Chapter 2
Jace
Three months of bullshit smiles and Bible talk, and I was finally getting somewhere.
The Covenant of Light. That was the name stamped across the top of every file back at the Bureau—typed in clean black font, sterile and harmless-looking.
You wouldn’t think it meant forty people living in the middle of nowhere, Nebraska, playing house with a self-declared prophet and his “holy” son.
But that’s what it was.
I’d read the reports—missing persons, financial fraud, whispers about “cleansings” given as penance.
It was more than enough to make the Bureau nervous, but no one had been able to get close.
The place was like a fortress. They didn’t recruit online, didn’t advertise, didn’t even have a goddamn website.
The only way in was old-fashioned, face-to-face trust.
So that’s what I’d been doing. Earning it.
Every Sunday for weeks, I’d driven the same beat-up Chevy down the cracked highway to the little farmer’s market on the edge of a tiny farming town.
And every Sunday, I’d find Malachi there—the man himself, prophet and founder, selling honey in glass jars with handwritten labels and bushels of corn.
Well, it was more like he was overseeing his followers, making sure they weren’t up to anything besides making money to line his pockets—all he actually did was sit there while a small group of adults did the actual work.
The first time I spoke to him, he’d barely looked at me—just nodded when I handed him five bucks and told him the honey smelled good.
The second week, I asked what the words “Blessed be the Light” on their booth’s sign meant.
That got me a half-smile and a pamphlet that didn’t really explain anything.
By the fifth week, I was quoting scripture back at him.
Nothing fancy—just enough to make him curious. I’d drop a line about redemption through suffering or some shit, and he’d tilt his head, studying me with interest.
Then last week, something shifted. He’d talked with me longer than usual, throwing around buzzwords like “the hunger for truth” and “men who seek the flame.” When I said I’d like to see what his congregation was really about, he didn’t say no. He just said, “Perhaps the Lord will call you.”
Which, translated, meant: Not yet, but soon. Maybe.
And that “not-yet-but-soon-maybe” turned out to be today.
He’d shown up that morning at the small diner in town, just as I was finishing up breakfast.
He’d walked right up to my table with an unusual excitement in his step. “You’ve been very patient. The Light rewards patience. Are you still interested in seeing our community?”
I didn’t bother hiding my surprise. “Of course. But honestly, I never thought the day would come.”
He smiled, a bit wider than usual. “Our congregation will be eager to meet you. It isn’t every day that a true believer visits us.”
An hour later, I was following his old Ford pickup down a dirt road that sliced through the cornfields. My rental truck bumped along behind him, dust rising in thick waves. The sun hung low, and for a minute, it definitely felt like I was driving into a Children of the Corn situation.
The fucking things I do for this job.
A flicker of nerves caught in my chest. I’d been a part of undercover ops before, but usually they had been pretty short, lasting a week, maybe two. This one was open-ended. No extraction date, no timeline. Just “stay until we know what they’re doing out there.”
The Bureau suspected forced labor. Some thought there might be trafficking. I’d already seen enough of both to last a lifetime.
Malachi’s truck slowed ahead, turning down a narrow gravel drive lined with bare trees. A wooden gate stood at the end, carved with the words “The Light Endures” in peeling gold paint.
He waved me forward.
As the gate swung open, the compound came into view—a row of tidy dorm-style houses, a garden patch, a couple of buildings, a large farmhouse, and at the center of it all, a chapel gleaming like something out of a postcard. Whitewashed walls, pointed roof, cross glinting in the sun.
Picturesque, if you didn’t know better.
Malachi parked and stepped out of his truck, dusting his hands. I killed the engine and climbed out after him, forcing a polite smile.
“Welcome,” he said, spreading his arms like he was greeting an old friend. “The Light has called you home, Jace.”
“It’s beautiful, Malachi. I’m honored,” I said, keeping my tone just the right mix of reverent and uncertain.
He smiled faintly, then turned toward the chapel. “Come. The faithful will want to meet you. And you should pay your respects to the Vessel.”
The Vessel.
Elior Ransom, son of Malachi Ransom.
The one the group claimed to worship.
As we walked, Malachi’s voice rolled low and even beside me, quoting scripture I half-recognized. I nodded in the right places, keeping my eyes ahead while my mind whirred.
