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Three days after they had been expected to depart Belhaven, Yr Lykaios was breathing fire.

As they tilted their head back, molten divinity rushed through them with the force of a raging river, all painful golden burning from lips to lungs. A lesser exorcist might have cried out at the sensation. A lesser exorcist might have succumbed to the holy flame. But Yr let their mouth open just slightly as they mouthed the last words of their seal, savoring the feeling of being Her vessel, the seat of Her majesty, even for one meaningless second.

"The deal," he whispered, closing his eyes to the radiance, "is the deal."

This hellmouth made no noise as it closed; it was, rather, an absence of sound, a total inverse of the thing which seemed to suck everything out of the air as the rift healed itself over. Seconds later, Yr felt the divine heat steam off him with a soft hiss as the infernal mists drained away into nothingness and the rest of the street faded back into dim visibility.

At this hour, it was still dark here in the garment district — a glance at his pocketwatch (dented, scratched glass) told him it was just inching toward six in the morning. Other parts of Belhaven would be beginning to stir, of course; the bakeries would be lighting their ovens, and the grand double doors to the flower market would be dragged open so sellers could begin loading their displays with colorful, bursting bouquets. But for now the sleepy garment district slumbered on, and not a soul bore witness to a lone exorcist as he turned and walked away. Nothing remained to denote that his presence had ever been there except a ring of neat red sigils on the ground where he had warded the mouth shut. It had been a simple rig, simple instructions: barrier, enclose, infernal-cross-not. And with the right conviction, it did the job.

Now, Yr fell back into their normal patrol route, which led them through the winding, cobblestoned streets of the garment district at a brisk pace. This part of Belhaven had always felt choked to him, the fast-growing textile sector bulging inward, rather than outward, so each cramped building was no wider than a man was tall, the signs above their brightly-painted doors invitingly advertising handwoven rugs, or the finest laces, or bolts of silk by the yard. Once the day began, those especially determined to sell would flood out into the street to erect tents, creating impromptu bazaars that stretched on for ages, selling butter-soft leathers, skeins of dyed yarn, and so on, and so forth. It made it an absolute pain for the local Angels to get through on their war horses, and Yr always shuddered to think of what might happen should a hellmouth open right in the center of one. It hadn't happened yet, but such a scenario was exactly the sort of thing that haunted the nightmares of Belhaven's only exorcist.

By now, they had crossed into the art district and were passing rows of darkened studios belonging to glaziers and smiths and potters and sculptors. It would be a while before there was any movement at all over here, for this district was a sight best seen at night, always bustling with chatter and laughter. Of course, being that it was inhabited by artists — people of passion, people of revelry — the mornings were often slow to get rolling. Which wasn't necessarily a bad thing; Yr was always grateful not to be the subject of stares as he patrolled. Once upon a time, an exorcist had been no stranger a sight to see in public than a postman, but nowadays, they had become an outright peculiarity. They were practically regarded as some sort of rare bird, or sideshow freak, and not just for what their abilities were, but for the legions they had outlasted. A red coat had become a badge of having been chosen for survival for reasons no one knew, though Belhaven's artists could always be reliably counted on to try and ask them about the tragedy that had forged them — subject for a poem, a novel, a painting. Lone Exorcist in Carmine, perhaps, or Last of Their Wretched Kind. Watercolor of a Poor Bastard Fuck-Up.

They continued down, down, down, away from the art hub and into St Victorine Rookery, where the occupants of sallow, slope-roofed doss houses were just beginning to stir, spectral silhouettes passing back and forth over the flickering candles within. Within those ramshackle walls, the inhabitants were likely sleeping eight to a room, half of them probably shivering with the autumn sick that had been in full swing this year, the other half so hungry they could hardly sit up. Yr had always made it such a point to make sure they never skipped any of the slums of Belhaven — St Vic, or Kershing Alley, or any place where the houses were cheek to jowl like this, contiguous, and where the people were frayed and mean and desperate.

How they remembered wearing that same lean, hungry look as a kid, with the too-wide eyes, the twitchiness, the lips perpetually cracked and grayish. It had never been something of note when they had only ever lived at home. But then the second they had been shipped off to the capital, they had discovered what a child ought to look like. How kind life had been to so many of his classmates, that they could afford to be rosy-cheeked and star-eyed. Yr had stood out terribly, ever the starving fox among plump rabbits. One of the nuns at the Abbey — a Sister Acantha Grace — had once remarked that the kitchens ought to fatten him up before he snapped one day and took a bite out of one of the littles. Skeletal was the word she used, in a snide little tone just to the left of teasing. Then, when she'd thought him out of earshot, ghastly.

