Chapter 9: The Night of the Blood Moon

Chapter 9: The Night of the Blood Moon

The silence in St. Solomon's was heavier than any sermon. It was a silence filled with the weight of borrowed time, each tick of the old clock in the nave a countdown to damnation. Outside, the sky was already beginning to bleed at the edges, the setting sun painting the clouds in bruised shades of violet and crimson. The Blood Moon was coming.

Lyra, the rescued witch, sat huddled in a corner, wrapped in a blanket and nursing a mug of tea. She had told them everything she knew about Michigan Central Station—the ley lines that converged beneath its decaying grandeur, the specific chambers where Hecate would draw her power, the profane geometry of the ritual circle. She was their unwilling guide to the geography of hell.

Jaydon watched Elara, who was no longer cowering. The knowledge of her fate, as horrifying as it was, seemed to have forged something new within her. The terrified girl who had burst through his doors was gone, replaced by a young woman with a core of defiant resilience. She stood before the altar, her hand resting on the cool marble, her gaze fixed on the stained-glass window depicting a defiant Solomon.

"I can feel it," she said, her voice quiet but clear, not turning to face him. "It's like… a song, but with no music. A pulling in my chest. It wants me to come home."

"That is not your home," Jaydon said, stepping up beside her.

"I know." She finally looked at him, and her eyes, once wide with fear, now held a steady, chilling fire. "They talk about my soul like it's a key for a door, a cup to be emptied. It's mine. If Hecate wants it, she's going to have to look me in the eye when she takes it."

He saw the truth in her words. She was not a package to be delivered or an objective to be secured. She was a combatant in this war, whether she could cast a spell or not. Her will, her very identity, was the final battleground.

In the vestry, Simon was preparing. He had transformed a dusty old table into an armorer's bench for the arcane. Vials of shimmering liquids—liquid moonlight, distilled courage, phantom-fog—were arranged in neat rows. He sharpened a pair of silver knives that hummed with contained energy and drew complex runes onto small, flat stones with a piece of chalk that seemed to be carved from bone.

"Michigan Central Station," he said without looking up as Jaydon entered. "Of course it would be there. It's a nexus. A wound in the city's aura. All the comings and goings, all the hope and despair of a century, soaked into the very stone. It's a place between places, a perfect catalyst for tearing a hole in reality."

He tossed Jaydon a small, leather-wrapped charm. It was surprisingly heavy. "A ward against psychic intrusion. The Ashen King, if it gets close, will try to whisper in your head. It will use that rage of yours. This will help keep the door shut."

"I'm not going to let it get that close," Jaydon said.

Simon finally looked up, his sharp eyes analytical. "Your rampage at the library was impressive, Pastor. Foolish, reckless, and exactly what Hecate wanted, but impressive. You can't win this fight with brute force, though. Hecate will be at the height of her power, channeling the eclipse. She will have her entire Coven with her. We will be walking into the heart of the serpent's nest." He paused, his usual cynicism replaced by a grim pragmatism. "Don't pray for a miracle. We have to make our own."

Jaydon left him to his work and walked to the high altar. The weight of it all—Elara's soul, Simon's warning, the city's fate—pressed down on him. He knelt, not on the formal kneeler, but on the cold, hard stone of the floor. He rested his forehead against the altar's edge.

He did not pray for victory. He did not pray for the destruction of his enemies. That was the path of vengeance, the trap laid for his soul. Instead, he prayed for clarity. For strength. Not the strength to smite, but the strength to shield. He accepted the truth of his new existence. He was Jaydon Parable, pastor of St. Solomon's. And he was a warrior of God, a knight in a war fought in shadows. The two were not separate. They were two sides of the same sacred calling. The shepherd defended his flock, and sometimes, the wolf had to be met with force.

He was at peace. The warring halves of his identity finally fused into a single, resolute purpose: he would stand between the innocent and the dark. Whatever the cost.

He laid his hand on the cover of the Codex of Solomon, which he had brought with him. As his calm, absolute resolve flowed through him, the ancient book pulsed with a warm, golden light that seeped into his skin.

A screen of divine blue light materialized before his eyes, but it was different this time. The text was not the usual pragmatic font, but a flowing, elegant script, glowing with power.

[Test of the Shepherd: Passed. The Path of Protection has been chosen and affirmed.] [Your soul has been weighed in the balance and found true. Your conviction unlocks a legacy of the First Guardian.] [The Codex of Solomon recognizes your resolve. A new Guardian Legacy Skill has been Unlocked.]

[Aegis of Solomon - Ultimate Skill: Manifest the ultimate shield of faith. By sacrificing 90% of your current Faith pool, you can create an impenetrable dome of holy light that repels all hostile magic and purges unholy entities within its bounds for 30 seconds. This is the shepherd's final stand to protect his flock.] [WARNING: Use of this skill will leave you spiritually shattered and vulnerable. The cost is absolute. Your Faith will be your shield, and the price will be its ruin.]

Jaydon read the words, and he understood. This was not a weapon for a duel. This was a last resort. A final, desperate act of defiance and protection. A power that would save others at the cost of savaging his own soul. It was the truest expression of a shepherd's duty. He accepted it without hesitation.

An hour later, the three of them gathered at the shattered main doors of the church. The world outside was bathed in an apocalyptic, crimson twilight. The moon, swollen and red, was beginning to devour the sun.

Simon shrugged on his trench coat, the pockets now bulging with his grim preparations. Corvus was a sliver of deeper shadow on his shoulder. Elara, clutching a simple iron cross Jaydon had given her, nodded, her jaw set.

Jaydon looked at them, his two unlikely, impossible allies. The cynical wizard and the girl who was supposed to be a sacrifice. His flock.

They stepped out of the sanctuary and into the blood-red night.

The Michigan Central Station rose before them like the tomb of a forgotten god. Its colossal, skeletal frame clawed at the crimson sky, its thousand darkened windows like vacant eyes staring into eternity. The light of the eclipse washed over its Beaux-Arts facade, making the stone look like it was weeping blood.

From within its cavernous depths, a sound echoed out into the unnatural twilight—a low, rhythmic chanting that vibrated in the air, in the ground, in the very marrow of their bones. Black-robed figures moved like ants around the grand entrance, their forms silhouetted against a pulsing, violet light emanating from the station's heart.

The ritual had begun. Hecate was calling her King. And they had arrived just in time for the coronation.