Author's Note: I actually missed a great opportunity last chapter to make a joke about the fact that the phrases 'accounting for' and 'bringing to book' are euphemism for killing a fox in a hunt. Well, Medici still has Penance tied to that chair, so I guess I can still technically fit it in, but their conversation has regrettably passed the point of 'playfulness'.

This chapter title very obliquely references a really famous American property rights case, and I would be 'less oblique' about it but I really like how the title rolls off the tongue. What can I say? I adamantly adore asinine alliteration.

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"Lodowick's Lament"

Morrisville – 1984

The Delmorr Bed and Breakfast had little to recommend it.

Not only was the red-trimmed little house far beyond its glory days— with sagging floorboards, faded wallpaper, and pipes rattling in the walls like throbbing veins— but its unenviable position between US-1 and the Lower Trenton Bridge put it smack between Scylla and Charybdis.

If Scylla and Charybdis were really, really noisy, that is. He figured they were. Hell, wasn't one of them a giant whirlpool, or something like that?

How a B&B could manage to survive in such a ridiculous location Noirbarret didn't know, but from the timeworn look of the property and the general decay of the facilities he guessed he might end up being one of the last guests to grace it. It was an old place— apparently a boarding house since before the Civil War, even— but then nothing lasts forever, does it?

"No," Noirbarret mumbled. "It doesn't."

He'd give them this: the rooms were well-insulated and the road noise not too distracting. The beds were cozy, and the silk sheets like honeyed cream. When it came to getting some sleep, at least, this place was almost a paradise.

Noirbarret had managed all of 6 hours, perhaps, in the past three days. None of that came to him last night. The only reason he hadn't spent all night pacing in his room was the ancient floorboards and their telltale squeaks. Too much noise and he'd alert the snot-nosed little brat downstairs, and the kid would come running up to 'check on him' and see if Noirbarret needed anything.

What he needed was to be left alone from starry-eyed little admirers. The boy was glued to him ever since Noirbarret made the mistake of accidentally exposing his sidearm to the kid and his grandparents at check-in, then of course having to show them his badge, and then it was all 'gee whiz, mister! You're a real FBI agent, and everything?'

So you can add 'annoying, pestering kid' to the place's other demerits in the Michelin guide. He certainly wouldn't be giving their cooking any stars, either. In fact the place had only one other redeeming feature, besides the passable sleeping accommodations. The front patio, though cramped, did offer one hell of a view of the Delaware, and the dense tree line perfectly framed the Lower Trenton Bridge. He scanned the length of that old span, examining the oversized letters proudly soldered to the bridge's struts.

"'Trenton makes...the world takes'..."

The Aurelia Arms lay across the water, far too upstream to see, but still the building weighed on his thoughts. More specifically it was that cronish creature that came to mind, lurking in the fantastical elegance of its higher floors, shielded in her cocoon of blight.

"The wrinkled worm that would be a butterfly." He scoffed, finishing off the last of his coffee. "But she's got it the other way around."

Well, not from her point of view.

And it was her point of view that troubled Noirbarret so sorely. She'd seen right through his façade without effort, unless she was bluffing and just trying to warn him off any hypothetical plans to betray her. He couldn't decide which was more likely.

He thought it was the latter, or at least he tried convincing himself of that. For all her dramatic flaunting of resources and her theatrical displays of power this Carlin Gay— or 'Nicnevin', or whatever— was shaping up to be a disappointment. She was a far cry from the legendary 'Child Eater' he'd heard so much about in whispered tales: the creature that could smell one drop of an immortal kid's blood from two towns away. He could've guessed that much was bunco since she hadn't made a move for Penance until after he came to see her, but now she says she can only detect him from one mile away?

And could she really do even that much?

"No," Noirbarret shook his head with confidence.

If she could then she'd be able to find Penance over the course of a single afternoon, now that she knew he was nearby. She could have her black-suited goons chauffeur her around the area for a little while until she got a bite.

Well, of course she couldn't do that because she's too 'scared' to come out of her castle, right?

Noirbarret mulled over how true he thought that statement was. For one thing Nicnevin was steelier than a steel rod; the woman's cloudy eyes were cold as marble, and entirely without fear. If she was the high-powered scam artist he thought she was then she at least had enough confidence to back up her tricks. He found it hard to believe that she'd be so timid as to hole up in her lair if Penance meant as much to her as she claims. But on the other hand she was a cautious creature. She had to be in order to live nearly as long as she'd managed.

