The light inside the dance studio had the weight of a tomb. Filtered through the broken stained glass, it bled strange colors,sickly purples, jaundiced yellows, and a blood-slick red that pooled over the corpse like spilled wine.
Detective Mara Veil stood just inside the dance space, the echo of her boots softened by the worn crimson carpet lining the aisle. The air reeked of incense and something sharper...something metallic and final. Somewhere above, the wind whispered through the broken bell tower, carrying a ghostly hum.
"Jesus," muttered Officer Denton beside her, drawing his coat tighter. His voice sounded too loud in the sanctified silence.
He still couldn't stomach the scene since they arrived at the area.
The body on the altar -like area was arranged with care that made Mara's skin crawl. Elise Mwangi, twenty-eight.Dance teacher . Her right hand was webbed.Cut out with precision, palms up.Left hand left intact.Her mouth was frozen open, as if in the middle of a hymn that had choked on blood.Her lips were cut off.
A single blade had done the damage. From the base of her throat to the dip of her navel, clean and deliberate. Her heart, exposed like a sacred relic, glistened in the low light.
A page from the Book of Revelation had been tucked beneath her left hand, smeared with blood but legible. The passage was underlined:
"And I saw the woman drunken with the blood of the saints, and with the blood of the martyrs of Jesus."
Mara swallowed bile. She'd seen staged killings before. But this one...this one whispered of faith turned inside out.
"Same script, different stage," Denton murmured, staring at the altar.
Mara nodded. "But more escalated. More... performative."
Two victims in several days. Each one arranged like a canvas. This was no thrill kill. It was a sermon.
The precinct hummed with tension as Mara stood before the case board. The two victims stared back at her from their pinned photos: Jared Linwood. Elise Mwangi. All young. All activists in different spheres. The connections weren't clear,but the intent was.
No clear connection has been established.
The killer was crafting something. An arc.
The forensic reports lined the bottom of the board, alongside crime scene sketches and translations of the various religious texts found with the bodies. No fingerprints. No DNA. No witnesses.
She pressed her palm against the cool surface of the board, trying to think like the killer. But her mind hit a wall.
It wasn't rage. It wasn't personal. It was language...symbolic, layered. If she couldn't match the words, maybe someone else could.
Dr. Seraphine Imani was an expert in ritualistic violence, with a reputation for decoding the most obscure psychological patterns. Former FBI consultant. Lecturer at three international universities. Author of The Pathology of Purity.
Mara remembered her from a conference in town. Seraphine had spoken quietly, like a woman deciphering ancient prayers. Mara had watched the audience fall silent, gripped not by volume, but by precision.
She dialed Seraphine's office number. Three rings.
"Dr. Imani."
"It's Detective Mara Veil. I have a case that's... beyond standard interpretation. I was hoping you might lend perspective."
A pause. Then, warm but coolly professional: "I'll make time for you tomorrow. Bring everything."
Seraphine's office overlooked the river. The floor-to-ceiling windows framed a city choked in dusk. Inside, it was immaculate. Sparse furniture. A single bookshelf lined with texts in multiple languages. No photos. Just a vase with black calla lilies.
Seraphine Imani stood by the desk in an ivory blouse and tailored grey trousers. Her expression was unreadable but not unkind.
"Detective Veil," she said, gesturing to the chair opposite hers. "You look like someone who hasn't slept in a while."
"That's accurate."
Mara handed her a sealed file. "I'd like you to walk me through these scenes. Not as a profiler. As if you were the killer."
Seraphine lifted an eyebrow but took the file without hesitation.
"That's a difficult exercise for most people."
"You're not most people."
Seraphine smiled faintly, and opened the folder.
As she leafed through the photos and notes, Mara watched her closely. Not for suspicion...Seraphine had been vetted a dozen ways,but for insight.
"These aren't killings," Seraphine said softly. "They're offerings."
Mara leaned forward. "Explain."
"Each act is framed within a sacred space or symbolism. The killer isn't just killing. They're invoking. Not worship, perhaps,but remembrance. This is about legacy."
"But why these people?"
"Martyrs are not chosen by virtue. They're chosen by perception. Each of these victims had public visibility. To the killer, they may represent distorted ideals."
Mara felt a cold shiver trace her spine. "So they're rewriting history?"
"Or atoning for it," Seraphine replied.
She set the photos down gently. "There's theology in the pattern. But it's self-made. Apocryphal. The killer is building a new scripture."
"And the next passage?"
"It will escalate," Seraphine said, her voice almost sad. "And it will be beautiful."
Mara stared at her, unsure if the word choice was meant to provoke or if Seraphine simply spoke that way.
"You sound like you admire the artistry."
"I respect coherence, Detective. Even in madness."
The consultation ended an hour later. Seraphine declined payment. Said she only took on cases that "echoed."
Back outside, Mara lit a cigarette with shaking hands.
She didn't know why she felt unsettled. Seraphine had said nothing incriminating. No slip, no strange detail. But there had been a moment, brief as a whisper, when she had touched the blood-soaked passage from Revelation and closed her eyes.
Just for a second. Like she was listening to something.
Mara told herself it meant nothing. That some people needed to immerse themselves fully to think clearly.
But that night, she dreamed of an altar drenched in shadows, and a woman in grey humming softly as she dipped her hands in blood like it was holy water.