“What does he want?” Anders asked.
Then he was gone. A gust of hot wind, the smell of ozone and myrrh, and silence. Father Mihailov stood trembling, his crucifix blackened and twisted.
The brass eyes flared.
The man’s black eyes flickered. For just a moment, the brass returned, then vanished.
Anders watched it fourteen times. He ran it through every forensic filter he had. No cuts. No CGI. No hidden wires or digital artifacts. The fire left real scorch marks on the floor.
Not outward. Inward . A rain of crimson and gold shards flew over the congregation like a swarm of angry wasps. People screamed. A woman fainted. And in the center of the aisle, standing unharmed amid the glittering wreckage, was a man in a charcoal suit.
He built his career on disproving things. But he never tried to disprove the Fury. Because he knew, in the marrow of his bones, that it was real. The case that changed everything came in an email from a nun.