Chapter 11: In Which the Keepers Get Involved

It was dark sooner than they anticipated. Night fell like a black funeral sheet over the whole city, and no matter how hard she strained her eyes, Megan couldn't see a single star in the sky, not even in this dark part of town. The breeze was cold and sent a wash of shivers down her bare arms. She hugged herself to keep warm, but it wasn't nearly enough. Behind her, she could hear Daphne and Sherry talking in low whispers, but she tuned out the words.

What possible business could Raife have with the Pagans? He'd said it was urgent business, but what could possibly be so important? Maybe it wasn't that important. Maybe it was just a good excuse to slip off for good.

A snippet of conversation drifted over her shoulder. "…always knew he was more trouble than his help was worth…"

Daphne's voice started out soft, but somewhere in the middle, Megan heard her say, "…not his fault. He didn't ask for us to…"

All of it sounded so strange, so bizarre. I'm in the middle of a video game, and I can't even tell if it's real or just my imagination. Nothing makes sense anymore. With a sigh, Megan moved away from the window and into the dark room. Basso had convinced them it would be safest not to light any kind of fire, even a well hidden one, for fear that it might draw some kind of negative attention.

"The City Guards still patrol this area, abandoned or not," he'd said. "We'll just have to make due with the dark until you're ready for us to leave."

Until I'm ready for us to leave, Megan thought, strolling over to where the shadowy lump of the lock-pick lay, dozing for a few more minutes before they began the long night ahead of them. It was nice to have a grown man allowing her a little more say in the way things were done. She was sick of men telling her she was just being a stupid girl. Basso trusts me to do the right thing. He's trusted me from the beginning. Unlike some men. Two particular names came to mind, both sporting stylish black cloaks, and both having more than their fair share of arrogance.

Just as her anger was beginning to spark up again, she heard a loud growl that made her jump. Across the dark room, she heard the other girls stop talking, and somewhere near her feet, Basso shifted and sat up.

"Did you hear that?" Daphne whispered. Everyone was silent. After a moment, they heard it again, this time with a gurgling noise added to the growl. Megan could feel it resonating inside her. Then another noise started, something like choking, sputtering, which then erupted into a loud peal of laughter. "Megan!" Daphne cried, "Megan, is that your stomach?"

Embarrassed, Megan put her hand on her stomach, feeling the vibrations coming from under the skin and muscle. The slow onset of nausea she had attributed to the Pagan letter from Raife's cloak now became perfectly clear, and amusingly simple.

The dark shape of Basso rose to its feet, and she could hear his low chuckle. "When was the last time you ate?" he asked.

Glad the darkness hid the embarrassed blush from her face, Megan said, "Nothing since the drink you gave me at the inn. And nothing before that. I haven't really had time to think about eating."

She felt a warm hand on her shoulder and something cool and round pressing into her hand. "It's an apple," Basso said. "It's all I've got, but if you don't stop growling, the Keepers will know we're coming a mile away, even in the dark!"

With a shy chuckle, Megan took the apple. She felt sick with hunger, but the thought of eating anything only made her feel nauseous. Still, she could hear the others waiting for her to eat, so forcibly ignoring her desire to gag at the thought of swallowing any food, she bit into it with a crunch. Even before she'd managed to chew the first piece, she could hear Daphne laughing.

"You always did forget to eat when you were playing the game," Daphne said.

The last three words seemed to have a strong effect on the other two members of their group, and Megan could feel, if not see, Basso and Sherry stiffen in the darkness. "I forget to eat whenever I'm distracted by things I think are more important," Megan muttered, drifting back to the dark window.

Down below, the streets were black and thick with shadows, but an unexpected flash of light caught her eye. If she leaned out just enough so that her peripheral vision didn't catch the window frame, she couldn't tell if her eyes worked at all; a flash of light was strange indeed.

