

Resurrectionists

A Greystone Tale

Lou Paduano

Eleven Ten Publishing

BUFFALO, NEW YORK
Copyright © 2016 by Lou Paduano

All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

Eleven Ten Publishing

P.O. Box 1914

Buffalo, NY 14226

Publisher's note: This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

Edited, formatted, and interior design by Kristen Corrects, Inc.

Cover art design by Kit Foster Design

First edition published 2016

ISBN-13: 978-1-944965-04-4

Other Books by Lou Paduano

The Greystone Saga

Signs of Portents

Tales from Portents

The Medusa Coin

Pathways in the Dark

A Circle of Shadows

Greystone-in-Training

Hammer and Anvil

The Gifts of Kali

The Final Gauntlet

The DSA

Season One

The Clearing

Promethean

The Bridge

Spectral Advocate

Dark Impulses

Broken Loyalties

# Table of Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Chapter Fourteen

Chapter Fifteen

Chapter Sixteeen

Chapter Seventeen

Chapter Eighteen

Chapter Nineteen

Chapter Twenty

Chapter Twenty-One

Chapter Twenty-Two

Chapter Twenty-Three

About the Author

Leave a Review

The Greystone Saga

The DSA Season One

Greystone-in-Training

# Chapter One

Kelli Andrews couldn't sleep. It was the same routine every night: an hour or two of deep sleep...and then the nightmares started. Work, the kids, bills, the never-ending holidays. Plenty to choose from but the best were the mix and match set that spanned childhood fears with the mundane nature of her life.

Emptiness greeted her rousing, the other half of the bed vacant. Marc was missing again. Kelli sat up, rubbing the dreariness out of her eyes. The clock beamed in bright red. Barely 5:00 in the morning, the sky still black. She wondered how long he had been away, if he even came to bed.

She thought this was over, that Marc worked through this. The late nights. The disconnect from everyone and everything. Sleepless nights of channel surfing and roaming the neighborhood. Almost daily since the death of his mother three months earlier.

Kelli persevered, although she had no choice in the matter. Two kids not even in double digits and a job to keep them in their modest yet suffocating mortgage. A breakdown was not in the offering for her, though she could have used a nice stretch in a padded cell, if only for a decent night's rest.

Death affected everyone differently. She hadn't shed a tear over the last few months, the loss a blessing after years of suffering from debilitating illnesses and physical pain. But her husband of twelve years took the passing hard.

Things changed a month ago. A reprieve, a return to normalcy—or so Kelli thought. Seeing the empty bed, she wondered if she was trying to convince herself more than anyone. Out of need. For the kids. For herself.

Her ankles popped as her feet connected with the soft carpet. Despite the nightmares, she was surprised how long she had slept without interruption. It showed, her back struggling to straighten, her balance precarious on her trek to the hallway. She preferred the idea of another two or three hours of rest but her bladder won out.

The door squealed upon opening and she held her breath. Waking the kids was not an option, especially with the chance of a little more sleep still in the cards even after a trip to the bathroom. And the hunt for Marc. She would check the couch first. He was most likely passed out, drool running down his chin. There was the chance he was still awake, teary-eyed and lost in memory, the television a distraction from the photo albums that had become a permanent staple of the coffee table lately.

Halfway across the hall, inching slowly like a covert operative, Kelli stopped. A figure stood at the end of the hall—a small shadow centered among the darkness. Matted brown hair and wearing Spider-Man pajamas, her son startled her with his presence.

"Grandma's here," he said, his seven-year-old voice booming in the early morning graveyard that was their home.

Kelli shook her head. "What? Quinn, baby, it's too early."

Quinn walked up to her. His hand slipped into hers and he pulled her down the hall. The bathroom faded from view, like the nightmares of the last few hours.

Kelli struggled to keep up with the boy's enthusiasm, her mind even slower to question their destination. They owned a small home, compact and single story. The hallway that led to their bedrooms and the single full bath (which would never be enough for all four of them) fed into the living room, which connected to the kitchen. The sound of movement from the latter caused her to hold back at the threshold of the former.

Quinn looked to her, puzzled, pulling harder. "Come on, Mommy."

Her confusion didn't subdue her senses. She recognized it: the sound of eggs frying on the stove and the smell of bacon sizzling on the griddle. It woke her up, the cloud of her deep sleep fading. Her smile returned.

Marc was back. Really back. For good this time. So ambitious, making up for lost time, he set to work making breakfast. A little early—by about two hours—but the effort behind it all bolstered her. Helping to keep her going after the burden of the last few months.

Her delusion ended quickly.

Lily, her four-year-old daughter, sat at the kitchen table. Quinn joined her, smiling and giggling, their plates full of food that would never be eaten. Next to her sat Marc, munching on a slice of bacon.

"What's all this?" Kelli asked, confused by the sound of cooking while everyone sat around the table.

The confusion ended with her arrival. A figure rounded the corner, stepping into the light, carrying two plates of eggs—over-easy and dabbled with enough pepper to clear your sinuses. A staple of only one person Kelli Andrews knew.

Her mother-in-law stopped, pointing at the empty table chair. "Take a seat, dear. You look pale. Have you been eating enough?"

Kelli froze, unable to think. Unable to speak. Her husband grinned, digging into his freshly prepared breakfast.

"Isn't it great, honey?"

His wife failed to agree. As she stared at the dead woman in her kitchen, she only had one response.

Kelli Andrews screamed.

# Chapter Two

Detective Greg Loren was late. As usual. The pattern that started by happenstance had grown into the man's custom. A habit, one more and more in his own control, yet completely out of reach. The same could be said of his personal grooming, to which the bare minimum was completed. A comb to his overgrown hair. No razor to his face. He opted for a ratty T-shirt from the laundry pile rather than make the trek to the Laundromat down the street. Thankfully most of the shirt was covered by the one suit jacket in his closet that didn't reek of old cigarettes, the reminder almost too powerful for the former smoker. Loren was a mess of a human, the fact more than obvious with a quick glance in the mirror—if he bothered to look at one.

He was late.

At least I remembered to brush my damn teeth this time.

The steps of the Caldwell Courthouse spanned half a block. Roman pillars of stark white separated the entrance, each one engraved with the famous speeches of the city's founders. From William Rath, the man who first named Portents back in the 1890s, to Wilbur Caldwell himself, the first judge, a man who built the law in the city from the ground up as structurally sound as the building. True men. Proud men. Men that stood for something more than themselves, making their stories captured and relayed for generations. What Loren stood for was lost in a gray cloud that had covered him for what felt like months.

Except today. Myron Jacobs, a scumbag of the worst degree, was due for his day in court. A day to put an end to his criminal career, thanks to the work of Loren. The detective was not going to let it slip away. Despite being unable to connect Jacobs to the homicide that Loren had tried to pin to him, Loren's investigation brought to light Jacobs' drug dealing operation. Loren needed the win, one way or the other. Even late to the show, this was his time to shine.

It ended quickly.

As he reached for the front door of the courthouse along Northern Boulevard, Loren was halted by a familiar face. The door opened before him and the tired eyes of Captain Alejo Ruiz greeted him.

"Hold up, Greg."

"Ruiz? I know I'm late but—"

Ruiz stopped him, pulling him away from incoming traffic. Loren caught a glimpse of District Attorney Sitwell and her colleagues glaring at him during their transition away from the doors. The pair stopped at a nearby bench, Ruiz's arms crossing his chest.

"You're always late."

Loren grinned, sitting at the bench. He fiddled with his tie, ironing out the massive wrinkles with his fingers. "So it's a fashionable thing then. Great."

"No." Ruiz sighed. "It's an annoying thing and not great. But today it doesn't matter. Or maybe it does. What the hell do I know anymore when it comes to you?"

Loren was surprised by the tone that hung on his every word—bitterness. Sadness. Concern. But worst of all, the thing Loren swore he never wanted to hear from those around him.

Pity.

The fault lay with him. He had not been an easy man to be around lately. Especially one to supervise, on or off the job. His anger ran hot, his moods soured on a dime. The reason—like the gray cloud around him, like the perpetual lateness for every event big and small—escaped him. In fact, the reason for everything seemed to escape him, including their pow-wow outside the courthouse instead of celebrating the conviction of a killer like Jacobs.

"What are you talking about, Ruiz?"

"Jacobs walked."

Loren flinched. "Bullshit."

"Greg—"

"Your sense of humor has always sucked, Ruiz, but I don't see what's funny about—"

"It's not a joke," Ruiz replied. He towered over the sitting detective, blocking the haze of the morning sun.

"I had him dead to rights," Loren snapped, hands clenched tight to his side. "The evidence was solid."

He spent weeks on the case, never able to connect him to the death of a young woman from the Knoll. It was an old girlfriend of Jacobs. No murder weapon. No witnesses. Loren was about to lose him. About to let a killer walk. Not an option for him.

So Loren had turned to Jacobs' other enterprise. Drugs. Tracking down the evidence, nailing down sources—all less than reputable, but with the right incentive they were willing to flip on Jacobs to reduce their own sentences. Most of it was circumstantial...but then Loren located Jacobs' stash—and his records. All came together to lock the arrest in place.

"The evidence is gone," Ruiz said, unable to look at the stunned detective. "Misplaced. Lost. Tucked under some rock never to be seen."

"It was in lockup. You saw it."

"I did."

"Then who the hell—?" Loren stopped, catching the concern on his friend's face. His head fell into his hands. "Dammit. They're blaming me."

Ruiz nodded. "They are."

"Did you—?"

Ruiz waved him down. "I defended you but that doesn't mean crap to these people. Sitwell is going over my head. She's been running her 'tough on drugs' platform and this looks to be a swift kick up her backside more than anyone else in terms of public profiles. She has to save face. And you...?"

"I get it," Loren muttered. "It flows downstream."

"They're talking about an internal review," Ruiz said. "Since this isn't the first case that's been blown."

Loren knew the implication: "the first case that hasn't been blown by you," Ruiz really meant. It was the second such instance in the last three months. Both connected to Jacobs and appearances even worse.

Loren didn't care. He was focused on the review. "Mathers?"

"Will be there in his Sunday best," Ruiz said.

"Great."

Ruiz's look softened; he had the eyes of a father, not a superior. "I'll do what I can."

"Ruiz," Loren said, shaking his head.

The middle-aged Hispanic waved him down. "Stop. I will. But whatever this is lately—whatever is going on with you—it doesn't play well for you. You want to talk, you know where to find me, Greg. I hope you do."

Loren turned away. "I'm fine, Captain."

"Right."

Loren watched the worried captain depart, his head low and hands buried deep in his pockets. For as much as the DA might have lost face this morning with Jacobs, Ruiz was in worse shape. No surprise, with Mathers ready to jump all over him at the first opportunity.

Something needed to change. Loren needed answers, not only to what happened to the evidence in question, but also about his lack of direction of late. The depression. The anger. All of it.

"Detective?"

A shadow fell over Loren—tall and thin, stretching over the grizzled face of the melancholy detective. Loren peered up to see the man whose gray hair had predominantly replaced a thick head of brown. Assistant District Attorney Richard Crowne stared down at him with soft, blue eyes.

"I didn't mean to intrude."

"Not at all," Loren said, shifting to the side of the bench. Richard joined him, knees popping under his tightly pressed pants. "What can I do for you...?"

"Richard. Or Rich, even. The title gets a little overblown."

Loren smirked. "It is a mouthful."

"It is," the attorney agreed. "My business card barely fits my phone number because of it."

"Not that you need people calling you."

"Please."

Loren chuckled. The pair had played the same tune for years. Friends had that effect, though the term was almost foreign to the detective. They were not companions in the traditional sense. More like bound together through a shared experience. The one that seemed to link Loren to more people than he realized.

Loss.

Richard Crowne lost his wife, Jennifer, three years earlier. She took a bullet meant for her husband and he watched her die. Loren worked the case. The killer ended up with life and no chance in hell at parole. Their time together, going over suspects and finding the one that hated Crowne most of all, cemented their bond.

Loren knew friendship wasn't the reason behind the visit today. "Is this about the case?"

"Is what?"

"You? Here right now? Is it—?"

Richard shook his head. "No. No way. Well, yes. But not the way you're thinking. Sorry."

"It's fine. Take your time."

Richard cleared his throat, setting his briefcase to the side of the bench. "I heard what happened in there and thought you might need a friend. Someone who understands sleepless nights and empty hallways. When I lost Jennifer—"

"I appreciate it, Richard," Loren shot back, stopping the man's sentiment. "I'm fine. Promise."

"I see," Richard said. His voice was soft, understanding immediately. Richard stood, reaching for his briefcase. "Greg. If you ever—"

"I don't."

"Right then. Detective." Richard nodded and started down the stairs, following Ruiz's route downtown toward the Central Precinct—where Loren needed to be next. To figure things out. The missing evidence. Jacobs.

This was supposed to be a good day.

Loren rubbed his eyes, his hands muffling the loud string of curses escaping his lips. He let the words settle in an attempt to find peace in them. Unsuccessful, Loren stood. The Caldwell Courthouse stood in the shadow of the hazy sun, tall and proud like the men behind its construction. Mocking Loren.

The frustrated detective left the steps of the courthouse, scanning the block on Northern Boulevard. Central was three blocks to the east along Evans. Central meant work. Responsibility. Loren turned west, spotting a hole-in-the-wall bar called McDuffie's.

