#Constable Vaughn Todd

[spookyspaghettisundae]

Die, Monster

The thick bank of fog split and roiled where two figures emerged from it. Tendrils of mist clawed at them, barely letting the two men go as they marched with steadfast determination and haste.

As they followed the nightly street, they kicked up tiny flurries of snow. In this artificial valley, devoid of other people, their boots rapped against the cobblestones, creating hollow echoes to bounce between the walls of the buildings all around them.

Huddled up in layers of thick clothing and standing alone by the recessed door of a block’s front entrance, a haggard man’s face gawked out from the shadows at these two men. While he observed their approach, he sucked on his pipe as if his life depended on it, causing a tiny glimmer in its burning bowels to flare up brightly and reveal his presence to them.

As the two men passed underneath a streetlamp, its gloomy light revealed one of them to be a helmeted constable and the other to be a man in black, carrying a large silver cross around his neck. The haggard man blew out a puff of smoke, studying them all the while.

The other two stopped near Hanrahan’s pharmacy and squinted, scanning the haggard smoker with suspicious glances. He locked eyes with them until they averted their gazes and focused on the abandoned shop instead.

Days ago, someone had splattered paint across the front wall and the building’s boarded up windows. The large letters they had slathered onto the edifice read:

DIE MONSTER

The man in black felt a mild sting of annoyance over the lack of punctuation in the painted phrase.

Underneath it, a torn front page from a newspaper fluttered sadly, barely sheltered from the elements where it had been nailed to a board. Its headline, in large bold letters, aimed to grab attention with spectacle, stating:

OUTER WALL REAPER CLAIMS THIRTEENTH VICTIM!

The police constable sneered at the yellowed paper with a glint of disdain for its author in his eyes. The inquisitor by his side snorted and turned to the haggard man, who still stood across the street, smoking, and continuing to watch them with growing curiosity.

“You there,” the man in black’s words cut through the night like angry little growls. “Do you live around here?”

The haggard man blew out another puff of smoke after inhaling from his pipe, bridging the time it took for the two other men to fully cross the road and broach his vicinity.

He nodded to the inquisitor and thrust out a thumb to the door behind him.

“Live right here,” he said.

“And you enjoy smoking outside in the dead of night, in the bitter cold?” inquired the man in black. The silver cross around his neck flashed for a moment in a gleam of light from the streetlamp when he come to a stop, only paces away from the lonesome man.

“Aye,” growled the smoker, then clearing his throat from the phlegm that had fueled that growl. “I like the nip in the air. Could not sleep.”

He sniffled and wiped underneath his nose with the back of his hand, adding, “S'been a long day.”

“Very well. Enough about you,” the inquisitor said with a sharp tongue, scowling at the smoker. “I am Inquisitor Virgil Armstrong, tasked by the holy church with rooting out evil and nipping it in the bud. And my esteemed colleague here,” he said, the last words dripping with contempt as he gestured to the police constable by his side—up close, a veritable giant of a man who frowned at the inquisitor upon hearing those words spoken thus.

The constable interrupted the speech and finished introductions himself, letting the first words roll out with matching contempt as he said, “Constable Todd, at your service. My colleague and I have a bit of a disagreement that you might help clear up, good sir.”

The constable, towering over both, tipped the helmet crowning his long and angular face, but he sported a similarly dour frown to rival the inquisitor’s.

Armstrong’s mustache wiggled as he wriggled his nose, emitting a short chortle.

“Mister Baxter Hanrahan, the druggist whose business closed over there,” spoke the constable, idly gesturing to the closed shop with a curt nod of his chin, “Ever since accusations of him being the Outer Wall Reaper got loud and he just up and vanished—have you ever noticed anything odd about the pharmacy? Any odd sounds or sights?”

The smoking man shook his head and the corners of his lips twitched with a feeble smile.

“I would be lying if I said I believed that bunk, even with the Reaper still at large,” replied the smoker, wiping over his lips with two fingers. “Mister Hanrahan was a true gentleman and a healer at heart—I can hardly picture him doing—no, I cannot imagine him being a murderer of so many souls. Nah, I’m more inclined to believe the rumors about the bandit ‘king’ Johnn Von Brandt being behind it.

Neither the inquisitor nor the constable looked at the smoker anymore. They exchanged a venomous glance with one another. The smoker cleared his throat and grabbed their attention by picking up again.

“Mind, I have heard a sound here and there from over there, but is that odd? No, I’d wager. I think some urchins or other poor folk might have snuck in there to plunder the place or find shelter from the cold. Odd, I think not.”

The inquisitor glared at the smoking man again and asked with a less rude swing to his tone now, “Might you be more specific? About those sounds?”

The smoker’s lips curled to match his frown and his shaven chin crinkled.

“Couldn’t really tell ya, to be perfectly honest. Sounds? Some wood creaking, a thump here and there, often in broad daylight. Haven’t heard a peep all night,” he said. Pursing his lips for a second, he continued, “Normal sounds, I suppose. Wouldn’t call them odd, exactly.”

“And you never thought to report them to the constabulary?” asked the inquisitor through gritted teeth, the air condensing before his mouth in angry little clouds. A furious fire burned in his eyes, as if he had stolen the glimmer from the smoker’s pipe.

The constable clapped a hand on the inquisitor’s shoulder.

“And waste our time when we have plenty of crime to contend with? No, friend, I think not,” said the constable. He clapped him on the shoulder again—firmly and uncomfortably, for emphasis. “I believe we’ve bothered the good citizen here for long enough. Let us investigate for ourselves.”

The constable nodded in wordless greeting to the smoker and swiveled to leave. Inquisitor Armstrong shot another glance at the lawman and then cast his irritated gaze back onto smoker.

“Good night,” he hissed at him.

The smoker nodded, keeping eyes locked with the twitchy man until Armstrong finally turned and followed the plodding echoes of Constable Todd’s footsteps crossing the street to the closed pharmacy.

“Night,” he replied in a quiet mutter once they were out of earshot.

The smoker then stifled a sigh as it escaped through his flaring nostrils, seeing the light in his pipe had gone out completely during the conversation. The cold had seeped into his fingers as they fumbled with his door and he disappeared inside his home.

The other two men returned to the front of the pharmacy. They bobbed back and forth, craning a neck here and scanning the building’s run-down exterior there with searching eyes. Looking for clues of a presence, or an easy way to enter.

Todd nodded to the alleyway leading in between the buildings, diverging from the street. He immediately walked that way. Armstrong joined him and they circled around the block, looking for another entrance into the closed shop.

The backdoor was missing, beaten down and in shambles within the entrance there. Wooden boards partially covered this alternative entryway, leaving gaps large enough for a slender person or a child to climb through.

