I love Kartik and I love getting into his head. Enjoy.

"Kartik," he says. "I have a message for you."

I find myself being led into the pub by this stranger. Not a stranger – he is Rakshana. I find that I trust him by default. After all, he is technically family by organization, and I welcome anyone that can help me along.

We find an empty table in the darkest corner, under an especially low beam from which cobwebs hang. He holds out a tin of cigarettes to me.

"Care for a smoke?"

I shake my head. "No thank you." My only other experience with smoking proved that I had neither the taste nor the lungs for it. When something as gentle as a hookah pipe sets you coughing and sputtering, you tend not to want to try it again, especially in front of your superiors.

"Well, you're here so you must have done something right," he says, lighting his cigarette.

I don't really know how to respond to this. Well, I know how I'd like to, but I somehow think kicking the table over and punching him in the face for doubting my worth would prove me to be any more mature than this man obviously thinks. I take his false implication with a grain of salt and a clenched jaw. I shall prove myself in due time, and they will all beg my forgiveness when they are beneath me.

"The name's Cliff, but you don't need to remember that. I have further instruction for you." I perk up at this claim. He pulls out a piece of folded parchment. "Bloody hell," he grumbles. "Here. See if you can make any sense out of this."

I grab the paper he throws to me. It's damp and nearly all of the ink has run. I suddenly feel very sick.

"You alright, kid?"

"You don't have anything useful for me?" I croak. It's rude and unnecessary, but it's not as if he's jumping to make any shows of kindness.

The chair scrapes the rough floor as he stands up to access his pocket. "Here's some money that's meant for you." He tosses a small satchel onto the table. "There was more, but…you know." He holds up his tin of smokes with a mocking grin. "Good luck, novitiate." He walks off, leaving me fuming at the table.

With a frustrated sigh, I pull the lantern close to me. Trying to make sense of the bleeding words is seemingly more impossible than translating hieroglyphics without the Rosetta Stone. It cannot be done. I pocket the current bane of my existence and claim a seat at the bar. Perhaps a revelation will grace me once I have a full stomach.

I muse over my dilemma while spooning large quantities of steaming shepherd's pie into my mouth. I force myself to block all thoughts of failure from my mind. There are still options, still chances to stay on top of things. Miss Doyle and her family could not have arrived much earlier than I, though I do know we were not on the same ship. By my calculations, they should be holding a funeral for the deceased Mrs. Doyle. Typical of the English to ship their dead across oceans just to bury them in their land. Never mind the maggots, so long as all of London high society gets one last chance to gaze upon the rotting corpse of a woman they don't know. Are the tears from grief, or from the smell?

I suppose I can commiserate with my charge. We both lost our loved ones that day. I cannot help but still feel as if it is all her fault. They both died protecting her. I guess she's pretty special then, which deepens the mess I'm in. If she is so vulnerable, is it not my fault that I am currently unable to protect her? What if something happens to her? It will be my fault, though I cannot help it if certain brothers do not take me seriously enough to guide me in the right direction.

Back to my original train of thought. Funerals usually mean obituaries, and obituaries are found in newspapers. I take a paper from the stand on the bar and flip through the pages until I find the obituaries. Scanning the names, I can see that there is no mention of a Virginia Doyle anywhere. Unable to shake the feeling of defeat, I pay for my meal and leave.

I absently wander the docks near where the Thames empties into the North Sea. How easy it would be to fill my pockets with rocks and throw myself in. I've learned about many a warrior that would rather face death than failure. I pause and finger a few promising stones at the base of a fence. No. I'm too good of a swimmer anyway.

All of a sudden, I'm struck with a thought. The day of Circe's murders, Amar and I were close by Mrs. Doyle and her daughter. The girl was whining about something, many things really, but the predominant issue being that she wanted to go to London. It's not definite, but it's a start, and I do know a few people there that may be willing to help me.

As I walk the long miles to the city, I realize there are many more shady folk than I can remember there ever being. I take on the visage of a mad drunk to fend off the numerous beggars and prostitutes. Unfortunately, this has drawn other mad drunks to me. I find myself in the middle of a gathering of them, some sort of drunken celebration. I narrowly escape being violated by a man that calls me Becky.

I find a weathered old cricket bat in someone's trash. It may not be much, but I can serve as a handy weapon in the most dire situations. Though I'd never admit it to another living soul, I've always wanted a cricket bat of my own, but have never had the funds for one. Cricket is a pastime I greatly enjoyed in lighter times. Breezy free afternoons would find Amar and I playing the sport with some of our closer brothers. With a stab of pain so severe that tears blur my vision, I cling to the broken down bat as if it was my brother himself.

