The church was tucked between two wide, snow-dusted boulevards, its bell tower rising like a sentinel against the Moscow night. Not a landmark for tourists, nor so small that it went unnoticed. Its stones were worn but tended, the old wood of the doors darkened by years of weather and hands that had pushed through them.
Jensen chose it for exactly that reason. It was Catholic. Foreign enough to him that he would be just another quiet stranger slipping into a pew, but not so obscure as to feel abandoned. He wasn’t here for novelty. He was here for a place where no one would know his name. Where no one would look twice.
The nave was warm, filled with the low murmur of prayers and the scent of incense that seemed to sink into the stone itself. Midnight Mass. Candles flickered in their brass holders. Children yawned against their mothers’ shoulders. Families gathered close, coats draped across pews.
Jensen slid into a seat near the back, leaving distance between himself and the nearest worshippers. He did not belong among them. He knew it in the tightness of his chest, but he bowed his head when they bowed, rose when they rose, murmured the words he half-remembered. It was enough to pass as one of them, even if the motions felt borrowed.
His mind was elsewhere anyway. With Rachel’s trembling hand in his, with the sudden light that had returned to her eyes. With Emily’s relief, with her gratitude. He’d left them to their celebration, but the image of them lingered. For one evening he had been a miracle worker. A vessel. A man who could pluck nightmares out of the air and leave peace behind. And now he was, what? Nothing again. Adrift?
His thoughts slid toward Jessika. His wife, ex-wife, widowed wife - he wasn't sure how to think of her. She was here in Moscow now, walking halls of power, wielding authority like it had always belonged to her. He hadn’t spoken to her tonight. He wasn’t even sure he could if he wanted to. But the knowledge pressed on him all the same, stirring up memories best left buried.
The service passed in solemn rhythm. When the priest dismissed them, the congregation drifted out into the winter air in small clusters, voices muted with emotion and weather alike. Jensen followed behind, his steps indirect but steady.
Outside, the cold bit sharp against his cheeks. He pulled his coat closer and was about to cross the street when something caught his eye: a statue set off to one side of the churchyard. A lone angel carved of pale stone, weather-softened but still graceful. Its wings arched behind it, its face lifted slightly toward the sky.
Snow had gathered along the folds of its robe and the curve of its shoulders, softening its lines, but its presence felt like it was watching him.
Jensen stopped before it while the crowd drift on by, their voices disappearing into the night. He studied the angel in the dim light, the way its expression seemed almost tired, yet resolute. A guardian, still standing after years of wind and cold.
He lingered a moment longer, the breath from his lips clouding the air, before lowering his eyes.
The days following Nox’s healing hadn’t been easy. It had been filled with anxiety and struggle. Thankfully her struggles were easier now. She touched base with Hayden as much as she could. That was helping. Her work for Sage had taken a back seat for a bit. She had trouble focusing. Marta had ordered some parts for her computer though.
It was Christmas Eve, and she and Ricky had headed to Midnight Mass. So really now it was Christmas Day. Splash was of course with them wearing her emotional support vest. Marta’s hand had rarely left the handle, keeping her wolf companion close. It really was a good thing that Splash was smaller and could pass for a dog.
Mass ended and Marta and Ricky waited to leave. Marta had expressed the need to wait as things cleared up a bit. Moving in the crowd would stoke her anxiety. When the crowd thinned, the pair of people and the small wolf stood to leave. Marta bundle up. She was getting used to the cold, but growing up in Mexico had acclimated her to warmer climes. She sighed. Soon enough she would be home and could take out the infernal contacts that hid her wolf eyes.
The crisp air hit them as they exited. They began to walk, but a man caught Marta’s attention. He had moved to cross the street, but then seemingly distracted, he turned and headed to a statue of an angel. A cold breeze brought his scent to Marta’s nostrils. It was odd. A mix of feelings. Sadness, maybe, confusion, and maybe some other things. Marta’s eyes stayed on the man. It wasn’t her wolf abilities that brought the thought to her mind.
This man was special.
Marta didn’t know how she knew it. She had learned to read people. Her wolf abilities amplified this, but it was still a natural talent. Marta was aware that Ricky said something to her, but her mind was occupied and she began to walk towards him, her hand still holding on to Splash’s handle. Splash padded next to her.
”You okay, mister?” she asked him quietly and respectfully. Marta turned to look at the statue and continue before he could answer. ”Do you know who that is?” Marta looked back at him expectantly. She wondered what had drawn this man to the angel statue.
