Chapter 10
TEDDY
I'm dressed and in the rental car within ten minutes, coffee growing cold in the cup holder as I navigate Bellmour's quiet residential streets.
The morning sun slants through maple trees, casting long shadows across pristine lawns and white picket fences.
It's the kind of neighborhood where people leave their doors unlocked and wave to strangers.
The kind of place a monster would choose to hide.
Even from here, I can see the spray paint. Blue letters stark against white colonial siding, impossible to miss or dismiss as random vandalism. My pulse quickens as I read the words through my binoculars.
CONFESSION IS MERCY
THE SANCTUM RISES
They were here. The carnival—Elias Vale and Silas Crowley and their merry band of vigilantes marked their next target like wolves pissing on territory.
I lower the binoculars, mind racing. This confirms everything I suspected about the pattern, but it also escalates the timeline. Our perps don't tag houses for fun—they're announcing their intentions. Which means Malachi Voss is about to become the seventh name on my list of disappeared men.
Unless I can prove what's happening and stop it first.
The front door opens, and a figure emerges to speak with the officer. Even at this distance, I can tell it's an older man—gray hair, expensive robe, the type of erect posture that screams authority. Malachi Voss, almost certainly.
I grab my credentials and badge, then cross the street with the casual confidence of someone who belongs. The officer—young, probably new to the force—looks up as I approach.
“Morning. Special Agent Coleman, FBI.” I flash my badge, not giving him time to study it closely. “Heard the call on the scanner. Mind if I take a look?”
“FBI?” The officer's eyebrows climb toward his hairline. “For vandalism?”
“There's been a pattern across several states. Same type of messages, same MO. We think it might be connected to a larger investigation.”
The homeowner steps forward before the officer can respond. “I'm Malachi Voss. This is my property.”
Up close, he's exactly what I expected from the files—a well-preserved man in his seventies, intelligent eyes that miss nothing, the arrogant confidence that comes from decades of getting his own way.
But there's something else in his expression now.
Unease. Maybe fear, carefully controlled but definitely present.
“Agent Coleman.” I extend my hand, and he takes it, his grip firm, practiced. “I'm sorry about your property, Mr. Voss. Can you tell me exactly what happened?”
“I came out this morning to get the paper and found... this.” He gestures at the spray-painted messages with obvious distaste. “Some kind of religious nonsense, as far as I can tell.”
Religious nonsense. Right. If he recognizes the Sanctum of Ash references, he's not letting it show. But I catch the slight tightening around his eyes when he looks at the words.
“Any idea who might have done this? Former employees, neighbors with grudges, that sort of thing?”
“Nothing comes to mind.” His tone is carefully neutral. “We're very active in the community. I can't imagine why anyone would target our home.”
Active in the community. The Bellmour Youth Initiative flashes through my mind—at-risk children, charitable foundation, the perfect cover for a man with Malachi's history. If he really is a Prophet.
“What about these specific phrases?” I pull out my phone, pretending to reference notes from previous disappearances. But I know them by heart. “'Confession is mercy.' 'Ash is what remains when sin is burned away.' Do those mean anything to you?”
“No.” The word comes out too quickly. “I have no idea what those phrases might reference.”
Liar. Everything about his body language screams recognition, fear, the desperate desire to end this conversation and get back behind his locked doors.
“Strange choice of words for random vandalism,” I continue, keeping my tone conversational. “Usually, we see profanity, gang tags, that kind of thing. This feels more... personal.”
“I wouldn't know anything about that.” His voice carries the edge of authority now—a man used to ending conversations when they become inconvenient. “Officer Martinez, are we finished here?”
The young cop nods eagerly. “I've got everything I need for the report, Mr. Voss. We'll increase patrols in the neighborhood, keep an eye out for suspicious activity.”
“Excellent. Thank you for your prompt response.”
He's already turning toward his front door, dismissing us both. But I'm not done.
“One more thing, Mr. Voss.”
He stops, shoulders tensing. “Yes?”
“The Seven Sins Carnival is in town this week. You planning to attend?”
Voss' hands clench into fists by his side. “I'm not familiar with that particular carnival,” he says carefully.
“Really? It's been advertised all over town. Supposed to be quite a show.” I smile, letting him see that I know exactly what I'm doing. “Very... immersive experience, from what I hear.”
“I prefer more traditional forms of entertainment.” He's backing toward his door now, every line of his body screaming retreat. “Good day, Agent Coleman. Officer Martinez.”
The door closes with finality that echoes across the quiet street.
“Weird reaction,” Officer Martinez observes, securing his camera equipment. “Guy seemed really rattled by the carnival question.”
“People get strange about different things.” I pocket my phone, mind already racing ahead to the next phase. “Thanks for letting me observe. I'll be in touch if this connects to our broader investigation.”
The drive back to my motel passes in a blur of suburban streets and racing thoughts. Everything I suspected about Malachi Voss just got confirmed—his reaction to the Sanctum references, the barely-concealed terror when I mentioned the carnival. He knows exactly who tagged his house and why.
The question is what I'm going to do about it.
Back in my room, I spread the case files across the bed again, adding my morning's observations to the growing pile of evidence. Six missing men. Six towns visited by the Seven Sins Carnival. Six disappearances that got buried by people with enough power to make inconvenient investigations vanish.
And now Malachi Voss, marked for death by spray paint and childhood trauma.
I should call this in. Should contact my supervisor, request backup, turn this into an official federal investigation with all the resources that entails. That would be the proper procedure, the career-smart move.
But I've read enough about the Sanctum of Ash to know what these so-called Prophets did to children. I've seen the sealed files, the redacted reports, the wall of bureaucratic silence that protected monsters for decades.
If the system failed these survivors once—and it clearly did—can I really blame them for taking justice into their own hands?
I pick up my phone, then set it back down. Pick it up again.
The right thing to do is obvious. Report the vandalism, the pattern, the connection to the carnival. Let proper law enforcement handle it through proper channels. Protect Malachi Voss regardless of what he might have done twenty years ago, because that's what the law requires.
But proper channels protected the Sanctum of Ash for decades. Proper law enforcement buried investigations and sealed records and let monsters like Malachi build comfortable lives while their victims scattered to the winds.
I think about Nova and the way she moved during their performance, like she was born to be bound, like restraints felt safer than freedom. Think about the careful way Silas touched her, like he understood exactly what kind of damage he was working with. Are they both victims of this cult?
Then I think about the way watching them made me question everything I thought I knew about myself, about desire, about the rigid lines I've drawn around my own identity.
My phone stays on the nightstand.
Instead, I open my laptop and pull up everything I can find on Malachi Voss.
Financial records, property holdings, business associations.
The Bellmour Youth Initiative gets special attention—I want to know exactly how many children have passed through his programs, where they ended up, whether any complaints were ever filed.
Two hours later, I lean back in my chair with sick certainty churning in my gut.
The pattern is there if you know how to look—children in Malachi's programs who disappeared from official records, complaints that got buried, investigations that died before they started.
All carefully legal, technically above board, protected by the kind of institutional power that makes uncomfortable questions go away.
But the smell of corruption is unmistakable once you catch it.
I close the laptop and walk to the window, staring out at the carnival lights in the distance. The Ferris wheel turns slowly against the darkening sky, and I can hear faint music drifting on the evening air.
I feel torn between my duty as a federal agent and a pull I can't reason away—the bone-deep certainty that these children deserved better than the system that failed them. That true justice is worth whatever it costs, even if it comes wrapped in chains and painted with blood.
I'm walking a line I've never walked before—between law and vengeance, duty and desire, the man I've always been and someone I'm only beginning to understand.