Oh, how she despised weak men.
Inquisitor Yolanda Torres scowled at the sorry sight before her - grown men, figures of authority in this forsaken town, heaving their breakfast against the wall. The stench of their retching provided her with a modicum of satisfaction, a grim testament to their frailty. Facing mortality was one thing; witnessing it contorted, violated, and brutalized beyond comprehension was quite another. None of these men possessed the fortitude or resolve to confront such horrors, let alone fulfill the duty entrusted to her by Hil.
The Inquisitor and her Acolyte had inspected five towns over the past weeks. They’d come up empty at every turn. The only reason they had come this far was because of Delgado’s tip back in Perdido. The Alguacila was a damned fine inspector and one of the best profilers Torres had ever run across. But despite Rosa Delgado's uncanny intuition, Torres found herself in staunch opposition to the officer’s methods and manners. Delgado was effective and thorough, but she was also a borracha. She spent too many days in the bottom of a bottle. It made her unreliable. Yolanda wondered if Torres would make the smart move and return to Puente where she had been recalled. She scoffed a little then. No. That woman was like a dog with an old rope toy. She was not about to let this go without a fight. It was this obsessive behavior coupled with her flagrant insubordination, that prevented any consideration of recruiting Rosa Delgado into Hil's service.
She would have made a damned fine Inquisitor otherwise.
Torres sighed and pursed her lips in irritation. Her eyes wandered over to her Acolyte, Brother Daniel Martinez. Martinez was stalwart sturdy, and clever with a weapon. He was also willing to look the other way when the rule of law needed to be ignored to serve the greater good. But Martinez was not a smart man. He could not sift through evidence and piece together patterns and motives. Brother Daniel Martinez was a blunt instrument to be wielded by the Hand of Hil.
She stretched her neck and shook the thoughts from her mind. Distractions. Time to get back to work. Mentally retracing her steps, she stood beside Tina Mendez's lifeless form.
There was no solemn ceremony or dignified arrangement for the deceased. Mendez’s body lay in a crumpled heap at the base of a set of loading pulleys. Their attached ropes ascended into the darkness above what Torres assumed was a loading bay. The position and angles of Mendez’s body indicated a fall from a great height. Torres leaned forward and looked upward. It was only a single story. She looked back at the body. The damage done should have been from a much steeper fall.
Torres frowned. Had something pulled her down to the ground while trying to escape?
Perhaps.
Despite the odd positioning of the body, it had not been the fall that ended Tina Mendez’s life.
No. The telltale calling card of El Tenebroso sat on the ruptured chest of the dead woman. Mendez’s heart, pulled from her chest, a single bite taken from it, had been placed atop the body.
The grisly signature of the creature she hunted.
None of the other victims suffered such a fate. Only Tina Mendez. The other bodies, though battered and broken and strewn about, were only minions and laborers. Their struggles against a supernatural enemy were futile.
Why Mendez?
Was it because she was the local ringleader?
Last night marked the final night of the new moon. The time when Lune turned her back on them as she mourned the loss of her sister, Hanwi. The darkest nights of the month were now past them, and it ensured there would be no further deaths at the hands of this abomination.
For now.
The clock started at dawn. They would have another 28 days before the next murder. If the reports were correct.
The first two nights had been filled with silence. She had wondered if they had made the wrong choice in villages. Stumbling upon this victim was sheer happenstance. If she had not been alerted by the locals of a possible gunfight near the docks, this entire incident would have been missed.
Was he getting smarter, or was she getting sloppy?
Torres rubbed the back of her neck. What were they missing? Where did it go? How did it escape?
Frustration welled within Torres. With a heavy sigh, she retrieved a purple-lensed monocle. Blessed with the Sight of Hil, it would allow her to see any spirits or ghosts remaining from the altercation. She scanned the room for residual cold spots. If any spectral remnants lingered, she could request a Voca to glean insights through their blessings of Hil and the magic they possessed.
Nothing.
Just like the other locations and the other victims. No ghosts, spirits, or shades remained. The area was entirely devoid of hauntings. Either these souls had departed for the afterlife, or the creature obliterated them, leaving no traces behind.