Responsibility could wait.

# Chapter Three

Pine Woods Cemetery was not Soriya Greystone's usual stomping grounds. She preferred to stay away from the dead as often as possible. The concept of the end stirred up uncomfortable memories, a lack of control that she clung to desperately to maintain her confidence, her poise, her true power.

She had no choice in the matter, however. In typical fashion she screwed up and paid for her mistake. Running in the darkness of the graveyard that encompassed eight city blocks, she chased after her quarry. Young and much faster than she imagined, he carried a thin, wooden carving knife with an ornately crafted handle. Thick spirals dug into the wood in the shape of a crest.

It started with a murder. An older man found dead in his rat-infested apartment. Small puncture marks, tightly grouped, littered the corpse. Little blood spatter marked the scene or the body. And no blood left in the body.

Exsanguination. That put it firmly in Soriya's wheelhouse.

One other detail put her on the hunt for the young man racing through the cemetery: the knife. Out of all the puncture marks, one clear cut ran along the man's arm—fresh. Moments before his end. The old man, George Newborne, was targeted. It was personal.

That gave her a clear path, one that led her to Christian Fuller. Ten years ago his parents were killed, the murderer never caught. Or at least never jailed. Newborne was arrested for the crime but never went to trial. Insufficient evidence. Not to Fuller. Not to the lone survivor of such a horrific event.

Soriya cursed, scraping along headstones in the dark. Blood ran along her arm in a thin stream down her wrist. This should have been handled better. It would have too if Loren had shown up. They were supposed to confront Fuller together. But her calls to him went unanswered, right to voicemail. Loren didn't want to be bothered. Couldn't be bothered. It was starting to be a pattern with the man. Her so-called partner.

Still, she could have handled things. Fuller was a creature of habit. A stop at the local deli every Wednesday on his way home from work for the same overloaded sandwich. All she had to do was intercept him. She got cocky—she always got cocky. When he noticed her, he bolted down the block for the cemetery as the sun descended toward the horizon.

Idiot.

Fuller stopped, breathing hard. He leaned on a nearby tree, lurching forward as Soriya approached rapidly. The blade rose up in his hand, and the young woman skidded to a halt on the soft earth.

"Drop the blade," she yelled, hand inching for the pouch along her right hip. Pink ribbons skidded loose down her left side.

"I did what was right," Fuller said. Tears filled his eyes—the scared, lonely kid returning.

"You killed a man," Soriya replied, inching closer.

"He murdered my parents!"

"You don't know that."

Fuller shook his head, the blade just over his left arm. "I do. I've always known."

"Then you should have gone to the police."

"No. He was mine." The blade fell to his arm, Fuller's eyes wide.

"Don't!" Soriya called out.

Too late. Blood soaked the wooden blade, running down to the ornate handle.

"And so are you," Fuller finished. A spatter of blood fell to the ground. The earth shifted and moaned from the act, the sacrifice given to it. The blade might have made the cut on Newborne's body, but it didn't kill him. Something else did. The blade was just a summoning tool. The puncture marks made it clear for what.

Vampires.

The ground ripped open around Soriya. Fuller watched for only a second before fleeing the scene. Soriya noticed the blood dried to her skin down her right side.

"Great."

From out of the earth they came. Large red eyes and snapping jaws full of fangs. Their bodies the size of babies, their skin like porcelain, but deadly. And hungry for blood. Her blood.

Jenglot.

Some believed they were once human. Others believed the Jenglot were dolls brought to life through a summoning. Or through blood. To Soriya, the truth appeared to be a combination of the two theories. Not that this was a time for study—not by a long shot.

The Jenglot screamed, their voices high and shrill. Soriya ducked under the first, the ribbons from Kali swatting the next away. Fighting infants never made it on her bucket list and she sure as hell wasn't going to fall to them. One clomped down on her ankle, causing her to scream. She kicked the beast away, slamming it hard against a nearby tombstone.

"This is why I don't want kids," she muttered.

Fuller was a hundred feet away already—well on his way to an effective escape. With eyes locked on her target Soriya continued to fight through the mass of vampiric infants.

Smiling the whole time.

Fuller never saw the arm stretched out in front of him. He had been too busy looking back at his victim. By the time it came into focus it was too late. He slammed into the arm and fell back hard on the ground. The blade skittered away. Arthritic fingers snatched the wooden weapon before Fuller could recover.

"No!" the young man shouted.

Too little, too late. Mentor snapped the blade in half.

The shift came about instantly. The Jenglot, too numerous to defeat, shrank back away from the bleeding yet still swinging Soriya. Little mouths screeched in anger, their pint of blood denied them with the breaking of their link to the world. They crawled back through the open chasms in the ground surrounding her, the holes closing up behind the demons' retreat.

Soriya wiped her brow, staggering to greet her teacher. Mentor bent low, binding Fuller's hands tight behind his back.

"I had him," Soriya said. "You didn't have to—"

Mentor sighed. "Just say it, child. One time."

"Thank you," she said through gritted teeth.

He stood, a slight groan escaping him. His right leg was acting up again. "You're welcome."

Fuller glared up at her, eyes full of fury. She decked him across the cheek and he slumped to the ground, unconscious.

"I was fine, though," she said, shaking the aftershock from her knuckles.

"It looked that way to me."

"You heard what he—"

"Yes," Mentor said. He picked up the pieces of the broken blade, tucking them into his coat pocket. "Though how he came upon the blade is a mystery. I haven't seen one like it since the Luminaries left their library."

"You could ask him," she said with a grin, knowing the answer. "When he wakes up, that is."

Mentor shook his head. "I'll learn. In time. Someday you will regard patience over the thrill of the chase."

"Loren was supposed to...." She stopped, catching the glare. "I know."

"Yet you persist with the man."

"Tell me how you really feel."

Mentor shrugged then stopped. He bent low, hand resting on the headstone closest. "Strange."

"Mentor? What is it?"

His hand ran along the ground, pulling up dirt. Small grains of soil trailed between his fingers back to join its brethren. "This grave."

"One of many."

Mentor threw her a look and she yielded. "Years old, but look: fresh dirt. Recently seeded even."

"I don't understand. What does it mean?"

"I'm not sure," Mentor replied. He stood slowly, leaning hard against the stone. "I believe someone dug up this body and is trying to hide the fact."

Soriya glanced around nervously. She hated cemeteries. She hated being surrounded by the dead, reminded of the end to come. The everlasting stillness of eternity. But to disturb that peace? Who would do something like that?

She circled the stone, peering into the darkness surrounding them. The multitude of the dead. Her foot slid along the ground and felt an edge. Deeper shadows circled them.

"Mentor?"

He turned, following her gaze before joining her. They both looked into the open grave beside them then turned to four others littering the grounds nearby.

"Whatever they're doing," she said, "I don't think they're hiding it anymore."

# Chapter Four

Everything was black.

He wanted to scream, to shout into the darkness that surrounded him, but he found no voice. He could not move, his eyes unable to adjust to the thick shade. He was lost.

A sound caught his ear. The darkness shifted, growing lighter, yet the cloud remained around him. A fog settled over him then lowered further and he could see objects. Out of focus like the scents surrounding him. Becoming clearer with each breath. Lilacs. Like the ones Beth kept in a window box off the front window. Her excuse to keep an eye on the city.

He was on the rooftop. Their rooftop. He had only been up there a few times, always at Beth's will. He never took to heights. Saying no to his wife was never an option, however. He hated to disappoint her.

Yet he did. In the end.

Obscure images sharpened, the world screaming into focus. She stood on the ledge, always on the ledge. A red sundress with yellow lilies along the trim, running up her curves. Her blonde hair shimmered in the light, resting on her shoulders.

Beth.

She turned and smiled, the smile that took her away from him. "Greg."

Greg Loren woke with a start. Her voice rang in his ears and his hands fought to cover them, to block out the sound. It had been the same nightmare for weeks. Always ending the same—with his refusal to listen any further.

Afraid to listen further.

The couch groaned beneath him. His back followed suit, aching from the sag in the cushions. The wood frame of the ancient furniture begged for a reprieve that would never come. The television beamed soft light on his face. Another nameless comedy no one would remember in six months. Primetime television at its finest.

Loren rubbed his eyes, his hands scraping along his thickening beard. He needed a shave and a shower. He would settle for the latter. First, he went for the window, a stick of gum substituting his morning cigarette ritual. Filthy habit. Morning was a misnomer, though.

It was night.

He was late for work again, the afternoon spent at the bar across from the courthouse, another mistake piled on the rest. Like the Jacobs case. Like everything lately.

He didn't care.

Nor did he care about the four missed calls chiming on his cell phone, the buzzing echoing along the coffee table in the center of the room. Soriya. Late for work meant late for their planned meeting, one forgotten among the pitcher of beer and the sports talk blaring from six televisions suspended over the bar. He couldn't keep an appointment but knew every off-season move made by the Blackhawks over the last week. Priorities.

Soriya didn't need him. His role in her investigation was superfluous, the leads all stemming from her work, not his connections in the department. She was better off without him. The same with Ruiz.

Ruiz.

He needed to get to work. Needed to figure out where his head was at with the job. With everything. Loren shambled away from the window, not bothering to draw the curtain.

The bedroom sat at the back of the apartment, the shadows always staring at him during his trips to the toilet. Its use had become that of a giant closet, the floor taken over by laundry baskets of unwashed clothes. The bed remained made, had been for months, which was also the last time he decided to dry-clean the comforter and wash the unused sheets.

A monument to his former life.

He tried to sleep there once, tried to move beyond the loss of his wife. It didn't take, couldn't take. The couch was his refuge, but even that plagued him now, the nightmares still fresh in his mind.

"Greg."

Beth called for him. Almost begging him...but for what?

He should have left it all behind. The apartment, the furniture, everything. Years ago. But he didn't, couldn't. Not with the chance of some link to his wife, some clue into what happened to her so long ago. Some sign that answered all his questions about her death.

Loren moved for the shower, throwing off his ratty T-shirt, knowing one would soon replace it from the laundry basket of unwashed clothes. The shower would be enough. Enough to drown out the sound of his wife's voice. For a little while at least. Never for long.

The past refused to abate.

Like his nightmares. And the angel caught in them.

# Chapter Five

Richard Crowne missed his wife.

Their marriage was the bright spot in a troubled life of obligation and personal responsibility. Jennifer found a way to lighten the mood, to crack the right joke at the right time with the right people. No matter the situation, she found no discomfort. Nothing she would not do to help her husband thrive in his increasingly political position in the city.

A bullet ended that.

They were headed to dinner, a simple engagement, one planned for just the two of them. Unfortunately, there were hands to shake, questions to be asked, and the flow of favors to pocket for a later date.

But it started with dinner and catching up. She did most of the talking at these occasions. His preference. He loved being able to just listen to someone, rather than analyze their every word, monitor their posture, catch every inflection for nervous tics, for tells of a less than truthful nature.

Never with Jennifer.

Outside the restaurant, dinner was forgotten when the crashing sound of the bullet sliced through their laughter. It took him by surprise, the sharp pain in his right shoulder. He fell, reeling back, Jennifer falling with him, locked in his grip. She cried out for him, covering his body. More thunder ripped through the air, once, twice and a final third time.

He only saw her. Her brown eyes. Her ruby lips. The way her black hair sparkled under the starlight. She rubbed his cheek, the cold of her fingertips shocking him, dulling the pain in his shoulder. A single tear dripped down from wide orbs of light and then they closed.

He screamed her name. He shook her off and cradled her close. She had shielded him from the final assault. She saved him at the expense of her life.

He screamed for a long time.

Three years did little to change his feelings. The loss. The pain in his right shoulder when the weather turned bitter cold. He missed her, and nothing would ever change that.

Hands patted his back as he took his position in the closest pew of the church. Smiles from well-wishers, passing on messages of good luck with each nod and utterance. The church was busier than usual. It always was when they performed the ceremony.

The Andrews family sat across from him, a family reunited with a recent loss of their own. They were surrounded by others, patrons both recent and from the start of the project, all with a look of wonderment on their faces. Richard shared the same look.

It was time.

The altar was ready, the figure upon it covered by a white sheet. The room hummed, the great machines beneath the church whirring to life. It caused a slight vibration along the stone pillars stretching to the roof. Richard followed them to the ceiling. Ornate glass replaced masonry, allowing everyone to peer out into the night sky of Portents through tinted glass stained blood red.

A hand fell upon Richard's shoulder. He turned to see the hooded figure before him, only his thick, black beard noticeable under the dim lights. The Founder. The man who started the endeavor, the man who found Richard, and who saved him from the torment of his life without Jennifer.

They met at a fundraising gala downtown in passing, sharing stories of loss. From that first connection, Richard had come to know the Founder as a friend and more. It all led to this moment.

Richard's moment.

"It's time, Richard," the Founder said, and the world stopped. "Are you ready?"

Richard could not find the words. A simple nod escaped him, his eyes cast to the figure on the altar. The figure he waited three years to see again.

He was ready. He had been since the first crack of thunder. Since learning about the church from the Founder. Since he first witnessed the work being done by the Church of the Second Coming.

Since he first saw one of them rise.

He tried to move on, tried not to let his wife's death stop him from living. But he couldn't. He missed her too much. He needed her back.

It was time for her to return.

