XIV. | 'Foul souls, gather ye wits...'

Timothy Swank ducked into an alley and held his breath. In a cold sweat, he listened for the footsteps to pass. They did not.

"Are you trying to hide from me?"

He saw the figure there and screamed. "Please...! D-don't...!"

"Oh, stop your shrieking," said Geoffrey. Only, it wasn't Geoffrey. It was one of his expressionless puppets. This one was a girl, and she might have been cute before, but now her sickly pale skin and listless eyes just made Swank want to run away. "I am not going to kill you, Mr. Swank. You are much more useful to me alive." The rest of her face didn't match the words coming out of her mouth at all.

He swallowed the lump in his throat and tried to shrink into the brick behind him. "You can make them talk," he said, trying not to tremble too visibly. "You weren't doing that yesterday..."

"Yes, I know." The puppet girl's smile made Swank cringe.

"I s-still don't know where Colt is... so, u-um... I mean, I'm looking. Of course I'm looking. But he's just--no one's seen him, so, ah, I d-don't... please..."

"I see. How unfortunate. I just wanted to check in. I am about to go into a meeting, but please keep searching in the meantime." A red vapor released from the girl's skin like a kettle just gone off, and she collapsed to the ground, twitching.

Swank thought he might vomit.

The past few days had been hell. He'd barely managed to escape the Rofal mansion with his life. Between Geoffrey, Colt, and that freaky kid in the mask, that place had been an absolute minefield, but somehow, shitting his pants in the corner of the room had been enough to render him beneath notice.

Geoffrey was decidedly not his uncle. Joseph Rofal understood that killing his employees for failure served no purpose. Geoffrey did not. Or perhaps he did and just didn't care, because simply fleeing was also out of the question. Two men tried to leave the city the other day. Geoffrey had their heads in his office now.

The search for Colt had not been much better. Of the three men that Swank sent to retrieve Colt's personnel file from the police station, only one returned, delivering a message to stop looking for the man. Geoffrey killed the poor bastard anyway.

He had no idea what to do at this point. The Rofal empire was a sinking ship, and its new captain didn't give a shit, because he was a fucking shark.

Swank left the girl's body where it was. He pulled his coat's collar up around his neck and stuffed his hands in his pockets as he walked. He had been on his way to a bar, and now, the idea of getting hammered out of his mind seemed even more appealing. It wouldn't do much to settle his stomach, but that wasn't really the point, anyway. He turned into his usual place, the neon green sign reading Bart's Bar. It was an armpit of an establishment, but he had yet to find a place with cheaper booze. He took the first seat he saw and petitioned the bartender for a bottle of vodka.

Not long into his drink, however, a man on the other side of the room got up and ventured over. "Are you Swank?"

Swank nearly told him to fuck off, but after reflecting for a moment on his recent string of luck, he decided he'd try not to piss off a total stranger. "Yeah. Who are you?"

"Oh, I'm no one important," the man said. "But I've been waiting here because I've heard you're the guy to ask about getting certain jobs done."

Swank could not imagine a more annoying answer. Still, he restrained himself with another mouthful of vodka and said, "That so?"

"I hear your boss is a man with discreet interests."

Swank rolled his eyes. "I guess you haven't heard that he's also dead now."

For some reason, the man took that as an invitation to sit down. "I'm sorry to hear that. Does that mean you're in charge now?"

"No."

"So you have a new boss, then. Perhaps I can meet him, instead."

He held back a laugh. "Trust me, guy. You don't wanna meet my new boss."

"Oh, but I do. The sooner the better, in fact."

Swank eyed the man. Something about the guy's face annoyed him, really clean-shaven with a chiseled jawline and a condescending look in his eyes. Swank took a longer swig. "On second thought, I'd like to see that, too."

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Geoffrey tilted his head as he laid eyes on the lone pancake house. He hadn't been sure what to expect. Having to leave Brighton for some little town called Chesterville was strange enough to pique his interest on its own, but when he had also seen that the invitation was from the CEO of Boulder Inc., Geoffrey had been positively brimming with curiosity. Alone under a luminous moon, he entered.

Five people sat around a pair of joined tables. They all turned to look at him--as did the five accompanying reapers.

Geoffrey gave an open-mouthed smile as he looked over everyone.

"Have a seat, boy," said an older gentleman on the right.

Geoffrey approached them, and the reapers all edged away from him. To his eyes, each reaper looked very human, except a bit blurry and flickering like an old video recording. "Why did you invite me here?" he asked.

"Because I liked your uncle," the same man said. "Now be quiet. You haven't earned the right to speak at our table."

Geoffrey's smile tightened. "I do not like being told what to do."

The man held up an open hand and clenched it into a fist. "I said be quiet."

The air escaped from Geoffrey's lungs. His eyes bulged as he struggled for breath and found none available. He glared at the man and ran forward, but an invisible pressure held him back, sturdy as if a wall had been there.

Geoffrey lashed out with red, snaking around the room and across the table at the man's reaper.

