Her Jaw Was Shattered in a Ritual, But My Estranged Cousin Underestimated a Father's Secret Ancestral Power
Armed with the ancient knowledge from my mother’s grimoire and Elias’s urgent intel, my next target was clear: Harold Croft, the notary public. Elias had described Croft as the Thorne family’s quiet facilitator, handling their hidden property acquisitions for decades. He was the mundane cog in their occult machine.
I found Croft’s office tucked away in a quiet downtown building, unassuming and utterly forgettable. It smelled of old paper and stale coffee, a stark contrast to the dark power he secretly wielded.
I walked in, unannounced. Croft, a balding man with wire-rimmed glasses perched on his nose, looked up from a stack of documents, startled. His eyes, small and beady, darted nervously when he saw me. He recognized me from news reports about Cassandra’s attack; the Thorne family had ensured my face was linked to “unstable grief.”
“Colonel Walker,” he stammered, adjusting his tie. “To what do I owe this… unexpected visit?”
I didn’t bother with pleasantries. I laid a folder on his desk. Inside were printouts: the blurry ledger photo, details of the Thornes’ shell corporations, and a meticulously compiled list of property transfers near their ancestral estate, all bearing Croft’s signature. My special forces background had trained me to find the cracks, to exploit weaknesses.
“Harold,” I said, my voice low and devoid of emotion. “We need to talk about these properties. And the deeds you’ve been forging and backdating for the Thorne family for decades.”
His face paled, the color draining from his cheeks. He glanced at the documents, then back at me, a flicker of desperate denial in his eyes. “Forging? Backdating? Colonel, I assure you, my work is entirely legitimate. I’m a professional.”
“These properties,” I continued, pointing to a map overlaying the Thorne estate. “They form a very specific pattern around the estate. Ley lines, Harold. Energy conduits. Essential for channeling dark magic.”
Croft swallowed hard, his Adam’s apple bobbing. His gaze darted to the door, then back to my face. My silent, menacing gaze, honed by years of interrogation, was doing its work. I wasn’t yelling; I was simply observing, letting his own guilt and fear do the talking.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he mumbled, but his voice lacked conviction. His hands trembled as he reached for a pen.
I leaned forward, my voice barely a whisper, yet resonating with an intensity that seemed to fill the small office. “Harold, you’ve been a key component in a decades-long scheme to acquire properties that enable the Thornes to perform human sacrifice rituals. Rituals that target my daughter. You signed off on it all.”
The mention of “human sacrifice” and “my daughter” broke him. He gasped, dropping the pen. It clattered against the desk, a disproportionately loud sound in the sudden silence. The direct, personal nature of the accusation shattered his professional facade.
“No! No, I didn’t know!” he stammered, his eyes wide with terror. “They just… they gave me the documents. Told me what to sign. Promised me a comfortable retirement. I didn’t know what it was for!”
“You knew it was illegal,” I stated, a cold accusation. “You knew you were backdating documents, circumventing regulations, obscuring true ownership. You chose greed over ethics. And now, my daughter pays the price.”
Tears welled in his eyes, but they were tears of self-pity, not remorse. “They threatened me, Colonel! They said if I didn’t comply, they would… expose my family. Ruin my life.”
The selfish excuse, blaming threats he hadn’t even detailed, was a petty cruelty in itself. He had enabled true evil, yet framed himself as a victim.
“How many properties, Harold?” I demanded. “How many deeds? What are they planning next with them?”
He broke then, sobbing uncontrollably. “Dozens! Over thirty years! They were acquiring them for the Blood Moon Conjunction. To complete the circuit. To funnel the power. Their ancient estate sits on the nexus, and these properties are the spokes, channeling the energy into their ritual chamber.”
He pulled a small, unmarked key from his desk drawer, his hand shaking. “There’s a safe. In the back. It has all the originals. The true dates. The real owners they coerced.”
The casual way he produced the key, revealing an entire history of corruption, was a stark reminder of how deeply ingrained this complicity was. Thirty years of betrayals, all hidden behind the unassuming facade of a notary public.
“Thank you, Harold,” I said, standing up. My voice was calm, but the menace was clear. “Your cooperation has been… noted.”
I left him there, a broken man slumped over his desk, his tears mingling with the dust of his deception. He was a small, pathetic cog, but a crucial one. His greed had paved the way for the Thornes’ dark magic, making him directly complicit in Cassandra’s suffering. The knowledge that a simple act of corruption could enable such profound evil was a chilling, personal lesson.
The confrontation with Croft had yielded the final, critical piece of the puzzle. The Thorne estate wasn’t just an ancestral home; it was the epicenter of their power, strategically amplified by decades of legal subterfuge. I now had proof of their land acquisition, their intentions, and the full scope of their preparations.
The Blood Moon Conjunction was upon us. I had to move, and move fast. The ancient, gothic Thorne estate awaited, and with it, the confrontation I had been preparing for my entire life.
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