Something's down there. At first, she thought it might be Gus, the Karras Servant Daphne had told her about, but it had been so quick. Daphne hadn't described Gus as particularly fast, even if he was silent. The thing down below was definitely moving quickly, running even, though she hadn't heard any footsteps.

Stepping away from the window and ignoring the sticky juice from the apple running down her fingers and pooling in her palm, Megan shifted toward the door leading to the hallway and the stairs. Cautiously, she peered around the corner. She thought she heard something that sounded like a creaking board.

A brilliant blue flash shot out of the darkness from the end of the hall, and even before she could scream, she felt it strike her face-first. But it wasn't a blow like a fist or a gunshot, it was cold and damp, strangely like the mist of a glyph doorway. It struck her in the face—first chilling the tip of her nose, then her eyes, lips, cheeks, ears—and passed through like a smoke ring. But the cold rushed down from her head to her toes, and in an instant she felt every muscle in her body freeze. Somewhere far, far away behind her, she heard a muffled voice that could have been Basso's. She thought it was asking her what was wrong, but she couldn't move. She couldn't speak. She couldn't make any noise at all. Just below where she could turn her eyes to see—for they too were frozen, fixed straight ahead at the dark figure emerging from the shadows, down on her chest—she could see something glowing, something blue. A glyph. There were several cries from the room behind her, all cut off abruptly, and Megan was certain despite her inability to look around and see that there were suddenly more people. The figure down the hall approached with a grim smile on his lanky face. It wasn't Garrett, but he was definitely the creator of the glyph.

"A Halting Glyph," he said in a chilling voice. "I think you're more than familiar with Doorway Glyphs. Too familiar for a non-Keeper, if you ask me."

Without another word, he strolled past her and into the dark room. There were other voices, people talking to the man who had just walked in, but only his voice was clear to her.

"These are the two I was following earlier, yes. But I made a mistake. This one—the bar wench—she's nothing. It's the one by the door I was really after. Her and this one here." Another muffled voice said something, to which the man chuckled. "You're lucky you froze this one as quickly as you did. She's stuck with the charm on her neck, which is much better for us, trust me. I saw what she did at the inn last night."

Megan felt her blood growing cold. The Keeper from the inn, the one she'd thought was tracking her and the one Daphne had almost been caught by. She hadn't seen his face, but now she knew without a doubt it was him. She could recognize his sharp, uncompromising voice. How did he find us? Who else is here? What possible use could the Keepers have with both of us?

"Put a Slumber Glyph on all of them. We'll take the two we want back to the compound. The others we have no business with."

Even through the muffling, Megan could hear the thud of three bodies hitting the floor, and already she could feel the cold, damp glyph pressing into her back, dissolving her view of the dark hallway into unconsciousness.

By the time he could see the lanterns of the docks up ahead, Raife was certain someone was following him. He'd trailed enough people himself to know the signs of a stalker, even an exceptionally talented one. For the last hour the thief had been trying to give his invisible companion the slip, but every time, before so much as a smug smirk could cross his face, something inside his head would warn him he wasn't alone.

Whoever it is, they do this professionally, he thought, glancing again over his shoulder, knowing he would see only what they wanted him to see: nothing.

His patience was wearing thin as he closed the distance between himself and his destination. So long as the fool made no move to stop him, he couldn't imagine why he needed to confront his unwanted shadow. Still, he found it highly unlikely that someone would trail him for so long, taking such care not to be noticed, just to let him give them the slip by boat. I can't have anyone following me through a Hammerite stronghold. The job was difficult enough without a tagalong. He knew instinctively that the person following him was no novice trying to skim some reward off a job-steal, letting him do all the hard work first and then slipping up behind him, knocking him out or killing him, to take the goal and the reward for it. The wretches that did that were not few and far between; he'd seen and barely avoided several pathetic attempts to steal his earned prize. But that was just the thing: job-stealers were pathetic. They had no talent for thieving whatsoever, no possibly chance of reaching any kind of goal without a host thief to feed off. The shadow following him was far too talented to be a job-stealer. With their ability to hide so well in the shadows so that even a fairly adept thief couldn't spot them, Raife doubted they'd do better to let him lead. More likely, if it was a thief, they were planning to take him out before he reached the boat and make a move on the whole job, not just the prize. They'd go faster without him in the way, and maybe that grubby Pagan had found a better gamble.

