The house didn’t look like it belonged to a diabolist.
Usually, I’d have some snide thought about how little reality resembled someone’s book with cackling villains. However, between sympathetic magic properties and the corruptive influence of Diabolism, long-practicing Diabolist residents would pick up some traits of the Hells’ magic.
Also, I couldn’t really judge, I liked reading those books too.
The house of Holmsteader’s liaison with the destitute was a small, pleasant one-story house, freshly constructed, possibly one of the newest buildings in the Quarter. A pleasant, welcoming porch, wide unbarred windows, even plants, a set of three rose bushes. All very dull and mundane, part of a series set to the side of Glee Street for Holmsteader and her top people. Probably the only buildings of their kind in the entire Quarter.
Even the man’s name was dull and unthreatening. Donald Tyler, was considered a generous and compassionate soul by the people he gathered to do labor for Holmsteader. Willing to sneak food or actual coin into their pay, as long as they weren’t too loud and Holmsteader wasn’t paying too close attention. At least two I’d talked to had lived through life-threatening illnesses because of him sneaking them to see a doctor on his own dime.
Acts of charity turned sour by the realization he’d been doing them to keep his herd of sacrifices alive the way a farmer made sure animals destined for the slaughterhouse lived long enough to produce enough meat when killed.
I hadn’t come directly here first, having stopped with some of Marat and Jones’ fellows and testing them. Some didn’t have the tracking spell. Most did.
In the process, I’d had to assuage quite a few fears and anger, and I at least was certain no one would be trying to attack Tyler tonight.
Tonight being the keyword, if nothing was done and the days stretched on, some of them would definitely get an idea to try something on their own. However personally, I was more concerned with Tyler finding out about my snooping.
Let the days wear on and people might wonder how much I said was the truth and how much might have just been a show. Undermining trust in Holmsteader and her subordinates as the prelude to an attempted Black Flame takeover. Something that they might get a reward from if they informed Tyler and Holmsteader.
So I had a time limit. This had to be done tonight before word got to either of them.
Of course, while I’d done much to assuage the anger of those I’d talked to, two had insisted on coming with me to see this through. And given the choice between them helping me how they could or doing some other fool thing instead, I would reluctantly choose the former.
They also claimed they’d be able to scare up a cart, which did sweeten the deal a little.
So, Marat, Jones, and I were holed up in an alley while I tried to spot all the watchers assigned for this stretch of the street.
This was the home of all of Glee Street’s leadership, there would be at least one, and I was pretty sure I’d spotted him. A drunk slumped over by a deserted horse hitching post from an era long gone, now rusted to the point the original design was near-impossible to make out.
He was not the best-trained watcher. Pretending to be black-out drunk didn’t work when you perked up ever so slightly whenever anyone walked past.
“You think it’ll be here?” Jones whispered. “Not at the place he works? Or where he currently is?”
I resisted the urge to sigh. My own fault for wanting helpers in case I needed to get something out of there. I hadn’t intended that meant I’d be giving lessons, but being blunt with these two? While handling something as delicate as this? It's not a wise move.
“I doubt Holmsteader is involved,” I told him and Marat. “If she is, that means bigger problems than I can handle. But if she doesn’t know, he’s not going to be doing rituals inside any space filled with her people. A hidden location inside an Infernal Gang’s stronghold? Won’t be hidden for long. A secure location in his home? Much safer and easier to hide. But if we need confirmation?”
I pulled out my bottle of arcane revealer again, letting a few drops fall on the ground between us and the house. Once again the tracking spells lit up, as well as easily a dozen others reaching out from the house towards the outskirts of Glee Street.
“I don’t get it,” Marat said, eyeing the ground and the glowing lines. “He should be at the casino right now overseeing the scut work. Shouldn’t these be attached to them?”