Ghastly. Funny word, that. What would the blessed sister think of them now, almost thirty years later? They'd certainly not gotten any cuter in that time — hell, by now they wore more scar tissue than skin.

Or maybe it didn't matter. Maybe she was dead. They'd found that a great number of those who had caused them strife in their younger years had ended up that way, strangely enough.

At last, as they neared the outskirts of Belhaven proper, the buildings were beginning to break their cramped continuity and give way to greener and greener stretches of land. In the distance, civilization ceded to endless land, farms separated by leagues of rustling grass.

Yr deftly wove their way through the last few buildings to reach the outpost they'd come all this way for. Underfoot, the road had become softer, more worn, as they crossed to the faded red house at the end of the block. They needed no key let themself in through the old rusted gate, for its last owner had not survived to leave it locked. The gate closed behind them with a squeal, and a clang that echoed all around like a cry.

And then, for the first time since before she had died, Yr found him alone before the house of the late Neriah Hope.

"She was a right bitch."

Yr stared down at the cool-gray gravestone, so freshly carved that the gilded letters of her name seemed to stand out like they were glowing.

He said, mildly, "Have some respect for the dead, Neriah."

"Well, it's true," Neriah Hope retorted sullenly. She tucked a lock of rabbit-brown hair behind her ear, revealing the nicked cartilage she proudly wore as a trophy for her first scrap with a devil. It had been a while since he'd had an occasion to see her, and Yr was trying to remember if her fringe had always been so raggedly cut, for it really did look as if she'd just begun hacking and sawing with her ironwood dagger. It certainly would not have been out of character.

"Whether a war hero was or wasn't a bitch isn't usually discussed after the point of death," Yr said, frowning. "Much less at the damn funeral."

A few paces away, the family of Reine Serve-God were huddled together, all dressed in their mourning blacks. Someone somewhere in the shapeless mob was crying; someone somewhere was soothing them. There had to be less than a dozen of them here to mourn, and still, it managed to be one of the better attended funerals Yr had lived through. That was sad in a way he found unnameable.

"What? They can't hear me," Neriah said, her lip jutting. "Anyway, if they were really her family, they probably already knew."

The thing was that she wasn't exactly wrong. Reine had been the most recent recruit from the capital until Neriah, and she'd been a cold, calculating thing. Yr had personally borne witness to her bitter refusal to patrol the poorer districts, claiming she wasn't going to die protecting worthless addicts and bums. Combined with her monthly requests to be moved to Cruorsolis or Sacred-Palm instead…

Well, it was an understatement to say that she hadn't exactly endeared herself to him.

"I can tell," Neriah said smugly. "You know I'm right."

Yr just sighed. "I hope you understand this isn't a victory, Neriah. It only means we've lost another comrade and we have to redivide the province again. That's more work for both of us and more lives that will be lost during breach events."

The younger woman's ears flushed abruptly red. "No, I know. I didn't mean…Or, I only wanted to—"

Yr raised an eyebrow.

"I only wanted...Well, I only thought you shouldn't make that face," she said in a huff, crossing her arms. "All…sad-like."

"Neriah, it's a funeral."

"I know that," she snapped. "I'm just saying. Reine's…I mean, all this still doesn't mean we're losing, got it? I'm here and you're here and that fuckin'…Pray— Brother Pure-Pray—,"

"Tofias," they supplied.

"Right, him. I mean, he's probably around here somewhere, or he'll be back anyday, so there's no need to worry, because Belhaven's going to be absolutely fine," Neriah insisted. By now, her face was totally scarlet, but she met Yr's gaze as gamely as she ever did, her amber eyes glinting.

If it hadn't been a funeral, if he didn't think his young coworker would have punched him in the face for it, Yr thought he might have laughed at the moment. As it was, he had to turn away and feign a cough to get away with the uncontrollable tickle at the corners of his mouth.

"What?" she demanded, craning her neck to eye Yr suspiciously.

"Nothing," they said, straight-faced. "Nothing. I believe you."

"Well. Good." She stuck out that sharp chin. "Now, stop looking all defeated, Love-Well. Let's go do what healthy adults do and drink about it instead. You can buy."

"I can buy?" He repeated in surprise, as he fell into step beside her. "And how did you come to that conclusion?"

"Well, seniority, of course. I mean, I'm only a young girl, a fresh-faced innocent. You ought to treat me."

"Oh, is that so."

