The Lakewood Lodge

“Or… now, dear me, was it that, or was it the young lady in the confessional? Both, perhaps?” the voice continues blithely. “Certainly one or both of those had to be the final straw. That is the trouble with you, Elias, you do all your thinking with the wrong head. Certainly it played no small part in getting you into this predicament as well.”

“You’re lying.” His voice wavered. “What did you scheme and trick her with, to turn her? She was loyal.”

“Ah, you mean ‘Samael’? Oh yes, she was quite loyal. It never does, after all, to double-cross an employer in her line of work. Bad for business, you understand.” A dossier spills onto the floor, filled with coded letters in Samael’s handwriting - all signed MNEMOSYNE. “So she was very loyal to me while she batted her eyelashes, and told you exactly what you wanted to hear, and twisted you around her dainty little finger. You asked me which one was mine, Elias. The truth is, she was mine - and Charles Milverton’s, before his untimely demise. A bespoke zealot, bought and paid for from the very beginning. And you were so mired in your unclerical thoughts that you never even noticed. You hid behind false faith, without considering who else may be doing the same… it was wonderfully entertaining.”

For the first time since he woke up, Crowe falls silent. His shoulders and head slump. Some time passes before he looks up again. “Well. You truly do commit to your craft. The most clever little rat in all of this cesspit of a city. Such a great deception to claim the credit for.”

“I will take that for the compliment it is. Truth be told, I did get some use out of you and your lunatic friends for a while. That devil that Samael and… Daniel, was it not? Yes, the pair of them worked together to kill him and burn down his fleapit gambling den. He was a rival of mine in the Great Game. Rather an unpleasant one, as well. Then you started to get dull, and I found better ways to dispose of thorns in my side, so I decided to just take you apart. It was stultifyingly easy, too… I would compare it to pulling the wings off a fly, but a fly would at least have struggled. You seemed to actively abet your own dismemberment. Well, excepting your current actual dismemberment, of course; that was largely my doing. My, but Roland Banning certainly got the better of you, didn’t he?”

Crowe spit onto the dossiers. “So easy, and yet such a process. The work I began in this year will be remembered. There will be another inspired by my actions, just as I was. One that will remember you, and tear the heart out of whatever holds your interest here.”

“Remember me?” A soft chuckle. “People rarely remember me. I have one of those faces, I suppose. Oh, but you are so keen to be remembered, are you not? I wonder… is that why you really did this? Did you ever truly believe you were on a mission from God, or did you just use his name to make yourself sound bigger than you really are?”

The corner of his mouth twitches. “I don’t expect you to understand what a higher calling is. Nor do you deserve the satisfaction. All martyrs have their devotion questioned. It is only fitting that you question mine.”

“Oh, a martyr now, are you? How very lofty. Let us not kid ourselves here, shall we? Your only devotion has ever been to Elias Crowe. When I look at you, I don’t see a martyr, or a man with a purpose or a higher calling. What I see is…” A thoughtful pause. “Yes, this is rather apt, isn’t it? An angry child. A petulant little boy throwing the world’s biggest temper tantrum, knocking over an entire city with bombs and fire, all because nobody ever told him he was special. All to get Mother’s attention. Oh, you’ll never be loved. When people say your name they’ll curse it, and spit on the street, and say what a vile, deranged creature you were. But… that’s all you want, isn’t it? You don’t want people to praise your name. You just want them to say it.”

“As if your own name is worth a damn sight more mention,” he snaps, “As if you know or even care what it means to have done something of import! To be remembered! You’re nothing, a disgusting, skittering insect! Hiding in the shadows, too afraid to let a man you have at your mercy even see your face.” He thrashes in the chair, trying to turn it. The bolts attached to it hold fast.

“So I am right.” The voice is delightedly smug. “Oh, yes, I thought so. Nobody ever listened to Elias Crowe, did they? Not when he was a poor farm boy, scrabbling in the dirt. Not when he was a clergyman diddling prostitutes in the confessional and picking God’s pockets. Not when he came to the Neath and started spewing bile from street corners. Nobody cared what Elias Crowe had to say. Nobody thought Elias Crowe would ever amount to anything. Oh, but then… then you found Jeremiah Lakewood, didn’t you? You dug up a dead man’s boots, and you put them on, and you became Jeremiah Lakewood because Jeremiah Lakewood was so much more special and important than Elias Crowe ever had any hope of becoming.”

There is a pause, and then the voice continues, triumphantly self-satisfied. “And - ah, now here is the kicker, as they say. Jeremiah Lakewood will be the name they really remember. After all, you didn’t call it the Crowe Lodge, did you? No, you sought to bask in the light of legitimacy that Lakewood’s name brought you. And as a result, Londoners will curse the name of the Lakewood Lodge… and not spare a single second of thought for Elias Jasper Crowe.”

He looked down. His whole body shook, as did his voice when he spoke. “Kill me, then. You’ve done what you wanted, and seen me brought low. I’m glad that you were entertained, and happier still knowing you’ll be back to finding the same boredom that drove you to this. But enjoy the thrill. I know it won’t last. Not forever.” He looks at the direction of the voice. “So get on with it. Or are you too much of a spineless little bug to even look me in the eye when you do it?”

“Oh, of course. Where are my manners?” The figure steps from the shadows for the first time, grey eyes regarding Crowe in much the same manner as a scientist would regard an insect that had just performed an interesting trick. A smile plays across their features as they gently touch the brim of their hat with one hand - the other hand being occupied with a gleaming straight razor. “A pleasure to make your acquaintance. Truly - this has been very entertaining. But I suppose I cannot put it off any longer, alas.” The hand not holding the razor grips Crowe by the chin and raises his head to meet that steel gaze. “Enjoy your ignominious end, Elias Crowe. Oh - and when you meet the boatman? Do be a dear and tell him Jones sends their regards.”

Crowe shook his head, trying to clear his vision. His good arm didn’t budge under the chains, and he was dimly aware of an emptiness under his right shoulder. Was his arm gone? It would have had to have been after it was mangled during the ambush. Before Samael helped him escape. “S- Samael. You get her too?” His voice was confident, but not even. “I hope so, for your sake.”

