My pounding heart counted the seconds ticking away while I squatted to try the keys in my shackles. When the fourth one slid home, I grabbed the chief’s gun—careful to keep my hands off the trigger—and examined it, wishing I knew how to check the clip. Or enable the safety. Or do anything with it other than aim and pull the trigger.

With my right hand wielding the gun and my left ready to ignite, I opened the door just enough to peek into the hall.

It was empty.

I tiptoed past several empty interrogation rooms, then peeked around a corner before silently searching another empty hallway. Anathema’s run on the south gate had diverted most police and fake-exorcist manpower from the courthouse, but one corner and another hallway later, I heard the echo of voices headed toward me.

Panicked, I ducked into the nearest room—an office lit only by a desk lamp—and flattened my back against the wall by the door until the voices passed. When I was sure they were gone, I rounded the desk and rummaged through the drawers, hoping to find more bullets for my stolen gun, or some clue as to where they might be keeping my sister, but I came up empty. I was about to resume my search for Melanie when the title of a document lying open on the desk caught my attention: “Annual Loss Report.”

“The insurrectionist Kastor continues to raid Church assets, leading to losses in excess of fifteen percent of the potential hosts. At the current rate of loss, Kastor’s strength will exceed ours within the decade. The most vulnerable point of attack remains the consecration caravan. The most notable loss was the assassin Carey James. Recommendations for future confrontations include…”

Carey James. Grayson’s brother.

If I understood what I’d read, the Church had taken Carey, but lost him in a caravan raid by an “insurrectionist” named Kastor.

Was Kastor an exorcist? Was he raising an army in opposition to the Church?

A bolt of excitement set my nerve endings on fire, but a second later logic doused the flames. If Kastor was an exorcist, why was he referred to as an insurrectionist rather than as an assassin? And if he wasn’t an exorcist, why was he stealing “hosts” from the Church?

Armed with more questions than answers, I folded the paper and stuffed it into my back pocket, then grabbed the chief’s gun and headed back into the hall. Three hallways and two hiding spots later, loud voices from the glass-walled office ahead and to my right told me I’d found the center of activity.

For a couple of minutes, I listened with my back pressed against a wall out of sight, trying to identify the speakers over the pounding of my own heart in my ears. But none of the voices was familiar, and their chatter was largely useless and self-congratulatory—as if they’d played some part in capturing me, when in truth, I’d surrendered.

Then someone asked for an update on the fight at the south gate, and my ears pricked up.