Chapter 2

2

Farryn

Present

“Farryn Ravenshaw?” At the sound of my name, I swung around to find a ginger guy, maybe six foot tall and aged only by the creases around his eyes, standing in the doorway of my office.

Well, former office. I’d come to pack up some of my things for a bit of a hiatus from my job as a research assistant and lecturer. A couple of months ago, my aunt Nelle, with whom I’d been living for the past ten years, had passed away and left me with a crap ton of loose ends to deal with. For the sake of my sanity, I decided to take a break to settle her affairs. Fortunately, she’d left me with a sizable inheritance, as well.

“Yeah, that’s me.”

Instead of jumping to the point of his unannounced intrusion, he closed the door behind him, shutting out the secretary and three other assistants in the department. An uneasy vigilance swept through my muscles, tightening them, when he strode across the room toward me. As he lifted the box of my desk stuff I’d set out on the chair across from me, I took a step back, watching him place it on the floor before taking a seat.

My eyebrows ached from frowning in confusion, as I observed him casually glance around the room, not bothering to answer the burning question—who the hell he was.

He leaned forward, peering into the box on my desk. “Going somewhere?”

“I’m sorry … who are—"

“I’m Detective Hines,” he interrupted, and flipped a badge open. Could’ve been a Fisher-Price toy for all I knew. Not like I was an expert at discerning a fake from a real one. “Chicago Homicide. Mind if I take a moment of your time?”

Did I have a choice? The guy had already settled himself into my space. And it didn’t matter that the worst thing I’d ever done in my life was blowing a few red lights--when a homicide detective asked for a moment of your time, it kind of stirred a little panic.

Puzzling over what he could’ve wanted from me, I frowned. “What’s going on?”

“I understand you lecture on iconology with a background in symbology?”

“As a student, is all.”

“I was hoping you could help me identify something.”

A file sat tucked under his arm, which he pulled out and set on the desk, forcing me to shove aside the box I’d been packing. Opening it only a crack, he slid out a photo and pushed it across the paper-cluttered surface toward me. “Do you recognize this marking?”

Tipping my head, I stared down at a marking that looked as if it’d been carved into a smooth river stone with laser precision. Essentially a cross, but with its base split in two. As I studied it, a flash of unbidden memory flickered in my head.

Papers with the same symbol plastered to the stained walls and hanging from the ceiling by strings. Wind blowing the dangling pages, whirling them around in sharp circles. Snowy gusts tickling the back of my neck as I stand beside the open window.

Blinking out of the visual, I cleared my throat. “Look, if you’d like, I can direct you to someone in the department—”

“I’m not interested in bland explanations from arrogant tenured professors, Miss Ravenshaw. I’m looking for answers from someone who can think outside the box.” The articulate nature of his words punctuated his insistence.

A sudden itch at my arm had me mindlessly scratching at my sleeve.

Hines seemed to take notice, as his gaze dipped to there for a moment. “I’m here because I stumbled upon a paper your father wrote years ago, describing a religious cult known as the Pentacrux. Does that ring any bells?”

It did. Years before, he’d slipped into delirium. My father, a renowned professor of Ancient Christian Studies at Yale, had postulated the existence of a militant religious group, which he’d claimed had flourished centuries ago. One of the earlier religious cults, according to his theories. Unfortunately, not much was known about the group, as they’d apparently gone extinct, but in his writings, he’d described the aberrant cross as their emblem, of sorts. A shape I happened to know intimately. I scratched harder, my skin burning with the digging of my nails.

“Detective, I have to tell you, I haven’t seen, nor spoken to, my father since I was fifteen.”

“But you do recognize the symbol, do you not?”

Another quick glance stirred the turmoil he’d already stoked in my head. The rousing of memories I’d not acknowledged in a while. “Vaguely. Unfortunately, my father suffered from delirium, so I’m not sure you’ll glean much from his work.”

“Yes, I read about that. Seemed he slipped into a bit of psychosis.”

An understatement, actually, considering he’d tried to drown me. Seeing as it hadn’t been reported, there wasn’t any way Hines would’ve known that, though. Still, in an effort to school the emotion on my face, I ran my tongue over the back of my teeth. “I’m afraid I can’t help you. I’m actually going on a bit of a hiatus.”

“Ah. I’m sorry to hear that.” He opened the file a crack again and slid out two more pictures, and the moment I realized what I was staring at, I slapped a hand to my mouth over a gasp.

Obviously a forensics image, given the proximity and angle of the shot, it showed a pale-skinned blonde whose entire left face had been torn away, leaving glistening flesh and a bulging hazel eye. On the non-ruined side of her face, a mole just above her lip remained perfectly intact. Another image beside that one showed fingers removed to the knuckles on one of her hands, only the small protrusion of severed bone sticking out.

Breathing hard through my nose, I relieved my gaze of the gore by turning away from it and staring at a wall where a poster of Keanu Reeves as Jesus used to hang.

Honestly, I could’ve used the humor to settle my gurgling stomach right then.

“Alicia Maxson. A prostitute from Englewood, found in a locked room of The Shining Star Motel. No obvious sign of entry. Deadbolt and chain had been secured from the inside. Only the door and window faced where the camera would’ve caught movement. The old, locked room mystery.”

My heart hammered against my ribs, breaths a little shaky. I didn’t bother to open my mouth in response, for fear my earlier lunch would make an appearance.

Thankfully, he shoved the pictures back into the folder, and I swallowed down the acid that’d risen to my throat. “My apologies for the grisly nature of the images. I wanted to make a point that I’m not asking as a fan of your father’s work, but in hopes it might help me determine what I’m dealing with here.”

A trigger warning would’ve been nice. It so happened that I’d recently regained access to my father’s old notes—ones Aunt Nelle had felt compelled to keep from me after he’d disappeared. Presumed dead, technically.

“The best I can do is … maybe go through some old boxes and see if I can scour some notes on it.”

“I’d appreciate that. Along with any contacts your father might’ve had.”

Unfortunately, most of his contacts had ditched him a long time ago, thinking he’d lost his marbles, so the likelihood of that was slim.

I nodded, anyway. “I can do that.”

He reached into his perfectly pressed suit and pulled out a card, which he slid across toward me. “Please. Don’t hesitate to contact me if you find something.”

Lifting the card from the desk, I gave a tight-lipped smile and nodded again. “Will do.”

“Oh, and I should probably leave you the picture.”

As he slid his hand into the file, I shook my hands and my head. “No, no! I don’t need to keep that!”

Frowning, he slid the image with the carved stone onto the desk, and I let out a relieved breath. “To reference the symbol.”

“Of course. Thank you. Detective.”

“Have a good day, Miss Ravenshaw.”

Once he’d exited the office, I fell back into my desk chair, tossing the card onto a stack of papers I’d planned to shred later. An itch at my arm had me lifting my sleeve from over the birthmark hidden beneath. One that bore a striking resemblance to the symbol carved into the stone on the image in front of me. A striking similarity, no doubt, but personally, I’d never acknowledged it as anything but a weird-looking blemish on my skin, its edges too undefined to make that link. My father, on the other hand, believed it’d not only prophesied my mother’s untimely death, but made me a harbinger, of sorts. A messenger of the angels, whatever that meant.

Thankfully, he hadn’t included that part in his paper.

It’d been years since I’d given any thought to the marking. Even longer than that since I’d considered opening wounds that’d long since scabbed over. Problem was, they hadn’t healed right. Even then, the mystery of my father called to me, tearing open the stitches all over again.

And like the masochist I was, my interest was piqued.