Midnight In St. Pertsburg (The Invisible War 1) by Barbara J. Webb

her.
    The doors were locked, but Mike laid his hand against the wood and Rose heard the click of the mechanism popping open. A neat trick. Except, on second thought, it wasn’t. “You break into a lot of buildings in the middle of the night, Padre?”
    “Only to do my job.” He pulled the heavy door open just enough for them all to squeeze through, then yanked it shut behind them.
    Inside was a shadowy nightmare. Just enough light came in through the skylight and the stained glass windows to create haunted shapes Rose’s eyes couldn’t resolve.  
    “Should have brought a flashlight,” Ian said from behind her.
    “No need,” Mike said. His upraised hand began to glow, getting brighter until light filled the space around them.
    “Neat. A Swiss army priest. But I think,” Rose took a deep breath, “I think, put it out. If it’s dark, I’ll have fewer distractions. Get a better feel.” Mike snorted, but obliged and the darkness flowed over Rose once more.  
    Rose stood for a moment, let her eyes adjust as much as they could. The shadows sharpened, resolved into columns and walls, screens and statues. Rose had glanced at a brochure for St. Isaacs. It had been full of vibrant colors, golds and blues and greens, but the inky greyscale of night struck her as the cathedral’s true face, both weapon and warning.
    The after-image of death was present, but muted. Either time had softened its power, or the aura of St. Isaac’s had simply sucked the death echoes into itself. Impressions through her othersense overlaid memories from her dream, and Rose had no trouble finding the spot on the floor where the man had been killed.
    Rose stood beneath the dome, under the shadowy, watchful eyes of angels and apostles. Mike and Ian and Nazeem faded into shadows. As a fountain of blood welled up from the marble floor.
    The blood soaked her feet, reached up her legs. Men in black surrounded her. A ring of candles. The blood rose higher, black and rotten, squeezed around her waist. Rose held out her arm as the dead man had done. A figure appeared before her, floating in the air—the shining man. The same as in her dream.
    The blood covered her chest, sent tendrils up her neck, into her mouth—
    Rose stumbled back, breaking the vision. “It’s no good,” she choked out, her own voice startling her as it echoed through the darkness.
    Nazeem was at her back, his hands on her shoulders. Unexpected support.
    “You done feeling the aura?” Mike asked, dismissive.
    “The killer, he was there, but I still couldn’t see him.” Rose rubbed at her skirt, half-expecting to find it wet with blood. “I don’t know if it’s because of my dream, that it’s still overlapping the rest, or if it’s just this place. Whatever it was, he was still glowing, like before. I couldn’t get a look at his face.”
    Mike raised his hand and light pushed back the gloom. Looking at her team, Rose realized she wasn’t the only one on edge in this place. Mike had wrapped his black-beaded rosary around his right hand. Ian leaned against another column in a pose that might have seemed casual if she couldn’t feel the way his nerves pounded agitation. Nazeem stood at Rose’s side, scanning the shadows.
    Mike held the light higher so it shone directly on Rose’s face. His voice was sharp, impatient. “You’re telling me you actually had a vision?”
    “There’s so much energy here—of course I had a vision. A man died—violently. That leaves an echo. Except this damn church is so full of its own black energy, it’s almost sucked the death dry.”
    “What do you mean?” Ian asked.
    Rose didn’t know how better to communicate it. “Honestly, I don’t know how you guys aren’t feeling it. This place is wrong. Even more than the rest of St. Petersburg. It’s black and sad and…I don’t know, evil. I can feel the echo of the people who come here to pray. There’s even a whiff of the tourists overwhelmed by the beauty of this place. But