ã€ŠThe Paralogical Cases - The Watercourse Wenchã€‹


 I. Summonings

    A sober, black carriage traversed the hillsides an hour to the North of London, weathering the dull, dreary weather of late November. The carriage driver had pulled his cloak and coat closer around him, facing the come and go of chill rains. It was no warmer within the carriage, but that did not faze the passenger in the slightest.

    At first glance one could mistake Lord Ewart for far younger than he was ¨C his short stature and inability to grow facial hair the main culprits in creating such a misconception. But he was not child, and even in private he held himself with a gravitas that in no way befit his rather frail physique; his back straight, upright, and each motion he made with decisive purpose.

    He brushed a few wavy, light brown locks out from before his glasses, and tucked them behind his ear; his hair had reached that wild and wicked length where it was too short to stay, yet too long to not fall in front of his eyes.

    Meanwhile he slowly paged through the old book on his lap, which contained erratic, handwritten scribbles in medieval Latin. He used his left hand, on which he had only three fingers: his thumb, and the index and middle, or rather to him, his last. Whatever had taken his fingers from him had taken a good chunk of his palm as well, scar tissue running down to about the middle of his hand. It did not seem to bother him much, as he made do plenty well with what was left.

    Occasionally he searched the pages of the notebook beside him, to add remarks to his own scheming. Surely he knew exactly how to decipher his own handwriting, but to an outsider they would only catch a few disturbing words: ''Daemon¡¯, ¡®Phantom¡¯ and ''Vampyre¡¯ not the least of them.

    Yet it seemed this book did not contain any of the knowledge he desired. With a deep sigh he closed it.

    ¡°Why must it be mad men, and never an eloquent monk?¡± He sighed to no one in particular, as he carefully wrapped the book back up in cloth and placed it in a small suitcase opposite of him, filled with many rectangles in similar wrapping.

    Unwilling to waste his mind on questions that held no value - neither for what they gave insight into, nor for what their answer would hold, he instead set to wiping the ink from his fountain pen with a handkerchief. His fingers too had been stained, but he had yet to find a moment when they weren''t. At this point he considered it a mark of productivity.

    He allowed himself a moment of respite, and pulled up a silver pocket watch. It opened to the miniature portrait of a stately man in heavily decorated uniform, besides the elegant, finely crafted watch face. A name was written in red: ¡®Silas L. G. C. Ewart¡¯. Out of habit he ran his thumb along the silver edge, the pressure rather comforting. He noted the seconds left to the next minute and counted them down.

    He searched the scenery in a glance, but the rain did not let him see far. With keen eye he took in the grasses and plants beside the road, and set his mind on one particular kind he encountered often enough to suit his purposes. When the hand of his watch reached the minute, he began counting whenever such a plant passed by. One. Two. Three, four¡­ five - - -

    When exactly twenty minutes had passed, he flipped to the back of his notebook. The last page was filled with neat rows of things he had counted: red books in a particular bookshop (on several dates), the flowers on the branch of a fruit tree, the letter F on the front page of the newspaper on the twentieth of July 1863, and now he marked down the broad leaved plants on an unnamed stretch of road between London and Sandon Hall. It had absolutely no use, other than serve his own compulsions.

    -

    Although it was not particularly far away, the country roads made for slow goings - especially in rains like these. A travel that usually lasted for an hour and a half in good weather, was now already underway for two hours. The dark skies started to hue into a soft orange, in the few places the last sunlight could creep under the clouds.

    He picked up a thick, woolen cloak from the hat shelf and threw it on over his formal clothes. Since he already had made up his mind, he had no hesitation when he swung the door open. The sound of horse hooves and wheels dragging through the gritty mud went from a background noise to a loud, nearly overwhelming roar. Rain spattered against him, and sharp winds blew it up in his face - if anything it was exhilarating. Without so much a complaint he climbed up the top and sat beside his carriage driver.

    ¡°Milord?¡± He heard the young voice mumble shocked from underneath the layers of clothing.

    ¡°Who else? Father Christmas?¡± There was no reason why he''d allow for them to be so surprised, and possibly let them convince him it was unlordly. ¡°Give me the reins, you''ve been out here for hours.¡±

    ¡°And I can go many more if you have need for it.¡± The boy said as if it was a point of pride, and not stubbornness.

    ¡°Do I look like a man who has need for such a thing, William?¡± Although his glasses had already been rained on, his blue eyes pierced over the wire rims, as if he could see into the soul of his driver. The boy shook his head, the few dark brown curls that had been caught in the rain still bouncing about - equally as stubborn as the person to whom they belonged.

    ¡°It¡¯s freezing. Go inside, try to warm your hands and get dry. And do not dare drip rainwater on my possessions.¡± With a sharp nod he dismissed the boy, and despite a few mumbled protests into their collar, Will did as was asked from him.

    The rest of the ride to Sandon did not take much longer, but the clouds grew denser above, causing darkness to fall within the span of mere moments. In heavy rain, he noticed Will climb back up behind him. Not concerned about having to appear lordly or too good, he extended his arm so the boy would not slip and fall. As William sat down beside him, he asked for the reins back.

    ¡°You cannot arrive atop your own carriage Milord, and I sincerely doubt that I would be able to pass for you.¡±

    ¡°But of course, you have grown too tall.¡± Lord Ewart said with a grin, even if it were not visible, as he handed the reins over and moved back down.

    Once inside he took his cloak off, and put it on a small hook besides the door so it would not drip on the seats. With a glance around he noted that nothing was out of place, aside from perhaps a few new, wet footprints. He sat back down and took up his notebook once more to look over the information he had obtained ¨C and see what was worth keeping.

    ¡°The Earl Harrowby will want to see you this very instant Milord.¡± The butler took his cloak off of his shoulders as he spoke, folding it over his arm. He led the way towards two wooden side doors, opening one and introducing the young Lord''s presence to the Earl.

    ¡°Milord, Viscount Ewart has arrived.¡±

    ¡°Send him in, and prepare us a cup of tea.¡± A voice spoke low and calm from inside the room. The butler nodded, and gestured for the Lord to enter. He did so without hesitating.

    For a moment he remained silent, facing the back of Earl Harrowby; his shape was outlined by the large, crackling hearth he stared into. He held a porcelain teacup in his hands, sipping without haste. The room was fairly dark otherwise, the deep orange firelight only reaching two couches and a salon table. Lord Ewart straightened his back and placed his hands behind his back.

    This narrative has been purloined without the author''s approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.¡°You requested for me, Milord?¡±

    ¡°Yes, Alden.¡± The Earl spoke, his voice deep, nearly tired. ¡°We need to speak.¡± Without turning around, the Earl gestured backwards toward one of the couches. Knowing better than to question, Alden obliged with a stately nod even if Earl Harrowby could not see. He sat down on the end furthest from the fire, the warmth rather uncomfortable since he had come from the chill outside.

    The Earl took his seat on the couch opposite of Alden. Despite the greying of his hair and beard, in the orange light he still resembled much an old lion. Weary, only living long enough to become grey through cunning and patience. The lines in his face had deepened since last time, and Alden did not know whether it was the light, his age, or his actions that caused such a thing. He did not dare look away, well aware that such a man would strike the moment he showed weakness.

    With a soft clatter, the teacup was set down on the table. The Earl folded his hands together and sat upright, instead facing the fire.

    ¡°You are an intelligent young man, Alden, much like your father used to be.¡± Well aware that it was not a compliment, Alden still nodded. ¡°So then tell me, why do you waste such gifts on nonsense and old wives¡¯ blabbering?¡±

    ¡°With all due respect Milord, I do not consider my studies a waste.¡±

    ¡°I understand that you would have been told as such, and I must admit it may not be entirely your fault. But would you not consider it strange, when a young Lord goes missing from his uncle''s home - from under my guardianship that your father bestowed upon me in his will, only to return the day of his eighteenth birthday a member of the Occultist.¡±

    Alden remained silent, knowing that none of his words would change the Earl¡¯s mind on the subject.

    ¡°Yet you do not show your face, you hide away, focused on these¡­ fantastical tales. These myths on the edge of God''s grace - and you best beware you not trespass that edge. There are even talks that you are an imposter, and if I had not helped raise you myself I would be inclined to believe them.¡±

    With a deep bite of his lip, he turned his gaze away, trying to remain calm.

    ¡°They are not fantasies, nor myths, merely because you believe them to be Milord.¡±

    ¡°I must believe in ghosts? Demons? Wish me to cower before the dark like your Occultists do? You know seven languages yet all you speak in them is nonsense.¡±

    The arrival of the tea was just in time to pretend he had not been angered by such remarks.

    With two deep breaths and a grateful nod, he took the tea from the butler. He did not drink from it yet, letting it cool on the table instead. The Earl Harrowby sighed deeply.

    ¡°You need to come back to reality, young Alden, or this society will eat you alive while you dream of monsters.¡±

    ¡°I have things under control, my companies run a profit, the workers are content and I communicate in writing with the boards. I do not see where this worry is coming from just because I wish to study extraordinary topics.¡±

    ¡°It is not about profit, it is about image. Your image is of a stranger, an eccentric, and in the long run it will hollow out your social standing ¨C and since I am considered in part responsible for you, you will blemish mine as well.¡± There it is. So that''s what this is all about. Displeased, but not at all surprised, Alden took a sip of his tea. Meanwhile the Earl Harrowby stood up again and watched the fire once more.

    ¡°There is only one solution I can see that would benefit us both, and hopefully remind you of your worldly responsibilities: I wish you to marry my niece, Victoria.¡±

    Alden nearly spit is tea back out, only managing to swallow it with tears in his eyes.

    ¡°She too enjoys her books, and she is awfully timid, so you will fit well. It will ease the rumours, or so I believe.¡±

    Wide eyed he stared down into his teacup. Absolutely not¡­ to such a request I cannot agree ¨C I suppose I knew you wouldn''t leave me a choice, sooner or later.

    With a deep sigh Alden stood up, and as he did it was as if even the light of the fire feared him, not daring to touch him. Without a word he demanded the Earl''s attention, forcing him to look over by instinct alone. The man, who had once held himself with the weight of a territorial lion, now reduced to trembling under his gaze - for even beasts feared monsters.

    ¡°My apologies, Milord.¡± I truly do not take joy in this, but it is better than shattering your entire world with things you do not believe in.

    As his gaze settled on the man¡¯s, he saw so much more; the thoughts that laid hidden behind the veil of reality, the conscious of a soul that softly rippled out like a disturbance in the water.

    He changed it, merely by force of will. Pulling away this ridiculous proposal from the Earl¡¯s mental reach, effectively erasing it from his thoughts altogether. Alden was thorough, assuring that if the idea came up again, the Earl would be averse to it. As he tore every bit of the memory out, he took away the conversation they had had as well, the man¡¯s gaze left blank and empty for a long moment as there were no memories made about any of this.

