church basement. Beneath it, Tom had written: "The circle breaks to let the new self emerge. The vessel empties to be filled with greater purpose."
My Blood Gift for pattern recognition activated strongly as I studied the drawing. The symbols matched not just what I'd seen in the church, but also patterns from my father's journal. The connection was undeniable—this was the same phenomenon he'd investigated in the 1920s.
"Ezekiel," Sarah said softly, using my first name for the first time. She was holding something she'd pulled from between the pages. A Renaissance Path membership card with an address and meeting schedule. "There's a gathering tonight."
I took the card, examining it carefully. The location was in the Strip District, not far from where I'd encountered the shadow entity. The timing couldn't be coincidence. My Covenant energy responded to the card, creating a momentary shimmer of blue-white light around my fingertips.
"What else did you find?" I asked, pocketing the card.
"This." She held up a small book titled "Renaissance Path: The Transformation Journey." "It's full of affirmations and exercises for 'preparing the vessel.'"
As she handed me the book, our fingers brushed. A spark of energy passed between us, making us both jump. A visible arc of blue-white light connected her mark to my hand for just a split second. I noticed the mark on Sarah's wrist had grown more defined since morning, the script within the broken circle now clearly visible.
"Sorry," I muttered. "Static electricity."
But we both knew it wasn't. Whatever energy was building within Sarah as a marked vessel had reacted to my celestial blood. Another concerning development. Judgment Call grew warm in its holster, responding to the energy exchange.
The sound of a door closing somewhere in the building made us both freeze. Footsteps approached Tom's apartment, slow and deliberate. I motioned for Sarah to be quiet, moving toward the window that looked out onto the back of the property. I shifted fully into Watcher Stance, my senses expanding to track the approaching threat.
A shadow fell across the blinds, too dark and too solid to be cast by the afternoon sun. It moved unnaturally, stretching toward the door. My Blood Gift for perception confirmed what I already suspected—this was no ordinary shadow.
"We need to leave," I whispered, tucking the journal and book into my coat. "Now."
We slipped out the back door just as something began scratching at the front entrance. In the narrow alleyway behind the building, I saw what had cast the shadow: a figure in a dark coat identical to the one Sarah had described watching her apartment. It stood unnaturally still, its face obscured by shadow even in the daylight.
I pushed Sarah toward the street, keeping myself between her and the entity. I briefly considered switching to Messenger Stance for enhanced speed, but with Sarah present, I needed to maintain a human appearance. "Get to the car. Don't run, but don't stop either."
We made it to the Corolla without the entity pursuing us, but I could feel it watching. As I started the engine, which thankfully caught on the first try, Sarah's phone rang. She answered, her face paling as she listened.
"It's the hospital," she said after hanging up. "They just admitted a man who kept asking for me by name. He's babbling about shadows and collectors and Renaissance Path." She looked at me with wide eyes. "Ezekiel, it's David Miller. The other man who disappeared with Michael."
"He came back?" I couldn't hide my surprise. None of the other victims had returned.
"Not exactly," Sarah said grimly. "He was found wandering in Schenley Park, severely dehydrated and disoriented. And..." she hesitated. "He has burns on his arm where the mark used to be. Burns in the shape of a complete circle."
The implications sent a chill through me. The broken circle made whole—a transformation completed. If David Miller had escaped or been released, he might be our only lead to finding the others. Including Michael Matthews.
"We need to talk to him," I said, pulling away from the curb. "Before whoever marked him realizes he's back."
As we drove toward the hospital, I glanced in the rearview mirror. The shadow entity stood in the middle of the street, watching us go. Its form seemed to ripple, and for just a moment, my Sight flickered on involuntarily, revealing its true appearance: not a man in a coat at all, but something much more ancient and hungry. Its true form was a writhing mass of living shadow with glowing sigils where eyes should be.
I blinked, forcing my Sight back to normal as pain lanced behind my eyes. Judgment Call grew hot in its holster, almost burning against my side—a warning. The entity wasn't just watching.
It was following us.