The Queen's Champion

Chapter 13

David presses his lips together as he sits, wishing for a cigarette. It’s been a week since his last one. But he can’t smoke in Trimble’s clinic, and he doesn’t have the energy to go outside.

Trimble had tried to kick all the men, including Anthony, out of the girls’ makeshift hospital room while treating their wounds, but David had refused. Wouldn’t take no for an answer. But Trimble doubled down on expelling him while they slept, on the basis of his genitalia. Ushered him into the side room where Anthony was sleeping again. Ricardo was also asleep in there, having gone on an anxiety-fueled cleaning rampage and had swept, dusted, and organized five of the six rooms on this floor, and had subsequently collapsed onto the couch. David predicts there will be floor scrubbing tomorrow. Everyone else has returned to their proper quarters, trusting the girls in Trimble’s care.

There was a second cot in the room Anthony, and now Ricardo, were sleeping in, open for him. David only lied down long enough to hear Trimble ascend the steps to his own apartment before he couldn’t stand to be in the room any longer.

Now he sits in front of the door to Lydia and Rose’s room, fumbling with his walking cane and hating himself. Periodically, he cracks the door open to do a head count. Joan, possessing anatomy that was apparently molester-incompatible, was allowed to stay with them. She snoozes on a chair between their heads, head tipped back and her arms wrapped around her midsection. Rose has fallen asleep by now-he’s thankful she was able to, as Trimble refused to give her morphine after discovering her pregnancy. She white-knuckled through her stitches and receiving blood-courtesy of Anthony and the Dressmaker, who knew they were compatible thanks to everyone testing their blood a few days earlier. Lydia really only woke once-asked where she was and if Rose was alright, mentioned that her face hurt and then rambled something about it being Maria’s bathtime. Trimble knocked her out so he could tend to her in peace. Her face would probably scar, but it could have been worse.

David listens to them breathe and tries to remind himself that everyone is safe now.

The things Rose had said to him...the wrappings, the claws, the husky voice that whispered something about rat meat when Rose threw her shoe at them. The eyes. She was terrified just telling him and he felt so awful making her recount it, but she gave him all the details she could remember. Wide-eyed and choking back tears. He wanted to tell her she was brave, that David would protect her, but the words had stuck in his mouth and Joan had to do it. She was surprisingly good at it. Held her hand and told her to rest easy because they were safe in here.

That’s right. They were all safe. He can’t fall into the trap of thinking otherwise.

David’s checked the security around the mill-all tall buildings with no roof access, alleyways and other points of entry boarded up or barricaded. The only possible way to get in from the ground was through the mall. Or over it, though David’s checked that too. You couldn’t get onto the roof without magic. They were safe from anyone who didn’t have wings. The mill is secure.

Dunwall Tower was supposed to be the most secure place in Gristol. The Emperor and his Royal Protector had assured him of that, that the princess would be very safe living there. The Empress was the highest protected person in the Empire, guarded by the best. Him. A paid assassin had still managed to sneak in and murder Sabrina with ease.

Well, they did have help. An insider, Delilah, who undoubtedly helped them get in and out undetected. He’ll have to find out how. Examine their security for weak spots.

The biggest threat to Sabrina came from someone close to her. Someone trusted. Without a doubt, the same will hold true for Anthony.

He can’t think of anyone on their team who would have an interest in seeing the conspiracy fail-but then he’s falling into the trap of trusting people. Any one of these people could turn on them, but until they do, David is rather committed to their safety. He doesn’t want anyone else getting hurt.

He wishes he could go wipe out Delilah tonight. Their troubles wouldn’t stop once they were in Dunwall Tower, but it would be better than this...whatever this transitional period was. He could get to work on Spymaster things. Re-do their security. Anthony could start actually trying to cure the plague, rather than the thumb-twiddling and hoping the problem will solve itself that Delilah seems to be doing.

He would, if it weren’t for this cursed injury.

His leg is better now, painful, but livable. Rose had joked that they matched now. But her wound was still fresh, still required the stitches to keep her from bleeding out. His looked weeks old, scarred over with little danger of the wound opening again. The source of his immobility was his back. And he knows how Sabrina would laugh at the fact that his old man back was keeping him down.

But he wasn’t crippled. Wasn’t entirely immobile. Maybe he wasn’t entirely useless.

David stands up, leaning against his cane just long enough to assure his balance, then continues on. He’d love to just ditch the thing, but he knows he can’t. Not yet.

It’s the first time taking stairs by himself since he was injured, and David finds himself kneeling on a step halfway between the second and third floor, waiting for the pain in his back to die down. He thinks that maybe sitting would help, but once he sat, he knows he won’t be able to get up again. Not alone. And he refuses to call for Joan’s help. He’s f*****g David. He can climb a few steps.

‘A thousand lives,’ Sabrina whispers. ‘A thousand choices, all converged onto one wounded body.’ She pauses, a small, sad laugh coloring her words. ‘One wounded mind.’

And wasn’t he the lucky soul.

David looks past the door to Trimble’s apartment with Void Gaze. True to his prediction, it’s booby-trapped with a mess of cans and glass bottles tied together and draped over the handle. He can see Trimble snoozing away in a bedroom off to the side, but the trap would wake him. There was no deadbolt, however.

Flicking out his little switchblade he’s started carrying around since Anthony confiscated his real weapons, David shoves the blade into the jamb and jiggles until the lock comes undone. He raises his hand to Slow Time as he twists the handle, grimacing against the burn. His magic works like a second set of muscles. He hasn’t used them in a week, and it hurts.

The noise trap jangles as he forces his way in, but he has the door closed and the trap silenced before a second has passed to an outsider’s senses. In his bed, Trimble snorts and rolls over. None the wiser.

His apartment is ridiculously immaculate. Not just that it’s clean-it’s neatly organized, furniture at perfect angles, workstations set up to neatly flow. Books and papers in straight little piles. His strange machines practically shimmer in the rays of moonlight that leak in through the window boards.

Where the hell did he find time to keep this place so clean? He knew Trimble didn’t allow any of the servants into his quarters to clean. David didn’t at Dunwall Tower, but it showed. His quarters were always a mess. He kept his area above pigsty-levels of filthiness himself, but he would have figured Trimble thought himself above such lowly tasks. And anyway, who f*****g cared how things looked if he never had visitors?

Freak.

David pauses to consider for a moment. Trimble was too paranoid to keep the kind of information he was looking for out in the open. No, this would take a little more effort.

He blinks and allows Void Gaze to activate once again. It’s becoming increasingly useful, so honed that he can see the bits and baubles that lie within Trimble’s kitchen drawers, the hidden safe behind a particularly ugly painting of a whaling trawler. And in his bedroom, under his pillow, David spots a little book.

Trimble’s door is locked as well, but there’s no trap on this one. David cracks it open and approaches the bed on tiptoes. He was always a good pickpocket-his fast hands were what attracted the Actor, after all. So it’s no trouble at all to reach down and slide the leather-bound journal out from under Trimble’s head, sneak out of the room and shut the bedroom door behind him.

Back out in the living area, David lights a whale oil lamp with a book of matches he finds in Trimble’s kitchen. Sure enough, this notebook contains Trimble’s musings on the conspiracy, specific people, everything. Little files with dirt on certain members, plans and recipes for strange elixirs and poisons. In a few places, sheets of paper are shoved between the pages, laden with overflow words that didn’t fit into the section allotted for it.

His handwriting slants to the right, letters uniform. Embarrassingly neat. Nobody who wrote this pretty had nothing to hide.

He starts with Anthony’s file first, just to ensure Trimble doesn’t have anything malevolent up his sleeves for him. But it’s mostly observations on his demeanor, noting his high perception and intelligence. He does confirm that Anthony has nerve damage in his arm, though he doesn’t specify why he chose to hide that information from him and David. Anthony will likely never regain full control of his hand. Trimble notes a necessity for a dedicated assistant at Dunwall Tower, which strikes David as odd. It wasn’t as if Anthony would never be able to write-he’s relearned how to take care of himself with his non-dominant hand, and while his handwriting would never win any awards, he’d get better.

