VOICES THAT YOU KNOW It wore her with imperious ease. Guild Lieutenant Oliver Jasprey and the monster wearing his wife’s skin hurried from the cobblestone street into a nearby alley, a laugh on both of their lips. Jasprey, nearly out of breath, stifled his with a rather charming grin. “It has been some time since we last did that,” he said. “Or stayed out this late,” offered Charlotte. Light from the twin moons cast the alley in a surreal shade of blue. He lifted a hand toward her cheek and felt it heavy with the neglect of months past. “I have missed this part of you. I’m—” “Time takes us away from ourselves,” she said softly. In the autumn wind her hair framed her face and a smile gradually formed there. She lifted a finger to prod him gently in the chest. “And you have grown busy.” “So I have,” he conceded. “So I have. And sadly—“ he cast his eyes skyward— “our evening grows short. I should walk you home. They will have need of me soon.” “Six hours to a hanging,” she said drolly. “I know.” Her foot turned on the stone in a morose display. “Are we close to where they are keeping her?” Conspiratorial mirth lit her brilliant eyes. “Perhaps we should stop by. I should find that criminally exciting.” “Guild secrets,” he said playfully. “Then I shall settle for at least knowing where she is.” Jasprey raised a challenging eyebrow. “Come now.” A stern veneer eclipsed her mirth of seconds before. “I have a right to know what dangers my husband wanders into, and where to train my eye this morning to know that he is safe.” There were times to deny her, but this was not one of them. He gave a defeated smile. “Cutter’s corner, by the old market. What used to be Shapler’s warehouse. But I shall not be there long,” he said, settling against the alley wall, “and I promise I will be safe.” “Good.” She leaned in to rest her head against his chest and he tilted back, bathed now in moonlight. His breath was slow, heavy, contented, until its symmetry was punctured by a sharp intake. Jasprey stepped back. Red wetness blossomed on his fine shirt and stained the edges of his jacket. His hands touched at it disbelievingly and came away dark. When he lifted his gaze he found that Charlotte had stepped away from him and stood perhaps two paces distant, a long, narrow blade in her hand. Her face was passive. Oddly, his soldier’s intuition took over first, telling him that between the length of the blade, the depth of the bloodstain upon it, and the location of the wound, he was certainly a dead man. He coughed out something undoubtedly vital. Sorrow and confusion warred in his voice. “Why?” he managed to gasp. “Necessity,” she said. Her voice was cool and distant and not her own. “Always necessity.” “I would have… I don’t understand—“ “Nor will you have time to; rest now.” His eyes were wild and hurt and the question that came out next was impossibly human. “Did… did you ever truly love me?” Between his fingers blood flowed in an unforgiving torrent. “I really couldn’t say,” she said as he slid slowly down the alley wall. Jasprey hit his knees and buckled, the life draining out from him. “But I shall love being you.” *** It was likely that the beggar had seen everything. She— although she wore Jasprey now— had found him huddled under a heap of filth and tattered cloth in the alley’s darkest corner, moments after molding herself anew. If her eyes had been human it was likely she would have missed him. Instead she approached slowly and watched as he sat upright in a panic and backed further into the corner, knowing he had been seen. When she crouched in front of him she found him pitifully marred: neck and thin arms a patchwork of bruises; one eye roughly bloodshot; several teeth missing, victims of affronting bootheels. “If you tell me anything other than the truth, you know what I will have to do,” she said to him in Jasprey’s voice. The beggar sat dully, then nodded. “Do you know what I am after?” “Sounded…” He coughed and his eyes flitted uncertainly. “Like you was asking about that Neverborn’s being hanged in the morning. The one shot up all those supply routes.” She offered no confirmation. “Do you know what I am?” He shook his head nervously, nostrils flaring. She knew what she should do— there was no question of it. But looking at the wretched creature made it seem a cruelty beneath her. “I know what you are,” she said. “Disenfranchised. Forgotten. A victim of your own people.” She watched him cooly, awaiting an answer. In time he nodded. “I know this place is a punishment for many of your kind. And I imagine you harbor no love for the Guild.” “To hell with the Guild,” he retorted, and there was true venom in it. She imagined many of those bruises now to have a Guild hand behind them. “And you are not so foolish as to think that there is some reward they would lavish upon you, let alone permit you to keep.” Why was she asking