Page 30 of Eclipse Born

“Look,” I said to Cade, pointing to the names. “Perfect fits.”

Cade nodded, expression grim. “Any chance you have contact information for these men, Father? Addresses, phone numbers?”

Father Thomas hesitated. “I'm not supposed to share personal information of our parishioners . . .”

I flashed him my most disarming smile. “Father, we're talking about saving lives here. Four men are already dead. We're trying to make sure no one else joins them.”

The priest sighed, shoulders slumping slightly. “I suppose, under the circumstances . . . Give me a moment.”

As he shuffled back to his office, I turned to Cade. “So, what's your theory? Some ancient god getting summoned through these prayer sessions? Demon making deals? Witch with a grudge against the faithful?”

Cade shook his head. “Nothing concrete yet. But that symbol on the book . . .” He gestured toward where Father Thomas had disappeared. “I need to research it properly before I start making assumptions.”

“And now it's cleaning house,” I finished. “Fecking lovely.”

Father Thomas returned with another sheet of paper, this one containing addresses and phone numbers. “Please, be discreet. And please, save them if you can.”

I folded the paper carefully and tucked it into my jacket pocket. “That's the plan, Father. In the meantime, might want to hold off on any special prayer services for a while.”

As we turned to leave, Cade paused. “One more thing, Father. This Brother Michael, did he leave anything behind? Books, pamphlets, prayer cards?”

The priest thought for a moment. “Yes, actually. A small book of prayers. He left copies for those who attended the revival. Said they were translated from ancient Aramaic.”

“Any chance we could see one?” Cade asked.

Father Thomas nodded. “I believe I have a copy in my office. Let me get it for you.”

When he returned, he handed Cade a slim, leather-bound booklet with no title on the cover. Just a strange symbol embossed in gold—a stylized eye surrounded by what looked like wings or flames.

Cade went still, staring at the symbol. His face drained of color.

“You recognize it?” I asked quietly.

“I've seen references to these symbols before, in some old texts I studied years back.” His voice was barely above a whisper. “They're connected to ancient entities who observed and judged humanity. According to these writings, they existed before gods had names, before humans built temples. They watched from beyond the veil of reality.”

He rubbed absently at the mark on his chest, a gesture I'd noticed more frequently since his return from Hell. “The texts called them 'The Watchers' or sometimes 'The Great Observers.'Not much survived about their rituals, but what did . . . it wasn't pleasant.”

“And the poor bastards at that prayer revival accidentally got a peek behind the curtain,” I finished. “Great. So we're dealing with some primordial peeping Tom with anger management issues.”

Cade didn't smile at my joke. Instead, he looked at me with an intensity that made me shift uncomfortably. “Sean, these entities . . . they don't think like we do. They don't feel like we do. To them, being seen by a human is like . . . like a holy violation. An abomination.”

“So they burn out the eyes that saw them. Poetic justice.”

“More like cosmic horror,” Cade corrected. “These aren't demons we can exorcise or ghosts we can salt and burn.”

Father Thomas watched our exchange with growing alarm. “What are you saying? That Brother Michael brought something evil into my church?”

“Not evil exactly,” Cade said, tucking the prayer book into his jacket. “Just . . . incompatible with human existence.”

Rain patteredagainst the windshield in a steady rhythm, turning the world outside into a smeared watercolor painting of streetlights and shadow. We sat in my Impala, parked across from Saint Augustine's, watching as evening mass let out. A trickle of parishioners hurried through the downpour to their cars, collars turned up against the rain, umbrellas bobbing like black mushrooms in the gathering darkness.

“There,” Cade said, pointing to a tall man in a gray overcoat who was carefully locking the church doors. “That's Hayes. Edward Hayes.”

I squinted through the rain-streaked glass. “How can you tell from here?”

“Matches the description from the church records,” Cade replied, his eyes never leaving the figure.

“And the other one? Whitmore?”

---