Did Trimble expect to be Anthony’s assistant? Sabrina had several, to help with inane tasks and her mountains of paperwork so she could turn her attention to other matters. More important matters, more worthy of the Empress’s attention. Her assistants had little power on their own. He would assume Trimble would find that boring and a waste of his talents.

There’s a paragraph noting Anthony’s attachment to David, citing it ‘problematic’ and ‘incestuous’, which set off a whole new round of what the f**k in David’s head. One line crossed out, so intensely David can’t read the original words. Next to it, Trimble writes that Anthony’s blood is too dissimilar to David’s, that it’s impossible for them to be biologically related. David resists the urge to pen in ‘no f*****g s**t’ next to it. Trimble remarks that it could be useful information in the future.

Because he’s a selfish prick, David looks himself up next. He’s surprised at how much is written. More than Anthony.

His injuries are listed, even the ones David sustained before coming here. Trimble makes note of his missing teeth, the scar on his cheek. Mentions his hairline and his few grey roots-David thinks he might be jealous, as Trimble is about his age and David can’t even tell what color his hair was originally.

The magic is only spoken about briefly, citing a need to downplay his injuries to cover up the healing factors of the Mark. Trimble notes a page number where his observations on magic will be extrapolated on further. That’s the word he uses. Extrapolate. Who uses that kind of vocabulary in their own personal journal? David rolls his eyes and turns the page.

The next bit makes him grit his teeth, bite down the angry fluttering feeling in his stomach before he keeps on reading.

Familiar background is unclear, David avoids all mentions of his parents. Due to his knowledge of the arcane, the theory that his mother was a witch seems plausible. The rumors of her being a Pandyssian native are likely false. I cannot pinpoint a certain ethnicity for David, but he does not have the appearance of a continental.

He had always been so, so much lighter than his mother. She could have passed for Sabrina’s mother more easily than his. He used to wonder how she could love him, with a face that looked nothing like hers.

So I cannot determine whether aspects of his personality are due to his biological nature or of his surroundings. Without any sort of ancestry to pull from, I’m left making what I will from personal observations.

Possible borderline personality disorder, exhibits traits of petulant borderline with some self-destructive tendencies. He exemplifies many negativistic traits, leading me to believe he has some sort of passive-aggressive disorder as well as self-defeating, of the possessive type.

Obvious PTSD, characterized by rapid side-to-side eye movement when discussing his work or the regicide. He’s frequently irritable, though it’s unclear if he’s always been like that. Distrustful and paranoid to a fault. Lord Anthony has concerns over his reckless behavior, and has reported David has frequent nightmares in which he invokes the name of the dead Empress and thrashes about violently.

So Anthony has been squealing on him now? A year ago, David would have words with that boy. Now he can’t really bring himself to be angry. No, he just feels guilty for making Anthony worry about him. He’s already lost his sister. He doesn’t need to deal with David’s bullshit.

The Empress’s death and his subsequent imprisonment are obvious sources of trauma, but if some of the rumors from the Tower are true, David has lived with symptoms for a long time. Possibly some sort of childhood trauma. Without his cooperation, I may never know.

No, he’s never going to know. f**k him for trying to psychoanalyze people. David hated people who did that s**t.

He’s unbearably protective of the young Emperor. I cannot tell if he knows Anthony is not his true son. Nor can I tell if his attachment to him is similar to that he had of the young Empress. David’s obsession with the Empress is well-documented, and he becomes increasingly agitated whenever her name is brought up, and outright combative if someone suggests he was behind her murder. I would assume his denial is out of guilt or regret, but Lord Anthony backs up his version of events. I haven’t thrown out the possibility of the young Lord having an unreliable memory, but their stories are consistent without input from each other. I have no choice but to believe that the assassination was truly carried out by a third party at this point in time.

Strangely, David doesn’t seem to exhibit any sociopathic or psychopathic traits. He seems able to care for others, such as Lord Anthony and Elizabeth Hat, though he does not exhibit a great capacity for empathy. I have not ruled out that his attachment to certain individuals might be out of a sense of possession than true affection-in fact, it seems likely this is at least partially the case. I cannot speak for his moral compass, but then, such a thing is hardly black and white. His cold demeanor seems to be due to repressing his emotions rather than a complete lack of them.

I will have to observe David more closely, and hopefully build up a rapport with him. Earning the young Emperor’s trust will be impossible without his support. Being one of the few people knowing he bears the Outsider’s Mark gives me sway over him, but I must be careful in how I use that power. David is an incredibly dangerous man. Our past targets are perfect examples of what happens to one who earns his ire, and I am not keen to be on that list.

Ugh.

David rolls his eyes as he starts paging for the next person’s file. Anthony is far too smart to ever trust a weasel like Trimble. He’d sense his bullshit a mile away.

And if not, well, David could always take care of it.

‘There will always be conflict,’ Sabrina whispers in his ear. ‘Always a lust for power, the greedy rising above to take what is theirs. They only see what they reach to take, and they intend to take everything in sight.’

“All that wanting,” David whispers. “And there’s nothing I wouldn’t give to bring you back, just for a moment.” He grips the Talisman tight, imagining it’s her hand. He wishes to go back to that dream. To touch her face, to feel her hair under his fingertips again. “I know there was so much you wanted to do. Anthony and I will see it through. We’ll fix Dunwall. For you.”

‘I see Dunwall falling to the rats, into hatred and corruption. I see darkness befalling my Empire.’ She laughs, a sad and empty sound. ‘If only it were not so.’

It won’t be so. David will change. He’ll see through the change she wanted.

For Sabrina. So she can rest easy.

David leafs through the rest of the files, browsing for anything incriminating. He finds out Thalia has asthma and Jerome has a blood clotting disorder, which is interesting. Rose has been hastily added in, just to record her pregnancy. Trimble guesses she’s in her fifth or sixth month, and David thinks on how he could just...ask her. Rose would probably have a f*****g clue how long it’s been. He still gets her name wrong.

The file on Joan mentions burning her letters to her father during the gang war, and writing new ones in their place so old Hat wouldn’t get suspicious. Part of David wants to see these letters just to see how Trimble managed to butcher his handwriting enough to imitate Joan’s-the other part is only disgusted. He writes on how her stubborn survival ruined his plans for the Hatters, and how her blatant refusal to revive her father’s gang incenses him. But he remarks that she’s currently useful.

Trimble also has to get a paragraph in about the apparent f*****g David and Joan are doing. David finds out that he gave Joan an experimental birth control shot, which enrages him like no other the moment he reads the words. It’s insulting enough to insinuate that he only cares about Joan because he wants to stick his d**k in her-he’s not f*****g Joan, but even if he was, he certainly wouldn’t want children with her. Joan would certainly feel the same way. But it’s not about that. He’s angry Trimble felt so entitled to mess with Joan’s body, like she f*****g belonged to him.

He’s so pissed about it he wants to throw the book away, but he forces himself to skim through the rest of the pages. Nothing more of interest, really-medical terminology and whatnot that he couldn’t hope to parse. The section on David’s abilities tells him nothing he didn’t know already-there’s plenty David could add to it, but he’s not giving Trimble any more to work with.

David snoops through Trimble’s work area before he returns the journal. A few dissected rats-which are gross, by the way-and colored liquids in bottles and beakers. They’re all labeled with strange combinations of upper-case letters and numbers. David hasn’t a clue what they all mean.

He wishes he did. He would have loved to attend a real school, or even the Academy. As Royal Protector, he wasn’t technically required to sit in on Sabrina’s lessons, but he often did so anyway. He liked it. He liked watching her curious mind at work, feeling proud and a little bitter that he hadn’t been able to give her this, but he also just liked learning for himself. It was often difficult keeping up, as Sabrina’s lessons moved along rather quickly and he wasn’t the student, but he’d study her textbooks and read her own notes to better understand. All at night, because Sabrina would try to help him if she knew he was trying to learn as well, and he didn’t want to slow her down. He never admitted it to her or Anthony, but much of the time, David felt embarrassingly stupid.

There are a few syringes, lined up in a drawer, that have the words ‘Stimulation Package’ written on them. David skims over the sheet of paper inside, trying to make sense of the recipe. Calcium and s**t, things that helped with bone growth. Bone.

