Read an excerpt of Crypt of Bone

“Before me was a pale horse. Its rider was named Death, and Hades was following close behind him. They were given power over a fourth of the earth to kill by sword, famine and plague, and by the wild beasts of the earth.”

Revelation 6:8

 

Prologue

Jerusalem, Israel.

Blood has washed the stones of Jerusalem for millennia. Human sacrifice stained red the ancient altars of Baal, and the crushed bones of the vanquished lie under the sacred places. For generations, the screams of the dying echoed across the Kidron Valley as the city was besieged and broken. The blood of the defeated watered the earth, sowing seeds of hate to be harvested in the next generation. Jerusalem has always been a place of blood — and always will be.

Ayal Ben-David stepped out from the maze of Jewish Quarter streets onto the series of ramps leading down to the Western Wall. The golden Dome of the Rock reflected the rays of the rising sun, its brilliant turquoise and gold tiles with Arabic script dusky from this distance, framed by ancient cypress trees. Ayal walked across the wide expanse of the open square as the grey marble flagstones reflected pink hues from the early morning sky. He raised his hand to greet another soldier standing guard at the eastern entrance to the square, acknowledging him but not stopping. Ayal stood taller as he approached the Western Wall. He straightened his uniform and checked that his rifle hung down correctly. It was important that everything was perfect.

He never tired of this morning routine. The Western Wall was the only remnant of the ancient Temple and Jews had been kept from it for so long. It was the closest they could get to the Temple Mount where God gathered dust to fashion Adam, where Abraham bound his son Isaac as a sacrifice, and where, in the Holy of Holies, God dwelt with His chosen people. But it was also here that the Prophet Mohammad ascended to heaven on his Night Journey. This place was the most contested religious site in the world. Guarding it was Ayal’s sacred duty, and he was proud to do it every day.

He was close enough now to see the enormous blocks of limestone that made up the ancient wall. Each was almost as tall as a man, the foundations embedded deep in the earth. Scraps of paper emerged from the cracks between, pushed inside by the faithful, inscribed with desperate prayers. These tefillah would reach God faster from this most holy place, where reality bled into the divine.

Tufts of shikaron or henbane spiked from the grooves between the blocks and a swallow swooped to perch and pick an insect from one of the thorny bushes. Ayal smiled. Nature always found its way into the cracks of life. Like the Jews, surviving despite generations of persecution. He stood in front of the wall and prayed, his fingertips resting gently against the ancient stone, sensing anew the power of the holy place.

As he neared the end of his first prayer, Ayal heard shouting above him. The words were muffled, but the noise echoed through the almost empty square. He swung his rifle into position and looked up for potential danger as other soldiers around the square prepared for action.

Muslims had thrown rocks down before, intent on disrupting the prayers of the Jewish faithful, but sometimes the threat was more serious.

Ayal moved back from the wall and scanned for the source of the noise.

A skinny man in a thin white robe stood on top of the Western Wall, his hands raised to the dawn sky as he called out to God. His head was shaved and his skeletal figure made a grotesque outline against the deepening azure sky. Ayal couldn’t make out his words, but clearly the man was a fanatic and guards from the Temple Mount would get to him soon enough. He turned his head to signal to the others to stand down; there was no real threat.

The prayers fell silent.

Ayal looked up as the man jumped from the top of the wall, sixty feet above him, his white robe billowing behind in a parody of flight.

With a sickening crunch, the man’s body smashed on the flagstones at the base of the wall. Blood ran from his crushed head, staining the robe into a grisly shroud.

Ayal ran over, but there was nothing to be done. He knelt and checked the man’s pulse out of protocol, then called for another soldier to bring screens to put around the body. He would need the Rabbi to come and cleanse the area before the worshippers arrived.

The man was young, maybe in his thirties. Half of his face was mangled by the fall, but the undamaged side had sharply defined cheekbones, his skin tight against his skull, like he had been starving. His expression was peaceful, as if there had been no pain in death. Only relief.

The man was naked underneath what he now recognized as a hospital gown and Ayal adjusted the garment to give the victim some dignity in death. The man’s hand still clutched something — a scrap of paper.

Perhaps it would give some clue as to why he jumped.

Blood pooled around the corpse and would soak the scrap before long, so Ayal picked it up. It showed a roughly drawn horse’s head with wide eyes and flared nostrils in thick lines of charcoal smudged into the page. A layer of chalk over the top gave it a consistent white appearance.

