As Moira’s cloak vanished around the corner, he turned to the whimpering Artie lying in the trash. He was nothing more than a rat, a creature who scurried into unexpected places. The man did the jobs no one else wanted to take. Despite the pay, most of Flann’s gang hated the idea of stealing kids. No one was sure where they ended up, and for most of the guys it wasn’t something they could have on their conscience. But just like the rat he was, there was Artie; caught red handed while doing a job he was better off ignoring. Moira’s clobbering must’ve broken something, because he was writhing in the filth, clutching his shoulder. But that didn’t quell the bitterness in his voice.

“What’re ya doing with them?” Artie coughed; spitting blood over the ground.

“Me? What are you doing stealing kids? Is business that slow you started working for the Snatchers?”

“I ain’t doing it for the Snatchers.” The rodent already wasted most of his day, and he had better places to be. But he wanted answers. And like Flann always said, ‘there was more than one way to skin a rat.’ He grabbed a fistful of the greasy clumps of hair and pulled his face from the dirt.

“What does Flann want with the girl?”

“The Boss always wants girls,”

“No, this is different, where did you get the ring?” he yanked harder wondering how far his neck can bend.

“What ring?” he smirked. Chris tightened his grip, smashing his face over the cobblestones. He gasped for air, choking on the blood draining from his nose into his throat. He gripped his head again and pulled back.

“The truth, Artie.”

“Alright. Flann wanted me to get him Mages. He didn’t tell me why. I saw the girl holding the staff by the clock tower, I thought she was the Mage. Not the other chick.”

“You screwed up that one, didn’t you?” he couldn’t believe Moira was saved because Artie was dumb as a post. “Who gave you the ring?”

“I bought it, it’s just a ring.”

“The truth,” he rammed his foot into his stomach, “that’s not a normal ring.”

“How’d you know?” He wheezed.

“I’m the one asking the questions.” He crouched next to his face, planting his dagger’s blade to the flat of his nose. “Tell me what I want to know, or I’ll gut you here and now.”

“Flann gave it to me. Said it was for Mages who got out of hand. Said someone gave it to him. But I don’t know who.”

“Are you sure?”

“Yes! Gods’ sake, you’re a bloody lunatic. I don’t know nothing more. I swear. I’m paid to get Mages; I don’t ask questions.”

“One more thing, before I go,” he stood putting his dagger away. “Where do you take the Mages once you get them?”

“We used to take him to this fella’s house, but the plan changed. Now we take them to a warehouse near the pier. You’re gonna have ta kill me if you want more.” Chris understood, everyone had their limits, and information always came at a cost. He tossed a few coins at the crumbled form and carried on with the task at hand.

The weight of his satchel tugged on his shoulder, although the diadem was weightless it seemed to anchor him to the street. Pulling him and his conscience closer to the land of the damn buried underneath the world. With Bayliss’s rings already in the hands of imbeciles like Artie then it was already too late. The fact that Flann sided with the psychotic Blue Blood meant the nightmare was already too close to home. Business wasn’t just stealing a bit here and there and making lofty people inconvenienced for a short while; it was capturing and torturing people. He didn’t want any part in it. The streets were already dangerous, they didn’t need weapons of destruction masquerading as rings running a muck. People who never had power, people like Artie, had no trouble using it for whatever will they’re depraved minds desired.

There was an honour among thieves, less honor with some, but there were lines. Clear lines. Lines no one crossed; accepted and negotiated. An oily dirt bag with no self control was only a piece of the puzzle. If every boss Bayliss bought out was equipped with those rings and tasked with the same job then Lollardum just became a free for all. And the Mages, whether they deserve it or not, were now thrown in the middle of the blood bath. A lead ball sunk in his stomach; the lines blurred before his eyes. Not like he was ever guaranteed safety before, but if he’s forced to pick a side. If suddenly being an entrepreneur he was, was out of the question… if he had too… which side would he be on?

Clearly the one with money.

But that wasn’t the real point. He scraped, saved, and bled to earn his status as a free man. And Bayliss had, in one swoop, put all that in jeopardy. He clutched the satchel and reread Sexton’s address; first things first. Get the Lord off my hands, then deal with the madman.

Lord Sexton’s home oozed old money, an outdated and (crumbling), four story house clung to its stately grace. Even if it was temporary. Situated on a narrow plot of land the house extended upwards as opposed to across. Cream wooden additions clasped onto the original brick structure, making it appear as a strange coupling of old and older. The balcony on the third floor overseeing the street was enclosed, with windows preventing any easy entrance. The tar shingled roof was at an obtuse angle and absent of smoke drifting from the chimneys. With his usual entrances’ street side, he had to try the back.

A drawn-out whistle escaped his lips; a worthy challenge indeed. It was easier to pick and prod the factory owners or merchants. Their money was fluid, and they didn’t know what to do with it. But Sexton’s kind of rich, those dynasties knew the stakes. They clung desperately to it, it was a part of them, and it will exist long after they’re dead. He crouched from a neighbouring rooftop, with a clean view of both the front and servant’s entrance.