This was what Trimble had used on Joan, when she broke her rib. It hadn’t healed it instantly, and David’s Bond had certainly helped, but…

Biting his lip, David picks up one of the syringes. Hopefully Trimble wouldn’t notice one missing, or would just assume he miscounted the last time he took stock.

He lines the tip of the needle at the base of his neck. The cold metal touching his skin makes his chest tighten something painful, and David has to pause. He doesn’t take the needle away, though, or else he’ll run out of nerve. This would be far easier if he had someone doing it for him. But he knows whoever he wakes up would likely object to this, saying he shouldn’t be taking things Trimble hasn’t prescribed.

But Trimble doesn’t understand. No one here does, that David is a goddamn drain on their resources. That he needs to be doing s**t about their situation. He can’t just sit around and think about it. That he can’t...he can’t do this anymore.

There’s blood in his mouth. In his anxiety, David bit his tongue. He grabs something cylindrical and wooden and shoves it between his teeth. He has no idea what it’s supposed to be, but hopefully Trimble won’t miss its presence. Then he raises his hand up again, lines the needle up with his vertebrae and begins pushing down on the plunger.

The pain is immediate. It’s a hardness that spreads down his spine, like his muscles are becoming bone and his bones are turning to rock. It forces the air out of his lungs, and it’s all David can do to bite down and hold back his scream.

When he’s done, his arms are shaking. He removes the needle and tries not to shudder at the sound it makes when it leaves his flesh. The heat has set in, like his bones are red-hot pokers and burning him from the inside out. His back is beginning to sweat. He spits out the piece of wood and shoves some cotton into his bleeding mouth.

David chokes down the pain long enough to slip Trimble’s journal back under his pillow, collect his s**t and exit out the door in the same manner he entered. Then he goes and lays on his cot until morning, trying to bite back his moans of pain.

David is in the garden again. The patio at Dunwall Tower, amidst the rose bushes and lavender.

This occurs nearly every night now. He’s brought back to that day, with his powers and memories and all his knowledge intact. Given free will.

Every night, Sabrina is returned to him. And every night David wants nothing more than to hold her in his arms, to marvel at her breathing and her beating heart. But he never has time to spare, so every night he has to swallow that hole in his chest that just keep widening with time. Every night he has to lead her away, fight her assassins, save her.

And every night, she dies.

David’s tried any number of tactics. Running to retrieve the guard before they can get too far away, telling Sabrina to run while he stays behind. Pushing her down and covering her with his body, refusing to move.

It never works. David returns to the pavilion with back-up only to find Sabrina eviscerated, sees her take a bullet to the head in full view of her guards. Pulled off her and made to watch as the Rat King brings his heel down on Sabrina’s neck and crushes her throat, like squashing a bug.

They can never do the kind thing and just kill him first either. They always take pains to ensure that David lives, that he watches her die. And that’s only when the nightmare ends. When her heart stops beating, David will wake up back in Draper’s Ward, that summer day fading into the freezing Month of Ice. Remembering he’s only here because he failed that day, and now he failed again.

Still, David can’t allow it to dissuade him. There has to be some way to save her, something he’s missed all these times.

And even if not, he has to try. He owes this to her. Sabrina, who’s extended her meager existence to help him, deserves all the effort in the world. Even if he repeats this exercise every night for the rest of his life, it couldn’t begin to compare to what he’s putting her through.

If he fails, it’s penance. He doesn’t know what success would mean.

Sabrina smiles at him. David swallows the lump in his throat and draws his sword.

“Hey, Joan?”

Joan turns with her cheeks puffed out like a chipmunk. She makes a face as she finishes chewing and swallows, swiping the back of her hand over her mouth. “What the f**k is up?”

Jerome stands in front of their table, looking rather nervous about the fact. “I hate to bother you guys, but the Dressmaker heard some noises coming from the sewers this morning. We’re pretty sure it’s just a weeper, but…”

“You want me to go down and deal with it.”

“Kinda, yeah.” Jerome grins sheepishly. “We’d ask David, but…”

“I’m right here.” David grunts.

Anthony glares him down over the rim of his coffee cup. “But you’re not supposed to be,” he chastises. “You’re supposed to be in bed.”

“David’s not supposed to be doing s**t,” Jerome affirms. “Not until Trimble gives him the all-clear. So can you take care of it, Catspaw? Preferably soon.” He rocks a bit on his heels. “We want to get it done before Reed finds out and flips a lid. You know kids.”

Joan sighs and knocks back her morning whiskey. “Yeah, yeah, I’ll take care of it later. Can I finish my breakfast first?”

David leans forward after Jerome leaves, keeping his voice low. “You’re taking me with you, right?”

“What?” Joan’s face screws up in disgust. “No, old man. I can handle this by myself. I’m a big girl, you know.”

“You’re still hurt, David.” Anthony stares him down.

David rolls his eyes. “I feel great. I’m totally healed. ”

It was amazing what two days with Trimble’s special stimulus package could do. The first twelve hours or so were agony, feeling his muscles knit back together and his bones regrowing at an accelerated pace, but it’s been practical bliss since. David still hurts, of course, but the pain is manageable, the kind he can grit his teeth at and continue on without collapsing and freaking everyone else out. He’s been able to take the stairs by himself.

He’s doing his best to resume his normal schedule, whatever that is now. The girls are still in the infirmary, but they seem to entertain each other pretty efficiently. David was there once to drop off some books, but he had to cut his visit short as the smell of alcohol and bleach made him feel physically sick.

With both his tutor and his friend stuck in hospital beds, Anthony has little to do as well. He spends a lot of time with David, which is nice, but it makes David feel guilty. Anthony should be off doing teenager things, not entertaining his old-ass Protector.

Joan’s taken to joining them at the table Anthony usually takes lessons at. She claims it’s because they look so pathetic, sitting over here by themselves. David thinks she’s fighting with Edgar. He hasn’t seen them so much as exchange a word with each other since the night of the attack. Part of him wants to ask, but he and Joan aren’t that type of friend.

Really, he doesn’t think Joan has friendships like that. David doesn’t either.

Joan rolls her eyes in response and shoves her fork into her mouth. “I don’t need help. I can take care of one damn weeper.”

David sits back, tries to let her be, but he still internally goes over it. “How are you going to get into the sewers?”

Joan gives him an odd look. “There’s an entrance outside, by the water wheel?”

He’s never looked too closely. The only time he’s ever even thought about that area was to worry about Reed falling. But Reed watches where he steps and there are no other children around, so David sort of forgot about it.

“There is?”

“Yep. And in the basement. We lost the combination to that one though, so it’s shut up for good. Lock outsmarted us.” She starts tearing apart her slice of bread. “Trimble has the key to the door outside, so I’ll get it from him.”

How the hell had David missed that? He knew about the basement-but it’s been shut up since he got here. He didn’t know it connected to the sewer. How f*****g stupid of him. Here he is trying to keep Anthony secure and protected, and all the while there was a second point of entry to their hideaway that he didn’t even know about. That can’t fly.

It makes him slightly relieved to know there’s a way to evacuate, though. If the mill were breached, they could escape out the sewers. If only they could make that door one-way.

After Joan leaves, David scoots his chair closer to Anthony and speaks lowly. “Have you talked to the girls about the attack?”

Anthony shakes his head. “Lydia doesn’t want to talk about it. Rose said you questioned her…”

“I did.”

They stare at each other, stoic and scared. Finally, Anthony leans forward and speaks in a whisper. “Do you think it was the Butcher?”

David presses his lips together. “I don’t know,” he answers truthfully.

It would be almost easier to say it was the Butcher. David doesn’t want to consider the fact that there are two-sorry, three-prolific serial killers on the loose. Simpler if they could blame it all on the Butcher.

But then Delilah would have had to send them. It makes his skin crawl, the thought of the Butcher poking around so close, the possibility of Delilah knowing where they are. But the attack happened outside the mill. Whether the assailant had known people were hiding here or not, they hadn’t been looking for Anthony. They would have tried to get inside if that were the case.

