Rick’s jaw tightened. Hypocrites, all of them—ready to believe in angels, saints, miracles, but not this. Probably laughed at the idea of vampires and werewolves too, unaware of the fact that these creatures prowled Calgrave’s streets at night while their God stayed just an abstract figure in the sky.
Irene continued. “She became hysterical when she learned she was pregnant. She claimed the twins inside her weren’t human. That they were cursed. Tainted. She begged me to find her certain herbs, roots, to brew a tea that would get rid of them.” Her gaze dropped to her hands. “Of course, I refused. That would’ve been a mortal sin.” A breath passed. “But she tried anyway. And she was caught. After that, she was never left alone again.”
Frank’s eyes stayed on hers, unflinching but kind. “And the talk of demons? Did it stop?”
“Yes,” Irene said. “She seemed to recover—or at least, she pretended well enough. She did her chores. Prayed. Ate. Spoke no more of darkness.” Her voice lowered. “Not until the birth.”
Rick braced himself.
“I was there when the midwife swaddled the babies. Mary wouldn’t even look at them. Refused to breastfeed them. Onenight, a few days later, I found her in the bathroom. The twins were in the tub.” A long pause. “She’d held them underwater.”
Rick felt something jolt through him. The thought of Ash dying in that tub, of his beauty extinguished before it fully blossomed, before his life had even begun, left a hollow pressure in his chest.
“I screamed,” Irene said. “Others came running. They pulled the babies out just in time. Mary was shouting that they were hell-spawn. After that, they took the children away. And her, too. Sent her to the asylum.” Her eyes lifted toward the clouds, as if seeking something among them. “She hanged herself a few days later.”
A long silence fell. Stillness clung to the courtyard.
Rick shifted, skin crawling, as thunder rumbled low and deep, vibrating in the stone beneath them.
Irene turned her gaze to the garden. Ivy climbed the columns like green veins, and the ash trees stretched up in ragged contours. “She never named the children,” she said. “Told me to do it, if I cared. I chose names from what I could see outside the window of our cell. Ash. And Ivy. I still think about them sometimes.”
Rick and Frank exchanged a glance and stood at the same time.
“Thank you for your time, Sister,” Frank said quietly. “You’ve been very helpful.”
Rick lingered. “Is there anything else you remember? Every detail can be of use.”
Irene wavered. Looked at the ground. “Well… there is one thing,” she said slowly.
They waited.
“When I found Mary in the bathroom… she’d been in there for a while. And all that time, while I fought her, she kept the babies submerged. By the time help came, it had to have been atleast five minutes. Maybe more.” Her eyes narrowed in thought. “They should’ve been dead. But they weren’t. They didn’t even cry. I didn’t think much of it then. Shock, I suppose. But the more time passed… the more it bothered me.”
Rick’s expression darkened. “Well, Sister,” he said, “if you believe in angels, maybe it’s time you started believing in demons too.”
And with that, he turned and walked off into the convent’s gloom, wondering what was worse: that Lily Costa might’ve been mad—or that she wasn’t.
“Goodbye,” he heard Frank say behind him, followed by the soft tread of his footsteps.
The courtyard fell away behind them, and with it, the last quiet thread of doubt. Rick now knew what he was dealing with. The sky grumbled low above, and he couldn’t shake the feeling they were heading toward a disaster.
Chapter Nineteen
(6:04 p.m.)
The lampposts sputtered to life as dusk deepened into fog and drizzle, slicking the streets of Bridgeport and turning asphalt into black mirrors. Ash rode low on the Harley, one hand loose on the throttle, the other curled firm around the grip. The engine growled beneath him, deep, hungry, impatient. Rain streaked down his face, soaking his hair into dark, clinging strands, but the cold couldn’t touch him. His jacket hugged him, storm-slick and gleaming in the streetlight. The chill slid right off, unnoticed, as if it couldn’t find a way in.
Dock Nine loomed ahead, an old industrial slab of rusted girders and wet concrete crouched at the water’s edge like a dying god. The warehouses there were relics from a time when ships still ferried goods into Calgrave’s harbor, before the cranes froze, before the ocean turned black. Now, the docks belonged to ghosts, rats, men who carried knives behind their teeth and promises in broken tongues.
The stash warehouse lay buried below one of the larger structures, tucked behind sheets of corrugated steel and a faded sign that once readTENGOKU EXPORTS.Heaven,Ash thought dryly.Hell would’ve been more honest.
He parked the bike behind a row of trucks and approached on foot, slipping between shipping containers streaked with rust and rain. The air was thick with the briny breath of the Atlantic, oil fumes, and the faint metallic tang of blood that hadn’t dried. He paused in the shadow of a corroded support beam, scanning the perimeter. Nothing moved. But the lull was the wrong kind. Taut. Deliberate. Like a breath held just behind the walls. Hecouldn’t see them, but he knew they were there. Watching. Waiting.
The dock stretched before him in hulking silhouettes: dripping steel scaffolds, yawning freight doors, cables snaking through puddles like giant serpents. The tang of salt and oil thickened, mixing with mildew and the sterile burn of cleaning solvents.
Nora’s probably in there, too. Strung out. Shackled. But alive.
The Yakuza didn’t kill debtors. Corpses couldn’t repay what they owed. They had other tools—flesh, hunger, needle, and leash. They’d keep her high enough to forget her name, then dress her up and sell her to men who liked their dolls cracked and compliant. A walking ATM, hooked on the product they controlled, bleeding herself dry night after night until there was nothing left but bruises and bone.
