The music swelled again as Caleb stepped back into the party, the warmth of the dance floor a stark contrast to the chill that clung to his skin after that strange moment with Thalia.
She had slipped away, and he hadn't stopped her.
He probably should have.
He rubbed the back of his neck and sighed. Whatever quiet they'd found was already unraveling in the noise and heat of the manor.
"Caleb!"
He turned — already knowing the voice.
Cassandra DuVere, radiant in a dress that shimmered like cut diamonds, wove through the crowd with a smile that never quite reached her eyes. "I didn't see you earlier," she said, brushing an invisible speck off his shoulder. "You always vanish when things get interesting."
Caleb gave a tired smile. "Was just… getting some air."
"Oh," she said, tone dipping slightly. "Well, I thought maybe we could—"
"Not tonight, Cass," he said, gently but firmly. "I'm not really in the mood."
For a moment, her expression faltered — but she recovered, her laugh light and polished. "Suit yourself."
He left her standing by the drink table and grabbed a glass of something strong and amber. He didn't check what it was before taking a sip — didn't care, really.
He wandered.
The manor was too big. Old money taste. Gilded frames, haunting portraits. The type of place where every corner felt like it had seen something it never spoke of.
He wasn't looking for anything. Just space. Just quiet.
Then he saw it — a door slightly ajar at the end of a dim hallway.
It shouldn't have been open.
He glanced around. No one noticed. The music dulled behind him.
Curiosity tugged.
He pushed the door open.
What he saw inside sent every nerve in his body ringing.
Candles — dozens of them — in a perfect circle, casting long, twitching shadows on the floor.
Figures in robes. Hooded. Chanting.
The words weren't Latin. They weren't even human.
At the center of the circle was a large, blackened sigil burned into the floorboards. Around it, photos.
Photos of Thalia.
Pinned to boards. Smeared with ink. Marked with symbols he didn't recognize but instinctively feared.
His breath caught.
One of the cultists turned slightly — just enough for Caleb to glimpse a mask carved from bone.
The chanting stopped.
Something in the room looked at him — though none of the figures moved.
Caleb backed away slowly, heart pounding, bile rising.
He didn't know what he'd just walked into.
But he knew what he had to do.
He ran.
Not through the party. Not toward the noise. But back the way Thalia had gone.
Please don't be too late, he thought. Please still be safe.
The house didn't feel like a party anymore.
It felt like a trap.
And it had just started to close.
—————
The manor was wrong.
Luciel had known it the moment he stepped through the bouncers at the door. The air tasted like rot hidden behind perfume — the kind of spiritual decay that came from worship fed in secret, rituals done under silk sheets and ancient wood.
He moved quietly, stepping past marble statues and faded tapestries, scanning the walls with practiced eyes.
In his left hand, he held a miracle charm etched with the sigil of Uriel, the angel of flame and truth. It pulsed faintly, reacting to the presence of ritual magic — weaker here, but present.
"Another site," he muttered, crouching near a corner table covered in faux antiques and a small, modern speaker playing faint music from the main party.
He flipped open his notebook, sketching the rune he'd spotted carved into the wood grain.
Drowning Seal. Meant to mute divine intervention. Common in Old God rites.
His jaw tightened.
This wasn't the only room like this. It was the sixth he'd found.
Each was rigged differently — circles hidden beneath rugs, small blood offerings inside false books, candles positioned just so. Enough to be ignored by the mundane eye, but together, they formed a circle.
The whole manor was an altar.
And it's residents the sacrifices.
Luciel pulled a Miracle Strip — Veilbreaker, marked by Gabriel's sigil — from the inside of his coat. One sweep of it over the wall burned the hidden ward to ash, cutting its connection clean.
"They're not summoning anything ," he murmured. "They're keeping it contained. Preventing leaks from alerting the outside world"
He paused, watching the way the karmic threads twitched in the air like spiderwebs caught in wind.
They no longer curled inward
They lead out — toward the garden of the house.
Oh no.
His grip tightened.
He hadn't found Thalia yet, but he was close. Her thread shimmered faintly in the weave — frayed, agitated, pulling taut like something was about to snap.
He passed by a ballroom, ignoring the blur of music and laughter.
Then another ward flared beneath his boot — barely a whisper of light, but old.
He pulled out a compact Miracle Coin engraved with Michael's name, tossed it into the air, and whispered:
"On Heaven's authority, cut through the veil."
The coin cracked in half midair — the miracle released in a white-blue flare that ripped the illusion from the hallway.
Behind the glamour: another ritual chamber. Symbols of Samael and Moloch, carved into flesh. On the walls, lists of names — some crossed out, others circled.
Thalia's was written in gold.
Luciel's stomach turned.
He reached for his black pistol — not out of fear, but resolve.
He was getting closer.
He didn't need permission. He didn't need backup.
He needed to find her before the threads pulled too tight to sever.