Author's Note: I managed three shout-outs to Lewis Carroll, here, and two that directly cite the poem 'Jabberwocky'. That's the one you can only read by holding the book up to a mirror, you see...

...and one of Nicnevin's character themes is 'mirrors', so… yeah.

But then any old slithy tove knows that.

.

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"Through the Tulgey Wood"

Morrisville – 1984

Less than half an hour after the explosion the entire area around the Lower Trenton Bridge was a madhouse. All the flashing lights of emergency vehicles set the place afire even brighter than a disco. Penance and Whip, as they were both wont to do, kept to the shadows.

And they had shadows in spades. The pair made their way north from the hectic scene, coming off the paved roads and reaching a place called Williamson Park. The area was partially developed, with two little-league sized baseball diamonds nearest the water and a small general-purpose field further down from that. These were all partially lit up with cold white floodlights, so they avoided it.

A thick copse of black spruce trees encircled the cultivated park area and stretched northward along the bank of the river. It was ideal for their purposes, by Penance's reckoning. They bounded through the thick of it, the resin of the trees filling their noses with that sharp, sweet conifer scent. Along the edge nearest the baseball diamonds there were signs of destruction; idle earthmoving equipment cast long shadows on the rest of the trees and the felled trunks waiting to be collected, like corpses on a silent battlefield.

For some reason Penance was uncharacteristically sentimental about the sight, commenting on it as they both raced into the depths of the trees.

"When I see a forest fall," he mumbled, "I feel an age ending..."

"What?" Whip whispered.

He quickly pulled out of his rumination, shaking his head.

"Nothing," he answered. "Not the first I've felt, anyway."

They were barely inside the woods when the boy slid to the ground, dragging Whip with him. They came to rest in some underbrush and the barbs of its thorns managed to snag on Whip's skin. The girl wasn't so stupid as to make a noise, however.

Black boots tromped on the ground near her head; above them a clean-cut man in a park services uniform looked around, shining a small flashlight at the bramble not a few inches above Whip's hunched back. The man held a walkie-talkie up to his mouth.

"Clemens, here. No sign of anything suspicious on my end."

"Copy that," a voice blared through the static. "Continue patrols, and check in with Parker and Johnson on the south side."

Only after he left did either of them dare to breathe.

"Park rangers are out in force, ain't they?" Whip sighed.

"Probably looking for more than a few stolen pick-a-nic baskets, too," Penance grumbled. "Must be because of the commotion on the bridge; they're stepping up security everywhere tonight."

"What do we do, then?"

The boy shrugged, getting to his feet.

"We're already in the woods, so let's push on through. As long as they don't see us, we're safe."

After only a few minutes of pushing through the foliage Penance skidded to a halt; his eyes narrowed and he squinted, his face flushed with concentration. Whip didn't have to ask what he was doing.

"He's here?" She whispered. "In the woods?"

Penance looked at Whip, a dark smile on his face. The girl reciprocated it.

"And he won't be leavin'," the girl said. "Not in one piece, at least!"

Everything was coming together; as they skulked through the woods they each mentally prepared themselves for the challenge at hand. And when they came to a small clearing they met a shadow framed in moonlight.

That's when everything fell apart.

X

X

X

The van's churning diesel engine did him no favors when it came to stealth and subtlety, so he abandoned the vehicle in a vacant parking lot near the Calhoun Street Bridge. He tossed the keys onto the body of the cultist slumped down against the passenger seat, and then his eyes were drawn out to the horizon across the water. He could barely make out the unlit top spire of the Aurelia Arms: a dead black crease in the city's twinkling skyline.

Black Hat smirked; he hocked a wad of spit in the building's direction.

He stalked off to the south, umbrella sheathe ready to disengage, revolver tucked into his waistband not a few inches from his twitching fingers. The first thing of note he came to was a thick tree line standing behind a run-down fast food joint. The restaurant didn't interest him, but the foliage did.

"The perfect cover," he mumbled, "to hide a little fox!"

A sharp, metallic clatter made him start; he spun around, gun drawn, only to see a hunched old woman tossing bottles into her rusty, battered shopping cart. She was hip-deep in the restaurant's dumpster, pulling out cans and bottles, holding them up to the harsh security light above the building's rear door. She was clad in rags, her face wrapped up with a filthy covering, and she beamed with a toothy, delirious smile as she surveyed the 'treasures' she'd discovered.

"Pretty pretties! Pretty pieces, all in order! All tidy! All in place, they is! That's the verdict, says I says!"