    Calmly he sat down again, fighting the raging headache that came as a punishment for willing another person''s mind. The pain drifted down, crawling into his stomach as a deep hunger which he ignored.

    The Earl blinked twice and recaught his modified line of thought.

    ¡°Er¡­ where was I?¡±

    ¡°I believe you were done? Unless you wish to speak anything more of course?¡± Alden smiled with a sip of his tea.

    ¡°Ah yes, indeed there is.¡± Earl Harrowby said, as he shook off the daze and continued the lecture. ¡°It has come to me through word of mouth that you have lost the favour of the Occultists, so why hold on so stubbornly when even they see no value in your madness?¡±

    ¡°Because the Occultists are stuck in medieval times, their ways are outdated, and are no longer sufficient. Yet time and time again they reject my calls for a more reasonable, evidence based approach.¡±

    ¡°So even they no longer take you serious? If you wish for evidence, consider taking up mathematics, instead of mythology.¡±

    ¡°I am afraid that to me there is little difference between the two.¡±

    ¡°Well then anything else but this obsession, you could at least pretend your main studies are into language ¨C write some Greek poetry, translate a bible; anything.¡±

    With a deep breath Alden remained quiet for a while, as if he was seriously contemplating it. He looked up and nodded.

    ¡°I will take your advice Milord, I suppose I have been carried away.¡±

    ¡°Good¡­ so you finally did come to your senses.¡±

    ¡°Is that everything you wished to speak about?¡±

    ¡°Yes, for now it is. But please do stay the night, so you won''t have to return in the dark, Charles will show you to the guest room.¡±

    ¡°There is a suitcase in the carriage, I would like it to be brought to the room.¡±

    ¡°Of course.¡±

    ¡°Thank you Milord.¡± Alden said with a polite bow.

    ¡°Please keep in mind our conversation.¡±

    ¡°I will Milord, good night.¡±

    ¡°Good night, Alden.¡± The Earl said as he took his leave.

    The Earl turned to watch the fire once more, shaking his head as if a bug had flown in ¨C but whatever it was that bothered him, he shrugged it off quickly.

 II. Farewell, Mr. Forrest

    ¡°So this is it then?¡± The young man seated on the edge of the bed said, as he shrugged and ran his hand through the three days¡¯ worth of beard on his jaw. He addressed a fair-haired lady in a long yellow dress, who was removing a generous amount of make-up before a mirror above the dresser. She did not respond to the complaint.

    ¡°Why are you doing this?¡± He sighed in defeat, and for once he was glad she was paying more attention to herself than him, since his expression was tainted with heartbreak.

    ¡°Ross...¡± She lamented, as she put down the tools with which she deconstructed her image - one so out of place in that red laced room. Yet then again it had never really belonged to her, and he didn¡¯t feel either of them belonged in it, but here they were. ¡°Have I ever not been clear about our arrangement?¡±

    He bit his lip so hard it turned pale, letting out a grunt in agreement. She continued to erase the artistic liberties she had taken with her face, having no qualms with leaving him to his silence.

    ¡°Would you be a doll and help a lady out with her corset?¡± She asked as if nothing had ever happened. Her long, gloved fingers lifted her hair with practised elegance as she stood up with her back turned to him.

    ¡°Celandine,-¡±

    She tutted and cut his complaint short, waving a gloved index finger from left to right to scold him.

    ¡°Behave now, Mr. Forrest.¡±

    With a gruff little noise he gave up, and walked over. Although his own hands were large and calloused from working the forge, he undid the laces of her corset with surprising dexterity. She took in a deep, relieved breath as her chest was freed from the fashionable constraints. He did not stop there, gently brushing away the pale yellow cloth around her shoulders. Instead of holding him back, she simply continued to take off her updo, removing the pins keeping her wig in place.

    As his hands found her soft, pale skin, that spanned tight around her shoulder blades he sighed and left them there, his thumbs gently tracing her. He leant in and kissed her neck ¨C but whispered his name.

    ¡°Cecil, you don¡¯t have to¡­ I can get you a job at the forge. It won¡¯t be much, but you won¡¯t have to live a lie anymore.¡± Ross could feel him tense under his touch as he spoke the name, but then rest into his grip again as he was too tired to get angry. Cecil removed the wig to reveal his slightly thinning, dark brown locks, fiddling with them in his still-gloved hands.

    ¡°To what end Mr. Forrest? I would rather live as a beautiful lie, than another tragedy.¡±

    ¡°To be with me.¡±

    He laughed and shook his head at the request, undoing the rest of his dress.

    ¡°Who are you to accuse me of lies when you speak such wild dreams to me?¡± Cecil stepped out of the layers of cloth that had hidden his truth and hastily folded the dress, ducking out from under Ross¡¯s grasp to put it all away in a large, opened travel case. Yet once there he stared at the contents of the case as if it owed him answers. ¡°No chance in hell¡­ you have a family, a proper life to live. Nobody cares about one more deprived orphan boywhore from the east end.¡±

    Cecil spit the words at the world like he wanted to kill it ¨C and for what it had done to him he ought it deserved every last bit of it.

    Ross wrapped his arms around Cecil¡¯s chest from behind, holding them tightly in an embrace with his far broader build, as he spoke the only words with which he could respond.

    ¡°I care.¡±

    Cecil bit back his tears, unable to show weakness when he was near a man so much taller and stronger than him ¨C no matter how kind they had proven to be.

    ¡°That¡¯s why I have to leave you Mr. Forrest.¡± Ross shook his head in confusion, looking down and meeting Cecil¡¯s gaze. Their brown eyes spoke sadness, and he couldn¡¯t help but notice the presence of slight wrinkles in the corners of what would otherwise be a youthful appearance ¨C he¡¯d never known if those were because his past had been longer than he claimed, or if it simply weighed heavy.

    ¡°Sooner or later the wrong one finds out, I can¡¯t do such a thing to you.¡±

    Ross laid his head against Cecil¡¯s neck, then nodded. He couldn¡¯t resist taking a few deep breaths of his perfume. It wasn¡¯t often he was met with scents that were neither soot nor grease.

    ¡°I always wished to see Paris.¡± Cecil spoke softly, not averse to his indulgence.

    ¡°You tell me such beautiful lies Lady Celandine.¡± In his voice there laid a near poetic sadness not expected of a man like him, as with a firm grasp he took the seam of the glove and stripped it all the way down. A red rash spread out along their palm, like a cursed mark that confirmed all his fears.

    ¡°I thought I¡¯d have longer before I would fall ill¡­¡± Cecil whispered as he pulled his hand back and clutched it to his chest with the other, afraid to do worse to the man he loved than dying. ¡°I¡¯m so sorry, I wanted ¨C I just¡­¡± His breaths heaved in his chest, as he had no excuse for making advances on someone never meant for him, and one he deserved even less.

    Yet Ross was not one to give up, instead he kept his grip on their shoulders and gave them a gentle kiss on their cheek.

    ¡°It¡¯s fine.¡± The words soothed enough for Cecil to catch his voice again.

    ¡°What if I gave it to you?¡± But Ross shook his head fervently.

    ¡°How would you? We haven''t done anything worthy of such a punishment, only walked beside one another.¡±

    ¡°So says the man who is holding me while I¡¯m nude.¡± Ross couldn¡¯t help but chuckle and admit to that, and it caused Cecil to smile through his deep worries.

    ¡°I believe it was you who asked me what life is worth if we filled it with nothing good.¡± As he ran his thumbs over their shoulders, Cecil nodded and once more avoided his grasp ¨C he let them go.

    ¡°You were my good.¡± He said softly as he went to put on his undergarb. ¡°I enjoyed your company as much as Celandine enjoyed your attention, Mr. Forrest.¡±

    Ross smiled at the mess of clothes in the case, and quietly closed it. From the corner of his eye he saw Cecil put on a somewhat worn, black suit and white gloves. It fitted him ill, even if the tailoring itself was fine.

    ¡°She has a talent for flattery.¡± Cecil smiled and made a small curtsey, while Ross took the travel case from the bed and set it down.

    Yet that moment passed too, and neither knew what to say that could ease this parting ¨C even if it was clear there truly was not going to be any other way. Ross sighed and stared down at the case, while Cecil finicked with the fingertips of his gloves.

    ¡°I will write you.¡± He said as if it would ease the pain.

    ¡°Will you tell me about Paris?¡±

    ¡°More than any blacksmith ever needs to know.¡± Cecil smiled, and so did Ross ¨C for just a moment. ¡°So then¡­ this is our farewell, Mr. Forrest.¡±

    Ross nodded.

    ¡°Take care.¡±

    For a mere second Cecil hesitated, as if there was something more to say, but they couldn¡¯t find it. With both hands he took the case and went to take it the short way over to the door.

    Ross stood and watched, his mind racking over the many words he still wished to speak, but none would do. Yet he knew that once they had gone through that door there was nothing ever to say or do again, and he couldn¡¯t bear that.

    Within two steps he had made his way over and grabbed their wrist. In his impulse he pulled them in, perhaps with more strength than was warranted ¨C or wise. Yet before the short window of their surprise could turn into fear, he had placed his hand on the back of their neck and kissed them. A kiss he had been denied, despite their many moments together, but one he couldn''t do without. And neither could Cecil, as he felt them give in to it after just a moment of hesitation.

    Unauthorized use of content: if you find this story on Amazon, report the violation.But like all others, those fleeting seconds of intimacy passed as well, no matter how much he wished they lasted.

    He let out a soft sigh as he pulled back, both his hands drifting to their face as he wanted to see it one last time ¨C to remember it the way it was without the fa?ade. Cecil looked up at him and smiled, despite the worry that this had doomed him. Ross merely kissed again, not afraid of how bad it was, as his heart said it was right and he trusted that more than any book or gospel.

    ¡°Please Mr. Forrest¡­ before I change my mind.¡± Cecil pleaded, and like any other time before, he let them go again.

    ¡°Go see Paris, before I change mine.¡±

    A soft kiss met his forehead, while he still leant over. He smiled even if it hurt.

    ¡°Farewell, Ross.¡±

    For those last steps he''d ever see of them, he couldn''t look away, taking in every detail in the hopes that if he just tried hard enough it would slow this moment to an eternity. But it didn''t.

    As the door shut he felt tears roll down the sides of his cheeks, into his beard. Not for himself, but for them. He knew far too well a man like him wasn''t supposed to cry, but he hadn''t been supposed to do any of this.

    With the palm of his hand he quickly wiped away the tears, and took a long, sobering look through the room. Without her,- him, there was nothing of value: it was just a brothel room.

    <hr>

    To my dear Ross,

    I am sorry that I have not written you in so many months, but I am afraid I did not have the heart to despite the many kind words you sent me. To hear you are in good health brightens my days here.

