CHAPTER THIRTEEN

Sheila turned around to see three men standing there with grim expressions. Two of the men were holding guns, and the third held a baton menacingly. All three were clad in dark clothing, with hoods obscuring their faces. One of them, a tall man with a crescent scar around one eye, stepped forward.

"Who else knows you're here?" he demanded.

"Everyone," Finn said, his voice surprisingly calm. "The police chief, the local news, your mother…"

The man struck Finn across his stomach with the baton, causing him to double over in pain. Sheila kicked the man hard, her shin connecting with his thigh, and he cursed and collapsed to one knee. The other two men descended on her.

She pivoted, her body coiling like a spring before unleashing a devastating roundhouse kick. Her foot connected solidly with the first attacker's jaw, sending him stumbling backward.

Without missing a beat, she dropped low, dodging a wild swing from the second man. She countered with a swift uppercut that caught him under the chin, his teeth clacking together audibly as his head snapped back.

She turned back, ready to face the man with the crescent scar again, but to her surprise he wasn't getting to his feet. He was still on the ground, and before Sheila could register what he was doing, he'd struck her leg hard with the baton.

She staggered, and before she could recover, the two men were on her, grabbing her arms. One of them twisted her arm behind her back, and she felt the cold barrel of a gun jabbing into her side.

"Nice try," the man sneered. "But you do anything like that again, and you'll get worse than a bruise."

She glanced at Finn, who was struggling to get back to his feet. He gave her a troubled look. He was clearly injured, but Sheila suspected it was nothing serious.

"Who else knows?" the man with the crescent scar said again. After a few moments had passed in silence, he swung again, this time striking Finn's shoulder. Finn tried to fight back, but the third man punched him hard in the side.

"Enough!" Sheila said, desperate to get them to stop beating Finn. "Please, no one else knows we're here. It's just us."

She sensed a strange satisfaction in the eyes of the man with the crescent scar. "I knew someone was snooping around, spying on us—I just had no idea it was the police. Good thing we caught you."

The comment puzzled Sheila, but there was no time to figure it out. The man gestured to one of his companions, who pushed open the door behind Sheila.

The room, a study hall converted into a makeshift ritual room, was dimly lit by clusters of candles scattered haphazardly around the space. The air was heavy with the smell of incense, mingling with the musty scent of old books. In the center of the room stood Cassandra Jenkins, surrounded by other individuals, hooded and silent. An elaborate chalk-drawn symbol took up most of the floor, eerily similar to those from Brett Hawthorne's books.

The sudden intrusion caused a murmur to ripple through the group. Jenkins' eyes widened in surprise as she recognized Sheila, then narrowed in anger. "What is the meaning of this?" she demanded, her voice echoing through the room.

"The meaning of this," the scarred man replied, shoving Sheila into the room, "is that these two decided to stick their noses where they don't belong. They're police officers. Sheriff's deputies."

"Yes," Jenkins murmured, studying them. "They questioned me earlier. They were quite…pushy."

"What do you want to do with them now?" the man with the scar asked. "They've seen too much already."

Jenkins sighed, passing a hand over her eyes. "All I wanted was some inside knowledge on the murders, that was it."

"Why would you need inside knowledge, anyway?" Sheila asked. "You're the ones who killed those women, aren't you?"

Jenkins glanced around, looking puzzled. "You think we murdered them? And you call yourselves detectives?"

Sheila was puzzled by this denial. "Wait. If you're saying you didn't kill them, then what's this all about?"

"We didn't take the lives of those women directly, no," Jenkins said, "but we did send the creature that preyed on them."

Now Sheila was really puzzled. "The creature ? "

"Yes, the creature," Jenkins said, her face grim. "We call it the Cherubim. Our rituals, these symbols, they're meant to protect us from it."

The room fell silent as Jenkins gestured at the chalk-drawn symbol on the floor. The symbol was so close to those found on the bodies of the victims that Sheila had no doubt about its connection to their murders. Was it possible these people were just some crazy occultists inspired by the killings and convinced they'd played a part in them?

"I still don't understand," Sheila said. "How do you know so much about the crimes?"

Jenkins's eyes twinkled. "Because I was there—we were there. After the first killing, when we saw those symbols, we knew the Cherubim was at work, and so we started scouring the salt flats, looking for other…offerings."

"You're telling us you discovered the bodies before anyone else did?" Finn asked, making no effort to disguise his anger.

Jenkins shrugged modestly. "It took some searching, but yes. And now that you've stumbled upon us…I'm afraid we can't just let you go. The world doesn't understand people like us—we'll lose our jobs, become lepers in society. So we're just going to have to make you…disappear."

At these words, a cold dread settled on Sheila like a lead blanket. She shot an alarmed glance at Finn. His face was ashen, but his eyes were burning with a familiar determined fire.

"Disappear, huh?" he muttered. "And here I was thinking we'd blend right in with the decor."

Jenkins didn't seem amused. "Enough of this," she said, her eyes hardening. "Bind them."

Anxiety gnawed at Sheila's stomach as two hooded figures detached themselves from the crowd and moved toward them. She looked around desperately for a way out, but the room was ringed by the group, and the only exit was behind her, guarded by a burly man who didn't look like he had much of a sense of humor.

As rough hands grabbed her arms to tie them, she glanced at Finn, his head lowered and fists clenched. He was ready, she knew. She gave him a barely perceptible nod, and as the hooded figures tightened the ropes around her wrists, she exploded into action.

With a swift and powerful kick honed from years of training, she sent one of her captors flying into a bookshelf, causing it to crash down in a cascade of dusty volumes. Finn wasn't far behind; with a roar, he barreled into the burly man by the door, catching him off guard and sending them both crashing onto the floor.

