Page 33 of Forbidden

His younger brother's memory haunted him, a specter of innocence lost and love betrayed. It was his brother who first whispered of the dark lord, who painted a world beyond the veil where power and secrets intertwined. He clung to the belief that through his deeds, through the currency of souls, he could bridge the gap between life and death, could restore what was taken from him.

The shadows of the room seemed to close in, eager spectators to his macabre ritual. Yet within the abyss of his psyche, he found solace. There was no turning back, no moment of doubt that could pierce the veil of conviction that enveloped him. Each sacrifice was a step closer to his brother, a promise that the dark lord would return what was rightfully his.

In that dimly lit chamber, amidst the chaos of his own making, he forged ahead. The map before him was not just lines and contours—it was a lifeline, a roadmap to resurrection. And he would follow it to the ends of the earth if need be.

He leaned in closer, the glow from the screen painting his face a ghostly blue. The map sprawled out before him was a digital atlas to damnation, and he was its eager cartographer. His voice was a whisper, a disjointed litany of archaic words and guttural sounds that belonged to no modern tongue. They were prayers, if such blasphemies could be called that, spilling from his lips in desperate reverence. "More," he rasped, "the dark lord demands more."

The room felt like a sanctum, a place set apart for unholy communion. His fingers danced across the keyboard with a frenetic energy, commanding the mouse with jerky, precise movements. The construction site he found was isolated, surrounded by nothing but the skeletal remains of unfinished buildings and the silent expanse of abandonment. It was an altar waiting to be dressed in crimson.

His heart hammered against his ribcage, each thud echoing the urgency that consumed him. He had no room for doubt, no space for hesitation. This was the path he was chosen to walk, ordained by forces beyond the ken of mere mortals. If he succeeded, if he managed to bring forth the souls required by his unseen master, the rewards would be immeasurable. It was this belief that had become the axis upon which his world spun.

The trembling in his hands grew worse as he plotted coordinates, mentally preparing the ritual that would soon unfold. The groundwork had been laid; all that remained was the execution. The site was perfect—a locale where death had already left its mark, where the veil between worlds was worn thin. There, he would work, uninterrupted, offering up his gruesome tithe to the shadows that whispered promises of power and reunion.

In his mind's eye, he saw his brother—a flickering candle snuffed out too soon. It was his brother who had opened his eyes to the truth, who had shown him the path littered with secrets and dark wonders. He clung to the belief that through these offerings, he could mend the tear in the fabric of reality, could reclaim the light that had been stolen from him.

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

Morgan's hands tightened on the steering wheel as she navigated the unassuming streets of the quiet neighborhood. She knew these quaint houses concealed more than manicured lawns and picket fences; they were a testament to the facades people erected, hiding the turmoil within. The car rolled to a stop in front of a modest dwelling where paint peeled from the siding like scabs from old wounds. This was Elliott Crane's last known address.

"Let's hope he's home," Morgan said, though her gut churned with a mix of anticipation and dread.

Exiting the vehicle, the pair approached the front door. Morgan rapped her knuckles against the wood, the sound sharp and demanding in the afternoon hush. Silence answered them, thick and stubborn. She knocked again, harder, the urgency clawing at her. Each tick of time was an ally to their suspect, each second a step further from justice.

Derik's stare met hers, the shared concern evident in his furrowed brow. The air between them was charged, a current of unspoken fears and what-ifs. But the house remained as still as a crypt, its windows like blind eyes withholding secrets.

"His car's not here," Derik noted, his voice low. Morgan's frustration simmered—a bubbling pot threatening to boil over. Elliott's absence was another knot in the tangle of their investigation, another delay in the hunt for truth.

"Damn it," she muttered, the words a bare whisper carried away on a breeze that offered no relief.

Morgan's jaw clenched as she watched the empty house, a sense of urgency gnawing at her. The silence from Elliott Crane's residence was more than just an absence of noise—it was a void where answers should have been. She turned to Derik, her gaze sharp and resolute.

"Time to put out an APB," Morgan declared, her voice steady despite the turmoil brewing within. "Elliott's our guy; I can feel it in my bones."

Derik nodded, his eyes reflecting the same conviction that burned in Morgan's. He reached for his radio, relaying the necessary details with practiced efficiency. As he spoke, Morgan ran through the facts again, the pieces of the puzzle shifting and aligning in her mind's eye.

The symbols, crudely spray-painted and hauntingly familiar, were too precise a match to Jace's drawings to be coincidental. Elliott's sudden disappearance following his brother's death was the kind of red flag that couldn't be ignored. It all pointed to a narrative steeped in vengeance—a story where Elliott played the protagonist consumed by grief and rage.

Morgan knew the profile well—loss could either break a person or forge them into something new. But Elliott's transformation seemed to be one of the darkest kind, a descent into a personal hell where murder masqueraded as tribute.

"His need for revenge is driving him to kill," she mused aloud, her words slicing through the stillness like a knife. "It's as if he's honoring Jace with every life he takes."

"Or trying to resurrect him," Derik added, his voice tinged with a mixture of skepticism and dread.

"Exactly." Morgan's response was immediate, her theory crystallizing with terrifying clarity. "He might believe these sacrifices will bring Jace back somehow. Delusional or not, we've got to find him before he strikes again. We should try his workplace."

The weight of their task settled on her shoulders, heavy but not unbearable. Morgan had carried heavier burdens, endured greater trials.

"Let's move," she commanded, already striding toward the car. Their window of opportunity was closing, and if Elliott Crane intended to spill more blood in his brother's name, they had to intercept him before another sunset marked another loss.

The car's engine roared to life, the sound a testament to their resolve. Morgan glanced at Derik, seeing her own determination mirrored in his expression. Together, they'd face the darkness ahead, unwavering in their pursuit of a man whose grief had twisted into something monstrous. They had to hurry; lives depended on it, and time was a luxury they no longer had.

***

Morgan’s boots crunched against the gravel as they closed in on the construction site where Elliott was last employed. The sun’s descent lent an orange tint to the sky, shadows stretching like dark fingers across the uneven ground. She scanned the area, noting the eerie quiet broken only by the occasional grumble of machinery in the distance.

"Looks deserted," Derik observed, his voice low.

"Let's not take any chances." Morgan kept her tone even, her eyes vigilant.

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