    Paris is still beautiful, but I am sad to say I will not see it for much longer ¨C it needs to be said since you despise my lies so much, and these may be my last words to you. I did not wish for them to bear such weight, and rather I''d speak to you about the many things we used to. Now winter has passed, the flowers and insects return to the hills, and there have been many days I wished for you to walk beside me through them.

    It gives me solace to know that even something as barren as winter can find life again so quick. I hope that while the dark days of my winter set, you will still have many days of spring ahead of you.

    It is a selfish request, I know that, but please do not mourn me for too long: there are many more flowers, and there is so much more for you to live and find, it pains me to think you would miss it because of me.

    Yet here I am melancholic once more. So I wish to end with the words I should have said to you a long time ago, when I still had the chance.

    I love you.

    The pale moonlight reflected in the calm waves of the Seine as they washed over the riverbank. Occasionally they stirred the heavy, soaked skirts of a yellow evening dress. Although the water licked at their pale fingers - like a pup pleading them to wake up, they remained forever still.

    <hr>

    ¡°Ross? Ross! Come on you bloody twat.¡± The loud voice rung in his head, causing the room to spin every which way. ¡°You finish the whole bottle?¡± With his cheek stuck to the bar, he saw Jack pick up the bottle he knew had held whisky ¨C once upon a time.

    ¡°Ah fer chrissake, ''s this about that Paris lass?¡± He heard Dan say from the other side, but when he tried to get up and turn his head he nearly toppled backwards.

    ¡°Hey! Get him out of here, it''s done for tonight.¡±

    ¡°Sh-shut up¡­¡± Ross protested weakly against all the strange noises that bounced about his head.

    ¡°Come on, time to get you home.¡± George grabbed him under his armpits, and although he tried to swing wildly to stop them, all he really did was flail a little. Both his legs were taken hostage by his two ''friends¡¯ before he could do anything about it.

    He squirmed, but the motion made him sick. Realising it was no use, he just went limp and let it happen.

    His back hit a wall outside, and his head smacked into it just after.

    ¡°Ah fucking¡­ sorry mate.¡± He grumbled a few angry, incoherent swears at George.

    ¡°So what''re we doing with him?¡±

    ¡°Well get him home of course. Look at the twat, he can''t even stand proper.¡± Jack said, as his own gesture caused him to wobble on his feet.

    ¡°Ye proper daft, ye can''t even do it yerself. How ye getting him home then?¡±

    ¡° ''s just a few, I manage.¡±

    ¡°Ye Englishmen can''t handle shite.¡±

    ¡°Well what about him then eh, you''re cousins.¡±

    ¡°Cause the lad had two bottles, not two pints - and he''s a mutt anyway.¡±

    ¡°Won''t you two stop bickering like old ladies already.¡± George complained, ¡°We''re not getting anywhere.¡±

    ¡°Ah fer¡­ fine.¡± Dan groaned as he knelt down and shook his passed out cousin. ¡°Ross! Rossy ye daft,-¡± He slapped them across the face. ¡°Finnleigh!¡±

    Ross grabbed the side of his face, as he heard his given name get shouted at him. Even though it was dark and everything spun, he knew exactly who it was - since the accent was rather unmistakable.

    ¡°Fock off Aodhan¡­¡± He tried to punch his cousin across the face, but only ended up swinging wide and hitting the filthy cobblestones with his body.

    ¡°The lad ain''t walking there, that''s fer sure.¡± Dan said as he gave his cousin a firm slap on the back in retaliation.

    ¡°Well then you get the other side.¡± George sighed, grabbing one arm and pulling Ross up. Reluctantly, trying not to get hit by a now angered Ross, Dan grabbed the other side.

    ¡°Now what do I do?¡± Jack complained from behind.

    ¡°Try and walk straight like a man.¡± George groaned, rather displeased with his current situation as he had to carry a hefty blacksmith a head taller than him back to the South Wharf.

    ¡°Good Evening Mrs. Forrest.¡± George said as he tried to heave Ross over the doorstep of his home. A woman held up a lantern light, her demeanour displeased, angry even, and despite her being shorter than any of the men and visibly getting along in her pregnancy, all of them were rather intimidated by her gaze.

    ¡°Evening auntie,¡± Dan said as he carried the legged half of her son into the house.

    ¡°Hi ma''am.¡± Jack lifted his hand, preferring to instead stand outside to try and pass as less drunk than he really was.

    With a last effort, George and Dan managed to roll Ross onto a bed that appeared rather undersized.

    ¡°Well that''s that.¡± George sighed, relieved to finally be done with it. Dan just shrugged, already on his way to leave.

    They weren''t even halfway through the small room, when the sound of heaving sobs filled it. Dan didn''t respond, already done with his cousin for the night, but George turned around unsure.

    ¡°Is he crying?¡± He asked in the tone of someone not knowing whether to do something about it or not.

    ¡°Eh, probably figured out he''s half English,¡± Dan said with a glance back at George, asking if he was coming since it wasn''t all that big of a deal. When George didn''t respond he simply shrugged and left of his own accord.

    ¡°You alright Ross?¡± George asked, stuck in the middle of the room in between following Dan out and helping his friend. Ross¡¯s answer was louder sobs, which made him feel even more uncomfortable about it all. ¡°Did something happen?¡±

    ¡°She''s gone¡­¡±

    The slurred words were all he caught, and he had to fill in the gaps between.

    ¡°The Paris girl?¡± He saw Ross nod, his sobs now full fledged and uncontrollable.

    ¡°Well¡­ just sleep it off, it''s just a girl?¡± George tried, not very well versed in the ways of consoling grief. He didn''t get much of an answer, but without knowing what to do about this whole mess, standing there was worse. So he left and let Ross to it.

 III. Sacrifices

    The long, narrow abby hall was lit by the early morning light that fell through simple stained windows, scattering an array of colours in the dim interior. A few broken windows had been replaced with clear glass, while several others had been bricked up, giving a stark contrast to the old, natural stonework.

    Against one wall, two rows of pews stood, one slightly higher than the other. The benches were filled with men in grey robes, the youngest of whom were still in their forties. Below the large, centerpiece stained window stood a tall, stone throne of sorts, of which one of the top corners had broken off. A man clad in white with gold embroidery sat in it, a feeble hand covered in liver spots resting on one of the armrests. Below the throne stood three people who were completely covered in white robes, including gloved hands and faces covered under their hood.

    The odd one out amongst all this was Alden. His small figure nearly drowned in the heavy, black robes that marked him as the sinner amongst them. Yet he bore the clothes with his head held high, not letting them weigh him down as he repeatedly tried to defend his claim from the onslaught of arguments. Until finally he had had enough and addressed the man in white and gold directly in a last plea.

    ¡°Medieval traditions cannot save the Order, Your Reverence, we need to change our ways, or we will crumble under the change in the world.¡± His voice was loud and clear, reaching all the way through the hall.

    ¡°We have survived for over eight-hundred years young Alden, or have you forgotten that this is our Holy mission, spoken by the Lord Himself? Why ought we change for your personal paranoia?¡± The Reverend spoke softly, and the men in grey fell silent immediately, to allow for the wispy voice to be heard. He beckoned for one of the people in white, his Watchers, and whispered something. The Watcher shook their head, presumably speaking something back.

    ¡°Oh I do not believe he has forgotten at all, Your Reverence.¡± One of the men in grey claimed loudly, standing up to address the Reverend. He had dark black hair, and a long, thin beard that got increasingly more salt than pepper near the roots.

    ¡°Speak clearly Father Huxley.¡± The Reverend said with a gesture of his hand, allowing the Father to continue. With a grateful nod of his head, he did.

    ¡°We all know the issue in this room does not come from any of our traditions,¡± Father Huxley took a long look at his fellow Occultists, letting his words settle. ¡°Or are we to believe that his abilities do not come from the very vile sources we are set to destroy? What are you then, young Alden. Witch? Possessed, perhaps? Or sired by devil?¡± Father Huxley leant forward in the pew, both hands on the wood as he scowled at Alden. Alden scowled back, his eyes sharp and narrow, not impressed with baseless speculation.

    ¡°Lord Ewart has always served us faithfully, why question his allegiances now?¡± Another man in grey robes said, from the corner of the lower pew. His wavy, fair hair showed a few touches of grey too, but far more sparsely ¨C he was perhaps one of the youngest in the room, besides Alden.

    ¡°What other reason has he for this mad endeavour other than to sow doubt and division?¡± Father Huxley snapped back with a gesture at Alden.

    ¡°Father Huxley, Father Roberts, I wish to remind you that this is not your trial.¡± The Reverend spoke, before slowly leaning in towards Alden, hands folded under his chin. ¡°With what reason do you doubt our very God-given conventions, young Alden?¡±

    ¡°What reason do I have not to, when we are failing? When the demonic and paranormal runs rampant whether we are there or not. How can you not see you are nothing but a gathering of old men clinging to old ways, in a new world?¡± Agitated by all the questioning he¡¯d already endured, Alden made a large, sweeping motion towards the rest of the room.

    ¡°How dare you?¡± Father Huxley hissed in a dangerous whisper, but Alden immediately snapped his head back.

    ¡°How dare you send us out with paper bullets?! How dare you send us into danger without a semblance of information?! Tradition you call it, and tradition they used. Zare, Reuben, Laurent, did they not faithfully pray how you taught them? Did they not believe enough?¡± Alden¡¯s angry voice filled the room somehow far darker and heavier than his small size should command. It caused a few of the men in grey to lean away from him in shock and horror.

    The author''s tale has been misappropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.¡°You are upset. You have been wounded, but this is no reason to believe God has failed you.¡± The Reverend continued ever-calm.

    ¡°No, you have failed God. All of you!¡± Alden yelled back in rage.

    ¡°Alden! Calm yourself, your mind is clouded by anger.¡± Father Roberts shouted, and the deep, commanding voice seemed to demand at least enough respect for Alden to lower his voice when he gave his retort.

    ¡°And yours by convention. We need the new philosophies, we need logics, the bible did not speak of mechanics, nor of chemistry or of physics ¨C yet those are what have brought forth this age. Why not study the forces you fight against? Why not a philosophy of the occult, or paralogics?¡±

    ¡°Because it is blasphemy!¡± Father Huxley added with a slam of his flat hand onto the pew.

    The rest of the men immediately burst out in tumultuous discussion, as if the very mention of the word in their halls upset the order of things.

    ¡°Silence!¡± The Reverend demanded, not loud but stern enough to be heard. ¡°Young Alden, in lien of your loss, I know we can find the heart to forgive you for your misguided anger, if you are to admit these fantastic ideas of yours were nothing but a lapse in judgement brought on by a moment of vulnerability.¡± A thin, old finger lifted slowly towards him, and it held all the power over his demise ¨C or restitution. Alden glared back at it.