“Samael? Oh, she’s off somewhere.” There’s the vague impression of a shadowy hand being waved dismissively. “Russia, Vienna, Polythreme… Hell? Possibly Hell. I suspect I’ll track her down, if I have need of her services again. Do you like the chains, by the way?” the voice adds conversationally. “They really are of very good quality. Jeremiah Lakewood himself would be proud, I suspect.”

“Clever, aren’t you? All your kind is. Quick words, moving in the shadows when you’re too weak to raise a hand yourself. Clever’s a better word for coward, isn’t it?” He looked forward, the confident tone wavering slightly more.

“My kind?” Vague, amused interest. “What kind would that be?”

“You never ask a question you don’t know the answer to; don’t sell yourself short, now.” The confidence moved into mocking, arrogance.

“I recall asking you two questions over the course of this conversation. Though, I suppose you have prompted a third - who do you think I am, exactly? I am genuinely curious.”

“A rat, scurrying in the dark. But you do love to put on airs and play at being something more mysterious, don’t you? You’re the one who has been such a thorn in my side. Worse, now, it seems. Do try not to congratulate yourself too much.” He laughs, his breath short.

“Oh, but self-congratulation is so much fun. You should know, I have no doubt you’ve indulged in plenty of it yourself over the course of your merry little escapades. Fiddling and fiddling, even as Rome burned around you. Of course, I suppose you wouldn’t have minded Rome burning…”

“No, I suppose I would not.” He smiled, then gritted his teeth as the ether began to wear off. “Perhaps I should ask a question I know the answer to, then: why bother to save a man from gangrene when you’ve no intent to spare him?”

“So I could gloat, of course,” the voice says with a light chuckle. “I can’t have you distracted from the gloating, can I? It just ruins the entire experience.”

“Well, it’s good to know there’s something we both enjoy, isn’t there?” Crowe slows his breathing, trying to focus on his words and not the pain. “In method, not motive. You intend to revel in your deception, your crimes against god, and your victory. But if there is one thing I can bring myself to praise you for, it’s that you do understand what it means to triumph over another.” He leans back his head. “But I don’t suppose you’re the sort to be wounded by a comparison to someone like me. You’re fond of telling others how you stand above morality, above law. My judgement would matter very little to you. You want some form of satisfaction. So, which one was yours? Which one did I send screaming to hell to warrant you scurrying out of hiding to do this with your own coward’s hands? I want to remember it and tell you how it happened.” He was grinning, his eyes wide. He made no attempt to look for the source of the voice.

“Which one was mine? Oh, my dear Elias. You think this is about retribution? You think that is why you are here, and your little social club is scattered to the four winds? You think that, in the end, this is about you?” Another laugh. “You claim to know so much of my motivations, and yet you are so easily led astray by your own tender ego. It’s almost endearing.”

A pause, just long enough to show the words had an effect. “Then this is something less personal, then. You’re not in it for justice, or for vengeance...  Is it something more base? What, then? Your pride? A thrill? You do love playing this little game with me enough to make me wonder just who has to be in my position to give you such a thrill. An enemy, a friend, a stranger, a family member… a lover… anyone? The lines for who you can do this to must blur for you, I’m sure. With enough time, that distinction will fade, I’m sure. I only wish I could be there to see what happens when you finally lose that distinction. I’d find that same thrill in watching that happen, I’m sure.”

“This, specifically? I doubt anyone else would be fool enough to find themselves in this particular situation. But yes, you are right. This isn’t about justice, or vengeance. It’s not out of some sense of civic high-mindedness, though I do doubt very much that anyone will especially mourn your passing. It’s not even because your views are repulsive - frankly, I always found your particular brand of pseudo-liturgical nonsense rather amusing. No…” The suggestion of a shrug. “I did this because, well… I needed something to do. I was bored, and I could. Does that adequately answer your question?”

He pauses. His shoulders shake. Crying? No. Laughing. His laughter starts low, until he’s laughing so hard tears roll down his face. “I had honestly thought I was having to reach to call you a mad dog. You are remarkable. Everything I knew about this city, confirmed. No, even a mad dog has more direction than that. I had purpose in my life, dog. You don’t even know what you’re good for. A wasted life.” His head finally turns. “Or am I wrong about what you are again? Will you even know when I’m right?”

“Purpose? Is that what you had?” The voice sounds amused again. “A mission from God? A divine duty? A righteous and holy quest to purge the sin and filth from beneath the world? I suppose it would be the perfect thing, wouldn’t it? After all, a man with a purpose is far more important than a disgraced drunkard who was tossed out of God’s house for filching from the collection plate…”

The wild glee vanishes from his face in a second. “An amusement, and you had to dig that far? You’re flattering yourself to claim it’s amusement.” He sneers, now actively looking for his captor. “But now you’ve gotten into the real barbs, haven’t you? What’s the matter, need to change the subject? Don’t like to think about it?” His voice is edged, tense. The confidence is gone, replaced with venom.

There was lamp-oil in the basement, dynamite in the coal chest, and sulfur compounds in the rotten cupboards. They were ready, but now things had changed. It was martyrdom or flight, and Crowe would not be the first to offer himself to death. There were fewer martyrs left in this cesspit of a city, but there were enough to buy him time to reach the Cumean Canal, should that happen. The Lord would understand, he thought with a smile. There would be no shortage of new faithful on the surface, with bomb and knife and gun, eager to lay waste to a city of sin and monsters. Yes, he thought, there would be another time.

---

There was no checklist of things to go over this time. No packing list, no shopping trip, no more training or practice left. With news of the latest blow to the Lodge still fresh in their memory, Casey instead was instead watching the city below quietly. One of the weasels was circling their feet below, squeaking for attention, and it was enough to snap them out of their reverie. They knelt down to pick it up, giving it a little scratch behind the ears.

“Don’t worry little fellow,” They said. “Mary already knows to be here in case it takes me a while to come back.”  