And this was not the time to throw caution to the wind. Even Noirbarret had been forced to come to the same sobering conclusion: it was very likely the end times, at least for most of them. Things were 'accelerating' these days, and ultimately all the scores would be settled in New York.

Except for Noirbarret's score with Penance.

That would come sooner.

And how could Nicnevin even be sure that Penance was still somewhere south of the Delaware? She couldn't, of course, but Noirbarret ignored this oversight for his own curious reason. Namely this: he knew that Penance was still in the area, as much as he knew that his own heart was still beating and his brain still sparking. How he knew this about Penance was irrelevant, because the plain fact is he just knew.

That's all he needed on that particular score.

The brat came up to his table and took his empty coffee cup.

"You want some more, agent?" He flashed the man one of his dopey, admiring grins. "Grandma's just brewed a fresh pot!"

Noirbarret grunted indifferently, not taking his eyes off the bridge.

"I'm jittery enough," he mumbled.

The boy was about 12, and if Noirbarret had given him any passing thought (which he didn't) he might've been struck by how similar the kid's overall looks were to Penance, right down to the scraggily style of his untamed hair (although brown instead of black) and the rusty seawater hue of his eyes (though framed around a more robust and fleshy nose). A casual observer seeing the two boys together would be quite likely to peg them as brothers, if not fraternal twins.

But if Noirbarret even noticed the resemblance he didn't pay much attention to it.

"Granddad says you're here 'cause there's a serial killer in the city. Is that true, agent?"

Noirbarret smirked, folding his hands behind his head.

"There are all kinds of killers in the city, kid."

"You gonna catch 'em?"

A dark four-door sedan pulled up to the curb below the patio. Two men in nice black suits got out.

"Somebody's going to," Noirbarret's mind again wandered, and it took him a moment to remember that the boy was still standing next to him. "And that somebody is me," Noirbarret smiled at the boy with all the politeness he could muster, then waved the brat off.

The men came up the steps and approached the table; by this point Noirbarret had removed his sidearm and positioned it under the table, concealed in one hand against his crossed leg. Still wouldn't do him any good, he figured. If the crone wanted him dead he guessed she'd have the foresight to have him sniped from a distance, or the like, to be properly 'pacified' before his beheading.

But something told him she was sincere about needing him alive for the time being. He was the best link she had to Penance, and if her 'powers' really were grade-A baloney, as he suspected, then she'd need all the help she could get.

"Do-bhàis." The gaunt man in the lead bowed his head at Noirbarret. It was a perfunctory and microscopic gesture. "I am Measan." He motioned to the man behind him. "This is Diùlt."

The polite thing to do, of course, would be to offer the men a seat at the table.

Yeah, that would be the polite thing to do.

"Hi," he gave the men a sarcastic, sunny wave. "I'm impatient. And I'm also more than a little confused about this master plan of your great 'grande dame'."

"The Banrigh," Measan corrected him.

"We apologize for being late, Do-bhàis." Diùlt said. "We spent all afternoon canvassing the area, trying to make ourselves known to the Do-bhàis beag."

"And trying to funnel him where you want him to go?" Noirbarret guessed. "Maybe that makes sense, I suppose, although I can't see the sense in the rest of your lady's plan."

"You'd dare to question the Banrigh?" Measan barked.

Noirbarret looked up at the man calmly, with absolute clinical detachment.

"Yes," he said. "I would. At least until I understand the great lady's logic."

Measan didn't appear prepared for this, only managing to puff his narrow cheeks with indignation and lick his lips, as if seething with anger, but unsure how to reply. After all: Nicnevin might very well be their queen, but Noirbarret was still at least a lesser royalty to them. A prince, maybe, like any other 'shroudless one'.

And princes were still protected by the 'divine right of kings', weren't they?

The other man— Diùlt— was far more diplomatic about the matter, gently resting his knuckles on the tabletop and leaning down.

"What, exactly, troubles you about the plan, Do-bhàis?"

"Just the fact that it's not going to work."

"What right have you to say this?" Measan demanded.

"The right of experience," Noirbarret explained. "I know the 'little shroudless one', and I know him very well. That's why your mistress is letting me join in on this wild hunt, after all."

"That is what she says, yes," Measan crossed his arms.

