Chapter Two: Traces of Frost

CHAPTER TWO: TRACES OF FROST

I arrived at the church just after sunrise the next morning. First Light Community was one of those solid brick buildings from a time when faith was built to last, with simple stained glass and stone steps worn smooth by decades of troubled souls seeking sanctuary. Good architecture for keeping evil out. Or in, depending on your perspective. The threshold was strong here—I could feel the subtle resistance as I approached, the accumulated weight of prayers and faith creating a natural barrier against supernatural intrusion.

I parked my '98 Toyota Corolla across the street, the engine grinding to a reluctant stop. The faded blue sedan had seen better decades, but somehow the stubborn vehicle kept running despite everything I put it through. I'd nicknamed it "Lazarus" after it came back from the dead for the third time. Another strange noise had joined its symphony of mechanical complaints recently. Another item on my ever-growing list of expenses. When your day job involves wrestling with the supernatural, mundane things like car maintenance tend to fall by the wayside.

The church was quiet at this hour. A few elderly members shuffled in for early morning prayer service, nodding politely as they passed. I waited until they were inside before making my way around to the side entrance that led directly to the basement. The lock was simple enough, yielding to my picks in under a minute. Just another skill Gabriel insisted I learn. "Monsters rarely leave doors unlocked for your convenience, Ezekiel."

The basement looked different in the morning light that filtered through the narrow windows near the ceiling. Less ominous, more depressing. Folding chairs stacked against the wall, linoleum floor worn thin in the center where countless recovery meetings had been held. A coffee station in the corner, those giant metal percolators and Styrofoam cups waiting for the afternoon groups. Bulletin boards advertising community events, bake sales, and outreach programs.

Normal. Ordinary. Except to my eyes.

I shifted into Watcher Stance, feet shoulder-width apart, weight balanced perfectly to maximize perception while maintaining defensive readiness. I focused on my breathing—seven counts in, hold for four, eleven counts out—feeling my Covenant energy respond as I let my Sight emerge. The familiar silver-blue outline washed over my vision as the physical world took a step back and the supernatural stepped forward. The headache started immediately, a dull throb behind my eyes. Price of doing business.

Now I could see what I'd only glimpsed yesterday. Energy traces like glowing footprints marked the floor, showing precisely where Michael Matthews had stood, where he had backed away in fear, where he had struggled. And more importantly, where others had been. Three sets of traces beside Michael's. Three attackers.

The ritual circle I'd spotted earlier glowed faintly, microscopic sigils etched into the floor in a perfect arc. I knelt down, examining it more closely. Gabriel would have recognized every symbol. Me, I could only identify the basics. Binding. Containment. Transformation. Collection. Each sigil connecting to the next in a pattern that would mean something to someone with more knowledge than me. My Blood Gift for pattern recognition pulsed faintly, trying to make connections that my conscious mind couldn't quite grasp.

I took out my phone, snapping close-up photos of each section. Gabriel could analyze them later, assuming my splitting headache didn't get worse. Using the Sight for extended periods wasn't without consequence. I really needed to practice those Breath Techniques more regularly.

I let the Sight fade, my vision returning to normal as the pain subsided to a tolerable level, shifting out of Watcher Stance as I did. That's when I noticed something I'd missed before. A streak of frost along the baseboard, almost entirely melted but still clinging to the wood in the shadowed corner. The same kind of frost the shadow entity had left behind in the alley.

I pulled a small vial from my coat pocket and carefully scraped some of the frost into it. It wouldn't last long, but Gabriel might be able to get something from it.

"Can I help you?"

I turned to see a middle-aged man in a button-down shirt and tie standing at the bottom of the stairs, keys in hand and suspicion in his eyes. Not the same volunteer from yesterday.

"Pastor," I nodded respectfully. "Sorry about the intrusion. Name's Jason Miller, insurance investigator." I produced the same fake credentials I'd shown yesterday. "Following up on the disappearance of Michael Matthews."

"The recovery group member?" The pastor's suspicion didn't fade. "The police have already been through here."

"Insurance has different concerns than law enforcement," I replied smoothly, pocketing the vial. "His sister has filed a claim, and we need to establish the circumstances before processing it."