“Managing his risks,” I replied. “Sure, people magically inclined who’ve learned to peer into the arcane are rare, and he’s disguised his little tracking spells as best he can, but Glee Street? Where rich and powerful come for a bit of safe anger and taboo-breaking? Magic can get you there, so there’s probably a higher concentration of those who practice than anywhere else in the Quarter. Sure, they’re disguised, but why run the risk when you can anchor all the tethers to your house or an item inside? It’s not like he needs to keep track when he’s doing his job for Holmsteader. Hells, I bet he’s only tagged people who live further in the Quarter just so none of them run through Glee Street.”
It wasn’t foolproof, since some of the people he tagged would be working in Glee Street, but it was as close as he could reasonably get.
“There is only one way to find out,” I muttered. “Can you get that cart you mentioned?”
Jones nodded. “Take a bit of negotiating, but I can have it here in half an hour. And Tyler don’t finish his overseeing of us till at least three hours from now.”
Just a while before dawn. Which would be coming soon. What I would do for just eight hours of uninterrupted sleep.
“Go then. I’ll hopefully be out with what I need by then.”
He nodded twice, then scampered off in the darkness. Still could move fast for an old-timer.
“While Jones gets the wagon, I have something I want you to do,” I told Marat.
“And what’s that?” she asked, squinting at me. She was less eager than her friend to help me on this, mostly dragged along by his anger.
She, I thought, had doubts about what I’d done and about the theory I’d sketched out. I couldn’t blame her. Suspicion was a constant companion if you wanted to live in the Quarter, maybe less today than it had in the past, but still.
“See the blacked-out window he’s got leading to his cellar?” I said, pointing towards it.
“My eyesight ain’t going yet. Yeah, I see it.”
“I’m guessing that’s where he’d keep the evidence,” I told her. “He needs his first floor relatively clear and clean for any guests he might have. So, once I take out the watch, you head over there, and if anyone comes to enter the house, just gently rap on it to get my attention. Then hide till they get inside?”
She frowned, eyeing the cellar window. “That’s it?”
“That’s all,” I confirmed. “I don’t want you trying anything else. If my suspicions are right, I don’t think you can hurt him, and I don’t want you to try. Be back in a bit.”
The hitching post was on this side of the street, and I crept closer. I’d chosen an alley exiting close to where the pretend-drunk lay. Another rookie mistake, and that made me pause. Holmsteader wasn’t a fool, so why this setup? You had layabouts in every operation, but I wasn’t this lucky.
Bait. A decoy. There to grab the casual eye and the actual watcher could just keep an eye on them. I settled back in the alley, looking for easy places to keep an eye on the hitching post. I’d already scanned most, so where-
I shook my head slightly. I only had looked from this side of the street, and there was an easy enough answer. Assuming not inside the building behind the hitching post? On top of it. I grabbed a rock, and then considered how to get up the roof without being heard.
Fireworks started firing off from Glee Street again, exploding into bursting balls of red and gold, the noise loud enough to deafen. Well, maybe I could get a little lucky.
I clambered onto the roof and made it only a few feet behind the second watcher. He was crouched near the chimney, blending into its shadow while keeping an eye down below. While the fireworks continued, I considered my options for knocking him unconscious.
Part of the kit I’d brought was three little glass balls, nestled in a hankerchef, all put inside a wooden box that I slid into one of my jacket pockets. The little balls contained a mixture I’d worked on, containing spores from a predatory plant that put its victims to sleep and then ate the unconscious bodies.
I’d treated the handkerchief so it would filter out the spores. Not the best of weapons to use in the pinch, one hand to throw and the other to hold the handkerchief over my nose, but with luck, they wouldn’t be used for combat.
Either way, not needed for this guard. I crept closer, then at the right moment, flicked the rock to the side.
He rushed to his hooves as the rock landed to his side. The noise of the rock clattering didn’t cover the sound of my hooves as I rushed forward, but they distracted him long enough for me to get him in a hold.