Wood audibly splintered and cracked as Constable Todd’s meaty hands pried at a board and yanked until it snapped. He discarded the board’s chunks by tossing them into the snow-covered dirt nearby, promptly ripping out the next board with the same detached fierceness.

Having created a hole large enough for himself to enter, he stepped over one of the lower planks he had left intact and entered the building’s pitch-black insides.

The inquisitor unlatched the gas lantern from his belt and its little metal wheel squeaked in the process of him lighting it, then he followed the constable into the pharmacy.

Their breath condensed in front of their faces and the air inside the shop carried a cold so bitter and merciless that it eclipsed the bitter wintry chill outside. Glass shards crunched underneath a boot, floorboards creaked, and the gas-lit lantern cast an eerie cone of light wherever the inquisitor shone it.

The whole place had indeed been ransacked. Shelves on display were conspicuously absent of anything of use or value, and anything less interesting found itself splayed out on the floors as rubbish.

“The many rubes of this city will believe anything. Why are you so persistent about the druggist being the Reaper?” asked the inquisitor without facing the constable.

The policeman poked some books on a shelf with his club and replied without turning, “I have it on good authority that it was, in fact, not the infamous outlaw Von Brandt.”

“Ah, yes,” the inquisitor said with a sneer. “From the mouths of your invaluable sources whom you cannot endanger by disclosing, I trust.”

The constable grunted in agreement to that without warranting any further words.

“Now shush,” hissed the constable. “While I like being wrong about certain things, I’d rather not be wrong about Hanrahan hiding out in here like some sort of wounded animal.”

The stairs leading up into the second story groaned under the constable’s weight and carpets on the floors up top swallowed the hollow thumps of his footsteps. The two men explored the rooms, carefully, one by one, staying within arm’s reach of one another.

The inquisitor noted how the constable’s knuckles had turned white from gripping his club with such force that it looked like the tiny thing would snap in the giant’s hand.

Then he spotted something else—something that captured his entire attention and brought a sly smile to his lips. His eyes followed scuffmarks on the floor, where something heavy had often scraped against the wood but seemingly disappeared into the wall. Almost hidden by a pile of books that had fallen from the empty shelves there.

“See? Nothing and nobody here,” said the constable with a sigh. “Glad to be right, this night.”

Armstrong emitted a short chuckle, incapable of concealing the burst of sadistic glee underneath it.

“Even so, you might have missed the secret room right here, right under our noses, had we not risked taking a look in this ruin,” said the inquisitor. “Look.”

He lifted the lantern so it cast enough light to clearly illuminate his discovery. The constable’s eyes went wide when he followed Armstrong’s directions.

“Well, I’ll be—”

“Come, let us see what the druggist kept hidden,” urged Armstrong, placing the lantern on a table, and looking at the large set of empty bookshelves that loomed above the scuffed floorboards.

The two of them took positions on opposite sides of the shelves and grabbed hold of the heavy bookcase from where they stood. No matter how much they grunted and groaned and wheezed—even with the large constable’s considerable strength—the furniture refused to budge.

After several seconds filled with failure, the inquisitor caught his breath and let his gaze sweep through the room.

“There has got to be a mechanism attached,” he mumbled.

“What did you say?” asked the constable between heavy breaths.

Armstrong offered no reply as he stepped away from the bookshelves, calmly searching his environment for other clues. He then pawed at the bottoms of the shelves, and let his hands glide across the wood, searching for something that felt out of place.

His eyes lit up with fire once more, not furious this time around—but excited. He bared his teeth in a hideous grin at the constable and pulled on a tiny latch where his fingers had found purchase in a dark corner of the shelves below eye level.

Something metallic clicked behind the bookcase and the massive wooden structure silently lurched forward, just by a finger’s width, but enough to provoke the two men into instinctively stepping away from it. A warm and damp air spilled out from the opening, creating a sharp contrast to the debilitating cold of the rest of the shop.

The constable rounded it, picked up his club from the table and stuck it into the narrow gap between shelves and wall that the inquisitor had created, then pushed the bookcase aside, as if it were a giant, weightless door. Metal hinges emitted a high-pitched squeal once the case had fully opened to make way to a hidden chamber beyond it.

Todd stood there, peering inside, and letting his eyes adjust. The inquisitor retrieved the lantern and followed him there, and they stepped inside together.

Shadows danced from the many unstolen objects littering the desks and shelves in this narrow room, untouched by the thieves who had looted the rest of the shop. The inquisitor held his lantern higher so they could see the myriads of items more clearly, all at once.

Many tomes, covers emblazoned with arcane symbols of alchemy and demonology. Vials filled with strange fluids. Pickling jars containing what had to be human organs, warped through the bend of the glass and the ghastly juices they were floating in. Scattered on the desk, around a journal, Armstrong recognized numerous fetishes used in sorcerous traditions from around the known world.

“Occult paraphernalia,” Todd muttered. “As I said. The Reaper is no common man.”

Still holding the lantern up high above him, the inquisitor let his seeking and curious gaze wander across everything in the room, mentally preparing to catalogue every find and either submit them for safekeeping or purging in sacred fire at the local chantry.

Upon seeing another set of eyes in the corner, he froze.

Glowing red like embers, glaring with cold hatred, he could barely discern the shape of the figure hidden in the room in plain sight. A silhouette that had not budged since their entering the secret chamber, watching them, and listening, and poised to attack. Vaguely human. All too monstrous. Limbs grotesquely muscular and claws that resembled little curved knives.

Before he could drink in any more detail, the thing lunged at them and the world exploded into a chaos of muffled shouts, glass shattering, and agonized grunts.

The lantern smashed into the edge of the desk and dried parchment caught fire, spreading quickly.

“Don’t let it bite you!” shouted the inquisitor.

The only thing stopping the creature from ripping a chunk out of Todd’s neck was the club the constable had managed to wedge into a fanged maw, dripping with dark saliva as it spattered into his face. The constable growled and then yelled at the top of his lungs, in pain over claws that had sunken into his sides.

“Off, you whoreson!” he yelled as he managed to throw himself forward with the monster, smashing into the wall by the secret door.

The inquisitor brandished his silver cross in a hand like a weapon, holding it out in front of him and reciting a litany of a dead language.

The creature snarled, unimpressed, locked in a deadly struggle with the constable who shoved him away from himself, prompting another yelp in pain as those claws sliced through skin on their violent way out.

Todd yelled, “Not helping!”

The inquisitor grabbed a bottle of something he hoped to be flammable and hurled it with all his might at the creature, causing a shower of glass and something that smelled like strong spirits to quickly fill the air. Before every shard had hit the ground and Todd tossed a side table at the creature to create some distance in between them, the inquisitor grabbed the burning journal from the table and tossed it at the monster.