# Chapter Six

Greg Loren never dreamed of being a paper pusher. Never once in his thirty-five years of life did he feel the pull to the corporate world, the sit behind a desk and shuffle reports around to look busy sort of situation. Never. Yet as the stapler clanked under his tightened grip, he felt like nothing more than a corporate shill.

Paperwork was a necessary evil. Of course it was in a world piled high with accountability. The police, especially in the modern age, where every mistake found its way into the national spotlight, had to cover their asses as much as the next guy. Witness testimony stamped and approved next to arrest profiles, and situational reports left the exhausted detective feeling empty.

And hungry.

The malaise washing over Loren was the worst part. He dreamed of the job as a kid. Working the beat then getting his shield. Nothing could have been better. Saving lives. Catching killers. Better than any television show could depict. All completely real and made for him. Yet he failed to remember the name of the dead kid with the smear of cheddar cheese topping on his pants or the killer with the munchies. Gone. Lost. Like Loren. Another piece missing of the puzzle and the grizzled detective had no inkling why, or how to snap back into the world.

No one questioned him. Not even after manhandling the stapler for the last three minutes across from the break room. There were stares. There always were. Ever since Beth. Ever since he separated himself from the pack, a self-imposed social exile.

Another mistake. Another regret. Sometimes, anyway.

"Greg, old buddy," a voice called out, joined by a hand slapping his arm. The stapler fell to the table, scattering a pile of paperclips along the surface and to the floor below. Loren gritted his teeth, glaring at the appendage locked on his shirtsleeve.

"Standish?" he asked in a low growl. "The hand?"

Robert Standish sneered, his fangs showing. He was a beached whale with the grin of a shark. His gut protruded atop the tireless efforts of his belt, jiggling with his laughter.

"Always the same, Greg," Standish replied. He stirred a cup of coffee, the heat causing little beads of sweat along his brow.

Standish was Loren's former partner, their time together better left forgotten. They met under unusual circumstances, but his initial impression of the man never left.

He did not trust him, and he sure as hell did not like him.

Standish chuckled. "Except not quite the same from what I've heard. Trouble in paradise?"

He pointed to Ruiz's office at the end of the hall. For as long as Loren had been stationed at Central in the Detective Bureau, Ruiz's door remained open. Minus the occasional meeting or angry phone call, it was a policy with the man, an invitation to keep the lines of communication open at all times.

It was closed now and had been all shift, since their time at the courthouse that morning.

"A misunderstanding," Loren muttered with a shrug. "Your concern is touching."

Loren started for his office, pulled back by the man. "Hey now," Standish replied. "No one likes to see it happen."

Loren stopped, looking back at the man curiously. "And you have, haven't you, Standish?"

Standish went through a similar bout of missing evidence syndrome on three separate occasions. The review board found no evidence of wrongdoing on the overweight detective's part, and the case was dropped and forgotten by all except for Loren, who transferred away from the man as quickly as possible.

Loren's decision stung Standish at the time, the connotation of the man's guilt due to the request. Loren didn't care. The work came first, and being dragged down by the ineptitude of a partner with a shady history was not how he intended to spend his days.

Only now he was the inept one in the eyes of the department, wasn't he?

"Still standing though, ain't I?" Standish shrugged, throwing a friendly elbow. He leaned in closer, the smell of coffee sickening Loren almost as much as the man's grin. "How about you, Greg?"

Loren nodded, collecting his work. "I'd be lying if I said this has been fun, Standish."

"Greg," Standish said, reaching into his back pocket. He pulled out an open envelope. "You dropped this."

"What?" Loren snatched it from his hands. A letter from the sixth floor, which meant only one location: the commissioner's office.

"Two days isn't much time to figure things out, but with a friend like Ruiz there, I'm sure you don't need to worry. Not you."

Standish held the word Ruiz out when he spoke, as if even attempting the Hispanic's name gave him hives. It always bothered Loren, the man's ignorance toward everyone who didn't line up with his preferences. Racial. Gender. Everything. Loren's concern lay firmly on the letter in his hands. Two days until his review. He hadn't even thought of a defense, the need for one not even entering it. Two days to figure out how this happened to him again and why.

Including why Standish knew about it first.

Loren held the letter between them. "Stay the hell out of my mail, Standish."

Loren stomped down the hall, dropping his report in the bin outside Ruiz's office without looking. Standish's sneer drove him further and faster until he reached his office door. His head rested against the wooden frame, the letter tight between his fingers. It listed the commissioner and Mathers as heading up the inquiry. No help from Ruiz. Not a good sign.

The knob twisted lightly in his hand. He rubbed his eyes deeply. "Dammit. What else?"

When he opened his eyes there she was, sitting on his desk, feet dangling over the tiled floor. Soriya Greystone tilted her head, smiling all the same.

"Not the best way to start, but let's see where the night goes."

# Chapter Seven

What are you doing here?

The same question repeated in his head as Loren turned the wheel of the cruiser into the parking lot outside Pine Woods Cemetery. He had cases. Quite a few, in fact, yet he had dumped them for an errand with Soriya. One out of his wheelhouse—not that he minded the switch from murderers. Homicide was a way of life but not the sum total.

Didn't mean he wanted to make a habit of chasing grave robbers either. After hearing Soriya's discovery, her interest in tracking down the culprits involved, Loren jumped at the escape from his own work. Swept up in her enthusiasm, the same way it had been for the last four years. Soriya's interest meant that there was something to it, something different, something unique. A balm from his crumbling life.

"You haven't said much," Soriya said. She sat impatiently in the passenger seat of the requisitioned patrol cruiser, her head almost completely out the window to feel the air. She hated driving around the city, so used to barreling along the streets, be it from the sewers below or the rooftops above. Out in the open air nonetheless. Loren hated feeling like an anchor around her, but he also lived in the real world. That meant cars, traffic, and road rage—the fundamentals of Portents.

He remained silent, looking around the parking lot. He spotted the security office at the far end and clicked off the headlights.

"Not that you have to," she continued, ducking inside as Loren rolled the window up. "But I have grown accustomed to your banter over time."

"Bad day," Loren replied. The engine went dead, the keys rattling against his palm. "And no, talking about it is not what I'm after."

"I figured that one out."

The night air was pungent, full-bodied. Rain was coming and soon. Not the place Loren wanted to be when it happened. Pine Woods filled the horizon in front of him, the light traffic rushing behind him. He had attended a number of services at the cemetery, mostly for work. He knew the layout, understood the manpower involved in keeping up with the grounds. The lapses in security were no surprise, not with the amount of land to cover and the lack of boots on the ground. No excuse, however, and he was grateful Beth rested comfortably four miles east at Black Rock.

Beth. His shoulders slumped with her name. He sighed, turning away from the dead. "Why bring this to me? I'm sure Mentor would have preferred—"

"Anything to keep me on the leash."

"True," Loren said, remembering the old man's penchant for controlling situations, including how he was addressed. Mentor. Like something from a damn comic book. "Not that you would listen."

"Exactly." She smirked.

"Not an answer though."

She stopped short of the door to the security office. "Questions need asking. You ask them nicer than me."

"Fair enough."

"Are you sure you're—?"

"I'm fine," he interrupted, pushing past her for the door. "Let's say hello."

It opened before his second knock. In the doorway stood a white-whiskered old man in full uniform, one hand hiking up his belt with each breath.

Loren cleared his throat, badge in hand. "Detective Loren and my associate." He shifted away from Soriya as he spoke, feeling her glare on his backside. "We have some questions."

The old man's face dropped, his cheeks jiggling as he spoke. "You know, don't you?"

"You might say the word is out."

He nodded, stepping aside. "Best come in then."

Loren and Soriya stepped in and the door closed. Cold air hit them like a wall, blowing from the fans set up in all four corners of the shed. Two computer stations sat in the center of the small office, camera feeds lining the back wall. A back room jutted off to the right, most likely a locker room for equipment, uniforms, and the occasional nap. Loren eyed the coffee maker then settled for a slice of gum with a roll of his baby browns. He missed smoking.

"The first one was about a week ago," the old man started. The name placard tacked to his chest read Sheppard. His eyes were sullen, his voice low, as if others might be listening. "Since then we've noticed older ones. Fresh soil over old bones."

"How many are we talking about here?"

Sheppard's eyes fell. "Eight."

"With no reports?" Loren asked loudly. Soriya remained silent, pacing the outskirts of the shed. "How is this not on the news?"

"We couldn't...." The old man stopped, shuffling to a seat in front of the security feeds. He continued the perpetual fight between his pants and gravity. "We notified the families and asked their permission to keep this internal. To try and flush out whoever could do such a horrible thing. To upset the community—"

"You mean your clientele, don't you?"

"Not mine," Sheppard answered, shaking his head. "I just work here."

"As security. Not likely if this keeps going on."

"But it is," Sheppard said. "And not just here."

Loren turned to the old man, eyes wide. "What?"

"I thought..." the security guard mumbled. He shuffled through a pile of reports by the computer, trying to avoid the detective's ire. "When you asked, I figured you knew already."

"I don't."

"We don't," Soriya joined in, and the old man jumped from his seat, away from her.

"Multiple cemeteries have been hit. Multiple times."

Loren and Soriya shared a glance. "How many are we talking about here?"

Sheppard wiped the sweat from his forehead. "Close to thirty last I heard."

Thirty. Thirty people dug up and extricated from their final resting places. How? And for what reason?

"Soriya?" Loren asked, knowing she too held the same set of questions. There was a reason she was interested. Lines drawn between what was acceptable in what she deemed her city. Murder was understood. Theft, a part of nature. Even with the unusual circumstances typically handled by the pair. But grave robbery? Unsettling the dead? A heinous act shared by the look on her face and in her clenched fists.

"I need names," Loren said, sensing her urgency. "For all of them."

"I only have our own," Sheppard said, moving back to his pile of papers, jostling the computer desks with his girth. "I'd have to make some calls."

Loren lifted the receiver and held it out to him. "Do it now. I need that list."

# Chapter Eight

Riverfront bridged the pier and downtown. Residential neighborhoods rolled uphill, trees lining the roads. Modest homes ran in tight packs on narrow streets, growing more and more extravagant with each turn toward downtown.

Forbes Avenue ran the gap, Cape Cods interspersed with ranch-style domiciles. All well maintained, the community lush with greenery along the property lines. All uniform yet with unique flair. A garden walk-up for one, hanging baskets on the next, all accentuating the lighter side of Portents.

It took a full day to receive the list from Sheppard. A day lost to nightmares and aggravation. A phone call from three union reps about his upcoming review, something Loren still hadn't cared to put much thought into. He patiently declined their involvement, at least with the first two. By the time the third came in, he simply hung up. He knew those on the other end of the phone were protecting their own interests more than anything. The only one that could help Loren was himself and he couldn't be bothered.

Especially when the list arrived.

The count came to thirty-two. Sheppard was barely able to pass along the information let alone believe it. Loren was happy to leave the old man with that thought, hoping the internal investigation might actually become a priority in their eyes. Loren had his own thoughts on the matter, but they amounted to little. More questions than anything, part of the reason he made the trip to Riverfront with Soriya in tow.

Not that she was happy about it.

"How many is this?" she whined, her shoes squeaking around him, drowning out the sound of his own chewing. Watermelon flavor. Filthy habit. "I lost count an hour ago, Loren."

"Three."

She stopped outside the short white picket fence. "Liar."

He sighed. "Literally three."

The first two went nowhere. No surprise to Soriya who pointed it out with each step to the next stop. Loren was surprised though. People, although deceased, were missing. Their loved ones seemed detached from the news, unwilling or unable to discuss the matter. It didn't make sense. He thought for sure the father who lost his daughter in a car accident or the man down on Forbes whose mother passed three months earlier would have something to share. Even if only a minute of their time. Instead, he and Soriya met slamming doors and nothing but resistance. Hoping for some sign, some insight into the bizarre wave of crime afflicting the dead, they walked toward the next name on the list.

Much to Soriya's chagrin. She hated this part of the work. The actual work. When there wasn't some threat in front of her to punch and kick, some monster running around for her to sentence with the damn stone attached to her hip, she was a ball of tension. Always seeing the worst—always waiting for it, too. Sad part was she tended to be right.

Loren opened the fence and ushered her inside. "Try and suck it up, Soriya."

"But this is—"

He waved her off, noting the shadow in the front window watching their approach. "No more talking, Soriya."

A gentle knock was quickly answered by a short woman with thick glasses. She kept the door ajar only slightly.

"Yes?"

"Susan Barton? Detective Greg Loren and my associate—"

"Bodyguard."

Loren tossed the smug woman a look before returning to Susan with a disarming smile. "Colleague. We were hoping to ask you a few questions about your late husband? Thomas?"

"I don't see—"

"I understand his remains are missing," Loren continued, pressing closer to the slowly closing door. "Were you aware of this?"

Her eyes fell. "They called me. Yes."

"And you were fine with it?"

"They were looking for my Tommy," Susan said, fixing her glasses to the bridge of her nose. Her eyes remained low, away from the questioning detective. "Did they find him?"

"Not yet, I'm afraid," Loren said. He leaned on the frame beside the door, catching Soriya's wavering eyes, watching over the house curiously. "Could we step inside, ma'am? There are just a few more items to go over here."

"No."

Loren shook his head, surprised at the sudden chill in the air. "I'm sorry?"

"As well you should be," Susan replied sharply. "This is a private matter and should be handled as such."

