Howard threw himself against the door for the second time, grunting with the effort. The door remained in place, stubbornly refusing to let the reddening man enter. Preston felt a smile tug at his lips, but refrained from saying anything. Of course the room with the Knight was protected.

The suggestion to infiltrate the farmhouse and force the Mistress to show them about had been hotly rejected by the man currently failing to beat down an inch thick door. He’d been angry Howard had struck a woman, pregnant at that, but it was something he could ignore to complete his Lady’s task.

Still, cracks had appeared in the door at the second strike, and the third was likely to break it down. Preston readied his pistol, thumbing the hammer back. It was a loaned pistol from Howard, however unwilling, as Preston had been forced to leave his commissioned piece behind with the Army after his second retirement. Perhaps it would be waiting for him if he was forced to return for a third time.

The pistol in hand was a poor substitute, barely worth the name. Had he not had Howard test fire it for him, Preston would have doubted its ability to fire. The grip was both too oily to hold with any comfort and too dry, the wood splintered and rough, the barrel pitted, the hammer off-center. The trigger guard was almost too small to fit his finger, but the pistol had been Howard's, and the man had modified the guard with his own large hand in mind.

It was old enough to be a black powder fired weapon, but it was an elymis model. Surely it had been one of the first ten ever built. The runes still worked, and the elymis powder still propelled the metal shot into the flesh and bone of those Preston wished to harm. And he meant to do harm here.

The door surrendered to Howard’s aggression, and collapsed inward under the weight of the gorilla man. Smoke rose from the fragments scattered across the floor, the remains of the protective magic. Preston had to give Howard credit, his single-minded determination had done a great deal of damage. The man himself tumbled into the room, momentum propelling his great bulk through the splintered door..

A black blur collided with Howard’s skull with the sound of a rockslide. Preston winced at the noise, certain the man was dead. The other man surprised him, straightening with a snarl and an upraised arm. The black blur came again, and Howard caught it with his forearm.

The noise from the second blow was the wet snapping of bone, and Howard’s shrill scream. Distracted by the pain, he was unable to block the third strike to his head, square between the eyes. The man dropped with enough force to shake the floor. Preston watched, content to let Howard get what was coming to him.

Had this been a battlefield, and Howard under his command, Preston might have thought otherwise. But now he only owed his allegiance and his concern to the Lady, and not to the thugs she made him work with. Howard had flushed out the hidden threat, and now Preston would follow through.

The pistol bucked in his hand, the side effects of poor maintenance and cheap enchantment. But it was loud, and flashy, and that served his purpose fine. The bullet lodged in the ceiling, or passed through into the roof. Preston didn’t care which.

“Now let’s not get hasty,” he said as he stepped into the room, ducking under the door frame and keeping wide of the side where the black blur came from. “I would hate for anyone to get hurt because they made the wrong decision.”

“Only one who’s gonna be hurt is ye.” Preston had never heard a woman’s voice as deep and raspy as the voice coming from the woman in front of him. Fair enough, because she could bludgeon most of the soldiers he’d served with into the ground. Her forearms were bigger than some cannons, and the black staff she held was no willow switch.

Taking several more steps to ensure he was out of reach of her staff, Preston kicked Howard as he stepped over the man. The whistling groan told Preston the big man was alive, if only barely. Even his head was not thick enough to take a blow like that without consequence.

“I’m going to go out on a limb and say you are the Granny Woman everyone has been so worked up about,” Preston said, flicking his pistol at her. “And he’s the Knight causing such a stir.”

For the first time since entering the room, Preston diverted his attention from the immediate threat of the staff-wielding old woman to the man laying in the bed. Something in the back of his head told him he shouldn’t have fixated on the Granny Woman, but she was important. The Lady wanted her more than the Knight.

The Knight was propped against the headboard, blankets around his mid chest, surrounded by books. A muscular man, one well versed in the violent trades. All manner of scars crossed his body and face, straight and jagged and smooth. Aside from the face, every inch of skin was covered in brilliant blue and deep black tattoos. Preston recognized several symbols from Church, but most were unknown to him, angular runes and circular glyphs and eye-watering patterns twisting about themselves, looping around each other in impossible designs, forming endless tunnels and spires across the man’s skin.

