Arturo and I milled around the chapel for most of the day, comparing notes and talking over theories. Even after a few hours of going over our suspect list, we didn’t know anything more than we had the night before. The monster on the loose wasn’t an Elder Changeling, but a Githrokh, which had been locked up deep within the earth before a bunch of greedy miners had accidentally busted the lock on its cell. We also knew that the Hexblight attacked approximately every two weeks—though nothing in any of Arturo’s books offered any insight about that.

According to a dusty leather-bound tome thicker than a dictionary, once bonded to a host, the Hexblight needed to feed once every few days. They were parasites and if they didn’t feed regularly, they started to drain the host victim, eventually killing them. Likely what happened to the poor schmuck chained to that wall down in the mines. The creature sucked him dry like a vampire and then fell into an hibernative state. That didn’t square with the pattern of killings, but we had no explanation for the discrepancy.

On the plus side, Arturo did indeed have a Banishment Ritual specifically designed to temporarily remove the mask from the host. Once the bond was broken, the creature would grow progressively weaker, eventually allowing me to pull the host from the blood-thirsty demonic leech. Once that happened, the monster would be ripe for a good ol’ ass whoopin’. But we needed a few things for the ritual to work. The name of the host and a bodily piece of the host—a lock of hair, a vial of blood, a chopped off finger.

Anything would do so long as it belonged, bodily, to the host.

Needless to say, this was a shit ton more complicated than simply shooting the sumbitch in the face with a magical machinegun.

As the sun began its eventual descent toward dusk, Arturo changed into his finest priestly garments. No plain black cassock for him this evening. Instead, he combed his hair, oiled his beard, and dawned a set of white robes, embroidered with enough gold to make Scrouge McDuck blush. Honestly, I thought it looked tacky as shit, but he seemed to preen like a peacock as he slipped on an ornamental breast plate that wouldn’t deflect a whiffle ball and strapped a thin rapier with an elaborate golden basket hilt to his waist. A noblemen’s weapon he insisted.

He tried to get me to toss on fancier duds—a padded doublet, half cape, some woolen trousers and calf-high boots. Nothing nearly as gaudy as what he was wearing, but something that would make me stand out less in a crowd. He probably could’ve talked me into it with a little bit of arm twisting, if not for the fact that I hadn’t selected the Armor Evocation ability. My leather Grass Hound Armor offered a +1 Insight Bonus and made Stealth Step and Wyld Wisdom 8% more effective while the armor was equipped.

I needed those bonuses, and I also didn’t like the idea of potentially walking into a monster’s lair wearing a doublet that would restrict my movement while offering me no discernable protection. So the Grass Hound armor it was. If anyone asked, I’d just say it was a fashion statement. That or punch them in the teeth for poking their nose where it didn’t belong.

Cal and Renholm were waiting for us by the Three Chimneys. Cal was leaning against a wall, looking bored out of his skull, while Renholm lounged about on his cat, who was purring contentedly on top of a barrel in the alleyway.

“Looking good, Boyd,” Cal called as I strutted up. “Very subtle. I love the whole leather armor covered in spikes and bone fragments. Sure, it’s doesn’t scream The-Pope-giving-Sunday-Mass-at-Burning-Man vibes”—he shot a weighing look at Arturo—“but its elegant. Sophisticated without being over the top.”

“Eat my ass,” I growled. “It was this or I could’ve gone as a shopkeeper from the ren faire.”

“I approve whole heartedly,” Renholm said, nodding. “Wearing the skins of fallen enemies is the perfect way to establish dominance.” He gestured to his own outfit, an odd gray doublet, a pair of tiny leather boots, and a glimmering cape that looked to be made of spiderwebbing and morning dew. He’d opted to forgo pants which was deeply troubling, though he had added an oversized codpiece that looked like a... well a rat head. “You’ll notice I fashioned my armor out a particularly troublesome rodent that was giving me the side eye. As I said, wearing the skins of the fallen shows you are not to be trifled with.”

“Great. Now I have to change,” I said. Any time I found myself agreeing with Renholm I knew I’d made a significant tactical error.

“Too late for that,” Arturo offered, rather smugly. “We have a party to attend. Best not to be late.”

The walk over to Gustav’s manor was a real eye opener. I’d spent more time outside the city walls or climbing around in dusty mine shafts than I had exploring the city proper. Pretty much everything I’d seen so far consisted of the Three-Chimneys, the bath house, and the church, with a very minor detour to Sigge’s Alchemy shop. This was the first time I’d really gotten to see what Ironmoor had to offer. Turned out, most of what it had to offer was a shitload of poverty and secondhand hepatitis.