The room erupted in chaos as members of the group scattered, screaming and ducking for cover. Sheila took advantage of the confusion, ripping her wrists free from the slackened grip of her other captor and launching another powerful kick at a man who lunged toward her. He crumpled to the floor, clutching his stomach.

Finn scrambled to his feet, snatching up a heavy candlestick which he swung like a baseball bat. It connected with a hooded figure's skull with a sickening crunch. The figure went down and stayed there.

They were putting up a good fight, but Sheila knew they were outnumbered. Her gaze darted around the room, looking for an escape route. Then she saw it: a window leading out onto a fire escape. It was narrow, but with enough force, they could break through.

"Window!" she shouted over the chaos to Finn, pointing. He glanced in its direction before nodding, his face set in a determined grimace.

She turned back to her adversaries, readying herself as two more figures lunged for her. If they wanted a fight, then by God, they were going to get one. With a swift one-two punch combination, she sent them sprawling and then darted toward the window.

Finn was already there, heaving an antique chair at the window. Glass shattered all around as the chair burst through the pane, opening an escape route. Sheila followed him, ducking under a pair of swinging arms and delivering a brutal kick to an approaching figure. Then she was at the window, Finn reaching out to help haul her through.

For a moment, there was a flurry of shouting and panicked yells behind them as they scrambled through the broken window. Sheila landed none too gently on the fire escape outside, shards of glass biting into her hands.

"Come on," Finn said, offering his hand. They were three stories up, and the iron stairs leading downwards rattled ominously as if threatening to break away from the brickwork. But it was their only chance. Sheila grasped Finn's outstretched hand firmly, and together they began their perilous descent.

Behind them, Sheila heard indistinct shouts as the occultists tried to make sense of what to do next. It was only a matter of time before they realized their little game was over and they fled. Sheila couldn't let them escape, not when they had given Sheila so much reason to believe they could be involved in the murders .

She came to a sudden stop. Finn turned back, puzzled.

"What are you doing?" he asked. "They might still be coming after us!"

"We can't just let them escape," Sheila said.

"And we can't arrest them all, either. We'll get to the car, call for backup, and go from there. They're armed, Sheila. They have our weapons."

"We don't have to arrest them all," Sheila said grimly. "I just want Jenkins. She's the ringleader, and I'm not going to let her get away without giving us some answers."

Finn sighed, as if realizing there was no point in arguing. "Do what you gotta do. I'm calling this in."

Sheila nodded. Then, leaving Finn to call for backup, she sprinted back to the parking lot, searching for Jenkins's car—the perfect place to ambush her as she tried to make her escape.

Sheila soon spotted Jenkins's silver sedan parked a little away from the main building. Keeping low and using parked vehicles and shrubbery for cover, she quietly made her way toward it. Her pulse pounded in her ears and adrenaline surged through her veins, sharpening her senses.

There was movement by the sedan as Cassandra Jenkins emerged from the shadows, fumbling for her car keys. Sheila held back, remaining unseen behind a large pickup truck. She watched as Jenkins unlocked her car, throwing a nervous glance over her shoulder before she started to climb in.

Now was the moment.

With a burst of speed, Sheila sprinted from her hiding spot, covering the distance between them in a matter of seconds.

"Jenkins!" Sheila yelled, leaping onto the woman as she was half in and half out of the car. They both went tumbling into the vehicle, knocking against the steering wheel and dashboard.

With an animalistic growl, Jenkins tried to squirm free, but Sheila wasn't letting her go that easily. She managed to flip Jenkins onto her back, trapping her against the seat while keeping a firm grip on her wrists.

"Get off me!" Jenkins said, trying to drive her knee into Sheila's side. But Sheila was ready for it; she dodged the blow and tightened her grip on Jenkins' wrists.

"I don't think so," Sheila said, her voice as cold as the night air outside. "You have some questions to answer. "

Jenkins' eyes widened in fear, but then her gaze shifted to something behind Sheila. A cruel smile spread across her face. "I don't think I'll be answering anything tonight, Officer."

Before Sheila could react, she heard shouts coming from the direction of the building. She glanced over her shoulder to see a group of hooded figures rushing towards them, some brandishing makeshift weapons.

"Damn it," Sheila muttered. She tightened her grip on Jenkins, knowing she couldn't let her go, but also realizing she was now trapped. If she released Jenkins to defend herself, the woman would escape. If she didn't, she'd be at the mercy of the approaching cultists.

She slammed the door shut and locked it moments before the first of the group reached the car.

"Let her go!" he shouted, pounding on the window. Others surrounded the vehicle, their faces masks of rage and desperation.

Sheila's mind raced, searching for a way out of this predicament. She could hear the cultists trying to force the doors open, the car rocking with their efforts. Jenkins was still struggling beneath her, making it difficult to maintain her hold.

Just as Sheila thought her plan had completely backfired, she heard the screech of tires. A familiar SUV came barreling into the parking lot, horn blaring. It was Finn.

The cultists scattered as Finn brought the vehicle to a screeching halt beside Jenkins' sedan. He leaned across and flung open the passenger door. "Sheila! Get in, now!"

In one fluid motion, Sheila hauled Jenkins up and out of her car, keeping a firm grip on her arm. She shoved the professor into the back seat of the SUV before jumping in herself.

"Go, go, go!" she yelled as she slammed the door shut. Finn didn't need to be told twice. He floored the accelerator and they peeled out of the parking lot, leaving the stunned cultists in their wake.