#verylongweek

Lalla Chaima smiles, slightly, as I present her with the sketched map. The Feaster’s miasma is unbearably thick, and it has spent so long beneath the city that it is difficult to locate the source. Several possible dens are marked, but the possibilities are narrowed enough that checking these will be the work of a single night, rather than weeks or months.

As we enter our third manhole of the evening, I feel an uncanny quiver in my flesh. The stench is no stronger than before, but I am certain the beast is close. I do not say a word, and I especially do not say the first words that come to mind. My companion reads my body language, and draws her blade. A horrible guttering sound echoes nearby.

The Merry Feaster has more limbs than an ordinary beast of such size. It wears a shape like a cat, if viewed carelessly. What appears to be fur is both lively and sharp. I know, unwillingly, that this deceptive facade is intentional; that what seems to be an animal is more like a livened snare. Intended to destroy those who look at it too orderly, it catches the unwary instead. I close my eyes, accepting small injuries in place of deadly ones.

A monster is meant to be slain. A formula of power primitive enough to stick in my mind, for all that I try to keep it clean of idle dreams. In this moment, a corollary arrives, a second brick in a dangerous edifice. It is easiest to break one’s own weapon. I cannot afford to be sentimental, and I am not foolish enough to be vulnerable. But efficiency is power. I take the easy route; I am not fighting an unseemly creature from outside. Instead, I retire an old, tired watchdog. He whimpers at my betrayal, but it’s for the best.

I do not dwell on the unspoken promise the beast makes, that in undoing it I offer my fealty to its first maker. Now it comes apart as easily as a clockwork toy, as though each puncture wound and bleeding cut were intentionally placed to allow disassembly. A conveniently unsettling chunk of limb will last long enough for proof; no durable trophies will be had from this thing.

A map of sewers is a strange commodity, but the revolutionaries don’t question my intentions further when I tell them I intend to do something about the Merry Feaster. Some of them balk at the task, but when I offer another year in exchange, the table quiets. I’m assured the work will be done.

So far, I’ve managed to avoid unwanted attention. I have kept away from all my usual haunts, and spoken to almost none of my usual associates. I will need to contact Lalla again, though, and we established the old hotel as our point of correspondence. Unfortunate.

It is an indiscretion that will cost me. As I pass the entrance, I feel familiar eyes on me, like a moth resting on my shoulder. When I turn, no one is there. A brief conversation with a postman ensures Lalla will receive my message. I have little else to do, and the day wears on. A sickly stillness lingers in the air. Like a closed room, where the soon-to-be-dead linger.

As night falls, I take an indirect route home, favoring the winding streets of a housing district. A deliberate turn down a quiet alley allows me to discern quiet, pattering footsteps. I’ve been followed. The steady weight of a revolver at my side ensures they will not connect me to an address.

In a smooth motion, I turn, draw my weapon, and fire. It is possible I hit something, in the darkness. I vacate the area too quickly to be sure. I don’t return to my current lodgings. Instead, I arrive at a different safe-house an hour after midnight, shaken, but alone. I don’t actually need much of my luggage, but I specifically request the old rifle be brought to me. It arrives in an ill-fitting bag the next morning.

Four hours of sleep is not enough, but once my eyes are open, I find it impossible to close them again. My body aches with false age.

“The mind must rule over the body, in matters of war.”

I’ve taken many lives, in my time. This one, though, is not measured in blood or breath, but in sharp pen-strokes on crisp paper. Seventy-seven years. A day ago, I had thought of it as repayment for my old master’s disrespect. Now, in the cold morning light, it feels more like a promise of doom.

Or perhaps that’s just the ache of the bullet wound in my shoulder, not quite staunched. Ordinarily I would never visit an associate in such a state, but unfortunately this time I need her more than she needs me. A note left in my hotel room reads “Noon.”

Lalla Chaima arrives, punctually. She does not mention my disheveled appearance. When I ask if she might accompany me to Amsterdam, she explains, in her clipped tone, that she is currently hunting a sewer beast, the Merry Feaster.

“The French Army won’t pay without proof. It must be killed. It will take time.” No outright refusal. Just an implied quid pro quo. Unfortunately, I do not have the resources on hand for such an undertaking. I would need to convert Marks of the Cindered Tally into ordinary marks I can spend—taking time to find a buyer, and drawing eyes I’d rather avoid.

Lalla Chaima has always been very firm about what she wants. I may leave this city alone, after all. But before I leave, she drops an additional detail, almost casually.

“At first I thought to purchase a rifle, to fell the creature.” She shakes her head. “Too impractical.” If I did not know her, I might imagine a twinkling in her eyes, as she slides an address across the table. It leads to a dusty little antique shop.