Words in black ink lay beneath the image: Before me was a pale horse. Its rider was named Death, and Hades followed close behind.

Ayal recognized the text as part of a Christian prophecy from the book of Revelation and, for a moment, he pondered its significance.

As he stood to direct the other soldiers, a trickle of blood ran down into the cracks of stone beneath his feet, joining that which had soaked the earth of the holy city for millennia.

 

Chapter 1

Oxford, England.

Rain darkened the sky, shadowing the earth in cloud. Morgan Sierra ran through the gates of the University Parks by Keble College, her stride lengthening as she headed toward the river Cherwell. In the distance, the rumble of thunder grew closer and lightning forked further away to the north.

This was Morgan’s favorite weather in which to run. As most people hurried inside, she had changed into her gear and sprinted toward the storm, enlivened by the rain, a creature more of water than air.

It was rare to have such summer tropical storms in England. This was a country of gently rolling hills and soft rain that pattered onto the leaves of spreading oak trees. Morgan savored the rare pleasure, her breathing even and pace strong as she raced through the muddy park.

The path emerged by St Catherine’s College and Morgan crossed the river and continued toward Magdalen Bridge. Scots pine and ash trees shaded the path, a canopy of mottled jade, their leaves open to the rain. She splashed through puddles, her smile growing wider as she sprinted, pushing herself hard along the towpath until she finally reached the crossing point at Magdalen.

Panting with exertion, Morgan stopped to catch her breath, her face turned to the rain, unable to outrun the decision any longer.

Director Marietti’s offer to come and work as an agent of ARKANE.

The Arcane Religious Knowledge And Numinous Experience — or ARKANE — Institute investigated supernatural and religious mysteries around the world, and Morgan had only glimpsed the possibilities on the mission to find the Pentecost stones. Every day in her university job felt like a chore now and the problems of individual patients in her clinical psychology practice no longer held her interest. She longed to be out on a mission again and her research in Oxford seemed insignificant in the face of the threats tackled by ARKANE.

And then, of course, there was Jake Timber, her partner for such a short time. He had betrayed her — but he had also returned to help save her family.

Morgan ran on once more through the Botanical Gardens to the junction of the Cherwell and the Isis, the part of the Thames that belonged to Oxford. Running helped her think, especially when even her office reminded her of ARKANE.

After the firefight with the men from Thanatos, Marietti had sent a clean-up team to remove the bodies and repair her furniture. But her Jungian mandala was forever stained with dark blood, her bookshelves forever pockmarked by bullet holes — and Morgan was glad of that. She liked the reminder of how she’d felt in those moments.

Perhaps the deaths should have affected her more. After all, she’d put the final bullet in the assassin’s head. But the thrill of battle took her into a more primal part of herself — the part that reveled in the storm, the part that wanted to be an agent of ARKANE.

Morgan thought of her father, taken too soon, but always present in her memories. He had loved the rain and storms, too. Living in Israel, rain had been so precious. The back-breaking work of Jewish immigrants had made the desert bloom, the kibbutzim a family of life-bringers. Her father would have been so proud of her place at Oxford, but then he had also approved of her service in the Israel Defense Forces. Morgan smiled. He would have approved of a warrior academic.

She emerged onto the Isis river bank at the end of Christchurch meadow as the storm broke overhead. Lightning cracked the sky and thunder rolled. Cattle in the meadow huddled together under the trees with heads down, while swans floated in loving pairs on the river, splattered by the veil of rain. Ripples overlapped one another, spreading out to slap against the sides of canal boats tethered on the banks, their bright shutters closed against the deluge.

Morgan sprinted up the wide pathway toward Christ Church College, the power in the storm transferred to her through the crackling air.

She reached the college gates and slowed once more, shifting to an easier pace as she circled back through town. Morgan saw Oxford through fresh eyes now, and working here for the last few weeks had felt more like an end than a new beginning.

Becoming an ARKANE agent would give her access to incredible resources and expand her research possibilities, as well as further her expertise in the field. Visions of ARKANE’s underground vault hidden under London’s Trafalgar Square filled her dreams. There were mysteries locked away down there — artifacts of power, ancient manuscripts, and so much more she longed to explore.

She only had to pick up the phone and call Director Marietti.

