Chapter 2
“It started with an Ashcroft. It will end with an Ashcroft.” A deep, unrecognizable voice spoke through a white owl-themed mask.
That got my attention.
I shifted from my vantage point in the rafters, ensuring I heard every word exchanged.
After hours of sitting in the dark, damp recesses of the abandoned warehouse, the fuckers had finally said something worth listening to.
Other than their usual culty bullshit drivel, that could last for hours.
Their usual sermons often held no value, no clues, no tips about what their next move might be.
And this one name, and a name I knew well, rose like a beacon to point me in a new direction.
But what the fuck did they mean?
There weren’t any Ashcrofts currently in Kilbride.
A prickle of unease skittered down my spine.
If that family had any remaining sense, they’d continue staying away.
Despite my deep regard in the past, I didn’t have any hope for the future of that legacy given the news flashing across the tabloids.
A disappointment smeared across a redeemed heritage.
I almost snorted at the irony but couldn’t risk garnering the attention of the bastards below.
Beyond the veil of reality, these bastards were a foregone legend written in the margins of Kilbride’s history.
Nothing more than folklore and fantasy drenched in secrets.
A society of monsters disguised as mortals, wearing the masks of the most influential founders of the city’s affluent society and among the school board’s members.
Apostles of the Cult of Moloch.
Six of them huddled together, faces hidden in a mockery of their true forms, and figures shrouded in reddish-brown robes.
The surrounding warehouse wasn’t the home of their ritual gatherings.
Moldering concrete riddled with cracks and a faltering foundation, and dead leaves scattered on a slick floor boxed us in.
There wouldn’t have been a breath of breathable air in the suffocating space if not for the broken windows permitting scant traces of silvery moonlight.
The high energy and twitching demeanor of Moloch’s disciples bore the signs of a last-minute calling. I’d been lucky to pick up their traces through all the red tape currently on campus.
A tragedy written as an accident. One dead student. One poor girl pushed from the tower, and authorities had swarmed the grounds of the prestigious university for hours, stomping around evidence they were too blind to see.
I’d never known the cultists to slip up so spectacularly in the decades I’d spent committed to finishing what my mentor started.
The sloppiest fucking sacrifice they’d made in all my years tirelessly hunting their infernal ilk.
Rushed, last minute, and too public for their liking.
Though a hurried death was still a boon for an eldritch god demanding ritual sacrifices in his honor.
Aside from being recklessly hasty, this death differed from the rest.
Something had triggered the impulsive kill.
From my point of view high over their heads, I watched them hum and bob their heads. I needed them to pick up the pace and deliberate or say something of value. Instead, they prolonged their undulating chants as if executing a performance.
Then again they said, “It started with an Ashcroft. It will end with an Ashcroft.”
One at a time, the apostles turned their heads to the speaker.
“The blood of The Betrayer has returned home,” he said, voice sibilant and eerily dream-like. “The sins of the father stain the soul of the child.”
“Sins of the father,” his companions echoed.
“The Ashcroft treachery will be rectified! Let the descendent of the one who broke the sacred vow act as the gateway to our master.” Now, that certainly didn’t sound promising.
“Let not the muddled chaos of this first sacrifice dirty the honor we carry enacting our god’s will.
In the confusion, we shall rise from the disarray and bring order, we will pave the path for Him to return! ”
The conviction in his voice unsettled me. Particularly since it was my duty to stop them. His wicked brethren raised their arms and hooted in sync as the parliament agreed. The sound of it scraped against my eardrums and sparked an instinctual dread my self-discipline failed to subdue.
One apostle reached into their robe. They withdrew a photo and passed it around to the others. I craned my head, trying to make out the face of the person in the picture.
“This is the one we seek.”
I caught a flash of blonde hair. But it wasn’t enough. If they had a target in mind for another sacrifice, I’d do my due diligence in protecting them. Anything to stop Moloch from breaking free.
Gripping the beam tighter, I leaned further down. Only my superior balancing skills couldn’t save me from the beam groaning under my weight.
A loud metallic groan split through the warehouse.
My heart stalled.
Six bone-white masks snapped up, and gleaming yellow eyes spotted me among the shadows. An aria of shrieks rendered the space with a thunderous trembling. High-pitched and piercing, like an explosion of steam whistling high enough to shatter glass. And it did.
The remaining fragile windows of the warehouse erupted.
Every pane of brittle glass fracturing sent splinters in every direction.
My arm curved up to protect my face on instinct despite the black mask I wore.
Eyes closed and muscles going taut as I braced myself for impact, I waited with a breath held.
Moments later, silence fell.
I looked down at the concrete floor. Brittle leaves skittered across the ground as the burst of wind settled. Heart pounding and ears ringing, I swung to the next lowest beam before dropping to the floor.
Aside from the broken glass littering the space, there didn’t seem to be any evidence they’d ever been there at all. No cultists, no monsters standing like men, no murderers planning their next strike.
I’d lost the bastards again and had no idea who they were after as their penultimate sacrifice. There weren’t any Ashcrofts in Kilbride and hadn’t been for years.
With a sigh, I placed my hands on my hips and looked around at the mess.
A single lonely feather sat among the ruins.