Faith stumbled into Ray’s Bakery fifteen minutes late, her hair looking like it had hosted a wild pigeon rave, and her face creased with the betrayal of a pillow that clearly hadn’t been kind. Delia, already elbow-deep in a vat of dough, glanced up from the kitchen counter and raised an eyebrow so high it nearly reached the ceiling fan.
“Well, look who decided to join us,” Delia said, slapping the dough onto the floured surface with a dramatic thwap. “Did you get lost on your way here, or were you just emotionally attached to your mattress?”
Faith dropped her bag onto a nearby chair and groaned. “I’m sorry. I slept like crap. I’ve been having nightmares.”
“Nightmares?” Delia paused, giving her a suspicious look. “If you say it’s about forgetting to preheat the oven again, I’m going to start charging you for therapy sessions.”
“No, it’s worse than that.” Faith leaned against the counter, looking as tragic as someone who’d argued fruitlessly with her alarm could manage. “It was… giant croissants. They were everywhere. And they weren’t just big, Delia. They were sentient. They kept calling me a ‘butter thief.’” She shuddered. “And I’m pretty sure one of them had a lawyer.”
Delia stared at her for a long moment, the corner of her mouth twitching as she fought back a grin. “So, let me get this straight. You were terrorized by pastries in your dreams?”
“Yes,” Faith said firmly. “And not just any pastries. They were French. You could feel the disdain radiating off them.”
“Well,” Delia said, slapping the dough into a neat rectangle, “if a croissant lawyer shows up at our door, I’ll let you handle it. Until then, you can start by prepping the display case. Those real pastries won’t arrange themselves.”
Faith pushed off the counter with a sigh, muttering under her breath about buttery oppression as she grabbed a tray of baked goods. Delia watched her for a moment, her grin finally breaking through.
“You know,” Delia said, leaning closer, “I think your brain is just trying to tell you something.”
Faith glanced over her shoulder. “Oh yeah? What’s that?”
Delia smirked. “Stop stealing my butter when I’m not looking.”
Faith gasped in mock indignation. “That’s outrageous! I would never!” She paused, then added, “Although… I could save some ‘dough’ that way…”
Delia pointed a flour-dusted finger at her. “See? Guilty conscience. Your brain knows.”
Faith laughed despite herself, shaking her head as she started organizing the display case. “I can’t believe I’m being psychoanalyzed by someone who talks to Sourdough.”
Delia winked. “Hey! A good starter never lies, listens better than most people, and unlike you, shows up on time.”
Faith rolled her eyes but couldn’t hide her grin. It wasn’t the most dignified start to her Monday, but at least Delia made it bearable—sentient croissants and all.
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In her home on Foxbend, Ava sat at her writing desk, hunched over a notepad already filled with tight, looping script. The pen in her hand scratched against the paper with an urgency that filled the dim room with a restless rhythm. Around her, the house was unnervingly quiet, save for the occasional creak of its ancient bones. The air was heavy with the scent of old paper, dust, and the strong odor of frankincense, myrrh, and wormwood—scents that clung to Ava herself.
The desk was crowded with objects she had gathered for this task: a stack of leather-bound journals; their spines cracked from centuries of use, a brass chronoscope that ticked faintly as though marking something other than time, a stack of ancient-looking tomes, and a bundle of aged parchment tied with twine. Ava leaned forward, her posture taut with purpose, every ounce of her focus fixed on the journal before her. Her ethereal features were drawn tight with concentration, her eyes darting between the page she was writing and an open journal beside it, its pages filled with cryptic symbols and diagrams.
“I need leverage,” she muttered, her voice a low growl. “There has to be a way to sever the link.”
She flipped back several pages to a section titled Bindings of the Mortal Soul. The text was written in a language long since forgotten but still familiar to her hand. She had spent decades piecing together theories, scribbling notes in the margins, searching for loopholes in the unyielding rules that governed her existence.
To her left, a massive crumbling volume lay open, its vellum pages worn thin by time. The book had no title, no author, only symbols etched in dark, oily ink that seemed to shimmer under the faint light. This was one of her most precious possessions, a relic stolen from a monastery centuries ago. It spoke of bonds forged between protectors and their wards—bonds that, according to the text, were eternal.