The man stood and speared the shadow through the center with only an index finger. The shadow crackled and died. "I didn't know you were a monster when I invited you here," said the man, "but it changes nothing. You will learn respect, boy."

Geoffrey fell to his knees, able to breathe again. He scowled at all of them, but they paid him little mind.

"What were we talking about?" said someone with a low, scraping voice. This one was an even older gentleman, oily smudges all over his face and faded overalls. "Vincent?"

The man from before acknowledged his own name. "This business with the Queen," he said. "Each of our enterprises will likely suffer if blame for the attack is shifted to a criminal body."

"You think so?" said a younger man. This one looked like a common office worker in a plain gray suit and black-rimmed spectacles. "Isn't that why we refused that idiot prince's request in the first place?"

"Yes," said Vincent, "but if the investigators don't realize it was his doing, then the result is the same. And I'm betting the prince will make sure they don't realize."

"Fair point," said one of the two women at the table. She was younger as well, with a plump, rosy face. "If the public believes some random criminal tried to kill the Queen, then there'll be a wave of support for stricter legislation and law enforcement across the board. Things'll only get harder for us."

"But the Queen must have her own plans as well," said the other woman. "She has clearly been taking her sweet time with this whole ordeal. She might just expose the true culprit on her own."

"Perhaps," said Vincent, "but if we can assist in that, we should. Or at least ensure a suitable scapegoat takes the fall."

"You want us to help the Queen?" said the oldest man. "Us?"

"She is young," said Vincent, "and likely now a servant as well. If she were to become indebted to us, our position would be much improved, wouldn't you agree?"

"Are you serious?" said the man in glasses. "That woman is going to have a target on her back, and not just from her brothers. If she really has a reaper now, then the Vanguard and Abolish must be watching her. One or both of them could send someone to kill her. Are you suggesting we get in the middle of that shitstorm?"

"I'm not saying we should stick our necks out for her," said Vincent. "But I do think one of us should go to the capital and observe the situation. If things go badly enough, it may be best to pull up our roots and move to a new country."

"Fuck that!" said the man in glasses. "Atreya is my home. I'm not leaving for anyone."

The others all eyed him.

"That is your choice," said Vincent.

"We already have plenty of eyes in the capital," said the plump woman.

"Yes, but only a servant's eyes will do. It has to be one of us."

A brief silence fell over the group. "Are you volunteering?" asked the oldest man.

"If that is the group's wish," said Vincent. "But truth be told, I was hoping Roman would do it."

The man in glasses cocked an eyebrow. "Why me? Gerald lives in the capital."

"He can support you, but your ability is ideal for the task. If you need to kill anyone, you'll have the easiest time making the body disappear."

Roman frowned. "I do have my own affairs to run, you know."

"I'm sure your second-in-command can handle things while you're gone," said Vincent.

"Ugh. Fine." Roman looked at the old man in overalls. "Mind if I temp at your garage, then?"

Gerald looked similarly displeased. "Just as a cover, right? You won't be doing actual work, will you?"

"I don't even work at my real job. You think I want to touch your shitty cars?"

"As long as that's clear. I have an actual clientele depending on my mechanics."

Roman laughed. "Right. You just spend time with us because you like our personalities so much."

"A good reputation is easiest to maintain when part of the business is both legal and public," said Gerald.

"Whatever, old man," said Roman. "Vincent's the only one of us who really needs a legitimate business."

"A certain degree of independence is also important. But I don't expect a thief to understand a businessman's thinking."

Geoffrey despised listening to this drivel. None of it was of any concern to him. Eyeing the reapers again, he wondered why none of them ever said anything. Perhaps they were hiding their voices from each other for some reason. Or from him. Unlike their human associates, the reapers seemed particularly wary of his presence, which pleased him to no end.

The people kept talking, but Geoffrey had ceased paying attention. Instead, he made a game of staring at the reapers, trying to see just how unsettled he could make them. His game came to an abrupt end, however, as Roman grabbed him by the neck and pinned him to the floor.

"My friend doesn't like you," said Roman. "And I'm inclined to agree with her."

"Stop," said Vincent. "The Rofal boy is my guest."

"This thing isn't even human," said Roman. "I don't see a reason to let it live." Roman's fingers dug through the red shadow and reached Geoffrey's skin.

His neck started to burn. The man's hand felt like acid against his flesh. Geoffrey cringed in real agony. But after a moment, he began to laugh. "You can actually hurt me!" he said, eyes widening eagerly. "Aha! More!"

Roman obliged, and Geoffrey's laughter turned to coughing.

Vincent stepped closer but did not intervene. "It's true that he requires discipline, but he could be a useful pet. And we can use him to leverage the Rofals for support. Killing him would certainly burn that bridge."

Roman let up. "I'm not so sure these fucking things can be tamed, Vincent. Just look at him."

Each breath felt like swallowing fire, but the pain only delighted Geoffrey further. "Do you people know what I am?" he asked, voice raspy and torn. "Tell me!"

"Ah." Vincent pulled the boy to his feet. "Learn to obey, and I will tell you all I know."

Geoffrey's expression soured.