these things? Was she losing focus? “No… sir.” “Good. Your Guild is as errant a group of traitors and despoilers as has walked on either side of the Breach.” “How would you know what things’s like back Earthside?” said the beggar somewhat defensively. Jasprey’s eyes gleamed as he shifted in the moonlight. “What makes you think I have never seen your side?” The beggar seemed to accept this. After a time he said more evenly, “What do you want with me?” There was, in ways, a surprising bravery in him. She supposed one did not survive the streets of Malifaux through weakness. Jasprey looked back toward the body— his body— across the alley. A moment heavy with decision followed. “Your help in disposing of a few things. And then I would like you to travel to a certain house at a certain address, which you will now find permanently uninhabited, and to take from there anything that pleases you.” Jasprey turned back and watched the beggar carefully. The Mother would not like this, but here it was. “Do we have an accord?” Again the beggar nodded. *** Oliver Jasprey walked on the edges of the slums, just barely in Guild territory, toward the warehouse. Across his back was slung a heavy brown linen bag corded at the top with a thick loop of twine, shifting uncomfortably as he walked. Quickly he made his way through streets of bent and broken houses as the first rays of sunlight broke the horizon. When he rounded the remnants of the old market and the safe house came into view there was a momentary break in his stride. Outside the building stood two Guild Guardsmen, which he had expected, and what was clearly an officer, which he had not. Before he could cover his surprise the three men turned, their conversation temporarily interrupted. “Jasprey,” barked the officer in a tone of command. “You’re early.” He eyed the bag on Jasprey’s shoulder. “You’re not needed for another hour.” “There was… a development,” said Jasprey as he approached the trio. He observed the officer’s insignia. “Apologies, Captain.” “Out with it, then.” “Better said inside.” Jasprey’s face was calm and confident. “It’s vital, sir.” The Captain’s lantern jaw worked in circles. He cast his eyes about the old market and then opened the heavy door behind him. Within the safe house two Guardsmen sat at a small round table and a woman stood picking rust off her Collier with a knife. The prisoner, in an old travel coat with her hood thrown back, knelt, chained, head low in the corner. Captain or no, Jasprey counted himself lucky to have arrived before the Executioner. He had to work fast, and the attention in the room was already on him. “I do not believe this safe house is secure,” he began. “The prison was already suspect, and we have uncovered further evidence of a Neverborn plot.” The prisoner in the corner raised her head slowly as Jasprey slung the bag from his shoulder and onto the table where the two men sat. The other Guards drew in as tension became heavy in the room. Jasprey gestured at the bag. “Take a look.” Standing perhaps three paces back from the table, the Captain motioned to one of his men to open the bag. As the Guard struggled with the twine, Jasprey shifted slowly to stand behind the Guardswoman, eying the pistol and knife at her waist. The twine loosened, the voluminous opening of the bag fell slack, and for a moment nothing happened. One of the Guards leaned over to peer inside, and a perturbed curiosity became visible on his face. There was only the barest moment to register horror as something small and leathern shot from the bag and carved his face to ribbons. His screams rebounded as the bag shuffled and a half dozen misshapen dolls crawled free, faces empty masks and hands a nightmare of wicked claws. Jasprey freed the Guardswoman’s knife and sliced it back toward the Captain, who readily shifted away and broke the swing— and nearly Jasprey’s arm— with a heavy stool. Jasprey staggered. The Captain’s pistol had just come clean of its holster and put the first round over Jasprey’s shoulder when a pair of puppets fell upon him and exposed his arteries to air. The rest was short work, but perhaps too loud. With the carnage done, the remaining dolls stood idle and absurd amidst the gore. “The old woman has her ways,” said the prisoner, standing after a doll severed her bonds. She fixed her sleeves and hood and nodded at Jasprey. “Ezra,” she said without question. “Angel Eyes,” replied the doppelganger. “Did you manage to—“ “It’s done,” said the nephilim. From one of the guards she took a rifle and slung it over her shoulder. “And we should be going.” She leaned to look through one of the murky windows to the street and cursed. “May already be late. Eight more outside, guns ready.” Her visible violet eye narrowed. “Look to have a beggar with them.” So it was, then. Some dogs chose the leash. Ezra looked to the Captain, and made a plan.
