OCTOBER 23^rd

Paddington Station

London, UK

 

Kyle glanced over his shoulder. Someone was following him.

 

The footsteps clued him in. Perfectly timed, a single footfall for each of his own. Matched one-for-one. His pulse quickened. He lit a cigarette and crossed the street. 

 

The man behind him picked up his pace too. For a moment, Kyle second-guessed himself. You’re just being paranoid, over-cooked from the stress of a long flight. Hell, you just spent a goddamn month shooting footage in a war zone. Enough to fray anyone’s nerves.

 

Paddington was a neighborhood where walking home at night wasn’t much of a concern. Scents of curry, fried chips, and roasting Italian coffee spilled out from the pubs and restaurants clustered all around the rail station, a crush of business that kept the streets lively until the late hours. The commercial district sprawled out for several blocks in every direction, fading into rows of quiet, stately Georgian homes.

 

Comfortable, and mostly safe.

 

A few yards farther on he took a second look. No mistaking it now. A figure in black, face hidden, coming directly toward him. He cursed himself for even thinking he was wrong. This guy was closing. 

 

Kyle walked faster. Things might get ugly. Maybe physical. He reached the door to his building. Pulled out his keys and gripped them in his fist. A poor man’s set of brass knuckles. He looked back a third time, heart pounding. 

 

There was no one.

 

                                                     *****

 

It was dark on the third floor. The apartment corridor was never well-lit. Most of the time that lent the place a sort of peculiar, antique charm. One of the reasons he’d rented it when he moved to the UK. Long, narrow hallways and low ceilings. Faux-gilded sconces that made it feel like an old royal palace, reclaimed by the commoners and gone to seed. Nothing in the States quite like it.

 

Kyle navigated the hallway. Same as always, but now it felt tighter. Everything ached. His nerves were shot. Night shadows hung over him, creeping and claustrophobic.

 

His unit was at the far end of the hall, where myopic glass-block windows quashed most of the ambient light. Musty curtain sheers hung in the dim like old ghosts. A bulb in one of the lamps blinked. The ones on either side were dead. If they hadn’t been, he might not have noticed that his door was ajar. Not too far, just enough to let a thin slice of white into the dark hall.

 

That amped him right back up. He’d locked everything up tight a month ago. Only two people knew he’d be gone, his fiancé and his landlord. Both had keys. Neither had a reason to use them. No plants to water. No pets to look after. Should have been just as he left it.

 

But it wasn’t.

 

Splinters lay scattered across the carpet, a few shards clinging to the doorjamb. He slowed down. Every step had to be cautious. His stomach roiled. A chill rippled through his bones. Call the police. He knew that was the right move. Stay outside and let them handle whatever was waiting for him in there. Get somewhere safe. The proper, responsible thing to do.

 

Screw that.

 

Adrenaline buzzed. Anger, frustration, and exhaustion boiling over. A noise stirred inside the apartment. The choice was clear. He barged in. A cry of stupid bravery as he tore through the living room. 

 

It was empty. 

 

He kept going, ripping open the bedroom door. Running on impulse as he crashed into the room, shouting. He raised his fists, ready for a fight.

 

It was him again. The man in black, just standing there calm and quiet, hands raised. “Along the shore the cloud waves break. The twin suns sink behind the lake. The shadows lengthen, Mister Hawkes. Your time is running out.”

 

Kyle sized him up, closer now and in the light. Late forties, maybe early fifties. Eccentric, even for London. His hair and beard were long. Raggedy and streaked with gray. His eyes were sunken, a hint of pale blue inside. Dressed head to toe in black, adorned with weird, mismatched accessories. Beaded bracelets and chain necklaces. Amulets, pendants, and animal fangs. Arcane script covered his vest and shirt, Tibetan maybe. His dirty pea coat was frayed at the edges.

 

None of it was a surprise. Years spent producing a TV show about the occult had taught him a few things. The occasional unbalanced “fan” showed up from time to time. But this felt like something else. He just wasn’t sure what that something was ... yet.

