“Thank you,” he said to them. “Thank you.”

He wept softly as he moved around the spot where the killing had been done. It was a shrine now, and anyone with eyes would be able to understand the beauty of what had happened here. That beauty coaxed tears from Saint John’s eyes; but that was not the only reason he cried.

There were jealous tears on his face, and he lowered his head in shame, unable to look at these transformed ones. His envy of their freedom was nearly unbearable. Though they had been blasphemers mere moments ago, each of them—even the least of them—was more fully and truly connected to the darkness than he was. While he was clothed in flesh, while he lingered here on earth, he was an outsider to the purity of the darkness. An enabler, yes, a conduit, even a guide, but not a part of it.

For that, he wept.

He staggered over to a patch of unmarked grass and dropped heavily to his knees. He slid his knives into their sheaths and then bowed down, placing his forehead on the ground in abject humility.

“Please,” he prayed, “let me come home. Please.”

The darkness whispered inside his brain.

Not yet, my son. There is still so much work to do.

“How much longer, Lord? I have opened so many red doors, I have cleansed more heretics than I can count. How much longer?”

Until the world is silent. There are so few left, and you must save them all. You must guide each of them to the red door.

“Mother Rose and I are always in the service of—”

You, my child, are my trusted servant. You.

Tears fell like rain from Saint John’s eyes, falling to the ground. His body shook with sobs, and he beat his fists upon the ground.

Last of all shall I bring you home, my believed son. Last and most treasured of all.

Saint John wept until his chest ached from it and his throat was raw.

Then, slowly, as if he lifted the entire world with him, he rose from the ground and climbed wearily to his feet.

He turned and looked at the crimson horrors behind him.

“Until the world is silent,” he said thickly. He sniffed back the last of his tears. “Such is the will of Thanatos—praise be to the darkness.”

Then he turned once more and followed the footprints of the two teenagers into the forest.

Chapter 43

43

CHONG WAS HAVING THE WEIRDEST DREAM.

He felt as if he was flying.

Not happy flying, like in his dreams where he would rise up out of bed, swoop down the stairs, and zoom out into the streets of town and then soar up to dive and play with eagles and falcons. No, this was a bumpy, smelly, strangely loud kind of flying.

And it hurt.

He tried to move his hands and feet, but they seemed . . .