“Will ye trust me on this, please?”
Faolan knew he was pleading. It came so easily for him nowadays.
“If I hand it over to you, it could hinder my chances of getting the demon’s blood out of me,” Joaquin pointed out.
“I’ll make sure ye see it. Mark me words.”
Joaquin seemed to understand. “Ah. You’re looking to expunge your debt, eh?”
Faolan grinned. “Of course.”
“Right,” Joaquin said, tipping his hat to him. “We’ll meet up after a while.”
“Good luck.”
As Joaquin left, Faolan stood and waited for Ruairi to show up.
“Evening, Ruairi,” he said, stepping in front of the man’s horse.
“Losh, Faolan!” the man shrieked, yanking on the reins. “What are ye doin’?”
“Wondering what you’re doing. Tailing Franklin, I see.”
“I follow orders,” he growled. “Same as ye.”
“Ye and I are nothing alike.”
Ruairi was a native-born Scotsman. His African parents had come to the country shortly after the Sea Warriors took the slave ship they were imprisoned on and rescued them. He was a tall, young man with small, dark eyes and a hard face matching his soul.
“What are ye doing with ’em, anyhow?”
“Following orders,” Faolan lied.
“Are ye, now? Well, we’ll see ’bout that when I report this to Coira.” He started to ride slowly by. “Maybe she’ll take the whip to ye. We all enjoy watchin’ that, y’know.”
Faolan gritted his teeth and clenched his fists tightly. He loathed Coira’s whole crew for their cruel treatment toward him.
“Ye best pray to your god that Coira gets the canister,” Faolan seethed. “If ye get me.”
Ruairi ignored him and trotted his mount on to catch up to Joaquin. Faolan sighed with frustration, for he knew Ruairi wasn’t the only spy Coira had sent out.
* * *
Joaquin arrived at the mansion and the butler let him in. Kane was also there to greet him. He was dressed in a black suit and his eye was swollen shut. He had a dark bruise on his forehead. It looked as though Joaquin had broken the side of his face when he had knocked him out.
“Good evening, Franklin,” he greeted in a cheery tone.
Joaquin entered warily.
“Did I do that?”
“Aye. No worries.” He slapped Joaquin on the arm with a wide smile. “I’ll think twice from now on before showing anymore hard neck with you, eh?”
His lighthearted attitude surprised Joaquin.
“That’s enough blathering,” the lad said, walking on. “Everyone is waiting for you in the library.”
Joaquin followed him to the library, where thirty or so men and women stood about. When they saw him, many gracious smiles appeared on their faces.
“Franklin Marsh,” Benito De Fiore greeted him. “Welcome again.”
Joaquin noticed that everyone was dressed in fancy black suits and gowns and wearing hooded cloaks as if they were about to attend the funeral of a fallen god.
Joaquin cringed, suddenly feeling underdressed.
“I didn’t realize we were dressing up.”
Benito approached, carrying a brandy glass with a lovely ginger-haired woman walking beside him.
“Do not worry. We have an extra suit for you.” He handed the drink to Joaquin. “This is a special night.”
The ginger came alongside him and wrapped her arms around his. “I’m Emilia,” she whispered.
Joaquin was drawn to her alluring perfume. “Why is it a special night?”
Instead of answering, Benito’s eyes darted about. “Where is your wife?”
“Vasilisa has taken ill, I’m afraid. She hasn’t been feeling right for the past few days now.” To give more weight to his lie, he added, “I believe she’s with child and has yet to tell me.”
Benito gaped at him. “You don’t say. That does explain things.”
“Aye. About that. I wish to apologize for what happened. I am very protective of me wife.”
Benito raised his hand to him. “No, Mr. Marsh, it is I who should apologize for our behavior. I sympathize with your wife’s reaction if she is expecting. We should leave soon.”
“Leave?”
“Sì. To the place where we conduct our ceremonies. Do drink up and dress.”
