"Guilty or not," a new voice hissed from the shadows—a voice that sounded like a thousand dead leaves skittering across a grave—"you are mine in the gray hours."

He closed his eyes, and the stone floor beneath him seemed to dissolve. Suddenly, he wasn't in England anymore. The scent of incense was replaced by the wild, sweet perfume of Romanian wildflowers. He stood in a field under a sky the color of a bruised plum—the "Gray Dawn." "Father, why did you let go?"

"I tried to save you," Abraham whispered, his voice cracking. "The possession... the icons... they told me it was the only way."

The voice was small, high, and vibrated with a terrifying clarity. Abraham turned to see a young altar boy standing near a crumbling stone well. The boy’s vestments were pristine, but his eyes were pits of absolute darkness.

"The icons lied," the boy said, stepping closer. As he moved, the beautiful Romanian landscape began to rot. Flowers turned to ash; the purple sky bled deep crimson. "Or perhaps, Father, you just wanted to hear the devil’s voice instead of mine."