 

“Do I know you?” he asked.

 

The man stared back, still hadn’t budged an inch. “You don’t recognize me?”

 

Kyle realized there was a hint of familiarity. He studied the man’s face. Still couldn’t place it. 

 

The intruder put his arms down. “I’m Father Zacharias Stilicho. Or at least, I used to be.”

 

Now he saw it. How the hell hadn’t he? It took a few blinks to clear his red-sore eyes. The man was older than in the pictures he’d come across during his research. Shaggier too. The features were all there: Roman nose, narrow eyes, hard cheeks. The scar where he was burned during the exorcism that made his name. The years had taken a toll. He looked more like the mad monk Rasputin than a Catholic priest.

 

“I searched for you. All over,” Kyle said.

 

Zacharias nodded. “I’m not an easy man to find. But it’s urgent that I speak with you now.”

 

“Should’ve called my agent, instead of breaking in.”

 

“No time for that. There’s a new episode of your television series, concerning the Vatican’s so-called Secret Files.”

 

Another chill ran through him. “How do you even know about that? We pulled it from the network. It’s never going to air. I couldn’t—”

 

Zacharias didn’t let him finish. “It’s going to get you killed.”

 

He edged backward. Maybe Zacharias was threatening, after all. “What the hell’s that supposed to mean?”

 

Zacharias crept closer, twirling his fingers in wide, slow circles as if conducting a symphony only he could hear. “There are forces operating in the shadows. Gathering even now. You’ve set things into motion that cannot be stopped.”

 

Everything he’d heard about the priest tumbled through his head. Rumors of black magic and forbidden rituals. Dealings with demonic entities and trafficking in lost souls. Zacharias had stared too long into the abyss, and whatever he saw had driven him insane.

 

“Your old bosses at the Vatican didn’t know where you were, but they told me you’d gone off the rails. Now I think they might’ve been on to something.”

 

The priest’s eyes widened. “Nothing but lies issue from their offices.”

 

“I’m sorry. I really am,” he said. “This can’t have been easy for you. It was tough on Antonia and her whole family. I can imagine what you had to deal with. Let me help you. We can get someone—the best doctors in the city.”

 

He had no way to back that up, still felt like the thing to say. To talk him down.

 

Zacharias lowered his head. Closed his eyes. “I was afraid you would feel this way. I had hoped that by knowing what you know, you’d be open to what I had to tell you.” 

 

“What I know?”

 

The priest lifted his gaze. Pale eyes drilled into him. “Come with me. I can protect you, but we must go now.”

 

“Protect me from what?”

 

“A horror you cannot fathom.”

 

Kyle kept his eyes glued to Zacharias. The intensity in his gaze. It burned with sincerity. That didn’t mean he was right though. He shook his head. “I’m sure you believe that, but at the moment I don’t, and I certainly have no intention of walking away with you.”

 

Zacharias drifted even closer. He reached his hand out, offering a folded slip of paper. “Take this.”

 

He opened it. Scribbled in black on the wrinkled half-sheet were the words “Negozio Centurio, Roma” with a street address. Underneath was a hieroglyph of some sort. Bold yellow ink that jumped off the page.

 

“What’s this?”

 

The priest stepped back, pointing his finger. “Beware the Yellow Sign.”

 

Before Kyle could say another word, Zacharias turned toward the open window behind him. In a seamless motion, he pulled some kind of dust from his coat pocket and threw it into the darkness. He whispered something, crazed mumbo jumbo. Then looked back for just a moment. Winked and jumped.

 

Kyle’s heart thundered. He rushed to the window, reaching until his arm revolted, a desperate hope of catching the man before he leaped to his death. The instant he got to the edge, a flash of light blinded him. It faded as fast as it appeared. 

 

When he regained his vision, scanning the sidewalk below, no hint of Father Zacharias Stilicho remained, except for a few fading sparkles in the moonlight.