It shrieked as it caught fire where the fluid had doused it. The creature flailed around in a panic, snarling and howling. Armstrong identified a semblance of human intelligence in its eyes, flashing brilliantly as it slapped the small flames on its body. And in the brief flashes of burning light, the two men could see that it resembled a man garbed in shreds of what might have once been a gentleman’s attire, as if his limbs and muscles had bulged outwards grotesquely to explode forth from his clothing.

“Gun,” Todd growled, then repeated. “Gun!”

The inquisitor registered with delay what he meant, then shoved his flintlock pistol into the constable’s open hand.

Todd immediately shot the creature in its side and it stumbled outside, tripping and tumbling into the adjacent room outside the secret chamber, with wisps of fire trailing off it and embers fluttering about as it fled, leaving a trail of blood, footsteps slapping against the ground and causing it to thunder with the monster’s tremendous weight as it ran away.

The constable ducked down to grab the club the creature had spat out in its flight and immediately gave chase. The inquisitor snapped out of his momentary shock, still reeling from the ambush, then chased after the constable.

“Halt,” the constable commanded as he charged down the stairs, pausing to cringe and clutch his sides where the creature had injured him. Through gritted teeth he wheezed, “Whoreson.”

The inquisitor caught up to him and knew he had to finish what the constable started, but the giant of a lawman refused to give up easily.

Wood exploded in a shower of dust and debris as the creature burst out through the backdoor from where they had entered. Its clawed feet scraped against the cobblestone and it stopped by the corner of the claustrophobically narrow alleyways.

They all froze when they saw the haggard smoker from earlier standing at the opposite end of the alleyway, with the creature squarely in between them, looking back and forth in between its pursuers, and the innocent bystander who had nothing to do with this.

Its eyes burned with unyielding hatred. Only now did the inquisitor notice the bent frame of silver spectacles, comically hanging from one misshapen ear and a tangle of reddish hair.

Then he noticed the hideous lips parting just enough to reveal a row of blackened, jagged teeth. Despite blood dripping down its leg—from the hole which Todd had shot into it—it smiled.

With an inhuman cackle, it crossed the distance to the smoker with two sudden, feral leaps and pounced on him. Limbs flailed around, thin, and sharp claws glistening wet with reflections that caught the gloomy light from the streetlamps.

The men ran towards the struggle, trying to rescue the smoker, and the inquisitor’s mental image of what was transpiring did not match up with reality. He expected the creature to be hungrily ripping the man apart—

Instead, the constable and the inquisitor froze again, no ten paces away from the creature. It had gotten up to its feet and now held the smoker hostage. The haggard man quivered with fear for his life, his face contorted with dread and his eyes darting between the array of razor-like claws held dangerously close to his neck, and the two hunters, back and forth in what must have been subdued panic.

The constable aimed the pistol at the creature, only realizing with apparent delay that it was useless without reloading. He chucked it aside and it clattered on the hard ground.

“You’re smart, eh? Think that takin’ a hostage will let you get away? You’re one daft whoreson,” growled the constable.

The creature smiled at them, baring crooked fangs that dripped with glistening saliva.

“Not wolf-man, not vampire,” Armstrong whispered behind Todd. “Alchemical sorcery at its worst—he can be reasoned with. I think he understands us clearly.”

“Why?”

The question cut colder and sharper through the wintry air than blade or claws. A stern, surprisingly calm word that escaped the constable’s lips which then clamped shut and formed a thin white line.

“Why did you slay all those people?” asked the constable.

The thing cackled and the hostage in his arms shuddered. Claws on the creature’s feet scraped against cobblestone again as it shuffled back half a step, dragging the helpless smoker with him.

“Because,” it responded letting the world drawl out, sounding like two voices blending into one. “Because I needed their insides.”

A chill ran down the inquisitor’s spine. Not just from hearing the creature speak with such clarity but taken aback by the sinister things it said. By how sadistic it sounded.

“Because I liked seeing the life fade from their eyes,” it continued. To underline those words, it wiggled its thick fingers, letting the claws dance across the smoker’s wrinkled neck until they locked into place and clamped down. Not piercing his flesh with full force, just nicking his skin enough to draw a thin trickle of blood.

“I can almost taste the darkness inside of you,” the creature said.

Its red eyes locked onto the inquisitor and captured his full attention with uncanny magnetism. No sorcery, nothing unnatural about it. Something about the monster’s intense stare—paired with the racing of his own heart—gave him tunnel vision, caused the foggy streets of Crimsonport to blur all around him. Or it was his own dizziness, causing the corridor of the world around him to spin as he could not break eye contact with the creature.

“Would I only be so lucky to taste it on my tongue, as I chew through your innards and feast upon your blood,” the monstrous Hanrahan said. “Why? Why did I slay those people? Why do people hunt foxes in the forest for sport?”

The low baritone of the creature’s voice traveled down the alleyway, piercing the inquisitor’s mind like invasive whispers, resonating with him somehow. The only thing that broke this spell was the creature averting his eyes, locking onto the constable next.

“You will never stop me. You would have more luck trying to stem the tide with your bare hands, you lumbering oaf. You will never stop us. How do you stop the mist? How do you stop the night?”

Through a set of clenched teeth, Todd snarled, “You harm that man, and God will not be able to help you when I get my hands on you. You—”

“You what?” hissed the monster, nicking the smoker’s neck again to draw more blood as a demonstration of its might. “You don’t even have the clout to call me what I am.”

“Monster,” Todd and Armstrong said almost simultaneously.

“No,” said the creature. The wicked smile on its abhorrent face faded. Lips drooped around its fangs, its whole visage contorting with hatred. Then it opened its mouth before replying, its multitude of voices trembling as it spoke with something resembling reverence in saying, “God.”

In a flash of movement, a waterfall of vermillion shot out from the smoker’s neck, spraying across the nearby wall, and splattering onto the thin layer of snow coating the ground. The smoker’s eyes grew wide with shock and disbelief and his knees visibly buckled as he collapsed. But the creature moved with such inhuman speed that it fled down the main street before the smoker even hit the pavement.

The constable and the inquisitor rushed towards the bleeding man, breathing heavily as they paused to stop over where he had fallen. The inquisitor knelt beside him and swatted feeble hands out of the way as the smoker instinctively pawed at him in a useless effort to defend himself from his would-be helper. Armstrong grabbed hold of the man’s neck from both sides, holding up his head as he tried his best to cup his other palm around the spot where heart pumped out far too much blood in rhythmic spurts.

“Get that bastard,” Armstrong growled at Todd without looking up.