Ava’s finger traced a passage written in an angular script: “The bond is a divine mandate, unbreakable by mortal hands. To sever it is to sever the self, and to sever the self is to risk annihilation.”
She scoffed, her lips curling into a bitter smile. “Unbreakable,” she said, her voice dripping with disdain. "The world is full of contradictions; nothing is set in stone.”
On the floor near her desk sat a fragmented mirror covered with a dark cloth. The faint shimmer of its surface peeked out from the edges, and Ava gave it a wary glance. The mirror was too dangerous, even for her. She had used it once on another…being…and watched it tear them apart, their very essence fracturing into pieces too broken to mend. She had decided not to risk using it.
Ava leaned back in her chair, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. Nox leaped onto the desk with a fluid motion, his tail flicking against the open pages of her journal. The black cat regarded her with a silent, knowing gaze.
“I don’t suppose you have any ideas,” Ava said, her tone wry. “No? Of course not.”
She flipped the journal shut with a sharp snap and grabbed another from the stack. This one was older, its cover marked with soot from a fire she’d survived once. Inside were her notes on other bonds she had encountered—bonds she had broken, twisted, or manipulated. But none were like this. None were hers. Her pen hovered over the blank page for a moment before she began to write again, her hand moving with renewed urgency.
On a shelf under the stairs and behind the writing desk sat a small amphora, its slender neck and rounded body etched with faded patterns that whispered of centuries gone by. The clay was worn smooth by time, its once vibrant paint reduced to faint traces of ochre and black. Within its hollow interior lay the fragile remains of a single parchment, curled and brittle with age. The edges were blackened as if it had once narrowly escaped destruction, and the surface bore faded script in a language long forgotten by most.
While most of Ava's collection served as tools or sources of knowledge, this particular item had been acquired for an entirely different purpose. It wasn’t meant to be used or studied—it had been taken to be hidden, buried away from prying eyes and dangerous hands. If someone were curious enough to carefully piece together and translate the fragments from Qumran Hebrew and Aramaic, they would uncover a message that reads:
“… descended from the heavens and found [unreadable] … came to her in the guise of a gentle breeze, and its voice was as the murmur of the stream. And it said, ‘Fear not, Lema, for I am sent by the One who made the stars and the earth. I am here to guide you and to give you peace.’
Aviel appeared to her in the form of a shadow …Go to the valley of the lone acacia tree, for there you will find what you seek.”
If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.
[unreadable] obeyed the voice, though she did not understand, and came to the place Aviel had shown her.
Aviel stood beside her, unseen, and said, “The Lord has provided for you, for He sees your need and your kindness.”
… ate and were satisfied.
… ime is near. Fear not, for you have walked well upon the earth, and the One who made you awaits you with open arms.”
… all her days and had come to love her unseen guide. “Aviel,” she said, calling the name of angel once [unreadable] in her dreams…
….written that in [unreadable] sends His messengers to guide the humble and the gentle, that they may know His care and walk in His peace all their days.
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The precinct was unusually quiet for a weekday morning, the low hum of computers and the occasional shuffle of papers filling the air. Ben and Lou sat at their shared desk, steaming mugs of coffee at their sides—Ben’s plain black and Lou’s a dubious concoction with enough sugar to make it glow in the dark. The soft click of the computer keyboard broke the silence as Ben navigated the department’s case management system.
Lou leaned back in his chair, tipping it precariously on two legs as he tossed a stress ball in the air. “Alright, Professor Tidy, hit me with the details of Kyle and Rosie. What’ve we got?”
Ben shot him a sidelong glance, his fingers still flying over the keyboard. “You could read the file yourself, you know.”
“Why would I do that when I’ve got you to narrate?” Lou grinned, snatching the ball out of the air and tucking it under his arm. “Come on, make it compelling. Tell me a story.”
Ben rolled his eyes but couldn’t hide the faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Fine. Here’s your story. A couple of career screw-ups, one with a penchant for needles, the other for bad decisions, checked into the Starlight Inn three weeks ago. They paid cash—big surprise—and kept to themselves until the day the manager found their room looking like a set piece from a horror movie.”
