Trey wore two faces, and both of ‘em fit like a custom suit. By day, he was Pastor Trey McCall—late twenties, slick fade, gold cross swinging heavy on his chest, voice like honey on Sunday mornings. Folks in the pews called him “Man of God” and meant it, too. He prayed over babies, hugged grandmas, and promised everybody that God saw them, even when the world didn’t.
But when the sun dipped behind the skyline and the city’s heartbeat turned mean, Trey’s other face came out. That’s when the vampires woke up. Not the Hollywood kind—no fangs, no capes—but the kind that sucked hope out of the broken, the desperate, and the lost. Trey was their king. He ran pills and powder through the choir, moved bodies like chess pieces, and turned the church basement into a trap house. Money stacked quicker than prayer requests.
Detective Jade Rivera wasn’t raised to trust men like Trey. She’d seen too many so-called shepherds fleecing their flock, but Trey was different—smooth, thoughtful, dangerous. She was drawn in, sharp as a blade and twice as careful, but she still found herself watching him with something more than suspicion. She caught him slipping sometimes—a flash of something cold in his eyes, a slip of tongue when he thought no one was listening. She knew he was dirty. Proving it was another story.
Word on the street was, Trey’s greed was showing. The stash was getting bigger, the bodies moving faster, and the vampires he called “brothers” were getting sloppy. Jade circled closer, a wolf in a badge, and started flipping his lieutenants. One by one, they sang—about drugs in the choir loft, about girls smuggled in vans with tinted windows, about cash dropped in the collection plate and picked up in the alley behind the sanctuary.
Trey felt the vice closing but kept preaching, sweating under the lights while his world burned down. He thought maybe if he just kept playing Man of God, the devil would forget his name.
But on Sunday, just as the choir hit the last note and Trey was about to pass the plate, the doors swung open. Blue lights flooded the stained glass. Jade walked down the center aisle, badge out, eyes locked on his. The congregation gasped, mothers clutched their kids, and Trey—caught between the pulpit and the grave—just smiled.
Because in the end, every vampire meets the sun. And even pastors bleed.
Jade read him his rights at the altar, her voice steady, her eyes cold. Trey didn’t fight. Didn’t run. Just raised his hands, the gold cross catching the light, and whispered, “Forgive me, Father.”
But the only answer was silence.
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