ELITE by Maclaw

Chapter 8

It was late into the night, the sky a deep blanket of darkness pierced by the dim light of the stars. The estate was quiet, shadows creeping over the tall structures as the world seemed to still. Detective Frank Donovan sat in his modest study, his eyes scanning over papers scattered across his desk when the soft knock on his door echoed through the quiet. It was subtle, almost secretive, as if the visitor had no intention of being seen or heard.

Frank frowned and rose from his chair, his fingers flexing instinctively toward the revolver tucked away in his drawer. His steps were measured as he approached the door. When he opened it, he was met by the sight of Lady Eleanor Thornton, cloaked in dark satin, her sharp eyes gleaming under the dim glow of the hallway lanterns.

“Lady Thornton,” Frank greeted, a hint of surprise in his voice. “What brings you here at such an hour?”

She stepped inside without waiting for an invitation, the air around her crackling with an aura of power and something darker, something seductive. She reached into the folds of her cloak and produced a bundle of torn letters, tossing them carelessly onto his desk.

“What’s this?” he asked, his eyes narrowing as he glanced at the letters before flicking back to her.

“The letters I’ve been receiving,” she replied coolly, as if the act of her bringing them to him was nothing more than a casual errand.

Frank raised an eyebrow. “You should rather read them than tear them apart.”

Eleanor’s eyes glinted with cold defiance. “I will not be Reese’s fool. These letters are meant to provoke me. To manipulate me into a corner. I will not allow it.”

“You’re scared,” Frank observed, leaning against the desk, folding his arms across his chest. His eyes never left hers, reading every flicker of emotion on her face. “Why should I help you?”

Eleanor’s lips curled into a small, predatory smile. She stepped closer, her presence filling the room like a shadow that couldn’t be escaped. “Because, Frank,” she whispered, her voice low, smooth like honey but with an edge of steel, “you don’t want to be on the wrong side of this. The letters aren’t just idle threats—they’re the promises of something much darker.”

Frank chuckled, the sound dark and humorless. “And why should I care about your problems, Eleanor? You’ve always thrived in your power, controlling the society around you. Now you come to me, at my door, asking for help?”

She stood tall, her expression unwavering despite the tension sparking between them. “I’m not asking for help,” she corrected him sharply. “I’m asking for control. You know as well as I do that this... this writer, whoever they are, knows far too much. They know things they shouldn’t. Things about me, about the Thorntons, about the whole elite society..”

Frank's eyes darkened, but he said nothing. Eleanor took a step closer, her eyes locked onto his. “You should care because if this person isn’t stopped, they will unravel everything we’ve built. Everything you’ve built. Your wife would be so dissatisfied with your inaction…”

Frank’s expression shifted in an instant, his jaw clenching hard as his eyes narrowed dangerously. “Do not speak of my wife,” he growled, his voice low and menacing. There was a flash of pain behind his eyes, but he quickly masked it with anger.

Eleanor didn’t flinch, only raised an eyebrow. “Touchy subject, I see.”

Frank’s hand tightened around the edge of the desk as he took a breath, forcing the tension out of his muscles. “This isn’t about my wife,” he said stiffly. “But you’re right about one thing—whoever this writer is, they’re getting too close. They’re in the shadows, pulling strings, and we’re left dancing in the dark.”

Lady Thornton’s eyes gleamed with something dark, almost triumphant. She could sense she had struck a nerve, could feel the undercurrent of his anger mixed with his reluctance to help her. But she also knew Frank wasn’t a man who liked being kept in the dark, and this writer, whoever they were, posed a threat to them all.

“The writer is no fool,” Frank continued, his voice regaining its composure. “They don’t act alone. They play games, set traps, and give people a reason to believe someone else is responsible for what they’ve done. It’s a master of misdirection.”

“Exactly why I need your help,” Eleanor said quietly, her voice suddenly soft, almost pleading—an unusual tone for a woman so accustomed to power. “I cannot afford to be outmaneuvered, not by someone lurking in the shadows.”