Joaquin was highly curious, but held back his questions. He dressed in his own black suit and left with the Hellfire Club in carriages. They headed back into town. When they arrived, they came to a small, plain building. The place had an earthen floor with broken bottles and other rubbish strewn about. The building’s only column was heavily rotted and frayed, warning that splinters were inevitable, if touched. The entire infrastructure appeared unstable and ready to collapse.
Heber waited by a stairwell leading downward into a dark pit. He had some cuts on his face, and his arm rested in a sling. In Joaquin’s opinion, Heber could’ve been hurt far worse if it wasn’t for the drapes that fell out with him when he crashed through the window. He ignored Joaquin as he approached, with Emilia—who, it seemed, had become a permanent fixture on his arm.
“Is everything set?” Benito asked Heber.
“Aye. Should I warm up the incinerator?”
“Sì. We shall bring him to the crematory within the hour.”
“Erm, crematory?” Joaquin wondered aloud.
Would he be able to defend himself, if need be, even with the strength of the beast? There were many Hellfire members, and he didn’t know what waited down in the basement. He had his pistol, but they were armed, as well.
Joaquin decided to play it by ear.
“Come.” Benito waved him on as Heber left.
Joaquin followed him down into the cool subterranean space that turned out to be something else entirely. As they took their last step, they passed beyond a short stony hall and into a grotto. Two stone slabs stretched down the middle, with a rocky column set in the center. Long benches were carved into the rocky walls to either side. Another entrance was located at the end, forcing Joaquin to wonder how deep the cave actually went.
“What is this place?”
“Gilmerton Cove,” Benito explained, walking farther in. “Its origins are unknown. Legend has it a miller carved it out a hundred years ago.”
Joaquin had a hard time believing that.
“One man did this—by himself?”
The Italian snorted. “It is just a silly legend. I think the Cove is far older. Perhaps a cave that had been extended by men. In any case, it has had many uses, from secret churches to a meeting location for the Freemasons.”
“Aye, we chased that lot out, we did,” someone admitted proudly.
“Now, it’s ours,” Benito concluded.
They stepped over to the closest slab with a deep hole carved into it.
“What’s this?” Joaquin asked, looking into the empty cavity.
“It’s where we give our offerings,” Emilia answered with unsettling calmness.
Joaquin looked over to her, catching the light sparkling in her diamond earrings. “Offerings?”
He didn’t like the sound of that.
Emilia smiled charmingly despite the wickedness in her eyes and finally unhooked herself from him. She approached another woman, who handed her a mask. She plucked two more masks from off of the wall where they hung and gave them to Benito.
“Masks such as these were used by physicians during the plague in 1645,” Benito explained, handing a mask over to Joaquin. “We’ve duplicated them.”
Joaquin studied the silver metal mask outlined in bronze trim. It was bird-like, with a long beak and large glass eyeholes. Two leather straps helped keep the thing on, one strap fixed behind the head and the other attached to it. An eerie thing, to say the least, but he fastened it on nonetheless.
“Why do you wear them?” he asked Benito.
“They drive more fear into our offerings,” he answered wickedly
.
Everyone put on their own bird-like masks and slipped their hoods over their heads. They gathered around the slab with the mysterious hole. Benito stood before Joaquin on the other side of the stone slab. He raised his short arms out in a theatrical manner.
“Tonight, we, the Hellfire Club, and faithful servants of our Master, the Demon King, offer this gift.” He lowered his arms. “Bring him.”
Joaquin was mortified when, from the other room, came two masked people holding a half-naked man by the arms.
“No!” the hostage shouted while struggling against his holders.
They dragged him over to the slab and held him before Benito.
“Joshua McDay,” Benito said behind his sinister mask. “You were caught breaking into our home and trying to steal from us.”
Bloody hell, Joaquin thought. He’s the sod Coira thinks betrayed her.
“Ye stole from us!” the hostage returned. “Coira only wants what’s hers.”
“She doesn’t deserve to own such a thing,” Benito argued, unsheathing a large dagger from under his cloak. “And after the Signing tomorrow, I will make certain she fully understands it.”
