They came like wraiths in the night. Brooding and dark with nothing to them but the silhouette of their ground-pointed guns and the low grunts of their drained breaths and the tapping of their steel-tipped boots.

Hired guns. Mercenaries.

They came, the stampede of wraiths, hell-fetched from a witch sitting atop her tall castle. Apollo looked at them from above the parking lot, they were like small black pens from the far distance. Blackwater? No, they changed their name a while back. Academi, was it?

Whatever they were, they were tough. Based on their gear and the way they encroached and surrounded the building, a moat of black shadows, green lasers pointing at every which side, the tapping of their helmets as they bobbed up and down like rain. It was comical even, their efficiency. Like that gag the clowns' play, the fleet of jokers that come out of their tiny clown car like an endless line. So here was the van, though not so tiny, and here were the clowns, though not as funny.

A hired army. Salome had hired mercenaries. Not of the supernatural kind (must have been too unavailable). No, these were soldiers of the very common, garden variety. If garden-variety meant paramilitary and well-trained. And here they were, dressed to kill, guns strapped and tight-lipped and eerily stiff. Did they not breathe, you would not see them against the black background of the light-less casino. That was the only thing giving away their silhouette, their breaths, tired and rugged and heavy like panthers after the run.

The four, the two Vicars, the witch, and the genius, watched from the third story of that damned garage. The parking lot that still to this moment caused Aenea to break into cold sweat. It had taken another beer and some insults to get her along.

Apollo stood tall on the third story. His arms extended outward, past the ledge. Dion had the binoculars on him but did not use them. They hung by his wrist by a strap and dangled like a hanging body as he lowered his arms against the railing. Apollo watched, silently, Aenea behind him, still drunk and still wobbly with the fear in her glazed eyes.

“That’s a lot of people,” Dion said.

“That's how many it takes to secure the perimeter.”

“Her?"

"Salome."

"So you think Salome did this?”

“Could be Floyd, but I doubt it. He seems like a straightforward man, maybe to a fault. Too straight to let someone else do his dirty work. This leaves Luanne or Salome, and between the two, my money’s on Salome.”

“Why invite civilians?” Dion asked. “This is a family matter, let the family deal with it.”

"Civilians? Hardly. They're soldiers."

"You know what I mean."

Apollo sighed.

“When you’ve got the money, why not use it, right? Get every advantage you can get. She's got the tower, now she's got the army.”

“I don’t think they’ll be able to do a damn thing. We’ve seen what these people are capable of, the witches.” He turned to Aenea, hurling on the floor. “Inhuman strength and speed, Arcana, the works. What can soldiers do about that?”

“Shoot ‘em in the head.” Apollo smiled. “Or at best, distract them. The generators are out still, so I’m guessing this will be a means to detect any enemies entering her domain.”

He looked up to the top floor, to the only shining windows in the casino, a garden sat above that level, lit even brighter as if a halo.

Thaddeus coughed behind them.

“Guys, the soldiers weren’t what I warned against.” He said.

“What was, then?” Dion asked.

He walked over to them, hand on his elbows then he pointed down to some remote corner from the fountain plaza, leading towards a rear entrance into the casino. It was Ritcher. They knew, his breed have never been able to hide. That grand, stubborn, dangerous breed. His kind are obvious to tell, those behemoth-types. He came out of the rear almost as if materialized from the light fog itself. And he was invisible, would have been, had it not been for the noise of his cane. His blind eyes looking at each corner, to no particular place, to strange angles. He paused. He smiled.

Did he spot us?

“That freak again,” Apollo said. Ritcher continued, towards the line of soldiers who all bore their guns at him like the teeth of frightened animals. Cubs.

“Freeze, no one allowed. Sorry, bud.” One of them said.

“I’m a Wolfe. I should be allowed entry, no?”

“No one allowed in, buddy. Period."

“Must be Salome then, right?” He asked. No answer. The guns were still raised, barrel pointed towards his head. Though he had no eyes to see the threat. That was fine, Apollo saw it for him.