It had crossed his mind that the shadow trailing him could be the Master Thief, but he quickly eliminated that as a possibility. One, the Master Thief had already turned down this job. Two, although he may have stolen the Eye a few weeks ago for the Hammers, Raife doubted even the Master Thief cared enough to stop him. Three, whoever was following him was not so adept that they had hidden completely. More than once he'd seen a flicker of movement behind him, and even if it were gone before he glanced back, he knew the Master Thief would never be so careless. If it were Garrett, he'd be dead or unconscious already.

Up ahead, under a lantern not more than fifty paces away, he could see a small boat with a lantern lit inside and the gangplank extended to the street. An odd sight for the docks at night, he thought. Most every boat kept themselves dark and locked up at night, whether empty or manned, for safety against thieves. Raife himself had robbed more than a few captains blind while they slept in their bunks. The only reason a boat kept lit and put down its plank was to wait for discreet passengers to board under the cover of night. This was his ride.

Coming to a dead stop at the corner where the buildings dropped off and gave way to the long, coverless stretches of dock, Raife turned around to face the shadow he knew had been moving a moment ago, even without seeing it. "I've been pretty kind," he said, "to let you follow me for so long. But I'm tired, now. I've got things to do, and I plan to do them without you, one way or another."

From the dark, he heard a voice say, "It is imperative that I return with you. I can promise you protection, if you come quietly and make no stupid moves."

"I go nowhere except where I want. As for your protection, I can't imagine I'd want or need it. Who are you?"

"Who I am makes no difference. You must come with me. If you refuse, I will take you with me all the same. There is nothing you can do to resist."

Is that so? With his fingers resting on the hilt of his dagger, he highly doubted anyone could force him to do anything he was set against.

"Will you come?" the voice asked again.

"No."

"Then I have no choice."

Something that glistened blue, like the edge of a dagger in moonlight, shot out at Raife, forcing him to leap aside and out of its path. With a curse, Raife threw his own blade back, smirking at the sweet, solid sound of its blade impacting with flesh and bone. The shadow slumped to its knees and rolled to the ground, his upper half exposed in the lantern light. For a moment, he stood frozen in place, looking at the figure on the ground.

Then his blood went cold.

I've just signed my own death warrant, he thought as he inched toward the body. There wasn't a doubt in his mind of who, or what, this man was. The black cloak, the stealth, now it all made sense. Raife bent down beside the Keeper and gingerly nudged the man, half hoping he would find himself bowled over as the Keeper attacked him afresh. Instead, the dead eyes gazed out over his shoulder, unable to register anything but darkness. Even before he knew it, Raife started shaking. He clamped his hands down on his knees, trying to slow his heart rate. Killing citizens, City Guards, Hammerites, Pagans—that was nothing. Sure, their sects would get their feathers ruffled, but most of it was show. They couldn't do much to stop him, and they knew it. But Keepers. He felt another wave of shivers run under his skin from his head to his feet. I'm going to die. The Enforcers will get me. He hung his head, too horrified to move away from the lifeless Keeper at his feet. When he was a boy, his mother told him horrible stories about the Enforcers, the silent Keepers who killed grown men with glyphs and spells. Awful, terrible deaths accompanied by screaming, agonized pain. Deaths accompanied by the bitter silence of the Enforcers. There had been a time when the Master Thief was destined, because of his inclinations, to be an Enforcer. If all of them are as talented as he is, I'm dead before I even try to hide.