"Mrs. Barton, please—"

The door slammed shut, and the lights flicked off. Their time was finished. Loren stepped back, hands on his hips.

"That went well."

"Want me to kick the door down?"

Loren sighed. "I have enough problems right now. Thanks."

Three strikes on the night and twenty-nine more potentials on the list. If the first three responded like Susan Barton, what chance did they have with the rest? And why shut him out at all? What was he missing?

"She's hiding something," Soriya said, leading them off the porch.

"You said that about the last two," Loren muttered, looking back at the closed door, wondering if he should knock again. He shook his head, leaving the porch for the stone walkway.

"Because it's true."

"It could be anything, Soriya. They could be hiding the fact that their home is a pigsty. Maybe hiding a lover they don't want mentioned in an official police investigation—which this is not by the way, because I don't handle grave robberies. Not yet, anyway. Or maybe, just maybe, these people are grieving and this whole thing opened up a ton of old wounds for them."

Soriya huffed, arms crossing her chest. "You don't believe that for a second. Any of it."

"I don't know what to think about this case. Come on."

She refused to budge, stamping her feet on the ground. "To the next one? How will that go any better?"

"What do you propose?"

"Anything but this," she yelled. Her arms swung out in exasperation. "Doing something to prevent another. Just doing something."

"This is doing something. You don't like it is all."

"Don't give me the line, Loren."

"This is the job, kid."

"Yeah. That one." Soriya turned away, the breeze catching her hair and whirling it around her like the ribbons down her left arm. Dancing in the dark. "Fine. You follow your list."

"And you?" Footsteps approached and he caught sight of a woman walking down the street.

"I'll let you know what I find out."

Loren turned back and Soriya was gone. Lost to the shadows, like always. "Great," he muttered. "Dammit, Soriya."

Frustrated and hungry, Loren shuffled down the stone pathway to the sidewalk and the white picket fence. So inviting, yet an illusion, like the answers he sought. The woman out for a stroll stood on the other side and he almost collided with her, lost in thought.

"Sorry."

"My fault," she said in little more than a whisper. Dried tears clung to her reddened cheeks. Her jacket sat opened, the shoelaces of her sneakers whipping around with each step. She left somewhere in a hurry.

"Ma'am? Can I—?"

"You spoke to my husband. Marc Andrews."

"I did but—"

"He wouldn't say anything, wouldn't tell you, but I will."

"Tell me what?" Loren asked.

"About the bodies," she said. She peered up and down the block nervously then leaned close to the detective, whispering, "They're bringing them back to life."

# Chapter Nine

Loren smiled to the brunette behind the counter, then dropped a fiver in the empty tip jar. A mumble of thanks left her lips before she went back to cleaning the spotless counter. The exhausted detective took a sip from his steaming cup of darkness, letting it burn all the way down. Then he grabbed the cup next to his and carried both to the booth on the far side of the diner and his waiting companion.

Kelli Andrews. The wife of Marc Andrews, the man he had interviewed earlier that evening. He said he had lost his mother for the second time in the last three months—but he hadn't, according to the distraught woman in the window booth.

He placed the cup in front of Kelli, sliding across from her, the bench squealing under his weight. "Don't ask me if they got it right. I had enough trouble trying to pronounce it."

Kelli smiled. It was a sad smile that aged her in the bright lights of the diner. Her hands cupped the half coffee, half who-knows-what mixture—how they came up with these drinks was beyond the dated detective. She took a long sip. Loren watched her closely while dumping three packets of sugar in his small beverage.

"Thank you, detective," Kelli said, sliding the cup back to the center of the table.

"It's Greg. And you're welcome."

Her shoes tapped a beat under the table, her eyes unable to peel away from the clock on the far wall for more than ten seconds at a stretch. Kelli Andrews wasn't supposed to be here. The more time allowed to lapse meant more time for her to realize that fact. More time to fall in line with the rest of Loren's evening.

"Kelli, I know—"

She waved him off. "I know how it sounds."

They're bringing them back to life. Loren tried to hide his own feelings on the matter, but failed miserably. "Bringing people back from the dead? Only one way it sounds, unfortunately."

"I've seen it," she pleaded, begging to be believed.

"Your mother-in-law, right?"

She nodded. "Three months ago. She went in her sleep. Peaceful. She had been in such pain that her death was a blessing. Not to my husband, though. He became detached. Got lost for a bit. Little to no sleep. Long walks in the dark. I worried about him."

With good reason. Portents wasn't safe after the sun went down, though most didn't realize the true reason why. Loren stirred his coffee absentmindedly. "Something changed?"

"I didn't know what at first. He was just back and I was so thankful for it. The kids were too. Laughing and playing. He met someone down our street, he said."

"You're talking about Susan Barton?"

"Yes," Kelli said after another satisfying sip. "But nothing scandalous, which I hate to admit was my first thought."

"In this day and age—"

"I know," she interrupted. "She lost her husband a year ago. Heart attack. Talking with her helped him. I thought it did, anyway. There were still the long walks, the sleepless nights, but it was different now. Like he had a purpose. If I had known...."

She trailed off, staring out into the darkness. Loren joined her, giving her the time, enjoying the silence. Few cars sped by outside. One sat parked on the far side of the street. A beat-up Chevy. It looked familiar. Loren took a long sip of liquid fuel, shaking off the lack of sleep. The last thing he needed was to start feeling paranoid, even with the connections Kelli made.

"Kelli."

She shook her head, tears in her eyes. "I saw her. In my kitchen. He brought her back with these people he's met. They are bringing them all back. But that's impossible...isn't it?"

Loren's hand reached for hers. "Let me take you home. I can ask your husband a few questions. Straighten the whole thing out."

"That won't be necessary, Greg."

A shadow grew along the table. Both turned to see Richard Crowne approach, followed by two large men in trench coats. Another pair took up position at the entrance of the diner.

"Richard? What are you—?"

Kelli's eyes flared. "You."

"Kelli?" Loren asked, eyes shifting between her and the newcomer, his suit worth more than the detective made in six months. "You know this man?"

"He's one of them," she spat, pulling back to the wall. "One of the people with my husband. At their church."

Richard grinned, his hands out and waiting for the woman in the booth. "Mrs. Andrews, you're distraught. Please come with us. Your family misses you."

Despite her silent refusal, her head shaking frantically, one of the men behind Richard moved for her. He snatched her wrist, clutching it tight, and pulled her out of the booth.

"Richard, what the hell are you doing?" Loren tried to stand, Kelli's terror filled eyes stabbing at him. A hand fell on his shoulder, forcing him back on the bench of the booth, the other silent member of Richard's crew keeping him in place.

"Sit, Greg," Richard said, calmly joining him at the table. "This doesn't concern you."

"Detective, please..." Kelli begged while being pulled across the restaurant. One of the men by the door joined the first to assist. No one else budged in the restaurant. The staff looked the other way. The tip jar was overflowing.

"You're not well, Mrs. Andrews," Richard called out, trying to calm the frantic woman. "We want to help."

Kelli kicked and screamed, her cries echoing even through the closed door once outside. The final member of Richard's crew joined him and Loren at the table, leaning close to their ringleader.

"Take her home," Richard whispered. "I'll be there soon."

The man nodded, joining his silent brethren outside in the parking lot. Kelli's screams faded. Lost in the darkness. Loren felt the pressure on his shoulders. He wasn't going anywhere. Not yet.

"I apologize, Greg. Not what I wanted you to see."

"Too late for that," Loren snapped. "What's to stop me from carting your ass down to Central? You and your goons?"

Richard smiled. The woman behind the counter walked up and delivered a cup of coffee. The attorney's eyes never left Loren as he pulled the cup close for a long sip. "An offer."

"Pass."

"You'll want to hear me out, Greg. You of all people."

Loren gritted his teeth. "You're part of this. Digging up corpses."

Richard shrugged. "A crude act, but necessary. For the work."

"What work?"

"The work of God, Greg," Richard replied, leaning close, his eyes shining under the lights of the diner. "The work of miracles. Miracles like you've never seen."

Loren said nothing, fighting the urge to reach across the table and grab his so-called friend. He needed answers. It was why he was in the diner in the first place. But this? Miracles of God? Did he even know the real Richard Crowne?

"I know that look," Richard said, reading his face. "I shared that look for awhile but then I realized the truth. It saved me, Greg. It can save you too. Will you let me save you, Greg?"

"What the hell are you talking about, Richard?"

"I can show you."

Richard nodded slowly, and Loren felt the pressure on his shoulder dissipate. The silent man stepped away from the table, his brisk steps carrying him out the door to their waiting car. When he returned he stopped at the entrance, holding the door for someone.

A woman stepped inside, a thin coat around her slender frame. Her heels clicked with each step along the tile floor of the diner. Catching sight of her at once, Loren peered back to Richard in confusion then back to the woman. His mouth fell open, and Richard's smile grew wide.

"Impossible," Loren muttered.

The woman slid into the booth. Her fingers slid between Richard's and he pulled her close. "You remember my wife, Jennifer?"

# Chapter Ten

The squealing sound echoing through the street outside the diner was not the late night traffic skirting up the Knoll for the Expressway. Nor was it the pedestrians hooting and hollering at their freedom under the bright moonlight, lashing out against curfews and rules. It was the sound of Robert Standish's head slamming against his steering wheel.

He had been following Loren all night. After reading the review letter, it was an easy choice to make: follow the man and see if he had any fight left in him. Everyone saw the changes over the last few months—hell, probably the last few years. Loren always had a short fuse, ever since the loss of his wife, but the way he systematically wrote off every friend in the department—with the exception of that damn captain—Standish knew a winning bet when he saw one.

His bookies told him so all the time.

Loren was a man lost, one deserving to be knocked down further. From their very first meeting, one that ended with an unconscious Standish on the floor of the Second Precinct, payback was in the cards. Their partnership served as little more than his first opportunity but Loren always managed to skirt away from conflict. Again, the influence of Ruiz. Protection from above. But now?

It was Loren's turn to play the fool. The lout. The loser.

Standish followed his target nonetheless. Insurance. Whatever case Loren managed to snag with the help of the harlot that was there the night the two officers first met—giving Standish a welt on his cheek, one never forgotten—it kept Loren moving, distracted.

Good. Or so Standish thought.

Until the diner.

Loren's first guest—a woman, attractive but plump along the thighs and a bigger rump than Standish preferred—made him curious. They appeared to share a heated discussion, but were interrupted by another player. Standish stared at him, then banged his head against the steering wheel in frustration.

Richard Crowne. Assistant District Attorney Crowne.

A mouthful, but one that resonated with the officer. What was he doing there? Meeting Loren secretly in the middle of the night off the beaten path? Why?

"What the hell are you two talking about, Greg, old buddy?"

Did he know? Could he have figured it out? Standish cursed his enthusiasm at finding the review letter, at confronting Loren just to dig the knife deeper into the man's gut. The idiot.

Standish started the car. He needed to move, to think. Jacobs still owed him for the save at the courthouse. Standish wanted his money, and closing accounts seemed to be the best play. Especially if Loren figured things out.

Loren was not supposed to be engaged. He was supposed to be distant, detached and lost. He needed him that way. He needed him seen by the department as a man at the edge, the hairpin trigger about to explode.

It was time for Loren to fall.

Standish put the car in drive and shifted into the light traffic up the Knoll. Inside the diner, the district attorney and Loren were lost in conversation. Planning and plotting. Standish sneered.

It was time to make a few plans of his own.

# Chapter Eleven

Soriya Greystone hoped Loren enjoyed her performance. The drama behind it, the over-the-top yelling in the dead of night so everyone heard, especially the woman in the small Cape Cod in the Riverfront district. Mostly, though, the young woman tucked behind a thick row of bushes hoped Loren saw through it all.

Susan Barton was hiding something. After three poorly received interviews, Soriya was convinced of the fact. She needed answers, and the right track to get them ignored Loren's procedures. This is the job only went so far. Even Loren could have told her that, but instead he half-assed the work. The way he had for weeks, if not months. They were going to have to talk about that. Eventually.

At the moment, however, Soriya had better things to do. Loren's departure with a strange woman gave Soriya the time necessary to double back on the house and curl up in the shadows. After hours of waiting her body ached for release, joints stiff from the lack of any movement. Mentor asked for patience. She gave him patience.

It paid off. In spades.

Susan Barton slipped out into the night, a light shawl covering her shoulders and neck. Another figure joined her, tall and lanky, his back to the snooping woman in the bushes. He wore a wide-brimmed hat and heavy coat, escorting her up the walkway and down the street.

"I knew someone was in there," Soriya said, inching out of the bushes. "But why hide him?"

Was Loren right? Was she simply ashamed about moving on with her life after the loss of her husband? Were the rest the same? Their loved ones forgotten to the past, allowing them to reclaim their own lives?

She kept her distance, always close enough to keep the pair of midnight strollers in sight. Another mistake like the Christian Fuller case was the last thing Soriya needed. I can be patient, Mentor. I've got patience coming out of my ass on this one.

They stopped seven blocks away at an unimpressive corner lot home to a modestly built church. It appeared run down from the front, its use limited in terms of services. Yet Mrs. Barton and her companion were not alone in their approach to the holy place. Dozens of others gathered, arm in arm with loved ones. They greeted each other with smiles and open hands, guiding others to the double-door entrance.