The constable rushed away and from the corner of his eye, the inquisitor saw the hulking figure of the creature gaining momentum as it leapt from cobblestones onto a stone wall ringing a house, then jump onto the side of a building where a lantern’s metal screeched as it bent under the creature’s immense weight.

From there, the monster hurled itself up onto the roof of the house and the constable uttered a string of foul profanities as he ran down the street, his footsteps echoing in a much faster staccato than when the two had arrived here to investigate the closed pharmacy.

Armstrong focused on the bleeding man, fumbling around with one hand to sling out a scarf from inside his coat and then apply it to the smoker’s slashed neck. The cloth quickly turned dark, almost black in the dim light here. The smoker feebly clutched at the inquisitor’s sleeves, trembling, and stammering something incomprehensible.

“Spare your strength, man, and shut up—you are holding on for your bloody life by a thin thread,” the inquisitor said. He grimaced and tore fabric from his shirt to reinforce the haphazard bandaging around the smoker’s dangerous injury.

Each motion accompanied by more, growing confidence, he tied a knot around the mess of drenched cloth and looked around to examine the source of footsteps quickly nearing.

The constable returned, jogging back to them empty-handed. The lawman’s face was twisted with frustration and fury.

“Whoreson got away. Moved like fucking lightning across the rooftops,” he said between heavy, labored breaths.

Armstrong nodded, harboring no ill will towards the constable.

“Pay no mind,” the inquisitor murmured, suppressing a sigh to the best of his ability as he surveyed the first aid he had provided the bleeding man. “Weak consolation, but now we know what we’re dealing with.”

He then leaned down over the bleeding man and hissed at him, “If you live, you’ll know best not to tell anybody the truth about what you witnessed this night.”

The smoker’s eyes—still wide with terror and a lingering shock that showed how he still hovered on the brink between life and death—blinked. If he could have nodded, Armstrong sensed, he might have.

“You heard how it—no—how he spoke,” Todd said, interrupting this exchange. “Hanrahan is the pawn of someone else, like I have been telling you.”

The inquisitor paid no attention to this statement, keeping eyes locked on those of the bleeding man caught in the crossfire of their secret war.

“I’ll go fetch more help,” the constable muttered, swiftly jogging off again, swallowed by the mists as they roiled through the streets, devouring all.

By the time the sun rose—or rather struggled to penetrate the heavy dark clouds in the sky—bathing the cold city in a dreary blue twilight. The two men stood by the bank of the frozen river which ran through the city like a frozen vein. Armstrong's shirt still torn, and his cold-numbed hands stained with dried blood of the man they almost failed to save, they watched.

"Will he make it?"

"Probable," said the inquisitor with a short nod.

"Lasting damage," said the constable, not poinitng it as a question.

"Barring a miracle, I doubt he'll ever speak again."

Other members of the constabulary questioned people loitering around by the edge of the river, near where claws had marked the snow-covered ice, gathering statements from the witnesses who had seen the creature murder another person in its frenzied flight through the town.

The trail it had left down the frozen river led right outside the city walls, into the outskirts.

Out of earshot from the interrogations, Constable Todd groaned and then muttered to Armstrong, "Outer Wall Reaper, bandit king, a madman from a local gang, monster, wild animal—rumor mill will churn endlessly on this one."

"We have to ensure Hanrahan won't be back to claim more victims," said the inquisitor. He then enunciated clearly, his voice trembling with a mixture of anger and reverence, hoping to drive the point home as he added, "This is my line of duty, you understand."

The constable looked Armstrong up and down, then answered, "Of course. But I think there is something you are better suited for, what, with your expertise."

The lawman leaned in for a conspiratorial whisper, "I know the right people to deal with Hanrahan out in the wild. No doubt he will hide in the Blackwood to lick his wounds."

"What on earth are you suggesting?"

Todd shrugged.

"There will be a gathering of all the wealthy and highborn at Lord Reinhold Roland's estate come tomorrow eve," Todd said in an equally hushed murmur.

"And what in God's name do you expect me to be doing there? Hobnobbing with pompous aristocrats?"

A lop-sided grin crept across Todd's face before quickly fading and him responding, "A little birdie whispered to me that there's a secret society, some sort of cabal of occultists in their midst."

Armstrong perked up at that.

"You understand where I'm going with this, yes? Yes. See, the people I know who can hunt down and kill Hanrahan, they're less suited for an environment such as Reinhold's mansion. A member of the church who all fear to be an agent of the new inquisition, on the other hand—"

"Who they'll fear too much to refuse entry despite issuing no invitation," Armstrong interrupted him with a sly smile.

Todd nodded.

"As much as it disgusts me to say this—for all the lives he took, Hanrahan is the lesser evil here. We have to divert our resources with cold calculus."

Armstrong clicked his tongue. Shook his head. He narrowed his eyes and now studied the constable, looking up at the lawman's long face, and savoring the rare moment of catching the giant man in a moment of insecurity, triggered by his dismissive reaction.

"One must never distinguish between evils," Armstrong admonished him. "Once you court the lesser of them, you will find yourself in bed with a darkness you can never wash from your soul."

Todd stared into Armstrong's eyes, remaining silent at this statement.

"The people who will hunt down Hanrahan, you said. They do not happen to be the wanted outlaws, Johnn Von Brandt and Nora Morrissey, do they? The ones who, hold on—"

The inquisitor rolled his jaw and then set it with a smirk. 

"The ones who, and let me phrase this correctly," he said, then emphasizing the next word with oozing sarcasm. "Allegedly murdered the bishop, and Earl Tyson, and a bunch of other influential people around the Red Coast?"

Todd pursed his lips. Refrained from answering. The inquisitor understood without any words uttered.

"Tut, what did I just say about different shades of evil?"

The constable's eyes narrowed, and it was him who now clicked his tongue.

"I know evil when I see it, Armstrong. That creature—that thing Hanrahan knowingly transformed himself into—he was evil. The two you call outlaws may be many things you find disagreeable, but evil? They are anything but."

An inhuman howl pierced the heavens, echoing between the valley of brick buildings and the narrows, causing everybody nearby and the two men alike to all freeze, startled. And they all stared down the length of the frozen river. A glint of sunlight pierced the cloudy veil in the sky, breaking over the horizon outside the city walls.

Todd and Armstrong exchanged nervous glances.

Despite what they had just discussed, they both knew: the monster needed to die.

Todd sprang into action, barking orders and rallying his colleagues.

Armstrong clutched the silver cross on his neck for a second, then looked at it humbly resting in his palm. Since arriving in this wretched city and traveling to the countryside beyond its walls, not once had this cross served him. Criminals, corruption, fair folk, and now sorcerers—not one of them feared the Lord's might, nor any hell that awaited them, thought the inquisitor.

