Carl was aimlessly turning the crude map in circles. It was almost midnight. Gabriel had departed not long after they had discovered the pentacle, explaining that he didn't want to bother the Pardoes. He was trying to keep their guard down, and Carl could see that he was downplaying his own importance to lull them into giving information away. He doubted it would work; and Gabriel's wry grin as he explained his motives to him told the friar that his friend didn't hold much hope for the plan either.

Lamar's breathing was raspy and loud, disconcerting in the dark silence. Carl swept the papers into a pile, shoving the drawing into the middle. He sat by Lamar, checking for a fever; the dark-skinned man's face was flushed and hot. He was sweating, his sleep deep and his body limp.

Carl remained awake for another full hour, sitting by Lamar and thinking. The two men were not friends – they knew that they could work well together as colleagues, but friendship was a far-off goal at this point. Lamar was still unaccountably wary of Gabriel, but they had managed to put aside their differences now to present an undivided front to the people of Boxborough. Things were clearer, now that Lamar was ill.

The soft chime of a clock had Carl searching for the time, and he could only blink with tiredness when he found it. He roused Mathilde, and then managed to fall asleep himself once she as awake.

The next morning Carl blearily joined the others at the table, not feeling up to starting a stringent conversation so early. He had plans, and several people to visit.

His first stop was to Schoen, to whom he apologized for not showing up the previous night. Disconcerted by the man's grudging praise for his loyalty to the Order and his companions, he quickly retreated, deciding to find Gabriel before anything else happened. He couldn't help but feel uncomfortable around his host at times; especially when the fever-bright eyes turned on him in appraisal of his actions.

When he finally found him, the hunter was sitting on the steps of the church, and seemed to be thinking. The cold, Carl thought with a mental sneer, seemed not to bother him overmuch.

"Van Helsing?"

The hunter jumped, his head coming up at the sound of his name. "Carl."

"Is something wrong?" the friar immediately stepped forward, lowering his voice. Gabriel's hazel eyes were distant, as if he was seeing something far away. His entire body seemed to be listening.

Gabriel shook his head. "Two days ago you asked me if I sensed anything as we were approaching Boxborough," he said tiredly.

"And?"

"And I didn't. There was nothing untoward that I could tell. Yesterday, I sensed something strange near the Widow's home, and we found the deer. But it was barely anything. This morning -"

"This morning?" Carl prompted when he realized Gabriel had become lost in inner musings.

"This town is awash in darkness," Gabriel replied brusquely. "Before, there was something here – so faint as to be negligible. It was everywhere – but more of a feeling than any sense of evil."

Carl frowned. "As if you were sensing the mood of the town?" he asked doubtfully.

Gabriel snorted. "Not quite, but something like that. Now, though – there is a darkness everywhere I look, lurking throughout."

The hunter sighed in frustration and stood abruptly. As he gained his feet, he froze for a moment, his eyes closing, and he reached out with one hand to steady himself on the railing at his side.

"Gabriel?"

The hunter's eyes squinted open, and he blinked. "Yes?"

"Are you all right?" Carl asked. He had never seen the hunter reel before – not even when facing the overpowering taint of one of the Fallen. Surely whatever shadow had fallen over Boxborough was nowhere near as puissant as the havoc that had been wreaked on the Holy City by Beelzebul. The possibility caused a shiver to rip down Carl's spine.

"I'm fine. Why?"

It seemed unimportant, and Carl hesitated. There were familiar circles under Gabriel's eyes – he had not slept well, then, and Carl was reluctant to question him if the nightmares had returned. Stirring up the subject tended to make the hunter quiet and distant.

"Never mind," he blurted, noting that the hunter was giving him a strange, confused look. "Pentacles," he rapidly switched the subject, and Gabriel shook his head in amusement. As they passed from the churchyard, Carl began to speak.

"From sources that I've read," he said, ignoring the hunter's put-upon expression, "Pentacles can be used by magicians for the binding and summoning of demons, though this happens rarely. The five-pointed star is representative of many things. Its widespread mathematical use -" an inelegant snort sounded from his right, "is most likely not the reason for its construction here," he finished hurriedly. "The Romans used to assign a letter to each of the points of the five-pointed star. Thus they would be able to spell out the Latin word for heath -"

"Salūs," Gabriel interrupted with a grin. The smile faded, however, with his next words. "The pentacle was used in early Christianity to signify the five wounds of the Christ," he continued. "More recently, it has also been called the Morning Star."