    ¡°I¡­ I cannot,¡± he confessed, only for the Occultists to once more burst out in speech. Louder, he continued, demanding their attention for one sentence more. ¡°I cannot let their deaths go to waste without at least attempting to find another way. A better way to continue their fight.¡±

    ¡°Alden¡­¡± Father Roberts said softly in shock, and Alden kept his gaze, as he tugged on the cord of his cloak.

    ¡°I swore to fight the forces of evil, I took my oath.¡± He explained himself towards the Father, before turning his gaze up towards the Reverend as he stepped back and away. ¡°I will keep it, with or without the Order.¡±

    He went to push the heavy, oaken doors of the hall open. A deep sting in his left hand nearly made him cry out in pain. As he looked up to find out why, he was still shocked to find a lack of fingers, the scar red and only barely healed. The full shame of his actions now settled in, and he bit his lip out of anger, instead using his elbow to bash open the door. It hurt his elbow too, but he didn¡¯t care as much about that.

    <hr>

    Alone in his carriage, he buried his face in both his hands. He let out a loud, frustrated cry. It had been stupid to go against the Order, but he couldn¡¯t stand it any longer. Time and time again he saw the people he was supposed to save suffer a terrible fate ¨C good people, bad people, and everyone in between.

    ¡°It makes no sense. Nothing makes any Godforsaken sense!¡± In agitation he grabbed the first thing in reach, which was his notebook, and threw it at the side of the carriage with as much force as he could. With a loud slam and fluttering papers, the booklet hit the wood, before dropping on the floor. It laid there rather miserably, and he wished he could join in.

    He¡¯d burnt all his bridges in this fight, and if anyone in the Order was deemed stark mad, he was now considered insane even by their standards. The thought of running and finding a different life crossed his mind for just a moment, but he knew that he couldn¡¯t. If not bound by oath, then he was bound by vengeance. Either he fought until there was nothing left to fight against, or he died trying, joining his companions last.

    ¡°There has to be an answer ¨C a method, or even just a rule. If I can just prove it right, if I can find a way that works¡­ I need evidence.¡± I need allies¡­

 IV.i Thievery

    A boy on the cusp of adolescence, with wild, strawberry blonde hair and a face full of freckles carried a large flask into the back of the forge. The structure was half-open, looking out over the docks along the Thames, as it had once begun with simple boat repairs - but nowadays making custom fit machine parts and repairs was much more profitable. In the harsh, summer sunlight the masts of the boats threw deep shadows, gently meandering up and down in the water. Inside, the smell of soot and oil was accompanied by the hint of sweat from several men working the forge.

    The boy weaved between the coming and going of men carrying supplies, and customers that came to place or pick up their orders. Until finally holding the bottle up to his older brother. Ross rewarded him with a firm, somewhat sooty ruffle through his curls, before opening the bottle and taking a much needed swig of cold water.

    ¡°Thank you Tommy.¡± He said with a smile, as he handed the flask over to another worker beside him that held down the glowing piece of iron with tongs. Before the iron would cool and become unworkable, he picked up his hammer again to get the last slight bends out.

    ¡°What are you making?¡± Tommy asked, eagerly leaning in to catch a glimpse of the work. Ross quickly grabbed his hands and pulled them off of the anvil, before he''d burn them or get hit by a hammer.

    ¡°Hey! What did da say about putting your hands where they don''t belong?¡± He said sternly, and Tommy frowned.

    ¡°Thomas, if ye donnae to touch it, keep yer hands in yer pockets fer focksake.¡±

    The iron part ticked up and down on the anvil repeatedly, as the worker held back laughter trying to keep it still.

    Ross shook his head with a smile, and gave the iron two more hits to get it perfectly straight.

    ¡°He''s yer da''s son alright.¡± The worker said as they downed the iron part in water. Immediately it sizzled and steamed.

    ¡°Didn¡¯t know the accent came with it, though.¡±

    ¡°Let¡¯s hope that''s the only thing that came with.¡±

    Ross shook his head again and let out a quick blow of air, as he could imagine well enough what they meant.

    ¡°Roooooosss.¡± Tommy whined from beside him as he wiped his hands on a dirty rag.

    ¡°Yea?¡±

    ¡°What did you make?¡±

    ¡°It''s just a part, for those weaving machines.¡±

    ¡°What does it do?¡±

    ¡°Move.¡±

    ¡°What if it breaks?¡±

    ¡°Well then it donnae move. Use yer head first before ye ask.¡±

    ¡°Ross!¡± With a groan, Ross turned around as he was called for again, throwing the rag over his shoulder. The lumbering, tall figure of his father was still a sight to behold, even when he¡¯d aged past his prime and had gotten a little too involved with his mother¡¯s custard pies. They shared the same, thick, coppery red hair, but he wouldn¡¯t be able to match his father¡¯s forge-singed beard for a long time.

    ¡°Ye done with the Morris¡¯ piece yet?

    ¡±¡°Yea, just got it finished.¡± Ross said as he pointed at the piece that was now given a last sanding.

    ¡°I need ye to do the repair today, and on the way there, bring this here to Colonel Norrington, would ye?¡± His father handed him an inlaid walnut wood case, complete with metal corners and decorative handle. He immediately knew what it was, since he¡¯d assembled the custom made revolver it contained himself only two days before.

    ¡°Not doing it yerself?¡±

    ¡°Nah, got an emergency repair over at Porter¡¯s. How about ye take Tommy with for the Morris repair, show him how it¡¯s done?¡±

    ¡°Yea sure, c¡¯mon Thomas! We got to go!¡± Ross yelled, and Thomas immediately darted up beside him.

    A short while later, he¡¯d cleaned himself up, put on a fresh linen shirt, and had put his tools and the pieces of machinery he needed in the back of a wooden cart. A cream coloured working horse with mane and tail cut short was geared up in front. Although the heat had been worse in the forge, the glaring sun was somehow even more unpleasant.

    Ross wiped the sweat from his forehead, while at the same time giving the horse some water from a bucket. The mare drank so fast it sloshed and splashed slightly.

    ¡°What¡¯s in that?¡± He heard Tommy ask from beside him while pointing at the walnut case in his other hand.

    ¡°It¡¯s a gun Thomas, we have to deliver it to the military gentleman that ordered it. So I want ye to be good and quiet while we¡¯re there, and then I¡¯ll get ye some sweets on the way home.¡± As he tussled Tommy¡¯s hair, the boy smiled and nodded. ¡°Now let¡¯s go.¡± With one hand he helped Tommy climb up, giving him a good push so he¡¯d be able to get in the seat. It took Ross one step to get up himself, grabbing the reins while carefully laying the case between him and Thomas. A firm tug on the reins set the horse in motion.

    Soon enough they trotted along the busy main roads of London between similar carts, factory workers and peddlers afoot, and more stately open buggies with drivers.

    ¡°Ross?¡± He felt a tug from Tommy on his shirt, and he looked over while at the same time trying to mend the horse through traffic. ¡°Can I see?¡± Tommy pointed down at the case, causing Ross to sigh.

    ¡°No, I worked on it for weeks, I don¡¯t want it to get damaged.¡±

    ¡°Please? Please please please,-¡±

    ¡°Fine! Just a look, but don¡¯t ye dare touch.¡± Ross resigned, knowing he wouldn¡¯t hear the end of it otherwise.

    When the roads crowded a little less, he carefully opened the case on his lap, turning it for Thomas to see. A beautifully engraved gun was placed in the centre, with a matching holster and a package of bullets beside it for showcase. He only allowed Tommy to peek for a second, before closing it again, but that was enough for his little brother to gasp in awe.

    ¡°Did you really make that? Did da teach you?¡±

    Ross shook his head while he focussed on the traffic again.

    ¡°No, uncle did. You know, uncle Ainsley in America?¡±

    Thomas looked at him dumbfounded.

    ¡°Well, I suppose it¡¯s been a long while since he were here. He taught me when I was sixteen, you must¡¯ve been¡­ four or five?¡±

    ¡°Does he make guns like that too?¡±

    ¡°Sometimes he did, but he makes army guns now, because they¡¯re having a big war over there.¡±

    ¡°Does it pay a lot?¡±

    ¡°What do ye think dad bought that other house on the docks with?¡±

    ¡°That gun?¡±

    ¡°A bit more than just this one, but yea.¡±

    ¡°Can I make guns too?¡±

    ¡°When ye get older I¡¯ll teach ye.¡±

    ¡°But I¡¯m older now.¡±

    ¡°Nah, older older, first we¡¯ll get ye to work the forge properly.¡±

    The cart came to a halt in front of the open gates of a large, stately mansion, surrounded by decorative wrought iron fences and a well kept garden in full bloom.

    You could be reading stolen content. Head to the original site for the genuine story.¡°This should be it.¡± Ross said as he looked it over.

    ¡°Is that really all for one person?¡± Thomas asked wide eyed, amazed by the size.

    ¡°I think so, probably his family too.¡± He said as he climbed down the side of the carriage, taking a lead and tying the docile horse to a lantern post just for good measures, even if it probably wouldn¡¯t be necessary.

    ¡°Who needs that much house?¡± Thomas asked, as he took Ross¡¯s wrist and hopped down from the seat.

    ¡°Rich people.¡±

    ¡°Why?¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t know, probably so they don¡¯t get touched by filthy poor people?¡±

    ¡°But we¡¯re not filthy people, right?¡±

    Ross shrugged, not sure what he had to answer to that without ruining Thomas¡¯s self worth. Instead he just placed a hand on his little brother¡¯s shoulder and took them with.

    ¡°Remember, be quiet and polite, just let me talk. And don¡¯t touch anything.¡±

    Thomas nodded, and smiled a bit more, too caught up in taking every sight he could to question later.

    As they both walked up the marble steps to the front door, Ross was the first to notice the heavy wooden door was cracked open slightly ajar. Unsure whether that meant he could enter, or if he had to knock anyhow, he stood still for a second to make a choice. Only to hear a voices from inside quickly get louder, accompanied by rapid footsteps.

    ¡°As I said, I need to check the sources in the library again, but if I am,-¡± The door was pulled open from the inside in a hurry. Before Ross could react or step out of the way, a very well dressed youth smacked into his waist ¨C and was thrown back with the same speed he¡¯d ran into him, falling backwards. A stack of books clattered against the floor, several papers sent everywhere.

    Shocked, Ross immediately bent down to pick up the books closest to him.

    ¡°I¡¯m sorry, are you alright kid?¡± He said as he walked over and looked down.

    From above he heard a worried voice shout out.

    ¡°Milord! Is everything in order?¡± Ross looked up to see another youth look over the railing of the marble stairs. His heart sank when he realised they were addressing the person on the ground.

    ¡°Well yes William, of course, I always hoped to experience my own hallway from this particular angle. It has thrilled me beyond even my wildest dreams.¡±

    ¡°I apologise Milord, I hadn¡¯t seen you, you aren¡¯t hurt are you?¡± Ross stammered, deeply dreading that this was the moment where his life was ruined forever. Unsure what else to do, he knelt down to pick up more of the books and hope to avoid the ire of a royal.