Growing up in a Catholic household, I was fully aware of how frowned upon idolatry was. I may not be a religious person, but I knew that much. My mom, my nanay, would’ve beaten my ass if she ever caught me worshiping another man like he was God himself.
I could practically hear her chastising me from beyond the grave as I followed Malachi deeper into the compound.
The air around us felt wrong—too still, like the whole world had paused just past the gates. The smell of earth and dust clung to everything, and the silence was so complete that the crunch of gravel under my boots sounded intrusive, like I was yelling in a library.
People began to appear as we walked—a few from behind the neat little houses, a handful tending the garden rows. All of them stopped what they were doing when they saw me.
Every last one.
Dozens of wide, watchful eyes turned my way.
They wore identical white robes that reached their ankles, cinched at the waist with rope. Many of them were barefoot, but I spotted sneakers, sandals, and work boots here and there.
No one spoke; no one smiled. They all just stared, like I was some rare animal drug in from the wild. It threw me off for a moment, but I reminded myself that most of them had probably never interacted with anyone outside their little community.
I recognized a couple of older men and women from the farmers market, but either they didn’t recognize me, or were pretending not to.
It didn’t even feel like Nebraska anymore. It was all so uncanny. The whole place looked stuck in time—houses built by hand, no power lines in sight, no hum of generators or the ringing of phones. Just the wind scraping through the trees and the faint creak of the chapel door swinging open ahead.
“Isn’t it peaceful here?” Malachi asked, tone soft but full of pride.
“Yeah,” I said, forcing my voice not to crack. “Peaceful.”
It was peaceful in the same way a graveyard was. But death was the ultimate peace, after all.
We passed through a small courtyard toward the chapel, passing by a few members sitting in a circle, heads bowed, whispering what sounded like prayers.
When I made eye contact with one of them, I nodded and offered her a polite smile.
She flinched, eyes darting to Malachi, who continued on without acknowledging any of his people.
That didn’t seem very charismatic cult leader of him.
I adjusted my collar and took a steadying breath. My hidden microphone was still transmitting, but it wasn’t much comfort out here. If things went sideways, backup wouldn’t reach me for at least twenty minutes.
Malachi paused at the chapel doors, placing a hand against the wood. “You’ll meet him now,” he said softly. “The Vessel. The Lord’s chosen conduit. But before you go in, there are a few… rules, I guess you’d say.”
I swallowed, prepping myself. I gave him a short nod and a wary smile. “Of course. I’m honored to meet him, so whatever you need me to do.”
He smiled faintly, the kind of smile that didn’t reach his eyes.
“Good. You’re a good man, Jace.” He patted my shoulder with a heavy hand.
“Just be considerate of his holy position, and I’m sure you’ll do well.
You can speak to him, but be respectful—he is our Light, after all.
And don’t expect a response back. He does not speak as the people speak. ”
“Will you be coming in with me?” I asked.
“Oh yes. Only our congregation can visit him in private. Safety concerns and all that. You get it, don’t you?”
“A hundred percent. You need to protect your own,” I answered.
Malachi hummed and smiled at me as he pushed the door open, letting a rush of cool air out. My first glimpse inside was pure candlelight and shadows.
As my eyes adjusted to the dim interior, I was able to faintly make out a dais at the other end of the church. Taking a step forward, then another, a large throne-like chair, carved out of stone, took my breath away.
For a brief, almost unnerving second, my surroundings faded away, and I forgot all about the cult leader at my back.
Sitting on the stone seat, dwarfed by its size, was a young man.
He wore a white robe like the others, but his seemed grander somehow. His bare feet hung in the air, his heels lying against the base of the throne. It was like he’d been placed there. It was apparent he was too short to get up and down from the thing on his own.
Golden light illuminated him, making his light blonde hair glow like his very own halo.
And I mean—holy fuck.
I’d never been equally so attracted and so unsettled by a person.
My silence must have confused him, as he lifted his head and glanced at me, those curious blue celadon eyes making my breath stutter.
Malachi cleared his throat before walking forward to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with me.
“Elior, my son, this is Jace. I’ve brought him here today to show him our way of life. He’s interested in our faith and community. You may offer a greeting.” I opened my mouth to speak, not realizing Malachi hadn’t been talking to me, but before any words came out, a soft, quiet voice reached me.
“Hello,” Elior said.