Carl opened his eyes, and breathed a hefty sigh of relief. Rolling over, he hugged his pillow fiercely, burrowing deeper in his blankets. A growl escaped his lips at the sharp knock on his door.

The return trip to Rome had been miserable. Awful weather had left the ship at the mercy of the waves. As a result, the tossing and crashing of the craft on the water had left Lamar and Hastings terribly sick. After the first day belowdecks, Carl had joined them in unpleasant, heaving illness. He had been able to tolerate the weather on the way to Transylvania on his first assignment with Van Helsing. But he had been abovedecks then, in the open air where the floor rolling beneath his feet had not seemed too strange. Consigned to his bunk, the nonchalant manner in which Gabriel and Ben had tolerated the shuddering of the world around them had been increasingly irritating.

Ben had left them, disappearing into the crowds at Liverpool. He had somewhere he needed to be, he explained with a half-smile. He had left them, saying goodbye to each one. Except Gabriel. To the hunter's surprise, the youth had grabbed him in a fierce hug, and Ned had jumped up on him as well. When they had finally broken apart, Gabriel had said with a smile, "Remember what I told you. If you need me, I'll be there." The words had been meant for Ben and Ned alone – Carl had overheard by chance, and the emotion between them had caused a lump to rise in this throat. He'd overlooked it, but somehow, the boy had come to love the hunter as a father, and Gabriel returned the emotion in full. It had happened out of his notice, in the words the two had shared and the time they spent together, and he felt like a fool to have missed it.

The knock sounded again, louder, and Carl moaned audibly. Crawling from his blankets, he swore as his feet made contact with the chilled floor. Padding quickly to the door, he opened it to see Gabriel leaning against the jamb.

"What?" he asked blearily, casting a longing glance back at his bed.

"Good morning," Gabriel answered, much more cheerfully than the tetchy friar.

"The first one home, and you had to wake me? It is dawn yet?" Carl snarled.

Gabriel took a step back, brows rising. "It's almost noon, Carl."

"What?" Panic replaced grumpiness, and the friar searched frantically for some means of telling the time. "That can't be right!"

"I thought you might want to eat before the kitchens stopped serving lunch," Gabriel continued. He carefully eyed the now racing Carl, who sped through the room pulling on clothes and shoes. Gabriel moved further into the hall, away from the frenetic activity. A shoe hurtled through the air where his head had been, and he was briefly thankful for honed instincts that were attuned for all types of danger. "Hungry?" he asked mildly.

A loud rumbling, coming from the direction of a certain unnamed friar's stomach, was loud enough for both to hear. Carl flushed uncomfortably.

The meal was big enough to fill him, as he ravenously devoured all food set in front of him. Gabriel sat on the bench opposite, leaning against the wall and surveying the entire scene with a tolerantly amused expression which hovered on the edge of being fully revealed.

As he chewed, Carl took stock of the bustling activity around him. During their journey back across the Atlantic, winter had melted from the Eternal City. March was now half-over, and spring was in full control of the weather and people. It was remarkable. With a lessening of the cold and the coming of light rains, a green smell freshened the air, lightening everyone's step. The cook was happily complaining once more, as she did every year, about the mud being tracked in. Deacon Ceslovas, overseer of all gardens in the Vatican, was energetically and thoroughly running all of his helpers ragged. But even they smiled, to be finally free of stuffy corridors and rooms, working once more with the earth and its bounty.

Things seemed to have settled considerably in the month or so they had been away. Gaspar had taken the time to become accustomed to his position, or so it seemed. Most of the people Carl encountered seemed comfortable with the situation, and the nervous anxiety that had resulted from Jinette's abrupt decision to step down had dissipated.

Speaking of which.

"Do you know what Gaspar's going to do with Hastings?" Carl's attention was fully fixed on the bowl of fruit sitting almost out of range at the edge of the table. His question was more of an afterthought, to pull the taciturn hunter out of his brooding. He reached out, snagging a ripe pear, and took a healthy bite.