    The man on the floor merely lifted his head a little to give him a good look over. Pale blue eyes pierced out from behind round glasses, with his youthful face crowned by wild brown locks.

    ¡°By God, you¡¯re alive. And here I was thinking someone had built a wall in front of my door just to thwart me.¡± The man laid his head down again, only to roll on his side and pick up the loose papers. At the same time the servant came down the stairs, doing the same.

    ¡°I really didn¡¯t mean to Milord.¡± Ross shook his head as he set the stacked books on the floor, but it seemed the Lord had little need for his apologies.

    ¡°I believe you, what are you here for?¡± The young royal asked, as he took the remaining papers from his servant and quickly paged them through to sort them out again.

    ¡°I meant to bring an order to Colonel Norrington, I,-¡± He swallowed audibly, nervous as he was. ¡°I¡¯m a gunsmith Milord, well, part of the time.¡±

    ¡°Colonel Norrington lives on the second floor, up the stairs to the right.¡± Without giving him a second glance, the Lord pointed up in the direction he needed to be. ¡°William, take the books from him.¡± With a sideways nod, the servant sprung into action and picked up the tall stack of books to carry with.

    ¡°Thank you, Milord, I-I hope I didn¡¯t upset you, please have a wonderful day.¡± With a deep, grateful bow, Ross pulled Thomas with him up the stairs. As he looked back and down, he saw the Lord look up at him with a slight, rather kind smile.

    ¡°Likewise, Mister Forrest.¡±

    He was already three more steps up the stairs, when the realisation set in his panicked mind.

    Do you know me? How could someone like you know me? I never told you my name¡­

    Stunned he looked down again, as if he would find an explanation there, but instead was met with the sight of the door closing.

    In silence, Ross drove the cart to the Morris factory, still racking his mind over that strange encounter ¨C and how lucky he had been not to have been put on a boat bound for the penitentiary colonies right there and then.

    ¡°Ross?¡± He ignored Tommy¡¯s question, instead lost in thought. How did he know my name? Maybe the Colonel told him about his new gun? Yea¡­ that¡¯s probably it, right?

    ¡°Roooosss?¡± Tommy tugged at his sleeve.

    ¡°What?¡± He said, somewhat irritated, but immediately regretting it when he saw Tommy¡¯s shocked expression. Rapidly he took his little brother¡¯s shoulder, and smiled instead, giving them his undivided attention to make up for snapping. ¡°What is it Tommy?¡±

    ¡°I found this.¡± Thomas pulled a folded piece of paper out from his pocket.

    Confused, Ross took it and folded it open. He was met with elegant, cursive handwriting, that didn¡¯t match anyone¡¯s that he knew.

    ¡°Where did you find it?¡± He asked, fearing the answer.

    ¡°In that mansion.¡± Thomas said softly into his collar, realising he¡¯d done something wrong.

    ¡°Fer focksake Thomas! Ye know better than to steal shite!¡± Ross raised his voice, bellowing the words like his father had done with him. Only to see Thomas¡¯s fear, on the brink of tears, and quickly he held himself back. Still breathing heavily, he bit his lip and cursed internally.

    ¡°Ye stole this from a Lord, do ye have any idea what they do with people that steal from Lords?¡±

    Thomas sunk down further, trying to hide as he shook his head.

    ¡°They put ye on a boat, to God only knows where, with rapists, and murderers. And that¡¯s if they don¡¯t hang ye for it!¡±

    As he said the last words, he saw Thomas¡¯s lower lip begin to tremble, and he did feel for him ¨C but mostly he was afraid, terrified of what would happen to him.

    ¡°I-I¡¯m s-sorry.¡±

    Seeing the tears stream down his little brother¡¯s cheeks, his heart sank even deeper.

    There was only one way he saw to solve this, but despite it being one he hardly liked, anything was better than living in fear of Thomas being punished like that. With one hand he grabbed his little brother¡¯s shoulder, pulling him in to face him through the tears. He held up the scrap of paper, making sure they understood.

    ¡°If anybody asks after this, no matter who or how, ye say I took it. I stole it. Got it?¡± Thomas¡¯s sobbing stifled a little. Sternly he shook his shoulder, and asked again louder. ¡°Got it?¡±

    It was a slight relief to see them nod, and he let go, quickly putting the piece of paper in his pocket. He could only hope that Lord wouldn¡¯t look for it ¨C and if they did, that he¡¯d at least be merciful if he handed it back over immediately.

 IV.ii A New Place

    With great care not to get his fingers caught, Ross finally slid the heavy mechanical piece into place. The recently shaped iron was still free of rust and blemishes, in stark contrast to the rust on the rest of the large spinning machine. While he laid upside down to reach the mechanisms, he gestured for Tommy to come take a look.

    ¡°Watch yer hands, don''t get ''em caught!¡± He warned his little brother, having to raise his voice over the deafening whirring and ticking of the still functional spinning machines. He showed him how the parts moved in relation to the other. Bit by bit he put back together the other pieces, which he had to remove to replace the old part.

    He felt a harsh tap of a cane on his leg. In surprise, nearly insulted he looked up at the foreman of the factory; a middle aged man, his hair slicked back with so much Macassar it glistened, even in the dusty air of the textile factory. His heavy mustache moved as he spoke loudly.

    ¡°How much longer Mr. Forrest. We are losing production.¡±

    Ross had to resist the urge to snap back, instead remaining polite.

    ¡°It is nearly done sir, the old beast will be ready for a test run in fifteen minutes.¡±

    The foreman gave a sharp nod and checked his pocket watch for the time.

    ¡°The girls will get her ready.¡± With a loud, sharp whistle and a raise of his cane the foreman signalled for a group of young girls. Immediately they sprung into action, manning the machine and getting the cotton ready for processing. Several even younger boys and girls followed, waiting for when the machine would work again.

    Despite it not being his place to have an opinion, Ross couldn''t help but glance at the children. Their clothes torn from working on their knees, too thin and tired to really focus. He knew that the longer this machine was still, the less they would have to work ¨C but the less they worked, the less they would get paid. As if taking their childhood wasn''t enough, the few pence they had for food and clothing would be gone as well.

    Whether he fixed this machine or not, it didn''t really make a difference. With a frustrated shake of his head, he simply continued to put things back together the way they were. Like the cogs in the machine, he couldn''t change the way they worked, only put them back in and watch it all wear away for a few pounds of profit more.

    ¡°Ross?¡± Tommy''s voice beside him pulled him out of his frustrated mullings. He looked over, happy to have some sort of distraction, even if he could see the slightly confused worry in his little brother''s eyes.

    ¡°Isn¡¯t this machine dangerous?¡±

    ¡°Well, if you get yer fingers caught, it won''t stop, so it''s better if ye keep yer hands off.¡±

    ¡°Then why are they working it?¡± Tommy pointed at the children, not just on this machine, but also the ones that were already busy diving and grabbing the cotton that fell under the spindles each time the machine went back and forth.

    ¡°Because it''s their job Tommy, don''t worry too much, ye need yer hands for different work.¡± With a smile he brushed the cotton dust from his little brother''s hair, but his smile wasn''t reprocitated.

    ¡°Don''t they need hands?¡±

    Ross sighed deeply, and nodded, but he knew there was little he could change or do about it, and even less he could say to justify it.

    ¡°They do Tommy, but their hands buy some people far up pretty things.¡±

    ¡°Like the people in that manor?¡±

    Ross nodded again.

    ¡°Like that gun ye made?¡±

    He quickly shook his head, but realised that had it been anyone else, it very well could have been. It wasn''t a thought he enjoyed.

    ¡°Sometimes¡­ but if I don''t make them, ye''d be under there with them.¡±

    A hard hit against his ankles made him jolt in pain, and Tommy gasped from the suddenness.

    ¡°Quarter of an hour has gone by, Mr Forrest, yet she moves not.¡± The foreman clicked his pocket watch shut, and the sound alone offended him. If ye live by that thing, may as well shove it up yer arse so it can replace yer heart.

    ¡°I am on it, aren''t I?¡± He barked back, his ankle still sore from the hit by the hardwood cane.

    ¡°Does your father know you are this lazy? Or is he too drunk to come by again, so he has to make do with you?¡±

    Ross resisted the urge to throw his tools down right then and there, as he felt his blood rush in his ears. But with Tommy there, and unwilling to lose work, he could hardly fight. Hell, he was already on his back.

    ¡°No sir. It will be done soon.¡± With a push he sent Tommy out from under the machine, so he would be away before it moved again.

    ¡°I suppose I should be glad you''re not drunk, can''t expect much better from you uncivilised lot.¡± Another hard hit against his ankles made him jerk his feet back in pain.

    Upset and insulted, he let out a long breath consisting of nothing but Scottish swears he had only ever heard his father utter. Luckily for him it drowned out amongst the loud noise, so neither Tommy, nor the foreman heard.

    With a last few tugs, he put the final part in place. With his fingers dark from the oil, he wiped the sweat from his forehead and put his tools back in the bag beside him. A few smudges and stains richer ¨C and with bruised ankles, he got up. Before he could even give a signal he saw the foreman switch a handle that caused the power to return to the fixed row. Immediately the whirring and ticking started and fell in pace with all the other rows on the floor.

    As the metal frame came back down the center, he instinctively pulled Tommy closer to him. The latter gladly stuck by him, as he watched the children that dove back under to grab the loose cotton.

    ¡°I promise ye''ll never work like this.¡± Ross said as he ran a hand over Thomas''s shoulder, causing his shirt to smudge. He didn''t respond, too intently focussed on whenever the machine came back and whether the children made it out in time. ¡°Hey, I''ll get ye those sweets soon?¡±

    That did get Thomas to look up, at least drawing his attention away for long enough to nod sullenly.

    Ross counted the coin he was given for his work meticulously, as the foreman and company clerk kept a close watch.

    ¡°You''re a shilling short sir.¡± He stated, after a second recount. The foreman huffed, as if insulted.

    ¡°Or maybe you can''t count, I doubt your folk need to know anything over five.¡± With how those wee-ones looked, neither do ye.

    If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.Ross tossed the tiny bag onto the desk of the clerk.

    ¡°Count them yourself then. It''s five shilling for the materials and craft, two for the work and repair. I may not count to five, but I can count three ¨C and that right there is two threes, which makes no seven.¡±

    The foreman scoffed, but the clerk counted, let out a sigh, and tossed in the extra shilling.

    ¡°The man''s right, it''s six in here.¡± The clerk said, and telling from his jaded tone it probably happened more often than not.

    ¡°It''s a fee for working so slow, we lost good time on this.¡± The foreman attempted to crawl back on his earlier statement with confidence.