Ricky had kept an eye on Marta. She had been completely forthcoming with what had happened when Nox had gotten healed, but Ricky couldn't deny that it was taking time for her to work through it. It was hard to not be worried, but truthfully, Ricky had seen Marta in significantly worse states. Talking with her psychologist helped and talking with Hayden helped too. Marta was becoming increasingly self-aware of her own limitations, triggers, and on figuring out what she needed to get better. Sometimes it required more help and sometimes it just required more time. Marta ensured Ricky it was the latter.
Ricky still noted, however, how Marta kept hold of Splashes vest handle. The wolf pup was always a significant help for her. At her request, Ricky waited until the crowd at Mass began to disperse before leaving the church. Ricky stopped abruptly as Marta did. He followed her gaze to a man, walking to a lone statue. Marta's eyes didn't move.
"Marta, you okay?" he asked her quietly, noting the slight flair of her nostrils that indicated she had caught the man's scent on the wind.
Marta didn't speak, answering by beginning to approach the man with her companion in tow. Ricky looked towards the man. He could have stopped Marta, and she probably would have listened. It wasn't because of mistrust. The man was standing quietly, head bowed, almost as if in prayer. Given the location, it could be a distinct possibility. But Ricky didn't. Marta was good at reading people, and it wasn't just her wolf senses that did it. Ricky was learning to not only allow the thirteen year old to grow, but to trust her instincts. Besides, she hardly ever approached strangers, and she certainly never approached male strangers. Marta saw something in this man - possibly something she didn't even yet understand.
So Ricky followed and listened as Marta spoke to the man, simply asking the man if he was okay and if he knew who the angel was. "I'm sorry, sir. I hope she's not disturbing your prayer." Ricky spoke quietly, but with curiosity. He had no idea what was going on in Marta's mind, but he sort of wanted to find out. He hoped the man would be amenable to humoring her.
Marta's face only glanced in his direction before moving back to the stranger's - a small acknowledgement that she knew Ricky was there. Still she looked up at the stranger with an expectant gaze, waiting for his reply. Ricky was able to keep both in sight, but his attention was more on Marta. This was curious behavior for her.
Quillon often drifted into silent isolation after preaching.
Two new Seekers had entered the Temple under his instruction, and the words he’d spoken at the camp still echoed in his mind. Servitude. Ascension. Grace through action. He’d given the sermon with conviction, but the image of a woman kneeling beside him in the cold, wrapping his bleeding hand with care, lingered longer than the scripture. He tried to dismiss the thought. But it kept returning, unfolding in fragments. Her voice. Her touch. Her eyes.
By dark, he shed the Brotherhood’s mantle and left the Temple in plain clothes: jeans, heavy boots, and a charcoal coat buttoned high against the cold. No one stopped him. No one ever did.
The subway swallowed him whole. He boarded without speaking, chose no destination, and let the tunnels carry him. His attention flicked to his wallet, scrolling through the digital clutter of apps and notifications, but none of it held his focus. When the train hissed to a stop, he stood and stepped off without thinking.
Only once he reached the surface did he realize how late it was. The street was quiet. Snow drifted through the air, slow and silent. He slipped his gloved hands into his coat pockets and walked, directionless but deliberate, his breath fogging faintly in front of him.
The sound of a bell cut the stillness. He paused. Across the street, the doors of a church swung open, releasing a tide of congregants into the night. They spilled out quickly, a wave of warm bodies in thick coats and tired shoes. He watched them from the shadows of a closed café. The murmured laughter, the brief embraces, the shuffling of boots on salted concrete. It all felt strange to him. Familiar, but distant. So many drawn to a building by nothing more than belief.
Quillon tilted his head, watching as they dispersed. He had never been moved by religion, not in the way they were. Not by psalms or pews or promises of salvation. And yet, he served the Brotherhood with unwavering devotion. Was that belief?
He turned to leave, questions forming without answers, but then paused. A few stragglers had split from the main crowd and disappeared into a side yard behind the church. No signs. No lights.
Quillon crossed the street without sound. He stood at the gate, half-hidden behind iron bars, and listened.
A voice tugged him from his thoughts. It was soft, respectful, and sounded young.
He turned, surprised to see a girl bundled against the cold, a service vest clipped to the back of what looked like her pet dog. For a second, he blinked, wondering if the cold was playing tricks on him. But her eyes were bright, searching, and her tone carried more maturity than most her age.
