There are times when a group of brave men decide, collectively, that bravery is best left for another day. Though Frank had fought through the warehouse, and even faced the monstrous demon-dog hybrids without flinching, a burning, ten-foot tall demon of clotted oil was well outside his paygrade.

The group sprinted to the hole in the wall that would lead them upwards to the warehouse and sunlight. To his right, there was a roar in the air as a black, flaming pitch flew through it and landed on the back of the man beside him. The prisoner cried out and stumbled, clawing at the fiery mass that stuck to him. The air became thick with the scent of burned flesh, pine, and bacon.

If Frank were a better man, he might have stopped to help the wailing fellow. Instead, his legs found a burst of strength despite the poison fresh in his veins and he sprinted forward. His long legs carried him past the prisoners. Only Master Bringle, that old scarecrow, could outpace him. Even in his blind panic, a bubble of thought formed in his mind, and he wondered if Bringle had become the head witch-hunter simply because he could outrun all the others when monsters gave chase.

A bark of laughter escaped his mouth. Behind him, came the wet, meaty impact of another ball of pitch hitting a person, followed by the same bleat of agony. Though he did not look back, his mind conjured the image clear enough. In high school, he’d done roofing work for his uncle and the tar for that could easily reach 300 degrees. It clung to the skin, and pulling it off meant peeling away the flesh it landed on.

‘Why does it have to smell like bacon?’ Frank thought. He found himself drooling even as his stomach rolled at the howls of pain behind him.

They raced up the smooth tunnel and poured out of the crawl-space into the warehouse.

“Can it follow?” asked Lucky. The tunnel was cramped even for an average size man.

Bringle tapped on the door frame, chanting in that strange language of his. The stone of the red door slid shut. “It’s more liquid than bones. The stone is thick and should buy us some time to-“

There was slam from the other side, and the wall shook, cracks appearing along the red door.

“Or maybe not.”

Another slam and angry black ooze began to flow through the crack, widening them. They stepped back as the fluid burst through the wall, sending chunks of rock flying through the air.

As a thick, black foot stepped from the hole, burning pitch continued to drip from it. Frank looked around at the dry, dusty warehouse, stacked high with wooden boxes and crates. His heart sank as he understood what exactly was happening.

“It’s going to burn this place down,” he said as the group scrambled to the exit. His mind returned to the image of the caught whales, their fat turned into the oil that lit the city.

The demon mindlessly crashed through the flimsy boxes after the men. A quick glance confirmed his suspicions, the crates weren’t filled with regular goods, but kindling – dry hay and some other mixture that spread across the floor and merrily took light.

Outside of the warehouse, it was cool and misty. The wharf was crowded with ships, sailors, dock-workers, and travelers.

“Do you have a fire department?” Frank asked as they backed away.

Mumford looked at him in confusion. “A department for fire?”

“Firefighters?”

“I don’t think we can fight a demon with a water bucket line, goodman.”

The flaming monster broke through the wall of the warehouse, not bothering with the door. Black smoke billowed out of the warehouse and around them people screamed and bolted in panic. Most of the prisoners simply fled with the crowd, leaving the witch-hunters to their fate.

If the demon or the man who sacrificed himself to draw it forth remembered them, it gave no sign. Instead it charged forward into the crowd, swinging wildly. Some bodies went flying or sprawled to the down, but at least one man became stuck fast in the sticky, club-like mass of his arm. The demon used the unlucky man to beat those that had fallen to death. After a few swings his head cracked open, and he hung like a limp, abandoned doll.

Satisfied with its killing, the demon moved on, the corpse still stick fast in it. It turned its attention to another nearby building that rushed into.

“We have to clear the area,” Frank said. The fire within the warehouse was growing quickly, and would soon leap to another building, even without the pitch demon. Everything on the docks was made of wood. He remembered much of the city being crowded and filled with wooden buildings, and even the stone ones might burn inside.

Bringle, his face pale and tight, nodded in agreement. “Mumford, Lucky, head to the Order hall and tell the knights we’ve a wild one loose in the city, then head to the Sisters of Mercy and tell them about the fire. Frank and I will work to clear the docks.”

The other men jogged off.

Frank spotted a bell on the deck of a docked ship and pointed at it. “That might help.”

Together they made their way across the dock and onto the boat. Frank unhooked the heavy, bronze thing while Bringle explained to the sailors that they worked for the city. Soon the two men raced across the waterfront, moving from building to building. Frank clanged the bell and hollered “Fire!” until his lungs felt they might burst.

Ships unmoored and soon they crowded the waters of the bay. Those within the warehouses poked their head out, spotted the fingers of black smoke, and abandoned their work.

There was little rhyme or reason to the demon’s work. It lumbered along, murdering any in its path, and plowing through buildings at random. The only constant was the ever-growing trail of fire and bodies it left in its wake. It presence meant that no bucket line could form and none could try to knock down buildings to stop the spread.

Eventually, it reached the warehouse where whale oil was stored. There was a great, shuttering boom that filled the air, followed by a second, and then third one. Frank had gotten himself far away, but the flames burned like a brilliant beacon, piercing to the low-hanging clouds.

By the time, the knight arrived, the docks were engulfed and the flames had crept into Culvert. Frank’s throat was raw from yelling and his body covered in sweat.

“Mercy,” Lady Ravenwood said as she rode up, ten armored men behind her. “Is it a dragon?”

Bringle shook his head. “Demon. Though I haven’t seen its like before. It’s all ablaze, made of oil, and strong enough to knock down stone walls.”

Lady Ravenwood slid from her horse. Bringle explained how events had transpired, but left out what the cultist had said about the heralds and the eternal bride. Ravenwood’s face hardened with each word and she watched the conflagration.

“Madness,” she whispered at the end. “I don’t know if I should thank you for discovering this mess or yell at you for setting it off.”

“To be fair, Astile,” Mumford said to the Lady, “the situation was already rotten when we found it. At least we were able to clear people out of the docks, and this could have happened on a warm, dry day.”

She shot him a cold look, and he answered with a winning smile. Frank had the feeling they knew one another.

“Goodman Martino,” Lady Ravenwood said, “I had imagined you staying with your wife and daughter in the safety of the cathedral grounds. Give me your arm.”

He raised the chewed on one. At some point, it had started bleeding again and that had soaked into the bandage Bringle had tied. She unwrapped it and hissed between her teeth at the ragged puncture wounds. Covering his wrist with her hand, she lowered her head in prayer.

“Through the grace of the angel Devonia and the power of the Light, I heal you. May your path be free of shadows and the sun and moon your guide.”

Soothing warmth flowed from her fingertips into his body. He could feel the strength returning to his hand as the flesh knit itself back together. She released her grasp and he flexed his fingers. The wounds had healed, leaving faint, pink scars under the dried blood.

“Thanks,” he said, his voice hoarse from the shouting. “I have an idea on how we might fight the demon.”

Lady Ravenwood raised one elegant eyebrow. “Do you Goodman Martino?” she sounded doubtful. “We of the Order channel the divine light through our weaponry. I assumed I would fight the demon, not ‘we.’”

“Fair enough. Then I have an idea on how you could fight it.”

Lady Ravenwood gave a faint smile, willing to indulge him. “I’m listening.”