Hundreds of lifeless, black birds littered the steps and sidewalk. The doors were covered in bloody splotches.

“Mommy!” A small girl screamed and pointed as her mother rushed her to their parked car across the street.

Pedestrians stopped and stared at the unbelievable sight, pointing to the church, and to the small, horrified group hovering in the doorway.

“Let us get inside,” Father Francis said, shooing us backward into the church. He pulled the doors shut, shaking his head. “This was a warning. They know what she is, and they’re aren’t happy she’s here.”

“Merovingian?” I said, a sudden feeling of desperation evident in my voice.

The priest’s face twisted in disgust. “Merovingian. Bah,” he grunted, shaking his head. “Nephilim,” he said, his voice returning to its soft tone. He touched each side of my face gently. His skin was tired and wilted, making it nearly impossible to see the kindness in his eyes…but it was there.

“Tell me,” I said, a weak smile grazing my lips.

“You are the woman clothed with the sun,” Father Francis said, in awe.

I looked to Jared. His expression was pained, but he offered no explanation.

“What…,” I shook my head, “Pardon me, Father, but what the hell does that mean?”

He took my hand, and gestured for me to sit in the nearest pew. He sat with me, my hand in both of his. Kim, Bex, and Jared all took a seat as well, scattered around us.

“In Revelations, the Bible speaks of a woman. Clothed in the sun, with the moon at her feet, and she is with child in arduous times. She brings forth a man child who is to rule all nations. It speaks of the Holy Mother.”

“Okay. But, what does that have to do with me?” I said, frustrated and confused.

“A woman of the same description is also the center of a prophecy of the Naissance de Demoniac. The main prophecy speaks of a woman, clothed in the sun, the moon at her feet, the crown of ten stars on her head—a daughter of the Nephilim. She brings forth a son of God.”

“I know. The child disturbs the balance, blah, blah, blah.” I looked to Jared. “You had to come to Woonsocket to hear something we already know?”

Jared leaned his elbows onto the ridge of the pew, touching my hair with his thumb. “Father Francis is a scholar. He has studied the writings of the Naissance de Demoniac. I came here to ask for help.”

“If he knows what it says, we don’t need the book,” I said, excited. “Can’t you just tell us what we need to know?”