Chapter 18: The Starved Saint's and the Flock
The church doors groaned shut behind them, sealing Jack and Elara inside with the kneeling figures. The air was thick with the scent of wax and rot, the black flames of the candles casting jagged shadows against the cracked walls. The spirits did not stir. They remained motionless, heads bowed as if in prayer, their forms translucent, flickering like dying embers.
Elara's gloved fingers twitched toward the demon box in her pocket , it was from the first demon Jack got her , the one she used to test him. The weight of it had become a constant reminder of what they were up against—the Hollow Maw, Lorian's schemes, the thing wearing CeeCee's skin. And now this. A church full of the forgotten.
"What do you want to do here?" she asked, voice low.
Jack didn't answer immediately. His gaze swept over the congregation of spirits, his lips curling in something too sharp to be a smile.
"Before we head to our destination," he said at last, "I need to spread my branches."
Elara frowned. "What does that mean?"
Darkness stirred at his feet, tendrils of it slithering across the warped floorboards. "An army, Elara. One the demons can't see. One the Veil can't touch."
Her breath hitched. *The offer he made in the carriage.* The one she still hadn't answered.
"Join me," he had said, his voice rough with promise. "Not as a scholar. Not as a noble. But as something sharper."
She hadn't given him an answer then.
Now, watching the shadows coil around him like living things, she wondered if she had a choice at all.
---
Jack exhaled, and the darkness *moved*.
From his shoulders, his back, his open mouth—black shapes peeled away, taking form. Crows. Dozens of them. Their feathers drank the light, their eyes gleaming with stolen awareness. They circled above the congregation, their wings whispering secrets only the dead could hear.
The spirits finally stirred.
A young man near the front lifted his head. His face was gaunt, his eyes hollow. He opened his mouth—
The first crow dove.
It struck him between the ribs, not with beak or talon, but like smoke forced into a bottle. The spirit convulsed, his back arching as the darkness *poured* into him. His fingers clawed at his chest, his mouth stretched in a silent scream.
Then the others began to scream too.
The crows fell like a storm.
A girl in a tattered dress tried to run. A crow slammed into her spine, and she collapsed, her body writhing as the darkness *twisted* inside her. Her limbs snapped, bones breaking and reforming, her fingers elongating into talons. Her jaw unhinged, her scream splitting into something inhuman as her flesh bubbled, black veins spreading like cracks in glass.
Another spirit—a boy no older than sixteen—clutched at his face as a crow forced itself down his throat. His stomach distended, his skin stretching taut before splitting open in a wet gasp. Darkness spilled from the wound, but instead of dying, it *reknit* him, stitching his flesh back together in a grotesque mockery of life. His eyes rolled back, his mouth foaming as his very essence was rewritten.
Elara took a step back, her pulse roaring in her ears. This wasn't assimilation.
This was *torture*.
The spirits thrashed, their forms melting and reforming, their screams harmonizing into a chorus of agony. Some tried to claw the darkness out of their own bodies, fingers digging into their chests, their stomachs, their *eyes*, as if they could physically rip the corruption from their souls. Others simply collapsed, their bodies dissolving into black sludge before the crows dragged them back into cohesion, reshaping them like clay.
One spirit—a woman with long, frayed hair—managed to stagger toward the door. Her fingers brushed the rotting wood before a crow plunged into her back. Her spine *cracked*, her body folding backward like a broken doll. Her mouth opened, but no sound came out—only darkness, thick and choking, as her limbs snapped into new, unnatural angles.
Elara's stomach turned. "Jack—"
"Watch," he commanded, his voice devoid of mercy.
The last of the crows descended.
The last of the spirits fell.
And then—
Silence.
---
The church was no longer filled with kneeling figures.
Now, only ten remained.
Ten crows.
Perched on the pews, the pulpit, the broken statues of forgotten saints. Their feathers were ink-black, their eyes gleaming with stolen sentience. They did not move. They did not breathe.
They simply *watched*.
Jack stepped forward, and as one, their heads tilted toward him.
"Caw."
The sound was not a bird's call. It was a voice. A hundred voices, layered into one.
Jack grinned. "Good.The murder awakens"
Elara's skin prickled. These were no longer spirits. They were something else. Something *his*.
The largest crow—the one that had once been the young man—spread its wings. The shadows around it *warped*, stretching like taffy before snapping back into place. Testing its limits.
Jack turned to Elara. "Now. Your answer."
Her throat tightened. "You're asking me to become like them."
"No," he said, stepping closer. The crows' eyes tracked his movement, their loyalty absolute. "I'm offering you more."
He reached out, his fingers brushing her cheek. The contact sent a jolt through her—not fear, but something darker. Something *hungry*.
"You've spent your life studying demons," he murmured. "But you've never used them. Never taken from them , what they gave you they can always take back." His thumb traced her jaw. "Lorian taught you to fear the dark. I'll teach you to wear it."
Elara exhaled. The demon box in her pocket hummed, as if in agreement.
Outside, the Starved Saint waited.
Beyond that, the Hollow Maw.
And beyond *that*—Lorian.
Her lips curled.
"Fine," she said. "But I won't kneel."
Jack's grin turned feral. "Whether you kneel or not doesn't matter, only absolute loyalty matters."
The crows took flight, their wings blotting out the black flames as they swarmed toward the broken steeple—toward the world outside.
Toward war.
---
The church doors burst open, not from force, but from the sheer weight of the darkness pushing against them. Jack stepped into the graveyard of the forgotten, Elara at his side, the crows circling above like a living storm.
The Starved Saint stood where they had left it, its stitched mouth twitching, its star-filled eyes fixed on the flock.
It did not move to stop them.
It did not need to.
The Maw was coming.
And Jack's army was growing.
Elara glanced at him. "Where now?"
Jack's gaze slid toward the horizon, where the Veil thinned. "A town. I want to test my new weapons but first I want the Starved Staint to be yours. It might be a Spirit but will turn it into something demonicby mixing it with the demon I gave you back then."
The crows shrieked in unison, their voices blending into something almost like laughter.
The first cult had been born.
The rest would follow.