“I’m quite all right,” he said, his drawl gentling the words. His voice carried warmth, the kind of steady calm that made people comfortable. “Just thinkin’ about this time of year, I suppose.”
She’d asked about the statue, and he glanced back at it, hands slipping into the pockets of his coat. “Truth is, I don’t know who she is. Just that she’s old. Probably been here longer than any of us. You happen to know?” His tone was curious, genuinely interested, inviting her knowledge as equal to his own. He bent slightly then, lowering himself to her level, so he wouldn’t be towering. His gaze fell to the animal pressed close to her side. “This your dog?” he asked softly. “Mind if I say hello?” He extended a hand palm-up, the way you’d offer to any wary creature, though his brow furrowed slightly at the pup’s strange proportions. “Don’t quite recognize the breed.”
Movement behind her drew his eye, and Jensen looked up to meet another man’s approach. He was protective and cautious, that much was plain. Jensen’s smile deepened, warm and respectful. “Not a disturbance at all,” he said sincerely, straightening his spine.
For a moment, he hesitated. There was something in the way the man fell into step with the girl that twisted at Jensen’s chest: a quiet pang of memory. His own children, their small hands in his, years ago. He swallowed the ache and kept his tone steady.
“Did y’all enjoy the service?” he asked, opening the circle to include them both. His voice carried no pity, no patronization. Only genuine courtesy, the kind a gentleman would offer strangers on a winter’s night and stand until he was froze solid to do so.
Marta smiled as the man answered, listening with unwavering attention. She thought there was more to it than that, but didn't press. If he didn't want to talk about it, it wasn't hers to make it happen. He returned her question back, having no answer before he approached Splash, asking first before saying hello. Most people knew about service animals now, and knew not to approach them without permission, so that hadn't surprised Marta.
"Well, Splash is working, so I'm supposed to say no, but..." she said with a smirk. "It's Christmas. I think she deserves the attention." Marta knelt down and wrapped the wolf in a hug. "Because her breed is the best girl ever!"
She communicated with Splash as she did so, and after Marta stood, Splash sniffed the man's hand. "You can give her scritches if you want to. She likes it right here." Marta demonstrated by scratching right behind the ear and Splash closed her eyes and cocked her head to make the most of the scratches.
Marta turned back to the statue. "Truth be told, I don't know her name either. The bible is rather silent about the names of female angels. So unfair!" she said, humor coating her tone. "I do know though that people usually come to this area of the church grounds if they are praying for someone who is sick. I like to think maybe she's a healer." Marta looked at the statue, taking in its posture and everything much more than she had before. She gave a soft laugh as a memory stirred. "You know there is a story in one of the Gospels...Saint John's I believe...that talks about a pool, and everyday at a certain time, an angel would stir the waters of the pool and any who were in it would be healed of whatever injury or sickness they had. I asked the priest once if this angel was the one that did that. He said no - they think it was Saint Raphael the Archangel that did that. Once again, unfair." she laughed lightly. "You guys get Saints Michael, Raphael, and Gabriel, and we get unnamed Angel number one."
She turned towards the man. "On a serious note though, I like to think she worked with Saint Raphael. Going around and helping heal the sick. A noble cause." Marta offered him her hand. "I'm Marta and this is Ricky." she said, turning her face towards her guardian. That was when she caught the other man's scent and saw him looking from the other side of a gate. She gave him a smile.
Ricky just watched as Marta spoke with the man. Sometimes she just surprised him. Marta had every reason to hate the world, but continually chose not to. It was surprising, but it was also encouraging. Ricky was beginning to see that deep down, she cared for people so much. She didn’t like to see people hurting, and he wondered if when she looked at this man, if she saw someone in pain.
Ricky had to smile as he heard the man speak. He grew up in Texas and would recognize that drawl anywhere. Ricky approached as she talked about the angel and her thoughts on the statue. It was true that many came here to pray for healing.
Ricky had nothing to add, he just listened until Marta finally introduced them. Ricky offered his hand after Marta. ”Nice to meet you,” his own accent, though lighter than the strangers popped out a bit. It did when he was around his parents as well. ”Midnight Mass is one of my favorites. I think it’s always enjoyable.”
Marta began to sing “While Shepherds Watched Their Flocks by Night” softly at that. They had sung that him in Mass tonight. She only sang the first stanza before stopping. Ricky thought she enjoyed it too.