But part of her still stung from their betrayal and the secrets they had kept from her. The fight she had with Jake… Yet he haunted her dreams as well and their violence transformed into something far more intimate in the dark of night.

Morgan hadn’t heard from him since she had walked away from the ARKANE vault. Perhaps he never thought of her at all.

The storm retreated, the thunder rolled further into the distance, and the rain eased to a gentler refrain. The city shone in the morning sun, washed clean of its grime for another day.

Morgan jogged back to Walton Street, her pace slowing even more. She had spent so many years dreaming of working in Oxford. Now she was a respected academic at this great university, with her own private clinical practice. She was close to her family. She had everything she supposedly wanted. So why did she feel so conflicted?

 

* * *

Jerusalem, Israel.

The Ezra Institute was in chaos.

Dinah Mizrahi, deputy director of the mental health facility, hurried down the tiled corridor as she tried to get a handle on the situation. Somehow, a patient had escaped, and a team was still out searching for him along with the police.

An alarm had gone off before dawn and the bell still rang at intervals, jolting everyone anew. But the atmosphere in the facility seemed far more fraught than just a reaction to the alarm. A desolate wailing rang out from the women’s ward as if something precious had been lost.

Only Israel could have a place like Ezra, a specialized institution for those suffering from Jerusalem Syndrome. The condition manifested as a set of mental phenomena associated with the religious aspects of the Holy City, affecting Christians and some Jews. Patients thought they were Mary, the mother of Christ, or John the Baptist, Elijah, or other religious figures connected with Jerusalem. They often claimed to be messengers of God. Many recovered when they left the city, but some were so entrenched in their psychoses, they were brought to Ezra to recover. The women’s ward had four Marys and three Mary Magdalenes. Today, they were united in an intense outpouring of grief.

Dinah walked into the ward to find all the Marys on their knees, weeping and tearing at their gowns.

The ward sister rushed over, clearly struggling to cope with the mass emotion in the usually well-behaved ward. “I’m so glad you’re here, Dinah. I don’t know what to do. It started suddenly, just after dawn. They won’t speak, they just wail. They’re inconsolable.”

Dinah nodded. “Give them a light sedative. They look exhausted, and the other patients will be fretting over the noise. Have there been any other incidents?”

The ward sister shrugged. “The Marys have taken all my attention. We’re short staffed at the best of times. I haven’t even had time to check on the others.”

“It’s alright, I’ll do it. I’ll start with Abraham.”

Dinah left the women’s ward and hurried down the long corridor, painted bright white with no decoration. All the art had been removed, as the patients interpreted any kind of visual stimulation as a message from God.

She entered the high-risk wing, where patients lived in individual rooms for their own protection and that of other patients. The possible re-enactment of certain biblical events meant the more seriously affected had to be separated.

The patient calling himself Abraham had been here almost two months now. He had never given them another name and had no ID on admission. He was incredibly well versed in scripture, and Dinah couldn’t fault his knowledge. With her combined expertise in psychiatry and theology, she considered Abraham to be the patient most deeply embedded in his own psychoses. He truly believed he was Abraham, prophet of God, servant of the Most High. The only patient who came close was Daniel, who had escaped from the facility this morning. He believed himself to be John of Patmos, the author of Revelation.

As Dinah approached Abraham’s door, she heard him praying in a stream of unconnected words, almost as if he spoke in tongues. At least he wasn’t screaming the place down, but there was something about it that made her heart beat faster.

Dinah looked through the glass window into the small room — and immediately pressed the alarm call button.

 

Chapter 2

Dinah swiped her card and burst into the room.

Abraham knelt naked in a pool of blood by the bed, his eyes glazed and staring as he rocked back and forth. The stench of blood and feces and sweat hung in the air.

At the end of each string of prayers, Abraham slashed himself with a razor blade, unflinching as he cut deeper with every slice. He hadn’t hit a major artery yet, but there was already so much blood on the tiled floor.

Dinah crouched down next to Abraham, making sure she was out of the reach of the razor. Protocol said she shouldn’t even be in there. She should wait for security. But she knew this man. They had spent days together in therapy and she could help him. If he didn’t get help soon, he would bleed to death.

“Abraham, you’re safe now.”

His prayers grew louder.

Dinah willed the security guards to arrive. If they could just sedate him, they could save his life.

She reached out a hand, palm up, pleading with him. “Please, Abraham. I can help you. Just put down the razor.”