"I wasn't aware people took out insurance policies for... addiction relapses."

Smart pastor. Most people don't question the insurance angle. My Blood Gift for detecting deception tingled faintly—he wasn't buying my story completely.

"It's not common knowledge," I said, moving toward him casually, shifting the conversation. I automatically adjusted my posture to appear more trustworthy, a technique Gabriel had drilled into me for years. "You were here the night he disappeared?"

"No," the pastor shook his head. "I was leading a Bible study upstairs. Mary Hodges runs the recovery meetings. She would have been the last to see him."

"The older lady with the cardigan?" I remembered the volunteer from yesterday.

"That's Mary," he nodded. "She's very dedicated to the group. Been running it for almost fifteen years."

"Impressive commitment," I said, glancing around. "Any security cameras down here?"

"We're a church, Mr. Miller, not a bank. Our security is more faith-based than technological."

A shame. Would have made my job easier if there was footage of whatever took Michael. Though I doubted conventional cameras would have captured the true nature of the abduction anyway. Some supernatural entities don't show up on film, and others appear distorted—a fact that's saved my skin more than once when security cameras caught me using abilities that would be difficult to explain.

"Mind if I speak with Mary again?" I asked.

"She'll be in for the afternoon meeting. Around two." The pastor gestured toward the stairs. "Now, if you don't mind, I need to prepare the space for this morning's men's group."

I recognized a dismissal when I heard one. "Of course. Thank you for your time, Pastor."

As I climbed the stairs, I noticed another trace of frost high up on the wall near the exit, easily missed by normal sight. This wasn't just random residue. The entities had come in through this door, not the main entrance. They knew where they were going.

Outside, the morning had warmed slightly, the church grounds active with an elderly volunteer tending to flower beds and a couple of mothers watching their children play on the small playground adjacent to the fellowship hall.

I walked around the outside of the building, looking for external signs of the shadow entities. Most supernatural creatures leave traces visible to those who know what to look for, even without using the Sight. My father had taught Gabriel, and Gabriel had taught me: discolored bricks, withered plants, unusual insect activity, temperature variations. The patterns were consistent across different types of entities—a language for those trained to read it.

Behind the church, I found what I was looking for. A narrow alleyway leading from the basement exit to the street, completely in shadow even at this hour. The plants along the wall were blackened as if touched by frost, despite the summer heat. And there, at intervals of about six feet, those same handprints I'd seen in the Strip District, barely visible now but unmistakable to my trained eye.

I followed them to the street where they disappeared at the curb. They'd had a vehicle waiting. This was organized, planned. Not some random supernatural occurrence.

I pulled out my phone and dialed Sarah Matthews. She picked up on the third ring, her voice tense with hope.

"Mr. Cross? Have you found something?"

"Not yet," I replied, scanning the street. "But I'm making progress. I need to ask you a few more questions about your brother. Can you meet me at Sullivan's Rare Books in Oakland in an hour?"

"I'm due at the hospital for my shift at noon..."

"This won't take long," I assured her. "And Sullivan's is on your way."

She agreed, and I hung up, making my next call to Gabriel.

"I'm sending you photos of sigils from the church basement," I said when he answered. "And I've collected a frost sample. Same type as the alley."

"Bring it straight here," Gabriel replied without preamble. "I've got something on Renaissance Path you should see."

I ended the call and headed back to my Corolla, pausing as something caught my eye across the street. A man in a dark coat watching the church, too still and focused to be a random pedestrian. When he noticed me looking, he turned and walked away with unnatural smoothness. My Blood Gift for perception flared briefly—his shadow lingered a half-second too long before following him, a telltale sign of something not entirely human.

I considered following but decided against it. The frost sample wouldn't last long, and Gabriel's information took priority. Besides, if they were watching the church, they were probably watching me too. I slid behind the wheel of my ancient Corolla, giving the dashboard an affectionate pat. The car had survived three demon attacks, one poltergeist infestation, and a brief period where I think it was actually possessed itself. We had history, Lazarus and I. Some hunters drove fancy muscle cars or tactical vehicles. I drove whatever wouldn't leave me stranded between paychecks.

