Chapter 4

Oliver's expression shifted. He stared at Lucas for a full ten seconds.

"What did you say?" Oliver's voice dropped low. "Can you save my daughter?"

Lucas didn't step back. He moved forward instead.

"I felt it the moment I walked in downstairs." Lucas raised his hand and pointed toward the second floor. "Whatever is inside your daughter — it's pulling at me."

"Nonsense!" The priest cut in sharply. "What do you know? Mr. Colombo, don't listen to him. He's clearly just stalling for time!"

Lucas turned to look at the priest.

Black robes, silver cross, a parish badge pinned to his chest. He looked the part, at least.

"Which church are you from?" Lucas asked.

The priest straightened up. "Cathedral of St. Seraphim. Father Anthony."

"Cathedral of St. Seraphim?" Lucas smiled. "Then you must know Father Michael."

Anthony's expression stiffened for just a moment.

"Father Michael left the Church years ago." He recovered quickly. "Why bring him up?"

"No reason." Lucas reached into his backpack and pulled out a small leather pouch, turning it over in his hand. "Just wanted to show you this."

He opened the pouch. A faint, delicate scent drifted out.

The instant Anthony caught the smell, his pupils shrank sharply.

"Holy water?" His voice cracked. "This was made by Father Michael himself. How do you have this?"

Oliver heard the name Father Michael and leaned forward slightly in his chair.

He'd heard that name mentioned upstairs just a little while ago.

Lucas sealed the pouch and tucked it back into his bag.

"Father Michael was my teacher." He looked at Oliver. "I grew up learning exorcism from him. We traveled all over the world. He gave me this holy water to keep me safe." He paused. "Do you believe me now?"

Oliver's fingers tapped twice on the armrest. The man's words carried some weight — but Oliver had spent forty years in the underworld. He wasn't about to hand his daughter's life over to a stranger that easily.

Seeing Oliver still hesitating, Anthony immediately seized the moment. "Mr. Colombo, please don't be fooled! Anyone can walk in with a bottle of water and claim to be Father Michael's student. This man is a fraud!"

"A fraud?" Lucas let out a cold laugh.

He was done talking. He reached inside himself and pulled on the wild, restless power of Pan's bloodline.

An invisible, crushing pressure exploded outward from Lucas in every direction.

The floor-to-ceiling windows on both sides of the hall groaned under the force — then shattered with a deafening boom.

Shards of glass rained down like hail. The expensive vases lining the hall burst one after another.

Anthony took the full brunt of it. His legs buckled beneath him, and he collapsed to the floor with a thud, pinned down by the pressure, unable to even lift his head. His silver cross slipped from his hand and rang out against the floor.

The armed guards in black staggered backward, grunting, their faces pale with shock.

Oliver was still seated, but it felt like a boulder had been dropped onto his chest. His breath caught. He stared hard at Lucas, and every trace of contempt in his eyes was gone.

Lucas pulled the pressure back. The suffocating weight vanished from the room all at once.

He glanced down at Anthony, still sprawled on the floor, and said with a smirk, "And you call yourself an exorcist?"

Oliver rose to his feet. He was convinced.

"Let him try," Oliver said quietly.

But Lucas didn't move right away. He met Oliver's eyes and spoke at an unhurried pace. "I can save your daughter. But I have conditions."

Oliver's brow tightened slightly. "Go ahead."

"First — help me find out the truth about my grandfather's death. There's a doctor named Morris." Lucas held up two fingers. "Second — once this is done, whatever happens to the Moretti family is none of my business. Don't lump me in with those people."

Oliver studied him for a few seconds, then nodded. "If my daughter wakes up, the entire underground intelligence network in New York is yours to use."

With that settled, Lucas swung his backpack onto his shoulder.

Anthony had managed to drag himself off the floor by then. He made one last attempt. "Mr. Colombo, this is far too dangerous—"

"And what have you accomplished in three months?" Oliver looked at him with cold eyes. "Get out of my sight."

Anthony opened his mouth. Nothing came out. He slunk to the side without another word.

Oliver didn't spare him another glance. He led Lucas up the stairs himself.

The staircase was spiral, lined with deep red carpet. Portraits of the Colombo family's past heads hung along the wall.

With every step Lucas climbed, the bloodline of Pan inside him stirred a little more.

The pull was getting stronger.

Like something was calling to him.

Or warning him.

At the far end of the second-floor hallway, Lucas stopped.

In front of him was a white wooden door. No lock — but covered edge to edge in binding sigils.

"In here?" Lucas asked.

Oliver nodded. The hardness had left his face, replaced by something worn and exhausted.

"Three months ago, my daughter Sophia was at a party on a cruise ship. Someone pushed her overboard." Oliver's voice was rough. "They pulled her out of the water, and she hasn't woken up since. The doctors say there's nothing physically wrong with her — but she won't wake up. Then she started talking in her sleep. A language no one could understand."

"And then?"

"Then she started floating." Oliver's hand closed into a fist. "One night, a servant found her — bed and all — hovering two feet off the ground. I brought in every priest in New York. Anthony was the only one who said it was demonic possession. But his exorcisms did nothing."

Lucas listened, then pushed the door open.

The room was dark. The curtains were drawn tight. The only light came from a small lamp on the nightstand, casting a dim yellow glow.

A young woman lay on the bed.

She looked about seventeen or eighteen. Golden hair spread across the pillow. Her features were delicate, almost porcelain. Her skin was so pale it was nearly translucent.

If not for the faint rise and fall of her chest, Lucas might have thought she was already dead.

But as he stepped closer to the bed, her eyes opened.

They had no pupils.

Her entire eyes were black — both of them — like two pools of still, dark water.

The bloodline of Pan inside Lucas surged to a boil. His temples throbbed. The two small ridges on the top of his head began to itch.

The woman's lips moved. A string of strange syllables came out.

Not any human language.

Lucas understood every word.

'You've finally come', she said. 'Kin.'