The rain hadn’t stopped for three days. It was the kind of rain that swallowed sound, that blurred the edges of the world into shadows and static. In the city of Blackthorn, rain wasn’t cleansing—it was a weight. A steady reminder that nothing ever really washed away.

Detective Jonah Voss leaned against the hood of his unmarked sedan, cigarette trembling between his fingers. He’d kicked the habit five years ago, but nights like this dragged him back. The call had come in just after midnight: another body, another scene. Third one this month. Same signature.

The morgue van idled nearby, headlights casting pale beams across the wet cobblestones of St. Brigid’s Alley. It was a narrow throat of a street, hemmed in by brick walls stained with moss and rust. The stench of rot mixed with wet asphalt clawed its way into Jonah’s nostrils.

“Detective?” Officer Ramirez called, his voice muffled by the rain. “You’re gonna want to see this.”

Jonah stubbed out his cigarette, the ember hissing against the puddle, and trudged over. Ramirez stood at the mouth of an old door, splintered from where they’d forced it open. The building had once been a boarding house, abandoned since the fire a decade ago. Now it was just a carcass: blackened beams, shattered glass, graffiti scrawled in tongues Jonah couldn’t understand.

Inside, the air was damp and heavy, carrying the coppery tang of blood. His flashlight cut through the dark, revealing peeling wallpaper sagging like skin. Then the beam landed in the room at the end of the hall.

The body was waiting.

A young woman, mid-twenties maybe, sat propped against the wall. No struggle, no sign of restraint. She looked almost peaceful, if not for the way her chest had been split open. Her ribcage splayed like a grotesque book, pages of flesh peeled back with surgical precision. A single black feather rested in the cavity where her heart should have been.

Jonah’s jaw tightened. “Same as the others.”

On the wall above her, written in blood with neat, deliberate strokes, was a verse:

“When the devil is questioned, he speaks in riddles. When he is cornered, he tells the truth.”

“Christ,” Ramirez muttered, pulling his coat tighter.

Jonah crouched, studying the feather. Raven, maybe crow. But the meticulous placement made it ritualistic, deliberate. He pulled on gloves, bagged it carefully.

A faint sound crept through the silence—a creak, like footsteps overhead. Ramirez stiffened. “Thought this place was cleared.”

Jonah raised a hand for quiet. They listened. Rain hammered the roof, wind howled through broken windows, but beneath it: movement. Someone was upstairs.

They drew their guns and moved up the staircase, wood groaning under their boots. At the top, the corridor stretched long and narrow. A door at the far end stood ajar, candlelight flickering inside.

Jonah signaled Ramirez, then pushed the door open.

The room was lined with candles, their flames sputtering in the draft. In the center knelt a man in a tattered priest’s cassock, head bowed, hands clasped. His face was gaunt, beard matted, eyes bloodshot. The smell of incense mingled with the metallic sting of blood.

“Father Marcus Hale,” Jonah said, lowering his weapon but not his guard. The name fit—the disgraced priest who vanished after the scandal ten years ago. The man who’d been whispered about ever since, a ghost in the city’s underbelly.

Father Hale lifted his head slowly. His lips curled into a cracked smile. “Detective Voss. I wondered when you’d arrive.”

Jonah felt the hairs on his neck rise. “You know why we’re here.”

The priest nodded toward the floor beside him. Jonah’s gaze followed—and froze.

There, scrawled in chalk across the rotten wood, was a circle filled with intricate sigils. At its center sat a leather-bound Bible, pages torn and marked with black stains. Surrounding it were photographs of the victims—three so far, all posed, all marked with the feather.

And scrawled above the circle, in jagged letters: “THE DEVIL’S ALIBI.”

Ramirez muttered a curse under his breath.

Jonah kept his gun steady. “You’re under arrest for murder, Father.”

Father Hale chuckled, a sound that cracked like dry wood. “Murder?” He spread his hands, palms upward, revealing streaks of dried blood. “No, detective. I am not the hand. I am the witness.”

