Désamour, France
November, Date unknown
Itreekedofsplinteredwood and sins too ancient to name. Sins that never got forgiven—just shoved into drawers and forgotten. The kids waited their turn outside like always. Knees jackhammering. Mouths sealed. Eyes too wide, too hungry. Listening to adults drop their voices when they thought only God could hear.
God, and whoever crouched behind the mesh screen.
“Bless me, Father,” a man said, voice thick. “I’ve heard things."
His breath snagged. Rosary beads clicked once, then stopped.
“Who?” the priest asked, but he knew deep down what was coming.
A pause.
“The House.”
The children didn’t know which house.
Some families didn't need street names. They had titles. They had rules. They had permission to reach into your chest and rearrange your organs.
The adults whispered la maison du mal when they thought the walls had ears. Said it while spitting on the ground and crossing themselves, like naming it meant they weren't already dead.
Three branches. One root. One poison running through all of them.
A garden in France, someone once whispered. A place that grew beauty like a threat. The priest didn't care what they whispered, so long as it kept them all away from Désamour.
“Delacroix," he said, as if it were nothing.
The priest flinched like the name had hands.
“And the others?” the priest asked, because curiosity gets holy men killed. "What have you heard?"
The children sat right out the door. He wondered if they were listening, they probably were. They didn’t know words like surveillance or intel yet. They just knew the feeling of being looked at, even when no one was there.
It was the priests job to ensure no one ever heard of them here. Especially in Désamour. He would need to form a way around this.
The man cleared his throat. “They have a book, Father—"
The priest’s hand slams against the wood between them—crack—like a gunshot in the cramped dark. “Enough.”
His voice isn’t soft anymore. It’s gravel and communion wine gone sour. The man jerks back; the rosary drops, clatters, stills.
“I know,” the priest says. Breath sawing. “I know what book. I know what they write in it. I know whose names are inked in blood that never dries.”
He leans forward, forehead almost brushing the lattice, eyes wild with something older than scripture. “You think confession buys you safety? Speaking their words out loud is a invitation. They hear. Always.”
The man opens his mouth—no sound. Just the wet click of fear.
Outside, the children freeze. One girl—barely ten, shoes too big, eyes too old—presses her ear harder to the door. Her pulse hammers against the wood like a second heart.
The priest lowers his voice, barely wind. “You breathe their business outside this box, and they will carve you into lessons. Not just you. Your wife. Your boy. Your mother’s grave.” He swallows, throat clicking. “They’ll make you watch while they rewrite your bloodline.”
The man’s hands shake so hard the kneeler rattles. “I—I didn’t mean—”
“Then stop.” The priest’s fingers curl through the screen, a warning. “Forget the codex. Forget the families. Forget you ever heard la mason du mal whispered like a lullaby. You carry their name past this door, you carry a target.”
The candlewax has gone brittle. Fear pools underneath the pews like spilled communion wine.