Preston would have known him for a Knight even if he did not recognize the man. “Campbell. Thought you died at Kindale.”

"Lynch. The demon got you?" The Knight's face was impassive, cool gaze absorbing everything it saw. The same gaze from twenty years past. “Doubt you would willingly hunt down a granny and an invalid.”

"The Lady is no demon!" Preston snarled, feeling his finger tighten on the trigger. With effort he pulled it away, fighting the instincts telling him to shoot, to kill, those who insulted the Lady.

"Yet ye knew it were 'the Lady' he were referrin' to," the Granny Woman said. The hidden instincts seized Preston's whole arm this time, lifting the pistol level with the woman's head. His hand cramped as Preston fought the urge, the need, to put a bullet in the woman's skull. His blood sang for the coming death, and his mind screamed.

"Ack!" He jerked his arm away. This was wrong. Dangerous though the Granny Woman might be, Preston was the superior threat. He did not need to kill her. He did not want to kill her. But still his muscles fought his will to bring the pistol back in line and ever closer to firing.

"Lynch." He ignored the voice of the Knight. There was nothing the Ferret could do to stop the judgement of the Lady. "Lynch. Sophie loves you."

Muscles straining against the mind that normally controlled them froze. The killing intent forced into Preston's very being—wavered.

"What did you say?" Preston whispered, half indignation, half plea. To hear that name again—

"Sophie loves you. And she would not want to see you like this." The Knight's voice was soft, and quiet. But it resonated inside Preston's skull, building, pushing against the something in there.

"You — but — how?" Words would not come, only the growing confusion. Why was he here? Why was he holding a gun to an old woman? What—

The world lurched, his vision spinning, showing him two rooms before snapping back together. The confusion left, leaving behind only his need to kill the Granny Woman and then the Knight and drag their bloody corpses back to the Lady as tribute to her greatness. Preston bared his teeth, spittle flying from his mouth, coating his lips with his ragged breath.

"Remember her face, Preston Lynch! Remember Sophie!" The Knight's voice was louder now, frantic. But it dug at Preston's mind, stabbed into the cloud of confusion. "Her smile, her eyes. How you held her in your arms, the love you shared."

The name was known to Preston, but there was nothingness when he tried to remember. A blank hole in his memory. He couldn't picture the face he knew belonged to the name. But—there was something. The smell of… lilac. Lilac and bread, fresh from the oven. A baby's cry…

The blank spot shattered, and the face of his wife came rushing back. The smile she gave to him alone, the turn of her nose, the lines of her neck. The blue eyes he could stare into for hours. The warm yielding in his embrace. The confusion writhed against the memories, but it was a futile effort, a minnow throwing itself at a battleship.

The pistol fell from Preston's hand and clattered to the floor as he held his face. How had he forgotten his wife? Sophie, his cornflower blossom. Words brought him out of his memories, back to the room where he had tried to commit murder. The return to awareness found Preston on his knees, hugging himself and rocking.

“—ye did to him? Did no took ye fer a mindweaver.” The voice was the Granny Woman’s, and this time it did not bring the urge to blow her brain out the back of her skull.

“I am not,” said Campbell. “I merely knew the best way to break the succubus’ hold on him.”

“Succubus?” Preston croaked in surprise. Two hard sets of eyes, one cool and brown, one hot and gray, met his own as he looked up from his position on the floor. The Knight had not softened over the decades since Preston had seen him. The Granny Woman was soft in the way old oak wood was soft.

“Demon Lady ye were enthralled by. Flashy smile, big tits? Evil incarnate.” The Granny Woman pointed at the prone form of Howard. “The one who thought he would be a good enforcer.”

“Ah,” Preston said. He wasn’t sure he could say more at the moment. There was something wrong with the way his thoughts travelled to his tongue. Campbell seemed to notice this.

“What you are feeling is the aftereffects of the enthrallment. She has not had you for too long, so they should not last much longer than an hour. He, on the other hand,” Campbell nodded at Howard, “is going to be feeling it for days, if he is even alive.”

Granny tsked. “Aim were a bit off. He’s still breathin'.”

“Gonna have… mother of headache,” Preston forced out. It seemed easier to talk the more he did.

