Page 19 of Soulmarked
She was right. Looking around her house at the scattered protections, the desperate attempts to ward off demons or monsters alike, I knew with terrible certainty that nothing I could do would save her. Not without time and resources I didn't have.
“I'll come back,” I promised, though the words felt hollow even to me. “With help. With people who understand what we're dealing with.”
As I turned to leave, Diana's hand shot out, gripping my arm with surprising strength. Her nails dug into my sleeve, and her eyes locked onto mine with sudden, terrifying clarity.
“You believe me, don't you?” she whispered. “You've seen things others haven't. I can tell by the way you asked your questions.”
I kept my expression neutral, but my heart hammered against my ribs. “Mrs. Sullivan...”
“They're not like normal spirits,” she continued, her voice taking on an urgent rhythm. “Marcus thought holy water and iron would save him. But these... these don't just want energy. They feed on everything, life, soul, memory. They hollow you out until there's nothing left but an echo.”
Her fingers tightened, and I noticed more scratched symbols disappearing under her sleeve. “They're patient. They watch. Wait. First in mirrors, then in dreams. By the time you see them clearly, it's already too late.”
“Diana...”
“Please.” Her composure cracked completely. “You have to stop them. Before they come for me too. Before they finish what they started.”
I felt Sean's card burning in my pocket, a choice I couldn't keep avoiding. “I'll do what I can.”
“That's what The Guardian said too.” Her laugh was brittle. “But you're different, aren't you? You actually believe what's happening. You understand what we're really dealing with.”
I carefully extracted myself from her grip. “We'll have officers watching your house. If you see anything...”
“I won't live that long.” She said it with absolute certainty. “But maybe you can stop them from taking anyone else.”
The words followed me out of her house, weighing heavier than my gun, heavier than the badge that suddenly felt useless against what we were facing. I sat in my car for a long moment, knuckles white on the steering wheel, the mark burning cold against my chest. Another person I couldn't save.
Part of me wanted to go back in, to try something, anything, to protect her. But I'd seen that look before, in others who'd glimpsed too much of what lived in the shadows. She was already marked, just like her husband had been. Just like I was, in a different way.
The drive back to headquarters felt endless, each mile adding to the guilt of leaving her there. But what could I put in my report? What officially sanctioned action could protect someone from things that fed on more than just blood?
Back at CITD headquarters, I stared at my computer screen, trying to force this case into official language. “Victim exhibited signs of extreme blood loss despite no visible wounds.” How do you explain in a federal report that something had literally drained the life force from a man?
I pulled up other cases, ones I'd flagged over the years. Similar patterns emerged: bloodless bodies, terrified witnesses describing shadows that moved wrong, victims who knew they were being hunted but couldn't escape. Each report sanitized into acceptable explanations: drug overdoses, unknown toxins, cardiac events.
All lies.
Director Sterling passed by my desk, pausing just long enough to make it deliberate. His eyes moved from the case files to Marcus's journal on my desk, then back to me. He didn't say anything, but his look carried weight.
“Agent Cross?”
I looked up to find Alana, our tech specialist, holding a file. Her usual efficiency was tempered by obvious confusion.
“Sullivan's blood work came back,” she said, setting the file on my desk. “But... it doesn't make sense. The samples keep degrading, even in stable storage. And the cellular breakdown... it's like his blood was aged decades in minutes.”
My eyes moved to Sean's card, sitting on my desk like an accusation. I'd been trying to handle these cases alone, trying to maintain the facade of normal investigations while hunting monsters in secret.
But people were dying. Whatever these creatures were, whatever game Phoenix was playing, it was escalating. And pride wasn't worth more dead bodies.
I picked up the card, running my thumb over the embossed number.
Maybe it was time to stop pretending I could handle this alone.
Before I could talk myself out of it, my phone rang. Dr. Martinez's name flashed on the screen, making my stomach tighten. Medical examiners didn't call at this hour with good news.
“Cross,” I answered, already reaching for my jacket.
“I need you at the morgue.” Her voice was clipped, professional, but I could hear the tension underneath. “Now.”