    ¡°I¡¯d worked faster hadn''t you kept hitting me.¡±

    ¡°Listen here you,-¡± In a fit, the foreman took a step closer and waved a finger at Ross, but realised that mayhaps not have been such a smart idea when he had to look up to meet the blacksmith''s gaze. Instead the foreman just swallowed his words and scoffed again. ¡°If it were me I''d never have hired the likes of you wild folk.¡±

    Ross ignored the insult, instead walking over to the desk and taking his earnings, before it could be forcefully renegotiated again. He pocketed it and took his leave.

    ¡°Good day sirs, your machine should stay up and running.¡±

    For a second the foreman looked like he wanted to retort, but a brisk ''good day¡¯ from the clerk finished the exchange.

    Once outside, Ross tossed Tommy the loose shilling. He looked at it like it was a treasure.

    ¡°All of it?¡± He asked, amazed by what was effectively a small fortune to him. Ross nodded and smiled.

    ¡°Fair wage for fair work, but don''t spend it all.¡±

    Thomas grinned, quickly putting it in his pocket to keep it safe. He wrapped both his arms around his older brother in a tight hug, not able to reach higher than his waist. Ross simply grinned and patted his shoulder, not caring much that their mother would undoubtedly berate them for all the black smudges.

    -

    With a paper bag of boiled sweets from the grocer still in hand, Ross and Thomas entered the forge again. The sweets didn''t last very long either, as he was quickly obliged to share a round with all the forge hands. Even his own father took one, in the midst of asking him how it had been.

    ¡°How did it go?¡±

    ¡°Colonel was kind enough, told him if he wants the gun fixed or modified he could come by. The Morris people were bitching as usual.¡±

    ¡°Bunch o'' swines, the lot of them. Tried to pull anything?¡±

    ¡°Pay me a shilling less and beat my ankles sore.¡± Ross shrugged, lifting one pant of his pantalons, showing his increasingly black and blue ankle.

    ¡°Ah fer focksake, they get worse every time. Next time I''ll go with ye Rossy.¡±

    ¡°How did yer emergency go?¡±

    ¡°''t was a quick thing, just a cog that snapped and got caught. Took half an hour tops, so I went to Mr. Hogarth to sign that for the house on the by.¡±

    ¡°You did?¡±

    ¡°Yea, it¡¯s all ours now, we''ll move the stuff in in an hour or so. Get ye yer own place to work.¡±

    Ross grinned, surprised by how quick it had been settled, but glad he''d finally get some peace and quiet during working hours.

    With a heavy grunt, he and a forgehand set the last of the small crates down in what was supposed to be a narrow living room. Instead the bare walls were now packed with crates and barrels full of materials and ore, still in need of refinement for the work. It wasn''t the ideal storage space but as long as it fit through the door it would be fine.

    The second part was much trickier, as they had to carry furniture up the narrow, uneven stairs. Some large pieces, like the bed, he and his father took apart and reassembled again in his room. It was rather intense labour, considering the heavy lifting involved, but none of them were strangers to that. Until at last Ross could set down his own personal items on the desk in his work room, next to the bedroom. Mostly that consisted of specialised tools, and small mechanical parts and gears.

    He felt a heavy hand pat his back, and heard a low chuckle.

    ¡°Well that''s that.¡±

    Ross smiled and nodded, turning around to face his father.

    ¡°And now if ye ever meet a fine lass, ye got a place to settle.¡±

    Ross sighed, his smile dulling slightly, despite him trying his best to keep it up.

    ¡°Won¡¯t be meeting any lasses for a while when I got to work these orders.¡±

    ¡°Yer a handsome lad, sooner or later they''ll catch up on ye.¡± His father chuckled again and gave his shoulder another heavy pat. He smiled back but didn''t buy it.

    ¡°Ye make it sound like a fox hunt da.¡±

    ¡°Yer red enough for it, trust me.¡±

    His hair was given a good tussle to prove a point, causing him to sigh and shake his head.

    ¡°I''d hope not, wouldn''t want to get caught by a bitch.¡±

    ¡°Then ye better be on the lookout yerself.¡±

    He scoffed a little at the notion, but then resigned himself to it.

    ¡°Fine da, but I''ll finish work first.¡±

    ¡°Good, I''ll see ye at dinner.¡± His father gave his hair another good tussle, undoubtedly making a mess out of it.

    ¡°See ye.¡± He replied, as his father left the room.

    The moment his father closed the door, his smile faltered. He heard the heavy footfalls down the stairs, and then the door closing. With a sigh he sunk into a chair, and for the first time in a long time it was quiet. No brothers or sisters, no family, no workers and no work. The last time he''d felt this still, he had sat alone in a brothel room.

    He felt a deep yearning in his heart, like a string wound around it wanted to pull him back in time so he could have one more moment he would never get again. Instead his fingers found a letter hidden between blueprints and schematics. He traced the creased paper and opened it up again to a painfully familiar handwriting. There was no need to read further than the first line, as he knew well enough all that followed.

    For months he''d hoped for another letter, but he would never find any more salvation than he had knowing those were his last words to him.

    I can''t¡­ I can''t think of a woman like that. As much as his drunken mind had found some artistic interest in that lady in yellow, his heart had never jumped and leaped for her like it had for the man she hid. And not once had he understood why he''d hide; to have such intelligence and insight wasted on walks in the park with him. No matter how much he tried to force himself to, he had loved Cecil, not Celandine ¨C so how could I marry a lass when I won''t love her? Isn''t it wrong to be loved, but never be able to return it?

 IV.iii Drunken Dreams

    The whole world spun with every step he took, but he found his way home from one wall to the other. He didn''t care that he couldn''t stay up, as it all felt so fuzzy he was sure he would bounce when he did fall. A second later the cobbles in the narrow alley besides his house proved him wrong. He let out a loud groan, he looked at his bottle that miraculously hadn''t cracked, and watched the cheap whiskey spill away between the cobbles in the light of the nearly full moon.

    ¡°Focksake¡­¡± he slurred as he quickly tried to crawl up, causing the alley to wind and twist in every which direction. Although he managed to get on his feet, he stumbled against one of the walls nearly immediately. Unsure how to solve this issue, and with the only thing that he knew for sure eased his troubles in hand, he took a few more swigs. The burn in the back of his throat cleared his mind for long enough to recognise that he was close enough to his bed that sleeping in the alley was a waste.

    He pushed himself off of the wall again, only to see a figure standing at the end of the alley, watching the waterfront. Through the spinning and winding he tried to actually see who it was, but in the darkness he couldn''t make out more than the skirts of a short, tattered dress around a thin body. Her hair was stringy and filthy, and he could only figure she was a whore at the end of her duty on the docks ¨C part of him fell still at the sight, his mind inadvertently drifting to the thought of Cecil. Was he like that too?

    The thought wrecked his heart. He felt angry, but helpless at the sight, knowing this world was one where the destitute sold themselves to the lonely and abusive alike. Why didn''t you let me love you? Didn''t you want to be? Don''t we all want to be?

    With wavering steps he tried to walk forward, not sure what he had to say. He wasn''t even sure if he would say it for her, or to lighten his own heart.

    ¡°Hey?¡± As he called out, the still figure slowly moved.

    He felt cold. The air had been heavy and humid only a second before, but now harboured a deep chill against his skin. For a second his heart stood still, the instinctive sense of something being terribly off sobering him up enough to recognise what he was looking at.

    The spindly legs and arms that stuck out from under the rags weren''t just thin; at some places there wasn''t any of the pale, greyish skin left. Instead he saw the dark, greenish hue of flesh where the skin sloughed off, glistening in the moonlight.

    If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.There was no breath, there was no sound at all. All the distinct tones of reality had gone, the waves, the distant drunks singing, even the bugs; like it had all ceased to be  ¨C and he was left alone in the world. Wide eyed his gaze fixated on her, a scream stuck in his chest. It didn''t matter. Deep in his heart he knew that there was nowhere left that was safe.

    Her grin was rotten, most of her face long since gone. But none of that compared to the hollow emptiness where her eyes should have been. Even the moonlight couldn''t reach the deep darkness that laid in her sockets. It was no absence, it wasn''t some lack of anything that should have been there that was not now. It was absolute, endless nothing, of a depth he couldn''t comprehend as long as he was alive. In the abyss that gazed at him, there was only one thing he recognised: hatred. A twisted scorn that glared at his soul, even if he didn''t know how or why.

    And then she was gone from his sight.

    He took a deep, frightened breath ¨C and felt an exhale against the back of his neck. Cold. It bore the nauseating stench of rot, and words of which he didn''t even understand how she could speak them. Her voice was as an echo of hate.

    Give her back

    -

    With a loud, terrified cry he jumped up. Only to see a small, summer sunlit room. For a second he didn''t know where he was, the room unfamiliar to him. Until he realised it was his own bed that he''d put there the afternoon before. Relief washed over him, and the moment he didn''t tense in fright and terror, all the drink from that same night found its way back up.

    Even while he spewed his guts out onto the wooden floor beside his bed, he could only feel miserable relief. It was just a nightmare. A dream. It wasn''t real. Of course it wasn''t real, how could something like that be real, you absolute moron?

    Ugh¡­ I feel like shite though¡­ never should have drank so much¡­

    With a loud groan ¨C but without the contents of his stomach, he rolled back on his other side to pretend nothing had ever happened for a little longer. He buried his face in the blanket, as if he could hide from his pounding headache. The warm light through the windows radiated out over his skin, but somehow couldn''t quite take away the slight chill on his back even when he felt hot and sweltering.

 V.i Rituals

    Alden let out a deep, irritated sigh as he sorted his loose papers out again on the private desk. Up until page 44, it was perfect ¨C only to then have the numbering jump to 47. He had looked everywhere, but still couldn¡¯t find it. It''s not right, it''s not how it should be. That paper needs to be there.

    The gaping hole in his documents was like an abyss his mind fell into, a leap his focus couldn''t make.

    It''s just a paper. It''s just one page, it''s no big deal. It''s just¡­ gone, and lost, and wrong. What if I need it? What if that¡¯s the information that will save someone? Someone¡¯s going to die because I couldn¡¯t keep track of my papers.

    ¡°Milord?¡± Just as he was about to let out a long, agitated cry, he heard William''s voice from behind him. Somewhat angered he turned around to face his servant.

    ¡°What do you want?¡± He snapped, even if he knew Will could hardly help it.

    ¡°I''m sorry, I must have overlooked your document when I picked up the papers back at home. It may still be there?¡±

    "It''s -¡± a disgrace, an affront ¡°- not your fault.¡±

    ¡°Milord, may I ask you something?¡±

    ¡°Yes?¡± He sighed, resisting the urge to speak flat-out aggressively.

    ¡°I am trying to improve my reading, do you perhaps know of any books?¡± William asked with a slight smile.