She continued tossing her finds into the cart, chortling like a madwoman.

Well, no simile was really necessary, Black Hat thought.

The hag suddenly recoiled, falling against the back of the dumpster, burying her face in her rags at the sight of Black Hat's gun.

"Augh! No sentence before verdict! No!"

The beggar disappeared, diving into the filthy dumpster as Black Hat quickly tucked his gun away. He drew a breath, looking up at the night sky.

"Don't you lose your goddamn head, Sterlyn..."

He quickly moved off, before the old hag's ravings could draw attention.

As he entered the woods the strangest sensation came over him: calm. Here, in the dark he would face his little quarry and settle matters, at long last. His heart should be racing, he figured, his skin prickly with gooseflesh and clammy with icy drops of sweat. But under the rising moonlight— his mind focused and entirely clear of the infectious 'buzzing' of any other interfering parties, his footsteps certain and confident against the brush beneath his feet— he felt at peace.

Things had come together quite nicely, all factors considered.

His mind was entirely focused on Penance: on bringing him down, and then on the symphony of horrors that awaited the boy. Black Hat considered all those horrors carefully, his mind brimming with marked creativity.

So creative were his swirling thoughts that he missed the footsteps behind him until a snapped twig brought him out of his reverie.

He spun around lightning quick, discarding his umbrella sheathe and letting the pale moonlight glow off the narrow blade of his sword. He swung it through the air gracefully and forcefully; it was a perfect and devastating move.

And when another blade met his it broke Black Hat's sword at the middle, sending the rent piece flailing through the air, sparkling like a clumsy shooting star.

He hadn't a moment to reflect on this development.

The sword that struck him was impossibly fat and ungainly, like a scimitar blown up to a comical, blimpy proportion. But comical or not it pierced his stomach and skewered through him as if he were a pig set up for the roast. The force behind the strike was ungodly. He was driven back, shoes scuffling along the ground until he finally came to rest against a tree, slamming into it with enough momentum to bring stars to his head.

The blade kept going, however, until it was entirely through him and embedded deep in the trunk.

Black Hat coughed. Hot bile curled from his mouth, black as crude oil in the moonlit night. He looked up, dazed, and through the stars in his eyes he saw a dark figure standing before him, shrouded in fluttering rags. No longer was the figure hunched, and no longer was it at all ungainly looking.

It stood with all the grace and poise of a queen.

"'Sentence first', indeed," Nicnevin said.

X

X

X

For all his vigilance the first warning Penance got from the figure was its voice.

"Hail, little prince..."

They both started as the bold voice broke the silence of the woods. They skidded to a halt, but Penance recovered in an instant. He got to one knee, his knife ready in his throwing hand, held snug against his shoulder, the butt of the hilt up against the side of his neck.

And the little hairs on that neck stood straighter than stalagmites.

The shadow leaned against a tree; Penance could barely see the figure spread its empty hands to either side.

"I'd think twice about wasting your throw against the likes of me, Penance..."

The boy grit his teeth.

"Who are you, and how do you know my name?"

The man, hands still spread, slowly moved away from the shadow of the tree. Whip's eyes widened when she saw his face.

"You," she furrowed her brow. "You work for Carlin Gay!"

The man tilted his head, considering Whip for a moment, and then he chuckled, snapping his fingers. The snap made Penance flinch, but he didn't throw his knife.

"The restaurant!" He chuckled. "Of course: you were there, weren't you? How did I not remember—"

"And the railway," Whip said. "You were that hobo."

Penance blinked, looking first at Whip, then the man. He surveyed the man's features, then he nodded.

"Your teeth," Penance remembered. "They were too straight, and in too good a shape for a hobo. I should've seen that..."

"With respect, little shroudless one: you should have seen many things, but the path you've been on is not yours. Nor is it hers," the man motioned to Whip.

Penance was ready to challenge the man with another question, but suddenly his eyes went wide and his jaw slackened.

"Wh— what did you just call me?"

The man's smile widened. He shook his head.

"There's no shame in it, child. No shame in being funneled to her web. No one can escape from the hands of the Banrigh."

The boy's face paled. Penance got off his knee, taking several steps backward. His eyes bulged so wide they might've popped out of his head.

"No," he shook his head. "It can't be..."

The echo of loud voices pierced the clearing; behind them in the distance several flashlight beams danced, their owners growing closer by the second. It was more park rangers, these ones alerted by the disturbance in the clearing. When Whip and Penance looked back towards the man he was gone, disappeared into the dense trees.