Footsteps somewhere down the street had Raife shooting to his feet, his pale face all the more washed out in the electric lighting. No one was near, but a man had come down to stand at the foot of the gangplank of the Pagan boat. And I'll be dead if I take the stones I have and run. He'd already deposited his first half of the payment in a safe place in the city; he doubted the Pagans would wait long for his next move. If he didn't take the boat, would they think he had double crossed them? Normally, he might think nothing of it, but now with a dead Keeper on his hands, even a Pagan death-threat seemed more likely to have serious consequences. I can't just leave him here. Might as well buy some time.

As quietly as he could, Raife dragged the body to the edge of the nearest dock and lowered the corpse into the water. With the heavy cloak, the body went right to the bottom as soon as the cloth was waterlogged. Then, just to be on the safe side, the thief loosed a water arrow on the pool of blood half-hidden by shadows. Better safe than sorry, he thought. What's one water arrow in exchange for a few more days of life?

As he turned to make the rendezvous with the Pagan ship, however, a dark and unnerving thought crossed his mind. Why would a Keeper be following me? There was only one reason he could think of, and if they'd found him, the chances that they'd tracked down Megan and Daphne was almost a sure thing. Even before he realized it, Raife was sprinting back down the dark street that would eventually lead him to Old Quarter again, but he forced himself to a stop. Standing in the shadows for a moment, he turned around slowly and began back toward the docks. She said they don't need my help, he thought, turning the corner and seeing the boat and its captain once again. I can't keep bailing them out. This is their problem, not mine. Besides, I don't even know where they are anymore. They must have left at sundown for the compound, maybe they walked right into a trap like I said she would. If I'm going to do my own thing again, I've got to stop getting myself tied up with them… Yeah, I've done real good so far, killing a Keeper, his mind added with a bitter note.

He stepped out into the lantern light as he approached the gangplank. I'm on my own, now. I won't give them any reason to think they control me like a puppet. "I believe you're waiting for me," he said to the man standing on the plank.

The captain looked him up and down and nodded. "I expected someone like you. Don't think because I'm doing this that you can help yourself to anything on the boat. I'm ferrying you to the island to pay off a debt I owe the Pagans."

"I'm a professional," Raife said, feeling the word roll off his tongue with a new sweetness. I can say that now. I'm being paid as a professional to do this job. "Not a petty thief. I doubt there's much in this vessel that could tempt me."

The captain snorted and stepped aside, waving a hand toward the gangplank. "Then let's be off. I don't want to have this job hanging over my head any longer than it absolutely has to."

You're not the only one, Raife thought as he crossed on the thin board over to the deck of the ship. Now, there was definitely no chance of turning back. Not that there ever had been. The moment his hand touched the sack of gems, he knew he was in it for the long haul. And I hope my death isn't the result, he thought, standing at the bow of the ship. Somewhere in the night, he heard a woman shriek, and he felt his hands gripping the railing of the boat. It was nothing. Just some stupid rich woman being robbed of her jewels on her late evening stroll.

But as the boat drifted away from the docks and out into open water, the voice in his ears had slowly changed from a woman to a girl, from a stranger's voice to a friend's. She asked for this when she went to them, he thought, scowling at the waves splashing up and over the tip of the boat. If she didn't want Keepers involved she should have stayed away from them like everyone else. Stupid girl. She's going to get them all killed. She's going to get herself killed.

"Sir, are you alright?" the captain called from the steering cabin. "Feeling the sea a little in your stomach? Helps to hang over the side. I don't want to be cleaning up after you."

"I'm fine," Raife barked back, turning to stare out at the bobbing horizon. He could already make out the silhouette of Northermeed Island and the massive structure rising off it. A few lights in high windows shone out in the night, still far away enough to be confused for stars. The thief focused on that and on his plans for getting inside.

Still, despite all his efforts, he could still hear Megan screaming in his head.