“You expect us to believe that?” Jonah snapped.

The priest’s eyes flicked toward the Bible. “Ask him. He’ll tell you.”

Jonah stepped closer, his stomach knotting. “Who?”

“The one who wears me,” Hale whispered. “The one who moves when I sleep. I am his vessel, nothing more.” His voice trembled, but not with fear—with certainty. “You want the truth? Then you must let him speak.”

The candles guttered, shadows clawing at the walls. For a moment, Jonah swore the temperature dropped.

Ramirez shifted nervously. “This guy’s nuts. Let’s cuff him and be done.”

But Jonah hesitated. The verse on the wall, the staging of the bodies, the precise rituals—it was too meticulous for madness. Either this man was the most disciplined killer Jonah had ever met, or something darker was moving through him.

Father Hale bowed his head again, whispering words Jonah couldn’t catch. Then louder: “I will give you his alibi.”

And then he looked up, eyes rolling back until only the whites showed. His voice changed, guttural and cold, carrying a weight that pressed against the walls.

“He was with me. Each night. Each death. I am his alibi. And I am yours.”

The candles snuffed out all at once, plunging the room into blackness. Ramirez cursed, fumbling for his flashlight. When the beam cut back on, Father Hale was slumped against the floor, unconscious—or pretending.

Jonah’s hands shook as he cuffed him. But the words lingered in the air like smoke.

The Devil’s alibi.

By dawn, Father Marcus Hale sat in the interrogation room, wrists chained, eyes hollow. Outside, the press had already swarmed, cameras flashing, headlines blooming with fever: EX-PRIEST ARRESTED IN BLACKTHORN MURDERS.

But Jonah couldn’t shake the feeling. They’d caught the man—but had they caught the hand, or just the mouthpiece?

And if the devil truly had an alibi… then who was the real killer?

The city of Blackthorn had always been rotten at the core. Now Jonah wondered if that rot went deeper than flesh and bone—if it was spiritual, ancient, something that no badge or gavel could touch.

The rain kept falling, blurring the world into shadows. And somewhere, beyond the courthouse, beyond the morgue, something laughed.

The interrogation room at Blackthorn’s Central Precinct was as bleak as a coffin: windowless, square, painted in gray that made the walls sweat under the fluorescent light. A metal table divided the room, scarred from years of fists, cigarettes, and confessions carved into its surface.

Detective Jonah Voss sat across from Father Marcus Hale, hands folded, his coffee cooling untouched. Hale looked smaller in daylight than he had last night among the candles—just a gaunt man in a stained cassock, cuffs digging into his wrists. His lips moved silently, a prayer or a curse, Jonah couldn’t tell.

The tape recorder clicked on. Jonah leaned forward.

“Father Hale. Three victims. Same ritual. Same verse on the wall. Same black feather in the chest cavity. You were found at the scene surrounded by photographs of all three. Do you want to explain that?”

Hale smiled faintly, eyes drooping as though Jonah’s voice were distant thunder. “I already explained it. I am the witness. The hand is not mine.”

Jonah pinched the bridge of his nose. “We’re not playing theology, Father. We’re talking about homicide. Three families without daughters because of you.”

“No.” Hale’s eyes snapped open, sudden clarity in them. “Not because of me. Through me. There is a difference.”

The one-way mirror hummed with unseen eyes. Behind it, Assistant District Attorney Evelyn Cross watched. She was sharp-eyed, dark-haired, a presence that filled the observation booth despite her silence. She’d been brought in early at Jonah’s request—if this case went to trial, they’d need her razor intellect from the ground up.

Evelyn’s voice came through the intercom. “Push him. Find the crack.”

Jonah tapped the table with his pen. “Let’s talk about the victims. Emily Garner. Age twenty-four. Pre-med student. Found in an abandoned tenement. You lived three blocks away. Coincidence?”

Hale tilted his head, lips curling. “She prayed once in my confessional. About the things she did in the dark. Do you want to know what she whispered? Do you want to hear her sins?”

