The temple smelled of copper and incense, an unholy mix that clung to the stone and made the air taste old and wrong. It was the third location after dealing with the largest two the previous day.
Dax stood in the center of it, shirt cuffs rolled, sleeves spattered dark. The blood on his hands was drying in ragged lines. Priests lay slumped between the pews, bodies folded in impossible angles; their eyes were glassy, their faces slack. Whatever had moved through the sanctuary had taken their breath and left them with nothing but the memory of worship.
Not one had run. Not one had managed to kneel.
The violet in Dax's eyes glowed like molten glass, cutting the silence that had come down after the last scream. His presence pressed against the survivors like a physical force, an invisible weight that pinned them to the flagstones while their chests heaved and their hands clawed at prayer book covers.
