In Clarksville, Tennessee, witch hunter Fergus Unger attempted to drink his grief away as he waited impatiently for his casted arm to heal. He had been prepared to start the hunt for his brother’s killer the moment that the anesthesia from the surgery had worn off. But once again, his socially inept giant of a brother had been the voice of reason. While clearly the best, and only, course of action, it also resulted in Fergus drinking too much outside of a rented mobile home, while Aldo passed the time reading old copies of gardening magazines.

“This is ridiculous. We could at least be searching for the guy. Even if we don’t take him out, we could get some leads,” Fergus complained.

“The family is looking into it. These matters cannot be rushed. Rules cannot be broken if we wish to maintain our professionalism. We must wait for the family heads to decide and we both know that process takes time. Be patient. Remember, revenge is a dish...”

“Best served cold. I know, I know.”

Aldo frowned. “I was going to say, ‘best served methodically prepared’. But if you want to go with that nonsensical cliché go right ahead.”

“That’s not...it means...forget it.” His arm began to ache, and he reached for his painkillers.

Aldo snatched his hand. Fergus was a strong man but even he felt helpless in that grip. “Alcohol or opioid. Not both.”

“Fine. Fine. Don’t break my good wrist,” Fergus acquiesced and went back to his bottle of rye. “It’s just that waiting here is going to drive me nuts.”

“Then do something constructive.”

“Like what?”

“Learn something. For instance,” Aldo narrowed his eyes at the current page of his gardening magazine. “Did you know that aspirin was originally made from willow tree bark? I bet you didn’t. Now you do and hence, you’ve done something constructive with your time.”

If Aldo weren’t his brother Fergus would never be able to tolerate the man. Patience was more than a virtue to Aldo—it was almost an autonomic response. He could no more be restless than he could forget to breathe. For a hunter, it proved an enviable trait. But at times like this, when Fergus felt edgy and eager for action, it just endlessly agitated him.

But Aldo was right. A hunt should always be done with quiet patience and cold resolve. Fergus knew the time for revenge would come and he took some solace in knowing that the wait would just make his blood boil all the more.

***

In the Reliquary, like a monarch surveying her kingdom, the woman known as Hellebore watched the nightly party in the Great Hall from her private balcony. Her arms, neck, and face—the flesh not covered by her gown—swirled with a kaleidoscope of colors. Periodically, this living ink would merge into forms, paint itself into tattoos that animated across her. Trees appeared on her back, leaves waving in an unfelt wind. Exotic fish swam up from her wrists to her shoulders, bubbles coming from their mouths that then floated across her neck to disappear into her hairline. All of these images would then dissolve, colors melting back together, and the process would begin anew, with different images.

It was Lucille who came and whispered into her ear that Peter Goss’ mansion had burned to the ground. Hellebore digested the information without a flinch. On a subliminal cue, her ink twisted into flames, flickering along her forearms, with smoke and cinders ascending to her shoulders and twirling tornado-like around her neck.

Disaster certainly seemed to follow her foolish friend and it saddened her that someday Isaac would be too slow to outrun it.

But she had no intention of running alongside him.

***

Only a few blocks over from the Reliquary, on the top floor of the building referred to in secret as the Iron Embassy, Ambassador Murray had just finished tasking her diviners to once again delve into the many workings of Arrangement. It was a tough veil to pierce and not without inherent risks. She would love to pass this investigation on to her superiors, those who lurked beyond and wielded much more substantial tools, but like all of the great powers of the world, Hell seemed content to let Arrangement call the tunes. Maybe on her last day of service— which would probably be her last day of life—she’d find the highest-ranking devil she could and tell him or her to make Hell grow a pair again.

So, all she could currently do was relinquish her inquisitiveness to her underlings and see what they could uncover. If one of them crossed a forbidden line it would be a small matter to serve their head up to the offended party. The Embassy had no shortage of staff.