I am once again reminded of how much I miss him. The last time I haunted these parts was at his side, unafraid and excited to see more of the city. London suddenly feels like a strange land, turned upside-down by grief and confusion. I want to go back to India, to what's familiar to me. I want to curl up in the illusion that my brother still walks the earth. Part of me feels he'd be the first thing I'd see if I were to return to Bombay. That impossible possibility drives me mad with longing. What if he's there right this moment, looking for me?

"Kartik," he'd say bemusedly. "What on earth were you doing in London? You're place is here, with me. Go get changed, we're playing cricket. Let's see if you can beat me now, London-boy."

I laugh weakly at my own conjuration of my brother. Even in my tortured mind, he is still as good humored as always.

Thinking of my brother has roused another memory for my benefit. He is, was, friends with a man that owns a tavern in East London. I am certain I can find hospitality there, something I'm in dire need of as the foggy night rolls in. The parts of the city are notorious for murders; I think about the famed Jack the Ripper with a shiver down my spine. That may have been many years ago, but I heard they have still not caught him…

With only my selective memory to guide me, I find the tavern with surprising ease. My brother's old friend recognizes me straightaway. He is a large man with a drooping face and bulging eyes. Even his puckered lips suggest the look of a fish's.

"Kartik, my boy! What brings you to London?" He claps a hand on my back in such a friendly way that I cannot help but feel ashamed that I cannot recall his name. He lowers his voice. "Wait, it is business, am I right?" he asks with a wink.

"Afraid so," I say quietly, for we've roused the attention of some patrons eating a late supper.

"Well, welcome then! I'm Timin, but you can just call me Tim. Everyone else does." I suppress a laugh, for his name means "large fish" in Sanskrit, and he certainly looks the part.

"I'm looking for a place to stay the night," I say.

He pauses a moment. "This is not an inn," he says loudly, as if talking to his customers. He walks me to the back of the room. "But I will always have a room for the brother of Amar," he says in a hushed voice. He points to a tapestry. "Behind there, whenever you need it."

"Thank you," I say gratefully.

"Come, sit at the counter. I have excellent food for you, my treat. You look like you need a good meal." I smile uncertainly. "Tell me, how is Amar doing?"

My face falls. "He is dead," I say softly.

Tim's bulging eyes grow larger as he mops at his forehead. He places a hand on my shoulder. "My dear boy," he says solemnly. "My deepest condolences."

I nod, unable to say anything due to the lump rising in my throat. I look around the tavern as he turns his back to prepare whatever food he wishes to give me.

My eyes settle on a man that has been sizing me up from a few tables away. Seeing me look over, he stands and makes his way to the counter.

"Had a run-in with Cliff, I understand?" He notes the confusion on my face and points to his lapel, where a sword and skull pin is secured. "I should have just found you myself. But look! I have."

"I must be lucky," I say bitterly. I've no patience to be belittled by any more "family by organization". I may as well be related to cobras.

"He is only jealous that he never had the opportunity you have been given. You are very lucky. With this priestess, you can go far."

"How so?" I ask, intrigued.

He laughs. "In due time, in due time. For now, you must find her. I suppose you don't know where to go, else you would not be here. Listen to me closely, little Kartik." I suppress the urge to scowl. "You will find the girl arriving at Victoria Station tomorrow at 4 o'clock in the afternoon. She will then take a carriage into the countryside and arrive at Spence Academy for Young Ladies. You must follow her and keep watch the entire time she remains there."

I take this in with full attention, relieved that I have a concrete plan. However, something is missing. "Where will I be staying?"

"There is a gypsy camp nearby. You can stay with them."

"Will they let me?"

"You ask a lot of questions."

My cheeks burn. The Rakshana members of London are not nearly as friendly as the ones in India. Just another reason for me to feel homesick.

His hand comes down on my shoulder with a crushing force. "We will be in contact, Little Kartik. Best of luck."

"Thank you," I mumble, rubbing at my shoulder once his back is turned.

Tim returns with a plate of hot, fragrant food. My mouth waters at the familiar smell of good Indian cuisine. I hadn't even noticed my hunger until now. I close my eyes and take a bite, and it's as if I'm home again.

Still begging for good quality constructive criticism. It helps, oh yes, it helps.

Anyone noticing a trend with how Kartik is treated by other members of the Rakshana? Hmm. Perhaps this will explain his behavior later on? -charming smile-

I really like writing this approach to Kartik. It's different than how I see anyone else write him. I'm pretty proud of this, but feel free to say otherwise! I want this to be as polished as a really shiny thing.

Wants to start a real life Rakshana filled with girls that want to worship Kartik,
LunaEquus

Reviews not only make Kartik happy in the pants area, but they also make him want to take his shirt off.