Chapter 9
SILAS
I want to burn it all down.
“Look at this shit,” Logan mutters through his balaclava, hefting the red spray can in his scarred hands. “Bet he's got a fucking white picket fence around back too.”
“Easy,” Elias says, his voice muffled but commanding even through the black fabric covering his face. Only his pale eyes are visible, and they're locked on the house. “We're not here to demolish the place. Yet.”
The seven of us crouch behind the neighbor's hedge, dressed in dark hoodies and pants that make us look like any other group of vandals. Which, technically, we are. Just vandals with a very personal agenda.
“Motion sensors are on the garage and front door,” I whisper, consulting the tablet I tucked inside my jacket. “But the security company's basic package doesn't cover the sides or back of the house.”
“Cheap bastard,” Cole observes, producing one of his knives and absently cleaning under his fingernails with the tip. “You'd think a man with his history would invest in better protection.”
“He thinks he's untouchable,” Marek says from the shadows. Sometimes I forget he's there until he speaks. “The righteous never expect their sins to find them.”
Jonah shifts his massive frame, scanning the house. “Two cars in the driveway. BMW and a Tesla. Both here for the night.”
“Domestic bliss,” Rowe murmurs, and there's a bitter undercurrent to his quiet voice. He's been tracing those raised scars on his forearms—a nervous habit that surfaces whenever we talk about the Prophets.
“Remember,” Elias says, checking his watch, “we're not trying to be subtle tonight. We want him to know we were here. We want him to understand this is just the beginning.”
I pull the blue spray can from my jacket, feeling its weight. Twenty years of rage condensed into pressurized pigment.
“Who takes which wall?” Logan asks, eager as always to start the destruction.
“Sides and back,” Elias decides. “Stay away from the windows—we don't need to wake up the whole neighborhood. Silas, you handle the front door area. The rest of us spread out.”
Cole twirls his knife one last time before tucking it away. “What's our timeline?”
“Fast and clean,” I say, already moving toward the front of the house. “Security patrol comes through every two hours. We've got forty minutes.”
We disperse like shadows, each finding our assigned section. The familiar rush of adrenaline hits my system as I approach the pristine front porch with its perfect white columns and hanging ferns. How fucking quaint.
The spray can hisses as I shake it, the sound loud in the suburban quiet. Then I press the nozzle and watch blue paint arc across the white siding in smooth, decisive strokes.
CONFESSION IS MERCY
Each letter feels like a small victory. Behind me, I hear the soft hiss of more cans—my brothers leaving their own messages on Malachi's perfect little sanctuary.
“Si,” Logan's voice drifts from around the corner, barely audible. “You seeing this back patio setup? Man's got a fucking hot tub.”
“Focus,” Elias's voice carries the slightest hint of amusement.
I move to the left side of the frontage, adding a second line beneath the first:
THE SANCTUM RISES
“Jesus Christ,” Cole mutters from the east side of the house. “Check out this fucking rose garden. Bet he spends more on flowers than we make in a month.”
“Priorities,” Jonah rumbles. “Man always did like pretty things.”
The bitterness in his voice is poignant. Jonah's the gentlest of us all, which makes his rare moments of anger much more powerful. Our Prophet fathers all did a number on us, but Jonah carries those green eyes like a curse—a daily reminder of the DNA he can never escape.
I cap the blue can and pull out red, adding a crimson slash beneath my message like a signature written in blood.
“Two minutes,” Elias calls softly.
I step back to admire my work. The blue letters stand out like a bruise against the white siding, impossible to ignore or cover with a quick coat of paint. Malachi's going to see this message first thing when he opens his front door tomorrow morning.
Good morning, Father.
“Done,” Logan announces. “Left him a nice little note about cleansing fire.”
“Mine's more philosophical,” Marek says, appearing beside me like a ghost. “About the weight of buried sins.”
Cole jogs up. “Decorated his precious rose garden with some thoughts about sharp objects and tender flesh. Very poetic.”
“Rowe?” Elias calls.
“Finished,” comes the quiet reply from somewhere near the back patio.
Jonah emerges from the shadows by the garage, brushing his hands off. “Left him something about the strength it takes to break chains.”
We regroup behind the hedge, surveying our handiwork. The house no longer looks pristine. It looks marked. Claimed. Like territory that belongs to us now.
“Beautiful work, gentlemen,” Elias says, and there's genuine pride in his voice. “Phase one complete.”
“Think he'll call the cops?” Logan asks, still buzzing with post-vandalism energy.
“Probably,” I say, tucking the empty cans into my jacket. “But what's he going to tell them? That someone spray-painted his house with vaguely threatening messages? They'll file a report and move on.”
“Besides,” Cole adds, already walking toward the street where we left the van, “we haven't actually threatened him. Just... decorated his property with some philosophical observations.”
“The beauty of psychological warfare,” Marek observes. “Malachi will know exactly who did this and why. But he can't prove anything.”
We pile into the van, pulling off our masks and gloves as Jonah starts the engine. The suburban street looks peaceful again, like nothing happened. But tomorrow morning, every neighbor on this block will see what we left behind.
“How long before he figures out we're here with the carnival?” Rowe asks, staring out the window as we drive past the marked house one last time.
“Day or two,” Elias answers. “He'll start connecting dots once he realizes the Seven Sins Carnival is in town.”
“Good,” I say, a savage satisfaction settling in my chest. “I want him to have time to think about it. Time to wonder which kids are here.”
“Time to wonder what we look like now,” Logan adds with a grin.
Cole starts cleaning under his fingernails with his knife again. “Think he'll run?”
“Where's he going to go?” I shrug. “Man's got too much invested here. Too much to lose.”
“That's what makes this so perfect,” Elias says. “He built himself a life worth protecting. Which means he has something worth taking away.”
The van falls quiet as we head back toward the carnival grounds. Outside, Bellmour sleeps peacefully, unaware that wolves have marked their most respected citizen for slaughter.
“Confession is mercy,” I murmur into the darkness.
“Resistance is punishment,” my brothers respond.
Phase one is complete.