“I suspect so,” Campbell said. He turned his head to the Granny Woman, the four pointed Star of Yeshas tattoo flexing on his throat. “Did you have to hit him so hard?”

“Seein’ as he were fixin’ to kill me an' then ye, I do no think I hit him hard enough.”

“The Lady—” Preston closed his eyes as a wave of confusion washed over him. Then the smell of lilac returned and he found his thoughts again. “The demon ordered you brought in alive.”

“Hmph. Ye do no seem shocked to learn ye were a demon’s puppet.” There wasn’t a question, just the Granny Woman’s assured statement.

“He was career Federation Artillery, Granny Esmer. We saw action against the Aztlani in the far South.” Preston shuddered as Campbell’s words brought the memory of the screaming feather covered demons of the jungle, obsidian weapons coated in Enarikan blood. “Now they knew how to raise demons.”

“Demon worshippers,” Preston groaned. “That’s what I got myself into?”

“Afraid so,” Campbell said. “Sit down, I will explain.”

The chair Campbell gestured to creaked ominously when Preston sat, but held. While he gathered his bulk off the floor, the Granny Woman knelt beside Howard and thumbed back an eyelid. She grunted and held two fingers to the side of his throat.

“Thick skull, this one.” As she returned to her corner of the room, she grabbed the pistol and held it loose at her side. “Do no want him gettin’ hold o' this when he wakes up.”

The heavy weight of her awareness fell on Preston. “I do no trust ye enough ta give it back.”

“Fair enough.” He held his hands up in surrender. “Isn’t mine anyway. Howard chose that poor excuse of a rune gun.”

“Is that his name?” Campbell asked. “Tried to kill me before we could be introduced.”

Preston raised his eyebrows at the man laying in the bed with bandages around his middle and the gaunt look of the severely wounded. A look Preston had encountered far too often in the last five years. “Seems like they did a pretty good job of it. You must be getting old, I don’t remember you ever getting hurt before.”

“Plenty hurt, never serious,” Campbell grinned, “but Revenants pack a special punch.”

“Ah.” The thing in the Lad—demon’s manor. “Gives me the creeps.”

“Ye’ve seen it?” Granny Esmer said, leaning forward, interest clear on her face. “Ye’ve been to the manor?”

“Yes?” Preston said. “Is the Revenant another demon?”

“No, the reanimated corpse of a Federal Captain,” said Campbell. “Cavalry, from his uniform. Must have gotten on the wrong side of Akisoromokevheje when he passed through.”

“And you’ve left her alive? You’re a damn Ferret, aren’t you supposed to kill things like her? Let’s go!” Preston shot to his feet, ready to charge off to confront the demon. A wave of dizziness knocked him back into the chair, where he barely managed to keep from falling to the floor.

“You do not blink an eye learning you were enthralled by a demon, but the death of an unknown Captain bothers you enough to run off half-cocked to fight the demon who already proved herself your superior?” Campbell scoffed. “Same Lynch I knew.”

Preston had to swallow the saliva flooding his mouth before he could snap back a retort, but the Knight continued before he could get the chance.

“If you had not noticed, she also got the better of me. There is not much I can do from this bed. Akisoromokevheje will die, for the officer and a dozen others, I promise you. But not right now. And I… could use your help here.”

Preston laughed. “I don’t believe I heard those words from you. You’re the big bad Knight, He of the Big Brains and Magic. What use could you have of the Common Man? Could it be you’ve learned humility since Denachdidlan?”

“I will admit I was full of myself when you last knew me. But now I find myself confined to a bed, and in need of aid. I can think of no one better than you.”

“You—” Preston began, but Campbell spoke over him.

“After all, you are already here. Saves me from having to put effort into finding good help. And since I am already aware of your weaknesses, I can plan around them.”

“You haven’t changed much then,” Preston said. Campbell responded with a grin and a shrug. But his eyes were still iron.

“Evident no,” interjected the Granny Woman, her deep voice booming like a 12-pounder Sleeplion. “Why do ye wish his help? Can ye even trust him now Akis had her claws in him?”

“I can protect him from her Charm,” Campbell said, “and we need someone on the inside.”

“All well and good,” Preston said, “but you still haven’t told me what in the Name of Yeshas is going on here. How would I help with demon worshippers and risen dead?”