"The Morning Star?" Carl asked excitedly. "That reference appears twice in the Bible – once in the New Testament, when it refers to Christ himself, and then in the Book of Isaiah, when it is used to refer to Lucifer." The friar's attitude dampened with these words, an expression of exasperation melding onto his features. "But I don't see -"

The hunter's mind was working again, and his question cut Carl off midstream. The question, however, was worth the indignity of the interruption. "What else do you recall about that first bit – pentacles in use for the summoning of demons?"

A frown traced its way over Carl's face, the grey eyes narrowing as he poked through the recesses of memory. "Not much," he admitted upon a short reflection. "As I recall, the magician would construct two pentacles. He would stand inside one for protection. The other would be used to contain the summoned demon. Each would have specific marked sigils, assuring that the demon would be properly bound under the magician's dominion. If something went wrong – the pentacle was not properly inscribed, or there was a mistake in the sigils, which were written in dozens of ancient tongues – there could be very grave consequences indeed."

"Such as?"

"Death was probably the most pleasant," Carl replied dryly. Gabriel grimaced, but the friar didn't flinch. Reading about such horrors was one thing, and the print carefully distanced him from the emotions and details, no matter how descriptive the text. Seeing it in person, however, would be something else entirely. And as that thought manifested, Carl winced.

"Anyway," he continued briskly, "Such things take years of study, and are definitely of the darker arts practiced by men."

"So if it was going on here, we would have heard about it through the yearly reports." Gabriel didn't sound certain of this at all.

"Probably." Neither did Carl.

The hunter hissed between his teeth. "How's Lamar?" he asked eventually.

Carl bit the inside of his cheek. "Well," he mulled over the inquiry, noting the number of people had increased as they walked slowly past the stores. "He's ill, with pneumonia. He's young and strong, but he will need time to recover." A sudden thought occurred to him, and he leant closer. "Why don't you – you know," he urged.

"What?"

"You know!" Carl hissed pointedly.

"Carl," Gabriel growled in warning, his patience clearly at an end. "What?"

"Heal him," the friar finally demanded, somewhat pettishly.

Gabriel blinked at him. "It doesn't work that way," he said after a short pause.

"What?" It was Carl's turn to use the word.

Gabriel sighed, bringing up one ungloved hand to rake through his tangled locks before shoving it back into his pocket. His hat was missing, today. "I don't interfere more than I must," he explained vaguely. "Michael's injury was something that should never have been – it was not part of the design. Therefore, I could fix it. I had to, in a sense."

"But -"

"But what?" Gabriel countered gently. "It was a fight, though I will grant you that it was probably neither fair nor justly provoked. There was nothing unnatural about it that would warrant my calling undue attention to us."

Carl threw his hands up, giving in.

They continued to walk, each absorbed in his own thoughts, until a familiar figure fell into step with them.

"Mayor," Carl greeted the other man warmly, remembering their first meeting and trying to banish his suspicions so as not to rouse the other's attention.

"Good day, Carl!" Hastings, dressed impeccably in a suit overlaid with a greatcoat, his brown hair covered with a fur hat and hands hidden inside black leather gloves, extended his enthusiasm in an equally warm welcome. "I do hope that your friend is better?"

Gabriel was notoriously silent. Seeing that he would get no help from his friend, Carl took control of the conversation. "Ah, he is quite ill, I'm afraid," he replied carefully.

"Well, that's not too surprising when you consider how cold it is out here," Hastings countered jovially. "Not the time for a dip in the pond, that's for certain. But Lamar is a young man, and doubtless he'll be well in time, with proper rest."

Though the words were nearly the same ones he himself had spoken, they seemed to ring false from the other man's lips. Carl scrounged up a smile, hoping he didn't look as perturbed as he felt by the Mayor's easy dismissal of the true gravity of the situation. He glanced at the hunter, who wasn't bothering to hide his distrustful scowl. A glare from Carl had the other smoothing his features to diplomatic impassiveness. Just in time.