“I just hope they all kill each other off,” Apollo said, looking down, arms dangling from the ledge. "It'd make my life a hell of a lot easier."

Ritcher however, did not back down. He took another step forward. A step that caused the soldiers to mutter whispers. They were all quiet really, something that caused Apollo to rear his head closer down to the floor. Heightened senses weren't good enough now.

It was a mistake. A gunshot. He flinched and backed away. Aenea dropped her beer, the glass broke, and they all wondered - staring down with nervous eyes - if they were spotted.

Dion put a finger against his lips and looked at her.

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She fell on her ass.

Another shot, another gun. Another step forward by Ritcher. More shots, the sparks flew across the floor. They left marks like a drawn line in front of Ritcher's feet.

“No sudden fucking movements.” The soldier screamed, loud enough that the echo resonated inside the lot itself. “Clear the area, fuckhead.”

“You would treat me with such disrespect, kin?”

"Kin? I don't even know you."

"All warriors know each other, not by name but by virtue of trade. For trade is all a man is."

“Fuck. Off.” He said. His voice was confident, stupidly so.

It was the type of confidence that made Apollo sweat, and he was just looking. It was as if they were all trapped in the trance of tension, where the air feels shaky and leaving or moving or staying still all feel like the worst play.

His eyes were dry. He'd forgotten to blink.

“I’m counting ‘till three!” The commander said. Ritcher smacked his cane down on the floor with a pop so loud that three stories up, one hundred meters away, with a wall of grunting men between them, Apollo could still hear the loud tapping. He imagined that that must have been what the great meteor sounded like that ended the world some million years ago. That single, loud, bang.

It was more deafening than the bullets. More dangerous, too.

So they were left in silence, silence waiting to be filled. Ritcher raised his head, both hands rested against the butt of the cane.

“I understand what grave and urgent orders you must be forced to. But I am here to tell you that mine are worse - more severe. Mine are family-bound, direct orders from a father long since dead. He demands of me to finish something, and this has been ordained, as much as the stars and the heavens and the deaths of all men before and after me. I must enter this building. You’re free to stop anyone else, but allow me entry, for I have a higher calling to attend to, that needs no invitation, nor demands any attention. A quiet, private affair of the utmost importance between Salome and I.”

The commander looked around for a moment to read the faces of all the confused and strange men around him. Behind his balaclava, his mouth must have grimaced. It was hard to tell for Apollo. Ritcher certainly had no emotion to himself.

The commander shot into the air.

Ritcher did not move his head or stay away his hands from his cane. He stood on it, tall and stiff as the residual echo of the gunshot remained.

“How many different ways can a man tell you to fuck off before you get that ass of yours and turn it right the fuck around.” He said and walked towards Ritcher, and all of them, Vicars and mercenaries alike believed him dead that very instant. As if he had stepped into a coffin or hole, and the gun he carried was nothing more than a spade dug into the dirt. He carried his rifle across his chest, pointed to the ground now. He walked until the hot metal, still smoking, gun touched Ritcher against the chest.

“You sound like a priest, but you're built like a damn linebacker." He said. "I don't like that. I don't like your face. And if you won't listen to me, then pretend me to be God, because I sure as hell carry his vengeance. Respect my gun, son. Get the fuck out of here, or you will be shot dead."”

“A gun demands no respect. Only fear, which is poor imitation of that quality that is dignified, respect.” He said. “I respect no gun. And certainly not the handler - not you.”

That was about the time the commander jerked and grunted and put his hot barrel against Ritcher's forehead, the smoke trickling down from the muzzle. It looked like Ritcher was smoking a pipe from the vantage Apollo stood from. He didn't notice in all the thrill, staring at the two in their Mexican standoff, that his fingers were dug into the concrete. For he hoped, briefly, kill the son of a bitch, make it easier on us.

Thinking that, but knowing in that deeper chasm that was his soul, that Ritcher could not die this easily. Certainly not here.

He was right. Ritcher took a step back and nodded his head up and down and said, softly.

“It seems you will not cooperate today. Tomorrow then, maybe? Later? Perhaps if I arrange a meeting with the matriarch?”

