Hidden from view behind the grand organ, a disused door creaked open. Several pairs of footsteps echoed through the underground chamber, their owners unseen until they reached the far end of the aisle.

Turning her head in the direction of the sounds, Reine gasped.

Five figures wearing hooded, black robes surrounded another man in the middle. Unlike his companions, he was dressed in a white linen shift tied at the waist with hemp string. A plain, white sack covered his head, obscuring his vision.

There was no question it was Max.

A hangman's noose fashioned out of rope hung around his neck, the person in front using the free-end to lead him along. The other four framed the duo as the slow procession moved toward the chancel.

All eyes except for Reine's were trained toward the front of the chapel. Convention probably dictated full compliance, but she didn't care. There was no way she was letting Max out of her sight. Plus, it let her get a better look at the audience.

Some she'd seen at Wescott's garden party, but most faces were unfamiliar. They were all likely members of the Order of Westminster, leaving her feeling like a vulnerable lamb in a hungry lion's den.

She sighed. In the very least, she expected Mal to be here. As Max's right-hand man, his absence on such an important day was inexcusable. Reine had also hoped others from the Confraternity of the Resurrection - her friends she hadn't seen in months - like Kenzi, Mikey or even Dodger would show to lend their support, if not their blessing.

Perhaps that was it. If they disagreed with Max's decision to subjugate himself to the Order - even if it was part of some much larger, more elaborate scheme - then they were staying away in protest. Maybe they were already assembling to thwart Wescott's impending take-over. But how could they manage when Max couldn't do it himself?

Reine squeezed Gabe's hand in anger, making him look down toward her with concern. She shook her head, dismissing his unvoiced offer of pity or assistance. What she needed was to get out of there, taking Max with her as far as she could. When things calmed down enough, they'd confront his former supporters - they didn't deserve to be called friends - and chastise them for failing their leader when he needed them the most.

She bit her lip as the six figures walked past, reaching the base of the sanctuary and stopping just short of the raised floor holding the altar. Peeking between the heads in the front row, Reine watched as the leader handed the rope to one of the others before stepping onto the platform. He then slowly turned toward the audience and pushed his hood back. Given his stature, as well as prominent role in the procession, she wasn't surprised to see Lord Wescott revealed.

Touching his fingers together in front of him in a tent formation, the tall, graying man began to speak in a clear, deliberate tone. "The ancients had a type of wisdom many of us have unfortunately forgotten. We've built our society on their knowledge, so let us remember their words through something the great poet Homer wrote in The Odyssey three millennia ago," he said.

Pausing for dramatic effect, when he spoke again, his voice was even more forceful.

"Nothing feebler than a man does the earth raise up, of all the things which breathe and move on the earth, for he believes that he will never suffer evil in the future, as long as the gods give him success and he flourishes in his strength; but when the blessed gods bring sorrows too to pass, even these he bears, against his will, with steadfast spirit, for the thoughts of earthly men are like the day which the father of gods and men brings upon them."

Reine shivered. Was Wescott comparing himself to a god, destined to take away Max's happiness?

She didn't have time to ponder this. With his soliloquy over, Wescott motioned with one hand for the rest of the group to step forward. The man behind him pushed the captive as far as he could go before the chancel's step and removed his head covering.

Reine's heart beat faster at seeing her beloved's staunch expression. Max's eyes were focused on Wescott, while his jawline remained rigid. He stood with his back straight and shoulders squared, proudly ready for what was to come.

Neither he nor the audience had to wait long for that.

Everyone had a specific role in the ceremony. The two men in the rear wrenched the garment off Max's shoulders, letting it drape behind him and revealing his naked torso. Up front, the figure on his left slipped a small, filigreed bottle into Wescott's hand. Twisting off the cap, the man in charge inverted the vessel and wet his right thumb with a small amount of its contents. Reine looked on breathlessly as Wescott lifted his hand and touched his finger first to Max's forehead, then to his breastbone, left shoulder, right shoulder, and finally, his lips. After capping the bottle, he returned it to its former keeper.