"Not 'banshee'," Whip whispered. "Banrigh. What the hell does that mean? Who is it?"

Penance gripped his chest tight with one hand, fingers digging into the flesh over his heart as if he meant to tear the overtaxed thing from his body. A cold clamminess fell over his skin; sweat boiled from his pores.

"It means..." the boy licked his lips, trying to find his voice. "It means 'queen'." He looked up at Whip. "And it's her!"

At first Whip looked at the boy with confusion, but the truth soon dawned on her.

"'Shroudless one'..." The girl shook her head. "Not... not Nicnevin? How in the actual fuck—"

The flashlight beams drew closer, as did the voices of the park employees. Penance and Whip both crouched down at the same time, Whip's face still frozen in disbelief.

"How could she—"

"It all makes sense," Penance interrupted. He dug his fingers even tighter against his chest. "All these goons, and all that effort. Her cult never went away; it just got better at blending in..."

"Wh— what do we do?"

The boy stared down at his knees, his eyes a million miles away. Whip had to jostle him back to the here and now.

"Pen!"

He looked up. Those cold calculations soon came to him from that certain predatory part of his brain. He narrowed his eyes.

"W— we go forward," he stammered.

"But—"

He motioned to the waving flashlights behind him.

"We lead these rangers, and we ride 'em like a wave. As long as they're close behind us nobody can do anything to us. Not in the woods, at least."

He got to his feet, motioning for Whip to do the same. But his face lacked any trace of that practiced façade of confidence. The mere mention of Nicnevin's name had killed that in the boy. Or maybe it was his own realization about how badly he'd miscalculated the situation, and that was what killed his nerve.

Somebody killed something. That's clear, at any rate.

The girl had no other choice, or at least no better suggestions to offer. Still, as she took Penance's cold, clammy hand in a loose grip it was clear that both of them felt less like they were riding a wave, and more like they were being pulled down into the depths.

X

X

X

He set one trembling hand on the top of the blade, trying to tug at it with his blood-caked fingers, but Black Hat would've had better luck pulling a sword from the stone.

Nicnevin's faded blue eyes surveyed the man; in the waxy moonlight their color was even less notable, to the point that they seemed to be a bed of silvery white sclera, alone. The appearance went beyond 'inhuman', even beyond 'monstrous'.

It may have been beyond Black Hat's ability to describe.

Then again he was a few pints low on blood, and more was oozing out of him by the second, so there was that. Still, what would you even call something that went beyond 'monstrous'?

Whatever it was, it was Nicnevin.

He must've looked puzzled as he leaned against that tree, exsanguinating, and the ancient woman noted his bewilderment.

"My poor agent," she set her chin in her fingers, her other hand gripping the crease of her elbow, as if she were an art gallery patron surveying a masterpiece. "Poor, poor agent..."

He mustered all the reserves of his strength, face contorting with undignified pain, as if he were three-days constipated. Even now there was nothing. Nowhere did he feel it: not at the nape of his neck, where that jangly feeling would always begin, nor was it echoing anywhere throughout his skull.

The 'buzz', whatever it was, simply wasn't. Not at the moment, at least.

"H— how..."

The crone blinked a few times, then she quickly turned to one side, holding up a remarkably polite finger to the man.

"You must excuse me for just a moment, I'm afraid."

No sooner had Nicnevin taken two steps away from the tree than a pair of bodies suddenly burst from the branches surrounding them. Penance and that black girl skidded to a halt not thirty feet from them. Penance's eyes first met Black Hat's, who impotently reached out for the boy, teeth gnashing together, curses and warnings clear on his face in equal measure.

By the time Penance noticed Nicnevin she'd managed another three steps towards him, and she was closing the remaining distance fast. His reaction to seeing her was as if he'd stumbled upon a man-sized cockroach skittering at him, and never in Black Hat's life had he seen such terror on the boy's face.

If he were more lucid, and under less dire circumstances, Black Hat might've felt bitterly envious about that.

Penance's terror didn't affect his poise or his aim in the slightest. The boy steeled himself and loosed his knife with all the reflexive practice of a centuries-old pro. The blade sailed perfect and true for Nicnevin's wrinkled gizzard of a neck, moving at blinding speed.

Speed, one has to understand, is a relative thing. When you talk about a 3rd grader running 'fast' and winning a class PE exercise you're talking about something fundamentally different than a sprinter at the Olympics running 'fast' and winning the gold. Similarly, if you were to say someone moved 'like lightning' the description would be tempered by such factors as age, health, and other concerns.

Because almost any description of speed is relative.

