OUTSIDE AGAIN
Even in the waking hours of the next day, the memories clung to Paul like thorns, snagging at every thought he tried to flee.
Sleep had offered no reprieve. The night had only brought the chase. The fight. The man. The demon. And – worst of all – her scream. A raw, tearing sound that still rang in his ears, as if it could split him open from the inside. He could almost feel the hot splash of blood, smell the metallic tang that hung in the air.
Those horrors had pushed aside the strange vision he'd caught in Grace's school hallway. Not a dream. Not quite. And after, Florence's face had been pale, her eyes wide, her mouth forming words he couldn't hear – only feel, deep in his chest, like a plea clawing for escape.
He didn't understand it yet. But the thought rooted itself in him like something alive, something waiting.
Later, he told himself, forcing the thought aside. Answers would come – if he survived the day.
In the living room, Grace was cramming supplies into backpacks with quick, sharp movements, each zipper tug and strap cinch carrying its own stubborn declaration. She didn't need words – the pointed glance she shot at him said it all: Try and stop me if you dare.
Paul let out a long, knowing sigh. "I need to grab something from the control room first."
Her eyes lit, her grin curling upward like a flag of victory. She'd already won.
Shaking his head, he turned toward the basement stairs. "If you're coming," he tossed over his shoulder, "you might as well join me."
The grin broke wider. In a heartbeat, the half-packed bags were abandoned, and she fell in step behind him – practically skipping down the hall.
The control room always felt like stepping into another world—a world thick with secrets and power. Even after his recent visits, Paul still felt that faint hum in the air, like the room itself was holding its breath.
Grace's eyes darted from one strange device to the next, lit with the wonder of someone stepping into a forbidden treasure vault. "Paul – look"
She was already pointing before he could remind her to be careful.
In the far corner, a child sized tank loomed. Inside, the Ogbanje floated in still water, swathed in a white cloak etched with golden inscriptions that writhed under the light. By day, the tank alone was enough to hold it; at night, the cloak's barrier was essential. Mr. Okonkwo kept it on at all times – no point tempting fate.
"It's Baby Zibby!" Grace chirped. Before Paul could blink, she whipped the cloak away.
"Grace - !" Too late. The patterns dissolved into the air like embers.
Grace, of course, was… Grace. The first time she'd met a supernatural being, she'd waved to the headless gardener and sat crossed-legged on the grass to chat with him. Their Father had had to step in before she gave her name away—a mistake that could have been deadly. Since then, she'd been taught the rules of the other side. She followed them when she felt like it.
Grace's connection to spirits and demons wasn't like most people. They didn't attack her. They didn't ignore her. They adored her. Their Father said it was probably the innocence she carried.
"When a creature born in shadow glimpses light," he once said, "it becomes addicted, no matter how fleeting the taste."
But such affection was dangerous. Spirits didn't understand love the way humans did; their attempts to show it could kill. Once, when an old woman scolded Grace for crossing the street recklessly, the spirits near her had shoved the woman into traffic. She was saved in time, and everyone assumed it was an accident—except Grace.
She'd locked herself in her room for days, emerging only when their father promised to teach her how to shield her emotions from the other side. She had grown skilled at it since.
The Ogbanje's eyes lit at the sight of her. Its grin was less a predator's leer, more the joy of seeing an old friend.
"Hi! How have you been?" Grace beamed.
The creature pointed at Paul and mimed choking itself, shoulders shaking in a silent laugh.
Grace gasped, spun, and stomped hard on Paul's foot.
"Ow! What is wrong with you?" he barked. Both she and the Ogbanje broke into laughter.
"Yeah, yeah," Paul muttered, rubbing his foot. "Pick a weapon from the gallery. The sooner we leave, the better."
Grace wandered the wall of weapons, her eyes bright as gems. After a long dramatic pause, she chose a bow. Paul reached for the lone sword.
The moment his fingers curled around the hilt, the blade shivered, light pouring down its length. It bled into his skin, wrapping around his arm in lines of molten silver into a black ink tattoo. Open wings. The bow in Grace's hands dissolved into a ribbon of gold, coiling around her forearm. Forming the same mark.
"Whoa," she breathed, turning her arm to catch the light.
Paul stared at the mark, still feeling the phantom weight of the sword in his hand. "What kind of weapon is this…?" he murmured.
"Can Baby Z come too?" Grace asked, puffing her cheeks and blinking innocently.
"Not a chance," Paul said, already heading for the stairs
The Ogbanje pouted as Grace waved goodbye.
..
When Paul swung the tunnel door open, he turned to her. "Once we resurface, stay close. No detours. No heroics. Understand?"
His tone was sharper than usual, meant to cut through her stubborn cheer. The grin slipped from her face, replaced by something steadier. She nodded once.
They moved quickly through the underground passage. The air was thick and cold, smelling of damp earth and something sour that clung to the back of his throat. The low ceiling pressed down, shadows closing in with each step. Their footfalls echoed, swallowed by the heavy silence.
"Paul…" Grace's voice was small in the dark. "Do you think about Mum?"
His jaw tightened. Memories rose—her laugh came to him unbidden. He shoved it away.
"I know she's doing well up there," Grace went on, "but… do you think she misses us?"
He hesitated. "If you were in a beautiful place, but knew the ones you loved were suffering—and you couldn't help—how would you feel?"
"Horrible," she whispered.