Roland went over his inventory, one item at a time. Derringer, loaded. Waxwail knife, ready at his hip. Vakeskin boots, and spiderchitin gauntlets, glistening and rugged. Lacquered armor, each plate checked and double-checked. He quietly slipped one last item on. An amulet, carved into a rough horse-head shape. The man who appraised it said it was lucky; Roland doubted him, but was in no place to turn it down now. He walked to Casey, and took their hand. “You know,” he said, “I think that even in the most dire of times, we still manage to be the best-looking ones in a fight.”  

Casey laughed, just once, and pressed the palm of their free hand against their vest. Underneath their fingertips was a hastily-patched bullet hole. “Even with this raggedy thing?” They asked, trying to keep the mood light. “It was perfect for saving my skin in Venderbight but not so much for looking our Sunday best. You, on the other hand…” Casey brushed a piece of lint from Roland’s shoulder. “Clean up nicely. You’re right. Best-dressed ambush couple of the Neath for sure.”

The weasel took off running, distracted by some whim overheard in another room. The smile faded from Casey’s face, quickly trying to remember if they’d grabbed each of their own weapons (knife--secured, pistol--only if needed, hands--wrapped as if ready for a boxing ring, covered with gloves). It’s as if the two of them are about to lead an army.

“Do you still remember his name?”  

Roland nodded. “Daniel. Hard to say if he’ll even remember it. But if it’s enough, even just a second, to get him to pause… then it makes a difference.” He rested his forehead against theirs, and gave them a gentle hug. “We’ll see this through. I know we will.”  

They didn’t respond. Instead, Casey lifted Roland’s hand to their mouth and kissed his knuckles, taking a moment to quietly breathe and close their eyes. If they thought hard enough, they could almost forget what they were about to do.

“We won’t be trapped again, not like last time.” They finally said, opening their eyes. “Let’s go.”   

---

The street was empty. This part of the district, old as the fall, had been closed after a rather nasty infestation of sorrow-spiders. Even after it had been cleaned by the brave and the desperate, it never quite came back to what it was. Roland had word from Samuel Blackleaf that this was the location. He and Casey waited on the rooftops, ready to enter the hideout through a skylight made superfluous after London fell. He nodded to them, and opened the latch. A quick look through, and he nodded, entering into the dusty building, knife drawn, motioning for Casey when he was sure it was clear.  

Holding their breath, Casey dropped through and landed as quietly as they could inside. They reached inside their pocket and withdrew the knife, holding still to allow for their eyes to adjust to the dark and to listen for any noises. Hearing nothing, they shuffled closer to the wall and waved Roland over, spotting a doorway.   

Roland nodded, scanning the floor as he walked for anything out of place, or any wires. He opened the doorway to a stairwell, leading to the first floor of the old shop front. A check for voices, a look through the keyhole, and he signaled to Casey they were clear. With gun and knife ready, he waited behind a cabinet as he tried to make out the sound of voices in the storeroom.  

Following quickly behind him, Casey quickly darted behind a second cabinet, keeping enough space between the two of them for more ground to be covered. The knuckles on their knife-hand are white, hands trembling, but their breathing was still steady and quiet. They tried to pick out the words from the distant voices, but it was difficult to understand. Casey shot Roland a questioning look, then glanced in the direction of the voices.   

Roland nodded. Through the storeroom door’s keyhole, Roland saw Crowe, silent and kneeling in front of a cross made from old chainlinks. Roland grimaced. He had a good idea of the source. He nodded to Casey and mouthed “Now.” He turned, kicking the door open. The splintered, rotted wood swung wide, and Roland fired three shots at Crowe. He fell forward, red stains spreading on only his shoulder, where the first shot went wide. Before Roland could assess and fire again, an arm like a pillar swung into his stomach, knocking him back. The towering, bandaged frame of The Seventh Man filled the doorway as Elias coughed and stood behind him.

“Not a step further,” the bandaged giant growled, “Not one more step.”  

Casey’s hands went behind their back, to where the hilt of their dagger was kept as they sheathed it. The pistol still hung there, and their hand wrapped around its handle. Their eyes were locked on the Seventh Man’s face, high above their own, and they froze. For a second, their gaze shifted behind him to Elias, but then back up to the Seventh Man. Working fast, they drew the pistol and took haphazard aim, firing a bullet into the Seventh Man’s meaty shoulder. 

A chunk of meat and cloth disappeared as the door frame sprayed wood and dust behind him. He turned his head to Casey, not noticing or caring at the damage done. “I am no creature of flesh and blood, Casey Banning. I am the weight of your sins. Through me, if you would kill my Prophet. To me, if you would die.”

Crowe found his way to his feet. He looked, dazed, to the far wall, where a window held shut by loose boards waited. “Hold them, Scion.” Crowe grinned. “Hold them, and I will find you.”

Roland stood, firing two more shots into The Seventh Man. Atrophied organs, long-dead skin, and lungs that had no need for air were shot to dust, met with wheezing laughter. Roland drew the waxwail knife, gritting his teeth.  

“You’re the weight of Jeremiah’s sins, Daniel,” Casey said, stepping back into the hallway. Their pistol clicked, readying another around into the chamber. “His, and Crowe’s.” They stepped backwards, aiming but not yet firing their gun again. “It’s just us now, you’re not going after any more of his victims.”  

Bullets, knives, fire, and worse. Pain of the flesh was excruciating. It was maddening. The Seventh Man knew this. This was something deeper. For a moment, his massive frame slumped, as if the knowledge had killed him. “My name,” he said in a frightened, almost regretful voice, “I had thought it was gone.” He straightened his back. His eyes were wide. Feral. “But that man is dead. And you will join him!” He charged through the hallway, diving at Casey. “Daniel is a dead man!” A heavy, wild swing at their head. “Through His word and his rage, I am no longer that man!” More wild swings. “I am the vengeance of Jeremiah Lakewood! Of his faithful! Of his God!” A final blow towards their stomach, as his voice shook the walls.

She unknots a silk cloth, and upturns its contents into the snow. The brightly colored scales shimmer in the sunlight as they float down, disintegrating just before they touch the ground. Her banded friend peeks out from a dark branch.