There were no qualifiers, however, in the speed Nicnevin showed at that moment. There was no saying she moved like lightning 'for her age', or that 'for someone in her condition' she was fast. The speed with which she moved was beyond calculation or parallel, and the phrase 'like lightning' hardly hyperbole.

One moment Penance's knife was ready to tear into her throat, and the next her forearm was there, shielding her neck, and the boy's blade sank through that wrinkled flesh and bone, lodging itself snugly in her wrist, hilt still wagging in the aftermath, brimming with the last of its sizeable kinetic energy.

Energy that had ultimately gone to waste.

She moved her impaled arm down, hardly missing a step in her quick stride, and before Penance knew what had just happened she was upon him.

She reared back one leg, as if readying a kick, and this made the boy reflexively bunch his legs up and shy back, protecting his puny ping-pong balls. An understandable reaction in general, but a damning one at this instant.

As soon as Penance flinched the woman struck with that impossible speed, this time lashing out with her left arm and snagging Penance by the throat. From the boy's reaction the strength of her grip must have been agonizing.

Now it was the black girl's turn to act, and she dutifully made her move, pulling out a dirty piece of broken glass from her pocket and charging the ancient woman, letting out an obnoxious war-whoop as she leapt.

Nicnevin responded to this with a simple backhand from her impaled wrist, slamming the hilt of Penance's knife into the girl's forehead with enough force to drop her to the ground, senseless.

Penance, meanwhile, kicked and struggled against the woman's choking grip, digging his shoes in the dirt to pull himself away from her. When Nicnevin returned her full attention to the boy, noting his progress in digging himself away from her, she responded in spectacular fashion.

Two seconds later Penance was suspended up in the air, legs helplessly kicking a good foot and a half off the ground. She held him seemingly without effort with her single hand.

The desperation was clear on the child's face. He was now beet-red and great throbbing veins pulsed against his skin; his eyes stuck out like a squeeze toy and frothy snot dripped from his nose and lips. He clawed at the woman's arm, and in his vicious desperation he tore it mightily, pulling flesh from her bones in such a terrible manner as to expose the network of her skeleton, vessels and sinew underlying that wrinkled old appendage.

But in the grand scheme of things he was effectively chipping paint off a forklift's arm.

When she bent her arm, drawing the boy in a little closer to her face—never losing that cold, empty smile— Penance changed his strategy and went for her face. Again a decent strategy, and again he managed horrors. He thumbed out one of her eyes and tore at the flesh of her cheeks. After this he fell to blind thrashing, his eyes already rolling up into the back of his head. He had mutilated her soundly, ripping at chunks of her as if he were pulling apart a sculpture of Play-Doh.

But, like a naughty little child throwing a tantrum, he was soon tuckered out. 'Tuckered out' in the sense that his trachea was crushed like a balled-up plastic straw. With one last feeble hand he tugged at Nicnevin's face, but this was less an attack and more like an affectionate pinch of the cheek.

The ancient lady's response was not affectionate.

Nicnevin threw Penance down to the ground headfirst, smashing the back of his skull against an upturned rock. The sound said it all: something like a cantaloupe being smooshed under a horse's hooves.

As this 'fight' went on the most peculiar thing happened: while Nicnevin choked the life out of the boy Black Hat felt a familiar sensation in the back of his skull. It was the buzzing. The sensation increased as Penance clawed at the woman, finally reaching its peak when Nicnevin threw his ruined body down.

Things were now normal, in other words. He could sense the old crone again. Hell, for the briefest moment he thought he could actually sense Penance, too, and that didn't make a lick of sense at all.

Nicnevin, meanwhile, casually unwrapped the beggar's rags from around her head. She mopped up the gunky blood and viscera on her arm and her face, only returning her attention to Black Hat when she was 'presentable'. He was still trying to process the sudden disappearance and reappearance of the 'buzz', never mind the woman's impossible speed and strength, and she could read the wonder on his face.

"Oh, yes, of course," she spoke casually, as if apologizing for serving an unusually tough and sour scone at afternoon tea, "I fear you're still of the mind to call me a flim-flam or the like, are you not? And you'll pardon my fatigue, won't you?"

Nicnevin drew a long breath into her lungs, head turning up to the sky. She sighed as she expelled it, and when she looked back at Black Hat she tapped one bony finger against her temple.

