Chapter 7: Shadows at Dusk

The Borderton dungeon was a crypt of darkness, its damp stone walls cloaked in gloom, the air thick with the reek of rot and rust. Alan Grey sat against the rusted bars, the cold iron biting into his back through the tattered prisoner's tunic. The straw beneath him was a sodden, rancid mess, and the knife wound on his thigh pulsed with a steady ache, a grim echo of the ambush that trapped him here. The bell tolled again, its mournful clang reverberating through the cell, marking dusk on his second day as shadows lengthened beyond the high, fist-sized windows, swallowing the last faint streaks of daylight. "Day two's bleeding out," he muttered, rubbing his bruised wrists, the purple rings stark against his pale skin. "One day left—twenty-four hours till the fire—no plea, no parole, just a medieval deadline snapping shut." A dry smirk flickered across his scarred face, the kind he'd flashed at perps who thought they'd beaten the clock.

His profiler mind churned, stitching the threads from Pete's leaks and Alice's gamble. Greenvale's blue flames—fifty feet high, Old Tom's tale—too staged for nature, too precise for dragons. Henry, the sheriff, pinned it with Church knights scouring the ashes for "taint," hauling a sulfur-stinking crate, and a cloaked woman with pale, claw-like hands driving a "purging" agenda. "Conspiracy's thickening," he mused, tapping his cheek, a tic from late-night case boards. "Knights cleaning up, her pulling strings—Church isn't just in it, they're the architects." Pete's guilt had cracked the door, and Alice—his frail, fierce sister—was risking everything for the file at dusk. "Evidence turns the tide," he growled, resolve sharpening. "She's my break—time to cash it in."

The iron door groaned open, but the footsteps weren't Pete's heavy thud—they were light, faltering, shadowed by a harsh, wet cough that sliced through the stillness. Alan's head snapped up, profiler instincts flaring. "She's here," he muttered, standing despite the stab in his leg. A small figure emerged from the gloom, cloaked in a patched grey hood, golden hair spilling out in damp tangles. Alice stumbled forward, clutching a leather-bound sheaf to her chest, her thin frame trembling as she reached the bars. "Alan," she rasped, voice frail but edged with triumph, "I got it." She shoved the sheaf through, a cough racking her chest, blood flecking her lips as she braced herself against the iron.

"Alice," Alan's voice cracked, a mix of relief and dread, his hands closing over hers as he took the file, feeling the fever's heat through her icy fingers. "You're a damn miracle, kid—but you look like death." She managed a weak smirk, her gaunt face pale under the hood, blue eyes fierce despite the shadows beneath them. "Pete let me through—Martha's last coin, dusk gate at the chapel. Slipped into Henry's office—back room, top drawer, just like you said." Another cough shook her, and she sagged, gripping the bars to stay upright.

His chest burned, a raw ache no bullet ever matched. He saw her—dusk fading through their shack, tallying scraps with a stubborn grin, now coughing blood to save him. "You're tougher than steel," he growled, voice low and rough, "but this—" He gestured at her frail form, the blood on her lips. "You're killing yourself for me." She straightened, defiant despite the tremble. "I'd rather die with you fighting than live with you gone. File's yours—use it." Alan's profiler mask slipped, pride and terror warring as he unrolled the leather sheaf—Henry's scrawl spilled across parchment: Greenvale patrol log, third day of Harvest Moon. Blue fire at midnight, no tracks. Church knights claim 'taint.' Crate of vials—sulfur stink—hauled to cathedral. Order from 'Mistress C.' to purge elven lands.

Alan's profiler brain kicked into overdrive, filing each scrap. "Midnight strike—no tracks, staged hit," he muttered. "Vials—sulfur—chemical fire, not magic. Mistress C.—cloaked woman, cathedral link." He met Alice's eyes, sharp despite her pallor. "You hit the jackpot, kid—'Mistress C.' is our queenpin." She nodded, wincing as another cough hit. "Heard Henry muttering—'Mistress C.' wants the forest gone, elves with it. Knights took the crate at dawn—proof's theirs now." Alan's grip tightened, the stakes spiking. "Purge the elves—Greenvale's just the start. Church is weaponizing this."

"You're a natural, Alice," he said, voice tight with awe and fear. "But you're done—back to Martha, rest, no more runs." She shook her head, fierce despite the shake. "I'm in—file's not enough, you need me out there. I can watch—" A cough cut her off, blood dripping to the straw, and Alan's profiler calm shattered. "No!" he roared, gripping the bars. "You're not my damn operative—you're my sister! I've lost partners to less—get out, stay alive!" She flinched, but her jaw set, unyielding. "You taught me—evidence wins. I'm your eyes—deal with it."

Alan's breath caught, his own FBI creed flung back at him, her stubbornness a mirror of his own. "FBI didn't prep me for this," he muttered, half a laugh, half a curse. He gripped the file, profiler mind racing. "Alright—listen close. Back to Martha—rest, eat, no moves till I say. File's my break—I'll work it from here. Pete's soft—push him if I need you again. Got it?" She nodded, eyes fierce despite the fever. "Got it—dawn tomorrow, I'll check in." She pressed a small, soft loaf through—Martha's bread—then rasped, "Don't burn, Alan." Another cough, and she slipped into the gloom, her frail steps fading.

Alan sank back, file clutched tight, staring at the claw marks—ghosts of the damned. "One day—twenty-four hours," he calculated, FBI precision locking in. "Day two's gone—dusk's here." He unrolled the parchment again, eyes narrowing. "Vials, sulfur, 'Mistress C.'—Church isn't cleansing, they're conquering. Elves are the target—Greenvale's the test." He snorted, profiler smirk returning. "Henry's a pawn, knights are grunts—she's the brain. File's my ace—time to flip this."

He paced, chains clinking, mind racing. "No panic—work the evidence. Vials mean intent—chemical strike, no dragon. Midnight, no tracks—inside job or stealth crew." His smirk sharpened, sketching profiles—fanatics with vials, a pale-handed mistress with claws. "Ten years busting killers didn't prep me for holy wars, but a case is a case." He tucked the file under the straw, hiding it from Pete's eyes. "Mistress C.—cathedral's her den. Church wants elven land—why?" The bell's echo faded, dusk deepening beyond the windows. "Twenty-four hours to bust a fantasy rap. Alice, you little warrior—rest up. I've got the board now."