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Chapter 8 - Chapter eight – Threads in the Rain

"Be sober, be vigilant; because your adversary the

devil walks about like a roaring lion, seeking whom he may devour."

— 1 Peter 5:8

 

The thread pulled taut as Luciel crossed the East

End — invisible to all but him, glowing faintly beneath the grime of the waking

world. It snaked beneath flickering streetlamps, dipped into alleys, and passed

like a whisper through crowds that didn't know they'd been marked.

 

The closer he got to the docks, the more twisted the

karmic flow became — as if some unseen hand was trying to knot it mid-weave.

 

He paused beneath an underpass, one hand on the hilt

of his silver gun.

 

The air changed.

 

Not colder. Not hotter. Just… wrong.

 

And then it came — a distortion in the world's

rhythm.

 

A scream behind his thoughts.

 

Three figures emerged from the

mist, cloaked in flesh that wasn't theirs. Their movements weren't quite human

— marionette-like. Loose-limbed. Grinning mouths split ear to ear as if someone

had drawn them on with a broken pen.

 

Soul-masked thralls.

 

Luciel clicked his tongue. "Not even trying to be

subtle anymore."

 

The first lunged — faster than a corpse had the

right to move.

 

Luciel's black gun, Umbra, roared once, the bullet blessed and traced with the Seal of Isaiah. It didn't just kill — it silenced. The thing's scream died in its mouth,

body crumpling like soaked parchment.

 

The other two rushed.

 

Luciel flicked a talisman between his fingers — Psalm Breaker — and slapped it against the

nearest wall. A burst of light shattered the illusion glamor cloaking the enemy

— revealing the twisted, burnt thing beneath.

 

He dodged under its claw, drew his butcher's knife, and buried it to the hilt.

 

As the last one circled, smarter than the rest,

Luciel whispered a prayer and activated a new talisman: The

Veil of Anael.

 

He vanished from sight.

 

The thing turned, confused — then stiffened as

Luciel reappeared behind it and

shoved a prayer nail — a Gospel Chain — through its spine.

 

The battle was short.

 

But the threads?

 

The threads had shifted.

 

Someone had tried to delay him.

 

He knelt by the corpse that had nearly bitten him

and muttered, "You weren't here to kill. You were here to stall."

 

The karmic thread, faint as smoke, shimmered ahead

again — but it trembled, as if flickering beneath the weight of another will.

 

Luciel stood, trench coat whipping as the wind

picked up.

 

He didn't smile this time.

 

He ran.

 

The dockside warehouse wasn't far.

 

And fate was already waiting.

 

————

 

The music was too loud for comfort but

too soft for distraction — like something halfway between a heartbeat and a

spell. Thalia stood near the kitchen archway of a Victorian flat just off Gower

Street, watching the party swirl around her like smoke in a broken lantern.

 

It wasn't her scene. Never had been.

But Jazz had insisted.

 

"Live

a little,"

she'd said. "Maybe

shaking your ass to bad remixes will scare the ghosts off."

 

Thalia wasn't sure

if it was hope or denial, but here she was — clutching a cup of something

vaguely citrus and nonalcoholic while nodding politely at conversations that

buzzed past her ears like static.

 

The flat was old —

wooden floors that creaked under every step, walls stained with old ivy

patterns, fairy lights lazily hung like tangled halos around the doorframes.

Jazz had described it as "cozy urban occult meets British post-grad chaos." It

smelled like lavender candles, cider, and wet pavement from jackets draped

across the radiator.

 

Everyone here looked

like they belonged.

 

Folklore majors with

thrifted capes and rune necklaces. Philosophy students quoting Baudrillard into

red solo cups. Political science elites in cashmere, talking about revolutions

they'd never fight in. Caleb's people. Her people, technically.

 

But she didn't feel

it. Not really.

 

Jazz was holding

court near the speakers, dancing like she'd been born in rhythm, her laughter

louder than the beat. Thalia watched her for a moment — warm, grounded, alive —

and envied how easily she floated.

 

"Thalia!"

 

Her name cut through

the room. Caleb Moreau stood across the living room, holding two glasses and

wearing a grin that leaned slightly crooked — genuine, soft at the edges. His

sleeves were rolled up. Always rolled up. He looked like he belonged here, too.

 

Thalia's stomach

twisted.

 

She smiled. A small

one.

 

And stayed exactly

where she was.

 

Because just behind

Caleb — just out of reach, just beyond recognition — stood a shadow with golden

eyes. Watching her. Not moving. Not blinking.

 

She turned her head.

Gone.

 

Her chest rose

slowly. Fell slower.

 

It wasn't the first

time that night.

 

Twice already she'd

felt that cold presence — like the memory of grief brushing her skin. The

wraiths usually didn't follow her into crowds, but something tonight was

different. She could feel the karmic weight settling, gently, like dust on her

shoulders.

 

"Thals?"

 

Jazz appeared beside

her, out of breath, cheeks flushed from dancing. She pressed a hand to Thalia's

shoulder.

 

"You good?"

 

"Yeah. Just…

thinking."

 

Jazz leaned in.

"Caleb's here. Thought that'd earn at least one lap around the dance floor."

 

"I noticed."

 

Jazz raised a brow.

"You're going to give him a complex."

 

"He's not the one

who sees dead things when the lights dim."

 

Jazz didn't laugh.

She never did when Thalia made those jokes.

 

Instead, she pressed

the drink into Thalia's hand. "Okay. Then come sit. Come breathe. We don't have

to pretend to be normal — just mildly un-haunted."

 

They retreated to a

window alcove, away from the main throng of students. Outside, the rain had

returned, pattering softly against the glass. Someone in the room started

chanting along to an old protest folk song. Someone else was already throwing

up in the sink. Campus life in all its candlelit glory.

 

Thalia sipped her

drink and leaned into the windowframe. From this distance, the party looked

almost beautiful — like a blurry painting of joy she couldn't quite touch.

 

Her phone buzzed

once.

 

A text from an

unknown number.

 

Do you remember what you were born

carrying?

 

Her hand tightened

around the glass.

 

Outside the window,

the streetlight flickered.

 

And somewhere

beneath the music, the laughter, the scent of cider and perfume — a voice that

didn't belong whispered her name.

 

She didn't tell

Jazz.

 

She just kept

staring out into the night, praying — not for peace.

 

But for memory to

stay buried.

 

 

 

 

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