“Why hello there, my little scursuni. Have you brought your friends?” She reaches up to the branch, inviting the snake to slide onto her arm. It nods at her, and flicks its tongue toward the treeline. Three others emerge, and climb up to rest on her shoulders. One curls inside the brim of her hat. “Right then, let’s set ourselves to the Marches,” she says with determination. The red banded snake nods in agreement, and they let the Writhing River’s course guide them to the mirrors.

“The Church was much harder to find over here than in London, that’s for sure,” she informs the serpents as they come upon the Marches. “I’m certain the Lodge thought they were taking every precaution to hide themselves from what they consider Occult,” she laughs, and the snakes chuckle along with her. “But their vanity seems to have given us an opening. Over here,” she makes her way toward a cluster of vines that seem freshly grown from the earth. They twine around a plain, raw-wood frame, divided into four window-like panels. Each pane reveals a slightly different angle of the church, as seen through the eyes of the dockers. “It appears that their masks are mirrored. Lucky for you lot that the glass is soft, because I’m not certain you’d be able to go through otherwise.”

The red banded snake slinks down to the mossy earth. It looks back up at her and to the other Fingerkings, flicking its tongue. “It’s time to take a walk. Let’s go.” The others follow down to the ground, winding themselves into curved shapes in front of the mirror frame. A fight is erupting inside the church. Odessa holds her breath.

“Now!” she whispers at them, eyes fixed on the mirror and the commotion inside.

The four strike as one, each diving into a separate pane of glass. --- Legs. The Fingerking wobbles like a newborn calf, unused to standing. It steadies its new body by holding onto a wooden pew; its other hand holds some kind of metal bar. Blood. It licks its lips, tasting the iron and copper on split flesh, tinged with something sweet and reminiscent of home. Honey. It never really understood why humans were so keen on honey--why visit Parabola in a state of madness, when one could simply visit through the mirrors?

It glances over to its fellow Fingerkings--two have taken hold of Dockers like the one it’s inhabiting. One is holding a large chunk of wood, the other, another pipe. They too stumble a bit, trying to balance their new two legs. The Red-Banded Serpent looks to be in possession of a man wearing a mirrored mask--the very mirror they’d come through. His eyes dart back and forth as the Fingerking struggles to fully take hold of him.

It takes in the state of disarray: splintered wood, smashed ceramic decorations, and a lady, bruised and battered and beautiful, wielding a rifle that’s pointed straight toward them. A disfigured man races toward her with a metal bar, his eyes wild with rage.

Inartculate, garbled, excited noises come from a docker behind Lamea as he throws himself in the way of the bar, stumbling towards Moloch. There is a loud CRUNCH as his shoulder and collarbone shatters under the blow. Peculiarly, he still moves, lurching around, laughing. “P- Pfff- Pain! It’s amazing! Hahahaha!” The enthusiasm of a young adder Odessa brought along, channeled into the experiences the docker would be regretting when he left

Moloch looked at his former allies in confusion. With a small flick of his tongue, the other docker with an unbroken jaw winked, slitted pupils visible for a moment. With a roar of renewed anger, he lunged for the docker, exposing his back to Lamea and the other serpents, still gaining their footing. The smug expression of a kingsnake Red-banded brought with him was visible on the docker with the broken jaw, who motioned with his head towards the fray, as if to invite him to join.

A blow to the head with a pistol, making her vision blink out for a moment. A fist in her side, and a makeshift club, slamming into her back. If that hadn't been enough to bring her down, the kick to the knees did it. The jab with the bar knocked the remaining wind out of her as she crumpled to her knees. She had just enough time to observe the bizarre impression that Moloch was peeling off his face, to reveal another face no less ugly beneath. She stared at him with dull, mindless defiance, even as she threw up her arms in a futile attempt to guard against the oncoming attack.

She flinched as she heard the 'CRUNCH,' and it took her a second to realize that it had come from someone else's body. She lowered her arms, breathing raggedly through her open mouth, watching Moloch turn his back, watching him lunge at one of his friends. Betrayal among the Lodge's ranks? She didn't have time to think about it. Her body. She could move it. She didn't like to- there was a throbbing pain like a sledgehammer banging an iron bell in her head, she thought one of her ribs might be broken- but she could. Her rifle was on the ground, and Moloch's back was to her. She grabbed her weapon, dragged herself to her feet, aimed. Distantly, some part of her mechanically registered the number of bullets she had left: Two. But with the odds suddenly, startlingly in her favor, it didn't seem to matter.

There was a horrible, wailing scream as the docker fighting Moloch was lifted from the ground, and a final crunching sound as he was dropped back - first over the large man’s knee. He did not move when he landed, except to twitch an arm and whimper. Moloch wheeled around, eyes blazing. “Traitors! All of you!” The docker with a broken jaw giggled, and placed a finger on his chin as if to say ‘who, me?’ Moloch looked on in disgust, and raised the bar. “her first. You last. Slowly. For god, for london, for the lodge.” He turned to Lamea, raising the bar once more.

The Red-Banded Serpent was struggling with its new form; the physical pain this body had endured before it took over was excruciating, but somehow exhilarating. The masked man closes his eyes.

“AAAAHHHHH!” He screams, a combination of the serpent adjusting to the pain of broken bones and the man fighting the Fingerking’s control. He doubles over, hands clutching his head. His pistol clinks to the floor. Then, the scream bubbles into laughter. “Aahahahaha!” the voice of the Fingerking, fully in control now, shouts in glee and agony. The man’s eyes are shining silver, limbs wobbling.

He winks back at the adder in the docker’s skin. The Fingerking darts in between Lamea and Moloch, and uses all of his new found strength and adrenaline to grab hold of the iron bar with both hands. He pushes back against Moloch and twists his arms, hard.

Lamea's focus faltered, in spite of the strength of her intent. They were helping her? Why? Why now, and not sooner? (Why not before beating her?) One of them was screaming, then laughing. Were they succumbing to madness?