"What do you think, Mr. Van Helsing?" The mayor turned to Gabriel, unexpected cunning shining briefly in his eyes.

"As you said," Van Helsing replied with determined cordiality. "Lamar is very ill, but the doctor saw him immediately. With rest and care, he has a good chance of recovering."

"There!" Hastings announced, cheerfulness back in his tone. "I'm certain all will be well." Here, he flashed them a grin, showing very white teeth. "But there was another reason I wanted to speak to you," he told them. "There's a meeting scheduled for tonight."

"So soon after the last?" Carl interjected smoothly. "I wouldn't have thought -"

"Ah, that was a bit of an emergency meeting," Hastings supplied confidentially. "There were some troubling matters arising between members of the community that needed to be dealt with – it does happen every so often, especially during winter when the citizens are boxed in a great deal of the time. It wears on the nerves, and tempers stretch thin," he sighed with a resigned smile. "It happens nearly every year, almost like clockwork." His laugh invited them to join him. "As it so happens, tonight is the regular meeting time, and I simply thought that you would like to join us."

"That is gracious of you," Carl stalled for time. A discreet nod from Gabriel had him exercising his nonexistent diplomatic skills. He was a scientist, a scholar. Not a politician, he thought grumpily. "We'd be happy to attend."

Hastings' smile didn't dim for a moment. "Well, I'm very pleased to hear it," he enthused. "Now, I do have some pressing matters to address, but I hope to see you both tonight. Good day!"

The two echoed his farewell as he left them, jaunting briskly away without a backward glance.

"What do you think?"

"I think he's a political monster," Gabriel huffed in irritation.

Carl rolled his eyes. "About the meeting?"

"I think you should go."

"Good." Then he registered what the hunter had said. "Wait, me? What about you?"

Gabriel's eyes were focused outward as he replied. "I'm going to beg off, give an excuse to the Pardoes."

"Why?" Carl asked sharply. He was confident of his ability to handle the situation on his own, but he wanted to know backup was nearby if he needed it.

"Because there's something wrong," Gabriel finally turned to face him head-on for the first time that morning. Hazel burned into gray as the hunter locked eyes with Carl. "There was no darkness in this town when we arrived – there was nothing yesterday or last night, even. But this morning – the town is wallowing in it. It's not evil – just dark. But there's a distinct scent of something malign hovering in the air. And I want to find out what it is," he finished.

Carl pretended not to see the uneasiness in the other's form, masking his own with difficulty. "All right," he said quietly. "When did Hastings say the meeting was?"

"He didn't," Gabriel smiled.

"You don't seem disappointed," Carl observed.

"It gives us an excuse to strike up conversation with a few of the townspeople," the hunter explained confidently.

And Carl understood. The two men appeared to amiably part ways in front of Kellaway's Woodworks, where there were pieces of furniture on display. Carl spoke to Hannah Everard, Caleb Grogan, Kate Smytheson, and Tyler and Eric Hastings, the Mayor's sons. After having it repeatedly confirmed that the meeting would start at six that evening, sharp, he gained a somewhat fuller picture of Warren Gray. Most of the women said that he had been nice enough, conducting his business quickly and efficiently. He had been a bit scattered, sometimes asking individuals the same question several times, and could be persistently pesky at times. The men were somewhat less kindly, describing him as bumbling and annoying, and lacking in intelligence to boot. Gray had been made angry and miserable by the weather, and at long last had headed home, to the marked relief of the townspeople.

He circled the town, speaking in turn with the baker, Hiram Payne, and Ancell's apprentice Luke Rosenthal, before becoming embroiled in a discussion in the General Store that turned out to be quite enlightening. Especially when he diplomatically asked about the death of Anthony Austin, as he did not, Carl claimed, want to say anything to inadvertently upset the widow. His hesitant concern yielded fruitful results, and a bevy of information about the deceased.

He met up with Van Helsing in front of Rachel and Jennifer Frobisher's store around three that afternoon, and together they completed the picture of Warren Gray.