"I believe he's going to be hearing the case this afternoon."

This time, Carl choked. "You just have to tell me these things while I'm eating?"

Gabriel shrugged, mischief lighting his eyes. "You asked."

Carl coughed, reaching for a glass of water. A sturdy gulp later had him gasping for air, eyes watering. He hacked for a few more moments, taking careful sips, and was soon recovered. He glared at the hunter, trying to convey an affront too strong for words.

Judging by Gabriel's wicked smirk, he failed.

Carl bit into a piece of bread, and a question came into his mind.

The hunter stared at him in complete bewilderment. "What?"

Chewing deliberately, Carl rolled his eyes and swallowed. Then he repeated, much more coherently, "Do we need to be there?"

"Oh. I haven't received a summons from Gaspar." At this his mouth twisted into an indefinable expression. "I don't know, but I don't think so. Jinnette used to use primarily evidence from reports. Whenever he desired for that evidence to be corroborated by testimony, I would receive notice that my presence was required."

"Safe bet Jinnette will be there."

"Mmm," the hunter agreed, resettling his shoulders against the wall.

"We should be too," Carl decided on the moment.

"Mmm," Gabriel hummed distantly, his eyes focused on the far wall.

A little surprised by the noncommittal answer, Carl frowned. "What does that mean?"

The hunter shrugged, still not meeting his eyes.

"Gabriel?"

The hunter sat up straighter, resting his arms on the table in a rare gesture of relaxation. "I don't think we should," he said slowly. "Or, at the least, I don't think you should."

Carl was surprised, and a bit affronted. "Why not?"

At the defensiveness of his answer, a cool mask settled down over the hunter's features. It was so subtle that if the friar hadn't been scrutinizing the other for his answer, he would have missed it for certain. "I think it's a bad idea," the hunter responded frankly. "I go when I must, but I find it doesn't help."

"Help whom?" Carl asked stridently. "You, or the one you bring in?"

At the sharp accusation, Gabriel shifted backward, moving infinitesimally away from the other's rage. A sense of distance, small but unmistakable, fell into the silence between them. "Neither," he breathed, so lowly that Carl didn't hear it.

"He must receive a fair trial," Carl insisted stubbornly. "Otherwise where's the point? In any of this?" A sweeping arm, moving to encompass the whole of the Vatican, knocked the bowl of fruit from the table. Moving with preternatural speed, the hunter caught it in midair, and then settled it back on the tabletop.

"Why would you have cause to doubt the fairness of our system?" Gabriel asked, instead of trying to answer the ineffable, rhetorical questions the friar had put forth.

"I have not seen it," Carl returned. His face grew thoughtful. "In fact, I have never heard of the final fate of any of the assignments which were brought back to the Vatican. I'm curious," he admitted openly. "And something about that doesn't seem right." The friar's mind was also on Alicia Hastings, who had given kind words to him, despite his role in her husband's arrest. On his two sons, and the people of Boxborough who had trusted in him. On Hastings' actions, preventing his father from killing Lamar. A sense of sympathy for the man was strong in him; he could easily see that Hastings was a victim of circumstance, more than anything.

Gabriel could see the emotions on his friend's face. "Mercy is a wonderful thing, Carl," he murmured, pulling the friar out of his thoughts. "I am glad you possess so much of it. But do not let it overwhelm your reason."

"Excuse me?" Carl didn't have to pretend at anger.

Gabriel's eyes seemed to darken, his voice harden as he spoke. He sat further back, the space between them widening. "I know that in the clearing, Hastings never directly threatened you. That role was taken by his father, and so the son would seem a lesser evil, more harmless, in your mind. After all, he did not gift you with a scar to remember Boxborough by." Gabriel's eyes rested on Carl's arm, the bandage hidden under layers of cloth. The gash was mostly healed by now at any rate. "But he is not innocent," the hunter finished darkly. "He can't have stood by, participated in murder, and still claim there is no blood on his hands. It is a sin of omission, if not a sin of commission. I do not think you should go to the trial today."

