You knew this sort of thing would happen, the Banshee whispered in Jessa's ear. He's always been too consumed by his own worries to care for you. Too worried about himself.

“Shut up, bitch,” Jessa said. She didn't care about the odd looks the Lutmouth residents were giving her. She was in a foul mood, with pain like nails being hammered into her head, and she had to walk to the damned barracks with half a foot. All because Redmun couldn't keep his temper. Damn it, if anyone ought to be pissed, it should be her! She hadn't even been allowed a drink since she got here, and he's the one who's causing trouble? It wasn't fair.

Why do you stay with him? The Banshee asked, her voice like drips of ice-water down Jessa's spine. Why do you risk your life for him? Because he saved yours? You've done that for him and more, Mistress. Be rid of him. Be rid of them both.

“You're not very good at this,” Jessa muttered. She limped, a stick in hand, down a long tunnel, indignant shouts echoing their way up to her. The bitch in her arm always knew what was upsetting her, but it underestimated just how little she cared for most things. Fact was, she was supposed to be dead. Any life saved, and beer downed in the meantime between now and that final end was just icing on the cake. Nothing else mattered.

Except Redmun. Or, at least, it was supposed to be except Redmun. But recently he'd been acting like a damned child. And ignoring her.

She stomped into the barracks, a taller room than most in Lutmouth. Lamps with fogged glass dulled the light and shadow both, making her squint her eyes just to see things properly, which made her head pound all the more. She'd never had good eyes. Not that she'd let anyone else know that. Slabs of stone that were meant to be tables had been shoved aside for the crowd that gathered there.

Not a crowd, Jessa realized, groaning inwardly as she saw the long robes of the head-man. A congregation.

She moved forward. Those at the back of that mass of bodies saw her, and snarled. She snarled back, right before shoving them aside. With just one hand, Jessa forced her way to the front, pushing away any that tried to block her path.

“…an offence to the Church itself!” that robed one was saying, or rather spitting, all over that Captain's face. The Captain, on his part, took it rather passively, just looking dreamily over the man's head, nodding occasionally. That was until he saw Jessa, and tried to shush the priest. “I'll have Archwald down here to pay for this! I'll take this to the courts! I'll-”

Jessa grabbed the man's one-eyed skull in one hand, shoved it down and twisted it towards her. “Shut up, and move!” She shoved him into his waiting followers, who caught him. She shouldn't have done that – she had to be the calm one, this time. Get Redmun out of a mess with the locals instead of the other way around. That didn't include making things worse. If only she wasn't so gods-damned furious. “Where is he?” she demanded of the Captain.

The man – Brooker, had it been? – folded his arms and sighed. “In the cell.”

“Open it for me. I need a word.” She stared into the man's eyes, daring him to back down. He might be taller, but she'd have him on the floor and weeping before- No. Have to be calm. Have to be the reasonable one. Gods damned you, Redmun, for forcing me to do this!

The Captain gave her several, slightly different, mostly weighing looks before nodding. “Fine. This way. Just a word.”

Brooker took a lantern from a desk beside him, and led Jessa to a metal door cut into the wall. Behind them the priest sputtered and demanded and swore. Jessa turned to look at him, and he shut his mouth.

The door opened revealing a dark, strangely damp interior. A row of cells, the metal of the bars rusted with age. Brooker led her down to the last one, placed the lamp on the floor, and left, saying, “Make it quick.”

You wish to save him, Mistress? The Banshee whispered in her ear. What if he cannot be saved? You know what he holds. You know what he has done. Why chain yourself to him more?

Jessa didn't reply to that. Ignoring the bitch was usually the best choice – especially since all a pretty little ghost wanted was attention.

Redmun, sitting on the edge of the cot, raised his head. His inward look of self-loathing broke as they met eyes, replaced with one of guilt. “You don't have to say it,” he muttered, and dropped his head once again. “I shouldn't have hurt him.”

Jessa barked a vicious laugh. “Hurt him? You think I give a damn about that shit-brained priest?”

Redmun looked up once more, frowning. “Then, what? You're mad I got put in jail?”

“No.” She was, but Redmun was still a man. If she took the time to explain all the things he'd done to piss her off, it would take days and he still wouldn't understand. Had to keep things simple for men, Redmun especially. “You went looking for that girl, didn't you?”

Indignation flashed on his face. “So what?”

“Did it without telling me! You did it without letting me know it was tearing you up! You hid it from me, you idiot, that's what!”

Yes. He lied to you, Mistress.

“And?” Redmun straightened from his seat, coming towards the bars. “You don't give a damn about any of that. I knew you wouldn't care either way, so I didn't bother you with it.”