"Of course it is. Anyway, don't all old people have a ton of money to waste? It's not like you've got a lady friend or anyone to spend it on, so— OUCH, fuck! That's workplace bullying!"

The house smelled overwhelmingly musty when Yr cracked open the front door, like dust and dead moths and old wood. Their nose wrinkled as they stepped over the threshold and emerged into a familiar foyer. The entrance and common area were mostly empty, as expected, though whether the furniture had been collected by Scholars or just plain looted was anyone's guess. Based on the lack of property damage, they were hopeful in the way of the former.

By the door, there was a long list of all the names that had ever lived in the house. Somewhere in the list, Yr discovered an Ira Candor, an Enoch Sing-Praises, a Tofias Pray-Pure, and at the very bottom, a Neriah Hope. He rubbed his thumb over their names, for no other reason than to feel the friction of it. Yes, they had lived here. They had all existed, once. He would remember them, even if no one else did.

The house itself remained a stranger to him as he ventured deeper inside. He had visited it numerous times across many years, though it had been in the stewardship of many different exorcists in that time and had been vastly different with each visit. Ira and Enoch had been frighteningly clean, so militant that Yr had always felt like a walking stain when he'd had to come over. Tofias had been of an average neatness — not sickeningly so. Sometimes when Yr came to meet about work, he would see the dining room table occupied by whatever task Tofias was working on: half-finished breach paperwork, or stacks of dog-eared textbooks, or dried tobacco he'd yet to roll into those floral cigarettes he was so fond of.

Neriah's version of the house had admittedly been an affront to everything Yr believed in, but it had been unabashedly and undoubtedly hers, which he wished he'd appreciated more when he was able to. Three identical pairs of those big clumsy boots she favored (soles all starting to peel) had always lived by the front door for her to trip over, the kitchen perpetually had dirty dishes soaking in the sink, and her piled-up laundry had nicely carpeted all four of the bedrooms she single-handedly occupied upstairs. He remembered the whole place always smelling so strongly of the incense she'd kept burning, the rooms made fragrant and stuffy thanks to her ardent refusal to crack any windows. Now, as Yr made his way up the stairs, he found himself noticing how the place looked more like a hollowed-out shell of what it had been before, all dust-coated and silent and empty.

The second floor was as empty as the first, each bedroom occupied only by the empty bunk bed frames. The rooms were originally built to accommodate two, which meant there would have been eight exorcists living here in the past. How long ago that must have been — he couldn't remember ever seeing an exorcist station fully occupied in all his years in the field.

According to his recollection, Neriah had favored the room at the far end of the hall, even though her possessions would inevitably wind up scattered all throughout. But she claimed to have liked the eastern-facing windows, for the idea of waking up with the sun. At the time, Yr had told her it didn't much matter when they were both usually awake and patrolling far before the sunrise, but she'd rebuffed him, insisting it was the idea of the thing.

He hadn't said it back then, but he'd liked it, too: the thought that one day Neriah would be able to sleep in long enough to have that kind of easy, sun-glazed morning. He'd pictured a cup of tea for her; a good book; toast with marmalade. A floppy-eared dog, which she'd always talked about wanting even though they'd both silently known that there wasn't any time to care for such a thing.

It had been a stupid dream. Neriah hated to read anyway; she said she'd never taken to it, even after all the blood, sweat, and tears the nuns had put into getting the letters in her head. But he'd wanted it for her. He'd wanted a lot of things for her, if he was honest with himself.

Letting the door to the bedroom close with a soft click, Yr instead drifted over to the ladder that led to the roof. It was the same in every exorcist station, positioned right between the linen closet and the bathroom, a simple set of rungs leading to a trapdoor. They climbed it with old practice, expertly wedging themself into the shaft and using an elbow to jimmy open the door.

Upon pulling themself up, they were immediately greeted by a bone-chilling wind, which ruffled their hair this way and that as they emerged onto the roof and hauled up to standing. From up here, the world laid itself before them in a beautiful sprawl — to the east, inner Belhaven and the far-off peak of Shining Heart's spire in the capital — to the west, endless green land and the barest strip of sparkling sea right under the horizon.

It was rare not to be on patrol at this time of day, and the indulgence did elicit a faint guilt in the pit of their stomach, hollow and sharp-clawed. But they had come to say their goodbyes, perhaps forever, and so they ignored it.

Overhead, the bottomless sky was beginning to lighten, degree by painstaking degree, and before their very eyes, the first glimpse of sun began to spill past the Blackcrest Mountains in the far distance. Yr stood still and watched as the horizon caught flame in slow-motion, transforming into a canvas of brilliant reds and oranges, with that glorious golden egg-yolk sun set like a showstopper diamond right at the center of it. Below their feet, the landscape was a basket of precious stones, the gilded facets of each building resplendent in the morning light.