He could believe it was the Butcher if they had targeted Rose first. The Coppers were witches. Delilah had taken her brother captive and she was actively hiding from Abele-it would make sense for Delilah to set the Butcher on her. To either silence her or keep her from using her magic against Delilah in the future.

But they hadn’t. Their target was Lydia. And Delilah was fairly neutral with the Boyles. Actually, they were one of the untouchable families, in thanks both to their wealth and their relationship with Prime Minister Burrows. There was no reason for Delilah to want Lydia killed.

Those things didn’t add up, but there were still enough similarities to make David nervous. Rose describing the figure as almost animalistic. The claw marks on her leg and Lydia’s face, when the Butcher was known for tearing people apart with their bare hands.

And there was David’s dream, the eyes that matched up so closely to what Rose had seen. It left him no doubt it was the same person. And he’s remembering those red lips, distinctly feminine. Lydia told him the Butcher was probably a woman. Not that David thought it was a ridiculous notion like Jerome seemed to-he’s seen Joan work, watched his female guards in action, been on the end of some of Sabrina’s attacks, so David knows a woman would certainly be capable of it-but Jerome did have a point. Men and women had different patterns to their killing sprees. A female serial killer, displaying this level of barbarism, was unusual.

It was too weird. David didn’t know what to think of it.

Anthony looks down. “I told them they shouldn’t leave without an escort now. They’ll bring Paul or somebody along, if they need to go somewhere.”

“That’s good, but that’s not why I brought it up.” David fidgets with his thumbs. Female, murderous, close to Delilah. It was like looking for a needle in a haystack. “I know this is an awkward question to ask, but can you name any of Sabrina’s other lovers?”

Anthony makes a face. “Can you not call them that?”

“Sorry. Other women. Possibly ones she met through Delilah.”

“Not a whole lot.” Anthony shrugs. “You’d know most of them, Lady Bellacor and Countess Marriott...”

“Those were hook-ups.” David takes a drink, wishing it were alcohol. “Were there any other long-term relationships?”

Anthony shakes his head. “If she had them, she hid it pretty well. You know she didn’t like talking about her love life.”

Yeah. She was so good at hiding it, David didn’t even notice the teenaged Empress f*****g her Spymaster.

Anthony taps his fingers against the table, his mouth set in a line. “I can’t think of anyone else who would hold a grudge.”

He didn’t think the Butcher, or their masked assailant, was truly a scorned lover. But Delilah had used s*x to weedle into Sabrina’s trust. She could have very well sent another witch to do the same. And that’s where they might find their needle.

The thought enters his brain like a bullet. “She’s not the only Kaldwin. Doesn’t Delilah have siblings?”

Anthony nods very slightly and sips his coffee. “She had two. A brother who died at birth, and a sister her age. Half brother and sister, actually.”

He remembers that Delilah wasn’t the original Kaldwin heir. She was a bastard, like Sabrina, but unlike Sabrina, her father was married. Euhorn Kaldwin had an extramarital affair that had resulted in Delilah. Scandalous in a different way than a dismissed gardener giving birth to the Emperor’s heiress behind a dumpster.

“Is her sister older than her?” Not that it mattered. Her sister was born of Euhorn’s wife, and would therefore be his primary heir, unless he specified otherwise. David’s just trying to establish the facts in his head, get a story in order before he starts cobbling together theories.

Anthony coughs. “I don’t remember.”

“Where is she? Why haven’t I seen her at court?”

“She was…” Anthony stares at him oddly. “She’s dead, David.”

David blinks. “When did that happen?”

“Like, a decade ago? A year after her father died.”

He remembers that part. Euhorn had died literally three weeks after they came to Dunwall Tower. He was in rather poor health already, but he had made the effort of getting to his feet and bending to kiss Sabrina’s hand. Kindly. Besides the ball where she was presented, his funeral was the first state function she attended as Crown Princess. He remembers how out of place she felt. Dress and full petticoat, shoes that pinched her feet, her hair straightened with irons and woven into a braid that had nearly reached her waist. People had stared at her. Some cornered her and questioned her on her political knowledge and ideology until she ducked away and ended up hiding behind some drapery, crying.

Euhorn’s daughter, though? David tries to remember, but there was so much going on at the time. All the preparations going into getting an Empress fit to rule, David becoming her official Protector, the Emperor’s death and Sabrina’s coronation-and all the day-to-day crises and bullshit that happened in between.

“What was her name again?”

“Catriona. She was really nice.”

It’s foggy, but the picture is starting to come together. He can remember a woman sitting at Euhorn’s place in court, taking control of his parliamentary votes. Slim, shorter than Delilah, hair so dark it was almost black. She was there when Sabrina took over court after her father became too sick. And she was there for the first session Sabrina conducted officially as Empress. David can’t remember if they ever even spoke. If she disliked Sabrina, or what she was capable of.

Where had Delilah been, when her sister was around? He had seen her a few times before she rallied to become Spymaster, but he never even heard her name in the early days of Sabrina’s rule. It was like she hadn’t existed before she took her sister’s place at court. There’s something, about Delilah disappearing for a year or so, that sounds familiar. Vanished without prompt and popped up again without explanation. Dunwall being Dunwall, people said she had a child. Knowing Delilah, David guesses she was studying witchcraft.

Anthony continues to stare at him. “We went to Catriona’s funeral, David, don’t you remember?”

“You would have been seven, I wouldn’t have taken you to a state funeral.”

“I remember being there.”

“You might be thinking of a memorial service.” David shakes his head. He doesn’t remember either. There had been so many funerals.  Most of them old, greying men who were rather rude and full of themselves anyway, so it was hard to mourn them. But David feels like he should have remembered the funeral of a pretty young woman, only a decade older than his Sabrina.

“Maybe,” Anthony shrugs. “Both their mothers were dead by then, so Delilah was the only Kaldwin left. She played up the orphan angle a lot.”

“Hmm.” Sounded like her. “How did her sister die?”

“Oh, it was a huge scandal,” Anthony says, too excitedly for the context. Anthony has never been a bad gossip but, well, he’s always been a gossip. “Her and her bodyguard were sleeping together. She started receiving suitors, and I guess he got jealous.”

“He killed her.” The words feel like sand in his mouth.

Anthony nods grimly. “He hacked her to death with his sword. No, I was totally at her funeral, because I remember her coffin being closed the whole time.”

David mulls on it while Anthony takes a long drink.

“Delilah brought it up a few times,” Anthony says, his eyes far away. “The irony. How her sister was murdered by a jealous lover, and then the same fate befalls the love of her life.”

“Delilah didn’t love her,” David mumbles.

“I know.” Anthony looks down. “I knew that then, too.”

But she still had to sell the story. And what a tragic backstory it made.

At least he knows where she got her ideas. It showed Delilah wasn’t quite as imaginative as she liked to think. Arranged for Sabrina to share the same fate as her half-sister, have David play the role of Catriona’s bodyguard. And he wouldn’t put it past Delilah to have orchestrated her sister’s murder as well. From the start, he knew this was a game Delilah was familiar with playing. The pieces would fall exactly the way she already knew they would.

Except David wasn’t meant to become a weapon, honed against her. That part didn’t fall into place.

“And the bodyguard? You’re sure it was a man?” Anthony nods, but that proves nothing. “I’m guessing he was sent to prison?”

“He died.” Anthony says neutrally. “He committed suicide after killing her. Jumped into the ocean. They never found his body.”

How...ironic.

Every part of this, every facet of Sabrina’s execution was perfectly planned out for maximum emotional impact. To draw parallels, to make Delilah all the more sympathetic.

It was extremely poetic, and entirely fake.

A door slams open at the end of the room, and bare feet slap across the floor.

“Move.” Joan twists to avoid Gerald, standing and staring at her with befuddlement. “Out of the way. Hey, hey David!”

She skids to a stop, slapping one hand against the table and the other on David’s shoulder. “Heeeey.” She grins cheesily at Anthony. “I need to borrow David for just a quick moment, we’ll be right back!”

“What do you need him for?” Anthony raises an eyebrow. “David is supposed to be on bedrest.”