“What do I care what you do? Just clear the god damn area, maggot.”

His cooperation made Apollo's shoulders rise high. They were feeling funny, cold.

“You ought to be courteous, commander. It is a virtue." Ritcher said. "Often the first discarded virtue, a marker for the beginning of the end of the human soul," He turned, clacking his cane against the floor. “And with virtue gone, respect of the self and of the other usually goes with it. And with that - with that first and noble virtue; courtesy, beaten and killed leads to the loss of that final virtue - the fear of God. You are certainly men who do not feel reckoning; who don’t see it or hear or live for it. That must be corrected.”

“Fuck off.” An off-hand soldier said, and the rest began. With nervous laughter and quick jerking movements of their guns.

“Yeah, fuck off.” They rallied. They laughed. They joked and mocked Ritcher.

It was funny, maybe. It could have been funny if Apollo didn't feel nervous. If his stomach had not dropped. For Ritcher stopped at once, midway out to the street across the casino, looking out at the horizon (At what? He was blind, wasn't he?). Then Ritcher looked up.His muscles slow moving and ancient, as his neck angled and turned to the Vicars.

Apollo saw his face. One look at the wrinkled chin and the scars underneath his high raised cheeks that seemed like little smiles, one look and he felt frozen.

It was the kind of fear that made Apollo strengthen his grip and break the concrete. A kind of fear that incited aggression, like the feral animal.

He wanted to kill Ritcher. Out of pleasure? Safety? He couldn't tell.

This was the second time he wanted to kill someone. The first was Astyanax. Astyanax who know spoke to him.

Yes, yes. This is a good one, isn't he? Someone worth living for. Living and waiting to kill. It's been worth the months and weeks. Hasn't it, Apollo?

Ritcher walked away without a smile. Without heat or animation. He looked like a slideshow with how slowly he progressed down the street and disappeared into the haze of mist.

And him, Apollo, slapping his face and getting stares from the people around him who also looked with wide and frightened eyes.

He came back to reality with a bit of a snarl, turning and fixing his suit, limping and opening the van and pushing himself with shaky arms up into the car.

“It won’t be long,” Apollo said, looking for a cigarette and slamming the door in front of him. Like a horse call, Dion ran across. Fear turning to annoyance. He took the cigarette out of his mouth and threw it to the floor. It wasn’t even in there long enough to swell with saliva.

"Don't smoke, you're sick."

Apollo took out another.

"They're waiting for us like the guillotine. Aren't they?" He said, struggling to ignite his lighter.

“You know, I really hate when you talk like a damn fortune teller. Give it to me straight, none of that weirdo psychobabble garbage..”

“What I mean to say is that It's an inevitability we'll fight. There's no way around it. That Ritcher guy, Floyd, all of them. There's no peace to be found between us. It won't be long. I don’t know how or why but something’s going to set them all off, I feel it. This has all been a preliminary war. The real fight is soon to come. I don't know what'll set it off...the devil himself...passion."

"What's going to set it off? Come on? Give me something to worry about."

"What the fuck, I don't know. Just something. It's a feeling, don't you read it in the air? Something like dread, the taste of ash and blood."

"Taste? What? You're on that weird stuff again."

Apollo sighed. "I don’t know what's next only that there will be something coming up next. Something bad." His hands shook. “Then they'll come for us, then you,” He pointed his cigarette like an index finger at Aenea. She was sobered, tired, and looking but not talking or even seemingly breathing. She only existed in that space, in deep contemplation.

“What do we do next then?” Dion asked.

But he had no answer. Nothing even remotely concrete.

"We ask questions, that's all. Maybe learn why these people are doing the things they’re doing."

“Well, it’s for power. Right? Money? All that witch and demon promise-stuff.”

“No, I doubt that,” Apollo said. “I don’t think most of them are petty enough for it. Some of them, sure. But not most.”

“Then what else are they doing it for?”

“That’s what we’re here for, right? The mystery? Why did Thomas Wolfe Sr die? Who killed him?”