The drive to Sullivan's Rare Books took twenty minutes with morning traffic. The Corolla's engine wheezed the entire way, the noise growing more pronounced whenever I turned left, like an old man complaining about his joints. I parked in the small lot behind the shop, entering through the employee entrance that Gabriel never locked despite my frequent lectures on security.

The back room was Gabriel's real operation, hidden behind the legitimate rare book business. Shelves lined with texts that would drive most scholars to madness with envy or fear. Ancient grimoires bound in materials I preferred not to identify. Scrolls in languages dead for millennia. Reference works on every supernatural entity encountered in recorded history. The place hummed with a subtle energy that resonated with my own Covenant power—years of proximity to supernatural knowledge had created its own kind of threshold magic here.

Gabriel sat at his massive oak desk, surrounded by open books and a laptop that seemed comically modern among the ancient texts. He looked up as I entered, his wire-rimmed glasses perched on his nose.

"There you are," he said, gesturing to the chair across from him. "Let me see the sample."

I handed him the vial of frost, which was already starting to lose its unnatural chill. Gabriel examined it briefly before placing it in a small contraption that looked like a cross between a microscope and a kaleidoscope, another relic from my father's collection of supernatural tools.

"Interesting," he murmured after a moment. "Definitely shadow entity residue, but there's something different about the composition." He looked up at me. "You said the entity in the alley mentioned 'The Collector'?"

I nodded, pulling up the photos of the sigils on my phone and sliding it across the desk to him. "And now I've found these at the church where Sarah's brother disappeared. Same symbols I saw in the frost pattern."

Gabriel studied the images, his expression growing more troubled with each swipe. "Binding sigils, but not just any kind. These are specific to what the old texts call 'vessels of transformation.' People undergoing significant personal change."

"Like Michael Matthews finding faith during recovery," I said, the pieces clicking together.

"Precisely." Gabriel stood, moving to one of his many bookshelves and pulling out a thin volume bound in faded red leather. "And Renaissance Path is connected. I've done some digging."

He opened the book to a marked page, showing me an illustration of a broken circle with script flowing through it, identical to the mark on Michael's arm.

"This symbol has appeared throughout history, Ezekiel, always during periods of major spiritual awakening or social transformation. The 1920s revival your father investigated, the Spiritualist movement of the 1890s, certain medieval mystical movements."

"So what is Renaissance Path?" I asked, studying the illustration, my finger tracing the air just above the page. My Covenant energy responded subtly, creating a faint silver glow around my fingertip. The mark in the book seemed to pulse in response.

"On the surface, a self-improvement organization founded two years ago. Their literature is full of transformation rhetoric, personal rebirth, spiritual awakening. They've been particularly active in recovery communities, churches, and support groups for people going through major life changes."

"Targeting people in transformation," I said. "Just like the shadow entity told me."

Gabriel nodded, pulling up something on his laptop. "Their founder is one Elias Ward. Seemingly came out of nowhere with significant financial backing." He turned the screen to show me a headshot of a handsome man in his forties, well-dressed, with the polished smile of a motivational speaker. Something about his eyes made my skin crawl. My Blood Gift for detecting deception tingled sharply—whatever this man was, he wasn't what he appeared to be.

"And get this," Gabriel continued. "Their corporate filing lists their founding date with an unusual phrase: 'Harvesting human potential since 2024.'"

"Harvesting," I repeated. "That was on their pamphlet too. Not helping people transform, harvesting the energy from it."

The bell at the front of the shop jingled, signaling a customer. Gabriel glanced at his watch. "That's probably Sarah," he said. "I'll go greet her while you review this." He pushed a folder across the desk. "Missing persons reports from the last six months. All people who were members of support groups or in some kind of major life transition. All disappeared without a trace, except for personal items left behind."

As Gabriel went to meet Sarah, I flipped through the files, a cold dread settling in my stomach. Six missing people, all with circumstances similar to Michael Matthews. All connected to recovery groups or support circles. All last seen at or near a Renaissance Path event.

And based on the mark forming on Sarah's wrist, she was next.

