Cal’s Choice
Two men—one bald, the other with a scar—stepped out of the vehicle, their long, cowboy-style dusters streaked with red clay. As they passed in front of me, the tattoos on their necks caught my eye—and triggered a memory. I remembered what Zoey had said about the men who killed Thomas and Emily. Without a word, the men slipped into the alley beside an old, towering Gothic church.
The brand on my skin began to glow, a faint vibration just beneath the surface. It felt eerily similar to what I’d experienced when I touched the portrait. The pull was unmistakable—tugging at my senses, urging me forward. I hesitated. Then, I slipped into the alley after them.
The sounds of the bustling town faded behind me. The alley was littered with debris: a chaotic scattering of broken glass, crumpled newspapers, and abandoned scraps of wood—some splintered and charred. A toppled trash can lay on its side, its contents spilling out in a soggy mess, rotting food and stained rags tangled together in grimy heaps. The air was thick with the smell of damp and decay, a pungent blend of mildew, stale alcohol, and something sharper—like rust or dried blood.
A rat scurried from one shadow to the next, its tiny claws scratching over a tattered shoe left forgotten and half-buried beneath a mound of sodden cardboard. Graffiti marked the brick walls on either side, the white and blue colors faded and peeling, some messages barely legible, half-erased by rain and time.
Shards of broken bottles crunched underfoot, and a damp chill clung to the air, seeping into my clothes. The oppressive silence was broken only by the occasional drip of water from an unseen pipe, each drop echoing down the length of the narrow passageway.
My thoughts swirled. What if these men knew something about the Order of Absalom? What if they held answers we desperately needed? I paused, trying to steady my breathing. Why was I doing this? My grandmother’s voice echoed in my head, urging me to turn back, to find Priscilla and stay safe.
The alley opened into the church’s small courtyard, a neglected space barely touched by time. Overgrown weeds and tall grass pushed through the cobblestoned paths, twisting up and spilling over onto cracked stone benches arranged in a haphazard circle. The benches were marred by deep fissures, their surfaces mottled with patches of creeping moss. Chunks of stone had crumbled away, leaving jagged edges that looked like broken teeth.
At the courtyard’s center stood what must’ve once been a grand fountain. The stone figures, now worn and chipped, still held a certain dignity. The basin was dry, its surface coated in a thick layer of greenish-brown moss, with fallen leaves and dirt collecting at the bottom like forgotten offerings. The weathered saints looked out from the fountain’s sides, their faces softened by erosion, giving them an almost ghostly quality in the faint light.
A rusting dumpster slumped against the back wall, its lid propped open, overflowing with bags and loose scraps of trash—some torn apart by scavengers. The stench of rot and filth clashed with the lingering scent of incense drifting from the church, a ghost of the courtyard’s former sanctity now lost to time. Ivy crept up the stone walls above, its tendrils snaking into cracks and fissures, as though the courtyard itself was slowly being reclaimed by nature.
An old wooden cross, barely visible in the shadows, leaned against the back of the church, its once-polished surface splintered and faded—a forgotten relic in a place that had long since lost its purpose.
I stopped, suddenly aware of my vulnerability. The men had vanished—one moment there, the next… gone. My palms became slick with sweat. There was no logical explanation for why I was still here—just the undeniable pull. I had to find out what they were up to.
One second, the alley was empty. Next, they were blocking my escape.
My heart pounded. A hand clamped down on my arm before I could react, gripping like a steel vise. The baldheaded brute loomed before me, a sneer twisting his features.
“Hey, looks like we’ve got ourselves a meddling trespasser. And you know what happens to meddlers?” he spat.
“They die.”
A fist plowed into my stomach, sending the world spinning. Pain exploded in my jaw, warm blood pooling in my mouth.
My breath left me altogether as another punch landed, and then everything faded. Pain shot through my ribs so intensely I was sure one had broken. I felt the hot breath of the baldheaded attacker on my neck as he gripped my throat, holding me still while his scarred accomplice used me as a punching bag.
I tried to summon my Gambeson, desperate, but nothing happened. I was defenseless. Through the haze of pain, I glimpsed a dagger—its blade glowing a menacing yellow-purple. I should have heeded my grandmother’s warning. I had walked straight into the heart of danger, utterly exposed.
A voice cut through the chaos.
There was Priscilla, perched atop the dumpster in her pink armor. She stood tall, hands on her hips, her crutches transformed into two old-fashioned police batons. One baton shimmered with orange energy as it rested casually on her shoulder, while the other dangled at her side. Her glowing Akicita facial markings pulsed in rhythm with the orange light surrounding her. Her eyes, once sparkling with mischief, now blazed with intensity, fixed on the thugs.
“Hey, bonehead!” she bellowed.
The men flinched, releasing their hold on me. I hit the ground hard, and the world spun in a chaotic blur, every breath a struggle…