Lou let his chair slam back onto four legs, his grin fading. “And now they’re ghosts?”
“Unless this is a forwarding address,” Ben replied, clicking into the evidence tab. The screen filled with images—crime scene photos, close-ups of the blood-streaked walls, the shattered mirror, the overturned mattress. He stopped on a picture of the floor near the bathroom. A dark, sticky pool spread out in a chaotic pattern. Lou leaned in, his grin replaced with a thoughtful frown. “No bodies, no weapons, but enough blood to repaint the Mona Lisa. Did forensics get anything?”
“Still waiting on DNA results,” Ben said, scrolling further. “But we’ve got drug paraphernalia with Kyle’s prints and Rosie’s necklace left behind.”
Lou shook his head. “Rosie wouldn’t leave that medal behind. And Kyle was attached to that junk, too.” He pointed to the photo of a used needle.
“Yeah,” Ben agreed, his voice grim.
Ben rubbed his temples, scanning through the file of witness reports one last time as if the words might rearrange themselves into something useful. “Nothing. Not a single employee, tenant, or passerby saw or heard anything worth following up on. It’s like they live in soundproof bubbles.”
Lou leaned back in his chair, tossing his pen onto the desk. “Soundproof bubbles, but somehow every crash, bang, and thud gets ignored. Amazing how selective people can be when it’s not their blood on the walls.”
“They did find bleach residue,” Ben said, flipping to the trace evidence report. “But we already knew that. Whoever cleaned up didn’t bother hiding it. What was the bleach for if not to hide something?”
Lou snorted. “Bleach and incompetence. Classic.”
Ben shook his head, “Let’s make sure the BOLO is circulating for both Kyle and Rosie. If they’re out there, I want every set of eyes looking for them.”
“Done,” Lou said, holding up his phone. “Sent out the reminders already. I’ll be real shocked if anyone spots ‘em, though. My money’s still on them being six feet under … or close enough.”
Ben shot him a look. “You’ve got a way with optimism.”
Lou shrugged. “Just calling it like I see it. So, what’s next, Professor?”
“We track down family, friends—anyone they’ve been in touch with. Someone knows something,” Ben replied, typing quickly. After a moment, he frowned at his screen. “Got something. Rosie listed a sister as her emergency contact on an old arrest report. Public indecency. Bikini carwash fundraiser for the homeless, apparently.”
Lou’s eyebrows shot up. “A bikini carwash fundraiser? That’s… creative.”
Ben sighed. “Charges were dropped. Sister’s name is Marisol Martinez. Got an address and a phone number here.”
“Well, that’s a lead,” Lou said, turning back to his own search. “I’ve got something, too. Looks like Kyle listed his dad as an emergency contact during a clinic visit a couple of months back. Maybe fishing for scripts?”
Ben leaned over, reading Lou’s screen. “David Daniels. No address, but there’s a number. Worth a shot.”
Lou stretched, cracking his neck. “So, we’ve got Kyle’s dad and Rosie’s sister. You want to flip a coin, or are you gonna claim first dibs?”
“You take Kyle’s dad,” Ben said. “I’ll reach out to Marisol.”
“Deal,” Lou said, pulling out his phone. “Let’s see if good ol’ Dad has anything to say about his son. My guess? Not much.”
Ben stood, grabbing his coffee cup. “Let’s hope someone’s got something worth hearing.”
Lou gave him a mock salute as he dialed the number. “Hope is your department, Professor. I’m here for the disappointment.”
As Ben walked away to call Marisol, Lou rested his elbows on his desk, the phone pressed to his ear. This wasn’t his first time talking to reluctant family members of addicts and runaways, and he doubted it would be the last. The automated recording proclaiming that the number had been disconnected, bleated into his ear.
Hanging up, Lou leaned back in his chair again, the robotic voice ringing in his ears. He scrubbed his face with his rough palms and looked over at Ben’s computer screen. The case file had been copied to the desktop. Leaning over with a resigned sigh, he opened it again, skipping past the witness statements and the trace report. He needed to see the crime scene photos again to make sure they hadn’t missed anything.
