The rain hadn’t stopped in three days. The kind that soaked through clothes and into bones. Astrael stood beneath the creaking wooden sign that read Welcome to Rodney Village, watching as a rusty pickup splashed through the flooded dirt road.

  “Nice place,” he muttered, tugging his coat tighter around himself—more for the act than the need. Angels didn’t feel cold, but this place made him want to pretend.

  Seraphiel stood beside him, the hood of her long coat drawn up, her eyes fixed on the horizon. “Five disappearances in one month. All near the woods. No witnesses, no blood trails, just... gone.”

  “Ghouls again?”

  “Not unless they learned subtlety.” She started walking, her boots kicking up mud. “We’ll know more after the autopsy and a chat with the cherub stationed here.”

  “Wait—there’s still one left?” Astrael frowned, falling into step beside her. “Thought Casel was our last small-town informant.”

  “Casel was,” Seraphiel said quietly. “This one’s new. Goes by Amiel. They’ve only been stationed here a couple months. Barely out of training.”

  “Oh, good,” Astrael muttered. “So when we find something ugly, we’ll have someone inexperienced and traumatized to cry on our robes.”

  “Be nice,” Seraphiel said without looking at him. “They’re cherubs, not cannon fodder.”

  Rodney Village was the kind of place that didn’t bother pretending it had a future. Peeling paint, hollow-eyed storefronts, and a silence that clung to everything like mildew. As they approached the squat, weathered sheriff’s office that doubled as the town’s morgue, the front door creaked open.

  A young figure peeked out, barely visible under a massive yellow raincoat. Big, watery eyes blinked at them from under a mop of dripping hair. “You’re the... uh, contacts?”

  “Amiel?” Seraphiel asked.

  The cherub nodded quickly, stepping aside to let them in. “Yeah. That’s me. Seraphiel and Astrael? You’d better come in quick—something’s really wrong here.”

  The interior of the sheriff’s office smelled like old coffee and wet paper. A space heater buzzed in the corner, doing absolutely nothing to chase the chill. A metal table sat in the center of the room, cluttered with files, folders, and a half-empty bag of pretzels.

  Amiel peeled off their raincoat and hung it by the door. Without it, they looked even younger—barely older than a teenager, if that. Their wings, faint and barely visible under their mortal guise, twitched nervously.

  Seraphiel took a seat at the table, folding her arms. “Tell us everything.”

  Amiel nodded, flipping through a folder with trembling fingers. “First body showed up three weeks ago. Local fisherman. Found his boat drifting down the river. No signs of struggle, no wounds. Just... gone. Like his insides gave out all at once.”

  Astrael raised an eyebrow. “You mean drained?”

  Amiel hesitated. “No blood. But it wasn’t a clean job. His skin was… gray. Like it was pulled tight over his bones. He looked mummified, but fresh. Like it happened fast.”

  Seraphiel’s eyes narrowed. “And the others?”

  “Same. Except the last one.” Amiel slid a photo across the table.

  Astrael leaned in. The body was slumped against a tree trunk, mouth open in a silent scream. The eyes were wide, glassy—and pitch black.

  “No soul?” Astrael asked, voice low.

  Amiel shook their head. “Ripped out. Not corrupted. Not banished. Just—gone. Like it never existed.”

  Seraphiel tapped her fingers against the table, the motion rhythmic, thoughtful. “Anything else?”

  Amiel swallowed. “There’s something in the woods. People keep hearing things at night. Whispers. Chanting. But there’s no one there. No traces. No hex bags. No sigils. Just...” They looked up, voice barely a whisper. “...this feeling. Like something old is waking up.”

  The room fell quiet.

  Astrael glanced at Seraphiel. “You thinking what I’m thinking?”

  “Depends,” she said, already standing. “Are you thinking we’re gonna need more than a tired angel to handle this?”

  “Pretty much.”

  Seraphiel turned to Amiel. “Show us the body.”

  Strange

  Astrael wondered how humans could look so peaceful in death, even after their bodies had been dried up while Seraphiel poked at it to confirm different aspects of the corpse and verify a singular target.

  Astrael stared. Even shriveled and hollow, the man’s face looked calm. Like he’d simply gone to sleep, unaware he was being drained dry.