Abraham fell silent and cocked his head to one side, as if listening to voices from the other side of the veil. A strange smile spread over his face.

He plunged the razor blade deep into his belly, grunting as he ripped it across and down. He crumpled to the floor.

“No!” Dinah reached for him, unafraid of the blade now. It had served its dark purpose. She crawled through the blood and gathered Abraham in her arms. A stream of blood and entrails erupted from his belly and the noxious smell made her gag, but she held him close.

His eyes flickered open.

“Why, Abraham? Why do this?”

He smiled once more. “God told me to do it.”

His breath rasped and then quieted, his last sound a sigh of relief. Dinah felt a part of him slip away as the alarms rang on and the guards finally arrived with a crash cart.

But they were too late.

Dinah sat there in the pool of blood, holding Abraham’s corpse, her white coat and hands covered in gore. She looked up at the wall above his bed. Scrawled there in blood and feces was a line drawing, a horse rearing up on its back legs as if to crush the body below. The rider was a black wraith, as if Death itself had come to claim this victim.

An orderly spoke from the door, a new guy funded by the last grant from Zoebios, a health company with interests in the region. “Dr Mizrahi? We need to take the body.”

“Of course, sorry… I just thought… I thought I could get to him in time.” Dinah tried to rise and slipped in the bloody mess.

The orderly helped her stand and supported her to the door. “Sometimes there’s no stopping them. This one looked like he was on the edge.”

Dinah turned to the orderly. Something in his tone made the hairs on the back of her neck rise. “Sorry, I don’t remember your name.”

“It’s Jacobsen. I only started last week. It seemed like a relatively quiet place then, but now this and, of course, Daniel.”

Dinah frowned. “What about Daniel? I haven’t been able to get to his room yet. Is he still missing?”

The orderly shook his head. “Word just came in that he’s dead, too. Jumped from the top of the Western Wall.”

Dinah looked up at the looming figure of Death. He had claimed two of her patients today and she would not see him take another.

Something was terribly wrong at Ezra, but the management team was more interested in corporate funding than patient care, and her colleagues would dismiss her vague concerns as fancy.

But there was someone Dinah trusted. It was time to call in a favor from a friend she hadn’t seen in far too long.

 

* * *

Oxford, England.

Morgan sat in the window seat of her tiny house in the Jericho area, muscles aching from the run. This little alcove had been one reason she bought the two-up, two-down terraced house between Ruskin College and the imposing gates of the Oxford University Press. This spot was a sun-trap for part of the day and in the English winters, she needed a glimmer of hope. It was a long way from her Tel Aviv apartment with Elian, where they had embraced the pulse of the city together, spending balmy nights dancing after long days of work researching military psychology. After Elian’s death on a mission in the Golan Heights, Morgan had sold the apartment and now had little desire to be in loud places. But she still needed the sun.

A soft meow came from the doorway, and Morgan patted her lap in encouragement. She had fed the little stray and, over time, the cat had adopted her. Morgan named her Lakshmi — for the Hindu goddess of wealth, prosperity, wisdom, and courage — which seemed like a good omen for a new life centered around the university. The little grey tabby rarely came for a cuddle. She was as independent as her mistress. But today she seemed determined to collect her rightful portion of love, and Morgan was glad of the company as she considered her options.

She stroked Shmi, her hand scratching behind the cat’s ears as she drank her thick black coffee, a Mediterranean addiction. The British didn’t know how to make it properly, drowning the bitterness in milk.

Could she just embrace this university life and remain happy and at peace like the cat curled in her lap?

Morgan shook her head, almost laughing at the absurdity. She knew herself better than that. Moments of calm were best appreciated between adventures. She needed to make a change. The only decision was what direction to take.

Her hand resting on Shmi’s soft fur, Morgan checked the news from Israel on her phone. She might have left the country for a new life, but she kept an eye on her old home. Before she could flick to the Middle East section of the news site, a scrolling video caught her eye with an ambitious headline: “New technology can eradicate global mental health issues.”

Morgan clicked the link, and it streamed a video from a health company, Zoebios, an amalgamation of the Greek words ‘zoe,’ meaning eternal, spiritual life, and ‘bios,’ related to physical life.

The CEO, Milan Noble, exuded charisma even from the tiny screen, more movie star than corporate suit. He stood a head taller than the sea of journalists, with cropped hair and chiseled jaw.

