Detective Samuel Vance pulled his car to a stop in front of St. Mary's Parish, the church standing in stark contrast to the crumbling streets of the French Quarter. The old Gothic structure loomed beneath the flickering glow of a nearby streetlamp, its towering spire casting a jagged shadow across the wet pavement.
He sat behind the wheel for a moment, drumming his fingers against the steering wheel, his mind racing with what he had seen earlier that night. The figure in the choir loft. The whispering voices. The inscription carved into the pews—Sanguis meus in sacrificium.
He needed answers. And if anyone could provide them, it was Father Dominic Lorne.
The priest was an old acquaintance, a relic of the church's darker days—one who knew more about the city's underbelly than he let on. Vance had dealt with him before, years ago, when a series of ritualistic suicides rocked the city. Dominic had provided insight then, and Vance hoped he'd do the same now.
Vance stepped out of the car, the damp night air thick with the smell of mildew and rain. He walked up the church steps, pushing open the heavy doors, the hinges groaning in protest. Inside, the church was dimly lit by rows of flickering candles, their weak flames casting long shadows against the peeling frescoes of saints and martyrs.
Father Dominic sat in the front pew, his hands folded in prayer, though Vance doubted he was speaking to anyone who'd answer. The priest looked up as Vance approached, his piercing gray eyes narrowing beneath his thick brows.
"Samuel," Dominic said, his voice low and tired. "I was wondering when you'd come."
Vance slid into the pew beside him, resting his elbows on his knees. "You've heard?"
Dominic nodded slowly. "Word travels fast among those who still listen. The Choir is singing again, aren't they?"
Vance exhaled sharply. "Yeah, and I need to know why. Three bodies in three weeks. All mutilated. Latin scripture burned into their flesh. And tonight..." He paused, feeling the weight of his own words. "I saw something, Father. Something that shouldn't exist."
Dominic studied him, his expression unreadable. "The Choir of Sins is not just a cult, Samuel. They're something older, something... worse. They believe in a balance—atonement through suffering, salvation through blood."
Vance's jaw tightened. "They think they're cleansing the city?"
Dominic chuckled grimly. "In their eyes, yes. But their cleansing is not of this world. They see themselves as instruments, and they believe the angels are listening."
Vance ran a hand over his face. "I need specifics, Dominic. Who are they? Where did they come from?"
The priest sighed and stood, moving toward the altar, motioning for Vance to follow. He reached under the altar cloth and pulled out an ancient-looking tome, its leather cover cracked and worn with age. He set it down with a heavy thud.
"Have you ever heard of the Book of Resurrections?"
Vance shook his head.
Dominic flipped through the brittle pages, stopping at a section scrawled with intricate Latin inscriptions. He tapped the page with a gnarled finger. "This book details forgotten rituals, Samuel. Old ones. The Choir follows them to the letter. They believe that through sacrifice, they can usher in what they call the Divine Harmony."
Vance squinted at the faded text. "What the hell does that mean?"
Dominic's eyes darkened. "It means they're preparing for something far greater than we understand. They think they're calling angels down from heaven, but I fear what they're summoning is something else entirely."
Vance leaned against the altar, his head pounding. "I found another message at St. Augustine. 'The first trumpet has sounded.' What does it mean?"
Dominic's expression grew grim. "It's from the Book of Revelation. The first trumpet heralds disaster—the beginning of the end."
Vance stared at him. "You're saying they think the apocalypse is coming?"
Dominic nodded solemnly. "Not just coming. They're trying to bring it."
A heavy silence fell between them.
Vance's phone buzzed in his pocket, jolting him back to the present. He pulled it out, grimacing at the caller ID. Cat Reyes.
"Detective," her voice crackled through the line, tense and urgent. "You need to get to your office. Now."
"What is it?"
She hesitated. "We found something... something about the next victim."
Vance cursed under his breath. "I'm on my way." He ended the call and turned back to Dominic. "If you're holding anything else back, now's the time, Father."
Dominic's eyes were distant. "Samuel... be careful. The Choir of Sins believes they are righteous. And the righteous... they do not stop."
Vance nodded, turning toward the door. As he left, he could feel Dominic's eyes on him, like the weight of some ancient judgment hanging over his shoulders.
Back at the precinct, the rain had picked up again, hammering against the windows as Vance walked into his office. Cat Reyes was already inside, pacing anxiously, her notepad open and pages covered in scrawled handwriting.
"Talk to me," Vance said, dropping into his chair.
Cat slid a grainy photograph across the desk. It showed a woman—mid-thirties, dark hair, and a worried expression.
"Her name's Elena Sharpe. She's a theology professor at Tulane. She's been researching obscure religious sects for years, including the Choir of Sins. I think they're going after her next."
Vance frowned, examining the photo. "How do you know?"
Cat leaned forward. "I found her blog. She's been posting about the Choir, digging into their rituals, their history. Some of her entries are... disturbing."
Vance scanned the printed pages Cat handed him, his eyes narrowing at the highlighted passage:
"They believe in the trumpets of Revelation. Each killing marks the sounding of another. The Choir of Sins sees themselves as harbingers... and when the last trumpet sounds, they believe heaven will descend upon earth in fire and judgment."
Vance set the papers down, his stomach twisting. "We need to find her."
Cat nodded. "Already working on it. But there's more." She hesitated, then placed a worn envelope on the desk. "This was left at my apartment door tonight."
Vance carefully opened it, pulling out a single sheet of paper. Scrawled in shaky handwriting were the words:
"He who has an ear, let him hear. The second trumpet is near."
Vance clenched his jaw. The Choir wasn't done. Not by a long shot.
He grabbed his coat. "Let's go. We need to get to Elena before they do."
As they stepped out into the storm, Vance couldn't shake the feeling that they were already too late.