I closed the folder as Sarah entered the back room, looking tired but determined. Her nurse's scrubs peeked out from under her jacket, ready for her shift later.

"Mr. Cross," she said, glancing around at the supernatural library with a mixture of curiosity and uncertainty. "You said you found something?"

"Several somethings," I replied, gesturing to the chair across from me. I shifted subtly into a more relaxed version of Watcher Stance, my perception heightening to observe her more closely. "But first, I need to see your wrist."

Her hand moved instinctively to cover her right wrist. "My wrist?"

"The mark," I said gently. "I saw it forming yesterday. I need to see how much it's progressed."

Surprise and alarm crossed her face as she pushed up her sleeve. There on her wrist, the broken circle pattern had become more defined overnight, the strange script more visible. She stared at it, clearly seeing it properly for the first time. With my enhanced perception, I could see faint traces of energy pulsing through the mark, connecting to something distant. A tether of sorts.

"What is this?" she whispered. "I thought it was just a rash... I've been so focused on finding Michael..."

"It's connected to your brother's disappearance," I said. "And to an organization called Renaissance Path."

Recognition flashed in her eyes. "Michael mentioned them. Said they had helped some people in his recovery group find a deeper spiritual transformation."

"Did you ever attend any of their events? Maybe with your brother?"

She shook her head, still staring at the mark. "No, but..." she hesitated. "Michael gave me one of their books. Said it might help me understand his journey better."

That would explain the mark. Contact with their materials seemed to be enough to identify potential "vessels." I made a mental note to ask Gabriel if books could be vehicles for supernatural targeting. Judgment Call grew slightly warm in its holster, a subtle reaction to the mark's energy.

"Sarah," I said, keeping my voice steady, "I believe Renaissance Path is connected to your brother's disappearance. And I think you may be in danger too."

"Because of this mark?" She traced the pattern with her finger.

"Yes. It's similar to what appeared on your brother before he vanished."

Gabriel returned with three cups of coffee, setting them on the desk before taking a seat. "Ms. Matthews, I'm Gabriel Sullivan. I'm helping Ezekiel with your brother's case."

Sarah looked between us, confusion giving way to suspicion. "What exactly is going on here? This doesn't feel like a normal missing person investigation."

"It's not," I admitted, letting go of my enhanced perception stance. "Your brother's disappearance is part of something... unusual. Something we specialize in."

"Unusual how?" she pressed.

I glanced at Gabriel, who gave a slight nod. We needed her trust, and that meant giving her some version of the truth.

"Sarah, have you noticed anything strange about the mark on your wrist? Temperature changes, unusual dreams, moments where you seemed to see things others didn't?"

Her eyes widened slightly. "Last night... I thought I saw frost on my bedroom window, even though it's summer. And there was a shadow that seemed to move on its own."

Gabriel and I exchanged looks. It was already starting. The mark was serving as a beacon, a way for the shadow entities to track their next target.

"We believe your brother was targeted because of his transformation through recovery," I explained carefully. "The people behind Renaissance Path are... collecting individuals who are going through major life changes."

"Why?" she asked, voice steady despite the bizarre conversation.

"That's what we're still figuring out," I said. "But we know they've taken others, all people in transition. And now they've marked you too."

Sarah sat back, processing. To her credit, she didn't run screaming or dismiss us as lunatics. After a moment, she leaned forward again.

"Show me what you've found," she said firmly. "All of it. If Michael is in danger, and I am too, I need to know everything."

As Gabriel began laying out the files on missing persons and the history of the symbol, I studied Sarah. Most people break when confronted with evidence of the supernatural. They rationalize, deny, or panic. Sarah was doing none of those things. Instead, she was approaching it like a medical problem: gather data, analyze, plan intervention.

Maybe that's why she'd been marked. That capacity for adaptation, for transformation even in the face of the impossible. If so, the Collector had made a tactical error. Instead of a helpless victim, they'd identified someone who might just be willing to fight back.

And with the mark growing more visible by the hour, we didn't have much time before they'd come for her too. Judgment Call hummed with subtle energy in its holster, as if recognizing the approaching conflict. Whatever was coming, we needed to be ready.