Or a necromancer is collecting them.
She shook the thought from her head. Those thoughts were mere superstition. Held over fears from the Corpse Wars. She’d read the dossier on this enemy. She knew what they were up against.
"Any findings, Inquisitor?" Brother Martinez inquired. His deep voice broke through her internal musing.
"None. The same as Alhambra," she replied, stowing away the lens. "It obtained its objective and left no witnesses, living or dead. No footprints, no handprints, no evidence of its departure.” She closed her brown eyes and rubbed the bridge of her nose. “We cannot discount its spectral nature.” She said.
She lowered her hand and gazed toward the ceiling in thought.
“Some of the older tales suggest it traverses through mist. Perhaps even dissolving into mist upon completion of its grisly work.”
“There was a fog on the river last night,” Martinez offered.
Torres nodded. She clenched and unclenched her jaw. “It has a new host.” She gazed at the carnage surrounding them. “Swifter. Stronger. Perhaps younger.” She rubbed her jaw and looked over at Martinez, “We need to determine if there was another victim or if this was the only one for this month.”
“The Alguacila said they fished a man out of the river this morning.”
Torres’ eyebrows raised. “Oh?”
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Martinez nodded and handed her a crumpled note. Torres scowled and unfolded the slip of paper reading the notes scribbled there.
Martinez continued, “The Alguacila says that the man pulled from the river was a bootmaker named Gus Hernandez, originally hailing from Wolfram South across the river. Same, erm, physical condition.” He nodded at Mendez’s body and pointed with his pursed lips. “He suggested we probe further, as Hernandez had a history of spousal abuse."
"Spousal abuse?" the Inquisitor echoed.
"He had been married multiple times. There were rumors of injuries but no official reports. The Alguacila wasn't positive of the details," Martinez added.
Torres clicked her tongue in frustration. "The river would have removed any evidence we needed. Maybe there are only two this time….” she closed her eyes and stretched her neck once again. The unpredictability of this damnable creature made it even harder to pin down. Some months it claimed three victims, one for each night of darkness. Other months it was two, and some only one. Determining what they all had in common was proving almost impossible.
Dammit Delgado!
“Brother, please inform the town's authorities that our inquiry here is concluded. We will continue across the river in Wolfram South and the home of the bootmaker.”
Wolfram, named after the river that bifurcated it, comprised Wolfram North and Wolfram South. Though prosperous, it lacked the opulence of Alhambra. They had initially opted to investigate Warchol, only to encounter a dead end. An outpost primarily engaged in logging and crafting, its inhabitants possessed a rugged honesty incongruous with the creature's predilections. Recinos and Casper, likewise, offered little in the way of substantive leads. Their simplicity contrasted starkly with the creature's inscrutable motives.
The creature had claimed a victim from across the river on either the first or second night, followed by another in the north on its final night. Was the bootmaker the initial victim, or the subsequent one? If not the first, where was the second, and vice versa? There was a common thread linking some of the victims, one that Torres had yet to unravel.
Martinez nodded, turning towards the men who stood gawking at Memo's massive corpse. Their speculations regarding a colossal man or beast capable of slamming Memo into the wall grated on Torres's nerves.
“Idiots...” she muttered.
Ascending the stairs, she emerged into the sunlight, surveying the riverbanks. The morning light was bright but comforting. She took it as Hil’s way of resting a hand on her shoulder.
I am not alone in this.
She needed to play it out in her mind. The answer was there, written in blood and destruction. She just needed time to find the pattern. It had to be there.
They walked away from the building and rested against a stack of wooden crates, perched on the edge of the dock. She needed a moment to collect her thoughts and commit them to paper. She patted her jacket looking for a pencil and paper. The only items recovered were a handful of coins and the crumpled note that Martinez handed her downstairs. Her notepad must be in her saddlebags. She swore silently. Exhaustion was starting to get to her. How long had she been on the trail of this creature? How many new moons had passed? How many souls had it dispatched?
What are you? She asked herself. She knew the answer. It was wrapped in a leather dossier in her locked satchel. The details she was given by Escritora Tomas back in Sanctuary. Part of her wished she had not opened her chamber door that night. That damned Escritora! Every message he carried always led to dire consequences for anyone he interacted with.