"Although it is child's play in practice, on one's spirit it can be onerous. Fatiguing, I mean. The Source, you see, doesn't approve of a body shielding itself from the others' senses. It is, after all, a terribly strict referee— to borrow an Americanism: it demands that every 'Marco' be dutifully answered by a 'Polo'— but then anyone who's played this particular Game long enough and bothered to read the 'rules' closely can find all manner of loopholes."

A flashlight beam pierced the night; boots tromped on the ground from behind Black Hat's tree.

"Look at me, showing modesty now," the crone shook her head. "But that day in the Aurelia, over breakfast, my agent, I did not. Did I not warn you explicitly of my powers? And did I not warn you, explicitly, about what would happen when you betrayed me?"

Black Hat coughed up another gummy lungful of blood and bile. He would try for sheepishness and subservience. A misunderstanding: that was all this was. When he parted his lips to speak Nicnevin held up one crooked finger.

"Save you breath, my agent, for you've been my agent throughout all this, though you did not know it. And no words you say will save you from your fate, now."

The footsteps behind him circled the tree. A park services employee stood beside Black Hat, flashlight in hand, looking first to Nicnevin, then to the impaled man.

"What's going on here, then?"

Black Hat looked to the man, mouth gaping like a beached fish.

"S— stop her!" He hissed. "She killed... that poor boy..." he vaguely motioned with one limp arm in Penance's direction. "I— I'm FBI..."

The look of concern on the other man's face suddenly changed to a mocking smirk.

"Formerly, don't you mean?" He walked to Nicnevin's side, nodding to the woman. "We've secured the perimeter, Banrigh."

Black Hat dropped his hand and hung his head, stuttering out another stream of blood from his lips and nose.

The crone nodded, then curtly motioned behind her to the black girl, who by now was groaning and twisting about on the ground. The man grabbed her, dragging her to her feet and holding her tight as she regained consciousness.

Nicnevin returned her attention to Black Hat.

"If it helps to remove the sting, then you should know that you were never truly in danger of outstripping me. I knew of Penance Cameron's presence in Philadelphia the very minute he dispatched the Hunter, you see. What I did not know was his name; this is the only information of note that you provided me. But it was information of note, at least."

The old woman looked back at the supine boy as his regenerating body began to stir and he started to moan.

"You wouldn't know it, churl, but the child is known to me, personally, beyond his great history of kills. And for all my villainy towards him I am not lacking in respect, either. I've sensed his exact movements quite keenly since his arrival in the city, and I could have had him at any time that I chose."

The old woman casually walked over to the boy, staring down at his body as she spoke.

"When I learned from you who he was, however, I decided to bide my time and give him a fighting chance, at least. And now I suppose I have..."

By now Penance's limbs were awkwardly twisting around; Nicnevin pulled the boy's knife from her wrist and then loosed it from her hand. The move was almost gentle and graceful, but the force of her throw more than enough to pierce Penance's breastbone and embed the blade squarely in the boy's heart, bringing a sudden stop to all his movements.

At this Penance's companion howled in anger; she'd regained enough of her senses to witness the act and she began kicking and struggling in the grip of the cultist holding her, throwing an endless stream of threats and vulgarities at the old woman. The man holding her tightened his grip on her midsection with one arm and cemented a gloved hand over her mouth, cutting off her screams.

For the first time the old crone acknowledged the girl.

"This creature is quite out of place, is she not?"

Another cultist in a park services uniform walked up to the scene. He pulled a knife from his utility belt and set it to the girl's throat, looking back at Nicnevin. The woman waited to say anything until that other cultist, Diúlt, sauntered up to the scene from the other side of Black Hat's tree.

"She's a persistent thing," Diúlt said. "Even knowing the danger she came back to assist the boy. You won't likely find a truer companion than that, I'd think. Or a more foolish one."

Nicnevin sighed, her face creasing with a frown.

"Pity, such a thing's ignoble end..."

The cultist with the knife looked down at Whip, tightening the knife's grip against her throat; he prepared to slash.

"That said..."

The cultist stopped, looking back at the woman. Nicnevin approached the girl, leaning down to look at her wide cinnamon eyes. The girl mumbled something into the hand silencing her, and given the tone and the defiance on her face it was not complimentary.

"All that anger, and the anguish..." the old woman shook her head. "I've felt it, gnawing in the dark." She pointed at the girl before turning around and walking back to Diúlt. "Not you, my child, no. The Source. Long has it quaked and quailed in fury at me: at my use of its 'loopholes'. Only now— as I threaten the balance of its preciously planned 'Gathering'— have I felt its sheer rage in my waking heart. If the Source had a voice it would scream at me; if it had hands it would tear my throat out and reduce my insides to waxy ribbons."

