Chapter 54. The Old Church

The church waited for them like a trap sprung in slow time. Its once-proud nave hunched by the swollen river, the whole place slouched and listing, its tower twisted off true as a drunk’s neck. Most of the roof had rotted and collapsed, centuries of rain and winter clawing at the beams until they splintered and gaped, exposing the hollowed innards.

The cracked parking lot faded into the river grasses, where cold fog pooled, swallowing the edges of the world. The bikes fishtailed on gravel, grit grinding under wheels, then under boots as they dismounted. Old stone was tagged with sigils—Wolves, Ravens, the false bravado of Crestwood’s orphans. Once, men in black had bellowed sermons here. Now the sanctuary was a mausoleum for bottom-feeders and ghosts.

Riven cut the engine. A wet, spectral hush pressed close, leaving only the tick of cooling metal. She forced a breath through clenched teeth; the sweat that glazed her back didn’t chill in the night air, just clung, salt a