Soriya remained outside, letting the worshipers enter. She climbed to the roof of the small coffee shop across the street, getting the lay of the land. Despite appearances, the church was more involved than Soriya imagined from the ground. The roof opened up, shielded by glass stained in a deep crimson red with black grids throughout. Work had been done to the place recently. New stone archways. Elaborate carvings along the towers to the rear.

"It's a little late for a church service, isn't it?" Soriya asked. "Midnight Bingo league?"

She left the safety of the roof, sneaking quietly over to the church. Soriya ducked along the side of the structure, opposite the small parking lot, and found a side entrance. It had been chained shut, bolted with a large lock. She grinned. Her finger grazed the stone at her hip, the light beaming from its surface.

Strength rippled up her arm. The lock snapped in her hand. The chain loosened and the door opened gently to avoid the loud wrenching noises.

After ducking inside, Soriya found herself on a lower level to the church. The dull hum of machines, their fans whirring to remove excess heat from the room, drowned out all other noise. Soriya turned away from the noise, passing a lavatory on the left before coming to a stairwell. Chatter from the patrons gathered above, little more than murmurs. She followed the sounds, sticking close to the wall.

Susan Barton stood at the top of the stairs, her companion close to her side. They held hands, squeezing each other.

"Tommy, I missed you so much."

"I know," the man replied, his face still shadowed from Soriya.

Susan smiled, pulling him toward the main hall of the church. "Don't ever leave me again."

"Never."

They kissed before entering the church proper. Everyone else waited inside. The doors closed behind her, engulfing Soriya in darkness. She inched to the glass dividing the entrance with the nave of the church. She stayed low, afraid of interruptions from both sides.

"Tommy?" she muttered, scanning the pews. "Her husband's name was Thomas."

Soriya's eyes flared, everything coming into focus. Marc Andrews, the man that had stonewalled them prior to Susan Barton. He stood with his two children and an older woman. Not his wife. He had lost someone too—his mother, Loren had said.

Beyond them, upon the vestibule, was an altar. The stone resting upon it appeared scarred from age. Ancient. Out of place from the rest of the room, imported from somewhere else. Behind it, carvings littered the wall, all indiscernible from the rest except for one in the center. A dove. Rising from the ground.

Rising.

"Oh, no," Soriya said, falling back for the stairs. She needed to get out of there. She wanted answers but never had she imagined what secrets they were hiding.

"What are you people doing?"

# Chapter Twelve

The review ended early. Ruiz assumed any meeting with Mathers and the commissioner included a catered lunch and possibly dinner—all this mixed in with off-color humor not fit for print and the occasional circle jerk. Only after this would they actually work. With Loren's involvement, however, Mathers was all business. He hated the detective, one of the few to earn his ire, if for no other reason than he was Ruiz's friend.

It went as expected. For the most part. Ruiz did what he could, said what he could, pushed back when he could, but it wouldn't be enough. Mathers preached until his face looked like a cherry, quoting Bible passages as if they had a clear bearing on events. Ruiz hoped the lecture played as horribly as it looked but knew it would be enough to win the attention of their superiors. What didn't help matters, what surprised Ruiz more than anything, was Loren's silence.

The beaten captain watched his friend depart the proceedings and stop at the closest drinking fountain. Loren looked terrible, as if sleep decided to take a vacation from his schedule with no return date in sight. Personal grooming joined the strike, the man's beard uneven and itchy just from the look of it. His hair dangled over his face as he drank from the lukewarm dispenser. He splashed water on his cheeks, rubbing his eyes deeply. He settled on the wall adjacent, popping a stick of gum between his lips.

Ruiz rolled his eyes, stomping over to Loren. He pointed down the hall. "My office. Now."

Loren followed slowly, and Ruiz held the door open for him before slamming the thin oak shut. The silent detective crashed on the couch to the right. Ruiz paced maniacally around the enclosed space. Each pass unsettled the piles of paperwork on his desk, files falling to the floor in a heap.

"That pompous ass," Ruiz muttered, hands behind his back. "That wasn't a hearing, it was a damn execution. Mathers. If I could wrap my hands around his throat...."

Loren snapped the gum between his teeth. Ruiz hated the sound, and cringed with each pop. The detective kept his head low, between his knees, hands clasped in front of him. His eyes were distant. Lost.

"We'll fight this, Greg," Ruiz continued, his pace slowing. "I'll dispute it until I'm blue in the face. Something goes missing on his watch and we're to blame? Bull. Commissioner can have my badge before I roll over for that prick."

Still nothing from his friend. Ruiz let out a long sigh, circling the desk. He pulled his chair around, settling on the deflated cushion that caused more pain than comfort most days.

"Where are you right now, Greg?"

Loren stopped snapping his gum. "What do you mean?"

His eyes were an abyss. Dark as night. His friend was falling and there wasn't a damn thing Ruiz could do.

"You just took it," Ruiz replied. "You. No patented snark. No sarcasm. Not a damn word."

Loren settled deeper into the couch. "There wasn't anything to say."

"Are you kidding me? There was everything to say!" Ruiz shouted. "They want to railroad you out of here. Put a giant sign on you that says, 'Here's the problem in the department but it's all good now. We fixed it.' Evidence be damned."

Loren shrugged, turning to the window. Gray skies settled into the area overnight. The first drops of rain greeted them. The storm arrived, building with each passing cloud.

"Still nothing?" Ruiz asked, astonished at the lack of fight in his friend.

Loren stood, reaching for the door. "Ruiz."

"Sit down," Ruiz commanded. "Ass on the damn couch."

Loren's hand fell away. He sat, chewing his gum. He wasn't pleased. Ruiz failed to care at the moment.

"Out with it," Ruiz said.

Loren shook his head, hands running the length of his thighs. He kept his eyes everywhere else, refusing to make contact with the man in the center of the room. He spoke with a distant voice. "Do you...do you think people can come back, Ruiz?"

"Come back? Greg, what are you—?"

"From the dead, Ruiz," Loren said, finally looking at the captain. "With everything we've seen in this damn city over the years, I mean...is it possible?"

"What?" Ruiz straightened in his chair. His previous concern was quickly turning to fear. "Greg, I don't know what you've been—"

"I saw something," he said. "Someone. She couldn't have been there but she was. I don't.... How is it possible?"

"It isn't, Greg. It can't happen."

"I know," Loren said. He stood, hands wringing before him as he settled by the window, looking out at the gloom covering the city. "You're the church-goer. My faith couldn't fill a thimble, but you? All their talk about resurrection?"

"Those are stories," Ruiz said. "I know, God strike me down. The idea of the Second Coming? Just a story."

Loren turned back to him. "That's where you draw the line? Heaven and Hell work for you but the Day of Judgment is a fantasy? How do you get to pick and choose?"

Day of Judgment? This wasn't only a curiosity to Loren. This was studied, which meant this was more than a question keeping the detective from sleep. This was real. To him, anyway. To Ruiz, though, it was a clear sign talking things out wasn't going to be enough. His friend needed help.

"My faith, my choice. So watch it, Greg," Ruiz started. "What I believe comes next is for me and me only. Just like your faith is your own. That white light? That better place with old friends, family, and loved ones? I know it's there."

Loren's hand spread along the window. He stared into the gloom. "And if it's not?"

"It is," Ruiz answered. "No doubt. But people coming back? Not possible. Dead is dead."

Loren turned away, lost in the rain.

"Are you listening to me, Greg?"

He turned back, head low. "Yeah. I'm listening."

Ruiz stood joining him at the window. "I know what something like that would mean to you."

"To anyone."

"You're pushing too hard again. When was the last time you slept?"

"I'm—"

"Fine. I know. You're always fine."

Loren nodded, his grin false. He started for the door. "I should go."

"We'll fight Mathers on this, Greg," Ruiz called, his friend turning away once more, his sad look lost in the shadows of the day. The gloom was more a reflection of Loren than the rain outside. The door closed behind him, soft steps carrying him down the hall. "If you have any fight left."

# Chapter Thirteen

"It can't be real."

The muttering continued for hours with Soriya Greystone rummaging through the myriad of texts laid around the Bypass chamber. Grabbing a stack from Mentor's bedroom, the young woman nervously paged through each one in the larger room, the dull hum of the floating orb failing to soothe her.

After finishing with one, Soriya dropped the book on the pile, a term used loosely as each slid from the top, creating a dumping ground. Each failed to provide her the comfort she sought. The answers to explain what she had seen the night before.

"It's not possible. It can't be."

Another text dropped with a crash. Useless. Empty. She tried to catch her breath, her heart pounding in her chest. There had to be an answer, some insight she had failed to glean from her time in the church, surrounded by those people. And their loved ones.

The dead.

"It can't—"

"Soriya?"

Mentor stood in the door to his bedroom, hand rubbing his stiff right leg. She tried to keep quiet at first, noticing the old man resting uncomfortably on his cot in the corner. The search took priority and his presence was forgotten. She needed it to remain that way, his look of concern frustrating her further.

She turned back to the texts. Religious tomes, architectural studies on the city, anything that might clue her in on the process behind the church, on the raising of the dead—something impossible.

"It can't be real!" she screamed. The book in her hands, ratty from years of use, flew through the air in a fit of anger. It soared toward the waking man, a fastball cutting through the dim light of the chamber. Mentor deftly caught the projectile with a resounding snap of his fingers, flipping to the cover.

"Feel any better?"

"I don't," Soriya started, catching the anger in her voice. She kicked over the remaining pile of books, letting them join their brethren in the growing heap. She sighed, her hands running the length of her dark hair. She crouched down, collecting the treasures accumulated by the man watching her closely. She started to pull them up one by one, returning a handful at a time to the bedroom. "I'm fine."

Mentor stood silently, letting her continue. One pile after the other, the lone book caught in his grasp, the title still drawing him in. When she finished, there was a brief pause, then she moved for the stairs and the world above.

"Where are you going?"

"To work," she snapped, the lack of sleep showing. Her head fell low and she stopped short of the stairs. Mentor's hand squeezed her shoulder lightly.

"What is it?"

There were tears in her eyes and she quickly wiped them away. "You told me. You said it wasn't possible."

"What?"

She pointed to the book in his hand, at the image of Christ's tomb at the Church of the Holy Sepulchre. "To bring someone back."

"Is that...?" Mentor tried to ask, surprised by the question. She pulled away from him, heading back to the center of the chamber and the orb of green light. "Soriya?"

"Did you lie to me?" she asked, her eyes sharp. "Because I was a kid? To make me stronger? To make me forget them?"

Her parents. Her family. Hell, her entire former life. All lost the day of the car accident, her memories shattered to a blank slate. She always wondered, always wished, for some glimpse, some snapshot of remembrance. Some way to know who she really was, who she was supposed to be.

Mentor moved close, his voice soft. "I would never—"

"Because I didn't," she spat, the angry tears of a child struggling to tear themselves from her eyes. "I never did. Never will. My parents—"

She stopped and wiped her eyes. The Bypass stood before her and she stepped closer, her hand grazing the rift. Mentor had told her about it so many times, how the floating orb linked to every where and every when. How it linked everyone in a thousand different ways. All possibilities. The past and the future.

Where we all end.

When she was a child she spent hours pondering their fate—her family, her parents, more than anyone else. Where they went in the end. How they were doing. If they ever thought of her like she did them. So many questions wrapped in the mind of a child. Wishing for answers.

"If I could see them, Mentor," she whispered, turning away from the possibilities tucked under the veil of the Bypass, "just once."

He smiled, his thin gray eyes tired. He pulled her close. "You will, Soriya. Someday. But to bring someone back...."

She turned away. "It's not impossible. I saw it."

"The graves."

Soriya nodded. "Loren and I—"

His eyes widened. "Does the detective know as well? What is being done?"

"I don't think so. Why?"

His glare answered the question.

"You think—"

Mentor shook his head. "I think loss affects all of us differently, my child."

"You think he'll bring her back." She turned to the Bypass once more, watching the thin shadows flit along its surface. Dreaming the dreams of a child. "You think I'll help him do it."

"For the right reasons."

Soriya nodded, remembering the lesson. "The kid in the cemetery. Fuller. You said the same thing."

Mentor held out the book for her when she faced him, the page opened and folded over for her to see. Her eyes widened at the image of the dove adorning the sepulcher and at the rock wall beneath. It bore the same markings, the same look and age as the altar at the church she had seen the night before.

"You have a choice to make, Soriya," Mentor said. "Not for yourself or Loren. For everyone. Can you do that, no matter the cost?"

Soriya took the book from him and the answer within, wishing she had one for the question asked. Hoping she would when the time came.

# Chapter Fourteen

Richard Crowne was content. Even with the chill of the night air biting his exposed skin, even with the ache in his right arm from holding the lantern steady for close to an hour, his smile remained. He was joyful at the work at hand...but more than that, he was thankful at the fact that he did not have to do that work.

Two men shoveled dirt in a large mound, covering the ground on either side of him. They worked without pause, without the banter of camaraderie. The earth gave way under their merciless digging, their purpose outweighing the lateness of the hour.

Richard kept watch, scanning the cemetery grounds. The lantern in his hand stayed low to offer as much light as possible. The rain dripped on them, the clouds overhead rolling in quicker, getting darker with each new wave. The full measure of the storm would arrive soon. They would be gone by then, as long as they remained unseen.