“Nothing like that, Anthony, I just need to talk with him about a thing.” She tugs on his shirt. “Some adult business, about our jobs.”

David blinks at her before picking up his cup and sipping the last of his coffee. Joan pulls him out of his seat and he has to quickly gulp the contents down and slam the coffee cup back onto the table before Joan pulls him away entirely.

“We’ll see you later, Anthony, bye!” She turns to David, her smile falling off her face as she hisses. “David, you motherfucker, we got ourselves a situation.”

David leans over as he breathes. In and out. He tries not to clue Joan in to his panic, but she’s still looking at him with more sympathy than sarcasm.

“You’re sure?” he says at last, once he thinks he can speak without the gasping the words. Joan throws her hands up in the air.

“You think I’d come at you like that if I wasn’t sure?!”

“But-” David places a hand on the brick wall, trying to remind himself where he is. “How did they find us?”

“That’s why I needed your f*****g help,” Joan says in a low, angry voice. “I killed two of them, but they mentioned others. I wasn’t about to ask.”

“You hid the bodies, right?”

“No, David, I propped them up on chairs and left them to have a tea party with their murder friends!” Joan’s sugary smile drops off her face, and she crosses her arms. “Of course I hid the bodies. Though the rats did most of the work.”

Gross. But efficient.

“And you’re sure they’re-”

“Yes, David, I’m f*****g sure they’re witches!” she shrieks, then looks around in a panic. The mill yard is deserted, however, so they’re in no danger of being heard. “I mean,” she lowers her voice. “The were dressed exactly how everyone says. No underclothes or...just underclothes. Fancy hats. Flowers.”

Flora and a penchant for improperly dressing themselves. Definitely matched every description of Delilah’s coven they’ve heard.

David bites back the bile in his throat.

“I mean, it looked like they were just poking around…” Joan kicks a pebble with her bare toe.  “Might be a coincidence.”

“I consider the word ‘coincidence’ to be profanity, along with ‘astrology’.”

“Has anyone ever told you that you’re full of s**t?”

David sighs and leans back against the wall. Joan hovers in front of him, uncertainly.

“Uh, David? Are you having a heart attack or something?”

“I’m not quite that old, Joan.”

She shrugs. “You just look pale. Even for your pasty ass.”

David gives himself to the count of ten to f*****g collect himself and stand up, shoulders squared and swinging his arms to loosen his sedentary muscles. “Okay. So I guess we’re going to go kill some witches.”

“You sure?” Joan raises an eyebrow. “You don’t look ready to-”

“If you don’t think I can do this, then why did you come to me, Joan?”

She opens her mouth, but then looks away with a huff. “I thought you’d have a better f*****g idea!”

David isn’t an idea guy. He’s a doer.

“We need to seek out those witches and find out why they’re here, by any means necessary.” The words rise up like knives in his throat, and David finds himself focusing on Joan’s semi-webbed toes. “Then we shut them up for good.”

His heart seems to pang as if someone’s ringing it like a bell, and against his own will he presses his hand against it as he breathes.

Joan grabs him by the shoulder and turns him to face her. “I’m on board with that. But if we go down there like this-” She jabs him in the chest. “You are going to f*****g die.”

He pushes her hand away. “I’m not going to die.”

“I’m not hauling your body back through the sewers, old man.”

“I’ll be fine,” he says. “I just need some painkillers.”

“You’re not going like this.”

“Obviously not. I’ll need my weapons.”

David turns and makes for the mill. Anthony had hidden his supplies, but David has back-ups. He’ll have to find something else to wear though; Jerome is still trying to salvage his armored coat.

Joan jogs to keep up with him. “I’m really not going to talk you out of this, am I?”

“Nope.”

“I can get you painkillers,” she says. “Kept a stash in my room ever since my immune system tried to kill me. But don’t be stupid about it all, okay?”

“Joan,” he turns to her, keeping his face as blank as possible. “Have you ever known me to make stupid decisions?”

She stares at him dully. “You really want me to answer that?”

They sneak up the stairs, mostly trying to avoid Anthony but also anyone else who might tell on them. David lets Joan trail behind him into the attic while he makes a beeline for his chest of drawers.

“You know, I felt bad for you when they first gave you this room, but now that it doesn’t smell like dust and rat s**t, it’s actually pretty cozy up here.”

“It’s fine.” David starts rummaging through his drawers. He actually quite likes it up here, this little space he shares with Anthony. “Do you have some clothes I can borrow? Something with a little more protection?” He goes to take his shirt off, but winces as the motion pulls on his still-healing muscles.

He feels hands on the shirt, and Joan pulls the fabric over his head. “Don’t think anything of mine will fit you,” she says as she grabs his underarmor. “We can roll up the sleeves on one of Edgar’s coats, see how that works. Wear your own pants, though. You do not want to know what’s happened in that boy’s pants.”

“Noted.” It’s f*****g weird, to have Joan help him dress, but he knows she’ll get pissy if he tries to thank her for it. He only needs help with his shirt, thankfully. Can change into a more durable pair of pants by himself. Bends over and changes his socks, shoves his feet into his work boots, which were mercifully spared most of the flames. It would suck to have to use the pair of boots that he wore around base, warm but not at all sturdy.

“You said Tommy-boy confiscated your equipment, right?” Joan asks once he’s finished dressing himself.

David nods and gets to his feet. “Yeah, but I kept a few holdouts. I like having a plan B.”

He pulls one of his desk drawers open, only to be greeted by the grainy, wooden bottom. Empty. He had two pistols in here, a pack of sleep darts and extra bullets, and a grenade. Not exactly an armory, but enough to dispatch a few intruders if he was away from his multi-pocketed coat. Now it’s all gone.

“Take your stash?” He can hear her grin in her voice, but David just grumbles and slams the drawer shut.

“Sure I can find where he’s hidden it all…”

“Don’t bother for now. You can take my wristbow-I got a pistol, I like the big booms anyway.” She shrugs. “Think we can ‘borrow’ someone’s blade for a few hours.”

“Not necessary.” David turns to the table they set up in the corner, with Sabrina’s hairpin and the coin with her face on it. The candle that David lit every morning and they kept burning for her all day.

David carefully slides the sword he stole at Coldridge from the set-up. Anthony wouldn’t touch it. Would think David had the integrity not to, either.

Joan raises an eyebrow. “I was going to ask about this, but I figured it might be a touchy subject.”

“It is.” David digs around his drawers of junk for the scabbard the blade was in originally, tying it to his belt. Joan hovers behind him uncertainly.

“Do you...want to talk? About her?” Joan shrugs. “Not right now, of course. Like, later. After we get drunk.”

“I don’t drink, and this is not a conversation I’m willing to have right now,” David states simply, then turns on his heel and walks away.

Joan pauses, but after a moment, he hears her bare feet against the floor. “Well...good. Nobody likes crybabies.”

A few minutes later, they’re in Joan and Edgar’s little bunkhouse. David swallows a few pills from Joan’s morphine stash while he watches her pawn through Edgar’s disorganized possessions, looking for his Navy coats. David knows exactly where they are due to his spying sessions, but he doesn’t inform Joan of this.

“He had one with plates in it…” She mumbles as she works. “He got shot in the chest once with it on. Bullet literally ricocheted right off.”

“Sounds heavy.” David doesn’t like heavy. He needs to be light, fast. Wouldn’t need to worry about surviving injuries if he never got hit.

Joan makes an annoyed sound. “Yeah. He hated wearing it, even after it saved his life.”

Joan’s not one to talk. She complains about their bulky coat and clingy underarmor constantly. She’d probably fight wearing nothing but a camisole if she had it her way.

“You’re wearing the boots I bought for you, Catspaw.” It’s an order, not a statement.

“You didn’t buy them, old man, Jerome did.”

“I gave him the money. You’re wearing them down there.”

She turns to stick her tongue out at him, but grumbles and turns back when David mentions the word ‘trench foot’.