Jessa reached through the bars and slammed his face against the metal. “ I care, Redmun,” she whispered, already seeing where the bruise would show on his brow. “I just know when to let go. When to focus on what's next.”

“And what is next, Jessa? We can't go anywhere for another week or two at least. Or are you gonna brave another run-in with some tree dwellers, half a foot lighter?”

“We prepare, damn it!” Jessa screamed into his face, and pushed him away. He didn't even have to dignity to trip on his arse. “I heal, you sort yourself out. That's what's next.”

“I was trying to sort out what to do about Layla, Jessa, that's all. It's not my fault the damned priest started insulting you.”

Jessa grabbed a hold of the bars to steady herself, to make sure she didn't lunge again. It was usually him that had to sort her out, usually after some drunken brawl. She wasn’t used to this but… but things had changed.

Forget him Mistress. Leave him. He will be your death, unless you do.

“Shut up and listen.” She rubbed at the bridge of her brow. “It's been nice, wandering about with you these last thirteen years, but you have to admit. After a while, neither of us expected to actually find Gelstadt. Am I wrong?” She looked up to gauge his face. He just turned away. Good enough. “But we did find him, and now we have to get on with it.”

“And what does that mean?” Redmun asked, sounding like a child.

“It means,” Jessa said, pronouncing every word for his dull ears, “That you need to stop pretending you can do this alone. And we need to start figuring out what the hell is going on. I get it, Redmun – you killed Layla. It's just like what happened to Liander. But maybe instead of shutting down completely, maybe instead of just blaming it on your Gods-damned Evil again, maybe you ought to learn how to use it, instead of waiting until the last moment like always! And maybe you could do some of that if you didn't just keep things to yourself!”

“I've kept nothing to myself, Jessa,” Redmun grumbled. “Nothing.”

“Really. Except Layla. Except deciding never to use your Evil's power, both before you exploded and now. And don't you dare pretend you haven't.” She kicked the bars. The anger beat at her heart like it hadn't in years. Ever since he'd rescued her from certain death at her dead family's hands, she'd not given half a shit about anything but following Redmun and spiting the bitch in her arm. The same bitch that had killed her family in the first place. But she'd cared when Liander had died, and she cared about Redmun. She wouldn't lose him too.

“You have to stop pretending you're doing this on your own. You aren't the only one in bed with it, Redmun. Remember that. We both need to face this as it is. Gelstadt – the Walking Corruption – is real, and he just took out an entire village of people. Nearly killed us. Now your Evil's acting up, and we know it's connected to all this, somehow. We need to find out why. We need answers.” Jessa frowned. Was it really her talking? Her advocating for careful investigations, of thinking before acting? She must be even more scared than she realized. That could be dangerous.

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Redmun sighed, leaning against the bars of the cage. She could see the thoughts running through his mind, it was written all over his face. That same self-loathing he'd been wearing since Potsdoor, with a dash of confusion, a helping of fear. From what she knew of the Light-Evil's whisperings, it was much better at getting on Redmun's nerves than Jessa's Bitch-Evil. Apparently, it even managed to predict what she'd say a few times. Well, she gave him no sympathy for that. They all had their evils to deal with.

“Yeah,” he said. She folded her arms and cocked an eyebrow up. “You're right. I've been an idiot.” He shook his head. “But what do you want to do? Ask it what it wants? You know it'll just give the same damned answer. 'Purify, make the world better.'” He spat.

“Don't ask for answers. Get them. You said you found it in Dark's Forest, right? That it was sucking in the light or something?”

“Yeah, though I still don't know how.”

“What else?”

“I get the feeling that it wanted me to come to it.” He glanced to the side as if listening, then scrunched up his face. He said nothing about whatever the thing had whispered.

“Any idea where you father got his Evil?”

“No. Although she did say he was around Heaven's Fall. You know what that is?” Jessa shrugged. “Just a crater. A weird one.” Redmun sighed. “Like everything else in this damned place.”

“Mmm.” According to books from the Far-Lands, the world wasn't supposed to work like it did. Desert next to marsh, the Howling Plains, a sudden and shocking rise in the earth. All unnatural. The White-Desert she knew the origin of – the Accrete Sand banishing any and all moisture from its land – but the rest was a mystery. One she didn't enjoy wondering at.

The door swung open, showing the silhouette of the captain. “Time's up. Out.”

Jessa gave one last look to Redmun. A hard one, letting him know she expected better, even if they couldn't finish their talk. Then she came quietly, picking up the lantern on her way out, leaving Redmun in darkness once more.