What had shaken him the most on this very night was hearing Hanrahan's admission. After the spiraling maze of clues he had followed, Armstrong had always expected to find some shred of humanity to be hidden underneath it all once he peeled away at the surface. To find some motive, something he could relate to, or at least something he could remotely fathom with reason. But all Hanrahan had spoken of was bloodlust.

Joy—a deep pleasure—in carnage itself. Murder for the sake of murder.

Armstrong stuffed the cross into his coat and looked up. Constable Todd waved to him, urging him to catch up. A mental fog embraced the inquisitor's mind and drowned out all noises and shouts resounding around him. The inquisitor's feet set themselves into motion, almost unconsciously, like a machine, following the constable, mentally focused on arming himself with the resolve necessary to end a murderer's life and bargain for his God's forgiveness.

Some monsters, he believed, looked just like men. In joining his secret order, he had vowed to snuff out evil that took the form of creatures of the night. When it came to men whom one might call monsters, the lines began to blur.

But Armstrong steeled himself. Where he had been trained to mete out swift justice by means of fire and steel, he would no longer distinguish between man and monster if the only thing that separated them was the fear of a cross.

They all just needed to die.

—Submitted by Wratts

[spookyspaghettisundae]

Unrest of the Wicked, Part 1

The earl’s hand guided his quill with furious fervor. Black pigments stained his fingertips. He remained oblivious to the amount of times he returned the pen to the inkwell, flying back and forth.

Concentration stayed his focus. Obsession drove his speed.

“Excuse me, sir. Would you not rather have me take dictation for you?”

The pen’s tip nearly snapped under the pressure that Earl Irvine Tyson applied to it in response to the sudden question. The ink blotted into a thick and unsightly splotch.

His manservant, Frederick—who had had the audacity to interrupt him with this idiotic question—nearly jumped a foot off the ground when Tyson slammed his fist into the desk with such violence that every little object littering the table’s surface jingled and rocked from the sudden physical outburst. The earl needed not to look up to know that Frederick’s face maintained its guise of a stony mask, yet Tyson could nearly taste the terror welling up in that pathetic sycophant.

It pleased him somehow.

“No. Be silent, fool.”

The earl continued penning the missive. The scribbling sounds of the quill inscribing the nobleman’s “investigation” onto the parchment filled the air. Only when he took short moments to pause and consider the next sentences with care did the soft hiss of the gas lamp on his table fill the air.

Minutes melted into hours. The earl had abandoned every sense of time. The world around him had ceased to exist.

“Sir,” the manservant croaked.

Toad, the earl thought as his lips curled into a displeased frown. His eyes wandered over the words he had just written, confirming to himself that his hatred for King Sieghard flowed into every stroke of his pen, every letter of his writing, every word of his thoughts given life upon the paper.

“What,” he said to Frederick. The word carried no ring of a question to it, no rise in tone to indicate curiosity. It bore the weight of a lord commanding his subject to drop dead on the spot for interrupting him once more.

Frederick cleared his throat and took the length of several heartbeats to consider his next words with tremendous care.

“The constable, sir. He is snooping around outside. Again.”

Earl Tyson deigned to look up. His brow furrowed under the weight of a new, seething anger bubbling up inside of him. He glowered at Frederick and could almost hear the manservant halt a screech of fear from escaping his throat.

“That blasted pig-man. That audacious whoreson. Where does he get off on his nosy cocking around,” Earl Tyson swore away. He jammed the quill into the inkwell and rose from his seat. With such force that the legs of his chair groaned as they scraped over the soft oriental carpet.

Frederick had the clarity to step aside from the window. Just in time.

Tyson arrived by the window with a velocity to match his fury. The earl stared through the window and finally regained a sense of the world around him.

He peered down to the cobblestone-covered streets of the dreary city outside the museum. A fog so suffocatingly thick that it nearly swallowed the light of the streetlamps filled the nightly environs.

Though the visor of a custodian’s helmet concealed the visitor’s face from the earl’s elevated angle, he knew right away that it could be no other man than Vaughn Todd. The constable stood next to a lamp’s wrought iron stand, revealing his impressive height by contrast. The lawman possessed a natural stature that few folk could rival.

The lawman paced up and down the street, peering into museum windows with piqued interest. With gloved hands folded behind his back, he had a dignified and calm air about him.

The earl soon lost all patience regarding the constable and he clicked his tongue. Earl Tyson sighed in a curt and sharp fashion.

“Invite the good constable inside, if you would be so kind,” he said.

Frederick took too long to register the sudden order.

“Now,” demanded the earl with a growling flourish, chilling his manservant to the bone and provoking a meek confirmation. Frederick fled the chamber with hasty steps.

The earl returned to his desk and took his seat once more. His gaze swept over his own handwriting, returning to where he had left off.

“At every scene of crimes committed in conjunction with deviltry such as wytchcraft, vampyrism, lupine derangement, or cannibalism, my investigations always discovered but a black rose. Implicating or pushing suspicion upon King Sieghard’s involvement in said deviltries and,” he whispered to himself under his breath, reading his last sentences back to himself. He rubbed the bridge of his nose, wondering how he had wanted to finish that line.

Heavy thumping from boots accompanied the soft steps of Frederick as two men ascended the stairs leading to the second story of the museum. Earl Tyson’s jaw quivered with anger over having his train of thought interrupted and his lips turned into a thin white line. His teeth grated upon each other.

He rolled the parchment up and placed it within a drawer of his desk. Just before the two men entered his office, he folded his hands upon the dark wood of his desk’s writing surface.

Constable Todd removed his helmet as he entered, placing it under an arm and giving the earl a brief nod. The lawman’s eyes narrowed at the sight of the nobleman behind the desk.

The earl looked up at him, too fatigued to bother putting up any guise of false friendliness. The scowl across his face expressed his unmistakable disdain over the constable’s visit.

“Earl Tyson,” Todd said.

Frederick quietly sidled up behind the earl, ignored entirely by the two men.

“Constable,” replied the earl. Every syllable sounded like icicles clinking together and falling. “Was there anything you needed?”

Todd’s wide square jaw jutted out for a moment until he set it. The earl could see the gears grinding behind the lawman’s forehead. The light from the lonesome gas lantern flickered, causing everybody’s shadows to dance for a moment that could be missed in the blink of an eye. Yet none of them blinked.

“No, sir. However, I would be remiss to not inform you that unsavory folk have been snooping around your manor and this very museum as of the past fortnight.”

The earl leaned back in his chair, unfolding his hands till his fingers steepled together in the shape of a pyramid.

