WOODBRIDGE: DEMON HUNTER Part 3

 

WOODBRIDGE: DEMON HUNTER Part 3

Chapter 23

The Massachusetts sunset bleeds gray through the windshield of the black sedan, the sky the color of old bruises and cigarette ash. Shane Woodbridge watches the world slide past—strip malls, fast-food joints, the skeletal remains of a dying industrial town—and tries not to think about the book in his satchel. The book that has been changing. The book that speaks to him in a language older than Latin, older than Aramaic, older than anything that should still exist in a world that has forgotten how to listen.

Beside him, Marcus Lee drives with the focused intensity of a man who has learned to see threats everywhere. His knuckles are white on the steering wheel, his eyes flicking to the rearview mirror every few seconds, his jaw working like he's chewing on something bitter. The road to the girl's house has been quiet so far—too quiet, the kind of quiet that usually precedes something terrible.

"The address is in the next town over," Marcus says, his voice flat. "About ten minutes out."

Shane nods, his fingers tracing the edge of his satchel. "You said it was a family of five?"

"Four. The father left two years ago. Just... walked out one night and never came back. Mother, three daughters. The youngest is eight." Marcus's voice tightens. "The oldest is sixteen. She's the one who started the fire."

"Possession?"

"Turned. According to the preliminary report, anyway. The local cops found her in the basement, eating the remains of her mother and sisters." Marcus's jaw works harder. "They said she was laughing. Like it was the funniest thing she'd ever seen."

Shane's stomach turns, but he keeps his face neutral. He has seen worse. He has seen things that would make this look like a children's bedtime story. But every time—every single time—the smell of burned flesh and the sound of a demon's laughter through a human throat makes him want to vomit.

"Where's Larson?" Marcus asks suddenly. "I thought you two were partners."

Shane's fingers stop moving. The question hangs in the air between them, heavy and unwelcome. He knew this would come up eventually. Marcus is too observant, too paranoid, to let it slide. He has been watching Shane and Larson together for months, cataloging every interaction, filing away every odd glance and unspoken word.

"He's on another assignment," Shane says. "Something in New York."

"New York." Marcus's voice is flat. "They sent the Guild's best hunter to New York while you and I get to clean up a possessed teenager in the middle of nowhere?"

Shane doesn't answer. He can't. Because the truth is worse than any lie he can invent.

The sedan rolls through a stop sign, the tires crunching over gravel and dead leaves. The houses here are older, more neglected—porches sagging under the weight of years, windows boarded up or broken, yards overgrown with weeds that have gone to seed. The kind of neighborhood where people go to disappear.

"I wasn't always a hunter, you know," Shane says finally. "Before the Guild recruited me, I was a theology student. A scholar. I spent my days in libraries, reading about demons and exorcisms and the nature of evil. I never actually... touched any of it. Not until they gave me a partner."

Marcus glances at him, his expression unreadable. "Larson?"

"No. Before Larson." Shane pulls out his cigarettes, taps one loose, lights it with hands that are steadier than he feels. "There was another hunter. A man named Raymond Cruz."

Marcus's eyebrows rise. "Cruz? The Raymond Cruz? The one who—"

"Yeah." Shane exhales smoke, watching it curl toward the roof of the car.

Marcus is quiet for a moment. Then: "What happened?"

Shane takes a long drag on his cigarette, letting the smoke burn his lungs. He remembers Raymond Cruz—the way he moved, the way he fought, the way he looked at Shane like he was something precious and fragile and desperately in need of protection. He remembers the night everything went wrong, the night the demon took over, the night Raymond told him to run and never look back.

"He was my mentor," Shane says. "My partner. My... friend. For three years, we hunted together. We saved each other's lives more times than I can count. And then..." He trails off, the words catching in his throat.

"Then what?"

Shane crushes the cigarette in the ashtray, his hand trembling just slightly. "Then the Guild told me I couldn't work with him anymore. Said his methods were too extreme. Said he was a liability. They assigned me to Larson instead, and they sent Cruz on a suicide mission. Alone."

Marcus's grip on the steering wheel tightens. "They set him up?"

"I don't know. Maybe. Probably." Shane laughs, a hollow, bitter sound. "The Guild does what the Guild does. They protect themselves first and everyone else second. And if a hunter becomes inconvenient—if they start asking too many questions or going off-script—they have ways of making them disappear."

The sedan turns onto a narrow dirt road, the tires kicking up clouds of dust. The house at the end is a burned-out shell, its roof collapsed inward, its walls blackened and weeping. The smell of smoke and ash is thick in the air, even with the windows rolled up.