Jensen smiled as Marta spoke, her warmth softening the edges of the cold night. She talked with that bright sincerity, that mix of wit and wonder, that reminded him of the kids in the church. Before life had turned complicated, before Moscow, before the long silence from home.
“Well, Miss Splash,” Jensen murmured, crouching as the little wolf-dog sniffed his outstretched hand, “I’m honored to make your acquaintance.” He scratched gently behind her ear as instructed, and the animal leaned into it, eyes half-closed in bliss. “You’ve got good taste in company,” he added, glancing up at Marta with a glint of warmth.
She had a kind of light about her, that rare self-possession some people never grow into. Her story about the angel drew an amused hum from him. “A healer, you say? I think I like that,” he said quietly, eyes returning to the statue. “If the Lord does send angels to heal, I reckon She might be one of ’em. Doesn’t seem right that her name’s been lost, though. Every good thing ought to be remembered.”
He straightened when she offered her hand, gloved fingers gentle as he shook it. “Marta,” he repeated, then to the man beside her, “Ricky. Pleasure to meet you both.” The accent in the man’s voice made him smile wider, a faint glimmer of recognition flickering in his eyes. He didn't say anything about it, not wanting to pry, but it made him feel nostalgic.
His chuckle was easy, but as the conversation flowed, a stillness lingered beneath it. Watching the two of them together, he felt that familiar ache stir in his chest. A small, private longing. Family. Connection. A home filled with laughter instead of empty rooms, tv, and books.
He masked it behind a gracious nod. “You’re right, sir. Midnight Mass is special. There’s a peace to it…all the more for this midnight mass.”
When Marta began to sing, Jensen’s heart caught. The melody floated up into the winter air, her young voice wrapping itself around the words like an offering. He found himself humming the next line under his breath, just enough for her to hear, his baritone deep and gentle. When the song faded, he said softly, “That’s a fine hymn. My mother used to sing that one.”
For a moment, the snow whispered between them. Then he stepped back, brushing a gloved hand over his coat sleeve. “You’ve both been very kind,” he said, voice warm but quieter now. “Thank you for that. I didn’t mean to keep y’all out here in the cold.”
He looked once more to the angel, her stone wings draped in snow. “I think maybe I’ve got some dinner to attend tomorrow after all,” he murmured, almost to himself. “Wouldn’t do to turn down a kind invitation for Christmas.”
When he turned back to them, the melancholy in his eyes was tempered by something. He nodded once. “Merry Christmas, Marta. Ricky. And to you too, Splash.”
Then, with one last faint smile, he adjusted his scarf and stepped away into the snow, intentionally choosing to be as forgotten as the name of the statue behind them.
The courtyard was nearly empty now, save for the last few stragglers. He’d been lost in thought, pondering something the priest said, when a flicker of movement drew his eye. Someone slipped past the gates. His gaze tracked them instinctively, the old habits never far from the surface.
Then he saw her.
“Marta!” The name escaped before he could check it, called in warm, surprised Spanish that felt strange on his tongue after the evening. “¿Eres tú?”
He had met her once before at St. Basil’s. A quiet, nervous young woman with eyes that held more years than her age. She’d had that beloved creature with her then, too. Seeing her again brought an unexpected steadiness to his heart until he realized she was in unusual company.
Matias slowed his steps, the heavy tread of his shoes crunching with each step. The first man was moving away through the gate, his presence oddly distinct even from this distance. The other stood beside Marta, watchful, but nonetheless poised. A guardian, he hoped, but give his past, he considered far more sinister relationships.
Still, the hour, the cold, the company. It stirred a protective instinct he had no real right to experience other than the blunt fact that he did.
As he approached, his voice shifted back to English. “You shouldn’t be outside so late,” he said, though his tone carried more concern than rebuke. His gaze flicked between the two men briefly before settling back on Marta. “You’re all right?”
The service animal watched him with those tracker eyes, and Matias gave the creature a respectful nod before looking to Marta again.
Ricky wished the gentleman a Merry Christmas," as he left, giving not even a name. It could have bothered him, he supposed, but it did not. People had their reasons for their secrets, and Ricky had no reason to press farther than that, but soon after that, another approached, calling Marta by name and speaking Spanish.
Ricky tensed a bit at that only partially from surprise. The man's voice was genial, but given Marta's past and her general avoidance of adult men (tonight being a anomaly), Ricky was a little on edge until Marta walked up to him and gave him a brief touch on the shoulder. He relaxed then. "You know him?"