Yes, he thought. You are one of them, constable.

“Oh?”

“Aye. If I dinnit know any better, I would wager they have a vested interest in your most recent additions to the exhibition down below,” Todd said. His left eye twitched.

The earl found the man impossible to read. What was his goal? What did he know? What did he not know? An owl hooted outside, interrupting Tyson’s thoughts.

It reminded him how long and awkward the silence between them grew to be.

“Is that all? I am terribly busy with writing, my good man,” said the earl.

“Ah, yes, the road to hell is paved with good intentions,” said Todd in an unexpectedly musical tone. His nostrils flared and the corners of his lips twitched with the hint of a smirk being kept from sight. “Would y'care to show me the exhibit in its current state?”

The scowl upon the earl’s mien grew more fierce and he lowered his face, over which two long strands of hair draped down—once raven-black, now turning snow-white from the grief of war. The overwhelming darkness within this chamber—only given power by the little source of light—engulfed half his face.

“I invite you to see the exhibit for yourself as soon as the museum reopens in the coming days, constable.”

“When was that again?” Todd pronounced the last word in a way that irked the earl—making it sound more like “a gain.”

“Come Tuesday. It says on the sign outside, clear as day, if I am not mistaken.”

The earl failed to wrest control over the scowl upon his face. He stared daggers at the lawman.

Todd nodded, having wiped any semblance of a smug grin from his features.

“I might not be able to attend. Being busy during the days, as you may know,” the constable said. “But less out of personal interest, and more because I had hoped for a private showing, to see what potential—robbers, bandits, what have you—might indeed be after.”

Todd returned the helmet upon his head and folded his hands behind his back in his usual manner.

Earl Tyson gestured to Frederick with a dismissive wave.

“My manservant can show you the exhibit in its rough state, if I cannot convince you otherwise,” said the earl.

The constable stood there. A long and unnerving silence filled the room. Having served in the military, the earl was familiar with this behavior. The lawman likely used uncomfortable silence to intimidate people, he fathomed. Constable Todd—who the hell did he think he was? That annoying beanpole must have considered himself to be far more important than his lowly station. He probably had not even served in the war in the north.

The earl caught a whiff of his own scent, a strong body odor eclipsing his perfume and reeking of boiling rage.

“You have my thanks, good sir. I shall not bother you with your—hmm, your business—any longer,” the constable blurted out. He gave the earl a lopsided smile and tipped the helmet upon his head in feigned gratitude.

He then turned and left through the door to the office. The earl’s head jolted to his side and he glared at Frederick.

The eyes of his manservant widened with dread and he scurried out of the room to follow Todd.

The earl’s first instinct was to immediately open the drawer and unfurl that parchment he had put away. To finish the work he had started, early that evening, before the dark of night had devoured the skies over Crimsonport.

But he refrained from doing so. Instead, he rose from his chair with a stealthy slowness. He crept towards the office door and peered out through the crack—his servant had carelessly left the door ajar by an inch.

One of the earl’s big, black-ringed eyes gazed to the museum hall downstairs. The constable and the manservant had already vanished around the corner. However, the thundering steps of the constable telegraphed his every move in the lower level. The soft glow from a lantern moved around down there.

The earl strained his hearing to make out the words echoing from below. Frederick gave poorly informed explanations to the artifacts already exposed on open display. Just after the earl snorted in disdain, Frederick regained a shred of silent favor from his master—by using eloquent speech and flowery descriptions to explain the nature of the exhibition’s items.

Relics from far-flung lands, retrieved from accursed tombs, buried under mountains of merciless sand, unearthed by bold scientists on daring expeditions. Evidence of a fallen civilization on a dark continent, echoes of a forgotten age of which the gods-fearing folk had only vague knowledge—for now. Muffled grunts indicated something resembling approval or acknowledgment from the constable, who listened to Frederick’s guided tour without any verbal comment.

Then the constable asked, “What in the Good God’s name is that?”

After a brief pause, Frederick explained.

“The sarcophagus of the ancient dead. It contains the mummified remains of a great king of said forgotten age.”

The earl closed the door to the office at a snail’s pace, taking his time to make no sound.

Earl Tyson returned to his seat at the desk and retrieved the parchment from the drawer. He groped at the quill in the inkwell and let it hover over the bleached page, lost in thought. A drop of ink plummeted from the tip of the quill onto the scroll, where it splashed and spread like a cancerous darkness.

Yes, the ancient dead. The wrath of the restless pharaoh would be endless and wreak unspeakable havoc, the earl thought.

It would walk. And the wretched king of this land would take the blame.

King Sieghard would pay. Earl Irvine would have his revenge.

He smiled.

A cold, cruel smile.

—Submitted by Wratts

[spookyspaghettisundae]

Unrest of the Wicked, Part 2

Two pairs of boots rhythmically struck cobblestone road. The thick fog over the dark city swallowed their echoes. The two wanderers tread on in silence, fearful of drawing unwanted attention.

In the flickering gaslight from the street’s lanterns, their figures came into view as they rounded a corner of Crimsonport’s labyrinthine inner city streets: a couple, garbed in posh winter jackets, on their way home from a social gathering. Written across both their faces was a deep-rooted concern and regret—regret over having chosen to take a midnight stroll, rather than riding home in the comfort of a carriage.

Especially in the wealthiest quarters of this venerable metropolis, rumors of strange and dangerous happenstance occurring after sunset left a lingering sense of dread to occupy the minds of the citizens.

If only they knew half the truth of it. It would drive them mad. However, imagining mere axe murderers and violent thieves to be lurking about—all human, all mundane—the thought of these threats sufficed to strike fear into their hearts.

The couple’s widened eyes darted back and forth, strained on the lookout for dubious figures who might be prowling through the night and sneaking up on them.

Even so, they could not discern the faint silhouette of the man observing them as they walked by his hiding spot. The figure in dark attire blended into the shadows of an alleyway branching off of the road they followed. He stood as still as a statue while his eyes wandered up and down the two figures, studying them with care and suspicion.

Their swift steps allowed the couple to soon round the next corner and vanish from the observer’s sights. While the sounds of them walking still reached him in form of echoes, his attention returned to the museum across the street. The silent watcher was none less than Constable Vaughn Todd.

The lawman waited. His face had long turned numb to the cold, and judging by the number of bells he heard from the church’s clock tower nearby, he had been waiting for nearly an hour outside. While his hands were buried deep inside his pockets, his palms were sweaty, clammy—something he did not remember experiencing since his youth, when he asked Miss Bedford for her hand in marriage—when she turned him down.

He could feel his face contorting as the wintry winds cut against his exposed skin, a frown plastering his visage at the memory. He pushed it back down into the deepest recesses of his mind, and no second too soon.