The payouts helped at first. Security guards were never well compensated, and had to take multiple jobs to afford a decent living in the city. An extra thousand here and there to look the other way was always appreciated. You simply had to ask. Payouts, however, only went so far. Pressure to end the string of robberies throughout the cemetery network of Portents meant the risk was too great to continue greasing the wheels.

Speed and efficiency came next, distracting the staff with other members of their congregation. The bereaved were unable to be consoled without assistance. Two such individuals stood at the entrance, keeping guards facing a different direction.

It wouldn't always be like that. Richard knew it better than most, his excitement at stepping out of the shadows palpable. The need to hide their miracles drew to a close. The world would soon understand what they could offer.

Richard couldn't wait for the unveiling. Soon everyone would see the gift of the church, the power of their altar, and what it offered those lost. No one needed to suffer or be alone anymore. They would all witness the miracle, as he did.

First, there was someone else who needed it. Their gift, the power behind their faith. A friend in need, Richard considered him. A true friend thanks to their shared loss. He had been given a glimpse of their work. Even though he ran from Richard's explanations and the sight of his wife in the diner, questions plagued his friend—questions that demanded answers.

It took some convincing for the Founder to agree. But he knew Richard was right. Richard had been right to follow the nameless, hooded figure to the church all those months earlier. Faith and trust all leading to the truth.

To the miracle of resurrection.

Richard heard the sound of a shovel hitting metal, the clang drawing the hands of the men to tremble, hoping to avoid any further noise. They peered up to the assistant district attorney, who nodded. No more time need be wasted.

Richard looked around the grounds of Black Rock Cemetery, stepping to the head of the plot. He crouched low, his hand grazing the tombstone, fresh as the day it was installed. His fingers settled into the grooves of the lettering, feeling each turn. He needed her to prove to Greg Loren, his true friend, the power they could share with the world.

Richard smiled. Soon Greg would see. Soon everything would be right with his world.

As soon as he had Bethany Loren next to him.

# Chapter Fifteen

Another sleepless night. He needed to be at work. He needed to help Soriya track down leads, or at least share the ones that had popped up in her absence. Instead, Greg Loren sat at the edge of his couch, the light of the television keeping him transfixed. Zoning.

No, not exactly zoning. More like obsessing. Richard's intervention at the diner screwed him up more than he admitted. What it meant, the return of Richard's wife, how her presence impacted Loren and everyone else? The image of her was too much for him to process with any speed or clarity. He needed time. Time to figure everything out, to figure out the church that had brought back Kelli Andrews' mother-in-law as easily as Richard Crowne's murdered wife of three years. Everything circled back to one thing. The same thing it always did when it came to Loren.

Beth. Always Beth.

Loren slammed the power button on the remote, dropping the living room into darkness. He shuffled to the window in the front of the apartment, ignoring his dismal appearance in the mirror over the mantel. It was raining, a fierce, blowing rain, pounding against the side of the apartment building. The rhythmic patter drowned out his neighbors, the noise of the city, leaving him in solitude.

Was it truly possible? Could she come back? Could he ask her to do that? To give up the afterlife for him? To make him whole again? Would she even be enough at this point? He had fallen so far over the last four years. Even work was threatened now by his own apathy, his own inability to fight. To put in any effort. Like nothing mattered or had since he lost his wife.

Not lost. Taken. Beth was taken. Couldn't he have her back? Was that too much to ask?

His head settled against the window, feeling the cold right through the thin pane of glass separating them. He needed another beer. More than that, he needed a cigarette. A pack of them. A trip to the corner store wouldn't be too extreme.

Loren scanned the block and stopped at a car parked across the street. His brow furrowed.

I've seen that car. At the diner last night. But—

A man stood beside the Chevy, staring up at the second-floor apartment and the shadow of Greg Loren. He tried to look casual, checking his watch, but the rain took that out of the equation. No one would want to be out in this weather. Especially with their car right there. Loren recognized the man's balding head and burgeoning gut. He had seen him enough at the station.

"Standish?"

Robert Standish checked his watch once more then started up the block, slowly. He tucked his coat tighter to impede the rain. Loren waited a short moment, then raced to the front door, slipping on his jacket.

By the time he made it to the sidewalk in front of his apartment building, Standish was a block over. He was still in sight, walking with a slight shuffle. Loren followed, double-checking his six at every opportunity.

He maintained his distance, tracking his former partner down the Knoll and away from the expressway. Not the best part of town—the residential neighborhoods giving way to mom and pop stores long since closed for the night. Deep alleys and more shadows forced Loren to slow his pace, marking each movement in the dark.

Why didn't I bring my gun?

They traveled like this for eight blocks, Loren curious why Standish didn't drive, and instead chose to fight through the rain. Caution? Or something else?

Standish cut across the street at Fourth for an alley next to a recently shuttered salon.

Loren peered around the corner, tucking close to a dumpster, most likely used to clear out what remained from the defunct shop. Standish held his back to the mouth of the alley but his companion was in full view of the peeking detective.

Myron Jacobs.

"Son of a bitch," Loren muttered. The scumbag that walked two days earlier, thanks to evidence that suddenly decided to pull a Houdini.

"Did you bring it?" the tall black man with the thick sideburns asked. His voice loud, carried over the rain. He was always yelling. A point of pride for him.

"This isn't some corner deal, Jacobs."

Loren inched to the edge of the dumpster, fighting to hear Standish through the rain.

"And I ain't playing with you, cop. Did you bring it?"

Jacobs stepped closer to Standish, hoping to intimidate the older, out-of-shape officer. He was greeted with a gut shot that sent him reeling to the floor of the alley. Standish, though not known for his fitness, carried enough muscle under his bulk for the job at hand.

"Who saved whose ass from jail time, pal?" Standish asked. Loren heard the grin behind the man's words. "Say it."

Jacobs struggled to his feet, nursing his stomach. "You did."

"Damn right. Show some respect."

Jacobs laughed, spitting hard at his companion, barely missing his shoes. "To a cop on the hook to half the bookies in town? Tough sell."

"You stupid son of a—"

Standish wound up once again, and Jacobs fell back a step.

"All right, all right!"

"The money," Standish shouted. "Now."

Jacobs fell back in the alley, reaching beneath a pile of old placards and billboards tossed aside like refuse. He came back with a black bag. "Here. What about my—?"

Standish reached into his coat, pulling out a large envelope. He tossed it on the ground beside Jacobs. "You'll find the evidence in a locker at the Southside terminal. Information and the key are inside. And a bonus."

"What are you talking about?"

Standish slung the black bag over his shoulder. "Leave town tonight. Ticket's inside."

Jacobs retrieved the envelope. "And if I don't?"

When he looked up Standish was holding his gun. Jacobs stepped back once more, hands up yet clutched tight to the envelope drowning in the rain.

"Then I show you the other prize you've won. No one'll even blink at a dead junkie in the street."

Jacobs nodded. The message was clear.

"Pleasure doing business with you, Jacobs." Standish turned for the mouth of the alley. Loren tucked close to the ground, sliding deeper into the darkness.

"Go to hell, Standish," Jacobs yelled over the storm.

Standish laughed, pulling the black bag tighter to his back. "Like I'm not already there."

The cop shuffled away from the alley on the other side of the dumpster before heading back up the Knoll to his waiting car. Loren shifted toward the abandoned building, part of the shadows. Jacobs followed soon after, hugging tight to the small locker key.

Loren wished he had his badge and his gun, but mostly his gun. Something to take the man down, to give Jacobs the justice he deserved. Instead, he watched the man slip into the night once more, free and probably hightailing it from town if he was smart enough to heed Standish's warning.

Loren did have one thing, though: anger. And finally someone to focus every ounce of it on.

# Chapter Sixteen

Greg Loren was hunting.

Eyes shifting like a cat in the jungle, Loren stalked slowly through the second floor of the Central Precinct. Stares flowed his way like water, the leftover gloom from the rain a memory with the new day. Worried looks. Glances from people who had become little more than strangers over the last few years.

They didn't care about him. No one truly did anymore. They didn't rush to his defense at the idea of evidence going missing. No one stepped up to the plate to bat accusations away from Mathers and the commissioner. If they had actually tried to understand Loren and the pain covering him like a second skin, they would have seen the truth. They would have seen everything as clearly as he did now.

Standish. It was Standish all along.

He studied Loren, tracked him like an animal, monitoring his every move, his every mood. He knew about the review, and he needed Loren to worry about it, to focus every thought on the upcoming meeting rather than the truth behind the missing evidence.

He was the man behind everything.

Finally he caught his quarry. Standish stood, circled by his brethren, outside of Ruiz's office. They carried their coffees like their conversation: loose and light. A distraction from the job, laughing and living, while Loren was circling the drain. Because of Standish, all because of Standish.

Loren rushed over to him, forgetting everything else. He pushed through the crowd, cries ringing out over spilled beverages and soaring paperwork. All failed to pull him from his target. Standish's eyes widened for a moment, right as Loren snagged the man's collar and forced him against the wall.

"How long, Standish?" Loren screamed.

"Greg?" Standish uttered, eyes flaring with concern. "What are you—?"

Loren pulled him close then shoved him back into the wall, a grunt escaping the man's lips. "How long have you been in his pocket?"

"Who?"

Loren's right hand dropped from Standish's collar. He pulled back hard and fast then shot forward, the punch leveled against the man's gut. Standish fell, cursing through spit. Loren reached down and pulled him back to the wall.

"Jacobs," Loren snapped. "You know damn well you are."

Standish's eyes flitted around the room to see a dozen officer's eyes staring back at him, watching the show but refusing to intervene.

"You're wrong," Standish said, wincing from the shot to his side.

"Lying piece of shit."

Another punch, this one connecting with the side of Standish's face. The force of the blow spun him around, his bulky frame threatening to topple over. Loren kept him upright. He took a deep breath before driving Standish's body to the ground while maintaining a grip on his left arm. He twisted it hard, pulling it up, feeling the resistance tighten.

"What are you—?"

"Say it," Loren yelled. "Tell them about what you've done!"

Standish was sweating, shaking his head. "I don't—"

Loren screamed, pulling on the man's arm until it snapped. Standish was smiling and Loren didn't know why. But then Standish's screams of pain joined Loren's shouts of anger, the older man's left arm dangling uselessly by his side as Loren pulled him back up.

"SAY IT!"

Blood covered the man's lip and he spat crimson to the floor. He leaned close to Loren, a smile on his face. "You'll burn for this, Greg," he whispered. "All I did was light the match."

Loren dropped Standish, falling back on his heels.

The meeting with Jacobs, waiting until he was seen outside the apartment. It was all a set up—all for this, for the only reaction Loren could give. This one. In public. Surrounded by the only people he had left in the world.

"You son of a bitch."

Loren grabbed Standish's collar once more, squeezing tight. Frustrated, he threw him aside like garbage, the beaten and bloodied officer staggering through the bullpen. Standish tried to catch himself, his left arm throwing off his center of gravity. His right shot up in time, but could not stop the impact as the overweight officer smashed through the glass of Ruiz's office door.

"No," Loren muttered, rushing over to the man. What did I do? Hands wrapped around his arms, pulling him back.

"Detective!" Pratchett screamed, the tall officer struggling to restrain him. Another pair raced to Standish, pulling him free from the glass, shuffling shards off exposed skin. They helped him to a nearby desk.

Ruiz rushed out of his office. "What the hell is going on?"

There were no answers, only the broken aftermath of the chaos. Wayward glances and mumbling, all pointing toward the restrained Loren. Ruiz turned away, catching sight of Standish, dazed and bleeding in the middle of the bullpen. "Well? Call a damn ambulance already!"

The spectators extricated themselves from the equation before Ruiz had the chance to remove them. Loren could only see Standish's sneer until Ruiz broke the connection, stepping between them.

"Ruiz—"

"Go home, Greg."

"Captain," Loren pleaded, pointing toward Standish.

Ruiz refused to look. "You're done. Get out."

Loren felt his heart stop. His throat closed up. It was over.

Ruiz looked at him with dead eyes. "Pratchett, escort him from my building. Now."

# Chapter Seventeen

Soriya Greystone watched it all unfold. The fight, the screams and the rantings of one man—Greg Loren.

It wasn't possible. Listening to his anger, seeing the fists fly without provocation. Loren, even at his lowest moments, maintained some civility with the world. Even drowning in grief, lost as easily as his wife had been, Soriya knew him to be a good man who did the right thing over all other desires.

Tucked behind the ajar door to his office, Soriya hoped to pull him back to their case, to share her findings about the church she found and the work being done there, to motivate him to help.

Doubt always plagued Loren. The loss of his wife was his greatest motivator but also his greatest weakness. The anchor wrapped around his ankle, dragging him into the murky depths. Soriya truly and totally believed their time together changed him—for the better, so the past might melt away.

There were bad times inherent in any relationship. An anniversary remembered, a memory sparked by a location—all triggers of the guilt in Loren's heart. She knew he didn't feel guilty for his wife's death, but in not being there for her until he was too late, in not being able to solve the mystery behind her fall. She knew the open case was a gaping hole in his heart.

Seeing him fall before her, dragged toward the elevator by two officers, his eyes wide with horror, his screams echoing along the tiles. There was nothing left of him.

He couldn't help her now. Maybe not ever again.

Soriya closed the door, moving for the window. She ducked out on the ledge and slid shut the window behind her.

"Dammit, Loren," she muttered, more angry with herself than with the man she respected. Her friend. Her partner.