There was something in her eye, stinging and blurring her vision. She aimed her rifle high, and pulled the trigger, twice, teetering on her bruised legs with the recoil. She had aimed for Moloch- with the height he had over his foe, it was a safe bet. Though she wasn't sure she'd be sorry if she hit them both.

The sound of bone splintering filled the church, followed by a gurgling yell. Moloch’s arm was severed as it was pulled in front of him, and the second shot ripped through his neck. The full, limp weight of the man carried down the possessed mirror masked man, and he landed on the floor. Ragged, wet breaths came from him as he struggled to move his arms, barely held up, The docker with a broken jaw tottered over to him on unsteady legs and prodded him with the bar before sitting down. Moloch still tried to move, and finally, save for the quieting sounds of his struggle and bits of the ruined staircase falling, the church was quiet.

Lamea blinked her stinging eyes, and slowly, rigidly, lowered her rifle. Was it over? The falling hush felt wrong. Her eyes went to the docker who, for some reason, sat down. She would like to sit down, too, but her job wasn't done yet. Moving slowly, her eyes flashing warily towards those still standing, she went to the door. And came up against a lock. She thwacked her hand against the door peevishly, offended that, after all the obstacles she had survived this morning, it was a piece of wood on hinges that delayed her final goal. She peered over her shoulder inquiringly. They had been so helpful with Moloch. Perhaps they'd extend a final courtesy? Those still breathing, anyway.

Moving stiffly, she put her rifle back into its sling. Her fingers were cramped from clenching it so tightly. Then she moved back towards Moloch, and the man pinned beneath. "I don't suppose you know who has the key?" she asked. Helpfully, she started to shove and kick the giant's body. Ultimately, it didn't matter if she helped the man in the mirror-mask, since they were all going to be carted off by devils in a moment. But she made a token effort all the same.

"I don't think I've ever seen such a dramatic change of heart," she said. "You have strange timing. You all had me, you know." The tension was pouring from her like blood from a wound, now, and she was starting to babble. "Why? After what I did to you."

“It’s… wow, that’s lucky I can’t feel anything under that break. It’s in his coat pocket. Lucky of you to miss that,” said the docker whose spine Moloch broke. He laughed. “To be honest? He would have killed all of us, if you hadn’t just opened fire. We were hoping to jump him, at least after the fire was started. We may have stood a chance if we just lit the bastard on fire and bolted, Crowe would have lauded us bringers of martyrdom, and we’d be alive, if battered.” The one with the broken jaw slur-gurgles in agreement, while the one with the broken shoulder idly pokes at the limp mass that used to hold his arm steady.

Moloch continues to breathe short, ragged gasps. “Th--” he coughs, blood spraying from his mouth. “They’ll take you too. When you can’t serve. I… will see you there, burning with me. I’ll have one small mercy in that.” A soft attempt at a laugh, or a cough. His eyes still burn with hate as he meets hers, unwavering in their intensity.

Lamea paused, frowning. There was still something nagging at the back of her mind, but she fastened on one detail in particular. "Crowe? Is that your leader? Where is he now?"

She glanced at Moloch, surprised that he was still coherent. Her expression was impassive; now that he was no longer a threat, she had nothing for him, not even hate. He was a done job, that was all. She moved towards him, her hands checking his pockets with the indifferent, light-fingered touch of a surgeon, avoiding his hate-filled eyes. "I'll see you there, then," she said, holding up the key. Far be it from her to deny a dead man his final, bitter consolation. "I hear the roses are beautiful."

The man with the broken back shrugged, wincing. “You think I know where he’d go if we failed? We were going to meet in the flit for instructions after. Not seeing an enormous pyre in Spite means he’s gone to hiding, prob’ly.”

The docker poking his shattered shoulder spoke, pulling a small jar of honey out of his pocket and setting it next to him. “Likes to dream about all sorts of things. Curvy things, pretty things, blonde one most of all. Minister, he is. Minister.” He laughs and finally his skin turns pale, possibly the shock wearing off. “Pain isn’t fun anymore.” He goes quiet and stares at the pews, unresponsive.

Lamea took that in. She glanced at the honey-mazed one, and almost dismissed what he said as a lewd jibe, until he said 'Minister.' She decided she had better remember two details, at least: 'Crowe' and 'Minister.' She would leave the interrogations to her employers.

She stood, and strode towards the door, unlocking it. The cavern air outside braced her. "Goodbye," she said, stepping out onto the street.

There was a plain, black landau sitting idle, pulled up beside a lamp post. It had smoked windows. Lamea approached it, and the door opened, letting her in. "There you are," said a voice, brightly. This wasn't the deviless in white, but someone Lamea had seen once or twice before. "We were beginning to think you weren't coming."

Lamea glanced at the smiling man- or devil?- in the seat beside her, slumping. "It's done," she said. He nodded, raising his eyebrows pleasantly. For a moment, nothing happened. He began to whistle to himself. Then, he tilted his chin, indicating she should look out the window.

The bullet fragmented in Moloch’s arm, the roar of the gun mixing with his scream of pain. He spun around, falling against the pews as the others moved to get behind cover. “There!” one of the men in red shouted, and they moved. One in red ran straight towards her, brandishing a saber from a parade uniform, more ornament than weapon, but still sharp. Another drew a pistol and fired, the bullet going wide and hitting the wooden wall to Lamea’s left. The other two in mirrored masks stayed behind the pews, one with a pistol of his own, one with a knife. Two of the dockers moved towards her, serpentining, while the other helped Moloch behind a pew.

Lamea flinched as the bullet bit the wall beside her, and hurriedly knocked the obtrusive bonnet off her head, taking aim once more. The impulsive man in red lined up along her sight, and she pulled the trigger. Even in her precarious position, she aimed for the shoulder. The other two, with their zigzagging movements, worried her. She had no proper cover on these stairs, but she stood her ground, and aimed for the man with the pistol next, firing. Three rounds fired, five to go.

The man running towards Lamea was blasted backwards, his shoulder vanishing in a cloud of bone and red drops. He was wordless as he hit the ground with a thump, his arm landing beside him. He did not move. The second shot went into the gut of the man who shot at her, his next shot going into the ceiling above him as he sprawled against the pew behind him, gasping and wheezing as he tried to stem the bleeding.