Extending an upturned palm toward the other side, Wescott signaled readiness now to the man on his right. In response, the lackey reached within his robe and pulled out a shiny dagger. Flipping it so the handle faced upward, the hooded man bowed his head and offered the weapon to his master. Curling his long fingers around the bejeweled grip, Wescott pulled the dagger toward himself, laying it flat against his chest for all to clearly see.

After another brief pause, he slowly moved the object forward and held it with two hands before gently touching the tip to Max's lips. At first, the gesture appeared to be a forced oath of honor, symbolically pledging Max's loyalty to the head of the Order as a medieval knight would toward his king. But when Wescott drew back the dagger, a bloody cut on the subordinate man's lip became visible.

It wasn't a bad injury, but Reine scooted forward on her chair in an attempt to support Max with her proximity. She also didn't want to miss any detail because while Wescott's movements were ritualistically deliberate, they also followed a measured cadence. He only halted long enough to let the audience see the effect of his actions before progressing to the next step.

When he thrust the weapon forward and jabbed the tip of the blade into the taught muscle of Max's right shoulder, Reine winced with surprise. Blinking several times to make sure she wasn't imagining things, her stomach turned as Wescott pulled out the dagger, and her beloved cried out in torment.

This time, Gabe squeezed her hand in solidarity, but she shook off his hold. Instead, she gripped the back of the chair in front of her until her knuckles turned white.

Evident by the content smirk on Wescott's face, he meant to inflict pain. Under normal circumstances, that unpleasant sensation for an immortal would usually last just a few, short minutes. However, being under the influence of juniper was probably a requirement for this ceremony, delaying the healing process - and the corresponding discomfort - by days. Reine was the only one besides Max who knew that thanks to his recent mortality, it would take him even longer than that to recover.

When Wescott raised the weapon again and aimed, Reine realized what was coming. He was following the same pattern he used when anointing his subordinate with the bottle's contents earlier, except in reverse order. He'd already damaged Max's lips and right shoulder. Strikes to the left shoulder, breast, and head were next.

"Stop!" Reine jumped up from her seat without thinking.

All heads turned toward her, but the only person she cared about was Wescott. When he lowered the weapon, she was confident Max was safe for now. Still shaking with anxiety, she looked at the injured man for a reaction. Unfortunately, his expression was the same one she feared.

Max's eyes were wide and his mouth was slightly open, the expression containing a mix of disbelief and objection, perhaps even a bit of disappointment. He began to slowly shake his head, and Reine's heart beat faster with every passing second.

What had she done? The last thing - in fact, the only thing - Max had asked of her was to trust him. And she had failed.

In her mind, Max had been the helpless victim, just like the knife thrower's assistant from her daydream. Wescott yielded the power - also in the guise of a sharp blade - which she tried to save him from. It was only now Reine realized Max was really the one in control. He was still in the middle of a complex ruse - one he'd been orchestrating for months - to bring down the Order. Max Baldovini held the metaphorical knives, and they had been all directed at Emery Wescott.

That is, until Reine knocked them out of his hand with her thoughtless outburst.

She had momentarily lost her trust in him. She stepped in front of the flying blade. She compromised the entire plan.

"Yes, Miss Baldovini? You were saying something?" Wescott feigned sincerity through gritted teeth.

"I . . . uhm . . . I," she stammered, her face burning red with embarrassment at not knowing how to continue. There was no good way out, and she looked into Max's eyes again for support.

His gaze had softened from its initial reaction. He'd just covered his wound with his hand when Reine felt a warm trickle down her thighs. Looking down at the ornate, marble floor she saw a clear liquid pool around her feet.

"I . . . I think my water just broke." She froze, incredulously finishing her answer to Wescott's query.

A hushed murmur ran through the previously silent audience. Morgan and Gabe rose on either side before helping Reine sit, while Dr. Katsopolous rushed from the back of the room to her aid.