"There's a story," Shane says quietly, "that Raymond told me once. Before everything went wrong. He said that as a Christian, he shouldn't be 'yoked together' with nonbelievers. That it was in the Bible. That God had commanded his people to separate themselves from the world, to avoid being corrupted by it."

Marcus frowns. "So he was a zealot?"

"No. He was... practical. He knew that the things we hunt—the demons, the vampires, the monsters—they don't just attack our bodies. They attack our minds. Our souls. They use our connections against us, our friendships, our loves. They find the people we care about and they twist them, use them as weapons." Shane's voice drops. "Raymond understood that better than anyone. He knew that the only way to survive in this world was to never let anyone get too close. To never let anyone in."

"And yet he let you in."

Shane's throat tightens. "He tried not to. He pushed me away for months. Told me I was too soft, too trusting, too naive. But I kept coming back. I kept showing up, kept saving his life, kept proving that I was worth his trust. And eventually..." He shakes his head. "Eventually, he stopped pushing."

Marcus pulls the sedan to a stop in front of the burned house. The structure looms before them, its windows like empty eye sockets, its chimney crumbling. The silence is absolute—no birds, no insects, no wind. Just the weight of the thing waiting inside.

"And then what?" Marcus asks.

"And then the Guild took him away from me." Shane opens the car door, his boots crunching on the ash-covered ground. "And I learned that the most dangerous thing in this world isn't the demons we hunt. It's the people who send us to hunt them."

The house is worse up close. The fire was intense—hot enough to melt glass, to warp metal, to turn wood to charcoal. But the flames burned downward, against all natural law, consuming the basement before the first floor. That was the girl's work. The demon's work.

Shane steps through the gap where the front door used to be, his flashlight cutting through the gloom. The interior is a wasteland—blackened furniture, collapsed ceiling beams, the remains of a family's life reduced to ash and twisted metal. The smell is overwhelming: smoke, rot, and something else. Something sweet and cloying that makes his stomach turn.

"She's in the basement," Marcus says, his voice barely above a whisper. "According to the report, anyway."

Shane nods, his grip tightening on his flashlight. He can feel the book in his satchel, pulsing with a warmth that has nothing to do with the residual heat of the fire. It is responding to something. Reacting. Preparing.

"Stay behind me," he says. "And whatever happens, don't make eye contact with her. Don't speak to her. Don't acknowledge anything she says. The demon will try to get inside your head, and once it's there, it's almost impossible to get out."

Marcus's face is pale, but he nods. "What about you?"

"I'll handle it." Shane wishes he sounded more confident. "I've done this before."

The basement stairs are intact, more or less—charred but still solid, the wood groaning under their weight as they descend. The air grows thicker, hotter, charged with a static electricity that makes Shane's hair stand on end. The book in his satchel burns now, a dull heat that seeps through the canvas and presses against his hip.

"Jesus," Marcus breathes.

The basement is a nightmare.

The mother and two younger daughters lie in a heap in the corner, their bodies charred and partially consumed, their faces frozen in expressions of terror. The smell is indescribable—sweet and rotting and burnt all at once, a scent that will haunt Shane's nightmares for the rest of his life.

And in the center of the room, crouched over the remains of what was once her sister, is the oldest daughter.

She is sixteen, or was. Her hair is singed, her skin mottled with burns that should have killed her, her eyes—her eyes are black. Completely black, like twin pools of oil, with no white, no pupil, no trace of the human girl who once looked out of them.

She is eating the charred flesh of her sister's arm, her teeth tearing through the ruined skin with a wet, grinding sound. She doesn't look up when they enter. Doesn't acknowledge their presence at all. Just keeps eating, her jaw working mechanically, her fingers slick with grease and ash.

"Dear God," Marcus whispers.

The girl's head snaps up.

Her eyes lock onto Marcus's, and Shane feels the temperature drop ten degrees. The blackness in her gaze seems to pulse, to ripple, like oil on water. Her mouth stretches into a smile that shows too many teeth, teeth that have been filed to points, teeth that glisten with blood and viscera.

"Two little lambs," she says, her voice a sing-song parody of a child's. "Two little lambs come to the slaughter."

Shane steps forward, his hand reaching for the book in his satchel. "In the name of Jesus Christ, I command you to leave this girl's body—"

The girl laughs. It is a horrible sound, like breaking glass mixed with a child's giggle, and it makes Shane's blood run cold. The laughter echoes off the basement walls, reverberating in his skull, pressing against his thoughts like a physical weight.