They stepped out back into the barracks, now emptied save for the workers there. “How long until he can be let out?”

The Captain pursed his lips. “For hurting a Church Priest? Not long. A few days maybe. It's not as if they can actually get upset about the injury, being what they are. Just the disrespect, and that's not much of an offense in Lutmouth. Still, gotta appease them, Saint being here, n'all.”

Jessa nodded, and rubbed at her poor, throbbing forehead. “Right. You got a bar in this place?”

Two hours later, Jessa was four pints deep, and still in a foul mood, the Banshee nattering in her ear. At least it was more interesting to ignore than listening to the soft-living fools around her. Safe behind walls, safe beneath a mountain; it was all the same. A thousand or so Possessors, living with monsters that would make a normal man piss themselves, fighting for their lives, culling Evils when they got too close, and for what? So people could whip themselves. So they could moan about how tough it was to not see daylight. And in Khelvorias, things were even worse. Jessa had only heard the word 'politics' a few times, and she didn't like it at all.

Quit, Mistress. Give-up if it is so unfair. No-one will think less of you. I certainly won't.

She downed her next beer, and sent for another.

Things had been different in Al'Hagr. There, in the White-Desert, if you let a single drop of anything moist hit the bare earth, you were gone. No ifs, no buts, no pleading. The ground opened up and you were gone. Because that was how things worked. And even then, if you left the city, went into the White-Desert itself, there was no guarantee, even with the Pact with the Lord-Evil of the place, that you were safe. The Accrete Sand was an ornery ruler, and even if you upheld the terms, life was still a maybe at best. That was true hardship. Lutmouth had it easy, and they still complained.

“Good evening.”

Jessa closed her eyes, and clenched her fists. That sweet voice, void of content. It couldn't belong to any other than…

“Saint Cielaine of who-the-fuck-cares,” Jessa half bowed in her stool. “You can buy your own drinks.”

The woman – girl, more like, short and skinny as a twig – tightened her smile a notch, and sat on the bench beside Jessa. “Drinking is a sin, as you no doubt know.” Jessa glanced behind, seeing the two guards, armor polished and about as useful as a broken leg in a real fight. She also noticed that the chamber had emptied, save for the poor bartender, and his maid. “Or perhaps you don't. I hear the White-Desert doesn't welcome the Church into its fold. How long have you been away?”

“Long enough,” Jessa said, managing to un-slur her words enough for dignity's sake. “Though your kind don’t try to preach to me too often. Al'Hagran and a Possessor. Double fucked in the salvation game, right?”

“Not necessarily,” Cielaine said with a soft, sad smile. Not just faux-sadness, like so many of her type wore. It was buried deep, but underneath there was real, deep hurt, worn humbly. Someone with more sympathy might have felt sorry for the girl.

“What'd you do to get made a Saint so young then, hmm?” Jessa found herself asking, barging right over what the porcelain little thing was saying. “Barely twenty, I'd say. What happened to ruin you up so soundly?”

“My father raped and mutilated me as a girl,” Cielaine said easily. “I came out of it smiling.”

Jessa blinked, then nodded. “Sounds about right.”

“And what about you?” Cielaine asked, sliding close to Jessa on the bench, wiping away the dust, and spilled drink. Up close, Jessa could smell her. Old sweat and rotten wounds. Say one thing for the Church, say they knew how to keep wounds just infected enough to ache, but not too much to kill. “What turned you into the Evil-bound drunkard you are today?”

“What do you care?” Jessa asked. She stood, just to get away from that stench, taking her drink with her. “Not s'posed to worry about our kind, are you?”

“I like to think Possessors all have taken more suffering than they can stand, and merely take the wrong path when they come to the breaking point.” She rose, long dress falling about her in soft, dirty waves, red hair bouncing on her shoulder in softer curls. “After all, no-one would do what you have done without something forcing their hand.”

“Again, why do you care?” Jessa asked, leaning against the wall for support. It wasn't as if she had an abundance of balance to begin with, and her already poor vision was starting to swim. She knocked back half of what remained.

“Because you are hurt, and I want to know what it was.” The younger woman sounded almost like a mother. Her mother. Save, of course, for that sick desire that edged at her words. This woman wanted her to hurt. Wanted her to suffer, for her own pleasure. A growl rose in Jessa' throat. “Your partner clearly has his issues. I wished to know yours.”

I like this one, Mistress.

Jessa moved off the wall, put down her drink, glanced at the guards standing at the exit to the room. “Talk about Redmun again,” Jessa said, meeting the Saint's disgusting gaze, “I'll end you quick and painless.”