Beggars and dirty-faced orphans crowded most of the alleys, living in squalid impromptu shacks as often as houses. Many, missing fingers or hands or feet, held cups out in supplication. I’d seen worse during my time overseas. But not much worse. The streets were rough dirt and strewn with mud and hay. Puddles of questionable and nauseating liquids ran along the gutters—the wonders of a world without indoor plumbing. There were public restrooms, called the Jakes, but nine-times out of ten chamber pots were more convenient and it seemed ye olden time folk were lazy degenerates.

I was seriously regretting my extra keen senses at the moments.

Then we crossed over a single boulevard and the world changed in a blink.

To the left was a twisted maze of ramshackle homes and despair; to the right was a paved road, lined with trees and hanging flower baskets and straight-backed, stone houses with tiled roofs.

There were no crippled beggars or hollowed eyed orphans decorating the gleaming sidewalks. In fact, there were no people at all. The place hummed with wealth and luxury. The gap between where we’d been and where we were going was wider than the chasm between the Officer’s Quarters and Enlisted men’s Barracks. Hell, not even that was quite right. This section of the city was obviously the Airforce Base, like the one I’d briefly stayed at in Kuwait, compared to the condemned Iraqi squad bay we’d hunkered down in outside of Fallujah. The one which had been condemned and deemed unfit for human habitation.

Arturo shook off his customary doom and gloom and grinned. “Pithom Row,” he proudly announced, sweeping a hand out. “This is where the well-heeled and up-and-coming rest their noble heads.”

It could have been my imagination, but it seemed like Arturo was at ease in a way I hadn’t seen before. Then it struck me. These were his people. Not these actual people in these stately manors, but he came from people like the ones behind the shuttered windows and brass-studded doors. He came from money. Power. Privilege. He may have been a knight, but he’d grown up pampered and cared for by servants and staff and tutors. The padre stood straighter, his shoulders thrown back, his nose held a little higher.

I noticed a couple of uneasy glances from behind windows, covered with thick, clouded glass. I was betting the fine folks on Pithom Row weren’t accustomed to seeing someone like me cruising their neighborhood. But no one said anything.

Probably because I was wearing the skin of my enemies.

Even though I’d never been here before, it was easy enough to spot Gustav’s house. It was at the end of the row—an honored guest seated at the head of the table—and it was easily twice as large as the rest of the houses. A sprawling behemoth of stone that looked closer to a modest castle than a house. Rectangular windows dotted the outer walls, all filled with immaculate stained-glass imagery that could easily rival the art on display at the temple dedicated to Raguel.

Gustav had a very elevated view of himself, it seemed.

Large hedges and trees boxed in the property, while neatly manicured flower beds and shrubbery lined the front of the manor. Green creeping vines and strands of fragrant purple wisteria hung from the eaves. The place was as subtle as Art’s robes. And if all that weren’t enough, there was a great circular roundabout in front of the manor lined with carriages, horses, immaculately dressed guests and livered servants, all bustling about. Looked like Arturo and I were the only people who’d decided to walk—even though half the people in attendance probably lived on Pithom Row.

“Alright,” I said as we wound our way up Gustav’s private drive, “here’s the plan. Arturo, your job is gonna be to corner Gustav and keep him busy—I don’t want him popping up while I’m snooping through his desk drawers. Cal and Ren, you’re both on patrol. You can get places I can’t, so spread out and find anything that looks suspicious, but keep your heads on a swivel. We know that Sigge, Gustav’s alchemist lapdog, is gonna be hanging around and he can see you. There’s also a chance that this guy is magically savvy—so keep an eye out for wards or other supernatural barriers. Everyone good with their part?” I asked.

A round of nods answered me.

“Good,” I said, clapping my hands together. “Let’s go find out what these snooty goat humpers are up to.”

Cal blinked out of existence, while Renholm took to the air after ruffling Sir Jacob-Francis’s head and whispering into the cat’s ear. The cat chirped, watching the pixie flutter away with a bored gaze, before turning and loping off into the bushes.

“Let me do all the talking,” Arturo said as we approached the main entry way. A stern-faced doorman, tall and slightly hunched, stood sentry carefully checking for invitations, then crossing reference the name on a sheet of parchment.

“Good evening, fair sir,” Arturo said, beaming through his beard as he stepped up and clasped his hands together. “We are here for Magistrate Gustav’s event.”

“And here I was wondering why all of these people were showing up,” the doorman replied rolling his eyes. “Invitation?” He extended a gloved hand, a sneer on his lips.

Dick, I thought, though I kept my mouth firmly shut.

Arturo barely even missed a beat, “Yes, about that, I’m afraid we never did receive a proper invitation, though my friend and I were personally invited by Magistrate Gustav.”

“Perhaps the reason you didn’t receive an invitation,” the doorman said sharply, “is because the honored Magistrate didn’t actually want you to attend.” He sniffed dismissively. “I’m afraid, no invitation, no entry.”