David’s always been weird about shoes. For years after he came to Dunwall Tower, he slept in his boots. They were a grounding point. Always made him feel more secure, better with a good pair of shoes on. Shoes were the first thing he ever bought Sabrina. Hers had been more fabric than leather by the time David tried pulling them off her feet, trying to save her frozen toes, and accidentally tore one of them. She stuck around an extra day so he could replace them, then another four because she had gotten a fever and David wasn’t going to turn her out when she could barely sit up on her own. She spent another week gathering the coin to pay him back for the boots, coin he had refused and asked her if she had ever heard of a f*****g gift, then smiled when she said her mother told her not to accept gifts from creepy old men. At that point, they were used to each other. There was little trust, but enough for Sabrina to feel comfortable taking the boots he bought for her.

It’s not as cold as it was that winter, but David’s more concerned with Joan stepping on s**t. Joan, however, seems more preoccupied with getting him proper armor than outfitting herself. He knows Joan just doesn’t want David to get hurt again. She’ll never admit it, but she’s worried about him.

It makes him feel bad. It’s supposed to be the other way around. David is the older one, the experienced one. He’s supposed to be the one protecting.

“Aha, this b***h!” Joan holds the coat up, grinning. “Put this fucker on. Shouldn’t be too bad of a fit.”

It’s heavier than he’d like, but not as bad as he was imagining. David tries not to stare at her too much as she straightens out the lapels, helps roll his sleeves up. Watches her nose scrunch up as she concentrates, how her eyes give away her vulnerability when she’s not putting on a front for him. He hates worrying her. And David’s worried about her too.

Joan does not come to him for help. If she needs help from people, she disguises it as orders and pretends it’s out of laziness. But whatever she saw down there made her think she was in over her head.

David has recovered quite a bit, but he’s still not in peak shape. And that’s just not acceptable, with their line of work. He cannot fail. Ever. And if his injury causes him to falter down there, with whatever threat that made Joan Catspaw second-guess herself, he’ll be leaving her alone in a wolf’s den. She’ll probably try to protect him too. She’ll get herself killed if she does that.

He allows the magic to pool at his hand, and the Mark’s glows through the black fabric around his palm. Joan steps back and watches it, the blue light bouncing off her nose.

“Would you trust Edgar,” David asks, letting the magic fade. “With this?”

There’s no hesitance. “No,” she says, he eyes flicking up to him with only blandness and neutrality in place.

David is slightly surprised, but only slightly. He wants to know, but knows enough that he shouldn’t ask. He blows a long breath out before continuing. “Who would you trust?”

“I don’t trust anyone.”

“That’s smart,” David agrees. “But if you had to pick.”

Joan crosses her arms, eyes rolling up to the ceiling as she thinks. David tilts his head as he watches her.

“Reed, probably.” Joan snorts. “But I doubt either of us could sleep at night if we put a kid in that position. No, Paul. Has to be Paul.”

David raises an eyebrow. “You trust Paul over everyone else here?”

Joan shrugs. “He’s weird. I like weird. And nobody acts that weird when they’re trying to hide something.” Her eyes flick to him suspiciously. “Why? Do you not like him?”

“I’m impartial.” Though David is actually rather fond of Paul. Much rather share his magic with him than Edgar. Paul wouldn’t be his first choice, though. “But if you think we can trust him with this, then I’m with you.”

“You’re serious about this, then?” Joan drops her arms to her side. “Giving the Bond to someone else? Can you even do that?”

“I’m pretty sure,” David nods, then once more. “I’m completely sure. And it wouldn’t hurt to have others to train with.” He has to smile then, looking at her mischievously. “Why? Are you jealous?”  

Joan shoves him. “No, I just want to be sure my powers aren’t going to suddenly disappear because you gave them away.” A small smile plays across her lips, but she turns away before David can really get a good look at it.

“I’m definitely sure that won’t happen. Go find Paul. I’ll meet you two at the sewer entrance.”

“So can you tell me what we’re doing yet?”

“No.”

Behind him, Galia grumbles to herself. David just continues on, her footsteps following behind him.

Joan waves to him when he peers into the little canal that feeds into the water wheel. She stands on a grate on top of the stagnant water, with Paul leaning against the mossy wall. Joan’s smile drops off her face when Galia joins him at the edge.

“What’s she doing here?”

David stares at her neutrally. “You think you’re the only one who could bring a friend?”

“To what?” Galia turns her head. Below, Paul raises his hands.

“f**k if I know, Fleet.”

David jumps down, bending his knees as he lands. A sharp pain up his side, but it’s gone in a few seconds. Galia lands next to him. She makes considerably more noise.

“David, are you a f*****g i***t?” she hisses. “You’re hurt!”

“I’m not hurt anymore.”

“You were in a perpetual coma a week ago.”

“I was unconscious for one day, Galia, that’s not a coma.” David shakes his head and turns to the door. “Come on. We’ll tell you what’s up in here.”

“The sewers?” Paul whines, but he pushes himself away from the wall and follows.

David resists the urge to cover his nose when they enter the sewer. Stagnant, algae-filled water has a particular smell to it, both piercing and stale. And the scent of dead bodies, though that permeates all of Dunwall now. It will be worse come spring, when the results of Delilah’s incompetence thaw out and begin putrefying.

“Soooo, can you tell us why you brought us down here now?” Paul rocks on his feet as Joan locks the door up behind them. She pockets the key and turns to him, hands on her hips.

“So it’s easier to hide your bodies if you say no.”

“Very funny, Catspaw.” Galia crosses her arms. “Quit messing around, what’s going on here? Why have you two been so secretive?”

“I knew it!” Paul claps his hands. “You two are an item! I totally called it! Gerald owes me money now.” His shoulders relax, looking up at the ceiling. “Though if you brought us down her for a foursome, you picked probably the best place to kill the mood. I know, like, five other places that would be much more romantic.”

“Paul.” Joan blinks. “First of all, I would not f**k you in a sewer. I have a little more class than that. And me and David are just murder buddies. No dicking to be had.”

“Really? Darn.” Paul snaps his fingers. “I was already preparing my speech for your wedding.”

Joan makes a horrified face. “Even if I was with David, I wouldn’t marry him.”

“What’s wrong with David?” Galia asks, hand on her hip. Joan waves her off.

“It’s not David. I’m not wife material. Never getting married.”

“Can we…” David blows his breath out. “Can we please be serious for a moment?”

“Right.” Galia smoothes her shirt out, and even Paul stands up a bit straighter. “Sorry.”

David sighs. Then he raises his left hand, his eyes darting between the two. “What I’m about to show you two here is a secret. You are never to tell anyone about this. Especially Anthony.”

He knows that Anthony could, technically, order them to tell on David. Even when David’s Spymaster, where he’ll largely operate outside the law and out from under the eye of the Crown, he’ll still be at the mercy of the Emperor’s orders. But Anthony wouldn’t abuse his power like that.

Both Paul and Galia look uncomfortable when David mentions their future ruler, but nevertheless, they still nod. David can’t tell if he should be happy they’re so loyal to him, or worried they aren’t so loyal to Anthony.

Perhaps a bit of both.

David takes a deep breath to keep his hands from shaking. Then he unwinds the ribbon over his hand.

They lean forward on their tiptoes when the last of the fabric falls away. And when the Mark is bare to see, Paul merely blinks. Galia, on the other hand, wigs out.

“What the f**k!” She jumps back, spinning around on her toe. “What even is that? David, what the f**k happened to you?!”

“Huh.” Paul gives no other reaction, not even to Galia’s apparent meltdown. She continues to babble, sending fleeting, nervous glances towards the Mark. Refuses to step closer.

Joan cracks her neck. “You know, these sewers are supposed to be full of weepers. So you might want to keep it down, Fleet.”

Galia glares, but she does seem to calm down. She still won’t get any closer to David. “When the hell did this happen, David?” she hisses, in a much quieter voice.

David lets his hand drop. “The black-eyed bastard came to me in Coldridge. It’s how I was able to escape.”

“Bastard, huh?” Paul nods, his face still blank. “Shows your feelings towards the guy.”

David grits his teeth. “He’s not a guy. He’s a being of chaos. Don’t try to humanise Him.”

“And He gave you…” Galia leans over to catch about glimpse of it. “But why you?”

A strangled sound emits from Joan’s direction. “Why David? Why wouldn’t it be David?!”