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He struggled, and I held on tightly, arm around his throat, hand on the back of his head as I cinched it tighter. He went limp, and I quickly let go.
I was hoping for no deaths. No deaths meant less chance of Holmsteader seeking revenge afterward, otherwise, I might have settled for a knife. No chance of him waking up from that.
“Heldert?” A voice called from down below, the drunk completely upright. “You slip or something?”
I’d already pulled out the box. My aim was perfect, and the ball landed right between the Hitching Post Watcher’s hooves.
He cursed and tried to move, only to trip over his own feet and land snoozing on the street.
I made sure the one up top wasn’t going to slide, then got off the roof, grabbed the second watcher, and settled them against the hitching post. Perfect, it didn’t look any different than it had before.
“Took your time,” Marat commented as I made my way over to the side of the house.
“Two watchers,” I said as I moved to one of the side windows. “They’ll be asleep for a while now. Anyone back here when you arrived?”
“Nope.”
Hrrm, no bars outside the window, but peering through it, there were bars inside the window. Tyler was someone who cared about aesthetics as a front, keeping the outside of his house nice and pleasant while the inside held the eyesore defenses.
Well, those wouldn’t be a bother. Concentrated acid would eat away at it. Maybe not fast enough to fully chew through in time, but enough that a file would make up the difference.
“Door would be easier,” Marat noted.
“Doors are likely trapped,” I replied. “Honestly, if I had more time I’d settle for taking the long, safe route, but as things are-’
A dip into the arcane to take a look, then a splash of revealer to double-check, then I got to work with a steel glass cutter. Marat winced at the noise of it scraping along the glass, but soon enough I’d cut around the entire frame. Hook the cutter around the top, pull, grab the pane before it hit the ground, and soon I had a glassless window to climb through.
“Shouldn’t be more than twenty minutes,” I said. “If I am? Hang around my shop, it’s in Pelkin’s Row. First Infernal you see wearing pink, tell them.”
“Pink,” Marat repeated in disbelief.
“It’s a strange world we live in,” I muttered as I began to work on the iron bars.
I’d brought a few other alchemicals besides the spores and the acid. The arcane revealer I’d already used to find the spell. Noise-eating concoctions to block all sound in a room. I’d been tempted to bring a vial of inky blackness, but I only had the one. Besides, I had yet to brew the drops that would let me see through it, and my hearing wasn’t finetuned enough that I could use it to avoid flailing in the dark like everyone else. Alchemist’s fire, a single vial, is a bit dangerous in a wooden house and sure to attract attention. A Pop-stick, similar although its entire use was for attracting attention.
The acid I poured a few drops on each bar, hissing as they began to chew through the metal. I did have to work some with the chisel, then repeat the process up top. Leave just a little bit on one side so I could reach in, snap them off, then pull them out. I couldn’t let them hit the ground. I could see wood flooring inside, but I couldn’t be certain there were no traps or alarms.
Marat at least had hidden the plane of glass and was working on the iron bars as I removed them. I could have squeezed through with two but went up to four. Having more space never hurt.
Inside was dark, but I could see a countertop, a sink, and a cookstove. The kitchen of the house, which made the wood floor a bit of a puzzler. Did he not worry about moisture? Or was this for show and not actually for cooking?
Enough thinking about the layout of this much nicer house than the one I lived in. I got up on the windowsill, moving inside.
I stepped on a floorboard and as soon as it began to shift removed my hoof. Hrrm, creaky floorboards. In a very well-maintained house. Surely these could not possibly be traps. He must have a way to disable them, otherwise making breakfast might be an adventure in not causing an explosion
Tentative testing with my hooves showed a pattern of every other floorboard at first. I remained cautious, which paid off on the last set of floorboards. A trap built in the pattern, designed to trip you up for being lazy.
A test of the first set of floorboards outside the kitchen proved them all solid. I wouldn’t stop testing of course.