She needed him but that was off the table. The church, the flock of resurrection-crazed people in her city, needed her attention now. More than Loren.

They needed to be stopped. No matter the cost.

# Chapter Eighteen

It was cold but Loren felt nothing. He paced the grounds outside the Central Precinct, lost in the shadow of William Rath's fifteen-foot statue in the circle that separated the precinct from Heaven's Gate Park. Pratchett remained by the doors, his eyes heavy with concern. It was a look Loren thought was lost to the past, one he never wanted to see again from his colleagues, from people he called friends. Yet it was one that had shown up much too often of late.

Pity.

He blew it. He had the chance to make things right but his anger won out. Each footfall as he stomped along the puddles from the night before attempted to shake the rage from him, but it circled back. Standish played him. Out of all the circumstances imagined, the scenarios of what might happen to him during his malaise, he never believed it possible. Standish, of all people, beat him.

He recalled his appearance outside his apartment the night before, standing in the rain, begging to be seen; he recalled the slow walk down the Knoll to meet with Jacobs. Even the meeting spot, which gave Loren a perfect view and close enough to listen to every word. Baiting him, knowing how off his game he truly was. Standish used him perfectly; all it cost him was a broken arm and a few bruises.

Loren couldn't believe it. He screamed, hands balled up in fists against his side before he collapsed on a nearby bench. He was exiled from work, his final refuge to forget the past. It was the only life he had left and he had lost it, letting revenge and rage trump everything learned over the course of his career. Using his fists instead of his brain. Like his old man.

"What the hell are you doing, Greg?" He pulled hard on the thick strands of overgrown hair. "What the hell did you just do?"

The constant concern over losing his job, mostly due to his lackluster performance from the last few months, brought him to this moment. Rather than fix the problem—to turn Standish in using the evidence at hand, Jacobs for one and the payoff for the other—he screwed up. So worried about keeping his job yet he did more to ensure its loss in the last few minutes than any review panel or missing evidence could have.

"Greg?"

Loren didn't look up at first. The voice was distant and it took a second for him to realize it was coming from someone else and not his own inner musings. When he did, Richard Crowne stood before him, tall and proud, satisfaction on his face.

"Oh, I don't need this," Loren said. His hair fell away from his face, his hand moving for the bridge of his nose. Richard, refusing to take the hint, joined him on the bench.

"Everything all right? Are you—?"

Loren stood, turning away from the man. The brief glimpse of his grin was too much. On top of their conversation the other night, on top of Standish and everything related to his review in the precinct, he didn't need any more.

"I'm fine," Loren snapped. "Going home."

"I wanted to—"

"No." Loren interrupted, then stopped. It crept back, rippling under the skin—the anger. So much confusion from the last few days. "Not now, Richard. Maybe not ever. I don't want to hear about it."

He exhaled slowly, stepping out of the shadow of the monument to the past. His steps quickened, pressed by the wind, a shrill breeze that carried the message from Richard Crowne all the easier.

"I have your wife."

Loren turned, eyes bloodshot and wide. "What?"

Richard stood in front of the bench, hands outstretched. Calm and collected. Loren felt nothing of the sort. He rushed to the man, fingers wrapping tight around his collar to pull him close.

"What did you just say?"

Richard's smile remained. "Beth. I have her."

The grave robberies. Richard admitted to them at the diner. Why hadn't Loren stopped him then—slapped the cuffs on him and carted his crazy ass away? Out of friendship? An unspoken loyalty for the loss they shared? Or something more? After seeing Jennifer standing beside the table, there had been nothing but doubt. Why hadn't he done more?

"What did you do? Where is she?"

Richard cleared his throat, patient. Loren squeezed tighter, his knuckles white. Then he let go, stepping back. The attorney nodded his appreciation, straightening his jacket.

"I'll take you to her, of course. That's why I came. You should be there for her." Richard Crowne smiled. "When she wakes up."

# Chapter Nineteen

He called it the Church of the Second Coming. Loren asked him to stop talking after that. It was enough to hear, that and the fact that they were holding his wife...hostage? Was that the right word? Or was it leverage? For what? Loren had yet to file a report or get a warrant to investigate Richard Crowne and his so-called "Resurrectionists" further.

Still, he followed Richard to the church. Men, women, and children gathered quietly, flowing like the tide to the front doors of the great hall. They smiled and shook hands, a true community tucked away beneath the shadow of the city. The congregation left the lobby for the nave, hopeful eyes watching the exhausted and overwhelmed detective carefully.

Loren stopped just inside the front doors. Security blocked him on all sides but maintained their distance. A gift from Richard—one of the many offered, it seemed. Having someone in the district attorney's office on your side definitely helped in their efforts to steal the dead from their places of rest. Thirty-two at last count. No, thirty-three now.

"I want to see her," Loren said. The altar at the far end of the hall was empty. A white sheet covered it from view, but Loren was still able to make out the stonework at its base. It looked old, out of place with the rest of the materials used in the church, like it had been brought in from somewhere else. The carvings, ornate and decorative, covered the pulpit though Loren had no clue what they represented including the large dove on the back wall rising from the ground. The moon showered the congregation in light, blood red from the stained glass.

Richard's hand pulled him back. "You can't. Not yet."

Loren grabbed the man's hand and twisted, forcing Richard to the wall. Security rushed them but the calm attorney shook his head.

"This is a delicate procedure," Richard continued. "We take painstaking steps to ensure everything goes well for the ceremony. Now, please. Greg."

Loren let go. "If you're lying—"

"I'm not," Richard said, brushing off his suit.

Security remained, anxious, waiting for the newcomer's reaction. Loren knew the score. "Not like I have much choice in the matter, do I, Richard?"

"Of course you do. We're the same, Greg."

He was pointing to the main hall and the woman in black near the altar. It was Jennifer, Richard Crowne's wife, smiling and waving at them like she hadn't been dead and buried the last three years.

"Without Jennifer I was so lost. Having her back is a blessing."

"One you're forced to hide," Loren said. He walked over to the glass separating them from the rest of the assemblage, hands pressed hard against the cool surface. He felt the hum of machines, coming from below, running the length of the church, getting louder, more steady with every passing second.

"For now," Richard said, joining him. "Not forever. This place is a gift for the world. We are witnesses to the Second Coming."

"I don't see any messiahs."

"Seeing is not necessary to believe," Richard said, arms outstretched. "How else could we do this? Science only takes us so far. Rebuilding the body. Preparing for the ceremony. But this place? Our faith? All of it carries us the rest of the way. By God's will. How else can it be explained?"

"How did you find out about this place, Richard?"

His hand fell on Loren's shoulder. "A man approached me in my time of need. A complete stranger, yet he offered me a hand in the dark. He found this place. Built all this. A beacon to the heavens. He called to us one by one, healing our wounded hearts, ending our grief, asking nothing in return but our faith. And our trust, in him and the work."

It was right in front of Loren. The smiles and joy on the face of the congregation, waiting patiently to welcome a new member. They were no longer the lost and the grieving. They were rebuilt as much as those returned.

"It's unbelievable, Richard," Loren whispered. He wiped the tears from his tired eyes. "If I hadn't seen it. Seen her...."

Jennifer stepped through the doors, joining them in the dimly lit vestibule. She took her husband's hand.

"But you have," Richard said. "How could I not share this with you?"

Loren turned away, leaning hard on the wall.

"Greg?"

He nodded. "I need a minute. Could I—?"

"Of course," Richard replied, ushering him to the stairs near the entrance that led to the lower level. "There's a washroom down the stairs. Greg—"

"I know," Loren said. Security eyed him cautiously. "Just a minute. Please."

Richard nodded. The four large men monitoring their conversation backed off slowly. "Take your time. We'll be ready soon."

The echo of the steps carried him to the lower level. The humming was louder, the sound of movement joining it at the far end of the hall behind a series of closed doors. Loren ignored them, rushing into the restroom. He turned the handle over the sink, a torrent of water streaming into his cupped hands. He splashed it over his face, fighting back the tears and the exhaustion. The confusion and the choice being offered. A choice he didn't know how to make. Beth was with him, here in the church. She could come back as easily as Jennifer had. She could be there for him again, building him up, bringing him back.

Saving him.

"What are you doing here, Greg?" he asked the shadow in the mirror.

"That's my line."

Loren spun around to the stall in the corner. Soriya Greystone stepped out, a smile on her face. "How?"

"Doesn't matter," she replied, checking the door. "This place is swarming with security. We don't have much time. Come on."

She pulled him away from the mirror and into the hall. He stepped away, his voice low. The shadows of security littered the stairwell behind him.

"Soriya? Where?"

She pointed down the hall to the humming sound. "The altar seems to be connected to a lab below. I was heading there when I heard you coming."

"That must be where they prepare the bodies."

Soriya nodded. "Sever the connection and no more resurrections. Or whatever they think this is."

"Just like that?" he asked, unable to move. Of all the things they had seen in the last few years working together, doubt never crept into her voice. She believed in everything, had seen everything there was to see in the city. Her city. She doubted this of all things.

He didn't.

"Loren?"

He shook his head, stepping back for the stairs. "Think about the good it could do, Soriya."

"It isn't right, Loren. You know that. Now let's—"

"No." Loren pulled out his sidearm, taking aim at her.

"Loren, what are you doing?"

Security rushed down the stairs, following the sound of their argument. They hesitated behind the armed detective.

"Stopping you," Loren answered. He took another step back and the guards took over, rushing the young woman from all sides.

"Loren," she cried out. "Don't do this!"

Loren simply watched, tucking his gun away. The guards were effective, their number in the confined space overwhelming the brutal attacks of the young woman. She managed to take out the first two quickly, but by then the second pair were on top of her. They restrained her, her flailing limbs subdued. Her eyes pleaded for an answer, some explanation from him. For his betrayal.

"I'm sorry, Soriya," he said. "I have to do this. I have to save Beth."

# Chapter Twenty

"You did the right thing, Greg."

Loren wasn't as sure, slowly climbing the stairs. Security dragged a solemn Soriya Greystone behind him, her eyes begging for his help, before being pulled away. Her wrists were bound and she shuffled along with their prodding until they were out of sight.

Richard's hand fell on Loren's shoulder. "Greg?"

"I never thanked you, Richard." Loren turned to his friend. "That was wrong of me."

"You don't—"

Loren shook his head. "You're a good friend."

Richard smiled. The pair turned for the double glass doors and the entrance to the nave of the church. All eyes were on them. "Are you ready?"

He had been ready since her death. Since he lost every connection with the world. Beth kept him grounded but also lifted him up, letting him soar higher and higher. She made him better. He needed to feel that again. He needed to feel her again. No matter the cost.

They walked up the center aisle. Each step brought them closer to the altar. On both sides Loren was met with congratulations from well-wishers. Smiles from complete strangers yet not strangers at all. Bound together through their common experience. Their grief, their loss, and their reborn hope.

Inching closer to the first pew beneath the altar, Loren noticed the change. The white sheet continued to cover the ancient stone in its center but now a figure could be seen beneath it. The shape of a body.

"Is that—?"

"That's her," Richard said, proudly.

"Can I?"

"After the ceremony. You'll have eternity."

Loren nodded, quietly ushered into the pew. He thought of praying but couldn't find the words. He didn't know who to ask in the first place. Was this God's will or the will of the people? He didn't know the first thing about what was happening, only that it was necessary. It was all that mattered to him—his girl back in his arms, forever.

"He's wrong, Loren," Soriya whispered. She sat, restrained in the pew behind them, fighting through the guards' grip to get closer to her friend—the man he was supposed to be, anyway.

"Why is she here?" Loren asked Richard.

"I asked them to bring her. To see for herself the miracle. To be a witness."

Loren shook his head. "I don't—"

"We have nothing to hide," Richard said with a sincere smile.

"You have everything to hide," Soriya snapped. Audible gasps filtered through the crowd. "Loren, you have to listen to me."

"No," he snapped, refusing to look at her. "I have to do this. I have to save her."

"You are damning her," Soriya said. "Not saving her. Look around you. Look at the so-called saved."

He kept his eyes on the altar, the figure beneath the sheet. "I don't—"

"Look at them, Loren. Really see them."

He did. In each of their faces he saw their happiness, their joy. Being back, being with the ones who missed them so much, truly content.

"They're happy, Soriya."

"They have to be," Soriya yelled, pulled back by the guards. "Have you heard them say a bad word? Share a negative thought? Argue? They aren't whole. No one comes back whole. You want to save Beth? What would she want? Have you even asked yourself that? You have to stop this, Loren. Please."

He looked again. This was his friend, the woman that had carried him along for the last few years. She saved him at his lowest point and he returned the favor by betraying her. But she was wrong. She had to be wrong.

Except he could see it. In their eyes, tinted black under the dark red shadow of the moon above. They were not the same as the men, women, and children that grieved for them. They were not connected to them. Not the same.

"That's enough," Richard said, standing. "Get her out of here. We're starting, Greg. You'll have your wife back soon and everything will make sense again. I promise."

The guards pulled Soriya down the pew, her cries to Loren chilling him. A cloaked figure moved over the covered form of Beth. The Founder, Richard had called him. He was the man who built this place, who funded the machines humming beneath their feet. Science and faith as one.