She woke up talking. Just talking, on and on, about things that didn't seem to make any sense. It wasn't the first time she'd spoken in her sleep, but she'd never recalled waking up in the middle of it. She listened to herself speak for a while, but the words were distant and sounded as though they were spoken behind a thick wall of glass, as though her mouth was in a place entirely separate from herself. Slowly the fog in her ears faded, and she began to make out words, clips and pieces at first, like tuning an old car radio back and forth with the dial. Then all of a sudden, as happens when tuning radios, everything came in sharp and clear.

"…I told you already, my name is Daphne Dawson, and I go to Halyin High School. I'm a tenth grader, and I've already taken my SAT preps. I didn't do as well as I liked, so my parents—their names are Winnie and George Dawson, my father is a chiropractor, my mother is a sub at school—signed me up for a prep course, which I am probably missing as we speak, unless somehow time has stopped while Megan and I are in the game. As for how we got here, I haven't the foggiest. You can ask me as many times as you want, it doesn't matter, I haven't a clue. Stuff like this happens in movies-"

"Movies?" said a voice that sounded familiar. "What is a movies?"

"Not a movies, the movies. Any kind of film based on a story. You know, Men in Black, Armageddon, Lord of the Rings—I particularly liked the actor who played Legolas. Not many guys can pull off long blond hair, but there you go! Just shows you how much I know about what can be attractive. But it's more than that, you know, I think any guy who wears a cloak and uses swords to kill people is always vastly more attractive than even our modern-day bad boys with motorcycles and hand guns. I mean, really, who ever heard of a romantic hero sweeping his lady of choice off her feet while riding a Harley? That doesn't even make sense. Besides, someone would be bound to get hurt, and that's just not romantic-"

"For goodness sake, Keeper Cyrus, would you remove the Vocal Glyph and shut her up for a while? My head can't take much more of this nonsense." Another voice, not familiar.

"Tell me how you got here." Ah, that was the familiar one again, addressing her.

"…It's impossible to say really. At first, when we showed up in front of Raife, I said the Trickster had brought us, but I was just gassing. I had no idea, it just sounded good at the time. Megan corrected me though, probably kept us both from certain death- Raife's a bit jumpy about the subject, but that's what confuses me. He just headed off, all by himself, to do some Pagan errand, which strikes me as odd considering how much he seems to dislike the Trickster. But that's besides the point I guess, what really matters is-"

"Who is this Raife? What kind of errand is he on?"

"…oh, he's just another thief, like Garrett, only a bit soft-headed if you ask me. He acts all tough and whatnot, but the first time we met him he pulled a fire arrow by a window, which I didn't catch as a bad thing right off, but Megan pointed out that anyone down below would see us by its light, and then I realized it was a completely stupid thing to do, and something only a novice or stupid thief would do. But I don't really think he's stupid, not at all, actually. A little—um—untrained perhaps is the best word, though I was also thinking maybe unskilled, but that's not really right either, and then I thought maybe I'd use the word unpolished—actually, now that I think about it, that seems to fit better-"

An exasperated sigh. "The errand! What was the errand?"

"…how should I know? All I saw was the letter Megan brought in to me which was sealed with a Pagan symbol and written in blood. Why do they do that, by the way? It seems like an awful lot of trouble to go to just to write a note, but then again, I guess it's a ritual or something, or maybe they just like the way it looks on paper, it makes sense, I guess, though not really to me, but then again, I've never been the notebook obsessed one, I'd think Megan would know more about that. Pens and paper and that sort of thing. She's always got a notebook or a sketchbook on her, but then again, not recently, and I'm not sure how much she kept up with it this year in school, she mostly jotted down notes on homework sheets-"

"So you know nothing about what the errand was?"

"..,only that he's supposed to drop off the trinket at the same place I ran into Adrianna, which let me tell you is one spooky place. Moving trees, crazy animals, and then there's the Pagans! Oh, don't get me started on that, I could talk for-"

A door slammed open and it sounded as though several people entered. "Keeper Cyrus, that's enough! Release her at once!" Another familiar voice, but wasn't the one from the inn. Who was it, now? So familiar. She was sure she'd heard it a thousand times, if only she could see his face… or anyone's face. For the first time, she realized she couldn't see a thing. It was like her voice was detached and hovering in a dark pit, maybe falling, maybe fixed in place.