Jonah slammed the table. “Her sins don’t matter. She’s dead. Heart carved out. Feather left behind. That’s your ritual, Father. Or your… thing’s ritual. Take your pick.”

For the first time, Hale leaned forward, chains rattling. His voice dropped to a rasp. “If you truly believe I did this, Detective, then you must also believe that I did not. Because no man—no man—could peel back a chest and leave no trace. Did you see the cuts? Did you see how clean they were? Like glass. Like fire.”

Jonah kept his expression flat, though his gut churned. The coroner had said the same thing last night: no human blade could have carved with such precision, as though the body had been opened by heat itself.

Ramirez shifted against the wall, uncomfortable. He broke the silence. “Then who, Father? Who kills them if not you?”

Hale’s smile spread wider, his eyes gleaming with something feral. “Ask him. Call him. He’ll answer.”

Jonah shot Ramirez a look, then pushed his chair back. “Break,” he muttered, clicking off the recorder.

---

In the observation room, Evelyn Cross was waiting with arms folded. She didn’t waste time.

“He’s posturing. Either schizophrenic or running the possession defense early.”

Jonah scrubbed a hand across his stubble. “I’ve seen schizophrenics. They don’t stage corpses like art exhibits. They don’t write scripture in perfect calligraphy with blood.”

Evelyn’s gaze cut into him. “So what are you suggesting, Detective? That the devil really is his alibi?”

Jonah met her stare. He wanted to laugh, to dismiss it, but the words stuck. Instead, he shrugged. “I’m suggesting he’s not telling us everything. Whether it’s psychosis or cult involvement, we don’t know yet. But there’s something… organized.”

She nodded slowly, lips tight. “Then we’ll crush him in court with his own words. But we need motive. A jury won’t convict on feathers and Bible verses alone.”

Jonah glanced back at the glass. Hale was still sitting there, head bowed, lips moving in silent prayer. For a moment, Jonah could almost believe he was just a broken man begging for salvation. Almost.

---

The second round began with Evelyn in the room. She had the presence of a surgeon—cold, precise, cutting through flesh to the bone. She slid into the chair opposite Hale, a slim folder in hand.

“Father Hale,” she began smoothly, “I’m Assistant District Attorney Evelyn Cross. You’re in a precarious position. Three murders, overwhelming evidence, a city screaming for justice. You’ll spend the rest of your life in a cage, if not worse. Unless you start cooperating.”

Hale raised his eyes. “And who are you to bargain with damnation?”

Evelyn leaned in, her voice like steel. “The woman who decides if you face a jury or a needle.”

For the first time, Hale’s smile faltered. His hands twitched against the cuffs, chains rattling like nervous bones. Then, almost inaudibly, he whispered, “He won’t let me.”

“Who?” Evelyn asked sharply.

Hale’s body stiffened. His eyes rolled back, breath hitching as though an invisible rope tightened around his throat. The veins in his neck bulged. Jonah rose instinctively, but Evelyn held up a hand.

“Let him,” she whispered.

Hale’s voice changed. Not deepened, not masked—changed, as though layered with another frequency. Words dripped from his mouth like oil.

“She cannot save you. None of you can. The pact is older than your laws. Older than your blood.”

Jonah’s skin crawled. He slammed his fist on the table. “Enough games! What pact? What do you want with these women?”

The thing inside Hale laughed, dry and hollow. “Want? I do not want. I take. They are tithes. Payments. The price of his silence.”

Evelyn narrowed her eyes. “Whose silence?”

Hale’s head snapped toward her with unnatural speed, eyes locking onto hers. For a moment, the entire room felt smaller, air sucked thin. Then he whispered a single word:

“Yours.”

The lights flickered. The tape recorder squealed. Ramirez cursed from the corner.

Jonah yanked Hale upright, slamming him against the wall. “Tell me what that means!”

Hale collapsed, choking, the strange resonance gone. His body trembled, sweat soaking his cassock. He looked suddenly human again, fragile. His eyes darted to Evelyn, wide with something between fear and reverence.