Again she looked to Black Hat; she smiled, rueful.

"All I've ever asked of it is so little, so simple, and yet it's denied me, time and again." She motioned to Penance's lifeless body on the ground. "With him I would have what was denied to me, but I have no malice to give him, or to the Source that has until now forsaken me. Is it difficult to consider, my agent, that in the end I only truly want peace?"

The lady looked to Diúlt and motioned to the girl.

"Could we manage an offering of goodwill to the Source, do you think, and spare this wretched creature?"

Diúlt looked first at Penance's companion, then back at his mistress.

"She's a wild little thing," he admitted, "but her loyalty's extraordinary. If anyone deserved it, then I'd say she does. But—"

"Would the difficulty be too severe?" Nicnevin finished.

Diúlt carefully considered the question; after a time he shook his head.

"Not necessarily. We'd have to hold her until after the ritual, then we could release her. Release her carefully."

Nicnevin smiled at this.

"'Carefully'. All wild animals must be handled with caution, mustn't they?"

"We force her to drink; we douse her clothes in alcohol," Diúlt continued. "Maybe shoot some heroin in her veins, or the like, until she's senseless, then we dump her body in front of a hospital. She can tell her story to whomever she likes; it'll be taken as the delusion of an addled street junkie."

At this the girl narrowed her eyes, growling into the glove over her mouth and thrashing anew. The cultist holding the knife to her throat had to quickly pull it back for fear of nicking her. The girl's spirited struggles seemed to amuse Nicnevin.

"A wild animal, indeed. And they all deserve a fighting chance, do they not?" Nicnevin stroked her chin. "Whether acceptable or not, let this be my peace-offering to the Source, then."

With the wave of a hand she bade the cultist to carry the girl off, still thrashing in his arms. As if on cue another burly cultist appeared from around Black Hat's tree. Diúlt motioned to Penance and the cultist lumbered over to the child, picking the boy up in a bridal carry. Diúlt produced a roll of duct tape and wrapped it around the hilt of the boy's knife. He then secured the tape around Penance's torso, ensuring the blade remain wedged firmly inside the boy's stopped heart.

Black Hat reached out with an impotent hand as the boy was carried off, still gurgling blood from his throat. Diúlt threw the man a mock salute as he sauntered off.

"Enjoy that noose, 'agent'..."

One final cultist appeared after this, and this one carried a small cooler. Nicnevin nodded to the man and he set the chest down. He unbuckled the fasteners as she spoke.

"If you think my showing such mercy is odd you should know that I actually am a creature of mercy, as much as I'm a creature of necessity. The evil I do is limited to the evil I must do, and no more than that." She approached the cooler, looking over her shoulder at Black Hat. "Normally my mercy would extend even to the likes of one such as yourself, but frankly when I think to even consider it I grow ill in the pit of whatever thing can still be called my 'soul'."

Nicnevin looked down into the cooler; she shook her head.

"Your base and cruel desires against that child are beyond my comprehension, and to manage that is a feat in itself. Your mercilessness can only be met with mercilessness, and your cruelty with cruelty. So I'm afraid I must condemn you..."

Nicnevin reached into the cooler and retrieved an object; it glowed white in the moonlight and steam danced all around its frame. Only when she approached Black Hat could he see what it was: a long shard of dry ice, meticulously sculpted into a sharp spearhead. The woman handled it by the fat end, her wrinkled fingers frozen to it like a warm tongue on a cold flagpole.

Black Hat squinted at her, confused.

"I must condemn you," she said, "to live, knowing you'll never have Penance. Knowing he's forever beyond your hands. Knowing you lost him to your own hubris, and your fear. Knowing that he is mine."

Black Hat glared at her, his eyes roiling with rage. He squirmed against the sword in his chest, straining, grunting, thrashing. Nicnevin merely watched him struggle, her face ineffable.

"Death, I think, would be a far greater kindness for you. But whatever monstrous creature you are, knave, I find that you warrant neither kindness nor compassion."

She pressed the tip of the dry ice shard over Black Hat's heart, and with her other hand she forced his chin up, making him look her in the eyes.

"Let that be your sentence, then. And now suffer the verdict..."

The shard pierced him with as much effort as a knife slicing warm butter; he felt that icy tip ram through his heart, and an instant later he felt nothing at all.

Before that instant was up, however, Black Hat did not feel the cold.

Not one bit.

He felt hotter than a thousand furnaces, and his last thoughts were taken by a rage at least a thousand times hotter than that.