A sampler pack from Hutchins’ Hundred currently cooled in her office refrigerator and a fresh Cuban cigar lay on her desk. Another day, another thirty pieces of silver, she thought as she reached for the intercom to tell security she was clocking out for the night. Before she could tap the button, a knock came out her door, and, at her beckoning, the guards let in a harried young woman carrying a still-sizzling frying pan.

“Ambassador,” the woman panted. “I must speak with you.”

“Collect yourself, Cybil, and then explain.”

“Signs,” Cybil said and tilted the pan so the Ambassador could view its contents. Inside, steaming as if just pulled from the stove, was a layer of dark crimson offal. The blood still boiled, chunks of organs still simmering in the foul broth. Cybil took a finger, capped with a metal-hooked thimble, and stirred around the contents. The woman was the Embassy’s chief haruspex, an archaic and foul practice that rarely produced desirable information. But they had wanted to leave no stone unturned.

“I can’t read guts. And did you really need to bring the pan with you? My office will reek for hours.” To cover the odor the Ambassador lit up her cigar.

The rebuke only added to Cybil’s unease. “I’m sorry Ambassador. I just wanted to be sure I brought proof.”

“Well, you certainly brought something. Now explain.”

“There’s been a ripple in the air. A twist. A flap of wings that may spin into a hurricane.”

Murray puffed the cigar. “Knock off the theatrics and start yakking about what’s happening.”

The scryer coughed to clear her throat and started over. “I believe one of the tarot cards you wanted us to watch for has been used.”

This caught the Ambassador’s attention. “Go on.”

“It was a minor effect. I may not have even noticed if you hadn’t specified for us to be on the lookout. But that’s not why I rushed to you.”

Murray tapped ash into her crystal tray. “No?”

She shook her head. “It was what I saw after the card was played that startled me. A premonition. The strongest I’ve ever had. So many details that I’m sure I missed some. This card was just a key, undoing the first tumbler to a very large lock. But I believe it will set more in motion.”

“Like?” The Ambassador restrained a sigh. These diviners were like conversing with toddlers, one just had to keep leading them.

“I saw a burning angel fall from the sky. A prison swamped in yellow mist, but the doors blown open and the cells empty. A smiling pestilence that walks like a man unleashed on the earth. I saw unbreakable chains snapped like twigs and bleeding like severed veins, hundreds of eyes going black. And finally, I saw a set of manacles unlocked, falling away into the void. There may have been more. The images flashed too fast for me to absorb them all.”

“That’s quite a loaded frying pan. Maybe even more of a stew pot.” The Ambassador blew a cloud of smoke. “What were the manacles securing?”

She stared at her pan. “It’s hard to put into words. But I’d have to say it’s everything we know. Everything we are.” She drew her metal finger through the congealing blood with a nail on a chalkboard screech, one last examination. “Whatever Arrangement is setting in motion will unshackle the world. All chains will fall away.” The woman let out a body-sagging sigh as if relaying the information had been a massive physical strain.

Ambassador Murray maintained her flat affect. “Ah. Is that it? No lotto numbers or football scores?” The quip visibly rattled Cybil and she began to stutter, fearing she had disappointed her master. Before the young woman could fall to her knees and beg forgiveness (she hated when they did that) she reassured the shaken scryer. “Easy Cybil. I apologize. That’s a bad joke on my part. You’ve done well. Write this up in detail so I can review it later and then take the rest of the night off. Go out to eat. Catch a movie. Buy some new cookware and just throw that pan away. Then tomorrow, back to the frying guts grind.”

Alone again, the Ambassador popped the cap on a bottle of Dark Gable, Hutchins’ latest brew, and stared out the window. A Black Tarot had been played. Unknown things had been set in motion. Perhaps she had been wrong about the albatross wingspan and now they were all caught up in the wake.

Regardless of the portent of possible doom, she suddenly felt invigorated, younger than she had in centuries. The Manhattan nightscape sparkled in a manner she hadn’t noticed in years. For now, she couldn’t accurately guess the meaning of Cybil’s vision, but as far as she was concerned, a world unchained would be a more interesting place.