She remembered opening her door and seeing him standing there. His white hair and beard were so neat and clean. His black robes were ornamented in the Order's gold. His face smiled, but his eyes were the eyes of a predator.
They all knew that when Escritora Tomas came, he came with orders. He came with offers. He came with obligations of office that could not be denied. Because Escritora Tomas was the Voice of the High Inquisitor.
But the orders she’d been given that night were …
“Bullshit! This is bullshit, and you know it,” Yolanda remembered telling Tomas as he advised her of her assignment.
Tomas raised an eyebrow but said nothing. He waited until the fury and distaste dissipated.
Yolanda knew this tactic and sucked her tooth in disgust, “So that is how it is?”
“You wanted an assignment … worth your mettle… I believe this was the request in your last report, Manos Torres. This is one extremely high on our list,” Tomas said calmly.
“Tenebroso is a damn children’s tale to keep mensos in line. You expect us… no, me, to chase after this fairytale bullshit?!” she asked.
Tomas reached into his satchel and pulled out a leather file. It was marked with the symbol of the order, but instead of gold, the sigil was embossed in red. The bright red ink meant only one thing, ‘For Eyes Only.’ Cautiously, Yolanda accepted the file and opened it up under Tomas’ watchful eyes. It took several minutes to get through it, but the more she read - the wider her eyes became. Finally, when she came to the end, she looked at Tomas.
“It’s real?”
Tomas nodded, “As real as you or I. Yes.”
“And ancient…”
“Older than the Corpse Wars. That much we have been able to confirm, yes.”
Yolanda swore quietly. “And it has a new…host?”
“That is the acting theory at the moment, yes,” Tomas answered. He folded his hands neatly in front of him, his voice calm and neutral. “Its activities were contained to the far Northeast of the Imperium. It was almost without notice for the longest time. The killings were random … or … random enough to not draw attention. That was until reports came in six months ago from Calavasa and Puente. In Calavasa, it killed a priest of ours. In Puente, it killed one of the two Alguacila there. You should journey to Puente and pick up the trail from there. Your objective - despite the murders, and potential for destruction that this creature poses - is not Tenebroso itself. Your objective is to identify… and capture… its new host.”
“Excuse me?!” She objected.
Tomas held up a careful hand of caution. “The entity cannot exist without a willing body. Someone made the deal with the creature, Manos. That is the only way this works. You need to find the body that Tenebroso inhabits now … and capture them alive.”
“Are you assigning me a Voca?” she asked. A spell weaver’s talents would certainly help on this assignment.
Tomas shook his head, “The host should be without any appreciable abilities that would require the Voice of Hil to accompany you.”
Torres sucked on her tooth. “I have access to the armory?”
“Within reason,” Tomas said. “And we will appoint you an Acolyte for your protection.”
Torres crossed her arms and stared at Tomas, “A meat shield and thug. Helpful,” She replied sourly.
Unswayed, Tomas continued, “Capturing the host can be done any night when Lune is bright and in the sky. The entity does not seem active during these times. When Lune’s face has turned from us, however, your only chance is to strike during the day, but even then, that may prove dangerous. Your predecessor, Inquisitor Varga, was… reckless and prideful. They chose not to be smart. In doing so, they lost their life. Please be smart, Inquisitor. If you can do this, you will succeed where many others have failed.”
“And if I fail?” Yolanda asked.
“There is no ‘If’ Manos Torres. You will be dead if you fail. The choice was between you and Inquisitor Jalin Cortez. Luckily for you, Cortez is out on assignment in the Reach, so this honor is yours. Do not fail your oath or the Order Inquisitor Torres; we are counting on you.”
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A shuffling of noise as the local Alguacila and his deputies exited the warehouse pulled Yolanda from her memories. Many bore a sickly and dissatisfied look on their faces. She could have cared less, but at the same time, she could not blame them. These were not Hands of Hil trained to deal with the horrors of the world. They were just men who dealt with human treachery and violence. They could not fathom the insidious nature of a monster beyond time.
They were not prepared for the weight of a legend.