Cielaine just smiled.

Jessa groaned. Her headache was killing. The drink just moved the pain further away, didn't do anything to dull it. A Saint in her face, the bitch in her arm no doubt waiting to pounce to try and piss her off more. Jessa stuck between. But then again, this is where Jessa did her best work, even if she usually came out in a foul mood.

For most Possessors, looking intimidating was how to deal with citizens and the like. Jessa had… other tools. Aside from her natural good looks, which were just a bother more often than not, she liked to be tougher than nails. Take their hardest punches and keep smiling, keep coming. That was how Jessa liked to operate. If only she wasn't so damned drunk.

Jessa lifted her dead arm, waving it in the Saint's direction, and fell into the seat at the next closest table. This one was wooden, surprisingly. Not many things in Lutmouth were.

“Why did you become a Possessor?”

“Because my father thought it would be a good idea to visit the Dead Earth, even though it was only a year or so until the next Dead-March. And then the Dead-March came early.” Jessa filled her mouth with beer – or whatever swill she'd been drinking. It didn't take away the bitter taste of those memories. Dead March every twenty years, and it had to come while I was there. Life's a bitch.

It was meant to be, the Banshee whispered. Jessa chuckled.

“And?” Cielaine asked.

“And they all died trying to protect me from the ghosts, the dead. Then the ghosts went into them, and started after me.” Another mouthful. “Redmun helped me.”

“Ah, I see,” Cielaine said, nodding. “So, he saved you, put your family down for you, and now you feel you owe him a debt. And so now-”

Jessa's harsh laughter interrupted. “Gods, no. Redmun got me out of the immediate threat, then told me how to make a Pact.” It took some persuading, actually, especially with his Master so close, but Jessa got it out of him. “See, those spirits were dumb things, too stupid to make a coordinated attack like they did. They were being led, so I went to the top.”

“So you took your Evil to kill another?”

“Wrong again.” Jessa removed her glove, showing the deathly pale skin beneath, giving her fingers a little wiggle. “I took the Evil that took my family.”

The Banshee hummed in pleasure. And we have been together ever since. What wonderful times we've had.

The Saint raised an eyebrow. “Oh, my…”

“Damn right,” Jessa said, slamming the table. This was one the proudest moments of her life, and she dished it out only when she really wanted to unsettle someone. “See, I saw this wailing, crying Banshee – dead, but still trying to be pretty – so I thought: 'What's the worst thing you could do to a pretty little thing like that?'” Jessa said, peering into her drink. Not much left. She emptied it.

“Ignore it,” Cielaine said with a smile.

“Damn right!” Jessa slammed her empty flagon down on the table, denting it. Thing was probably priceless. Not that she cared. “I bound her up in a Pact, tight as can be, took her in my arm, and I've been ignoring the fuck out of her since.” Jessa burst into laughter – she couldn't help it. It always made her feel good to spite the bitch. If Jessa so much as thought about using the bitch's powers, she'd get a Banshee's scream in her ear. The kind that paralyzes normal folk. But Jessa learned to ignore it, and didn't even flinch anymore. “And that is why I'm a Possessor. Because it's hilarious.”

“Ah.” Cielaine, standing prim as a princess in that dirty dress, tapped a lip to her fingers. “But why Redmun? If you did all that on your own, why do you follow him around? And defend him so vehemently?”

“No,” Jessa said, waving at the bartender. “I answered your questions. Piss off.”

“But I'm curious-”

“I'm still two drinks away from unconscious, and I'm tired of your company, Saint.” She added as much spite to the word as she could muster. “If it helps, just pretend I'm hurting my tomorrow-self with every drop I don't spill.”

After a long moment, the saint stood, but instead of leaving stepped forward. “I came here to learn about the city's suffering, Jessamine. You wouldn't be drowning your sorrows if you didn't have any.”

Jessa stood too, towering over the girl. “And I said leave, girl. I'll do worse than mutilate you, and we'll see just how strong your faith is without a jaw, cunt.”

The saint looked distinctly unimpressed, that sad little smile unmoving on her face. “Perhaps later, then. We wouldn't want both of our honoured protectors in Lutmouth's jails, now would we?”

Jessa sighed, and sat down. “Where's my drink?” she asked, slamming a hand down on the table. By the time the drink arrived, and Jessa looked up, Cielaine was gone. “Fucking Saint. Damned Church.”

Do not forget your lover, Mistress, the Banshee whispered. This began with him, did it not? Shall we end it?

“You're not very good at this,” Jessa murmured, and started on her next pint.