The two men closed the distance, one of them throwing the heavy iron bar at her midsection while the other leapt at her, arms out to tackle her. Taking advantage of the distraction, the other pistol-wielding red coated man and his knife-wielding compatriot dashed towards her. With an angry growl, Moloch stood. There was a crunch of wood as he ripped the arm off of a pew and ran towards Lamea with heavy steps, the docker that hid with him following behind.

Lamea swung her rifle up and thrust the oncoming bar aside, then slammed her knee up into the face of the man tackling her. She might not be able to avoid being knocked down, but she could, at the very least, get an advantage before she hit the stairs. Some part of her was ringing alarm bells at the sight of the massive man bearing a large hunk of wood with her name on it, but one thing at a time, now.

The Docker with a knee in his face made a noise somewhere between a cough and “hurk,” landing in a tangle with Lamea’s legs. The second closed the distance and swung a kick to her face. The pistol-wielding man in the red coat tried to take aim at her, hanging back. “Keep her steady!” he shouted, as the knife-wielding man started up the stairs towards her. Moloch’s heavy footsteps gained speed, pounding along the floorboards, barely followed by his compatriot. Moloch’s roar echoed in the church, ragged, desperate, and furious.

Lamea was distracted by the docker tangled in her legs. Looking disgusted, she lifted her rifle and slammed the butt towards his skull. Her footing slipped on the stairs, and she fell onto her back, painfully. Perhaps that was better than the alternative- being kicked in the head. The one hurt; the other might have knocked her out. Struggling fiercely, she kicked her legs and simultaneously tried to propel herself backwards up the stairs, in an attempt to get free. She heard Moloch roar, and redoubled her efforts. No amount of bravado would have kept her from running from overwhelming odds, now that she no longer had the benefit of surprise and range.

There was a crunch as the dockworker’s jaw broke, and he curled in the corner growling in pain. His compatriot picked up the bar and swung it towards her knees, while the knife-wielding man in the red coat jumped towards her, the knife swinging towards her waist. The man with the pistol fired towards her chest; she was moving away, and he wouldn’t pass up the chance. “You won’t run, girl! Not from us! You think you can stop this?” His ranting, high-pitched from adrenaline and excitement, was cut short as Moloch shoved him aside, at the stairs. His left arm was curled at his side, his right gripping the chunk of wood with white knuckles.

“No more games, no more tricks, witch. I know you, devil-worshipping fiend. You’ll pay for what you took double today. There won’t be a river waiting for you when I’m done. Only flames.”

Lamea saw the bar coming, and heaved her body to the side, straight into the slashing knife. There was a tearing and scraping sound as it sliced through fabric, hitting the leather armor beneath. The bullet struck the edge of the step Lamea's back had been braced against, throwing up splinters. Lamea shoved herself up the stairs, scrambled, regained her feet.

There was a split second while she acknowledged Moloch's words. Her chest was heaving, sweat slicked her forehead, and yet there was a flash of fierce delight in her eyes, and her lips eased into a grin, brimming with arrogance. She reached inside her coat, and flung out her fist. A small cloud of quicklime burst through the air, and Lamea pivoted on heel and jolted up the stairs.

Moloch turned away, closing his eyes. The powder still found its home in his right eye, and he screamed, slamming the heavy block of wood into the staircase. The older wood, damaged and disused, collapsed under the force of the blow. More heavy slams, and the stairs Lamea stood on buckled, the wood creaking. His meaty hand grabbed the stairs as he jumped, putting his weight onto the collapsing stairs. With a heavy crack, the stairs began to fall, the supports failing, the bolts in the wall coming free.

“No escape! Not from me!” He laughed, grabbing the iron bar from the fallen docker, stepping forward, blood trickling from his right eye.

As chunks of staircase fell, the dockers and the red-coated man dove aside, while the pistol-user fired two shots at her. The final docker dropped into a low stance, ready to move.

There was a moment when Lamea's instinct was to run faster. The futility of the idea hit home when she heard the stairs tearing free from the wall, felt them buckle under her feet. She heard gunfire. She halted, turned, and leapt over the edge of the stairs. She twisted as she fell through the air, trying to land on her side, clutching her rifle to her chest.

Lamea hit the ground shoulder-first, rolled, staggered to her feet.  She was panting. She licked her lips, her eyes flashing wildly from Moloch, to the man with the pistol, to the other combatants. "Very well," she said, barely audible. "No running away."

She charged at Moloch, coming in low and close, trying to pound him in the gut with the butt end of her rifle. She came at an angle, aiming to keep his huge bulk between herself and the shooter in the pews.

Moloch took the strike to the gut, pushed back by the blow. He looked up and locked eyes with her, smiling under his mask. “Perfect.” His right arm dropped down to the gun, following through the movement swinging the bar towards her ribs. “Rather you accept judgement. Much more satisfying for me.”

As she engaged Moloch, the docker that stood near him darted forward, swinging his own bar at her hips. His uninjured friend picked up a chunk of the staircase and stood, rushing towards her, while the knife-wielding man in the red coat stood up and vaulted over a pew to get to her side. The pistolier behind Moloch cursed, turning the weapon around in his hand, the butt of the pistol now a makeshift club as he moved forward.

Lamea lunged back, out of Moloch's range. She twisted her hips and took a glancing blow to the side from the docker's bar, grunting in pain, even as she reversed her grip on the rifle and jammed it towards the docker's face. As she frantically tried to react to an overwhelming situation, there was a lingering look of incredulity on her face, as if she couldn't quite believe that her blow hadn't done more than knock Moloch back.

Whether or not rifle butt hit docker face, she kept moving, darting away from both the man with the piece of staircase, and the one with the knife. With a little distance gained, she fired her rifle. This time, she didn't use the sight, and her aim was jagged, as her brain was swamped with adrenaline. She fired off three shots in rapid succession, trying to hit the knife-wielder, the behemoth, and the pistolier.