Carl flared at the certainty in the other's voice. "I know what I saw and heard," he defended himself stoutly. "I am not blind, or in need of protection from the facts of life. But I do not think he is as guilty as everyone seems to assume."

Gabriel stared at him for a moment, his face unreadable, and asked softly, "You are determined to go, then?"

Carl raised his chin in defiance. "Yes."

There was a beat of silence, before Gabriel nodded. "Jinnette or Gaspar will know when and where," he told him. He sat back in silence, eyes hooded to hide the secrets swirling within.

Uncomfortable with the awkwardness that had some how sprung between them, Carl asked, with a pale intimation of his usual curiosity, tempered by a sense of peacekeeping, "Are you going?"

The hunter's mouth thinned. "Not unless I have to."

Carl frowned. "Well then," he huffed at the cold answer. Inordinately dissatisfied, he scraped his bench back from the table and stood. "I'll be seeing you." With that, Carl stalked away from the table, refusing to look back. He rudely brushed by another man trying to get in the door, knocking a piece of paper from his grasp. But Carl was in a foul, fey mood, and ignored the other man, continuing onward instead.

He wandered the halls aimlessly for a bit, refusing the urge to go back and apologize. Apologize? For what? He was perfectly entitled to hold his own views, after all. Pushing his strange confusion over the odd conversation out of his mind, he hunted down Jinnette, and found the older man quietly reading in one of the lower archive rooms. The trial would start in less than an hour, in one of the back rooms of the Pontifical Academy of Sciences.

Given the time, Carl returned to his room and spent the extra minutes in washing himself and cleaning up, feeling relieved once he had finished. The walk succeeded in calming him, in helping him gather his thoughts and order what he intended to say.

When he arrived in the room, he found that it was nothing at all like he had imagined. There was a row of seats in front, facing the room. Half of these were already occupied. Higher members of the Order were scattered in them, and among them were some that Carl recognized. He saw Jinnett, Bharat, and a scribe with whom he was familiar. There was one chair facing these seats, sitting solitary in front of them. The rest of the room was consumed by rows of seats behind this one, which Carl assumed was designated for Hastings. To his surprise, he saw Van Helsing sitting to the left in the first row of seats set aside for public viewing. He moved, by a sudden impulse, to the opposite side of the room and remained one row back. The hunter didn't seem to notice him, and the room quickly filled.

Gaspar arrived, moving to the center seat facing other members of the order. All rose, in respect, and Gaspar sat. Hastings was brought in, and Carl frowned at the sight of the man. He was bedraggled and unshaven, his clothes clearly not his own and lamentably dirtied. Heavy chains weighed down his wrists and hobbled his ankles as he shuffled slowly forward to the chair waiting for him. He looked skinny and underfed, smudges beneath green eyes from weariness and cheeks hollowed from the strain of anxiety. The sight was pitiable to behold.

Gaspar began without preamble, spreading several papers on the table that had been set in readiness for such. "Derek Hastings, former Mayor of the town of Boxborough within the Order, in the state of Massachusetts, United States. You have been removed from your position on account of your conduct, and brought to Rome for judgment. What have you to say in your own defense?"

Hastings hesitantly rose to his feet, eyes lowered. He opened his mouth slowly, and said, "I know that the charges against me are horrible, and for horrid crimes. My only defense is that I knew no better what was going on than you did." There was a soft murmur at this, but Hastings kept going, slowly lifting eyes burning with sincerity to those who stood in cold appraisal of his every action. "My father dominated my life and my will from when I was a small child. I grew up with his teachings, in his belief that the Order would always prevail in whatever we set out to do, despite hardship and loss. I was firm in the belief of the rightness of our cause, and once my father set me so firmly on the path, I felt it was something I could strive for, within and beyond his heavy influence in my life." The man's posture was earnest, pleading, and Carl felt his heartstrings twinge. "My father was a harsh man," Hastings appealed, looking directly at Gaspar. "I strove all my life to do my best, wanting him to be proud of me. The first I knew of the scheme that he hatched was a year and a half ago. My father had grown uneasy, after a coven of witches launched an attack on our village, killing many. The hunters were absent, following rumors of a poltergeist working mischief in the nearby town of Acton. My father decided that our town needed protection, for the women, elderly, and children left unprotected when the hunters went out in force. He mentioned the idea to me, and we began to research means of protection. It took nearly five months, but I came across old books that spoke of the works of the magicians of Ancient Persia.