His eyes danced with passion as he spoke. “Zoebios is the largest provider of primary health care for family planning, pregnancy, and birth in Europe and the United States, and we have expanded into China, India, and sub-Saharan Africa in the last two years. Our research into early life development has raised the bar on child care models throughout the world.”

The video showed images of Zoebios facilities with multicultural doctors, joyful mothers, and healthy, bouncing babies.

“But my vision for an improved human race goes far beyond physical health. Mental health problems are destroying lives, with increasing numbers of people on medication just to get through the day.”

Milan paused for dramatic effect.

“But there is a way to tackle depression and anxiety without drugs. The trials we have run in multiple countries have been successful and we are now releasing this methodology to the wider public free of charge. You trust Zoebios with your children. Now trust us with your own mental health. You can register for information packs on our website. Thank you.”

As journalists clamored to ask more questions, the video faded to show the Zoebios logo, an unfurling shoot of new life.

As a psychologist, Morgan was intrigued. Depression and anxiety were now the most common mental health issues, causing untold suffering to many and costing millions in healthcare. If Zoebios truly had a non-invasive, non-drug related treatment, she was definitely interested in reading more about their research. She clicked the link to have a look at their site just as her phone rang.

“Morgan, it’s Di.”

Morgan smiled at the sound of her old friend’s voice. Dinah had been her room-mate and best friend in Israel, but their busy lives meant they didn’t talk as much now as they both wanted to. Yet when they spoke, it was as if time melted away. The memories they shared created a lifetime bond, and they owed each other much for the times of support and friendship.

“Thank goodness you’re there,” Dinah continued. “I need your help.”

“Of course. Are you okay? You sound upset. What is it?”

“It’s Ezra. There’s something strange going on here. We’ve had two suicides today and I can’t understand why. There’s no one I trust here, Morgan, and certainly no one with your experience in psychology and religion. Any chance you can come to Jerusalem and help me figure this out?”

Morgan smiled. Be careful what you wish for. “It just so happens that I have a space in my schedule. When do you need me?”

Dinah sighed. “As soon as you can get here.”

Morgan’s mind clicked into organizational mode as she calculated the time zone difference and possible flights.

“Of course. I’m overdue a trip home, anyway, and I miss you, Di. It’s been too long. We have so much to catch up on. I’ll be with you tomorrow.”

“You’re a blessing, Morgan. I can’t wait to see you and I know you’ll find this a fascinating case. See you in the morning.”

Morgan hung up the phone.

Shmi sensed her change in mood and jumped off her lap, taking the warm spot as Morgan headed to the bedroom to pack. This was a good chance to help a friend and get some perspective further away from Oxford.

She caught sight of the photo on her mantelpiece and paused to pick it up. Grouped together were the smiling faces of herself, her twin sister Faye, and her two-year-old niece Gemma. She and Faye both had cobalt-blue eyes with a curious slash of violet, Morgan’s in the right eye and Faye’s in the left. But the physical resemblance ended there and their personalities couldn’t have been more different — just like their parents. Born on the cusp of Aquarius and Pisces, Morgan’s independence had pushed her into the world first. Their parents’ bitter separation meant she and Faye grew up separately, but Morgan felt that finally they were getting to know each other, and she would do anything for Gemma. The events of Pentecost had threatened all of their lives, and Morgan wouldn’t risk that again.

This next step would be hers alone.

 

Chapter 3

Sedlec Chapel. Kutná Hora, Czech Republic.

Franco Messina had been to Sedlec before, but never in the middle of the night when the bones of the crypt came alive in the shadows. What was sickly yellow in the day, resonant of pus and decay, was transformed into golden marvel in the candlelight. Incense lingered in the air, its delicate smoke blurring the edges of the scene.

A magnificent chandelier hung over the gathered crowd, composed of eight candelabra, each made from a spinal column with vertebrae lining the arms. Femurs hung down, the balls of the knee joints rounded and smooth. Plates of pelvis bone cradled candles, and each branch was topped with a skull.

The ossuary contained around fifty thousand skeletons arranged in bony sculptures and macabre shapes. Most came from the time of the Black Death, but there were rumors that other bodies lay hidden here. After all, who would notice fresh bones amongst the skeletal shadows of the chapel?

The sculptures around the chapel were nailed into place, and that made Franco uneasy. Bones don’t bleed, but the nails were an offense, forcing these dead into their display of ashen grace. Ropes of long bones and skulls lay draped around the vault, their empty eye sockets peering down at the living below.

