“That’s right. This peninsula–this island–was designed as a massive conductor of spirit energy. It attracts, traps, harnesses. Murder births the power, makes it grow, taints living souls to spread death and destruction.” The Cajun tightened the noose around his own neck.

“But why?” Vincent cried. His words should have been drowned out by the storm, but somehow they carried. “What could you possibly hope to gain?”

“Immortality,” the Cajun said. “That was the plan, at least at first. But things have reached a tipping point, now. The massacre, the bombings, the war…it was too much. The ritual, if performed now, would result in soulstorm, in annihilation! The only hope is to join the flow and hope to direct it.”

“You’re insane!” Schiller cried from below. He tried to train his machine pistol on the Cajun, but the church’s architecture prevented a clean shot.

“Remain among the living much longer and you’ll see exactly what I mean,” the Cajun cackled. “Only the act of self-sacrifice will-”

He was cut short. Two massive, red stains were blossoming out on his white shirt; the Cajun barely had time to regard them with shock before plummeting. Caught in the noose, he swung freely in the church atrium.

Cobh appeared behind him, revolver in hand. “…deliver the power to one who can use it,” he finished.