If not for the scuff of light-footed shoes crunching on gravel on the ground behind him, he would not have heard another man sneaking up on him. The constable did not bother to swivel around, he only tilted his head to see from the corners of his eyes who approached. His expectations had been met, for the one who arrived to join him was Johnn Von Brandt.

“Once a sneak-thief, always a sneak-thief,” Todd said in greeting.

“Until presented with solid evidence, I admit to nothing,” replied the other man. He smiled, but the mien did not spread from his lips, stopping by his dimples and never reaching his eyes.

“Good for you then that I am not interested in finding that evidence, for there are indeed bigger threats to this city’s safety,” Todd said. He nodded to Von Brandt in greeting. “And the king.”

The smile disappeared from Johnn’s face and he said, “You know I do not care one bit about the king. That greedy selfish ba—”

“I will pretend I did not hear such treasonous talk.”

“Alright,” Johnn snapped.

Constable Todd’s gaze drifted from Johnn back onto the museum. The tension between the two made the silence feel thicker than the fog surrounding them.

“So, why do you bother consorting with thieves like me? Your conscience and morals are flexible enough to choose the lesser of two evils?” Johnn pronounced many of his words with melodious sarcasm.

Johnn Von Brandt was by no means a short man. In fact, he stood taller than all he knew, both friends and foes alike. All but Todd. Constable Todd was that rare specimen of a man who dwarfed everybody else on the Red Coast. He was a living tower. All the more frightening was he to the bandit when the constable turned around and looked down at Johnn, locking eyes with him. It sent a shiver down Johnn’s spine, paralyzing him almost the same way that the gaze of a warlock had done, well over a year ago. Only this time, there was no magick involved.

Todd’s response came out with a burning intensity, every word pronounced with cutting clarity and emerging from deep within his heart. “You should never choose to side with a lesser evil, because in doing so you begin to forget what it means to do good. No, I choose no evil at all. You are not evil. You may be a rapscallion, but I do not think of you as evil.”

The words rendered Johnn speechless. Todd turned to face the museum again and then muttered, “I know what happened to the goods and coffers you have stolen in the past. Whoever shares stolen wealth with the poor cannot be an evil soul. A priest once taught a young man—taught me—that even the pettiest of thieves are shown mercy by the Good God.

“Hear me now, and hear me clear. I am not turning a blind eye to your crimes, but after all I have learned in this past fortnight, I know what evils are encroaching upon this city. This land.”

Todd’s square jaw jutted out and he nodded to the museum, gesturing to it thus while keeping his hands buried in his jacket’s pockets.

“True evil is inside there, waiting. Plotting. Dark and wretched. The only other evil is good men doing nothing to prevent that evil from corrupting and destroying this city.”

Johnn finally snapped out of his paralysis. His rebellious heart sparked a smirk, forming across his face.

“Did you just call me a good man?”

“Do not let it get to your head.”

“What about the rest of the police? Is it only you and me? Have you not told anybody else?”

Todd sighed, “No, I could not risk it. Because speaking the truth of the matters would make any sane man think I was mad, just like I would have thought anybody mad had they told me the truth only a month ago. And that is not all—Earl Tyson is a decorated veteran from the war in the north, he has many people who respect him—and he possibly has informants within the constabulary.”

Johnn let the words sink in, then frowned. “And there is no way you can get Nora released from prison? She would be—”

“No. How would I arrange her release? Short of saying outright that demonic possession was the root cause of Emilia Milton’s death, Miss Morrissey will never appear to be anything less than a convicted murderer.”

Narrowing his eyes, he looked back at Johnn over his shoulder, “Besides, I know that—well before she started hunting creatures of the night—she murdered the rest of her merry old mercenary company. I cannot prove it, but I know. You want to tell me that the unnatural was at work there, too?”

Johnn glared at him but said nothing.

“I thought so. Now, have you brought everything we need?”

Johnn grumbled when he replied, “Rock salt, iron, exorcism scrips, holy water, consecrated oils, and lighters.”

“No silver bullets?”

“What for? Did you not speak to Nora about how to deal with such ancient dead?”

Todd shook his head.

“Maybe if you would, you might learn something useful. Or change your mind about getting her released.”

Todd shook his head again.

“Silver bullets are only useful against man-beasts. No, the undead require special measures. Oaken stakes through the heart for vampires, followed by beheading, and blessed wreaths of garlic flowers to keep them away from your neck in the process. And from what she told me, these ancient ones from the desert kingdoms are more akin to angry ghosts possessing desiccated corpses.”

“Why have they not attacked while being transported to our homeland? Or when I investigated the museum earlier?”

Johnn shrugged, “If I had to bet, then the Earl is going to conduct an occult ritual to summon the ghosts. Or already has.”

Todd arched a brow but listened intently.

“Rock salt and iron repels ghosts, as do consecrated oils when lit ablaze. Holy water and exorcism prayers are needed to banish them for good once we’ve destroyed their remains in fire, but we will need to pin them down first. Which is going to be most of the ordeal, because they can move objects invisibly, like poltergeists.”

Still saying nothing, Todd’s face went blank. Taking in such occult knowledge and separating it from superstition and hogwash still challenged him greatly.

Johnn Von Brandt turned to show the constable a crossbow hanging from his shoulder, then said, “Iron bolts will do the trick well enough, and a crossbow does not make the same kind of noise as a pistol.”

The bandit opened his long coat and revealed several bandoleers and belts strapped around his torso. From one of many small sheaths, he pulled a strange dull-bladed knife of wrought iron and held it by the blade, offering its handle to Todd.

Todd nodded and sighed again, his eyes jumping back and forth in between the crude weapon and Johnn’s visage. The constable grabbed the dagger and wedged it into the belt holding his jacket shut.

“One more thing,” Johnn added. “You must never let ancient dead touch you. They can rip your beating heart straight out of your chest.”

Todd’s brow furrowed and he glared at Johnn. “And knowing that, you give me a mere iron knife?”

Johnn smirked, and in a smug tone he replied, “We will not let the undead bastards get that close now, will we?” A dagger appeared in the bandit’s hand out of nowhere—not by means of magick, but sliding from the sleeve of his coat. “I am prepared to die, friend. Are you?”

Before Todd could answer, his eyes went wide. The cause of his shock was not the bandit’s sleight of hand, but the surprise of seeing a pale girl of small and fine stature surfacing from the sea of shadows behind Johnn Von Brandt.

When Johnn followed the constable’s gaze and he turned, the dagger in his hand nearly slipped from his fingers. He pocketed it in a fluid motion and hissed at the young girl of fourteen summers.