Galia blinks, straightening up a bit. “It’s not like that, it’s just...there were people who could have used it earlier. Or, why let David sit in prison for six months?”

David never thought about that. The conspiracy planting the key and the bomb, that certainly helped, but he probably could have figured out a way to escape without them. With the Mark, he could have escaped earlier. Might not have had to sit in the cold, waiting for his execution.

Might not have had to endure the torture, might not have all the scars that he so carefully hides from Anthony. Might not have had to lay there, reliving the day, telling himself of all the things he could have done differently and hating himself and missing her.

No. That time made him. His suffering sculpted him into the killer he is now, his emotions a canister of whale oil, trapped and shaken until he’s ready to explode. Coldridge turned him into Anthony’s perfect weapon. That’s what he needs to be. Whatever he was before wasn’t good enough to save Sabrina. There’s no point in mourning the loss.

Galia approaches apprehensively, reaching her hand out. “Can I touch it?”

David complies. Galia runs her fingers over the black, then rubs them together as if trying to rub the ink off. But the Mark isn’t ink. It’s not a tattoo, not a burn. It’s part of his flesh, seamless and deep.

“Wicked…” Her green eyes are wide, wonder touching her features.

It makes David uncomfortable. He pulls his hand back, and her eyes follow it for a moment until they snap back up to David’s, unblinking.

“Paul?” David turns, away from Galia’s piercing stare. “You’re being awfully quiet.”

Paul jerks upon hearing his name, but then he shakes his head. “I just...thinking. A lot of things make more sense now.” He turns to Joan. “So can you, like, draw on his power? He’s imprinted it on you, right?”

“Ugh, don’t say it like that,” Joan complains. “You make it sound so gross.”

“Joan and I have just been calling it the Bond,” David explains. “An Arcane Bond. She can use some of my powers and inherited my vitality.”

“But where does her magic come from?” Galia has grabbed his hand again, stroking the Mark. Her eyes don’t flicker, trained on the shapes like they’re her lifeline. Unblinking.

Joan opens her mouth, but then she pauses. “I dunno, maybe David is giving me, like a magic allowance?”

David has to stifle a laugh at that, but he shakes his head. “No, you have your own supply of mana. I have nothing to do with that.” He pulls his hand away from Galia again, a bit more forcefully this time, and steps away so she can’t grab at him again. “It’s my theory that everyone contains some sort of magical power. It’s more potent with some, like in witches.” He glances towards the Mark. “This just allows me, us, to...use it. Differently than others.”

Sabrina has philosophized on the subject a bit, and while David really doesn’t understand half of her bullshit, she seems to more or less agree with the idea.

‘The Void is in everything,’ Sabrina whispers, as if trying to explain it to them herself. ‘Within every mind, every heart. It lends great and terrible power without discrimination.’

It’s not the time for supernatural philosophy, though. David shakes his head and holds his Marked hand out to Galia. “Give me your hand.”

Galia extends hers without hesitance. Joan grabs Paul’s, watching David carefully to copy his movements. “Lemme see if we can pass it on like this…”

“You’re not even going to give us the choice?” Paul laughs uncomfortably. Joan looks up at him boredly.

“If you say no now, we do have to kill you. Sorry.”

“No, Joan, we don’t.” David sighs.

Galia practically vibrates with excitement as David allows the Mark to glow, as he turns their hands over and allows his energy to pour into her. She gasps slightly, feeling the magic tingle across her veins.

‘She is loyal to you, yes. Desperately so. There is something else...no. I can see no farther.’

David pulls away. The air is electric, and he can feel Galia’s energy pulling him one way, Joan’s another. Galia raises her hand and stares at it.

“You won’t have a Mark,” David says. “Doesn’t work like that.”

“Could probably draw one on,” Galia mutters. David raises an eyebrow, but she doesn’t elaborate on why she would want that-proof of the heresy they were committing, a death sentence if it were seen by the wrong person. The ugly reminder staining her skin.

“Yeah, I don’t think this is working.” Joan is still holding Paul’s hand, her other hand on her hip as she stares impatiently. “Think you’re gonna have to do it, David.”

Paul looks uneasy as David steps closer. David doesn’t smile, but he tries to lighten his resting b***h face. “Don’t worry. It doesn’t hurt.” At this precise moment, Galia figures out how to activate Blink, and transports herself five feet over the side of the walkway. She lets out one guttural shriek before she falls into the murky, green water with a splash.

David’s feet turn automatically to check on her, as does Paul. Joan just laughs off to the side.

Galia surfaces a moment later and makes a face. “Ew.”

Paul starts to laugh. “Gotta love some corpse water, right?”

“I think I got some in my mouth!”

“Well, the Bond will keep you from getting sick.” David rolls his eyes. Galia dog-paddles to the side and pulls herself up, grimacing as she looks down at her grimy, soaked coat.

Paul is still laughing when David turns back to him. “As you can see, she’s not hurt,” he tries to joke, but Paul’s smile just drops off his face. David glances towards his feet. “If you don’t want to do this…”

“No, it’s fine.” Paul shakes his head.

“You don’t have to, Paul.” David huffs. “Nobody gave me a choice. But if you don’t want to accept, you have to promise on your life never to tell another soul.”

“You don’t have to worry about that.” Then Paul rolls his shoulders back, pastes a smile on his face and holds out his hand. “No, I accept. Let’s do this bitch.”

Well, that wasn’t really the term he’d use for it, but alright.

David places his hand in Paul’s. His face is nervous, but he looks David in the eye and nods.

‘He sees more than he is telling. The silent eyes and ears. He will keep the secrets that need kept.’

The energy transfer is much the same, in that it’s unbelievably weird and David is relieved when he can pull away. It doesn’t seem to... feel the same as other two, though, and David thinks it’s because Paul is male until he tries to Blink himself.

“Um…” He waves his hand, clenching and un-clenching his fingers. “How am I supposed to do this again…?”

“You just…” Joan huffs, fitting her fingers over his. “Like this! Just look and... do it. I don’t know how to make it any easier.”

“Don’t be so hard on him, Joan.” David watches from a few paces away. “This is the first time I’ve done this with someone else. Not everyone is going to take to it like you.”

Joan rolls her eyes. “Well, if he can’t Blink, then what’s the point?” She kicks an empty bottle, letting it explode against the wall. “Come on. There’s some river krusts up ahead, they’ll make a good testing grounds.”

After maybe a half hour, David knows it. Paul can’t Blink.

He can’t tell why-he tries giving the Bond again, but all that did was give David a headache and make Paul feel slightly nauseous. He can perform Pull, however, though they discover that it’s rather useless against the river krusts.

The practice ends up being more for Galia, getting her used to transversals by antagonizing the river krusts then having her Blink in and stab them before they snap their carapaces closed. She gets grazed by their acid once and David pours some water over it, gives her a vial of red elixir. Galia downs half of it and watches, amazed, as the chemical burn practically heals before her eyes.

Paul then snatches the vial from her hand, rubbing a bit of the diluted acid on his finger and testing his own healing. David’s happy to see that his supernatural healing has been passed on intact.

Neither of them can use Void Gaze, however. Just like Joan. David was somewhat hoping Paul could, to make up for his inability to Blink. Didn’t seem fair. Though he highly doubted the Outsider had fairness in mind when He granted David this power.

“One more exercise before we move on,” David grunts, picking up another empty bottle from the dozens that litter the ground. “Test your reflexes. You both have crossbows on you? I’m going to throw this and you’re going to hit it out of the air.”

“That sounds pretty impossible.” Galia puts her hands on her hips. Paul just shakes his head, muttering under his breath. He’s already loading his bow.

David rolls his eyes. “I know for a fact that you can aim.”

“I’m good with a blade, David, Rinaldo is the gunslinger.”

“This is just practice.” He tries to be gentle, but her sass is starting to grate on him. “I’ll slow down time, and you can-”

“You can what now?”

And that requires explanation, how yes, David can in fact slow down time itself. At least he think he is-the only explanation he comes up with is that his perception is just speeding up incredibly fast, but then, he moves and falls at the same rate. The same can be said for Joan. She can’t initiate it, but she feels the effects.