“Why should I help you?” Frank asked again, his gaze hard as steel. “What’s in it for me?”

“Survival,” she whispered. “You and I both know that we cannot let this threat grow. If the writer keeps sending these letters, keeps causing chaos, it’s only a matter of time before we’re all implicated. If you help me, we can find out who’s behind this. Together.”

Frank regarded her for a long moment, his eyes searching hers for a crack in her armor, for a sign of weakness or vulnerability. But Eleanor was as solid as the walls of her estate, her pride and power wrapped around her like a cloak.

He sighed heavily. “Then we start with the basics,” he said, turning away from her to pick up a pen and notepad from his desk. “Why, who, when. Who wants to do this? Why would they do this? And when did it start?”

Eleanor leaned against the wall, folding her arms across her chest. “An enemy,” she suggested quietly.

Frank nodded. “Possible,” he admitted. “But there are other possibilities.”

“How about the church?” Eleanor pressed, her eyes narrowing.

Frank smirked, a cynical smile curling on his lips. “The church has its own problems. But the idea is worth exploring.”

Eleanor’s jaw tightened, the delicate lines of her face hardening as the realization struck. “They killed Fraya. They’ve been feasting under my roof, deceiving me all along, and I couldn’t see it.”

Frank’s brow furrowed, confusion breaking through his calm exterior. “What do you mean, Eleanor? What are you talking about?”

Eleanor’s lips curled into a sneer, her eyes dark with rage. “Fraya was nothing more than a pawn to them—a sacrifice. But spilling blood in my house, under my watch? That... that will not go unpunished.”

Her voice had turned cold, a stark contrast to the fury simmering beneath her words. Frank shifted uncomfortably, sensing the dangerous turn in her thoughts. “You're jumping to conclusions. You don’t have proof—”

Eleanor turned to him, her face an unreadable mask, eyes void of emotion. She spoke with terrifying calmness. “I don’t jump to conclusions. I make them.”

He swallowed, trying to maintain his composure, but there was an undeniable tension in the air. “And what exactly are you planning to do about it?”

Eleanor’s lips curled into a knowing smirk, her eyes gleaming with a quiet menace. She moved deliberately, her fingers grazing the edge of her robe as she draped it over her shoulders. With a final glance, her voice dropped to a near-whisper, chilling in its resolve. “You’ll see.”

And with that, she turned and walked away, her presence lingering in the room long after she had gone, leaving Detective Frank standing in silence, the weight of her words hanging like a noose around his neck.

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**the church**

St. Michael’s Basilica /Eldoria

The church was filled with light that Sunday morning, the sun streaming through the high windows of the chapel, bathing the sacred altar in a golden hue. The air held a sacred stillness, as if heaven itself watched with anticipation. It was a day of great joy and reverence—First Holy Communion. The children, freshly inducted into the faith after months of catechism, were dressed in white, their innocence glowing as they knelt in neat rows. I could see the pride in their parents' eyes, the silent prayers of hope they sent to God for their children's future.

And there was Victor, my boy, standing at the altar beside me for the first time. He looked nervous, though he tried to hide it behind a facade of piety. My heart swelled with a mixture of pride and a deep, almost fatherly affection. It was his first time serving, and I had assured him this was the perfect day for such an honor. His hands shook slightly as he prepared the communion cups, but I leaned over, whispering softly, "You can do this, my son. You were chosen for this moment."

He nodded, forcing a smile, and I stepped back, allowing the procession to begin.

The choir’s hymns rose gracefully, filling the room with a reverent energy that seemed to carry us closer to God. The congregation moved in an orderly line to receive the body and blood of Christ. I moved from person to person, murmuring blessings as I placed the consecrated host upon their tongues. It was a sacred ritual, one I had performed countless times. But today felt different—special. This was a rite of passage for these children, a day they would carry with them for the rest of their lives.

As I returned to the altar, I caught sight of one of the altar boys approaching me—Damian, his name was, usually a bright and cheerful boy, but today his face was pale, his eyes hollow.