"Then maybe," she said after a long pause, her voice fraying at the edges, "if heaven's a place of rest… they can't remember the ones they left behind."
He didn't answer. Empty comfort would only cheapen the truth.
They kept walking. Somewhere between the shadows and cemetery hatch, her tears dried. She straightened her back, and when she looked at him again, her eyes were sharper, her step more sure.
…
The grave house above reeked of dust and rotting wood, the air thick enough to taste.
"Are we… in the cemetery?" she whispered.
Paul nodded and motioned her forward.
Outside, the moon sagged low on the horizon, bleeding a dim red haze over crooked tombstones. Their shadows twisted unnaturally the two moved toward the gates, steps light, breaths shallow.
The hinges betrayed them with a long, groaning creak. They froze, then slipped into the cover of the trees, the road yawning open just beyond.
Through the branches, the city emerged. So did the stench.
At first, Paul thought the shapes along the entrance were scaffolds. Then the wind shifted. Flesh gleamed in the moonlight.
Bodies. Dozens.
They hung from X-shaped cross – some upright, some inverted, all broken in different ways. Iron rods jutted through torso and limbs. Blood dripped in slow, wet beats onto the dirt. From somewhere among them came a chorus of hoarse, ragged cries, voices begging for the mercy of death.
Grace gagged and turned her face away. "Why would anyone do that?"
"I don't know," Paul said, though bile clawed at his own throat.
He pulled the telescope from his bag. The glass caught even the weakest light, bringing into focus the signs nailed above each cross: English. Igbo. Latin. Everyone read the same:
Desertion.
"Warnings," Paul murmured. "From the Church."
Below the grisly sight, the guards stood motionless – gray robs draped to the ground, the crimson sigil across their chests stark even in the moonlight. Their faces were shadowed, but Paul could feel their gaze sweeping the road like a blade.
How did they do all this over the course of a single night?
"What do we do?" Grace whispered.
His first instinct was to push forward – to search every corner until he found their father. But the guard's stillness was the worst kind of threat: the kind that waited, knowing its prey would come to it.
Paul glanced at Grace. She was pale, her fear straining against the resolve she had just built.
"We head back," he said quietly. "There's another way in. There has to be"
…
On the way, a sound cut through the air – cloth tearing, followed by muffled cries. Both Paul and Grace froze.
"Stay hidden," Paul murmured, his tone sharp.
He crept forward until the scene unfolded in grim detail: six men hemming in a battered car, its passengers pressed against the dented frame. The father lay crumpled up on the ground, blood pooling beneath his head. The mother's arms locked around her daughter, her torn dress hanging by threads.
"Please… you've taken what you wanted," she begged, her voice trembling. "Just let us go."
The men laughed – five of them loud, crude, drunk on cruelty. But the sixth…
He didn't laugh.
He didn't move.
He simply sat.
At first Paul thought he was on a stool. Then the shape shifted – a human shape, trembling under the weight. It was the teenage son of the family, forced on hands and knees to serve as a living chair.
"The Church pays well for fresh bodies," one thug sneered.
Paul's fists clenched. His sword's latent energy thrummed at his side. Six men, he could handle. But that leader… something about him felt wrong. Predatory.
A flicker of movement. Grace was already at his side.
"What are you doing here?" he hissed.
"Aren't we going to help them?"
"It's too risky."
"They're just thugs."
"It's not that simple. If we interfere, they'll know we exist. And people can't die anymore—meaning they could tell anyone."
Before she could argue, the leader's voice carried across the road, smooth and unhurried.
"You can come out now."
Paul's breath stilled.
But the answer didn't come from him – it came from the trees.
"Still as sharp as ever, Grey."
A man dropped from the shadows. Paul's eyes widened in recognition.
"Miss me that much?" the newcomer smirked.
The leader's smile widened, all teeth and malic.
"Care to join us, Philip?"
Philip only shrugged. "Not interested."
The leader's hand shot out, clamping around the teenage boy's throat. His lips twisted into a cruel smile. "I could let you keep this one… as a pet."
Philip's smile thinned to a blade's edge. "What if I take them all—"his hand dropped to the hilt, "and your head?" He drew his sword.
Steel rasped as his sword came free.
A rustle in the branches answered him. Two shadows dropped from the trees – Nessa and Franklin – landing in perfect unison. Moonlight caught their twin blades, sending light arcs slicing through the air. The thugs barely had time to scream before the twin's strikes cut them down with precision born of countless drills.
From the undergrowth, Paul and Grace emerged, weapons drawn. "Reporting for duty, Sergeant Philip!" Paul called, voice bold but laced with bluff. There was no better time for them to step in. Better to be seen now as a possible ally than later as a hidden enemy.
Philip gave him a single measuring glance before a chuckle escaped. "Then get to it, Cadet."
The clearing erupted in chaos. Steel flashed, boots scraped in the dirt, and the air rang with the clash of blades. Within moments, only the leader remained – locked in a furious duel with Philip. The man's strikes were wild but heavy. A deft parry, a sudden pivot, and Philip's blade curved a red line across his arm.
The leader stumbled back, eyes burning. "You've fallen into the Church's trap!" he spat, before turning and bolting into the shadows.
The night seemed to still – until it hissed.
A thousand black shapes sliced through the moonlight. Arrows, descending in a deadly rain.
"Take cover!" Philip roared, his voice cutting through the chaos as the sky blotted out above them.