I was in a hallway now, one that ran to a parlor and dining room in the back, and three doors further towards the back. Study, bedroom, and bathroom most likely. Opening each, and yep, well-appointed rooms much better than my own, very nice furniture, three entire bookshelves of reading material, and a very comfortable-looking bed. Dipping into the arcane, not a trace of the lines, nor of anything else. Strange.
Arcane revealer on the floor and the lines led to a wall. Oh.
Sighing, I put my hand against the wall, and the illusion faded, revealing the door behind it. This wasn’t diabolism, to collapse at a touch. Likely a store-bought charm he’d installed. I opened the door, and immediately closed it again, bile rising in my throat as I leaned against the wall.
As soon as I’d opened it, the stench, an overpowering smell of rot and death that had rushed out. Hells, how did the entire house not reek of it?
Prepared, I opened it again and ventured down into the cellar.
A single flight of stairs, the stench growing thicker with each step, the curdling sensation in my gut growing. I found a lantern at the bottom and lit it.
I was in a charnel pit.
I stepped over discarded limbs and severed heads, hacked apart torsos and disemboweled stomachs. It was impossible not to step in some of the offal, but I weaved a path through the torn-apart bodies. This wasn’t a small cellar, forty by forty feet, and some of these parts were stacked two high. How many dead?
It wasn’t all just body parts. A desk by the door, papers stacked high, almost unsettling in its mundanity. Two tables, stacked with tools, saws, hammers, and hatchets. All had dried blood on them, and from the splatter, not necessarily from use on dead bodies. Four tarps over large masses that were easily my height.
In the middle of the room was a steel disc in the floor, easily ten feet across, coated in dried blood, black lines forming patterns. It hurt to look at, the lines searing in my brain the longer I stared till I turned my attention to an elderly face frozen into a scream, bisected down the middle.
I’d seen similar. This was all too familiar in fact. Back in my days with the Flame, although never so haphazard and jumbled up. It had been so easy to ignore back then, so easy to pretend we weren’t monsters. Corpses of enemies, or those deemed enemies. Those lost in the cause. Carved up precisely, body parts were used the moment they were collected. Occasional rites over the dead who’d been ours, honoring them before we used them as offerings to summon devils and monsters.
Blind, blind girl I’d been. A bit of ceremony and a pretense at rebellion had all that had been needed back then. Monstrous acts had been necessary, but they’d been at the service of a power-seeking lunatic.
Although here I was, doing his bidding once again. At least wiser a smidge. Monstrosity when it was needed, not all the time. And not only in service to him.
I was at least past the days when it felt like a necessity.
I pulled the tarp off one of the larger lumpy objects and grimaced as I looked over what it had hidden.
Limbs, sewn together to what must be three, no four torsos joined together, formed into a horse-like shape, a rib cage and skull topping the entire thing. I circled it, looking into the arcane. Impressions of those who had died making this, but nothing concrete. Inky black lines, but they were faint, nearly dissolved into the air.
At the center, this was a summoning circle, drawn in blood along the metal surface. A complex one as well, with twelve symbols carved in the metal, forming the pattern of a six-tipped star. Rough, beaten iron, roughly carved into these symbols.
"Imp, what am I looking at?"
A rapping interrupted my question, the sound of a hoof tapping the glass across from me. The blacked-out window.
I hurried upstairs, wondering who it could be. Surely not Tyler, not yet.
I stopped in the hallway, looking into the kitchen, at the window I’d left open and stripped of defenses.
A red-skinned, crimson-haired, short-horned Infernal stepped through, her eyes glowing orange in the darkness.
Right into the rising muzzle of my revolver.
She froze, eyes panicked as her hand came up, but I clicked my tongue.
“None of that, Melissa. Well, this is a shock. And I thought this was all some attempt by my dear brother to set me up and have Holmsteader come after me. Unless you aren’t as important to him as you’d like to think?”
Her skin flushed with anger, but she didn’t make any sudden moves.