The Signing?
Benito gestured with the knife toward the slab. “Place him down.”
“No!” the man cried. “Let me go!”
Two more masked maniacs helped put Joshua upon the block. His upper back hovered over the hole. They pinned his legs, preventing him from kicking, but it didn’t keep him from struggling. He arched high as he thrashed fruitlessly for freedom. Joshua grunted, snarled, and spat at his captors like a dog gone mad. It wasn’t until Benito stood over him with the knife that he became still. Joshua’s look of fury suddenly became one of terror. It was painful to watch. The lad—who, apparently, had been kept down in the cove for days—was about to meet his end for a heartless leader who believed him to be a turncoat.
“For your crime,” Benito said, “I take it upon myself to carry out your sentence of death. A blessed end to prove our love for our great master.”
“For our great master,” everyone repeated in eerie unison.
I thought Faolan said the Hellfire Club doesn’t worship the devil, Joaquin recalled.
“Don’t!” the sacrifice cried out as the knife slowly rose.
Benito held the blade in both hands over his own head. His diamond rings glittered in the firelight. The room grew chillier as if a ghost had appeared. Joaquin kept some of that cold air trapped in his lungs when he stopped breathing.
“Et e mundo in alteram,” Benito recited in Latin. “Imple vestri voluntas tua est.”
“No!”
Joaquin had witnessed people die before. He had seen a few murders, executions, accidental deaths, and, of course, there were the people who had died by his own hand. Never had he seen a death of this nature. It happened in a blink. The knife was suspended over Benito’s head, and in an instant, Benito plunged it into Joshua’s chest. The man gasped when the dagger penetrated his heart. His eyes bulged painfully large with shock. “Death shock” was what Joaquin secretly called it.
Joshua’s mobile body stiffened before going slack as his life slipped away. Blood from the stab wound escaped and poured over both sides of his naked chest and around his torso before vanishing beneath him. After the last breath breezed out of his lips, the four holding him let go and backed away. Benito pulled the blade out with ease.
“It is done.”
He held the knife out and another masked figure grabbed it and made it vanish underneath his or her black cloak.
“Take the body to the crematory,” Benito demanded.
A handful of members lifted the corpse and began carrying it out. Joaquin shook all over. He was unable to digest what he had just seen. After the body was taken away, Benito and everyone else removed their masks.
The temperature in the room rose to normal.
Benito dipped a hand into the stone bowl. Blood painted his fingertips when he lifted them out. He put his fingers into his mouth. Joaquin’s stomach turned queasy, especially when Benito rolled his eyes with pure enjoyment.
He smacked his bloody lips while looking upward. “We did a good thing tonight. We took out a threat while giving to our mighty master.”
“Our mighty master,” everyone chanted simultaneously.
Benito’s sights fell to Joaquin. “Take the blood of our sacrifice. Let it be part of you.”
The offer appalled him, but then he reconsidered. They could have requested that he do the deed himself—or it could have been worse. He could’ve been the one on the killing slab. He reached into the bowl and touched the blood. It had already gone cold. Just as Benito had done, he put the blood into his mouth.
“Bravo!” Benito praised him, clapping his hands.
Everyone else clapped as well, the applause echoing throughout the grotto.
“Bravo, Mr. Marsh,” Benito again praised. “Now, let us return home. It is time for celebration.”
* * *
The small theater was packed with people seeking entertainment. Smoke from cigars and cigarettes drifted upward and formed a thick, grey cloud across the ceiling.
Coira struggled to watch the actors through a pair of opera glasses. She fiddled impatiently with the focus knob but could not adjust it correctly.
“Take this,” she ordered her tinkerer, Anci. “I cannae see shite!”
Anci frowned and studied them.
“The thumbscrew must be out of alignment.”
Anci was a good tinkerer, which was why Coira had tempted her into joining her gang. Anci had made her many little gadgets, such as Coira’s quickdraw blades.
