Rana folds her arms across her FBI jacket and trades a look with Dr. Markus, circumspect. “This sounds way off base for our perpetrator, Professor Locke.”

With a derisive curve to his lips, Kallum removes his gloves and stuffs them into his pocket. “If my expertise is in question, you’re welcome to have Dr. Markus take a crack.”

A wave of anxiety crests within me, and I accept the challenge. “Alchemy isn’t just transforming material into gold,” I say, providing Rana some context. “It’s the study into the mystical existence of all matter. The death and rebirth of everything.”

Kallum’s mouth slants into a smoldering grin as his eyes alight on me. “Everything is alchemy,” he says, then motions toward the jars of blood and wine. “Distillation and fermentation are attempts to accelerate the natural order and bring a state of being to perfection. Works on people the same as wine.”

As he says this, I think of Devyn, of her desire to reach a higher plane of existence, of her quest to defy the natural order to achieve this very state of perfection.

“That aligns with Child’s motive,” Dr. Markus comments in echo of my thoughts. He adjusts his thick glasses. “Reaching the state of divine enlightenment.”

“Thank you for pointing out the obvious, Dr. Markus, expert historian,” Kallum says, sarcasm heavy in his tone.

The man clears his throat, undeterred. “This method is an extreme deviation, however. Childs is straying drastically from her philosophical map.”

As I meet Kallum’s gaze, a charged battle of wills snaps between us. I ball my hand at my side and dig my nails into my palm, using the bite of pain to offset the emotions at war.

“All right. Here’s your lecture, agents.” Kallum swipes his hand over his mouth before he folds his arms across his chest. “Hermes is the basis for alchemical practice. As such, there are two opposing forms of magick that derived from texts within the Hermetica. Theurgy and Goëtia. The first is divine and calls on the service of deific spirits, such as angels and gods. The second is dark or black magick, which is dependent on alliances with demons.”

Kallum is a striking figure as he paces in front of the cinderblock wall. I watch him now just as I watched him in the killing fields that first night of the case as he lectured me, rapt, enthralled by him.

“Since its conception, Theurgy has been the chosen practice,” Kallum continues. “Its goal is to become united with higher counterparts in attainment of divine consciousness.”

Hernandez shakes his head as he speaks up. “If this is the best practice, then why resort to black magick?”

Kallum’s smile is devious. “A trade,” he states evenly. “If you want something bad enough, will sacrifice anything or anyone for it, then the dark arts is, in a sense, a shortcut. Basically, you’re making a deal with the devil.”

I’m held captive by those beautifully clashing green-and-blue eyes, the ones I stared into as I made my very own deal with a devil.

If I sold my soul the day I signed Kallum on as a consultant, then this is my trade.

Not only does Kallum’s evaluation help profile a second suspect, it’s an answer to the question of who will take the fall for Alister’s murder.

The suspect who tortures his victims, the one who practices the darkest of alchemy.

Someone always has to be the scapegoat.

Kallum looks at the chains. “Childs is a purist, incorporating shamanism in her rituals and alchemy from the three metamorphoses in Nietzsche’s allegory.” He delivers his next words directly to Agent Rana. “Childs isn’t the culprit of this torture room.”

As Kallum’s gaze settles on mine, understanding passes between us. He’s done what I’ve asked, and the price is high.

With gloved hands, Dr. Markus inspects a broken clay tablet. “Professor Locke, while I don’t disagree with your assessment, I would like to point out an oversight.”

A nervous flutter pulses in my neck as he lines up the pieces of clay along the dirt floor.

Dr. Markus points to a symbol scored into the clay, an ouroboros depicted by a snake consuming its tail. “While styles vary, since when does a practitioner utilize two different period techniques? You can see here fragments of the Chrysopoeia, dating centuries before medieval alchemy.”

Tension brackets Kallum’s features. “Since human sacrifice tends to make a practitioner a little insane and unstructured, Dr. Markus.”

An ache forms in my chest at the turmoil I sense in Kallum. He’s a purist, too. It has to pain him to have his expertise called into question by a historian and not rise to the challenge.

I wait for a rebuttal from Dr. Markus, and a tense breath eases past my lips when he nods with acceptance and bags the evidence.

A small measure of relief frees the tightness in my chest, allowing me the opportunity to break down the scene. I mentally remove all the task force members and distractions. Kallum said the artifacts seemed more like decorations, and I agree.

This room feels staged, and not by a professional who works crime scenes—like someone like Devyn. The wall of glyphs was splashed on the cinderblock like an afterthought, maybe to divert from what’s in this room, or rather, from what’s missing. It all feels rushed, like the suspect was in a hurry to remove the real evidence.

Moving close to the bagged tablet, I tilt my head and study the design of a double ouroboros, depicted here with two rings, representing two snakes swallowing one another.

Out of habit, I go to reach into my bag for my notebook of research, realizing one, Kallum has my bag and two, my notebook has been missing since the day we worked the ravine.

What I do recall of the symbol indicated it’s a sign of volatility, suggesting opposites join together and exist in an eternal, recurring manner.

Shit. An ill feeling coats my stomach as I tie the scene right back to Devyn and her methodology.

A theme in Nietzsche’s Thus Spoke Zarathustra centered on the eternal recurrence: Everything goes, everything comes back; eternally rolls the wheel of being.

“Do you have any insight into this suspect, Dr. St. James?” Agent Rana turns my way, her question breaking into my thoughts.

“I do, yes.” A chill clings to my limbs, and I wrap my arms around my waist. “As I said before, this offender has to be someone people trust, someone they respect. This scene only confirms that. The suspect would make them feel safe and protected, at least long enough to lure them here. According to Professor Locke, dealing in this type of alchemy would stress one’s mental state.” I fidget with the cuff of my blouse. “They’d start to show signs of deterioration. Becoming agitated, suffering at their job. Yet they believe they’re above laws and can evade consequences. Someone who’s already in a position of power⁠—”

My analysis is cut short as Detective Riddick enters the room. I quickly avert my gaze to the flickering light above, and a wave of dizziness seizes my head as the light sways, casting dancing shadows across the walls.

“Like someone in law enforcement,” Rana says, her voice dropped low.

Suddenly, the den of the chamber feels alive with activity. Camera flashes, the rustle of evidence bags. The murmur of voices echoing through the hollow cavern. The flutter of wings.

I touch my temple and blink hard, trying to chase back the pending headache. “Right, exactly,” I say, but I’ve lost the thread of our conversation.

The fluttering grows louder, and I again look up at the bulb, noticing a moth flitting around the light. I squint at the insect, struck by the franticness of its movements as it beats its tiny, winged body against the lamp.

“Dr. St. James, are you all right?” Hernandez’s deep voice breaks through the muffled sounds.

“I’m fine.” I swipe my hair off my damp forehead. “What about the herd symbol found at the grove?” I ask as I try to recenter myself.