    ¡°Do you wish to educate yourself, or just improve the speed with which you read?¡±

    ¡°The latter, Milord.¡±

    ¡°Very well, I will find you a few suited works.¡± With a stern nod to himself, Alden tried to tear his mind away from that missing page, but even with William''s help he couldn¡¯t let go of it that easily. He knew very well that Will was a fine reader; he''d taught him not two years ago, and he had picked it up rapidly. But even when it was an obvious ploy, he gladly played his part if it would allow him a distraction. He went down to the main hall of the library to look through the more popular works that he believed William would enjoy.

    Carefully he decided between a few books, picking three that he believed would help William not only with his reading, but also with general education. It had taken him a while to find tales that were both recent, suited for the boy''s age and neither too easy, nor too trite ¨C especially when every other moment his mind was drawn to that one page presumed forever gone. Unable to help himself, he checked the three works, counting every single page just to make sure none were missing.

    Alden climbed the marble stairs back up again with rapid steps, the tapping of his shoes echoing down the dusty, sunlit hallway of the second floor. With a quick look left and right he saw the hall was empty, and immediately he followed up with a long, drawn out yawn. Now is hardly the time for sleep. He shook his head to get rid of the drowsiness and get himself more alert. The tapping picked up again as he walked on.

    Still carrying the books, he had to push the door open with one hand; just in time to see Will quickly stand up from being bent over the desk. The boy smiled and nodded at his entrance, back straight and standing tall as he could. Alden simply raised a single eyebrow, knowing well enough the tells of deceit ¨C and that was even if he hadn''t been able to read it on the very surface of William''s mind.

    ¡°I brought you your books, see if you would enjoy them.¡± Alden said as he set the books down on the desk, ignoring the obvious as he knew sooner or later it would come out. And a mere moment later he did indeed see a page where one hadn''t been before, marked 45-46 at the very top. It was not his own handwriting, but certainly a good attempt at forgery.

    ¡°I found your page Milord, I must have accidentally pocketed it in haste.¡± With as straight a face as he could muster ¨C well aware that he was a liar, William tapped the desk right above the paper, pointing it out.

    ¡°Ah I see, well I am glad it has been found.¡± Alden smiled as he quickly picked up the papers and stacked them. Not so much because it sorted his neuroses, but because he could appreciate the care William had shown in this misguided attempt to settle it. ¡°Please look at the books, I can still exchange them now if they are not to your liking.¡±

    ¡°Oh well, I realised my reading is passable Milord, how much does a driver need to read anyhow?¡± William tried to shrug off his reading with a slight smile.

    Alden simply pushed the books closer with his fingertips, keeping William''s avoidant gaze as he spoke a far better lie than the boy could ever hope to: a repurposed truth.

    ¡°I am very vested in your education my dear William, a driver may have no need for reading with haste, but certainly a man needs a good basis to draw his morality from. Otherwise he may become involved in unsound behaviours, such as theft, or ill reputes, or untruths.¡±

    His words elicited a nervous swallow from William. With a content smile, Alden leant back again and gave the books a gentle tap.

    ¡°All three, to be finished by this time next week. I expect written summaries to prove you have read them.¡±

    ¡°Yes Milord.¡± Despite his unwill, William took a bow and accepted his punishment with grace. Alden did not head it much, instead putting his papers and books in his bag.

    ¡°Come Will, we ought to head home to make dinner.¡± With a sharp snap of his fingers, Alden began to leave, expecting William to follow right behind. His unlucky servant quickly scrambled to grab the assigned books, and took a few hasty steps to catch up.

    -

    The golden light of a setting summer sun fell past thin curtains that slowly billowed and danced along the gentle breeze that came in through the opened balcony doors. The living room was large, and open, architecturally more like the French palaces than the current, cozier Victorian style of building.

    Despite that the room had been cluttered well: two soft blue couches made a corner around a large hearth, separating half of the room from the dinner table on the other end. Aside from the necessary curiosities and plenty of fresh, variously coloured flowers on the coffee table, mantle piece and dinner table, the long wall opposite of the windows was covered in bookcases. It was however not all full of books, also stalling out various strange artefacts from distant lands ¨C mostly African, but a few were Asian and some Southern American.

    At the dinner table, Alden was paging through the thick evening edition of his newspaper, a second one laying at the ready to confirm or deny the events the first claimed. The date in the top corner of the front page read ''27th of July, 1864¡¯.

    A side door opened, and a woman with light, chocolate hued skin entered, her tight curls springing out from an attempted knot. She wore a black and white uniform, and carried a silver platter with his evening tea.

    With a polite nod to her, he continued reading to the end of his article while she poured the tea out.

    ¡°Anything else, M''lord?¡± She asked with a warm, Caribbean accent, that wasn''t ill-fit in the sunlit room.

    Decisively, Alden folded his paper and laid it away, sighing as he straightened it out along the second one.

    ?A word, if you please Miss Rayne?? He asked in flawless Parisian French.

    ?Yes, what do you wish for?? She responded in her own native Haitian French.

    This content has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road; report any instances of this story if found elsewhere.?Things have been too quiet for too long¡­?

    ?Ah I see, you are bored then?? She chuckled, unafraid to drop all pretend-servitude. Alden gave a short glare, but then sighed and relented.

    ?I wouldn''t call it so.?

    ?Desperate?? She immediately rebutted. With an exasperated raise of his hand, Alden gave up and relented.

    ?Yes, why not go with that.?

    ?Then what is it you request of me?? She asked, and by her tone alone he could feel she was not in the mood to play a game of guess. She never was.

    Not letting himself get hurried along, Alden gave a slow look up at her over the rims of his glasses. Her mind was unreadable, the thoughts he could see so easily in others carefully hidden underneath a distorted, reverberating pattern. It nearly dazed him, a stern reminder not to get complacent near her.

    ?I want a reading, tonight.?

    ?Then you really are desperate...?

    ?Nothing has appeared near me for months, I need to know if it will soon or if I must bide my time and face the critiques and cheap press.?

    ?I see now¡­ it is bored and desperate. Consider yourself lucky our goals are aligned, son of the dread hunt.? Miss Rayne smiled, as she let her long fingers drift along his shoulder. He was unsure whether it was a threat, or a gesture of goodwill, but he would not let himself be treated as the subject of either.

    With a firm grasp, far faster than one would expect from a frail and oft-patient figure like him, he grabbed her wrist, and met her gaze. His grey blue eyes pierced into her dark, black ones, past her empty smiles and past the walls she threw up to her thoughts. Not enough to read her; enough to tell her that he could, stopping just short of her mind. Whether as a threat, or a sign of goodwill ¨C he didn''t care much either way.

    ?Likewise, witch.? He said with his own, polite smile. She made a small curtsey with her one hand still caught, as if to say their game of pretend never left. He let go.

    The small servant''s room was dark, aside from the flickering orange of a streetlamp that pierced through the bluish-grey hues of night from far above. The room was empty, aside from an upturned bed they both ignored for the sake of it.

    ?Must we do it here? You are free to use my rooms.? Alden suggested as he threw a look through the small basement room, not particularly keen on how cramped it was.

    ?I have told you before, I need to be comfortable for the ritual. It is not an easy one.? Miss Rayne said, holding up a candle as she wore a repurposed silk nightgown. Instead of the tight, many layered clothes Victorian women were ought to wear, she had simply wrapped the silk around her chest loosely, and shortened the skirts. The white contrasted heavily with her skin, and any other may have found it immodest, but Alden had studied other cultures intensively enough not to pass such grating judgements. If anything he could certainly believe it was more comfortable ¨C since he was now annoyingly aware of how his collar and tie pressed against his neck.

    Miss Rayne gestured him in, and for once he was a guest on his own property.

    ?Sit down, try not to worry too much,? She said with a grin. ?I will skip the unnecessarily frightening parts.?

    ?Why do you do those?? Alden asked, his scientific curiosity getting the better of him, but Miss Rayne just held up her hand.

    ?I will tell you another time, keep your questions and sit down.? She gestured at the floor, and begrudgingly Alden sat down on the cold, slightly dusty stone floor.

    He watched quietly as Miss Rayne prepared her ritual, not hurried in setting up all elements that she needed. Most prominent was a small, curved blade, the edge so sharp it mirrored the flickering orange light. The sight of it reminded him of the one time before he had done such a ritual, far from home and desperate ¨C things had been wilder back then, but he had not forgotten how unpleasant it was.

    The other items were a bowl filled with white chalk paint, one with a slightly cloudy liquid that he did not recognise, a bowl of salt, and a still empty bowl. She took a small amount of prepared coals, and held them in her hands. Her dark eyes gazed over her clasped hands, questioning him.

    ?Are you ready??

    ?I have come prepared this time.? Alden said as he took a small vial of a clear liquid from his breast pocket. Although Miss Rayne did not respond, she carefully eyed the liquid as he slid the vial back. A single nod from her sealed his fate, and he accepted it.

    With slow, soft whispers she spoke her incantation, and he sensed a strange vibration in forces that did not usually move in such a way ¨C not unlike the distortion in her mind it was like the waters of a stormy pond. Her whispers continued and hung in the small room, commanding a force to gather in the coals. As she laid them down, they glowed a deep, searing red. The light and her intense stare made for an eerie sight.

    He felt his heart pounding in his chest, and even if he did not head the instinctual sensation of fear, he couldn''t help but feel uneasy. Although he wasn''t entirely sure if it was the heat radiating from the coals, or his discomfort, he decided to undo his tie and the first two buttons of his dress shirt. Miss Rayne continued her ritual unhurried and unbothered.

    She laid the blade of the knife on the coals, letting it heat up. dipped her fingertips in the white chalk, picking up the pace of her chanting as she drew long, practised lines on the floor around him while on all fours. It reverberated with the same energy, his mind caught and overwhelmed like he was trapped in a cage without bars. Everywhere he looked but up he saw those nauseating lines. She repeatedly drew them, strengthening the force they held.

    Her fingers were still covered in chalk when she sat back in front of him, and for a moment he heard her voice speak words he knew.

    ?This is unpleasant for you, is it not??

    He nodded without taking his eyes off of the ceiling, his fingers grasping his knees until they were as white as hers.

    ?Do you wish to stop??

    Immediately he shook his head. His stomach still complained, as even without looking he could sense the change in force: just as much as he couldn''t stop hearing or smelling even if he tried to focus elsewhere.

    ?Get this over with.? He bit back, afraid any word too much would drag the contents of his stomach out with it.

    He was nearly relieved to hear her chanting continue, even though he knew things would not get much better.

    Both her hands picked up the knife and lifted it from the coals, holding it up as if to praise it first. Her chants nearly echoed through the blade, like it sang from another world. He clenched his teeth as it grew stronger and stronger with every sound that left her.