The bullet left a hole in the knife-wielding man’s chest. His eyes didn’t close before he landed on the ground, the force of the shot blasting him off of his feet. He didn’t move. The second shot left a spray of red on Moloch’s left, eliciting a scream of pain from the man as his movement stopped. The final shot went wide, ruffling the epaulette on the pistolier’s shoulder. Within a second he closed the distance, swinging the butt of his pistol towards her head in a savage arc, screaming. “He was blessed! He was a good man, you bastard-born scum! You soulless, damned monster!” He followed up with a left hook to her side, eyes behind the shining mask full of hate.

“That’s how you do it, fancy man,” the docker behind her slurred, swinging the chunk of wood at her back, “That’s how you do what He wants.” He followed the swing with a kick towards the back of her knees. The other docker by Moloch rushed forward, shoving the tip of the bar at her stomach, the rag over his mouth falling away, smears of honey glistening over a split, ragged lip. “Just another dock fight. Just another one full of ‘erself what thinks she’s a hero. There are no heroes, girlie. Not on your side of things.”

An affirmative grunt from behind her. Standing on shaky knees and striding forward determinedly was the third docker, clutching the bar his friend threw before.

Moloch offered a noncommittal grunt, and picked up the barrel. He glared at a small chuckle from the honey-mazed docker by the altar, lazily splashing turpentine across the carpet and wooden structure. “Do you even know why you’re here?” he asked the docker, a snarl in his voice. “Do you even remember why you came with me to this church, before he told you to turn those fists on me?” He stepped closer, the fumes making his eyes water.

The man gave no response at first, twirling with the can before tossing it at the wall with a dazed laugh. “I do, actually.” He hopped down, the oily rags barely concealing his face, sticky with prisoner’s honey. “I remember a man with a face made of leather a tomb-colonist wouldn’t wipe his arse with saying ‘the lord has work for you.’ If I’d been more myself, I’d’ve told you to pike off. But you were right, y’know.” He poked Moloch in the forehead. The leather mask brushed the tender scarring on his face, and he winced. “This is a right foul place. No sun. No flowers. Devils an’ dead men walkin’ around like the end of days. An’ it is, really. Honey don’t mask that. Makes it clearer, really. So yes, yes I do. I know why I’m here a right sight more than you do, sulking and pouting like dyin’ here is the worst what could happen. You think that what you had before this was some great life?”

“Don’t start,” Moloch snarled.

“Start what?” Said the docker, “Start tellin’ you the truth? You were nothin’ ‘fore he found you. A big brick knocked out of a wall, waiting for someone ter throw it and give it somethin’ t’ be for. I’ll start with that. And finish by tellin you that I’m here, doin’ wot I was tasked to do. Bring a fire.”

Moloch opened his mouth, a rustle of movement beneath leather. His hands flexed, and his knuckles cracked. The words stung. But they were hard for him to deny. He turned to the barrels, picking up two. Each step brought him more recollections, steeling his resolve and tinting his vision with red. Thoughts of violence, of betrayal from his own wife, and the mocking words of the woman who did this to him. “A fire to London. A fire to it all.”

A woman on a bicycle sailed through the streets.  She wore a trim bicycle suit in dark green, checked with black houndstooth. Ribbons and fur trimming on her voluminous, waist-length cape fluttered in the wind as she pedaled at a brisk, even pace, and her large bonnet partly obscured her face. This was not an unusual sight: There were sometimes women on bicycles out at this hour, getting a little refreshing morning exercise. In fact, as she turned a corner and entered a certain neighborhood, she saw another woman leaving her house, dragging a bicycle alongside her and preparing to mount it.

If the woman in green sat a little too straight, a little too rigidly in her seat, it could be put down to excellent posture. Altogether, she could hardly look more at home in this neighborhood than a bat in a belfry. She drew close to a church, and dismounted, leaning her bicycle against a lamp post. If, at this moment, someone looked out their window and saw her walk down the street, then disappear behind the church, they might not think anything of it. Perhaps she was taking a shortcut?

The woman began to climb the church. Soft leather shoes helped her toes find footholds, and she ascended slowly, carefully. Finally, she pulled herself onto the roof, and then started to scale the bell tower. She was glad the church was in such a state of disrepair; the rough, uneven surface of its exterior, and the cracks, made climbing much easier than it would otherwise have been.

Everything was as the cats had said it would be. When she reached the top of the bell tower, she found a hatch. She let herself in.

Stairs, descending into darkness in a tight spiral. If there were missing or broken stairs, she would simply have to make certain that she noticed them in time. She began to walk, carefully, the way Hubert had instructed her- placing her feet at the edges of the stairs, where they were less likely to creak, transferring her weight onto the outer soles of her feet first, then inward towards the centers. She paused on the third step, breathing shallowly through her nose, and listened. Did she hear voices, down below? The smell of turpentine pricked her nostrils. She slipped the cape from her shoulders, let it slither inaudibly to the ground. The feel of her rifle, as warm as a living thing, nestled against her back in its sling, was comforting. She took another step.

Moloch placed the final barrel with a loud thump. “It’s ready.” He walked back to the aisle, staring at the cross. “Let death take my enemies by surprise; let them go down alive to the realm of the dead, for evil finds lodging among them. As for me, I call to God,and the lord saves me.”

The four in dress uniform and mirrored masks joined in, the careful enunciation and soft voices forming a rough harmony with Moloch’s “Evening, morning and noon I cry out in distress, and he hears my voice. He rescues me unharmed from the battle waged against me, even though many oppose me.”

From the three rough and staggering dockers, one joins in, his lilting tone and half-remembered verse concluding their prayer. “God, who is enthroned from ‘f old, who does not change— he will hear them an’ ‘umble them, because they ‘ave no fear of God.” The docker claps a hand onto the altar as he jumps down, picking up a heavy iron pipe from the frontmost pew. “Not yet, they don’t.”

The Docker turns to Moloch and winks. “You feel like startin’ our salvation, then?” He hands the man a piece of flint and steel, tiny scraps in his large hands. “Seems only right, your bringin’ us here and all.”

Moloch gave the man an affirmative grunt, taking the two pieces in hand and preparing to strike a spark while the docker held out an oil-soaked wick.

