Shadows at Dawn. Start Here.
She was not Ana. Her nose was too short, her ears pinned too close to her head. Only her eyes remained the same.
Not-Ana had the cult leader by the throat in her right hand and a gun in her left. Blood streaked her skin, and the cold had seeped into her bones. This… man had strung up her only ally from the pier, tying his unconscious body with heavy rope. Each bob and wave of the tide had torn at his flesh, jarring him awake. He’d stopped screaming.
She pressed the jagged edge of a broken nail into the soft flesh of Keeler’s neck.
“Cut him down!”
“Ana, please—”
“Cut him down! Now!” Her voice cracked with fury. She must have looked insane. Keeler’s armed guards hesitated, then scrambled to obey, hauling Marcus’ limp body from the water.
She kept her eyes on Keeler, even as she saw the ropes fall, splashing into the tide, and Marcus flopped onto the pier’s slick wood. He moaned faintly, alive—but barely. Salt water pooled beneath him, swirling crimson as his blood spread too fast, too thick.
Keeler laughed—a sharp, unhinged sound that grated against the air. She tightened her grip on his throat, fighting the urge to tear it open. Her nails dug deep, turning his face toward hers, using him as a shield against his antsy brownshirts.
His laugh broke into hysterics. The final chord of his sanity snapped almost audibly. She gritted her teeth. If he dissociated now, she’d lose control.
Three Days Earlier:
The wrought iron door groaned on ancient hinges as Crawford slipped inside. He paused in the anteroom, letting the muted murmurs of prayer envelop him, then stepped into the sanctuary. Stained glass fractured the dawn light, casting a kaleidoscope of colors across the sparse congregation.
Candles and lanterns dotted the cathedral, a physical ward against the darkness. Though the pews were far from full, the air felt dense, thick with the memories of lives lived and lost within these walls.
At the back, Crawford scanned the room. A young man hunched in the shadows, wild desperation in his eyes. An elderly woman sat nearby, knitting with serene purpose, she wore a nice dress and her hair was so white it blued even in the orange candlelight. . His gaze swept forward and found her. He traced every line of fabric that pulled tight against her body. Academically, noting isolation in her posture.
Ana sat alone, near the pulpit, surrounded by the flickering red glow of tiered candles stacked before the altar. A shaft of sunlight cut through the stained glass depiction of Saint Michael, casting her silhouette in fractured hues of crimson and gold.
Crawford hesitated. He had planned to wait—this wasn’t the time. But the urgency of the situation outweighed the sanctity of her solitude. He could ignore his pity. But in the same breath, he wished he could disappear. Just fade away into nothing. His approach was silent, deliberate, yet every step seemed to echo louder in his chest.
She didn’t acknowledge him. Her fingers danced lightly over the edges of her Bible, her shoulders rising and falling with shallow breaths. Her presence felt fragile yet immense, like a ghost too real to ignore.
He stopped a few pews behind Ana, ducking behind the colonnade. He peeked out and saw an elderly Hispanic woman seated comfortably, mumbling her prayers under her breath, counting her rosary. She felt eyes on her and looked up, smiling at him with a kindness that he yearned after. Crawford did not smile back.
When he reached her, he paused, “Ana,” Crawford’s whisper was barely more than a breath against the hum of a solemn hymn. Ana remained motionless, her prayer undisturbed. From this close, he could see that she’d been crying.
And the human part of himself, a part he’d suppressed for so long he’d thought it dead, thought to reach out and wipe the tears off the cheeks of a beautiful woman.
Instead, he whispered again, “Ana.”
Her eyes snapped open, sharp and cold. She jerked away, her expression darkening in the fractured light.
“Crawford.” Her voice carried a hiss of distrust.
“You need to come with me,” he said. “Now. There’s been a development.”
She stared at him, suspicion and fury twisting her features. For a moment, Crawford was struck by how beauty and rage could intertwine, how hatred could make someone impossible to look away from—whether you wanted to or not.
Ana moved slowly, gathering her belongings with deliberate reluctance. Her gaze lingered on him, weighing whether she trusted him enough to follow. Finally, she stood, the candles flickering wildly in her wake.
Most of the parishioners at this hour were content to be alone and let alone. But a few looked up at the man and woman hurrying out, caught them in glimpses between columns of granite and stone.
Crawford wore the uniform of the FBI, a suit and tie, dark. He’d tucked sunglasses into his breast pocket. Ana looked the beautiful widow, torn by grief. They were running between columns of stone and stained glass murals. It was a chase. It was the pursuit of evil and good and those who looked up knew they had seen something.
They would tell people about it. They may not have known what it was or what it would become, but they knew they had seen something that day.
They’d tell their friends and loved ones over breakfast the next morning, “You know, last night, I was at St. Michael’s…” And then they would find it a struggle. Most would find describing what they saw nearly impossible. The grief emanating off of the woman, the fear off the man; that their simply being a spectator was important.
Outside, the bitter cold of Washington’s dawn enveloped them. Ana pulled her coat tighter as the wind bit at her skin. Snow threatened in the gray sky above. She cast a glance back at the cathedral, her face unreadable.
“I’ve been waiting nine months,” she said, her voice taut with suppressed anger. “Nine months of silence. A dozen reports filed, and nothing. And now you show up, dickhead, with no explanation?”
Crawford raised his hands defensively, glancing around at passersby. “Ana, calm down.”
Her voice dropped, a whisper edged with fury. “Do you know why I come here, Joe? Church. Mass. It’s for the honesty. This is a place of truth.” She leaned closer, her words a growl. “So I’m going to be honest: you’re a coward. A logical, self-justifying coward.”
He opened his mouth to respond, but she cut him off. “Nine months of radio silence, and you have the gall to show up now and drag me back into this?”
“They’re calling you in,” Crawford said. “You’re going to Elderbridge.”
The name struck her silent. For a moment, she stood still, the cold settling between them. Crawford, unable to resist his curiosity, sighed.
“You know I’m gonna ask. What is my logical mind hiding?”
Ana shook her head, disappointment deepening her scowl. “That you’re afraid. You’re smart enough to justify it, but in your bones, you’re terrified of everything.”
For a long moment, they stared at each other, neither speaking, both wishing the other dead. .