Long shadows marred the streets as the sun travelled across the grey sky. He rubbed his aching knees as a man in a dress cloak emerged from a parked carriage. He carried himself with the self-assured attitude belonging to the man from the park. He said something to the driver before he urged the horse onwards. Sexton paused at his door, fidgeting with his keys, when a man approached him from the other side of the street.

“E.J!” the man called in a too familiar tone, waving his arm to get his attention.

Sexton trotted down the steps and challenged the man at the edge of the sidewalk. What ever passed between the men, was not pleasant. The newcomer became defensive, taking a step back as Sexton motioned to the empty neighbourhood. Chris crawled across the slate roof, gripped the edge, and threw himself over; landing on a creaky metal ladder attached to the home. By the time he reached the sidewalk the arguing fizzled. The stranger retreated from the lord and headed towards the hedge where Chris hid.

The stranger pulled the coat collar close to his ears. His tailored clothes were dusty and disheveled as they hung around his thin form. On his flushed cheek was a thin scar, the one Chris had given him during his escape. It was Bayliss, an angrier unhinged version, but Bayliss, nonetheless. The stank of fish guts and low tide followed as he passed the leafy hedge. On the sidewalk Sexton greeted a man in black clothes who emerged from house across the street. As he did with the carriage driver, the lord dismissed his subordinate before entering his house.

Fuckers. He wasn’t a pawn; he was the chump they sent to gather the groceries. His breathing came fast, whistling through his nose. Those items weren’t for a pretentious collector. Snotty Blue Bloods weren’t gawking at them on dusty shelves. The pricks broke them, pried them apart, and remade into magical weapons. He clenched his fists, squeezing until his short dirty nails dug into his callous palms. When he thought blood would burst from his hands the anger drained away from his trembling limbs. Milo’s beloved dog had to die so rich men could play God. And what of the bell he pulled from the flames? He bet they melted it down for spare parts.

Hundreds if not more would likely die, and their blood was on his hands. The next Mage in the basement owed their fate to him. The nauseous sensation in his stomach hardened and sank. He fed their need for power. Their love of torture and pain. All he wanted was the money, and maybe a referral. He felt second hand, used in ways he didn’t think he could be. He didn’t know what would happen when he entered Sexton’s home, but he was sure as hell going to find out.

The once perfect stone slabs that made the bulk of the backyard were now chipped from wear. A study wooden fence shielded the yard from the rest of the neighbourhood. Unlike the rest of the house, it was recently built and tall enough to keep onlookers out. A decrepit servants cottage stood in the corner of the yard. Dirt caked on the windows and the slimy factory grime slid over the walls. A graffitied phallus from an unknown vandal glared from the slime. The shack was abandoned and in his experience; a lord without servants meant a lord with secrets to keep.

He climbed the rickety porch banister, onto the roof above the door and pried the window open; flinging splinters into the air. He slipped past the rotting wood; entering the quiet hallway. The house was still, the only sound was the clinking of utensils on a plate in the downstairs kitchen. He approached the wobbly table at the end of the hall, careful to avoid the top of the stairs. A fresh tallow candle sat in a brass dish. He plucked it from the surface, wondering why it was next to the drafty window. A clatter from the kitchen sink announced that the meal was over. After replacing the candle, he spied an open door calling to him, and discovered the heart of Sexton’s world. His office.

It was difficult to believe the space belonged in the same house. It was spotless; wide windows overlooked the backyard. Not a smudge graced the glass. Walls of bookcases climbed to the ceiling, their shelves free of dust and clutter. Even the inkpot on the desk was pristine; not a dribble of ink in sight. Stacks of parchment, letters and books laid side by side. A creaky stair gave his host away, from a gap from behind the door, he watched a hunched over Sexton climb the stairs. He paused at the candle, straightened his back, and headed towards him.

“I have the right to face my accuser,” he announced entering the office.

“Accuser? If this was any other kingdom, you’ll be facing the executioner.”

“Pity,” he smirked. “Now that you found me and illegally entered my home, why not sit and make yourself comfortable.”

“Or what, you’ll add me to your collection of test rats?”

“Please, do not assume you are as valuable as them. However, I am impressed. What a detective you have become.”

“You and Bayliss are sick fucks, you know that right?” the corner of his thin lips tugged into a smirk then vanished as he sat behind his desk.

“Your feigned nobility is interesting. However, we both know you care less about them than I do. Their existence serves a greater good, which honestly is at the core of their dear religion.”

“I doubt their Gods meant being tortured for your weird experiments.”

“My dear friend, we are on the cusp of something great.”

“Magic jewelry? Yeah, I saw it.”