The first image showed the overturned mattress, soaked in blood. The next revealed jagged streaks of red on the walls, chaotic and frenzied. Lou’s stomach tightened as he turned to another photo, the one that captured the floor near the bathroom. Something about it made him pause.
Leaning forward, Lou squinted at the image. There, in the corner by the baseboard, just above the blood-soaked carpet, was something strange. It wasn’t blood splatter it was something scratched in the plaster. Curly, whirling scribbles in a line. Zooming in, he decided that this had been deliberate. A pattern of some kind. The marks were faint, but he could definitely see angular lines intersected with curling loops, creating a design that felt like it was communicating.
He reached for his phone again and called out, “Hey, Ben! Get over here.”
Ben appeared a moment later, holding his own coffee cup and looking mildly exasperated. “What now? Did Kyle’s dad confess to being father of the year?”
“Forget Kyle’s dad,” Lou said, pointing at the image on the screen. “Look at this. Corner of the room, near the floor. Tell me I’m not crazy.”
Ben set his cup down and leaned in, studying the photo. His brow furrowed. “Is that… writing?”
“Not any writing I’ve seen,” Lou replied. “But it’s language. Look at the pattern. It’s too lined up to be random.”
Ben nodded slowly, his expression darkening. “It’s almost like… maybe rune symbols? Or cuneiform?
“Yeah, a creepy code scrawled into the corner of a blood-soaked motel room,” Lou said, thrusting a fist in the air. “This just keeps getting better and better.” Sarcasm was Lou’s go-to way of letting off steam.
Ben pulled his keyboard closer, already typing. “We need to get this to forensics. Maybe they can enhance the image or tell us what we’re looking at.”
Lou folded his arms, staring at the screen like it might start talking to him. “Whatever it is, it’s bad news. Nobody does this unless they’re trying to send a message—or hide one.”
Ben didn’t reply immediately, his fingers flying over the keyboard. “Let’s see what the lab says.”
“Great. Just what I wanted—our drug dealer and his girlfriend tangled up in some kind of freaky cult nonsense,” muttered Lou.
Ben gave him a sharp look. “Let’s not jump to conclusions.”
Lou snorted. “Oh, I’m not jumping. I’m just calling it like I see it, Professor. And what I see is a whole lot of weird.”
Ben didn’t argue.
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The air was thick and suffocating, carrying the sharp, acrid scent of disinfectant and despair. Rosie stirred, her head pounding as she tried to make sense of her surroundings. Darkness pressed in from all sides, so absolute she couldn’t tell if her eyes were open or closed.
Her hands searched blindly, trembling as they met the cool, hard surface of the cot she lay on. The coarse fabric of the blanket scratched her fingers. It was too thin, offering little warmth against the chill that seeped through her skin and into her bones.
"Hello?" she croaked, her voice dry and barely audible. Panic bubbled in her chest, threatening to spill over.
"Hush up. Stupid!" a harsh voice screeched, cutting through the darkness like a whip. The sound was sharp, grating, and full of venom.
Rosie froze, clutching her arms tightly around herself. Her breath hitched, and she pressed her lips together to keep from making another sound.
The voice came again, somewhere to her left. “Don’t let ’em hear you. You think this is bad? They’ll make it worse. Much worse.”
Rosie’s heart raced, the voice's tone sent icy fingers down her spine. She squinted into the blackness, trying to make out anything—walls, shapes, even the faintest flicker of light—but there was nothing.
She stayed silent, her mind grasping at scraps of memory. The last thing she could recall was… what? The motel? Blood? Kyle’s voice, angry and slurred. And then… nothing.
Her throat tightened. She wanted to scream, to demand answers, but the echo of that unseen voice lingered, a grim warning she couldn’t shake.
Minutes passed—maybe hours. Time felt meaningless in the dark. Rosie curled into herself on the cot, her body trembling. Somewhere in the distance, she thought she heard the faint creak of a door and the shuffle of footsteps. She held her breath, praying they wouldn’t come for her.
"Stay quiet, girl," the voice hissed, barely more than a whisper now. "Or you’ll wish you’d stayed lost."
Rosie buried her face in her hands, fighting the tears that threatened to spill. Wherever she was, whoever shared this darkness with her—it wasn’t safe.