"You think your little book can save her?" the demon sneers. "You think your prayers can undo what's already been done? She's mine now. She's been mine for three days. And there's nothing you can do to get her back."

Shane's hand tightens on the book. He can feel the words inside shifting, changing, rewriting themselves to match the moment. The book is alive—it has always been alive—and it is responding to the demon's presence, giving him the tools he needs to fight.

"Sabnak," he says. "I know your name, Sabnak. And in the name of Jesus Christ, I command you to depart."

The girl's smile falters. Just for a second. But it's enough.

"Run!" Shane shouts. "Marcus, get back!"

The girl lunges.

She moves faster than a human should, her body contorting in impossible ways, her claws—when did she grow claws?—raking through the air where Shane was standing. He rolls, the book clutched to his chest, his heart pounding in his ears.

"You should have stayed away, little theologian," the demon hisses. "You should have let me finish my meal."

Shane scrambles to his feet, the book open in his hands. The pages are glowing now, the words searing themselves into his memory as he reads them. "I am a servant of God," he says, his voice steady despite the terror coursing through him. "I am an enemy of the devil. And in the name of Jesus Christ, I command you to show yourself."

The girl's body convulses. Her mouth opens wide, too wide, dislocating with a wet crack, and from her throat comes a sound that isn't human. The laughter of something ancient, something hungry, something that has been waiting for centuries to find a vessel like this.

"Show myself?" the demon croons. "Little theologian, you don't need me to show myself. You need me to show you what's coming."

The temperature drops again. The shadows in the corners of the basement begin to move, to writhe, to take shape. And from the darkness, something steps forward.

It is tall, impossibly tall, its skin the color of burned meat, its eyes like twin furnaces. Its mouth is a slash of teeth and hunger, and its presence fills the room like smoke, suffocating, inescapable.

A master demon.

"Marcus, get back!" Shane shouts, but it's too late. The master demon's hand lashes out, catching Marcus across the chest and hurling him against the wall. He crumples, unconscious or worse, and Shane is alone.

The master demon smiles. "You thought it was just a simple possession. A girl who burned her family. A demon you could banish with a few words and a little faith." Its laughter is like grinding stones. "The Guild sent you here to clean up a mess. But you've stumbled into something much bigger."

Shane's mind races. The master demon is here. A master demon. The kind that doesn't just possess people—the kind that commands legions, that orchestrates plagues, that brings kingdoms to their knees. The kind that shouldn't exist in the modern world, shouldn't be able to walk the earth without being summoned, shouldn't be—

"The Blood Moon," Shane breathes. "You used the Blood Moon to cross over."

The master demon's smile widens. "The veil between worlds is thinnest on the Blood Moon. And now that I'm here, I have no intention of leaving." It gestures to the girl, who is still writhing on the floor, her body contorting in ways that would kill a normal human. "But this vessel is too weak. Too fragile. I need a stronger host. Someone with... potential."

Its eyes lock onto Shane, and he feels his blood turn to ice.

"You," it says. "You will do nicely."

"No—" Shane starts, but the demon is already moving, its form dissolving into smoke, racing toward him like a tidal wave of darkness. He raises the book, the words blazing on the page, and screams the exorcism with every ounce of faith and fear in his body.

"IN THE NAME OF JESUS CHRIST, I COMMAND YOU TO FLEE!"

The demon hits him like a freight train.

Shane is thrown backward, the book flying from his hands, his vision going white. He can feel the demon pressing against him, trying to force its way into his body, his mind, his soul. It is like drowning in oil, like being consumed by fire, like every nightmare he has ever had coming true at once.

But something holds it back.

The book. The book is on the floor, its pages glowing, its words burning into the air around them. The master demon screams, a sound of pure rage, and withdraws. Just for a moment.

"You can't keep me out forever," it snarls. "One day, you'll fall. One day, you'll invite me in."

Shane scrambles for the book, his fingers closing around its spine. The girl is still on the floor, her body twitching, her eyes—her eyes are human again. For just a moment, she looks at him with something like recognition, like hope.

"Help me," she whispers. "Please. Don't let it take me back."

Shane moves toward her, the book in his hands. "I'm going to try. But you have to fight it, do you understand? You have to hold on."

The girl's face crumples. "I can't. It's too strong. It's inside me, and I can't—I can't make it stop."

