Page 15 of Forbidden

"Rachel wasn't into any of that...that dark stuff," he insisted, gesturing vaguely toward the place where the photo had been. "She was about health, fitness—she loved her job, loved helping people. Her life was an open book, and there was nothing like this in it." He shook his head, eyes scanning the room as if trying to find evidence of his words in the space they both occupied.

Morgan nodded, her own gaze following his. She knew better than to take appearances at face value; life had taught her that much. Yet everything about the home suggested normalcy, a life lived earnestly and simply. Morgan couldn't imagine Rachel bearing the mark they'd found at the crime scene.

"Okay," Morgan acknowledged, her eyes meeting Derik's for a brief moment. They both recognized the impasse they'd hit—the symbol that seemed so significant yet so out of place in Rachel's narrative. It was like trying to fit a piece into the wrong puzzle. "Was there anything else, anything at all that seemed off before...before this happened?" Morgan continued, aware of the delicacy required to navigate through a victim's last days. "Anyone new she met, or maybe someone from her past that resurfaced?"

Eric's movements stilled. For a heartbeat, hope seemed to flicker in his weary eyes, but it vanished as quickly as it appeared. "No, nothing. I would've known," he said, his voice hollow. "We were happy...everything was good. We had plans, you know? This doesn't make sense."

"Sometimes it's the smallest detail," Derik added, his voice steady despite the shadows beneath his eyes.

But Eric only shook his head again, the gesture one of defeat more than negation. "There's nothing. Whoever did this...they took her from me, and I don't know why."

Morgan felt the familiar stirrings of anger mixed with compassion. The helplessness etched on Eric's face mirrored the countless other faces she'd encountered over the years—victims left behind, searching for answers in the wake of inexplicable tragedy.

"Thank you, Eric. If anything comes to mind, anything at all, please call us," Morgan urged, handing him her card. Her own past, filled with betrayal and false accusations, had honed her instinct for truth. And everything in Eric's demeanor screamed of a man blindsided by loss, not complicity.

Morgan stood in the living room, her gaze lingering on the framed picture of Rachel and Eric, their smiles frozen in time. Derik was beside her, his silhouette rigid against the backdrop of family portraits and mementos that lined the shelves. The air was thick with the scent of loss, an invisible shroud that draped over everything within these walls.

They moved toward the door, his figure a shadow of the man who once shared this home with Rachel. Morgan extended her hand to him, her tattoos momentarily exposed as her jacket sleeve rode up her wrist. Her grip was firm, an unspoken promise conveyed in the pressure of her grasp.

"We'll find out what happened to her, Eric," she said, her dark brown eyes meeting his. "You have my word."

He nodded, his grief a tangible presence between them as he clutched Morgan's card like a lifeline. The agents turned, stepping once more into the gray wash of rain outside. The sky above seemed to press down on them, a reflection of the burden they carried—the unsolved mystery of Rachel Marquez's death.

"Elizabeth Harmon's household next," Morgan announced, her words slicing through the patter of raindrops. She felt the cold sting of water against her skin, each drop a sharp reminder of the urgency driving them forward. Derik nodded, his expression set in grim determination as they made their way back to the car, leaving behind the house that once echoed with laughter and love, now silenced by tragedy.

CHAPTER TEN

He sat alone in the dimly lit room, surrounded by shadows that flickered and danced on the walls, brought to life by the glow of candles. The arrangement was meticulous, a deliberate pattern that formed a circle of light around him. Flames seemed to react to some invisible current in the air—a thick, heady mixture of burning wax laced with a metallic tang that spoke of hidden, sinister activities.

The man's eyes remained closed, his body statue-like in its stillness at the circle's heart. His hands were clasped tightly together, suggesting a semblance of prayer, though no god of light would be called upon here. A small altar constructed from dark wood stood before him, its surface playing host to an eerie collection—bones, feathers, and a silver dagger with an ornate handle. The blade bore the dull sheen of dried blood, a testament to rituals past. Silence hung heavy in the room, occasionally shattered by the sharp crackle of a candle's protest as it succumbed to the inevitable melt.