Franco sighed. We are all reduced to this, eventually. Just another femur. Just another skull. He shook his head to clear the depressing thoughts. These reminders of death made him even more determined to make the most of his life — and tonight, he would take another step in the right direction.

It had been nine long months of proving himself worthy, and finally Franco had been invited to the Thanatos ceremony, the culmination of his trials.

His old friend Ivan had recruited Franco into the organization, after seeing him fight in a bar brawl. Perhaps he had taken it a little too far that night — but the gypsy youth shouldn’t have been over on their side of town. Clearly, his actions had been appreciated because Ivan asked him to do some security work shortly after and encouraged him to improve his fighting skills.

After a few weeks, Ivan introduced him to others in the Thanatos network. Together they formed a vigilante group, taking out unwanted parts of the community in surgical strikes, cutting out the worst parts of society so that the best could thrive.

Franco was a proud nationalist. He didn’t want the gypsies or the rag-heads, the crazies, beggars, or fags around. Who did? He didn’t even mind targeting women, especially the prostitutes who polluted family values, tempting men away from their duty. He was proud of the work, it paid well, and the rewards would only increase with time.

Franco touched his left arm where the pale horse tattoo would be added soon enough. Ivan said he would be eligible for full membership after the ceremony and, if you wore the tattoo, there were always those around who would get you out of trouble. It was currency, valued all over the world in an ever-increasing network.

Ivan had explained that Thanatos was the ancient Greek personification of Death, and the pale horse tattoo represented the prophecy that Death would take a quarter of the world in the end times. Franco didn’t quite understand the details, but it didn’t matter. The tattoo was a passport to the other side of the law and a whole new level of wealth and power. Exactly what he wanted. It wouldn’t be long now.

There was an air of expectancy in the crypt of bone. Around thirty people stood in rows around a raised dais with a long stone altar. The crowd was mostly men, but Franco noticed a few women dotted around.

One woman stood nearby, her lithe form in a fitted suit of midnight blue. Her shining copper hair was pinned on top of her head and a tattoo of hieroglyphics wound down beneath her clothes from the base of her neck. She wore a black mask, as all of them did, but she must have felt his gaze.

She turned and met Franco’s stare. Her eyes were like a frozen river, with nothing alive beneath the ice, and he looked away quickly as the chill of her regard passed on. He was a predator, but there was always a hierarchy, and Franco sensed her dominance.

The atmosphere in the room shifted.

The crowd parted to allow a tall man to pass. He wore a long, dark robe with a mask of black silk molded tightly to his face. He climbed the raised dais to stand in front of the altar.

Only the top echelons of the organization knew the true identity of the man who embodied Thanatos. He was the dark Master they all served, and tonight Franco would pledge his allegiance.

Thanatos raised his hands and waited for complete silence.

“The hands of time turn once more but, my friends, tonight we are closer than ever. Soon, the pale horse of Death will be released, and the Revelation will be fulfilled.” He paused. “But the beginning of the end will only come through obedience — and sacrifice.”

He turned and beckoned the crowd to draw closer. Even through his mask, Thanatos exuded charisma, his voice like a dark thread drawing them all to one purpose.

“Tonight, you will renew your commitment. You will obey, like those before you obeyed, even when asked for that which they loved the most.”

Thanatos strode to one end of the dais and those near the front leaned toward him, some reaching out to touch his robe as he spoke.

“God promised the prophet Abraham a son, even though he and his wife were old. He was told that endless generations would stem from his seed — and he believed God would keep this promise. Even as his bones grew weak and he stumbled to tend his sheep, he believed God would be faithful and never let him down.”

Thanatos walked to the other side of the dais and looked deep into the crowd, touching the hands of those closest, his voice echoing around the chapel.

“After many years, God finally blessed Abraham with a son, Isaac, dearly beloved and precious to his father. Isaac enjoyed a happy childhood, until one day God told Abraham to take his son to the top of Mount Moriah and there to sacrifice him. To tie the child down and slit his throat so he would bleed out like an animal, and then to burn his flesh as an offering.”

There was a collective inhalation, a breath held as one.

“What kind of God demands the sacrifice of children?” Thanatos’s voice soared in the chamber. “What kind of father would consider such a demand? But Abraham understood obedience. He took his son Isaac to the mountain and tied him down. The boy shook with fear and tears ran down his cheeks as he begged for his life. Abraham wept and pleaded with God, but no reply came… Abraham raised the knife.”