“He knows you,” Hale whispered hoarsely. “He’s been waiting.”

Evelyn’s jaw clenched, but her hands didn’t shake. She gathered the folder, snapped it shut, and stood. “This interrogation is over.”

Jonah grabbed her arm as they left the room. “What the hell was that? He called you out.”

Evelyn didn’t break stride. “Coincidence. He’s playing mind games.”

“Really?” Jonah shot back. “Because it didn’t sound like coincidence. It sounded like he knew something.”

She stopped in the hallway, turned, and met his gaze with a steel-cold glare. “Detective, you’re superstitious. That’s dangerous in our line of work. Stick to evidence. Stick to what we can prove.”

Jonah wanted to argue, to tell her about the cold drop in the air, the impossible shift in Hale’s voice, the way his eyes had locked onto hers like recognition. But her expression told him it was useless. She had built her career on logic, not on shadows.

“Fine,” Jonah muttered. “Evidence.”

But even as he said it, the phrase twisted in his gut. Evidence wouldn’t explain the cuts on the victims. Evidence wouldn’t explain the feathers, the verses, or the way the lights had died when Hale spoke.

And evidence sure as hell wouldn’t explain why the devil had just given Evelyn Cross an alibi.

---

That night, Jonah sat alone in his apartment, blinds drawn, whiskey sweating in his glass. The city outside roared with sirens and rain. On the table lay the photographs of the victims, spread like a grotesque tarot deck.

He studied them one by one, tracing the wounds, the positioning, the feather. Always the feather. Always in place of the heart.

His phone buzzed. Unknown number.

Jonah hesitated, then answered.

A voice hissed on the other end—low, guttural, familiar.

“Detective Voss… careful where you search. You might find your own heart missing.”

The line went dead.

Jonah sat frozen, glass trembling in his hand. He’d heard that voice once before.

This morning.

In the interrogation room.

Coming from Father Hale’s mouth.

The courthouse smelled of mildew and old wood, a mausoleum that dressed itself up in law. Assistant District Attorney Evelyn Cross strode across the marble floor with a briefcase in hand, heels echoing like gunshots. Her reflection glared back at her from the polished walls—sharp suit, sharper eyes, no margin for weakness.

She hated mornings in Blackthorn. The sky was always slate gray, the air always heavy, as though the city itself hadn’t taken a breath in years. But today felt heavier. Father Marcus Hale’s words from the interrogation still clung to her skin: “He knows you. He’s been waiting.”

Ridiculous. Parlor tricks. A manipulator’s game. And yet, when she’d closed her eyes last night, she’d dreamt of feathers—black, endless, falling like snow.

Her assistant, Claire, hurried to catch up, clutching a stack of files. “ADA Cross? Forensics sent over preliminary reports on the Blackthorn victims.” She lowered her voice. “And… the coroner flagged something unusual.”

Evelyn paused on the courthouse steps, hand tightening on the rail. “Unusual how?”

Claire glanced around, then slipped a folder from the stack. “All three victims had incisions too precise to be made by conventional blades. Tissue showed signs of cauterization at the cut edges. As if… burned open, but without fire damage to the surrounding flesh.”

Evelyn flipped through the photographs. Clean, perfect lines. Hearts removed as if plucked by invisible hands. A faint shiver traced her spine.

“Get me everything on Father Hale’s history,” she ordered briskly, snapping the folder shut. “His parish records, his sermons, his fall from the church. Somewhere in his past, we’ll find the trigger.”

Claire nodded, relieved to retreat into her comfort zone of research. Evelyn tucked the folder into her case and climbed the stairs. She wouldn’t be shaken by theatrics. Not now.

---

Detective Jonah Voss was already at the coroner’s office when Evelyn arrived later that afternoon. He leaned against the cold steel counter, a wolf among instruments of the dead. His tie was loose, his shirt wrinkled, but his eyes burned with the kind of sleepless intensity that made subordinates wary.

“Cross,” he greeted flatly. “I figured you’d show.”

“Because I care about building a case,” she replied, setting her briefcase down.