It was very likely Yr would never see this view again. It was very likely that the summons from the Pope would carry him to his final rest. So he stared into the sun and let the light of the dawn burn tears into his eyes.

Good morning, Neriah Hope. Here's to you.

She'd received a proper burial. Yr had made sure of it, since no one else had been around to do it. If she had any family (she'd never mentioned when she was alive), none of them had contacted him, and they evidently weren't in Belhaven. So it had fallen to Yr — or more accurately, he had taken it upon himself — to ensure there was a service to honor his very last comrade. At the very least, he'd do for her what he hoped might one day be done for him by some charitable stranger.

In the special section in the cemetery for exorcists fallen in the line of duty, most of the headstones were more or less the same. Yr was well-acquainted with the formula, having attended enough funerals in the past five years for a lifetime. Something like:

Exorcist So-and-So

Beloved brother/sister/friend/cousin/niece

Died in service to Her Ladyship in the year XXX.

It was fine.

It was accurate, certainly. Honorable.

But Yr hadn't been able to imagine giving Neriah the same treatment, turning her into just another grave in the yard. No one else knew what she'd been, what she'd done. What would Yr have written, if they'd had full control of it?

Neriah Hope, exorcist.

Semper ad finem.

Or:

Neriah Hope, a right bitch.

Crass; ornery; terribly nice.

Hated goody-goodys. Wanted to be good.

Or:

Neriah Hope, hero.

Should have been looked after better.

Should have lived a long and lovely life.

Should have gotten her dog.

Should have, should have, should have.

In the end, they hadn't known what to write that wouldn't turn into a whole eulogy right there on the headstone. And so they settled for something simple, something to tie it all up. And when they'd attended the service (it had just been them alone, for Neriah was the prickly sort, and was too busy for friends anyway) it had felt alright.

In the garden adjoined to the main cemetery, beyond the Scholars' resting place, and the Angels' too, the latest headstone joined the legions in Exorcists' Green. Though there was no body entombed in the ground below, Yr knelt on the freshly-dug patch of earth before it and prayed.

In memory of Neriah Hope

A fearless exorcist

A dear friend

Someone had sent a carriage to pick him up, which Yr thought was a nice touch.

It was certainly nicer than sending a squadron of Angels to escort them in chains to Sacred-Palm, for they knew how tardiness always rankled the higher-ups. Honestly, how they'd gotten away with staying three days late at all was a minor miracle, and they did not find themself particularly begrudging this firm re-invitation from the church.

Yr spotted said re-invitation on their way back from Neriah's; indeed, it would have been very difficult not to, for it was waiting outside their house like a large, loyal hound, all rich cherrywood sides and massive, elegantly-spoked wheels and glaring brass hardware. The pair of midnight black steeds harnessed to the front were especially handsome, with ornate, jingling harnesses and immaculately groomed coats that some stableboy had doubtlessly slaved over for hours.

How very Sacred-Palm the whole picture was. How very unwelcome.

Yr slipped their hands in their pockets as they sidled up to it, squinting up at the driver, who seemed to be fast asleep on his perch. He must have dozed off when he discovered the exorcist he was after wasn't in residence.

After a brief moment to deliberate future methods of atonement, Yr selected their most chipper voice and declared at top volume, "Good morning, sir!"

It was a bit of a rude awakening for the poor fellow, who startled violently at the sound, floundered, nearly went careening off his seat, and then righted himself with a great deal of frantic arm-pinwheeling. Upon seeing Yr before him, his watery-blue eyes widened, darting quickly back and forth between the scarlet coat and Yr's expectant face like a spooked rabbit.

"Good morning!" the driver barked, when he had collected his bearings. He saluted for some reason Yr couldn't fathom, his voice loud enough to be quite ear-splitting. "Exorcist Yr Lykaios, I have been sent on behalf of His Grace the Most Exalted Throne of God, Pope Caritas the Fifth, to ferry you to the location of your emergency summons!"

"Yes," Yr said. "Obviously."

The driver blinked at him. Yr blinked back. The zealous salute dropped.

"Will you…" The driver coughed and his voice dropped to a regular volume. "Are you ready to depart, then?"

"My trunk is inside," Yr told him.

