There were two trees on either side of the walkway; in each one, a disemboweled walker dangled from a noose. The scalps had been removed and the heads appeared hollow, as if someone had scooped out their contents like a jack'o'lantern.

The wind whispered cold nothings across Rick's and Michonne's cheeks.

As they approached the entrance, they got their first look at the door. Across the oak surface, "Believe in Mighty God" was scribed in blood.

Rick adjusted his shotgun strap, so that it settled against his back, and wielded his M16, pressing the stock against his shoulder. Following his lead, Michonne unsheathed her katana.

Rick crept to the top of the stairs and pushed the door open, quickly sliding inside. He whipped his gun across the full length of his vision. Michonne slid in behind him.

The narthex was empty but for two rotted chairs and an empty, crusted basin. The paint was peeling off of a mural of Christ, so that he appeared eaten-up.

Rick froze, his eyes snapping to Michonne, as the staticy notes of an old phonograph blared throughout the church.

I'll be seeing you
in all the old familiar places
that this heart of mine embraces
all day and through

Rick sidled to his left to the threshold of the nave, his face blackened by the shadow of a rusted cross. He peered through the doorway into the main body of the church.

I'll be seeing you
in every lovely summer's day
in everything that's light and gay
I'll always think of you that way

Two aisles of long pews were separated in the middle by a dark, filthy carpet that might have been red once. At the front, the carpet was flanked on each side by a broken lectern and a rotted pulpit bearing the symbol of the Lord's sacrifice.

Three small steps led up to the modest altar; it was more functional than ornate, with two tall candles positioned on the far left and right of a small, clothed table. Above the table, a chipped Christ lay dying on a gold cross. On the wall behind him, a white-chalk pentagram had been drawn on the gray brick. It appeared freshly created.

I'll find you in the morning sun
and when the night is new
I'll be looking at the moon
but I'll be seeing you

Rick moved slowly down the carpet, gun trained forward. When they were halfway to the altar, the music scraped to a halt. The door to the sacristy creaked open. Rick snapped his gun to the spot as a man walked into the moonlight filtering through the opaque parts of the stained glass windows.

"Hello," The Man said.

He was about Rick's height, but more muscled. His hair, the quick recession of which was hidden by its messy style, dangled down his forehead in damp strands, partially obscuring his cold, snake-like eyes. He wore black pants and a sleeveless black hoodie covered by a tactical vest. His hands and wrists were covered in black athletic tape like a prizefighter. Aside from the knife on his belt, he appeared weaponless.

Behind them, they heard footsteps in the narthex. Michonne whipped around to cover Rick's back, as Simon strode in with a smug expression.

A side door opened and Matthew entered—so that they were now flanked on all sides.

Rick snapped his gun from The Man to Matthew and back again. "What the fuck is this?" he growled.

The Man smirked devilishly. "Hey now—hold on a second. There's no need for that."

"I don't take well to an ambush," Rick snarled.

"Who's ambushing you?" the man asked innocently. He glanced about theatrically. "I don't see any snipers in here. Matter of fact, the only gun I see is the one you're holding. That's a hell of a peace offering, by the way."

"He's just being cautious," Matthew said kindly. "He's not the kind of man to act rashly. Isn't that right, Mr. Grimes?"

Rick's aim never faltered. He stared hard at The Man, the thin threads of his patience tearing. "You have about five seconds to explain why I'm here, or there won't be a Prophet."

A slow grin spread across The Man's face. He had the smug look of one privy to secrets. He moved slowly past the pulpit, stopping in the middle of the walkway so that the dying Christ was framed behind him.

"I believe you're confused, Sheriff Rick," The Man explained. "I'm not the Prophet—just an appointed representative. My name is Peter."

"Then where is he?" Rick demanded.

"I'm afraid he can't join us," Matthew said. "But we are authorized to negotiate on his behalf."

Rick's tolerance was ebbing. His knuckles were whitening around the grip of his gun. "Just what is it you want to negotiate?"

Peter crept slowly to the altar stairs, sitting down in a show of docility. Matthew and Simon followed suit, holding their palms out and taking a wide berth around Rick and Michonne. Matthew sat down beside Peter; Simon stood leaning against the pulpit.

Rick and Michonne exchanged a look before cautiously joining them, sitting down in the first pew. Their eyes never left the three men. Rick kept his finger near the trigger, but lowered the gun into his lap.

Peter smiled crookedly. "That's better." He followed Rick's eyes, which had drifted back to the pentagram drawn on the wall behind the crucifix. "Something wrong, Sheriff Rick?"

"Just wonderin' why you good Christian boys are playin' with voodoo," Rick said.

Peter glanced at his comrades, sharing a knowing smile. He shook his head. "That's what's wrong with modern Christians—too dogmatic. They took all the mystery in their faith and set it aside—called it witchcraft. But that's not the truth of it, Sheriff Rick. You see, God gave us a complicated world and a mandate to understand it. But people close their eyes and ears—say 'la la la'—and marginalize magic. But we're all alchemists. Every one of us. And if you accept that, and if you seek to comprehend it, then you become a greater being."

"They told you your whole life that all of the 'forces' of the universe are evil," Matthew said. "But our God—our Creative God who made us in his image—he wants us to create so that we might manifest him."