"Jesus Christ loves you," Shane says, his voice cracking. "He hasn't abandoned you. Just hold on to that. Hold on to Him."

The girl's body arches, her mouth opening wide, and from her throat comes a shriek that isn't human. The master demon, its influence already receding, has one final trick to play. It turns the girl's hands toward her own face, and before Shane can stop her, she begins to tear at her own flesh.

"NO!" Shane lunges forward, trying to grab her wrists, but she is too strong, her movements too frantic. Her nails gouge deep furrows in her cheeks, blood streaming down her face, her mouth open in a scream that is half pain and half demonic laughter.

"Help her!" Marcus's voice from the corner, weak but alive. "Shane, do something!"

But there is nothing to do. The damage is already done. The girl has destroyed her own face, has torn away the skin and muscle and bone, and there is no coming back from that. Not for a human. Not for anyone.

She collapses to the floor, her body still twitching, her blood pooling on the charred concrete. Her eyes, human again, stare up at the ceiling with an expression of profound relief.

"Thank you," she whispers. And then she is gone.

Shane kneels beside her, his hands shaking, the book clutched to his chest. He has seen a lot of death in his time. He has killed demons, killed vampires, killed things that shouldn't exist. But this—this is different. This is a girl who was used, consumed, discarded like a broken toy. A girl who never had a chance.

"The master demon," he says finally, his voice hollow. "It got away."

Marcus limps over, clutching his ribs. "We need to call it in. We need to warn the Guild."

"Warn them?" Shane laughs, a broken, bitter sound. "The Guild knew. They knew this wasn't just a possession. They sent us here to clean up a mess they didn't want to deal with, and now a master demon is loose in the world because of it."

Marcus stares at him. "You can't be serious."

"The Guild is not our ally, Marcus. They never were." Shane stands, the book heavy in his hands. "We're tools to them. Expendable. And the only way we survive this is by figuring out what they're really doing and stopping them before it's too late."

Outside, the day’s sun finally sets, painting the sky in shades of dark blue. But inside the burned-out house, the shadows linger, cold and patient.

And somewhere out there, a master demon hunts.

Chapter 24

The sedan's tires hum against the asphalt as Shane drives, his hands gripping the wheel with white-knuckled intensity. Beside him, Marcus stares out the passenger window, his face pale, his breathing shallow. Neither of them has spoken since they left the burned house. There is nothing to say. Nothing that will make the images fade—the girl's ruined face, the master demon's burning eyes, the weight of failure pressing down on both of them like a physical burden.

Shane's phone buzzes in the cup holder. Laura's name flashes on the screen.

He answers without hesitation. "Laura. I need to tell you something."

"Shane." Her voice is tight, controlled, the voice of someone who has been waiting for bad news and is trying not to let it show. "Where are you?"

"On the road. Heading back to Boston." He glances at Marcus, who is still staring out the window, his jaw working. "The job went bad. Really bad. There was a master demon, Laura. A master demon, just... waiting for us. In the basement of that house."

A pause. Then: "A master demon? Are you sure?"

"I'm sure." Shane's voice cracks. "I've read about them. I've studied them. But I've never... I've never seen one. Not like that. It was ancient, Laura. Old. And it knew things. It knew about the book."

"What book?"

Shane hesitates. He hasn't told anyone about the book. Not even Larson. But Laura—Laura is different. Laura is the one person he trusts, the one person who has never looked at him like he's a liability.

"The book I found in the girl's room," he says. "The one that was hidden under her mattress. It's... it's not like any book I've ever seen. It changes. The words rewrite themselves. It gave me the power to fight the demon, but it also—" He stops, swallowing hard. "It also drew the master demon to us. It wanted the book, Laura. It said the book belonged to it."

Laura is silent for a long moment. When she speaks, her voice is careful, measured. "Shane, I need you to listen to me carefully. There have been reports. Rumors. Master demons are appearing in places they shouldn't be, doing things that don't make sense. And they're all looking for something. Something they lost."

"The book."

"I don't know. Maybe. But Shane—" Her voice drops. "If they're looking for it, that means they know it exists. And if they know it exists, they'll do anything to get it. Including going after the people who have it."

Shane's blood runs cold. "You mean you."

"I mean everyone. The Guild is on high alert. Tremaine is calling in every favor he has, pulling hunters from assignments all over the country. Something is happening, Shane. Something big. And I think the book is at the center of it."

The sedan swerves as Shane's hands tighten on the wheel. He forces himself to breathe, to focus. "What do I do?"