“Are you mad? What are you doing here?” Before anybody could speak, Johnn then looked back to Todd. Confusion and doubt had contorted the bandit’s face, puzzling the constable by equal measure, but for different reasons. Johnn asked, “Wait, you can see her?”

Struggling to process this sudden turn of events, Todd had no words for Johnn’s inane question. Instead, he pushed the man aside and squatted down to be at eye level with this girl.

“This is no time or place for a young—”

Todd’s sentence trailed off and he went slack-jawed. Only now did he recognize her. Out of the odd bunch who had paid visits to Nora Morrissey’s cell in the prison tower, this girl was possibly the strangest. Todd linked her to the disappearance of Marcel Collins, the young painter turned murder suspect. She had asked a lot of pointed questions about that investigation and left it well alone after Todd had told her to stay out of official business.

The black dress and veil she wore, lending her the appearance of a lady attending a funeral, had delayed his recognition. Black rings under her eyes rivaled the ones that had stricken Todd’s face all those months ago when he had been investigating Sir Styles’ murder. Only now, seeing this girl here and under these circumstances, did it dawn on him that there may have been more to the case—that there may have been something unnatural at work.

The constable swallowed emptily and stopped himself from grabbing the girl by her shoulders and shaking her and demanding answers. Instead, he remembered his upbringing and realized that being here, now, put this young woman in peril, and he had a duty towards her.

Even so, exasperation forced the following question from his mouth, “What in the nine gates of hell are you doing out all alone, at this time of night?”

She stared back at him, never flinching and never blinking. Staring at him through those big brown eyes, bathed in the shadowed mesh of her funeral veil. Todd shuddered, as if the cold of this wintry night had finally caught up to him. Then he shuddered again when he felt like this girl was emanating a cold far greater than any frost this winter had delivered.

“I am here to help you, Mister Todd,” she whispered in a tiny voice. Every single hair on the back of Todd’s neck stood up straight.

“Alright, enough of this. Not again, Maggie,” Johnn said. The grumble and disdain he used when calling out her name spoke volumes of his patience having run out—mixed with a hint of fear.

Todd wondered. What did he mean with “not again?”

Johnn grabbed Magdalene by a shoulder, but froze in place. She did not budge, but looked up at the benevolent bandit. His jaw quivered and his composure faltered under her icy gaze.

Before anybody could say anything else, all three of them swiveled and then froze, their sights drawn to the sound of a creaking iron gate. With rapt attention, the three watched as Earl Irvine Tyson and his manservant Frederick exited the museum grounds. Frederick shut the iron gate behind his master and fumbled with a ring of keys, their metal jingling brightly. The earl stood aside, his shoulders heaving once with a sharp intake of breath, followed by a small cloud of air condensing in front of his nose and mouth.

“Faster, you nit-witted laggard,” the earl’s voice carried all the way to the alleyway, ringing fierce and impatient.

Frederick locked the gate shot and returned the keys to his pouch, silencing their jingling under a leather flap.

None of the three people watching dared to move. Or breathe.

Earl Tyson and Frederick wandered off into the night. Only when they rounded the next corner, did Todd and Von Brandt exchange nervous glances. Then the bandit glowered at the girl.

“We are bringing you home,” Johnn hissed to Magdalene. “Now.”

Todd stood up straight and clapped a palm down on Johnn’s shoulder. His meaty hand bore the weight of a brick.

“No. There is no time to escort the young lady home,” Todd said. Looking down at her, the constable mustered a feeble smile. “Can you hide and wait until we are finished?”

He did not truly count on surviving the night. Not after all he knew. And all he did not know.

The girl shook her head and narrowed her eyes, frowning in an expression of pure defiance.

“I am a bigger help to you than you think,” she said. Her voice trembled, for once giving her the semblance of a regular girl of her age. That sense was fleeting.

Todd sensed she was no regular girl at all. Not anymore. She was not the same girl he had spoken to last summer. It was like there was an otherworldly wisdom behind her eyes. Ancient as the mummies inside the museum, and as unfathomable as the depths of the ocean.

“I cannot in good conscience allow you to accompany us this night,” Todd argued in a hushed murmur. “You must wait here, and should we not return by the next bell, return home without delay.”

Johnn had nothing to say, left out of the staring contest taking place between his two companions. The way Todd and Magdalene looked into each other’s eyes carried the air of two titans wrestling for control, betraying their vastly mismatched physical statures. An unstoppable force inaudibly clashed against an unmovable object.

Instead of intervening, the bandit seized the opportunity given by the growing stretch of silence and peered around the corner to ensure that Earl Tyson had gained significant distance.

Magdalene pouted.

“Fine. Fine,” she repeated in a bitter tone. “But do take this, so you may live and we may speak again.”

A tiny hand, as pale and gaunt as her face, slipped out of a fur sleeve covering her extremities. In it, she gripped a small object, from which a thin silver chain dangled. Todd felt the gravity of this situation cutting all the way down into his bones. He squatted down again, then held out an open palm.

The cold wintry air froze the sweat on Todd’s open palm. When the girl’s hand brushed against his fingers, he shuddered again because her very body gave off a cold that made the winter feel warm by contrast.

Once she withdrew her hand, the constable stared blankly at the item he had received from her. It weighed almost nothing.

A weird amulet, a ruby beset in a small locket, but wildly wrapped in crude leather strips and adorned with tiny animal teeth and feathers.

“What—what is this?”

“Keep it close to your heart, lest you lose both,” Magdalene whispered.

“But—”

Todd looked up and the rest of his sentence got stuck in his throat like a thick lump. New chills ran down his spine. The girl was nowhere to be seen. He looked around himself in disbelief, but she had vanished. No hiding place in the alleyway could have concealed her from his prying eyes. Gone.

Like a ghost.

“Miss McLachlan?”

Johnn peered back at Todd, and then let his gaze sweep down the alleyway.

“I need to have a serious talk with that girl when this whole thing blows over,” Johnn muttered under a brow furrowed by worry. “She vanished, yes?”

Todd shrugged.

“There is nothing we can do, and we have little time to waste,” Johnn said. “Come—we have undead to put to rest.”

Without waiting for a reply, the bandit snuck across the street, approaching the museum with quiet, certain steps.

Todd looked once more to where Magdalene had last been standing. He shuddered again and whispered a prayer to the Good God. Then he shot another glance at the strange amulet in his hands, locked it around his neck, hid it inside the folds of his jackets, and followed Johnn.

Johnn was right. The constable knew it in his heart of hearts. He had no time to ponder these strange events. To wonder if the girl had given him an item of magicked properties for his protection.

They had no time to waste.

Evil never rests.

—Submitted by Wratts