The coroner, Dr. Ingrid Zhao, rolled her chair over, snapping off her gloves. She was a petite woman with the detached calm of someone who spent more time with the dead than the living.

“You wanted anomalies,” Zhao said, sliding three reports across the counter. “You got them. The chest cavities were opened with surgical precision, but there’s no trace of steel. The burn patterns suggest extreme localized heat. Imagine a scalpel made of pure flame, cutting only where it touched.”

Jonah exhaled slowly. “Like fire from inside the body.”

Zhao gave him a sharp look. “Don’t romanticize it. I’m giving you science. But science doesn’t explain what tool could do this.”

Evelyn skimmed the report, jaw tight. “We’ll leave speculation out of court. The facts are damning enough. The man was at the scene, surrounded by evidence.”

Jonah smirked, but it wasn’t humor—it was weariness. “Facts? Or performance? He wanted us to find him there. Everything about it screams theater.”

Evelyn shot him a glare. “You’re too quick to hand him mystery. He’s a killer, not an oracle.”

“Then explain this.” Jonah pulled a photograph from his pocket and slapped it on the counter. It was from last night—Hale’s chalk circle on the floor, the jagged letters above it: THE DEVIL’S ALIBI.

Evelyn’s throat tightened despite herself. She forced her face blank. “A desperate man’s delusion.”

“Or a ledger,” Jonah countered.

Dr. Zhao raised an eyebrow. “Ledger?”

Jonah nodded grimly. “Every serial I’ve ever chased keeps records—trophies, journals, something. This isn’t scripture. It’s accounting. He’s keeping score.”

---

That evening, Evelyn returned to her office and buried herself in Hale’s history. His personnel file from the Archdiocese painted a neat portrait: ordination at twenty-six, rising star in his parish, sermons that drew packed pews. Then the descent—whispers of heresy, accusations of “dangerous teachings,” a public scandal when two parishioners claimed he’d performed exorcisms without church sanction.

He vanished from public record ten years ago. No known employment. No residence. Just… absence.

Buried deep in the archives, she found transcripts from one of his final sermons. Her eyes scanned the faded type:

> “When the Judge comes to question me, I will not lie. I will speak His truth. And if the world does not believe me, then the Devil himself shall stand as my witness.”

The words crawled under her skin. Hale hadn’t just invented this defense last night—he’d been rehearsing it for years.

She was still staring at the page when Claire reentered with a fresh file. “We found something else. A ledger. Belonged to a widow in Hale’s parish. She kept meticulous notes about his sermons, his confessions, even his visitors. Dated entries, going back fifteen years.”

Evelyn flipped through, scanning tight handwriting. Most entries were mundane—parish gossip, donations, choir schedules. Then her eyes froze on one line:

‘Father Hale says the Devil keeps an alibi for all who serve him. That’s how he hides in plain sight. He wears the faces of the guilty, but never the blood on his hands.’

Her breath caught. The ledger was a diary, yes—but it was also a blueprint. Hale had been planting these ideas long before the murders.

She closed the book, her reflection staring back from the office window: composed, determined, but with something hollow lurking in her eyes.

“He’s not crazy,” she murmured. “He’s deliberate.”

Claire frowned. “So… cult?”

“Or conspiracy.” Evelyn stood, grabbing her coat. “Either way, we’re missing half the picture.”

---

Meanwhile, Jonah’s night took him to the ruins of St. Brigid’s Church, where Hale had once preached. The city had condemned it after the fire, but its charred spire still clawed at the skyline.

The sanctuary was a skeleton—benches warped, stained glass shattered, the altar blackened. Yet someone had been here recently. Jonah’s flashlight caught fresh footprints in the soot.

At the altar lay another feather, pristine despite the ruin. Beside it, carved into the stone with something sharp, were three names: Emily Garner. Sarah Levens. Natalie Crowe.

The victims.

But below them, a fourth name had been freshly etched. Jonah’s pulse stuttered as he read it aloud.

“Evelyn Cross.”