    A loud hissing noise startled him, as she poured the opaque liquid over the knife. The smell that hit him was distinctly lemon-y. It made his stomach churn in protest. He heard the blade getting dragged through the salt, leaving only the very final step to be completed.

    Alden closed his eyes knowing what was to come, resigning himself to it.

    He heard her move behind him, her chanting closer and closer. One hand grabbed his hair, pulling his head sideways and whispering her words uncomfortably close to his ear. He felt and heard the cotton of his shirt get cut open.

    The still warm tip of the knife scraped his skin as she flicked the cloth off of his forearm. He simply held it out for her, trembling but begging for it to be over with.

    A sharp pain shot through him as the blade pierced his skin; quick, precise and deep. For a moment he clenched his teeth and tried to fight the searing pain, but when it lasted for longer, several soft whines escaped between his teeth. Although she was close, her grip on him was strong and uncompassionate, holding him in place as his blood poured into the bowl.

 V.ii Visions

    His blood was exchanged for power. Each drop echoed out along the thin veil that separated the material from the immaterial. Disturbing, breaking, engulfing him in what laid on the other side. Like falling into the waves of a stormy sea he was swept with, his mind dragged away from the safe and still shores of his body into the endless, raging motions that pushed forth the world. Instinctively he tried to surface, to return to the physical from which he was not supposed to exist separate.

    He sensed a distant voice, like an echo reverberating along the frail lifeline his soul held to his body. It spoke in no language, instead he understood the concepts their mind sent out in the world for him to hear.

    Go with it¡­ let it take you where you need to be¡­

    Although cryptic, he stopped resisting and soon enough he found his mind drift along. Without a body he was unsure where the border between him and the world laid ¨C if there even was a difference between his thoughts and all other motions.

    But he found familiar ideas here too, that spread out like ripples on the surface of a pond; their path set. He knew the sights of his past, and saw where they would lead ¨C but only of events already set in motion.

    He saw the books he had chosen that same morning, and William desperately attempting to finish them in time.

    The librarian whom he had discussed opening hours with, and his efforts studying on what he knew to be Sunday.

    The man he had ran into this morning, and¡­ a deep, disturbing anxiety. A dark figure that lurked amongst the shadows of his future.

    You are, Ross Forrest? I read the name on your mind in a whim this morning¡­ why?

    Through the wild and precarious sways of the world he tried to reach out, get closer to this man and his disturbing shadow. But the further he reached, the more distant their presence was ¨C unwilling to be found by him. Yet when he traced his faded lifeline back the image grew ever closer again, holding a familiar sheet of paper.

    You will come to me¡­ and you will bring¡­

    With deep effort, and against his better judgements, he attempted to sense the elusive shade. He found anger. Deep, seething ¨C endless. If it had once been a soul, it had long since been torn part, unfolded into a single, eternal dimension of hate.

    No¡­ there is something else¡­

    A soft, pale white glimmer, like the last star at the very end of time. Lonely, but cathartic? Happy?

    It was so distant, drowned out in the hatred, and part of him felt pity. He wanted to take it and protect such rare light before it was washed away in this dark, uncaring ocean of chaos.

    A sudden shudder stirred awake the hatred. He felt a thousand sightless eyes glare at him, and a thousand more death wishes crawl over his mind. He was merely a dot before the creature that had found an endless existence in this plane.

    It was¡­ cold?

    He didn''t remember what it felt like, or if he had ever felt it, but it was the only word he could imagine fit the paralysing pain that overtook his thoughts. Like a hundred pins and needles had caught his still fluttering ideas and pierced them lengthwise. Desperate he struggled to be freed, but no matter where he reached all he found was hatred.

    His mind drowned in icy incompassion, the sharp shards tearing his thoughts apart.

    A harsh, demanding tug on the ever thinner thread that could lead him back reminded him of a way out. Without hesitation he followed it, wrenching himself out from the grasp of this thing even if it took parts of his mind with it. Even if he was barely able to keep himself together; his being unravelling at the ends like ripped cloth. The harder he struggled, the more he came undone, but it was his only way out.

    He could feel the thoughts at the edge of his mind fade, knowing he had once had them, but now unable to trace them back. A few recent memories went with, of what he had done that day, of what he had seen moments before. But for each one he left behind, the grip of this creature on his mind slipped.

    Why am I even here?

    Was I supposed to be?

    -

    With a sudden, disorienting shock he was overwhelmed by all the sensations in the room. The heat of the coals he instinctively pulled away from, only to be held still by a strong yet oddly soft grip. The pain in his arm. The smell of blood. Something soft pressed against his face. The blurry, unclear sight of the ceiling illuminated in red. The increasingly painful sensation of his chest moving up and down without taking a breath, choking on warm air.

    ?Breathe. It''s fine, you¡¯re back. Take deep breaths.? A hand against his chest tried to guide him along, and bit by bit his gasps turned into heavy pants.

    ¡°Where am I? What hap,-¡±

    ?Tell me what you saw.? Miss Rayne commanded as he came out of his panicked daze, having no time for his questions.

    ¡°A man, named Ross Forrest, there¡¯s something¡­ angry¡­¡± His eyes darted along the ceiling as he tried to recall the thing that had tried to tear him apart. ¡°Something powerful¡­¡±

    ?A demon?? She asked, and even her voice carried a twinge of fear at the mention. Alden shook his head, but the motion upset the delicate balance of his already anemic body. The edges of his vision went dark, as all the blood drained out of his head and his conscious was left unsustained. He felt his limbs grow heavy; his breaths slowed and his sight drifted up.

    Two rapid, impatient slaps against his cheek brought him back.

    ?Ey! We¡¯re not done.?

    He nodded, a smile playing along his lips as he only now realised how bizarre this whole situation really was, even though his mind hurt worse by the second.

    Unauthorized tale usage: if you spot this story on Amazon, report the violation.¡°Not a demon¡­ it was cold¡­ dead? ¡­ And it had something¡­ good?¡± His words were strung together from half-formed, airless thoughts with harsh and fast breaths in between trying to remedy that. He felt Miss Rayne wipe something soft under his nose, and it made him frown slightly as it finally dawned on him that he had bled from there too.

    ?Something good??

    He tried to nod, but instead it was more like falling forward. Illuminated by the red coals, he saw large, dark stains on his white shirt, still slightly wet and glistening. His arm was bandaged up, and covered in lines of dried blood. He laughed, about the same time as that his stomach complained deeply.

    Miss Rayne pulled him back up, increasingly annoyed.

    ?Answer.?

    His eyes drifted back to her again, no longer laughing but still smiling. He noticed she was warm, and somehow the thought crossed his mind that she was strong. So much stronger than this frail, blood-deprived form he had to make do with. I want that too...

    ?Aren¡¯t you curious how it feels?? He said softly, his smile widening. ?Even just a little bit??

    Miss Rayne groaned and pushed him sideways, down onto the floor, and he didn''t have the strength to crawl back up.

    ?No. And I don''t believe you¡¯re supposed to ask nicely.?

    It made him laugh again, and he didn''t really know why ¨C he didn''t feel like it should be funny. His stomach growled like a wild animal, his head hurt, and she had just pushed him onto the floor. How dare you¡­ you filthy witch¡­

    His smile faltered, his eyes glancing up at the shapeless, blurred form that now towered over him. I should just kill you¡­ do the world a favour¡­

    A knee was planted in his stomach, and immediately his thoughts were interrupted as he let out a weak, pained sound. The weight kept him down, and he felt her hand pluck something from his chest pocket.

    ?I hope you got what you wanted out of this. At least you didn''t throw up like last time.?

    With one hand she pinched his nose shut, as she upturned the vial of liquid in his mouth. Although he struggled a little, he had neither the energy nor the will to fight much more. He swallowed the bitter liquid.

    ?What is it?? She asked as she smelled the empty vial, her hand on his neck to keep him from moving up.

    His slight smile returned as he knew that the pain in his stomach, and arm, and head would soon be gone.

    ?Morphine...?

    ?What does it do??

    ?It takes the pain away.?

    ?How long does it take??

    ?Half an hour¡­ at most...? He smiled wider, baring his teeth at her as if he wasn''t sure he wanted to threaten her and appear less weak than she undoubtedly knew he was. She sighed, as if amused by his attempt. Her weight left him, but it didn''t make him feel any less heavy. For a little while he tried to get up, but he simply couldn''t.

    He heard a slight chuckle, and the taps of bare feet on stone. Taking advantage of his current state, he felt her toes on his cheek, both deeply insulting him and forcing him to look at her.

    ?I would have killed you, had you not been so brave. You know that, right??

    He nodded.

    ?So why are you so stupid, letting yourself be this weak in front of me??

    The words made him chuckle, even while he was down on the floor and half gone.

    "If you wanted to kill me¡­ you wouldn''t stand there threatening it¡­ like some halfwit¡­¡±

    Miss Rayne scoffed, using her foot to push his head the other way. He smiled, knowing it was as close to winning as he would ever come.

    ?Don¡¯t give me a reason to.?

    ¡°Then stop bothering me¡­ I''m going to bed¡­¡±

    His bed in this instance, was little more than rolling himself over on his side with great effort.

    It took a while for his aches to settle into the soothing, dim sensation the morphine brought with. The shadows of the fire Miss Rayne had lit in the meantime danced on the wall in front of him, getting longer and deeper. It took forms no fire should, of elongated faces leering at him, of dark, demonic figures that came ever closer.

    Wide eyed he stared at the wall, reminded of a place he wasn''t in, and events that weren''t happening. Softly he mumbled under his breath; hasty prayers he knew by heart.

    ?Ey! Don''t you dare with that nonsense, not in my own room.? Miss Rayne protested loudly, but he didn''t respond. If anything his voice grew quicker, his eyes held shut tight against memories and hallucinations alike. Harshly she tried to shake him out of it with her foot, causing him to let out a soft, high pitched whine in fear.

    ?You said you were going to bed...? She complained, but then a second later sighed, knowing well enough the effects of mind altering substances when she was confronted with them ¨C they all looked the same after a while. ?Of course you''re not even here¡­ alright, come on. You''re one worthless Occultist, getting help from a witch.?

    With two hands, she grabbed Alden''s arms and lifted him up onto her own bed, which was little more than a frame and a thin mattress. It was surprisingly easy ¨C too easy even. Both to confirm her suspicions, and to make sure he wouldn''t get his blood all over her bed, she took off his waistcoat and shirt. She was met with the rather poor sight of deeply pale skin, blemished by large scars of claws, bites, and whatever else he had encountered. He was so thin she was able to count every rib and bone while he rapidly heaved his prayers.

    ?I figured you would have given in by now¡­ guess I was wrong.?

    She shook her head and threw the thin covers over him, defiant in the hope it would offset such a kind gesture. With a sigh she sat down against the wall besides the small fireplace, throwing an angry glance over to her bed; as if in disbelief she''d ever do such a favour in the first place.