  Seraphiel crouched beside the slab, inspecting the body with practiced ease. Her fingers pressed lightly into the papery skin, tracing the contours of the chest and neck.

  “No wounds. No bruising. Internal fluids completely gone.” She glanced up at Astrael. “Consistent with the others. This wasn’t hunger. It was precision.”

  “Fledgling?” he asked.

  She shook her head. “Fledglings are messy. This was surgical. Something’s feeding—and hiding.”

  Astrael folded his arms, eyes narrowing. “How long before the next one?”

  Amiel hesitated. “If the pattern holds… two days.”

  Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

  Seraphiel stood, the eyes on her divine ring slowly rotating. “Then we’ve got one night to find it before it finds someone else.”

  Astrael realised something “How can we kill it without an angel blade, ours are in repair from last time after all. Not to mention I’d prefer not to smite”

  “Well, unlike you, I can definitely still smite,” Seraphiel said, stepping away from the corpse. “But here—how about you do it like a hunter?”

  She tossed him something. Wood—hand-carved, roughly whittled, but honed to a lethal point. A wooden stake, its surface glistening faintly with a glaze that smelled sharp and earthy.

  Astrael caught it, lifting an eyebrow as he sniffed the coating. “Is this... garlic broth?”

  “Blessed oil, garlic, and desperation,” she replied dryly. “Old hunter recipe. Shouldn’t work, but it does—on fledglings, anyway.”

  He turned it over in his hands, the weight awkward in his grip. “Feels like using a rock when I used to carry a proper knife.”

  “Adapt. Improvise. You know the rest.”

  Amiel stepped forward “oh by the way Sir Seraphiel, if you’re looking for suspects, I have a list, It’s not on record so try to keep it on the down low because my deputies won’t like this but It will definitely help”

  “Thank you Amiel, Oh and it’s ma’am”

  Seraphiel walked down the road, Astrael tailing behind, shielding his eyes from the bright sun. The rain had cleared up long ago and the town looked more lively.

  How long can I keep this up

  “Dr. Malcom,” Seraphiel muttered. “Quiet, reserved. He’s been in town for years and keeps to himself, but Amiel’s right—there’s something off about him.”

  Astrael glanced at her. “What do you mean by that?”

  Seraphiel didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she lifted her hand and knocked firmly on the door of the medical office. The sound echoed in the still air. A moment passed before a muffled voice called from inside.

  “Just a moment.”

  The door creaked open to reveal Dr. Malcom, a gaunt man with tired eyes and a face that looked perpetually troubled. His white coat was a bit too big, hanging loosely around his frame. He gave them a curt nod, his eyes lingering just slightly too long on Seraphiel’s ring before quickly darting to Astrael.

  “Can I help you?” he asked, his voice quiet but sharp.

  Seraphiel wasted no time. “We’re investigating the recent disappearances in town. You’re one of the people we need to speak to.”

  Dr. Malcom’s expression didn’t change, but a flicker of tension passed across his face. “Disappearances? I don’t know anything about that. Just the usual—illnesses, injuries.”

  “Mm,” Seraphiel said, her tone neutral but probing. “We’ve heard you’ve been treating a lot of the villagers recently. How have things been?”

  “Dr. Malcom,” Seraphiel muttered. “Quiet, reserved. He’s been in town for years and keeps to himself, but Amiel’s right—there’s something off about him.”

  Astrael glanced at her. “What do you mean by that?”

  Seraphiel didn’t answer immediately. Instead, she lifted her hand and knocked firmly on the door of the medical office. a bell echoed in the still air, signaling their entry. A moment passed before a muffled voice called from inside.

  “Just a moment.”

  The door opened as Dr. Malcom stepped into the room, a tired man with dull eyes and a face that looked like he was done with everything. His white coat was a bit too big, hanging loosely around his frame. He gave them a curt nod, his eyes lingering just slightly too long on Seraphiel’s ring before quickly darting to Astrael.

  “Can I help you?” he asked, his voice quiet but sharp.

  Seraphiel wasted no time. “We’re investigating the recent disappearances in town. You’re one of the people we need to speak to.”

  Dr. Malcom’s expression didn’t change, but a flicker of tension passed across his face. “Disappearances? I don’t know anything about that. Just the usual—illnesses, injuries.”