"Keep the book safe. Don't show it to anyone. Not even the Guild." Laura's voice is urgent now, almost pleading. "And Shane—be careful. There are people in the department who would sell you out for a promotion. People who would hand you over to the demons if it meant saving their own skins."

"Like who?"

A pause. Then: "Christian."

The name hits Shane like a punch to the gut. Christian. The department head. The man who has been watching him, evaluating him, treating him like a problem to be solved. The man who has been subtly undermining everything Shane does.

"Christian knows about the book?"

"I don't know. But he's been asking questions. About your assignments. About the cases you've been working. About that night in Massachusetts." Laura's voice drops to a whisper. "I think he's working with Tremaine. I think they're trying to figure out what you know."

Shane's mind races. Christian. Tremaine. The master demon. The book. All of it connected, all of it circling around him like sharks in bloody water.

"Laura, I—"

A shadow crosses the windshield.

Shane looks up, his heart lurching. The sky is clear, the road empty, but the shadow moves across the glass like a living thing, dark and shapeless and wrong. The temperature in the sedan drops ten degrees in an instant.

"Shane?" Laura's voice, distant now, tinny through the speaker. "Shane, what's wrong?"

The shadow coalesces. Takes shape. A face emerges from the darkness—burning eyes, a mouth full of teeth, the skin like charred meat. The master demon. It has found them.

"Marcus!" Shane shouts. "Get down!"

Marcus doesn't move. He is frozen, staring at the windshield, his face a mask of pure terror. The demon's hand slams against the glass, and the windshield cracks—a spiderweb of fractures spreading from the point of impact, the glass bowing inward, about to shatter.

"IN THE NAME OF JESUS CHRIST—" Shane starts, but the demon is faster. Its hand punches through the glass, grabbing Marcus by the collar of his jacket, dragging him toward the broken window.

"NO!" Shane grabs Marcus's leg, pulling with all his strength. The demon's grip is like iron, its strength impossible, inhuman. The sedan swerves wildly as Shane struggles, the tires screeching against the asphalt.

"Let him go!" Shane screams. "LET HIM GO!"

The demon laughs. It is a horrible sound, like grinding stones and breaking bones, and it fills the sedan like smoke. "You think you can save him? You think your little prayers can protect anyone? I'm going to tear him apart, little theologian. And then I'm going to take that book from you, and I'm going to—"

Marcus's hand finds his service weapon.

The gunshot is deafening in the enclosed space. The bullet tears through the demon's hand, and it recoils with a shriek of rage, releasing Marcus's jacket. Shane yanks Marcus back into the car, his heart pounding, his breathing ragged.

"Drive!" Marcus shouts. "Shane, drive!"

Shane floors the accelerator. The sedan lurches forward, tires screaming, the demon's form dissolving into shadow as they speed away. But the shadow follows, keeping pace with the car, its burning eyes fixed on them through the shattered windshield.

"It's following us!" Marcus shouts. "It's still following us!"

"I know!" Shane swerves, trying to lose the demon, but it stays with them, its form shifting and flowing like smoke in the wind. The temperature inside the car continues to drop, ice forming on the dashboard, on the windows, on their breath.

"Shane, the book!" Marcus shouts. "Use the book!"

Shane reaches for the satchel, his fingers fumbling with the strap. The book is warm, pulsing, alive. He yanks it out, the pages glowing, the words burning into his eyes.

"IN THE NAME OF JESUS CHRIST," he screams, "I COMMAND YOU TO LEAVE US!"

The demon howls. The sound is like a thousand voices screaming at once, a cacophony of rage and pain and hunger. The shadow falters, its form flickering, and for a moment, it seems to retreat.

But then it regroups. It surges forward, faster than before, its claws raking against the roof of the sedan, tearing through the metal like paper. The car shudders under the assault, the steering wheel vibrating in Shane's hands.

"Marcus, shoot it!" Shane shouts. "Shoot it now!"

Marcus raises his weapon, his hands shaking, and fires through the ceiling. The bullets tear through the metal, through the shadow, and the demon screams again—but it doesn't stop. It keeps coming, relentless, its hunger driving it forward.

Then, impossibly, Marcus's hand jerks. A sound like a firecracker. A spray of red.

Marcus's body goes slack, his head lolling forward. The gun falls from his fingers, clattering to the floor. And Shane sees it—a bullet wound, small and neat, in the center of Marcus's forehead.

"No," Shane whispers. "No, no, no—"

The demon laughs. "Accidents happen, little theologian. So sad. So tragic."