“A weapon not seen for centuries. But I doubt you are bothered by such a thing. To be fair, history has proven it is your kind (the bottom feeders) that profit when the rich eat each other. The ones who have no horse in the race, the vagabonds with no loyalty, who only exist to pick the bones of the better off.”

“I do what I do to survive,”

“Exactly, exactly. A human instinct. We must all ensure our survival. And trust me this is how we do it.”

“I don’t care about your messed up worldview, your daddy issues, or the fact your mother didn’t hug you enough. Give me my money and I’ll be on my way.”

“Just like that?” He steeped his fingers, placing them to his chin. “I would expect some form of confrontation.” Chris straightened his back but remained silent, the guy craved an audience, a final sacrifice for his reward. “Very well.” He pulled a desk drawer open and tossed him a coin purse.

The soft leather molded into his hand. The weight seemed plenty enough, but regret tugged in his chest as he wondered how many victims he kept locked away. Accepting the payment meant condoning the acts. If Zack was here, he would throw the purse at his face, hog tie him, and throw the lord on the back of his horse. But he wasn’t here, and Chris wasn’t Zack. Which meant, despite the guilt beginning to gnaw at him, he slipped the purse into his pocket.

“I would say it was a pleasure but,”

“There is more from where that came from.” The words hung in the air. A promise. A future. But a curse. He shook the thoughts from his mind, determined it remain in the dingy plebian present. Sexton followed him to the door, skirting past him in the hallway.

“No thanks, I’ll resign myself to row with the rest of the slaves.”

“You appear to be a man who is willing to take an opportunity by the horns,” he smirked leading him down the hall. “The world as we know is at a critical juncture.” He drew a match from his pocket. Swiping it against the nearby doorframe, sparking a flickering flame. “Existence as we know is poised on an edge of a knife. Mark my words, Lollardum is changing and I am giving you the opportunity to not only survive but flourish.”

Talk was cheap, scribbles in the sand for all he cared. But it was the nerve, the oozing self confidence, that Sexton exuded that made his skin crawl. Like it rubbed every hair on his arms in the opposite direction. The man blocking his exit smirked a crooked grin, content with the game he was playing. The helplessness washed over him; he was thrust from the little pond of his domain to the larger ocean where he was not only outnumbered but outmatched. The humbling was too much to bear. One day he would swallow his ego and move on to greener pastures. But not today. Not when the notion of being at the whim of someone else burned through his veins. He was the master of his destiny, what ever that was. No man commanded him. No man, no boss, no god. And any being who challenged that notion…

“Since you like knives so much,” he poised his dagger at Sexton’s neck. The vein throbbed under his porcelain flesh but his stoic face remained unchanged. “How’s it feel to have your life hanging on by a thread?”

“You made your point Master thief.”

“You chose me, you brought me into this madness. And I’m damn as well gonna finish it.”

Vengeance ran wild in his veins, the pumping adrenaline distracted him from the lit candle in Sexton’s hand. With the casual grin he replaced it on the shoddy table. A slam echoed outside, followed by four men in black racing across the street. Sexton smile tugged on the corners of his thin lips. They clambered over the creaky floorboards, shoulder to shoulder they squeezed up the narrow staircase. Sexton slipped away, taking refuge in a locked room. He rolled his wrists and cracked his neck, releasing the tension in his shoulders. Grubby mitt size hands lurched over the banister to seize him. Bouncing on the heels of his feet, he remained out of reach. The next one, climbing from behind, pushed the first over the railing where he landed at Chris’s feet. A swift kick left him with a possible broken nose.

The second came, fast and heavy, with his arms spread wide. It amazed him how smooth his blade cut across skin. Spurts of ruby blood gushed over the henchman’s palms. The third scrambled over the first two, tripped, but landed a fist across Chris’s cheek. His neck jerked, but he recovered, throwing his own punch. His feet danced around the limbs and splatters of blood, as his dagger sliced the air. The man dodged, not once but twice. A nimble fellow despite his size. The third swing nicked his sleeve. A weight like a hammer smashed into his exposed back. His knee collided with the floorboards, sending a pain through his knee cap. Another blow was coming, he gripped the sweaty hilt and slashed at the leg; slicing the exposed skin just above the ankle of his polished shoe.

Stumbling to his feet, he slipped through the third man’s feeble grasp. But the final obstacle cracked his knuckles at the top of the stairs. He didn’t react to the agony of his comrades, standing like a goon who was about to kick him out of the bar after last call.

“Waiting for an invitation? I mean I threatened your boss. He’s probably watching this whole thing from some rusty keyhole. Either you’re too chicken to hit me, or too dumb to try.”

A pink flush crawled up his neck and reddened his face. The deadpan expression twisted into a scowl as he lunged forward. In a blink his foot was under his, the goon fell forward. But two placed hands guided the barrel-chested man through the smudged window. The glass shattered, raining over the street and the man’s dusty crumpled form. Before the others could climb to their feet, he was racing down the stairs two at a time.