“There are no demon worshippers. The demon Akisoromokevheje, a succubus, has used her powers to assume control of Quincy Hill by enthralling people and killing those who might oppose her. Enthralling you and sending you to kill Granny Esmer and me being a prime example.” Campbell waved a tattooed arm between himself and the Granny Woman who still held the pistol in the corner. Her gaze flickered between Preston and the still unconscious Howard as if she hadn’t made up her mind to shoot them or not. “You can be of help to us because you have been inducted to her trust, and can provide us information. She is a dangerous monster, and we need to remove her before she causes any more damage to this town.”

“What information do you need from me? I will tell you everything I know and then I must be on my way. I am late enough as it is.”

“Late? Where do ye have to be?” the Granny Woman asked. Howard let out a light snore on the floor. Sleep was good for the thug. Being unconscious for too long was dangerous. It might kill off what little brains the man had.

“I needed to be back in Dubjuk a week ago, but the damn train was torn apart by a Gigante. I’ve been away from the farm too long, and the corn needs harvesting.”

“Can your wife not help with the harvest?” Campbell asked. “And your son?”

Preston snarled. “Sophie is dead. Has been for ten years.”

The small satisfaction Preston got from Campbell’s shocked expression was not worth the memories his admission brought.

“Oh. I am so sorry,” the Knight said, “I did not—”

“You didn’t know, yes yes. I know you haven’t ever done a hard day’s work before, but harvest needs all the hands you can muster. So you can take your suggestions and shove them where the sun don’t shine. Unless you plan on enthralling me like the demon, I will be leaving as soon as you, ma’am,” Preston nodded to the Granny Woman, “stop playing with the gun and looking like you might shoot me if I sneeze.”

“Ye’re free to go, farmer boy.” Preston blinked at her.

“I am?”

“Ye are. Ye’re free to be a coward an' leave innocent people behind.” She spat a thick wad of brown onto the floor by Howard’s head.

“You—”

“I thought ye military types were ‘bout protectin' innocents an' all. What ye fought 'bout with Kindale, no? Ye’re too old to conscript, means ye chose to join up. So go home, pick yer corn, an' know ye left an old woman an' bedridden fool to face Evil alone.”

“Hey—” Campbell said before falling silent to a click of Granny Esmer’s tongue.

“What’s it to be, soldier? Stay an' fight an Evil sucking the life from the world, or go home to pick corn?”

As the Granny’s tirade continued, Preston’s jaw began to creak as he ground his teeth. It hurt his pride to be called a coward, and know there was a grain of truth to it. He did need to get home for the harvest, but more importantly, he needed to get home. There had been too many years away, too many close brushes with death. Thirty years spent fighting the Federation’s enemies, and not enough time spent at home with those who loved him. He hadn't been there at the end, for Sophie. His life's Regret.

He could do the right thing, and stay to fight the demon, and maybe die. But he could go home and live. Grow old, never leaving the property again. His son needed him, and Preston did not want to let him down. Luck was a fickle mistress, and Preston had used up what luck he had left this last year. It died in the fields before Kindale. In his heart, in the center of his soul, Preston knew he’d been waiting for his luck to run out.

Life had been little more than a continued suffering since Sophie had died, a sweet cob turned to ash in his mouth. His son and farm had kept Preston going for a while, kept his mind on his tasks, leaving him too tired to think at the end of the day. As the years ground on, it hadn’t been enough, and Preston had needed something bigger, something with greater distraction.

Joining a war at his age had seemed like a reckless decision, but suicide wouldn’t get him into Heaven, where Sophie waited for him. So he’d have to get someone else to do it for him. Preston hadn’t counted on forty years of survival instincts preventing his ultimate goal. Perhaps a demon strong enough to enthrall an entire town could.

“If I die, you take my body to my son. I get buried by my wife, you swear to me.” Preston stared at the pair of fools across from him. “Both of you. Swear and I’ll help.”

They nodded their agreement. Howard groaned on the floor before flopping over and opening his eyes. The hostile presence of three dangerous people must have breached his miniscule situational awareness. The first words out of his mouth when he opened his eyes were: “Oh, shit.”

“Lynch, I believe I know the first thing you can help with,” Campbell said. Preston agreed wholeheartedly.