  “Mm,” Seraphiel said, her tone neutral but probing. “We’ve heard you’ve been treating a lot of the villagers recently. How have things been?”

  “Well, it's difficult, less people walk the streets these days, less customers, but it’s understandable with all that's been happening. Who are you anyway?”

  “Astra Miller,” Astrael said, offering a cool smile. “This is Sera Quinn. We’re with the Federal Bureau of Investigation. We’re looking into some missing persons cases, and we have a few questions. We’ve heard reports you enter your basement and stay down there frequently for long periods of time”

  Dr. Malcom’s expression stiffened, his fingers tightening slightly around the pen he’d been twirling. “I—what? That’s ridiculous. My basement? I keep supplies there. It’s not a place anyone would want to visit.”

  Seraphiel’s gaze never left him. “We just need to cross-check some details. You’re familiar with the recent disappearances, correct?”

  “I’ve heard the rumors,” Malcom replied, his tone defensive. “But that’s all they are—rumors. People disappear. They always do. It’s a small town.”

  “And the people who’ve been treated in your office?” Sera pressed. “Do any of them have connections to the disappearances?”

  Dr. Malcom faltered, just for a moment, before shaking his head. “No, no connections. Just routine illnesses, injuries. Some bad luck, that’s all.”

  Astrael didn’t buy it. “Would you mind if we took a look at your basement?”

  Malcom’s eyes narrowed, but he forced a smile. “That’s highly irregular. I don’t think that’ll be necessary.”

  Seraphiel stepped forward, her voice still calm but firm. “We’re not here to make accusations, Dr. Malcom. We just need to ask a few more questions. You can either cooperate or we can escalate this. It’s your choice.”

  Malcom Relented, he knew this wouldn’t get anywhere. “Fine, follow me then”

  He led them down a narrow, creaky hallway, the scent of antiseptic still lingering in the air. The door to the basement was at the end of a dim corridor, partially hidden by a heavy curtain. Malcom paused, his hand hovering over the doorknob.

  “Now, I must insist,” he began, his voice taking on a sharp edge, “that you keep things professional. I have patients coming in and out, and I’d rather not make a scene.”

  Seraphiel tilted her head slightly, her eyes steady on him. “We’re only here to ask questions, Dr. Malcom. You have nothing to fear if you have nothing to hide.”

  He scoffed quietly but opened the door with a reluctant creak. The stairs leading down into the basement were steep, the air thick with dust and the smell of old medicine. The faint sound of dripping water echoed from somewhere deep in the dark.

  Astrael’s gaze flicked to Seraphiel. She was already scanning the room with quiet intensity, her posture relaxed but alert.

  Malcom flipped the switch, illuminating the room with fluorescent lights from an old light, maybe from the 50s. The basement was well-stocked—shelves lined with medical supplies, old textbooks, and jars of various unidentifiable contents. It looked almost too organized, too clinical. But it was the large table in the center of the room that caught Astrael’s attention. Covered in a heavy, bloodstained cloth.

  Malcom noticed his gaze and quickly stepped between Astrael and the table. “That’s… personal. Nothing you need to concern yourselves with.”

  Seraphiel’s voice was calm, but her words cut through the tension like a blade. “Is that where you’ve been treating your patients?”

  Malcom stiffened, his mouth pressing into a thin line. “That’s none of your business.”

  “Couldn’t agree more,” Astrael said, his tone flat. “But we’re going to take a look anyway.”

  Malcom didn’t have the chance to stop them. Seraphiel moved first, her hand on the cloth. With a smooth motion, she pulled it back, revealing a set of surgical tools, all pristine and arranged with clinical precision. But beneath them—there were other things. Long, thin, broken-looking bones, some of which still held remnants of flesh.

  Astrael’s eyes narrowed. “This doesn’t look like routine work.”

  Malcom’s breath quickened. “You—don’t understand.”

  Seraphiel stepped closer, her eyes never leaving the doctor. “We understand more than you think.”

  Astrael’s mind raced. He knew what they were seeing wasn’t normal. He could feel the pulse of something dark in the air, an ancient, sinister presence that had no place in a clinic. And it was only growing stronger.

  “What are you doing here, Dr. Malcom?” Seraphiel asked softly, her tone just shy of dangerous.

  Thats when Astrael felt a sickening crunch from his chest.