“Come all the way inside,” I said. “Be a bit careful, the owner has some very creaky floorboards I’m pretty sure are rigged. What are you doing here?”
“Same thing you are,” she said, glaring at me. “Following up on this cause it didn’t look like you cared.”
“I do care,” I said reflexively. “Just not enough to agree to my brother’s demands of me when he bursts in early on in my day.”
I led her towards the hidden door, continuing to talk while pointing at the trapped floorboards.
“Honestly, I figured this was just some trap of Versalicci’s,” I admitted as I led her down at gunpoint. “But upon further investigation, well-”
She looked at the grisly sight, then cursed under her breath.
“This is-”
“Dozens,” I said. “Probably more. How did you know to come here, Melissa?”
She froze, then let out a held breath. “Versalicci didn’t know but he suspected. He noticed when he tried ordering some ingredients from a supplier in uh, exotic parts.”
Demon bits and pieces. There was a trade, as well in other magical creature body parts, fluids, powders and other such things. I’d been approached about it early into my shop’s opening, and I’d started trading with a few of them. It would have been suspicious not to trade at all, and I knew most of them would be involved with Versalicci or one of his rivals.
“And how did you know?” I asked her.
I had my suspicions, especially with her assigned to watch me trace that communication circle the last time I’d visited Versalicci.
“We needed reagents for…I’m not saying,” she muttered. “I probably shouldn’t even admit it, but the only way I tracked this was by probing that diabolic tracking spell.”
My heart plummeted. “You probed it? How?”
She frowned. “Just a little bit of diabolism, make it react and follow the disturbance to this house. Why?”
“It’s a tracking spell,” I hissed. “He would have been alerted the moment you-”
A rap against the little window once again, Marat nudging it, and then the hurried sound of hooves on the stones outside. And from above, the sound of a door opening.
Melissa and I both went quiet as the sound of voices drifted down to us.
“-really, you didn’t need to come Lord Montague,” an unfamiliar baritone said from above, polite but distinctly irritated. “Honestly, we could have had this discussion at another time, another place.”
Lord Montague? Oh, if that bumbling, bragging blowhard was mixed up in all of this I was going to take pleasure in nailing his carcass to a wall when this was all said and done-
“Nonsense,” a voice very distinctly Gregory Montague’s said with that kind of cheeriness some took on when they knew their presence bothered you, just innocent enough that you couldn’t be entirely sure. “The Church of Tarver insists on paying all of it’s debts, and Father Reginald owed you quite a bit. And as the person who has to handle all of his affairs after death, it is only natural I take care of them as soon as possible.”
Joy. I glanced at Melissa, then hoped that the sign language from back in the Black Flame days hadn’t been adjusted too much.
I’ll take the lead. Follow.
A brief moment of hesitation, then a nod.
This, this was going to be tricky. Tyler must have come back as soon as he felt the disturbance. Gregory was with him because Father Reginald owed Tyler money. Running his own investigation that intersected with the dead Father. Was Tyler the diabolist?
Entirely possible. I kept my finger on the trigger as I crept up the stairs, my other hand reaching into my pocket.
My tail wrapped around the door handle, ready to wrench it open. I pulled out a small glass ball.
I was going to waste so much in terms of alchemy on this. Maybe I could send Versalicci an invoice after this.
I opened the door to the ground floor, tossing the glass bottle inside. As soon as the glass shattered, both the sound of the opening door and the glass breaking stopped.
I moved through the doorway, not a sound as I moved into the entrance hall, pivoting towards the front door.
Two stood there, one Infernal, one human. Gregory Montague’s eyes widened as he saw me move into view, aiming my revolver.
Donald Tyler was an orange-skinned Infernal in his thirties, with a short trimmed beard and a professional demeanor matched with a professional suit. His eyes widened in shock, but then they narrowed, flames beginning to sprout from his hands.
Too late. I pulled the trigger, and his head snapped back, a hole punched right through the middle of it.