"He seems to have been a flighty, unpredictable, suspicious and somewhat paranoid man if we go by what the villagers say," Carl sighed. The two were edging their way between the Frobisher sisters' seamstress business, and Payne's Baked Goods next door. "It casts doubt on what he implied was occurring here. Which is definitely something – but it seems clear even Gray didn't know exactly what."

They reached the end of the tiny alley, and Gabriel spied an empty bench propped against the back of the seamstress' building. They sat, momentarily collecting themselves.

Carl glanced down at the piece of paper in his hand; he had taken to carrying Gray's mission reports with him for easy reference. This one was one of the first. "The people of Boxborough, while welcoming enough, seem somewhat different than I had expected. They treat me as warily as any outsider, which I find strange for this place is one in which neither our purpose nor our mission are concealed, even from the children. Derek Hastings, the 'mayor' of this town, is quite devoted and yet appears -"

"Nevertheless, something was going on here," the hunter pointed out, drawing the friar's attention.

"Well, yes." Carl's eyes drifted up from the paper, to find Gabriel frowning off into space. "But asking about Warren Gray doesn't seem to be getting us anywhere."

"It doesn't, does it." It wasn't a question. The hunter seemed to snap back to the present, blinking and refocusing on Carl. The bench they were sitting on looked out over the houses of Boxborough. "I think we should ease off asking about Warren Gray, just for now," Gabriel murmured thoughtfully.

Carl agreed. "The people know we're curious about him. If we give time for the word to spread, some will come to us."

Gabriel nodded wearily.

"But I did find something out about Anthony Austin's death," Carl piped up, and was rewarded with renewed interest from the hunter.

"What?"

Carl leant back against the wall, tucking his hands more firmly into his sleeves to ward off the cold. "It wasn't anything specific. It seems that he went on a hunting trip with Ancell, the carpenter - Oskar Kellaway, the butcher - Caleb Grogan, and a few others. I spoke to Kellaway and Grogan. They were out later than expected, as night was falling earlier each day. This was back in October. They tracked their quarry as it was getting dark, and there was an accident – somehow, Anthony was killed." Carl frowned. "I couldn't get much detail on that, but a few things that were said led me to believe that I could learn more at the meeting tonight. Are you sure you won't come?"

The hunter shifted nervously in his seat. "Whatever this darkness is," he murmured, his disquiet apparent, "it has grown. I began noticing it more this afternoon. Something is going on."

"Then I suppose you have to go," Carl finished for him. "Alright. Where do you want me to find you after the meeting's over?"

"I don't know how long I'll be," Gabriel admitted. The hunter glanced across the street, to the Pardoe's well-kept home. The last window on the right corner of the first floor, noticeable by the yellow flowers peeking up in the bottommost panes of glass; he pointed it out to Carl. "That room is Mrs. Pardoe's sitting room. Around that corner of the house is a door leading to the side; if ever you need to get me, throw a rock at the second floor, front window, and then wait by that door." Carl nodded in understanding. "Tonight, however, I'll meet you at Schoen's. You have a room on the bottom floor?"

"Yes – it's at the rear left of the house. I'll leave a lantern out so you'll know which window."

Gabriel nodded – it was settled then. "All right. I'm going to get something to eat, and then make my excuses to the Pardoes. If I don't show up by ten tonight, I'll meet you here tomorrow morning at seven."

Carl nodded, realizing that for now, they had done all they could. He would visit Lamar before the evening meal, which would be followed almost immediately by the town meeting. The friar was a little anxious – for all his suspicions, Gray had never attended one of the meetings in all the thirty-four days he had spent here. Now, having been in Boxborough for barely three days, they were already being accepted into the fold?

Carl was struck with the sudden wish that Lamar hadn't fallen ill. The hunter had already gone. Pushing aside his apprehension, he stood from the bench and began to make his way east, to the Widow's home.

(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-(-

The whole deal with the magicians and pentacles was inspired and taken from Jonathan Stroud's most excellent "Bartimaeous Trilogy", of which The Amulet of Samarkand and The Golem's Eye are available. I highly recommend them for ages 8+; the final book in the trilogy, Ptolemy's Gate, will be released this October; so go! Read! They're fantastic! And, sadly, not mine.