"Father," he whispered, clutching a communion cup so tightly his knuckles turned white. His whole body trembled, as though a terrible weight was pressing down on him. "I need to make a confession."

I frowned, glancing around at the stillness of the ceremony, reluctant to interrupt it. "Not now, Peter. You can come to my chambers after the service."

But damian did not retreat. His voice wavered, filled with a deep terror I had not seen in his young eyes before. "Father… I have done something evil."

A shiver of unease crept down my spine. The words were jarring against the sanctity of the moment. His pale lips quivered as he stared down at the communion cup, his hand shaking so violently it clattered against his robe.

"What is this?" I asked, my voice barely above a whisper. A knot formed in my stomach..

Damian looked up at me then, his eyes filled with a haunting emptiness that made my breath catch. His voice dropped to a trembling whisper as he said, "I have done something…I don’t know if God would forgive me."

“Forgive you ?“I asked still lost in confusion.

“The communion “..he whispered..

For a moment, the world around me seemed to freeze. The words didn’t register immediately, caught somewhere between disbelief and denial. My gaze flickered from the boy’s pale face to the congregation—innocent, unaware, receiving what they believed to be the sacred body and blood of Christ.

I could barely breathe as the reality of Damian's confession sank in. "What... what do you mean?" I stammered, my voice faltering as fear clawed its way into my chest.

Damian’s lips parted to respond, but before he could say another word, he collapsed, his small body crumpling to the floor like a discarded rag doll. The communion cup slipped from his hands, rolling away in a slow, almost agonizing tumble. Time seemed to stretch painfully as I fell to my knees beside him, shaking him gently, desperately.

"Damian! damian, speak to me!" I whispered, but his eyes were glazed, his breaths shallow. He was fading fast.

Panic gripped me as I looked up at the congregation. I saw Victor, my sweet boy, already having taken the communion, and a cold dread washed over me. His hands were clutching the altar for support, his face drained of color. He turned to look at me, confusion and fear marring his young features.

"Amen," he whispered weakly, the word barely leaving his lips before he collapsed like the others.

A horrifying realization struck me like a lightning bolt. I scrambled to my feet, my heart thundering in my chest as I shouted, "Stop! Stop taking the communion!"

But it was too late. The church erupted into chaos. Bodies began to fall—children, parents, elders—one after another. The once peaceful sanctuary was filled with screams of anguish and panic. Parents rushed to their children, their cries piercing the air as they realized something had gone terribly, terribly wrong.

I staggered to Victor, reaching him just as he slumped to the floor. His body convulsed in my arms, his breaths coming in ragged gasps. His skin was icy to the touch, his pulse weak beneath my trembling fingers.

"Father…" he whimpered, his voice barely more than a breath. "What’s happening? I… I don’t feel… right."

Tears blurred my vision as I cradled him close, my heart breaking with every labored breath he took. "Hold on, Victor. Hold on. Please, my son, stay with me," I begged, though my words felt hollow. I knew. Deep down, I knew the end was near.

His eyes, once so full of life, were now dull, distant. "I don’t want to die…" he whispered, the fear in his voice shattering what little remained of my composure.

"God, no…" I whispered in desperation, pressing my forehead against his. "Please, not this one… not him."

Around us, the chaos continued—cries for help, bodies collapsing, desperate prayers shouted to the heavens—but in that moment, all I could focus on was Victor. I clung to him, refusing to let go even as his body went limp in my arms. His last breath was a quiet sigh, as if his soul had slipped away on the wind.

I looked up, my vision blurred with tears, and saw the other priests standing at the balcony, their faces ashen with shock and disbelief. They, too, were frozen in place, as if the weight of the tragedy had rooted them to the spot.

“The communion has been poisoned…” I whispered, the words tasting like ash in my mouth. How? Why? These questions burned in my mind, but there were no answers. Only the cold reality that God had forsaken us all on this sacred day.

I looked down at Victor’s lifeless body, my soul heavy with grief. And in that moment, I felt something inside me break—something irreparable. My faith, once unshakable, now teetered on the edge of ruin.

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