In this secret place, he reflected on his work—the "accidents" he had orchestrated, each one a sacrifice laid at the feet of his dark lord. With every life taken, he believed himself to be one step closer to achieving his ultimate goal.

As he pondered his next move, the darkness seemed to close in around him, an intimate shroud that both comforted and consumed. He knew what was required; the entity he served demanded more than just the spilling of blood—it craved significance, souls weighed down by life's tapestry of emotions and experiences.

The man opened his eyes, his gaze unseeing in the dim light. His thoughts drifted to the future, to the grander designs he had yet to unfold. Each victim was chosen for a reason, a piece of a puzzle only he could see. Yes, there would be more "accidents," more offerings—each more substantial than the last. And when the time came for the greatest of them all, he would stand ready, his loyalty unwavering, his purpose clear.

He leaned forward, the movement barely perceptible in the dance of shadows. The room held its breath as he began to speak, his words a stream of gravel tumbling from his lips. "Master of the night, keeper of the eternal abyss," he whispered, the syllables heavy with a reverence born of fear and awe. He didn't dare open his eyes, for to gaze upon the sacred space with mortal sight was to diminish its power.

"Guide me," he intoned, feeling the weight of the dark pressing against him, an unforgiving force that filled every corner of his being. It was not the light but the absence of it that he worshipped, the darkness that existed beyond the veil of human understanding. In this secluded chamber of shadows, he laid bare his soul to the otherworldly presence that demanded fealty.

His mind raced with thoughts of the accidents he had orchestrated, each a meticulous offering, each a step on the path that he walked alone. To outsiders, they were tragedies; to him, they were necessary acts of devotion. Each life taken brought him closer to his goal, a sinister covenant sealed with blood and unspoken promises.

The man's fingers tightened around the tarnished dagger's handle, feeling the etchings as if they pulsed with life. "I am your instrument," he vowed, his voice quivering with the magnitude of his declaration. The blade, stained with the essence of past rituals, was more than a tool; it was a symbol of his undying loyalty to the Dark Lord, the enigmatic figure who dictated his purpose.

With each word spoken, the fear within him grew yet more profound. It clawed at his insides, a reminder of the precarious edge upon which he teetered—a servant to a master whose desires were as vast as the night sky. His pledge was not one of love but of necessity, for he knew what lay ahead if he faltered.

He knelt, the flicker of candlelight casting a web of shadows over his figure. He spoke of more to come, his voice a steady murmur that filled the room with foreboding. The recent offerings, he said, were but a gesture, a token of his fealty and ambition. Faces flashed behind his eyelids – faces of those he had chosen, lives he had extinguished in the name of the Dark Lord. Each "accident" had been meticulous, their untimely ends woven into the fabric of fate by his hand.

Yet as he recounted these deeds, there was a hollow ring to the words. It gnawed at him, this sense that the blood spilled was merely a drop in an abyss of expectation. He could feel the Dark Lord's ravenous gaze upon him, its silent demand for more echoing through the void. His promises grew fervent, an oath to push boundaries, to surpass previous transgressions. More would fall victim to his elaborate designs, each demise a stepping stone toward the power he sought.

The power to control, to dominate, was within reach, yet it slipped through his fingers like sand. With every life taken, he felt the thrill of being closer to his goal, but also the dread that it would never be enough. The hunger of the Dark Lord was limitless, and so must be his devotion.

His hands lifted, trembling as they rose in supplication to the darkness that surrounded him. His voice cracked, strained with emotion that was as much fear as it was eagerness. Promises cascaded from his lips – soon he would find another, one whose end would resonate with profound significance. This next sacrifice would not be just another nameless soul; it would be a cornerstone, a monumental offering to cement his standing with the Dark Lord.

He envisioned the act, the careful orchestration of events that would culminate in a grand display of loyalty. In his mind, he saw the Dark Lord acknowledging his deed, bestowing upon him the rewards of true power and recognition. The thought sent a shiver down his spine, a mixture of anticipation and terror. He yearned for it, the affirmation of his worth in the eyes of the only entity he revered.

"More," he whispered, the word a vow, a curse. "I will give you more." And with that, he sealed his intent, placing himself irrevocably on the path of darkness. His heart pounded in his chest, each beat a drum heralding the horrors yet to come.

---