She was about to wave him away when a pain unlike any she'd ever felt before tore through her body. Starting in her lower back, the pressure combined with a strong cramping sensation quickly moved to her abdomen as if wave coming to a crescendo. Doubling over, Reine tightened her jaws to keep from screaming.

"We need to get you to hospital," the physician urged upon visually assessing her condition.

Reine ignored the instructions. "Max," she begged, looking to the man whose blood slowly seeped through his fingers as he held his injured shoulder.

"Take her away if you must, but we're not done here," Wescott declared, turning back toward his subjugate.

"You must be mad, Emery. Surely, emergency childbirth is a good enough reason even for you to postpone this." Max tried to step out of the hooded lackeys' confines, but they closed the perimeter in response.

Wescott grinned. "You underestimate what this means to me--"

The door in the back flew open, slamming against the wall.

"Oh, we all know exactly what this means to you, Emery," a man's authoritative voice rang through the underground chamber.

All eyes turned in his direction; a few members of the audience even stood to get a better look at the source of the interruption. Doubled-over in pain between Gabe and the doctor, Reine could at first only hear multiple sets of footsteps walking up the aisle. When she caught a glimpse of Mal towering over the crowd, a sense of relief washed over her.

"It's about damned time," Gabe grumbled, watching his best friend quickly approach, followed by other members of Max's entourage. Walking between the familiar faces of Kenzi and Mikey, however, was an older man, with closely cropped blonde hair who Reine didn't immediately recognize.

"Who, sir, are you to interrupt this sacred ritual of the Order of Westminster?" Wescott addressed the man with the tan, leathery skin.

"Oh, drop the act, you buffoon," the other retorted, walking up to and stopping in front of Wescott. "Even after three hundred years, you should know very well who I am. But I suppose it hasn't been to your advantage to make that information public to your people, so let me introduce myself."

Stepping to Wescott's side on the platform, the newcomer bowed before preparing to address the crowd. It was then Reine recognized him. The move was just as theatrical as when he did it in Max's dining room months earlier, dressed in the outfit of the Gonfaloniere of Justice.

In all of their brief interactions, Reine had only seen him wearing costumes. Having Dodger show up unexpectedly in plain slacks, a well-tailored peacoat and a button-down shirt didn't allow her already weary mind to immediately make the connection. Now that she did, Reine ignored the beads of sweat dripping down her forehead and willed her body to behave until the introduction.

Dodger shoved his hands into his pockets and straightened himself up to his full height, which brought him only a bit past Wescott's shoulders. "I am Titus Salvius Agrippa of the legio quarta decima Gemina, leader of the Roman invasion of Britain under Emperor Claudius in 43 A.D. and defeater of Boudicca in 60 A.D."

The crowd gasped at the revelation, but Dodger raised his hands to stall their elevated reaction before making one more piece of information public. "As such, I am the oldest living immortal on Earth and the rightful successor to the leadership of the Order of Westminster."

A cacophony of "that's impossible," "absurd," and "nonsense" rang through the underground chamber, but Reine could also distinguish "could it be?" and "so, the rumor's true" among the raucous.

Crossing his arms, Wescott just chuckled. "Well, that's unfortunate because I don't think there's anyone here who could confirm that."

"I'll vouch for him," Greer declared as she stood up in the front row.

Wescott's head snapped in her direction. "You keep quiet, woman."

The tall blonde stepped to her husband's side. "No, I will not keep quiet, Emery. Not any more. I don't know if I an trust you any more; you told me he was dead."

"I'm afraid that's my fault, my dear," Dodger said as he rubbed his hands together. "You see, that was part of our agreement when I let Emery take over-"

Another contraction ripped through Reine's body and in spite of her best efforts to keep from interrupting, she cried out in pain.

Dodger looked at her and frowned. Turning back to Max - now out of the hooded lackey's enclosure thanks to his friends' intervention - he waved his hand. "Go on, then. Get yourselves both to the hospital. I've got this."