"There was much information there, once we had deciphered its meaning. Information about pentacles, mostly; their protective uses, and main functions. There was other information there as well. Most of it was dark and evil, and I did not look at it too closely after realizing what it was." The man's voice was mournful. "I wish that I had burned those books ere -"

"Mr. Hastings," Gaspar's cold voice jarred Carl, and he jerked in surprise. The friar had been wholly caught up in the man's sorrowful tale, and as he looked around the room, he was surprised at the mix of emotions he found. Some seemed sympathetic to Hastings' plight; others, angry. The only two who seemed wholly unaffected in any way were Gaspar and Van Helsing. "I grow tired of your embellishments. Your story, please, as concisely as possible."

Hastings nodded deferentially. "Of course," he murmured softly. When he began once again, his voice was contrite. He earnestly told of the way he had been led along by his father, unknowingly treading a path that pointed only to darkness. He concluded with his remorse for his inaction, his inability to understand the true meanings of the events occurring around him and his inability to act to prevent them once they were revealed. His face crumbled at the last words, his voice broken and hoarse; the man seemed to be only just holding back tears.

"You may sit," Gaspar said grimly at the conclusion of his tale. "I will now bring forward the evidence against you." He read several excerpts from Warren Gray's missives, and also from the cables sent back to Rome by Van Helsing's team. At long last, he said, "I call upon Gabriel Van Helsing, to share with us the information from his mission to Boxborough."

The hunter stood, and in plain words he detailed their arrival in the town, the strange behavior of the people, and all of Derek Hastings' actions at that point. A collective shudder ran through the crowd as the hunter, with complete dispassion, described the horrors of the tortured and mutilated dead, the warding lines, and the conclusion of the nightmare, with the calling up of a demon in the clearing. "After he regained consciousness, Derek Hastings confessed to me his part in the murder of Anthony Austin, and the others whose bodies formed the confining pentacle around the town. Apparently, three of these individuals were chosen by convenience from the town of Acton, and the remaining two – Anthony Austin and Warren Gray, were killed because they had suspicions of what was truly occurring in Boxborough."

"I must object to this claim," Hastings interrupted suddenly. "I was in fear for my life at the time. I was alone, and he threatened me. This man, sirs, is clearly unstable."

Carl frowned at the words. Unlike the rest of his tale, those words did not ring true at all. He saw strange, indecipherable glances passing between the upper members of the Order, but had no idea what they meant.

"Furthermore," Gabriel continued, ignoring the interruption, "I have good reason to believe that Derek Hastings was the true mastermind of the horrors of Boxborough. If I may be allowed to speak, I believe I can outline a series of events that show conclusively that Derek Hastings was the one manipulating his father, despite the story he has given you today."

Gaspar stared at the hunter a moment before nodding. "I will hear these conclusions momentarily, Mr. Van Helsing. You may be seated." Gabriel sat, and Carl frowned at the man moved out of his sight. What events? What connections? Derek Hastings – the one who had truly been behind it all? Carl had trouble believing that the menace of Joseph Hastings had been a mere smokescreen, designed to camouflage an even deeper evil in his son. It didn't seem –

"At this time, I would like anyone who feels they have relevant information to stand, and speak before the court," Gaspar announced.

A thrill in his stomach, Carl stood. A few surprised glances sped his way, words were murmured too low for him to hear. "Carl Wheldon. You are recognized," Gaspar said formally.