The ongoing sound of her voice cut off suddenly and everything erupted into chaos. She could see again, lots of faces, but she was too engaged with gasping air into her aching lungs than looking around. It felt as though she hadn't been breathing for hours, and as she inhaled, she tasted the strong, copper taste of blood in her mouth. Her tongue and inner cheeks burned, her jaw felt ready to fall off. Someone was kneeling beside her, taking her jaw in their cold, smooth hand and turning her face toward them. Her vision had gone black again when air started pouring back into her lungs, but now the centers were clearing again and she could make out the face leaning over her. Artemus. I knew I recognized that voice! Daphne thought with a sigh of relief that lasted only a moment before degrading into a coughing fit.

"How long have you been using that glyph on her?" It was Artemus again, his voice cold and bitter as he looked over her at a cluster of people standing a little ways off. She couldn't make out who they were, but she suspected one of them was the Keeper from the inn. "She's bit her lip and tongue repeatedly, her cheeks are swelling, she's almost blue from suffocating. That glyph takes a lot of energy out of the person you use it on! You could have killed her!"

"They have information we need, Keeper Artemus," the voice Daphne now associated with Keeper Cyrus said, his voice firm as though tone alone would protect him from repercussions. "If we don't use the Vocal Glyph, how will we ever discover what they know?"

"They know nothing," a voice said from the far corner. Someone near the origin of the noise stifled a gasp and shifted away. There was no doubt in Daphne's mind who was speaking, now. She'd listened enough to Stephen Russell's voice to know that deep, grating tone anywhere. "If you had waited for me at the clock tower as I instructed you to, you'd already know that."

The Keeper called Cyrus turned to face the Master Thief as Garrett stepped out of the shadows and into the slightly better lighting of the room. "And I suppose you have all the answers to my questions?" the Keeper growled, un-intimidated—perhaps foolishly—by the cloaked man standing before him.

"I have answers to some questions," the Master Thief replied, clearly irritated by the tone the Keeper had taken. "Whether or not you know the right thing to ask is still uncertain."

"Garrett, please." Artemus rose from the bed, and Daphne felt the mattress rise beside her. The moment his cold hand left her face, her mouth began burning again. "Keeper Cyrus, take the Slumber Glyph off the other young lady. She'll need to hear what is said in this room as well."

Someone from the far side hurried to obey the order for Cyrus, and within moments, Daphne heard the hiss of a dissolving glyph and a familiar squawk of anger. There was a shuffle as Megan leapt to her feet and looked about ready to jump over Daphne's bed to get at Keeper Cyrus. Someone stopped her, because she started to thrash and curse at the same time.

"Megan, calm down!" Artemus said, clutching her arm. "Everything is alright, now. We won't let him use anymore glyphs on you, I promise you that myself. If he does, I give you full permission to do to me whatever it is you'd like to do to him now."

His calm voice stopped her charge, but she trembled as she stood, her fists clenched in front of her, as if ready to tear apart Keeper Cyrus's throat were it close enough to lock her fingers around. Daphne pitied Artemus; she wasn't entirely sure he had control over what Cyrus did and didn't do, and from the look on Megan's face, Daphne doubted anyone would want to be on the receiving end of whatever she planned for Cyrus. But instead of forcing her way past Artemus, Megan glanced down at her and asked, voice shaking with her attempts to keep the growl under control, "Are you alright? Did they hurt you?"

Daphne opened her mouth to reply, but found her voice was all but gone, worn out by the Vocal Glyph. She nodded quickly and forced a smile that seemed to at least convince Megan that she wasn't in any serious pain.

The whole time, Garrett stood apart, watching the scene with detached interest. What were two strange girls to him? "Are you planning to stand around all night or are we going to make some progress?" the thief asked, ignoring the biting glare Megan tossed in his direction.

