If the prosecutor was innocent and locked away, then the angel with the fiery hair had just struck again — hundreds of miles away — while the rain obediently washed the world clean. And he was only getting started.
The ferry crossing from Holyhead to Dublin, then the train onward to Brussels, felt like sliding deeper into a monochrome dream. The Irish Sea churned grey-green under a sky the color of wet slate. Rain lashed the ferry windows in diagonal silver blades, turning the world outside into streaks of black and white. I stood on the upper deck despite the cold, coat collar turned high, watching the horizon blur. Victor Langford and Eleanor Voss had taken the same crossing. The three of us were now bound together by ink, blood, and the same burning question.
Victor stood a few feet away, smoking, his eyes never far from Eleanor. She leaned against the railing, her dark coat soaked at the shoulders, strands of hair plastered to her pale cheek like delicate ink lines. The wind tugged at her collar. Victor's crush was no longer subtle — it showed in the way he angled his body to shield her from the worst of the spray, in the quiet way he offered her his scarf. She accepted it with a small, tired smile that didn't reach her eyes.
"Two killings in two countries," Victor said, voice low against the wind. "Same method. Same impossible lack of evidence. And the prosecutor is still rotting in a Cardiff cell. The papers back home are already being told to downplay it. 'Isolated incidents,' they want us to write. The owner sent a wire this morning. Shorten the Brussels dispatches. Focus on public panic instead of connections."
Eleanor's laugh was bitter, almost lost in the roar of the sea. "Of course they do. Status protects its own. A rich lawyer dies and it's front page horror. A poor girl in the typing pool gets—" She stopped herself, swallowing the rest. Victor's jaw tightened. I saw his hand twitch as if he wanted to reach for her but knew he couldn't.
I said nothing. My own thoughts were louder than the waves. That red-orange hair. The perfect smile. The Turkish cigarette scent that followed me like a shadow. The way the rain always arrived exactly when it was needed — washing away footprints, cartridge cases, truth itself. Nature bending to serve a false messiah.
We reached Brussels under a sky the color of old ash. The city felt heavy, medieval streets slick with fresh rain. The diplomat's residence sat on a quiet avenue lined with bare chestnut trees. Police lanterns cast long, trembling shadows across the cobblestones. The scene was already being cleaned — too quickly.
The victim, Monsieur Henri Duval, lay half-slumped in the back of his open carriage. One bullet through the heart, another through the temple. Close range. No struggle. The carriage door had been left politely open, as though the killer had been invited inside for a final conversation. Rain had fallen again — conveniently, thoroughly — turning the street into a mirror of black glass. Not a single drop of blood remained on the pavement outside the carriage. It had all been washed neatly into the gutters.
I crouched beside the body. The diplomat's face held the same peaceful expression I had seen on Hawthorne. Eyes half-closed, almost reverent. As though he had welcomed his death like a blessing.
A young Belgian inspector approached, notebook in hand. "Witnesses say a gentleman visited Duval this morning. Tall. Striking red hair with… gold in it. Like fire and sunlight woven together. The maid said he spoke softly. Duval laughed at something he said. Then the gentleman left. Five minutes later, the shots."
Red-orange hair. Living flame.
The inspector continued, oblivious to the way the words landed in my chest like ice. "The maid kept repeating how kind he seemed. How safe she felt near him. She called him 'an angel sent to ease troubled souls.'"
Victor was already scribbling furiously. Eleanor stood a little apart, face pale, staring at the open carriage door. I saw her hand tremble as she gripped her notebook. Victor noticed too — his eyes darkened with that helpless, protective ache.
I walked the perimeter of the carriage. The rain had done its work again. Perfectly. Not one footprint. Not one spent casing. Only that faint, impossible trace of Turkish tobacco on the leather seat inside.
As I straightened, a sudden wave of dizziness hit me. The world drained of what little color remained. The lanterns became harsh white spots against total black. The carriage, the trees, the inspectors — all reduced to sharp contrasts like an old photographic plate. And in that drained landscape, I saw it clearly for the first time:
A single, perfect red-orange strand of hair caught on the carriage door handle. It glowed like an ember against the monochrome scene — the only color that refused to die.
I reached out and plucked it free. It felt warm between my fingers, almost alive.
Victor appeared at my shoulder. "What is it?"
I slipped the hair into my pocket before he could see. "Nothing conclusive."
But it was everything.
That night, in a small Brussels hotel room, the three of us gathered around a single lamp. The rain continued its steady drumming against the window — softer now, but relentless. Victor poured cheap brandy into three glasses. Eleanor's hands shook slightly as she accepted hers. The shadows under her eyes had deepened.
"They're already pressuring us," Victor said quietly. "My editor wired again. 'No speculation about a traveling killer. Focus on local security failures.' Eleanor's boss sent the same message. Stronger tone."
Eleanor stared into her glass. "My boss is very… persuasive when he wants stories killed." Her voice cracked on the last word. Victor's hand moved instinctively toward hers, then stopped. The unspoken crush hung thick in the room, heavy as the rain.
I pulled out the strand of red-orange hair and laid it on the table under the lamplight. It burned there like a living thing.
"This was on the carriage," I said. "The angel leaves traces. Small ones. Deliberate ones. He wants us to know he was there."
Eleanor leaned forward. For a moment the lamplight caught her face in warm gold — the only color left in the room — before the edges bled back into black and white. "He's not just killing. He's collecting. Making people love him before he destroys them. Hawthorne. Duval. Maybe others we haven't found yet. He makes them feel seen. Saved. Then he takes everything."
Victor looked at her with such raw longing it hurt to watch. "Ellie… you don't have to—"
"I do," she cut in softly. "Because monsters like him don't stop. They gather disciples. They make you want to follow."
I stared at the glowing strand of hair. In the silence that followed, I felt something stir deep inside my own mind — a carefree, almost amused voice whispering at the edge of thought.
He's magnificent, isn't he?
I shut my eyes hard. When I opened them again, the strand of hair seemed to flicker, as if smiling.
The rain outside intensified suddenly, hammering the glass like applause.
We were no longer hunting a killer.
We were chasing a false messiah who left burning hair and perfect loyalty in his wake.
And somewhere out there in the Belgian night, crowned in living flame, he was already smiling at his next chosen one.