Loren turned to Richard, the man's smile saddened by the words of Soriya. He gripped the hand of his wife tighter, needing it more and more as a crutch. The past was unable to fade, to give room for a future. Jennifer said nothing in her defense. She simply smiled beside her husband, without a thought or a care as to the three years she spent buried. Dead and gone from the world.

"No," Loren muttered.

"What?" Richard asked.

Loren stood, rushing for the center aisle.

"Greg, what are you doing?" Richard called after him. The cloaked man on the altar paused, the machines buzzing louder and louder.

"Loren?" Soriya asked, the guards pulling her away. Loren's sidearm was in his hand. He said nothing, letting the weapon throw out his demand, to which the pair of guards acquiesced, falling away from the bound woman. He turned Soriya around. His pocketknife sliced through the bindings.

"Loren, what are—?"

"Do what you have to," Loren said.

Soriya nodded. The guards rushed them, and Soriya knocked them back with a stiff roundhouse kick. She flew down the aisle for the altar. Richard tried to stop her, eyes wide with panic, the same panic that kept the crowd locked in their seats, unsure and unable to act. Loren shook his head at the attorney, gun raised.

"Greg? Why?"

"Because she's right, Richard," Loren said sadly. "This is wrong."

"We can bring her back."

Loren shook his head. "That's not my choice. I won't be selfish like that. No matter how much I want to be."

Soriya leaped up toward the covered sheet, forcing the Founder back with the swat of her hand. He fell back then pounced at her, hands up in a rage. He bore a thick beard and dark eyes, the only things visible within the darkness of his hood.

Soriya didn't flinch; she was fearless, just as Loren knew her to be. She waited for his assault, dodging his blow then swept her fist up, catching his chin. The force drove him back, his hood flying off and his head slamming into the image of the dove. He slid down and did not stand again. Soriya moved for the body covered in the white sheet.

"Loren!" she yelled down to him.

Richard charged Loren, grabbing at the detective's shirt desperately. "Tell her to stop, Greg. We can make this right. Just stop her. Please."

"I need you to say it, Loren," Soriya said, "I...I won't do this if you tell me to stop."

Richard's grip on his collar tightened. Loren heard the pleas of those surrounding them. The desperate, holding onto the grief of their losses. They were miserable, unable to live—like him.

"Do it," Loren said. "Please. Just do it already."

Soriya nodded. She stood back, the stone locked in her grip. Light beamed along its surface, filling the great hall of the church.

The humming of the machines sputtered and wheezed, sparks flying in all directions. Fire erupted from beneath them; the building rocked as if from an explosion. The hum of the machines ended, destroyed, but the fire continued, spreading further and faster all around them.

The patrons of the Church of the Second Coming raced for their lives, rushing down the aisles to the exit. Richard stayed behind, no longer pleading with Loren, his hands falling to his sides, his eyes full of terror.

"No."

Soriya lifted Beth's covered body from the altar, before it was consumed by flames. The Founder shuffled down the pulpit, joining his flock in their panic. The dove rising from the earth disappeared behind a wall of flames.

In that instant, with the altar enflamed, everything changed. The returned fumbled and faded. It hit Jennifer first, the closest to the fire. Her smile went crooked, her eyes closing before she collapsed to the ground.

"Jennifer!" Richard choked.

The others fell quickly, littering the church with bodies. More kindling to burn. Richard ran to grab his wife, pulled back by Loren. The detective forced him down the aisle, kicking open the doors for the others to flee from the growing cloud of smoke. By the time they made it to the street, Loren realized Soriya was gone.

So was the Founder.

Richard collapsed in the center of the road, the cries of the grieving congregation louder than the approaching sirens. Loren crouched beside his friend, the man who had attempted to save his life. His hand fell on his shoulder, tears joining the others on his cheeks as the two men watched their world burn.

"I'm sorry, Richard," he said softly. "I'm so sorry."

# Chapter Twenty-One

Loren waited for the end to come.

Three days passed since the fall of the Church of the Second Coming. Three days of arrests, interviews, and a mountain of questions asked on both sides of the table. The perpetrators became the victims, their hope and happiness lost in the fire that consumed the church. Most had nothing to offer the police; their thoughts were turned to their losses. Their grief, much like Loren's, returned in full.

Most were released quickly. They played no part in the mass robbery scandal making its way through the major news organizations. Stories of the dead returning, of loved ones long since passed walking among the rest of the city, were squashed early even by the most fervent followers. A secret kept between them. Who would believe it anyway?

All record of the church was buried deeper than the mechanism that brought their loved ones back to life. The machine, their faith, whatever it might have been. Loren still didn't know.

When all was said and done, the Founder, though still in the wind, was the one to take the fall. His name unknown, his stories denied even by the members of his church in the aftermath of the fire, the Founder became the bogeyman the city needed for the crime of stealing loved ones from their place of rest. A sketch showed a white man with a thick black beard, and it littered the walls of every precinct in the city, displayed on every newscast for days—all without resolution.

Out of all the congregation, Loren remained concerned about only one in their flock, but even Richard Crowne escaped unscathed—in the eyes of the law at least. Professionally, Richard quietly tendered his resignation from the district attorney's office. Loren went to visit him at his home only to find a For Sale sign on the front lawn. Loren wanted to search for him. To try and help him understand things even the tired detective failed to fully grasp.

Unfortunately, he had bigger concerns.

Sitting patiently, hands folded between his knees, Loren stared at the floor. Black loafers shifted from right to left, a slow pace around the confined space of the office. Ruiz's office. The captain called him in early for his shift, his first official one since the incident that left Robert Standish in the hospital with a broken arm and a concussion. The glass on the door had been boarded up with cardboard and a roll of duct tape. Ruiz, his friend for so many years, looked at him with sadness in his gray eyes.

"I don't have a choice," he finally said, his hand resting on the letter on top of his desk. "Not after Standish, after everything. You're to be suspended immediately."

It felt like a hot poker slipped between Loren's ribs at the sound of the word. Suspended. His work life had met his home life in one unavoidable collision of mistakes. It was his own fault—the path he had chosen months earlier. His anger, his malaise, and the errors in judgment that came with the pair.

Ruiz sat, hand to his brow, unable to glance at him directly. The same way things started at the courthouse only a week earlier. "A panel met to review your conduct over the last few months. I'm sure you're not surprised to hear that. I had a few choice words over it but with what they came back with...let's just say I couldn't say much. They've recommended leave and therapy—something you've needed for a long time."

Loren heard it in his friend's voice: the disappointment, the never-ending pity.

"You agreed with them."

"I did," Ruiz said with a nod. He leaned forward, hands drawn and open. "Of course I did, Greg. They wanted you gone. For good. No matter what Internal Affairs has found on Standish, which it turns out is quite a lot. Jacobs was hauled in trying to board a plane, more than happy to flip on his so-called savior. Doesn't matter here, though. This is about you, Greg. You need help. Professional help." He scoffed. "Not that you'll take it."

Loren stood and walked to the window. The sun slowly sunk behind the obsidian tower at the center of the city. Sunsets were few and far between lately. It was once always a priority, when Beth was alive. They made it a point to watch pink and purple hues dancing across the sky, which bound them together before he left for work. Even after he lost her, he tried to catch it, thinking for an instant she was with him, holding his hand, smiling at sharing the moment. There were so many they never had the chance to share.

"I will," he whispered.

"What?" Ruiz asked, surprised.

Loren turned to his friend, nodding. "It's the right call, Ruiz."

Of course it was. After everything? All the mistakes? After turning on Soriya, the one person who had stuck with him through and through, all for his own selfish needs? Part of him would have let her die rather than lose Beth all over again. If not for her being there, for being his strength for so long, Loren would have been lost to the world years ago. But after the anger and the distance shown on the job and off? To all those around him, including Ruiz?

It was the right call.

Loren unclasped his holster and removed his sidearm. His badge and weapon slid between his fingers. He placed the items on Ruiz's desk, patting them lightly before letting them go. "I'll be back for these. When I'm ready."

Ruiz stood, leaning hard on the desk. "This isn't what I wanted, Greg."

"It's what I deserve," Loren replied.

The door to the office pulled open, the sound of the bureau quieting at the sight of him. Soft stares, quiet looks of contempt rushed over him. He turned back to Ruiz, saddened.

"This and a lot more, Ruiz. A lot more."

# Chapter Twenty-Two

They should have been celebrating. The church was destroyed. Everything was back in its place. It sounded to Soriya Greystone like the perfect excuse for a night off and some fun. Instead, a chill beyond the strong gusts of wind ran through her.

Atop the Rath Building, she watched him depart. Sullen and broken, Greg Loren cast a long shadow over the quad, longer than the great statue at its heart. He walked slowly, head down and hands deep in his pockets, lost in thought.

She wanted to call out to him, to pull him back from his grief, to comfort him. To do something.

A hand stopped her.

"Don't."

She didn't turn to face Mentor; her eyes locked on her partner and friend.

"I have to," she said quietly. "He needs me."

Mentor shook his head, his hand unyielding. "You need him."

Her eyes fell away. The shadow of Loren faded from her view as he approached Heaven's Gate Park before disappearing beyond its borders. She bent low, picking at the stray stones littering the roof's ledge.

"He lost everything, Mentor," Soriya said, clutching a small pebble between her fingers. She flicked it away, watching the stone tumble to the street below, the sound of its end muted against the rush of humanity. "When someone finally gave him some hope, a future to hold, I pulled it away. I took it from him."

Mentor sat beside her at the edge of the roof, staring out at the city before them. "It was the right thing to do—the only thing to do. And it was his choice."

"It doesn't feel that way."

Mentor smiled, taking her hand in his own. "In time."

The shadow was gone now, Loren lost to the night. Soriya wondered if she would ever see him again. Would they ever share a joke or break a case together again?

She wished she could hold onto the way things were for just a little longer.

"And Loren?"

Mentor said nothing to this, letting out a soft sigh before standing. He helped her up, the strain visible on his aging face. He didn't need to answer.

It was the same.

Time. All they needed was time.

# Chapter Twenty-Three

Greg Loren set his badge next to his gun and closed the center drawer of the desk. His fingers stayed on the knob, lingering in thought and motion, until they fell away. The chair slid back into place, blocking the drawer.

It was time to leave.

The decision took months—months of intense therapy, group and one on one sessions with a number of professionals. Ruiz was right. He needed to talk things out, reevaluate, grow. It centered him, refocused his world, or the lack thereof. To a point.

One more step remained, however. Even after being cleared to return to work, despite Mathers' objections and the loss of all respect from his fellow officers, something remained out of place. He earned back the gun and badge, Ruiz happily turning them over as well as his old office. A gift from his captain and his friend. The familiar routine of everything, falling back into place.

Except it was different.

Loren was different.

Or needed to be, anyway. After falling so hard, after making an almost fatal mistake at the Church of the Second Coming, Loren knew that change was necessary. Coming back was not the answer. Staying hadn't been the answer for almost four years.

It was time to leave.

Ruiz took the news poorly. Words were spoken in anger, mostly out of a renewed concern for the other. Both sides tried to persuade their counterpart and both failed. But the decision remained Loren's alone.

Chicago waited for him. A job, though similar to his current standing in the department, brought a change of scenery and with it a chance at something new. New friends. New relationships. And his family as well.

A chance to start over.

Loren dropped the last of his files in a single box on the desk. The box consisted of almost a decade of his life. A lone file remained loose. He took it in his hands, thumbing through the thick dossier carefully. His wife's file.

Four years had passed without resolution. He agonized over the details every day. The case became his life and now it sat in his hands, the anchor around his ankle pulling him back into the deep. Loren set the file down and closed the box. He patted the cardboard lightly, running his hand along the edges. Then he turned and headed for the door.

He didn't need it. The box was Portents, through and through. His mistakes and his regrets, the guilt over his wife. The pain he dulled with work, with Soriya Greystone and the world she introduced to him, and more. A lot more that he exorcised with therapy over the last six months. There was no need to revisit it.

Not for his new start, not in Chicago.

His hand reached for the door, but he was unable to turn the handle. He bit his lower lip, wishing for a piece of gum to distract him. He looked to the box on the desk and started back. Opening the flap, he removed the single file on top, his wife's name and a case number adorning the tab. He tucked it under his arm and headed to the door, the handle turning easily in his hand.

On the desk, the lid of the box remained open. As it always would for Greg Loren.

# About the Author

Lou Paduano is the author of the Greystone series of novels of urban fantasy adventures. He lives in Buffalo, New York with his wife and two daughters.

Sign up for his e-mail list for free content as well as updates on future releases at www.loupaduano.com.

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#  THE GREYSTONE SAGA

# AVAILABLE NOW

BOOK ONE - SIGNS OF PORTENTS

BOOK TWO - TALES FROM PORTENTS

BOOK THREE - THE MEDUSA COIN

BOOK FOUR - PATHWAYS IN THE DARK

BOOK FIVE - A CIRCLE OF SHADOWS

DSA Season ONE

AVAILABLE NOW

BOOK ONE - THE CLEARING

BOOK TWO - PROMETHEAN

BOOK THREE - THE BRIDGE

BOOK FOUR – SPECTRAL ADVOCATE

BOOK FIVE - DARK IMPULSES

BOOK SIX - BROKEN LOYALTIES

#  GREYSTONE-IN-TRAINING TRILOGY

BOOK ONE – HAMMER AND ANVIL

BOOK TWO – THE GIFTS OF KALI

BOOK THREE – THE FINAL GAUNTLET

#