Arturo bristled, his face red, his hands balled into tight, scar covered fists. He was a noble by birth, a knight by trade, and now a priest by profession. The Padre wasn’t used to having people talk shit directly to his face and it showed. Guy looked like he was about to blow a gasket. Not that I could blame him—the doorman had a mouth on him sharper than a surgeon’s scalpel. We were going to have to find a burn clinic by the time we finally got through these doors. Me on the other hand? The Marine Corps was built on three things: war fighting, bitching about stuff, and shit talking.

My moment had come. Not to mention, I had some fancy new skills to take for a test drive.

I triggered Mantle of Authority. My Arcana gauge appeared in the corner of my eye, draining so slowly it was hardly noticeable. That’s what a twenty in Arcana earned me, apparently. I’m not sure what exactly I was expecting, but it wasn’t the velvety black cape that sprouted from thin air, draped over one shoulder, and flowing down my back. The doorman’s eyes flared wide in shock and he visibly recoiled as though I’d just kicked his puppy.

Everything seemed to snap into sharper clarity around me and I felt more confident than I had a moment before. Almost like I’d downed a couple of brews, except there was no fuzziness clouding my thoughts. If anything, I was sharper than normal. I could see the sweat beading on his forehead, the slight tremor in his hands, the way his eyes subtly drifted toward my spiked armor. This guy knew exactly who I was, and I got the feeling he’d been told to keep me from getting inside—and he was nervous about it.

“Apologies for my friend.” I patted Arturo on the shoulder. “I’m sure you know Arbitrator Arturo. He’s a pious man, but he gets out so rarely these days—not great in social settings. I would introduce myself,” I said, leaning in close, “but I reckon you already know who I am.”

The doorman shifted uncomfortable, licked his lips, and bobbed his head. “Of course,” he whispered.

“Then you also know I was personally invited by Gustav,” I said. My Arcana gauge dipped again as I activated Honeyed Words and imbued the words with power—turning it into a statement of absolute fact. “The Magistrate and I happened to be at the bathhouse at the time, so he neglected to give me a written invitation, but I can assure you, my friend and I are supposed to be in this party.”

The man squirmed and glanced over my shoulder at the small line of guests starting to form behind us. “But the rules…” he stammered.

“You’re doing a great job,” I said with a shark grin, “but you’re making a scene. Probably embarrassing the Magistrate. Best just to let us in don’t you think? Make us someone else’s problem.”

“Yes, yes of course,” he said, wilting under my Arcana empowered suggestions. “I don’t know what I was thinking. Please, right this way, gentlemen. Right this way.” He stood aside and bowed, ushering Arturo and I into the manor house. He was sweating bullets now, his face pale and sickly.

“What the hell did you do to him?” the Padre asked as we headed into the lavish foyer. The floor was gleaming tile, inset with a house crest I didn’t recognize. A curved double staircase rose to a second level while a massive chandelier, crafted of polished bone and studded with golden accents dangled above us.

“Eh, what can I say?” I replied with a shrug. “I just have a way with words.”

There were more livery-clad servants posted by the staircases, directing the flow of traffic away from the stairs and toward a large ballroom to the left. If the servants wanted to keep guests corralled on the bottom level, then Gustav’s secrets were probably all stashed on the upper levels. That’s where I needed to be. But even with Stealth Step and Honeyed Words, I wasn’t going to gain access this way. There were too many people and too many sets of eyes. I’d get caught in a second. And talking my way past one doorman wasn’t the same as talking my way past a squad of servants hellbent on keeping people contained on the first floor.

But the thing about giant manors was that they always had infrastructure built specifically for the help. In my limited experience, ultra-rich dickheads and upper crust socialites hated seeing their servants perform all the mundane tasks they deemed beneath them. These places were littered with secret hallways, servants’ quarters, and alternative staircases. If I could get to the kitchen, I could find a way up. There was a small army of caterers loaded down with silver trays, piled high with food and beverages, circulating through the grand ball room. They were streaming out from a pair of double doors on the far side of the hall.

Bingo. That was where I needed to be.

Getting there was going to be a tiny bit of a problem.

As we crossed through the archway and into the grand ballroom proper, a duffus wearing a puffy-sleeved doublet and a floppy hat with a bright gold feather poking up like a flagstick raised his voice and thundered into the hall, “Now presenting Arbitrator Arturo Edris Korhonen, Scion of Raguel, son of Hedrek Edris Korhonen the fourth—Margrave of Brezneik—and former Templar of the Queen’s Banner.” A smattering of polite clapping greeted the pronouncement. “And Boyd Knight the Vigilante,” he finished.

No claps for me, but I could feel every eye in the room shifted to me all at once, including the steely gaze of the man I’d come to gather dirt on. Gustav Hultgren, High Magistrate of Ironmoor.

Fuck my life.