Chapter 8: The Nighthawk's Beat
Sterling turned the corner and nearly walked into the chest of a man whose spiritual signature burned with holy light.
He stopped short, his Prisoner perception flooding with information. Two men in dark coats, their postures professional, their eyes sharp with trained attention. The taller one carried himself like a soldier. The shorter one had callused hands and the patient expression of someone who had learned to wait for violence rather than seek it.
Nighthawks. Church of the Evernight Goddess enforcement. The people who hunted Beyonders who stepped out of line.
"Don't run. Running is guilt. You're a factory worker walking home. Nothing more."
"Evening, sir." The taller Nighthawk's voice was polite, professional. "Routine patrol. Mind if we ask a few questions?"
"Of course not."
Sterling kept his hands visible, his posture relaxed, his expression neutral. His Prisoner perception read the Nighthawk instantly—Sequence 8 Sleepless, young for the rank, earnest in a way that suggested genuine belief rather than mere duty. The man's spiritual signature was clean, organized, disciplined.
Mike Joseph. The name surfaced from nowhere—Sterling's meta-knowledge filling gaps, his memories of the novel providing context he shouldn't possess. This was one of the Nighthawks who would eventually encounter Klein Moretti, though Sterling couldn't remember the specific circumstances.
Mike's partner was older, quieter, his spiritual signature dimmer. Sequence 9, probably approaching retirement. He stood slightly behind Mike, watching Sterling with the weary attention of a man who had seen too many interrogations to be impressed by any of them.
"You're a Beyonder," Mike said. It wasn't a question.
"Sequence 9 Prisoner. Recently awakened."
"Recently awakened and walking home from Bravehearts Alley at midnight?"
Sterling allowed himself a rueful smile. "I was buying ingredients. Legal ones. I can show you the receipt."
He reached slowly into his coat pocket and produced the paper slip from the formula vendor—a purchase he had made specifically for this eventuality. Two vials of common Beyonder materials, nothing suspicious, nothing valuable enough to warrant attention.
Mike examined the receipt. His partner leaned in to look over his shoulder.
"Cheap stuff," the older man said. "The kind of thing someone buys when they don't know what they need yet."
"I don't know what I need yet. I'm trying to learn."
Mike handed back the receipt. His expression was thoughtful—not suspicious exactly, but curious. Evaluating.
"East District has had some disturbances lately. Beyonder-related. Nothing major, but the Church likes to keep track of new awakened in the area."
"I understand."
"Do you have a Church registration?"
"Not yet. I wasn't sure which Church would be—" Sterling paused, calculated, continued. "Appropriate. For my pathway."
"Prisoner is adjacent to Arbiter. The Goddess's domain includes justice and the night. We'd be happy to help you register properly."
"He's recruiting. The Churches compete for low-sequence Beyonders. Young, malleable, useful for the dangerous work the higher-ups don't want to dirty their hands with."
Sterling nodded slowly, as though considering the offer seriously. "I'd appreciate that. But I have to be honest with you—I'm not sure I'm ready for Church involvement. I just want to work my factory job and understand what's happened to me."
Mike's expression softened. The earnestness Sterling had detected earlier surfaced fully—genuine empathy, genuine desire to help. This was a Nighthawk who believed in his mission.
"That's a reasonable position. But East District isn't safe for unaffiliated Beyonders. There are... organizations... that prey on people in your situation."
"Jasper Caldwell?"
The name dropped like a stone into still water.
Mike's partner stiffened. Mike's expression didn't change, but his spiritual signature flickered—a surge of interest quickly suppressed.
"Where did you hear that name?"
"Bravehearts Alley. The vendors wear matching armbands. The enforcers wear matching rings. Someone mentioned Caldwell runs the market." Sterling shrugged. "I'm new, not stupid."
Mike studied him for a long moment. Then he reached into his coat and produced a small card—plain white paper, a simple address written in neat handwriting.
"This is a message drop. If you see anything unusual—anything that might interest the Church—you can leave a note here. Someone will receive it within twenty-four hours."
Sterling took the card. His fingers brushed Mike's as the paper changed hands.
"He's giving me a way to become an informant. He thinks I'm a potential asset."
The parasite pulsed with approval.
"There's something I can offer now," Sterling said. "A gesture of good faith."
Mike's partner shifted his weight. Mike's expression remained neutral.
"Go on."
"Third stall from the left in Bravehearts Alley. The one selling 'household remedies.' There's a sealed box under the counter. It's not household remedies."
"How do you know this?"
"I have good eyes. It's a Prisoner thing."
Mike nodded slowly. He didn't write anything down—a Sequence 8 Sleepless would have perfect recall—but Sterling could see the information being filed, catalogued, stored for future action.
"Thank you for the tip, Mr.—"
"Voss. Sterling Voss."
"Mr. Voss." Mike's tone warmed slightly. "We'll follow up on that. And if you ever need help—legitimate help, with your situation—the Church is available."
The older partner pulled out a notebook to jot something down. As he did, a photograph slipped from between the pages—a young girl with dark braids and a gap-toothed smile, perhaps seven years old.
"Damn." The partner bent to retrieve it.
Mike got there first. He picked up the photograph with a tenderness that seemed reflexive, unconscious—the care of someone who understood that some things were too precious to handle roughly. He handed it back to his partner with a nod.
"Sarah's getting big, Marcus."
"Growing like a weed. Eats twice her weight."
Sterling looked away. The moment was too human, too real. It made him think of Colette and Remi, sleeping peacefully in the room below his. It made him think of the tactical plan the parasite had provided—the detailed instructions for destroying Elise's family that were still lodged in his consciousness like a splinter.
"We won't keep you any longer, Mr. Voss." Mike stepped aside, clearing the path. "Be safe walking home."
"You as well."
Sterling continued down the gaslit street. He didn't look back.
But his Prisoner perception told him that Mike looked back. Once. Briefly. Evaluating.
He was being filed. Another asset in another inventory.
The parasite pulsed with satisfaction, and Sterling felt something beneath the satisfaction—recognition. Familiarity. As though the entity had done this before.
Cultivated handlers in a previous life.
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