Rick narrowed his eyes. "Is that how he talked to my wife—magic?"

Peter studied him as an artist would the work of a peer. He glanced up at the domed ceiling, finding Joseph and Mary and Jesus peering down peacefully. "Do you believe in souls, Sheriff Rick?"

"I have no use for 'em—real or not."

"Eternity's a long time. God's labor is a good thing."

Rick's eyes darkened. "I'm not meant for Heaven's work."

"You're already doing it," Matthew said, the skin around his eyes tightened in sympathy. "That's why the Prophet so values you."

Peter's mouth twisted eccentrically. He chewed on his lip, then swished some spit like it was gum. He glanced at Rick's trigger finger, before explaining nonchalantly: "Our souls are immortal, but being on earth—it's not a one-and-done trip. We repeat it, over and over. And we get closer to, or farther from, our merging with God."

"It's a state of perfection," Matthew added. "A state none but Jesus achieved before."

Peter smiled blissfully. "And that's it, isn't it? The thing no one gets. We're all the sons of God. Jesus was a soul—born before time no different than the rest of us. He began no closer or farther than anyone else. But he was the first—the first one to achieve perfection. The first one to merge. The only one to merge. Until now."

"What the Prophet creates now, he creates as our God," Matthew said.

Rick nodded, a mocking scowl forming. "Sounds great," he said. "So when's he climb up on that cross and die for all our sins? 'Cause there's a lot of 'em these days."

Peter took a long breath. Repressed impatience bubbled up, then disappeared. He ran his tongue over his lips and said, "Times change, Sheriff Rick. The work of God changes. Jesus sucked up all the bad karma we'd accumulated, but how did we reward him? More sin." He shook his head. "No, this time it's different. You see, there's certain souls on which God's given up. They must be punished, extinguished, hurled in the void. What Jesus did with love, we do now with our fists. The Prophet will purge the earth of every mote of evil."

Michonne glanced at Simon, still as a statue, before gnarling at Peter: "And just what is it you want from us?"

Peter stood up slowly, turning his back and walking to the altar. He smoothed his hand over the cloth, coating it with dust. Then he held his palm over the candle, letting it burn for a moment. He flexed his singed hand and then turned back to face them.

"Make no mistake," Peter said. "The Prophet's a man of mercy, but we're at war with the devil's demons. And that requires men with a special set of skills. The three of us? Mercy's not our business. We are the Hounds of God—the deliverers of justice."

Matthew stood too, walking to the lectern. He glanced down, nodding, and turned to Michonne. "Where evil exists, we will step in. But there's a whole lot of evil—and among the faithful, very few possess our skills."

Rick snickered. "But we do, right?"

"You're ruthless," Peter said. "Efficient. But you're also just. It's such a rare combination."

Matthew nodded. "You could help us. We could help each other. We have all the things your people need. Your friends saw Mableton. They saw how the Prophet rebuilt civilization." He continued imploringly, "Just imagine it! Imagine living in a town with no walls, no fear, no demons. Imagine your son waking up and grabbing his school books and not a gun. Electricity, comforts—but hard work too. The world as it's supposed to be."

Rick's face hardened. He stood up, but kept the gun pointed down. "I think we'll pass."

"Do you speak for all your people?" Peter asked in a low tone.

Rick crinkled his forehead, sweeping his gaze over all three of them. "Wha'do you think?"

Matthew smiled politely. He clasped his gloved hands together. His eyes held Rick's a moment, before slowly moving to Michonne. "May I ask you, ma'am: do you speak for your people? Or did you come for another reason?" When Michonne only stared back coldly, he continued: "You see, the Prophet—he sees things the rest of us can't. And he saw you; he knew you would come tonight."

Matthew walked to the other aisle, gesturing to the closed door to the sacristy. There was a sense of wonder in his manner as he looked back at Michonne. "That room, ma'am—that room is a magic box. It's a place where prayers are answered." He smiled eerily. "The Prophet knows what you pray for, Michonne."

"We can show you what's inside," Peter said. He looked at Rick. "But there's something we need from you first."

Rick glanced at Michonne, who was stone-faced but for the trembling of the muscles there. He growled low in his throat. "We're not playing games," he snarled, raising his gun an inch.

Peter gave a fearless half-smile. "Don't be that way, Sheriff Rick. No games. I can promise—I swear to my God—that you'll like what's in the box." He held his arms out submissively, raking his eyes down his own body. "Am I a threat to you? You have the gun."

Rick stared back at him for long moment. "What do you want?"

"Something small—something easy," Peter assured him. "All we want is a chance to talk to your people. We will come to your home, unarmed, and invite them to join Mableton. No force. No threats. We'll speak our piece, and you'll speak yours. And then your people will decide."

Michonne saw the indecision on Rick's face. "No," she barked. When he said nothing, she continued: "You can't possibly be considering this."

Rick looked down. He weighed each answer in his mind. What was more dangerous—bringing these men into his home or leaving without knowing what lurked in that room? It was an impossible choice designed with precision.

Everything good that he was and had done, and every bad deed he carried in his heart, flickered in his mind like a silent movie. His internal voice read the Prophet's note from Lori over and over, until it was etched in his spirit.

He worked his jaw side to side. Every line on his face deepened.

"Open the door," he said.