Lamea did hear voices. She heard prayers. She quickened her steps, knowing their voices would cover the sound of her approach. She reached a landing looking out over the room below, where the members of the Lodge were gathered, and took her rifle from its sling.

Up until this point, she had been calm. She had been calm as she had approached the church, calm as she lowered herself through the hatch of the bell tower. Seeing the Lodge gathered below, with their strange masks, hearing their prayers, all at once made this real for her. She saw Moloch take the flint and steel, and her heart thudded in her chest. Now. Now, before it was too late.

It's not long before Abigail's footsteps could be heard as she descended to the basement, her own mask (wooden, with a red finish) removed as she entered the room. She hesitates, quietly taking in the non-meeting that was /not/ happening before her. Clearly, something new was happening. She cleared her throat. "Elias," She said. "I hope I'm not too late." "You are on time." His voice was flat, without warmth or wrath.

Sensing the tension in the air, she remained rooted right where she was standing. "I suppose the others won't be joining us, then." She replied. "What can I do for you?"

"Help me gather your supplies. I don't know them the way you do, and I would rather this building remain standing. There was trouble, that has since been dealt with." He stands and looks at her. His expression is tired, even behind the mask. Vulnerable, even. Reluctantly, she walks up to him and glances down at the items littered on the floor. "That might be wise," She replied. "The nitroglycerin itself is an unstable substance on it's own. It's best kept intact, and hardly moved unless precautions are taken." Abigail raises an eyebrow. "What sort of trouble?" "There has been disloyalty in our own. A lack of faith, of ability." He looks to her, and sighs. "Moloch had been charged with what was a crucial endeavor. To find, to recruit those who would be awakened to the truth of things. He chose, instead, to hunt the one who first martyred our founder, whether from obsession or pride. He was... made useless for this task in his own idea of penance. But not before there were successes of a sort. Still, not enough. Not as things are now." He opens a door, to the seventh man's room. Moloch kneels, flanked by three men, burly like him, holding him steady. One lifts Moloch's head. "Mr. Moloch decided that his penance should be to make himself unrecognizable to the woman who saw him. In that, he succeeded, and in doing so, failed in his ordained task." Moloch's face was burned, altered with cuts and chemicals, no longer the blocky, ruddy face that she had met him with. He was barely awake, fresh bruises and cuts across his face and a newly-broken nose further obscuring his features. "The lord is generous to have found new followers. The Anointed are not fully awakened to the faith, but are... persuaded to act when needed." A tin spoon slick with an amber substance in one's hand elaborated on his answer. Prisoner’s honey. "Absolution will drive those of the faith to action, but persuasion is not a thing to be abhorred when times become desperate. So long as they are not denied an indulgence, they will not flinch in the face of action." The sight of Moloch's face was startling, but Abigail struggled to keep her expression relatively neutral. The only sign of anything suspicious was the sweat that broke out on her forehead. She considers her response carefully, licking her lips to stall. "Are you asking me to persuade him?" She finally asks. "Is what you've done not persuasion enough? I would think having one's face altered would do wonders for reconsideration." "No. The decision to disfigure himself was his own. This is retribution for his decision to give himself a face that only people given to desperation themselves would listen to. Before this, he was strong. A symbol of what strength and wrath could be. And that is gone, leaving this in its place. His lesson will be learned in martyrdom at the hands of this city. Whether he chooses or not." He places one of the vials on the table, and slides it to her. "In some cases, no other penance will suffice." Abigail picks up a vial, no tremble in her hands to betray her. Yet, she still hesitates. She's looking at Moloch's ruined face, watching him breathe. "This is not martyrdom, Elias," She finally says. "I want you to realize that. This is an execution." "If you would call it that, it would be fitting. The treacherous have reason to fear retribution." A flash of steel, and a knife pierces her hand, pinning it to the table. "Especially when they know it will come to them next." He grabs the back of her head, slamming it against the table. "You are clever. You know the minds of the heathens well enough to truly affect them. Explosives. Chemistries. Poisons. Weapons of words and moves in the shadows. I was blind not to see it before. The stink of the Bazaar's spies throughout your actions. Slowly leaking away our movements as you planned them. Playing the part of a quiet aide. Never once speaking in deference save when spoken to, lest your forked tongue show. I see it now, though. I see it so, so clearly." She starts to scream when the knife stabs through her hand, but it's bitten off when she's slammed down into the table. "I've been nothing but faithful for you this whole time!" Abigail screeches. "You had nobody else who could provide what I could--there's nothing for me here except the Lodge! You're all I have in this cesspool!!" "I don't want to hear any more of your lies!" The honey-addled guards astride Moloch flinch, but hold fast. "I have been beset by your agents, your conspirators day and night, taunting me with your disloyalty. How many times did you spend mocking me to them? How many false leads did you provide us?" His eyes are wide, bloodshot. Dark circles surround them. "I will not suffer any more." He pulls the knife from her hand and gestures to the ground, littered with her vials. "Martyrdom is the price of salvation in the end, woman. If your faith, your false words meant so much as one fragment of truth like you claim, then seek your absolution in the city, however you deem fit. Or die where you stand." Her breathing is ragged and uneven with pain. Her free hand grasps the tabletop, as if scratching for something to hold on to, and then goes still. The expression on her face is slack, as if resigning herself to an answer. "You've made up your mind on what you believe," She said. "I could deny that they are my conspirators, as it is the truth, and be willing to die for it, but that would not make you budge. I would never betray those that are like family--my own family betrayed me! I would never subject any of you to that!" Trying to reel in her panic, she swallows back the fear. "Regardless of what you believe of me now, please let me go. I will accept the absolution." Crowe turns away from her. "Then go. May His judgment prove better than mine." Abigail eyes the vials on the table, but doesn't make a move to reach for them. Instead, she grasps the knife embedded in her hand and yanks it out, gasping loudly from the pain. She's shaking now, trying not to flex her injured hand much, and holds the knife as steady as she could in her good hand. Silently, she stabs the knife down into the table with a quick, violent movement, and then reaches forward to grab some of her things.