Proper sunlight was flooding the foyer as they let themself and the driver in. While the man began lugging away the single meager trunk Yr's belongings had been neatly compacted into, they filed back to the kitchen to fill a kettle and put it on to boil. Whistling, Yr dug through the bare cupboards until they found the (nearly empty) tin of black tea and a sticky jar of dwindling honey.

"Well," they said aloud to themself, peering into its golden depths. "I did mean to get to market."

It would be enough for two cups, at least, and they decided to be satisfied with that, separating the last of the tea leaves between two chipped blue mugs. As far as the earthenware Yr owned, nearly all of it was damaged in some fashion after many years of service, but there was never time to bother querying the higher-ups about it. They would have had to write and explain the damage and the expense and get a special amount sent just to cover it, and frankly, for the better part of the last six months, Yr had had enough else going on to not be arsed to do anything about it.

They poured the now-boiling water between the two cups and divided up the very last remnants of the honey, stirring to get it to dissolve. The first sip (simultaneously bitter and under-steeped) probably should have scalded, but Yr didn't flinch, too accustomed to the heat of divinity in his mouth.

"Is that all, sir?" the driver asked, reappearing in the doorway. His breathing was slightly labored. "Nothing else to load?"

"That's all." They indicated the steaming cup on the counter. "Tea?"

The driver shifted uneasily where he stood, his eyes darting back to the carriage. "Thank you, er, but I think it may not be wise. My orders really are…quite urgent."

"Of course. We need to go," Yr nodded. "I understand."

It was with a mild sort of disappointment that he took one last big gulp of tea, before dumping both cups out and rinsing them briskly. They would live forever on the towel beside the sink, at least until someone came to strip the house down the way Neriah's had been. Then they'd probably be judged too damaged for repurpose and be tossed into the garbage, which was a shame.

"Alright, then," Yr said, banishing their thoughts of doomed pottery. They cleared their throat and gestured toward the front door. "Lead the way."

They followed the portly man out of the house, ducking beneath the doorframe to emerge back into the light of day.

"I am sorry to rush you, sir," the driver said sheepishly, glancing back over his shoulder. "It's only that they gave me the order to hurry you over."

Yr shook his head. "It's alright. I didn't mean to keep you waiting, I'm afraid I didn't know to expect you."

The driver chuckled, reaching for the reins, and stepping back up to his perch. "Oh, no problem at all! Gave me time to pick up the other one."

"The other one?" they echoed, taken aback. Their brow furrowed. "No, you're mistaken. Tofias Pray-Pure has been gone from Belhaven for the last four years, he won't be—,"

"With all due respect," the driver interrupted patiently, "it wasn't any Tofias."

Wasn't any —

"Then who," they started to ask, yanking the cab door open.

And there, within the artfully-decorated interior of the carriage, their answer sat, wearing shining black oxfords and a pressed three-piece suit. At the fellow's feet was a scuffed leather briefcase, its bottom-left corner neatly monogrammed with the letters, D.K.; between his neatly-bandaged hands, a silver jackal-headed walking cane rested, its mouth perpetually stretched open in a wide canine grin.

"Good morning," greeted the owner of the cane, in a voice so soft it was barely there.

Yr noticed his eyes first, though there was the strangest feeling that he wasn't meant to. The irises were of a miscellaneous dark, some indistinct green or blue or hazel murk that seemed not to reflect a trace of light. His eyes themselves were ringed by the most astonishingly dark shadows he'd ever seen on a person, thin bluish veins visible through his translucent skin where they attempted to thread beyond the limits of his hollowed-out eye sockets and colonize his brow bones like creeping ivy. What an odd balance it gave his face, the ghostly complexion and the haunted eyes and the piercing, piercing intensity of that stare. Combined with the careful folded arrangement of limbs, the wretched jut of bones at the wrist, the jaw, the ankle, and the purpling nail beds, well... it was difficult to know what to make of him.

"Morning," Yr replied, after a second of pause. They sat down opposite their new companion, closing the cab door behind them. No red coat. Offering a smile they did not mean, they said, "Your pardon, but I don't think we've been acquainted."

"Oh, we haven't," the Jackal agreed softly. He tilted his head, his eyes shining just so.

There was a word for people like him, people with those crooked seesaw mouths and bloodshot scleras and melancholy sets to their jaws. Off-kilter. On most days, Yr considered himself unrattled by its effect. But this fellow smelled of a liberally-applied floral perfume, beneath which a subtle bitterness lay. Yr was no stranger to those acrid scents — laudanum and turpentine and camphor.

A doctor? Or a patient?

Perhaps both.

The Jackal's smile was meek, meek and mirthless. "But believe me when I say that I've been dying to meet you, Yr."

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