Thanatos paused and looked around the crowd. Seconds passed as he held their attention on a blade’s edge.

He turned and beckoned into the darkness behind the altar.

A stocky man dressed in the same mask and black robes came forward, carrying in his arms a child bound by ropes around his hands and feet.

He placed the child on the altar.

The crowd shifted a little, and Franco’s view was clear. He could see every detail. The little boy was maybe five years old. Tears and snot coated his tiny face, soaking a gag wrapped about his mouth. His eyes were open but vacant, as if he was drugged.

A gasp broke the silence — and Franco realized it came from his own throat.

Thanatos stepped up to the altar and placed one hand on the boy’s head, stroking his matted hair gently.

“As Abraham readied himself, God sent a ram into a nearby thicket and its cries prevented the killing stroke. Abraham cried out his thanks, wept at God’s mercy and sacrificed the ram… But that was the past.”

Thanatos tightened his fingers in the boy’s hair, tugging his head back to reveal the child’s pale throat.

“A generation ago, my father worshipped here in this crypt. He heard the voice of God calling him to obedience. The world is blighted by too many of the wrong kind. The prophecy says that one in four must die — but it all begins with one sacrifice.”

Thanatos drew a knife from a leather sheath at his waist. The polished ivory handle was made of interconnected metacarpals, the finger bones curving down to a thin, wicked blade.

“My father brought his first-born son to this crypt. My brother, the child he loved above all else. He laid him on the altar just as this boy lies here now and he offered his child to God. He pleaded with God to provide another sacrifice, just as He had done for Abraham. But sometimes God asks us for what we love the most. Only obedience and sacrifice bring a greater blessing.”

Thanatos raised the knife. It glinted in the candlelight, reflecting the faces of those closest to the altar as they leaned in even closer.

“As my father raised his blade, he called one last time for God to relieve him of his burden.”

His voice cracked a little, breaking with emotion as if he truly relived that desperate moment.

“But God did not speak — and my father was obedient to the end.”

The knife arced down and Thanatos sliced the child’s throat. Blood spilled over the altar and those nearest reached out to daub their fingers in it.

Franco started forward. He didn’t mind the deaths of those who sullied his nation, but this child was an innocent. He could still save the boy.

Ivan held him back and others of his vigilante team helped steady him. Franco could sense the threat in their grips. If he did not take part now, he would be the one lying with his throat cut. Perhaps alongside his wife and daughter.

Franco looked around at the gathered crowd. Surely there were others who would join him in stopping this atrocity. But he only saw the fire of fanaticism in their eyes, and the woman with the copper hair nearby licked her lips in anticipation.

Thanatos held out the bloody knife. “God was faithful and gave my father another son. I was born to fulfill the prophecy of the end times. A quarter of the world will die and that time ticks ever closer. Tonight, you will join me in obedience as we wash these bones anew in blood.”

As Thanatos stepped back, a man from the eager crowd climbed the steps to the stage. He took the knife and, without hesitation, he plunged the blade into the tiny body.

Others crowded to the altar, eager to show their obedience through the grisly rite. The sounds of excited breathing, and the dull thud of steel into flesh echoed in the chapel as, one after another, they joined the conspiracy. Their masks hid identities, and they became one in the dark act, mesmerized by the words of their leader, chained to obedience by their reward in the material world. Thanatos bound his followers to him with blood and money, the most ancient chains of all, and the hardest to break.

Franco forced himself to watch as, one by one, the masked devotees stepped forward, took the knife, and stabbed the child. Some thrust hard and others seemed reluctant, but all obeyed.

The woman with the copper hair took her turn with a practiced grip on the knife. She stepped into the pooling gore in front of the altar and thrust the blade in with no hesitation.

Ivan and the other men pushed Franco to the front, and he slowly mounted the steps to the altar. The boy was clearly dead, his clothes stained with blood, his face pale, his spirit gone. But Franco found his hands shaking as he considered what he must do.

Thanatos held out the knife and, in his gaze, Franco saw a never-ending well of darkness. Piles of corpses stretching far into the distance.

There was no going back.

Franco took the knife and stepped up to the altar. He lifted the blade and asked forgiveness from the God he had thought long forgotten.

The blade came down one more time.