"And that's why I know her plan is malarkey, with all due respect. Using warm bodies to help drive the kid in the right direction is fine and dandy, to a point, but he's not the type to fall for any simple trap you lay down before his nose. Blocking off these southern bridges is needlessly flashy and one coincidence too many; I bet my umbrella that Penance will see right through the ruse and realize he's being forced up north to the Calhoun Bridge. And once he realizes he's being funneled then he's more likely to huddle in place near the closed bridges and wait until the commotion boils over and he can safely cross. He's not the type to run from cover when there's trouble; he prefers to go to ground. Hell, barring that he's more likely to pull a George Washington and paddle his way across the river than ever go near the Calhoun bridge. He'd sooner take a ride on Charon's barge, if it were offered to him."

Now it was Measan's turn to rest his knuckles on the tabletop, and when he looked down at Noirbarret he could barely conceal the diabolical smile hiding behind his stony lips.

"One thing about the Banrigh that her enemies never see coming is that she likes to let people think they're well in control of things, and in doing so unwittingly slip their own nooses around their own necks..."

Noirbarret tried not to smirk at that comment, merely nodding his head in dubious agreement.

They could at least try to be subtle, couldn't they?

"I suppose we'll see who's in control soon enough, won't we?" He gave the men another polite smile. "Just tell me that you managed to do more than sightsee all afternoon?"

"We did not see the child," Measan said. "But we covered all the suitable grounds."

Noirbarret scoffed, waving an impatient hand.

"Oh, then I'm sure it was all worth it!"

Diùlt stuck a cigarette in his mouth and lit up, smirking as he expelled the smoke through his noise.

"Worth it to see that silver beauty, at least..."

Measan glared at his compatriot, flaring his nostrils.

"Perhaps focus on the task at hand, Diùlt, and save your love of pretty cars for some other time?"

"Pretty cars, huh?" Noirbarret lit up his own cigarette and motioned back behind the house. "You two should see my Mustang. The 'Black Beauty', I call her. Most of her prettiest parts are under the hood, mind you: supercharger and all that..."

Diùlt shook his head.

"Mmm. That can't compete with this, I'm afraid: a mint-condition Rolls-Royce Silver Dawn. Can't be more than a thousand of those beauties on the planet, let alone tooling around the US. Genuine silver paint job, at that, with a near-mirror finish. More wax coats on that car than in a candle factory..."

Noirbarret's idle smile dropped.

"Did... did you say a Silver Dawn?"

"Yup. Puts your car to shame, no matter how supercharged."

Noirbarret looked off to one side, his face troubled.

"Hey, nothing personal," Diùlt said. "But a classic like that—"

"Where did you see this car?"

"South from here, closer to Levittown. We were pulling up to this Catholic Church to examine the grounds when—"

"Can we please talk about the pretty car some other time?" Measan said. "Perhaps after the child Penance is in our custody?"

Noirbarret, still lost with that troubled look, quickly snapped back to the moment, giving Measan a reassuring chuckle and a nod.

"Uh... well, sure, sure. And so what's next on your precious 'Banrigh's' schedule?"

Measan set a folded piece of paper down on the table.

"We have a safe-house in Trenton. It's far enough away from the bridge that the child will not detect you as he crosses, but close enough that you and our rear guard can be called to assist in the unlikely event he escapes our trap on the bridge. You're free to survey it when you wish and ensure that it meets your requirements for 'tactical sensibility'."

Noirbarret took the paper without protest, suddenly indifferent to all concerns about their plan, at least for now.

"I'll visit it this evening; I, uh, have a few errands to see to, first."

He shooed the men away after this, and then he was left alone on the patio, revolver still clutched over his crossed leg. Again he stared at the bridge over the tree line.

'Trenton makes... the world takes.'

There was no doubt in his mind that Trenton would be 'taking' if he wasn't abundantly careful. Nicnevin was more than enough to deal with right now.

So he couldn't abide another hunter on the field.

Especially not him...

The brat again walked up to Noirbarret's table.

"Were those guys friends of yours, agent?"

The kid's toothy smile fell a bit when he noticed Noirbarret absently holding his gun beneath the table. With slow, deliberate movement— as if capping off a house of cards— he deposited it back in its holster. Then he looked over at the boy, his expression full of ice.

"I need to make a call," he said. "Right now..."