Shane screams. It is a sound of pure rage, pure grief, pure despair. He grabs the book, the words blazing on the page, and hurls them at the demon like a weapon.

"I COMMAND YOU TO LEAVE! IN THE NAME OF JESUS CHRIST, I COMMAND YOU TO DEPART!"

The demon shrieks. Its form wavers, flickers, and then it is gone—pulled away, banished, its presence dissipating like smoke in the wind.

But the damage is done.

Marcus sits beside Shane, his body limp, his eyes staring at nothing. Blood drips from the wound in his forehead, pooling on his lap, on the seat, on the floor. The car swerves as Shane's hands shake on the wheel, his vision blurring with tears.

"Marcus," he says. "Marcus, wake up. Please. Please wake up."

But Marcus doesn't wake up. He is gone. Another victim of the darkness. Another casualty of the war.

The sedan slows to a stop on the shoulder of the road. Shane sits there, his hands still gripping the wheel, his chest heaving with sobs. The book lies open on the seat beside him, its pages glowing softly, as if waiting for him to read the next chapter.

Headlights appear in the rearview mirror. A black SUV, its windows tinted, its engine roaring. It pulls up behind them, and Shane watches through the shattered windshield as the doors open.

Masked figures step out. Demon hunters. Their weapons glint in the dim light, and they move with a practiced, lethal grace.

Shane's hand goes to his own weapon, but he doesn't draw it. He is too tired, too broken, too defeated.

The lead hunter approaches, his mask obscuring his face, his voice distorted by a voice modulator. "The book," he says. "Give us the book."

Shane looks at the book. At Marcus's body. At the hunters waiting for his answer.

"What do you want with it?" he asks.

The hunter doesn't answer. Instead, he gestures to one of his companions, who opens the back of the SUV. Inside, huddled together, are two young girls. The missing sisters. The ones they were supposed to save.

"Give us the book," the hunter repeats, "and they live. Refuse, and they die."

Shane's throat tightens. He looks at the girls—their faces pale, their eyes wide with terror—and he knows what he has to do.

He picks up the book. Its weight is familiar now, comforting, like an old friend. He holds it for a moment, feeling its warmth, its pulse, its life.

Then he tosses it to the hunter.

The hunter catches it, nods once, and turns back to the SUV. The doors close. The engine roars. And then they are gone, disappearing into the night.

Shane sits in the ruined sedan, Marcus's body beside him, the weight of his failure pressing down on his shoulders. He has lost everything—his partner, his book, his hope.

But then he remembers Raymond Cruz.

He remembers the night Raymond saved him, the night Raymond taught him that even in the darkest moments, there is always a choice. Always a way forward. He remembers the heroism—the way Raymond never gave up, never surrendered, never let the darkness win.

Shane starts the engine. The sedan groans, its tires screaming against the asphalt. And Shane drives, following the faint trail of the SUV's taillights, determined to find those girls. Determined to make things right.

The road stretches before him, dark and endless. But Shane doesn't stop. He can't. Because somewhere ahead, there are two young girls who need him. And somewhere inside him, there is still a spark of hope.

The SUV leads him through the winding streets of the city, through neighborhoods that grow progressively more run-down, more abandoned. Finally, it pulls into the parking lot of a community center—a squat, ugly building with boarded-up windows and peeling paint.

Shane parks a block away, his eyes fixed on the building. The hunters have disappeared inside, taking the girls with them. And the book. Always the book.

He sits there for a long moment, his hands still shaking, his mind racing. He should call for backup. Should wait for help. But there is no backup. There is no help. There is only him.

He opens the car door. Steps out into the night.

The community center looms before him, dark and silent. But Shane knows what waits inside. He knows what he has to do.

He walks toward the building, his footsteps echoing in the empty street. The door is unlocked, swinging open at his touch. He steps inside, his weapon drawn, his senses on high alert.

The interior is a maze of hallways and rooms, the walls covered in faded posters and children's drawings. The air smells of dust and mold and something else—something metallic, like blood.

Shane moves through the building, his footsteps silent on the worn carpet. He can hear voices ahead, muffled but distinct. The hunters. And the girls.

He follows the sound, his heart pounding in his chest. He rounds a corner and finds himself in a large room—a gymnasium, by the look of it, with basketball hoops at either end and bleachers along the walls.

The masked hunters stand in a circle in the center of the room. The girls are with them, their faces streaked with tears. And on the floor between them, the book lies open, its pages glowing with an unearthly light.

To be concluded…

ATILA