Artemus sighed and carefully guided Megan to the other bed where she could sit without giving her the impression that he was telling her what to do. She seemed too distracted by both the Master Thief and Keeper Cyrus to notice much of what he did. "We are going to make progress, I hope. But that depends mostly on what you have to tell us. Keeper Cyrus, if you would be so kind—stay quiet."

"I'm in charge of this investigation!" Keeper Cyrus cried. "I will not have you taking it out from under me, Artemus, just because you have some- strange acquaintances who can at times be a powerful asset."

Megan tensed up, ready to jump to her feet, mouth already contorting for a string of insults, but Artemus spoke first and laid a gentle hand on her shoulder to keep her from rising. "If you want to learn anything at all, I suggest you remain quiet, Cyrus," Artemus said. "I have no doubts Garrett could expel you from this room, and I doubt Miss Megan would have any problem helping him do that, though somehow I think he might be more gentle than she would be at this moment."

Keeper Cyrus closed his mouth against further protest and cast a glance that was for the first time slightly uncomfortable toward the Master Thief. Artemus nodded to Garrett, and the thief began. "I went to Old Quarter like the Hammerites wanted," he said. "It took me longer than I anticipated to find the place they indicated. An old warehouse, they said. As though there aren't hundreds of them in Old Quarter. The one I wanted was a crumbling old building not far from the docks. There were two Pagan graves in front of it. Shallow. Fresh. Unmarked. The cobblestones were shattered and loose there, didn't take much effort to clear some dirt."

"You dug up the bodies?" Artemus asked, his voice tinted with disgust.

"What else was I supposed to do? Pay my respects?" The Master Thief's bitter voice cut into the silence. "I thought there was a possibility whatever the Hammers wanted was buried with a corpse. It wouldn't be the first time a Pagan relic was a piece of rotting flesh."

"And did you find what the Hammerites wanted?"

"No, not there. But I did find something strange. Both corpses were missing pieces. One had no torso at all, and the other had no head."

"Some kind of punishment? Torture victims? Are you certain both were Pagan?"

"I know a Pagan grave when I see one," Garrett muttered. "Both were dressed in Pagan clothes, fingernails were long and cracked, toenails too. I don't know any citizens that keep themselves in such a state of disrepair. Both had Pagan tattoos someplace on their rotting flesh. What caught my attention was this." The thief reached into his cloak and pulled out a small pouch. He reached in and brought out a handful of dirt, but it wasn't just dirt. In even the dim light of the room, Daphne could make out a faint glimmering, like someone had mixed a whole bunch of glitter into the dirt. "Conjuring dust," the thief said. Artemus barely got a closer look before Garrett dumped the dirt back into the pouch and brushed the clinging dust off his gloved hands. "But that's just the beginning. Inside the warehouse, where this thing the Hammerites wanted was supposed to be, there was nothing. Only a table."

"That's all?"

"The floor was splattered with dry blood, and the whole place smelled of rotting flesh. That wasn't surprising, considering what I'd just dug up in the front. What I found even stranger than the graves and the state of the corpses was the table these men seem to have been executed on. Besides the whole thing being lightly dusted with the same stuff from the graves, there were a few particular patches on the surface where it seemed the wood of the table had absorbed some of the blood. Those patches were sprouting."

Artemus took a step back, his eyebrows crunched down. "Sprouting? As in, the table was sprouting new growths?"

"One twig even had a few buds on it."

"How is that possible?" Keeper Cyrus had kept himself silent long enough and could no longer bare being kept outside the discussion. "A table doesn't just sprout new branches!"

"Most tables don't, no," the Master Thief replied. "But most tables aren't used in Pagan rituals, either."

"Do you have any idea what this all means? What are the Hammerites looking for?" Artemus asked.

For a moment, Garrett stood silently as though deciding exactly how to say what was on his mind. "I think," he said slowly, "we are not looking for a what, but a who."