Coira huffed and put on her spectacles. She hated the damn things and wore them rarely.
Coira found the play amusing—a pleasant distraction from her current dilemma. The stage performers were dressed in costumes with faces painted up to resemble automatons. They sang songs while moving like machines. An actor pretended to wind the other actors up like wind-up toys to get them to move and sing along with him. It made Coira chuckle.
Andrew entered their box seat and handed Coira a mug and Anci a glass.
“‘Ere’s your ale, Madam MacCrum. And your Cabernet, Anci.”
“Ironic that we don’t drink whisky,” Anci pointed out jocularly, accepting the glass.
“I hate the bloody stuff,” Coira grumbled. “But it makes a good profit.”
She took a sip and then laughed with the rest of the audience when an actor did a front flip and fell right on his arse.
Anci grinned at her. “I’m glad you’re in high spirits, Madam MacCrum.”
“Just trying to keep me mind off things before I go off me head.”
“Aye,” Andrew chimed in, sitting on the other side of her. “Do ye think that Franklin feller will be able to get the deed before the Signing tomorra?”
“He better,” she grunted, her mood dropping. “Or else we’ll be in serious trouble.”
Not a lot frightened Coira MacCrum. She had lived in a state of danger from the moment her mother delivered her in the corner of a pub during an all-out brawl her father had started and was murdered for. Her mother was a ruthless, headstrong cunt who taught her daughter how to fight instead of how to read. As the years passed, Coira grew even more vicious than her mother. Coira ended up stabbing her to death when the woman hit her one too many times. It was the first time Coira had killed, but it most certainly wasn’t the last. Through her mother’s teachings, though, Coira learned how to stand on her own feet without taking guff from anyone.
“Dammit!” she yelled. “I want to forget about this shite for a single fuckin’ hour! Can’t ye twats keep your mouths shut for once?”
“Madam MacCrum,” came Tavish’s voice behind her.
She was actually pleased to see him.
“Tavish,” Coira said, standing. “What news?”
They went out to the corridor to speak privately. He told her what he had seen at the grove.
&
nbsp; “Franklin didn’t stay long,” her spy informed her. “He left and Ruairi followed him. He ought to be returning soon enough to report.”
“And Franklin’s wife stayed behind with this other man?” Coira asked. “Did ye get a good look at him?”
“He was kind of difficult to make out, even with the spyglass,” Tavish explained. “He looked to be a young lad, I suppose. It appeared he proposed marriage to the lassie.”
“He did what?”
“Aye. Got down on one knee, he did.”
“Who the hell are these people?” she wondered aloud.
“There’s more,” he added earnestly. “And ye won’t like it.”
“What?” she demanded.
“Faolan was there with ’em. He was at the grove before we got there and returned with Franklin.”
Coira’s heart jumped. Her entire body heated up with rage. Her face must have been glowing red because Tavish stepped back.
“Find Faolan,” she growled. “Order ’im to the Vaults.”
Her spy bowed humbly. “Aye, Madam MacCrum.”
As he left, she threw open the curtains to the box seat. “C’mon,” she ordered Anci and Andrew. “We’re leavin’.”
* * *
Joaquin returned to the mansion. There the Hellfire Club had a feast and began drinking obsessively. Emilia pulled him away from the party and led him to a room upstairs.
“Would your wife object?” she asked, unlacing her black cloak.
Joaquin’s blood ran hot. “Let me help ye out of your corset.”
He brought her to bed and made her scream. With every thrust, the horror of the night faded until it vanished altogether. Her bites and scratches were a pain he enjoyed. When he had his fill, he returned to the library to see if Benito was in there. He needed to sneak into the master bedroom where Pierce told him he could find the canister, but there were too many people still awake.
On his way to the library, footsteps sounded behind him. He turned to see Heber, walking toward him while cradling an urn in his good arm.
“Mr. Marsh,” Heber said, scurrying along. “The ceremony went well, I take it.”
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