"Can I help you with something?" she asked, grabbing the bloody rag from the desk, the only evidence she had that her visitor had been real.

"I was hoping so."

"Do you need a room?" she asked, raising her eyebrows curiously. "We have some vacancy."

"No, I'm afraid I don't need that kind of help."

"What kind of help do you need?"

"The kind I think only you can help me with."

He grinned, a sly sort of grin that made Serah's defenses prickle. She turned away from him, carefully folding the rag up and laying it in the hamper for laundry in the morning. "I'm not sure how I can help you, mister, but I—"

She turned back around, cutting off mid-sentence when she realized she was alone. She stared at the spot he'd just occupied, that sensation inside of her growing, her stomach twisting, heart thumping wildly. She hadn't heard the door open, hadn't heard him leave, but he wasn't there anymore.

I'm losing it.

After a quick glance around the lobby, ensuring she was in fact alone, she retook her seat at the desk, trying to ignore the queasiness building inside of her. There was something very wrong, something happening that she couldn't understand. Absently, her hand drifted up to her chest and she rubbed the scar through her shirt.

She had a feeling it might be the key to everything.

Three

The one-story house was quaint, white with blue shutters, located in a quiet neighborhood toward the south end of Chorizon, just a few blocks away from the local elementary school. The 'for rent' sign still stuck out of the shabby patch of grass out front, but Serah had already signed her name on the dotted line, making her the official tenant.

Or part of her name.

What she was pretty sure was her name now, anyway.

Her boss, Gilda, knew the owners and had helped her rent the house, despite her lack of history, and credit, and whatever else it was people needed to get a place of their own.

It was hers now—for the next year, at least.

It was a warm summer morning, the sun shining brightly already at only nine o'clock. Serah stepped out of her house wearing a light summer dress and a pair of white flip-flops, her long hair pulled up off her neck. She had no plans, nowhere to go or nothing to do, so she just ventured around town as usual, wandering streets she'd wandered every day the past few months. It was fairly busy for being a Sunday, the streets bustling as people made their way to church. There were plenty of churches around town, from elaborate cathedrals and quaint little buildings that looked like barns, but Serah was continually drawn to the community center in town instead of those places.

She'd sat it on church a few times—it seemed like the thing to do here, and something about it always felt familiar, like she was at home sitting on the grungy little folding metal chair in the recently remodeled community center. She knew the scripture, knew the stories the preacher recounted, a few times almost chiming in to correct the man when he misinterpreted something. She forced herself to remain silent, though, merely listening. After all, he was the authority on the subject.

What did she know?

She'd only just learned her own name.

The room was half-filled today, the usual visitors occupying the chairs. Serah sat at the front and listened as the preacher talked about the great flood. She doodled in the margins of her brand new bible—a housewarming present from Gilda, which was really just one of the extras they ordered for the nightstands in the motel rooms. Her mind drifted… she knew this story like the back of her hand… as she absently drew a peculiar geometric pattern, a rendering of the mark she'd seen not long ago. Upside down triangle that evolved into hooks, an 'x' slashed through it, with a letter V beneath it all. She drew it so many times the past week, trying to find significance in the shapes, that she could probably produce it in her sleep. What was it? What did it mean?

Why had it been slashed into his skin?

It left a lingering mark, a mark that she too carried.

Had that mark once been on her skin, too?

When service was over, she stood to leave when the preacher stopped her. "You know, some believe it's wrong to write in bibles. Revelations tells us not to add or subtract from God's words."

She smiled softly. "That's not meant to be taken literally."

He raised his eyebrows. "No?"

"This is just a book," she said, holding up her bible. "It's just paper and ink. It's the medium, not the meaning."

"That's one way to look at it," he said, holding up his own bible with a smile, the page it was on highlighted and scribbled all over. "I tend to agree."

"Besides, I wasn't writing," she said. "I was drawing."

"Oh? What were you drawing?"

Serah flipped open to the page she was doodling on and held it up.

The preacher's expression fell slowly as he gazed at it. "Can't say I have one of those in my book. Can't say I'd ever put one in my book."

Serah's brow furrowed. "Have you seen it before?"

"Of course," he said, closing his bible before clearing his throat, turning away from her. His warm eyes suddenly felt icy. "Excuse me."

He started to walk away when she stepped in front of him in the aisle. "Wait a second… where have you seen this before?"

He only paused for a fraction of a second. "It's one of the marks of Satan, one he bore before his fall."