"Thank you," Carl said, taking a moment to get his breath under control. "I believe that Derek Hastings is a victim of circumstance in this case," he began. There was surprise at his stance, given the well-known fact that he too had been present at Boxborough. Carl began to speak, outlining his reasons; speaking of Joseph Hastings and the man's actions, how all had seemed to defer to him. He couldn't see his friend's face as he spoke, but he noticed that Lamar was seated almost directly behind Hastings, an intent look on his face as he listened to the friar. Carl's passionate conclusion, in which he stated that he believed Joseph Hastings to be the true perpetrator of all the evil of the town, was received in silence. Looking around, Carl saw many emotions on the faces of those near him; sympathy, anger, and more complex feelings that he could not determine at a glance. Gaspar said quietly, "Have you anything else to say to the court?"

Carl said confidently, "No."

Gaspar nodded, and then repeated his question to the court. Carl thought certainly that Lamar, as the man most affected by the mission to the town, would now stand and speak. He was slightly stunned when the Jerusalemite refrained from saying anything, and even more surprised by the following words coming from the mouth of the head of the Order. "The room will now clear, but for those whose presence has been required by subpoena."

At that, the entire room, it seemed, gained its feet and made for the door. Carl, who had no paper that stated the necessity of his presence, followed somewhat ruefully. The only people who did not move were those seated before the room, facing Derek Hastings in judgment.

Out in the hall, Carl came across Lamar, who seemed to be gathering his thoughts and did not speak to him for a moment. Once the friar glanced through the slowly dispersing members of the Order, he did not see the hunter. Suddenly, uncomfortably, he remembered the man he had knocked over while leaving the kitchen, and the piece of paper that had fallen from his grasp. A subpoena. "Have you ever been to one of these before?" he asked the Jerusalemite, to turn his thoughts from the subject.

Lamar nodded stiffly. "I spent several months as acting scribe for the courts, yes."

"What happens next?"

"Now the real evidence is heard. Once that is done, the judges will reach a verdict. It is not quite the same as any judicial court of law."

Carl was visibly confused.

Lamar explained, seeing the other man's puzzled look. "The hunters who receive the assignments are always required to be there, by subpoena. The team who follows is rarely needed, or even wanted, to attend."

Carl felt indignation rise up in him. "Why is that?" The words came out a little more sharply than he had intended, but Lamar gave him a look of understanding.

"There is more to training a hunter than simply prowess with weapons. They are trained to resist evil, mentally and physically. It is rigorous, and not many are able to completely defy the influence of evil on their thoughts – we are after all, only human. It is why there are so few completely qualified hunters in the Order, and why Van Helsing is the most valuable of these. He has always excelled at it, and it is a complete puzzlement to most of the trainers how he manages it so effortlessly."

"So that is why he is still in there."

"Yes. Because he will have a clearer view of events, a more objective and distanced perspective. It is also why you should not have spoken up today," Lamar answered.

Carl's face drew into a small scowl. "I thought that you, of all people -"

"I understand," Lamar told him unexpectedly. "I know that you need to feel your input was valuable. I know that you are a bit confused by this – your first mission was to destroy, not capture. But we are not trained to fight off such insidious, malign influences as were occurring in Boxborough. Van Helsing was. After all, we are only human. There is no telling what and how our perceptions might have been colored by events there. Surely you remember how strangely the people acted on our arrival."

"But Van Helsing was drugged!" Carl objected hotly. "I doubt that he was in full possession of his faculties, and that he was not 'influenced' by the evil there!"

Surprisingly, Lamar's eyes disagreed with him. But all he said was, "There is little we can do, regardless. They are making the decision as we speak, and we have already had our say."

Carl sighed, a sound laden with aggravated defeat. He moved to sit on a bench opposite the door. Lamar sat next to him, but Carl was focused on the door's dark wood, turning his thoughts to the events taking place beyond it.

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Well, this is crunch time. We are nearing the end - I'd say we have one, perhaps two more chapters left and my 200 review goal is oh, so close!