Though when David throws the bottle and performs the move, Paul hits it easily with a huge grin on his face. Galia, however, just frowns. “Again.”

Another throw. Another pull of his arm. Another score for Paul, who makes the bottle explode before Galia has even aimed her crossbow. The third time Paul stands back, but the bottle crashes against the ground.

“Let me try it one more time,” Galia says, staring at the broken glass. “It felt a little slower that time.”

David shakes his head, puts his hand on her shoulder. “I don’t think it’s working for you.”

“No, it will!” She pulls away, her eyes wild. “I can do this!”

Off to the side, Joan rolls her eyes. “You might want to keep it down. I did find some witches down here earlier.”

“Witches?” Paul’s head whips to the side. “What kind of witches?!”

“Like, flowery ones? I don’t know what you want me to say.”

Paul’s shoulders relax, but his eyes don’t. “You said there were weepers down here.”

“I mean, there were.” Joan shrugs. “But the witches killed them before I got there.”

“I see some more krusts further ahead,” David interrupts, shutting off Void Gaze. “Let’s take those out, then we can go hunting.”

“Don’t have to tell me twice…” Joan mumbles, pushing away from the wall.

These krusts are weird, black and spotted with a glowing green. Their spit has dyed the opposite wall a sickly blue, similar to the hue of raw whale oil. It makes David grimace in disgust.

“Can’t wait to see the pearls in these babies.” Paul grins as he readies his knife. He already has at least a dozen pearls stashed away in his pockets, all light green and lavender. They wouldn’t fetch a great price. White pearls were prized, maybe tinged the lightest blue or pink. At least in Dunwall. You could make a killing selling black pearls up in Tyvia, apparently. But nobody would pay for green pearls.

Galia rocks on her feet, flipping her blade in her hand. David leans close to her. “Ready?”

“Is that a question?”

David pops out, lets the krusts sense him and open their mouths. Galia Blinks to the middle of the colony, swiping her blade across the spongy insides of one and inserting it into another a split second before it snaps closed. The third Paul gets with his crossbow, earning a sore look from Galia when she turns. “I could have done that.”

“Yeah. But I did.” Paul picks one of the dead krusts up, jams his knife into the outer shell and starts peeling it back.

Galia huffs and ignores him. “So what are these witches doing down here? Do they know where we are?”

“That’s what we’re going to find out, blondie.” Joan smacks her lips. “They gotta die, though.”

“Well, obviously-”

“Yikes. Uh, have you guys ever seen pearls this color?”

Paul holds it up to the light and David has to resist snatching it from his fingers on impulse. The pearl is irregularly shaped, sunken on one side. A purple so dark it almost looks red. David half expects the color to bleed onto Paul’s hands.

“That’s actually really f*****g weird.” Joan takes the pearl and teeths it experimentally. “It’s real.”

“Well, yeah, I just pulled it out.”

“Might want to throw that one back,” Joan says, tossing the pearl into Paul’s hands. “Red pearls are bad luck.”

“I’ve never heard that before.” Paul shakes his head, tucking the pearl into his pocket. “I’m keeping these. Make myself a damn necklace. I deserve some nice jewelry.”

“You want some of mine? I have more pearls than I know what to do with.”

“You don’t seem like the pearl type, Catspaw.” Galia says cattily. “Are there even any witches down here? I haven’t seen anyone.”

“That’s because I fed their bodies to the rats,” Joan says, waving her hand. “I heard them talk about others patrolling. That’s when I went to get David.”

“And us. I’m so flattered.” Paul cuts into another river krust. “Hey, so aren’t we witches now? Since we’re using magic and s**t?”

“No,” David grunts, even though he’s not really sure what the criteria is.

Joan shrugs. “I mean, I guess? But don’t expect me to go dancing naked in the moonlight. Actually, scratch that. That sounds fun. Might do it when it’s warmer, though.”

“I think witches are supposed to use bonecharms and stuff.” Galia kicks some garbage. “Though that would make literally everyone in Dunwall a witch.”

Paul shakes his head and gets to his feet, pocketing two equally red and creepy pearls and differing sizes. “We can be whatever kind of witches we want. Delilah doesn’t own the word!”

“Delilah’s coven isn’t the only one in Dunwall.” David crosses his arms, glaring coldly. “Witches murdered the Empress.”

“Well, they don’t own the concept.” Paul waves his hand. “We’ll form our own coven. Take back the witchery!”

“I don’t think that’s a word…” David sighs, but he turns away before he can say anything. They’re just being kids, having fun. David knows he shouldn’t be so quick to rain on their parade. But the thought of being lumped in with Delilah, with the woman who…

He isn’t like them.

“So what’s our theme going to be?” David hears Joan ask the others as he peers past the walls with Void Gaze. “You know, how one’s got flowers, the other’s about birds?”

“Shame birds are taken.” Galia says. “Well, they covered land and sky, so should we be something from the sea?”

“That’d be cool. But my old gang was called the Dead Eels, so we’ll never top that name.”

Nothing in this direction. David can see a corpse further down this tunnel, but the way is barred off. They’d have to find another way around, if they wanted in.

“No, girls, they left us the coolest one! We should be dogs!”

“Ugh, like Overseer pets?” He can practically hear Joan’s sour face.

“What’s wrong with dogs, Catspaw?” David has to agree with Galia. He likes dogs. “Hounds are loyal and strong. And fluffy!”

“That’s right, Fleets! Now lemme hear you howl! AWOO!”

“Paul!”

“Stop with the yelling!”

“Okay, it’s not yelling, it’s howling, and it’s basically how dogs sing.”

David leaves the group to their bickering, scouting out the area with Void Gaze. He’s not going far-he just wants a good idea of where they are before they set off. He passes a corpse half-devoured by rats-can see flecks of petals on the ground, so this must be where Joan killed those witches. Only one body, though. The other must have fallen into the water, or the rats may have chewed the bones to bits.

He Blinks to avoid the rat swarm, ducking into a doorway off to the side. He senses something odd the moment he walks through the door. The hallway is narrow, long and winding, but it’s lit. The sewers are largely unpowered now-not enough whale oil, no need to when all the maintenance workers are either dead or relegated to more important jobs. The only light came from shafts and grates that let in natural light, or the occasional emergency light that was connected to a different power grid.

These lights are too bright to be back-ups. Spaced evenly in the floorboards, filling David’s eyes with their cool glow. He follows the hallway, almost hypnotically, and stops when he reaches another doorway. He stares, blinking at the room ahead, the large, blue-tinged cistern that seems too oddly familiar for comfort. He’s trying to remember where he’s seen it before when he hears the woman’s voice.

“Hello? Is someone there?”

David is frozen. There’s no way. It was just a dream, and he knows his dreams have been weird lately, but they haven’t been prophetic…

“Can someone help me?”

Swallowing the bile that rises up in his throat, David turns and flees back down the hallway.

Was it the same woman? It has to be, but how? He would think it was Sabrina, influencing his dreams again, but how would she know? Sabrina knows so many things, but she can’t see the future. David’s listened to her long enough to know that.

Exiting back out of the hallway, David veers off to the side and presses his back to the wall. He needs to return to the group, he knows. Tell them about his dream? They’ll think him insane. Though he did just hand out magical powers like candy, so they’ll probably believe any number of impossible things now.

He rests his head against the bars that block off further passage down the sewer line and watches the rats, still nibbling on the witch’s body. They’re slow, almost sleepy. Their stomachs are full and they’ll stop to rest soon. They won’t bother David, at least.

Sabrina had told him that rats were smart. They seemed pretty basic to him-swarmed wherever there was food, ate until the point of lethargy, leaving them vulnerable. But Sabrina was smarter than he ever was, would have known better than him anyway.

He hears the kids, trying to come up for a name for their gang and joking about David’s manner of walking, somewhere up the sewer line. Their voices are faint, and he should scold them when he returns for being so loud. But it’s something, so he listens and thinks, tries to ground himself. If it weren’t for the plague, he’d suggest something rat-related, in memory of Sabrina’s favoritism. But even he can tell that would be in poor taste. He likes Paul’s idea-dogs would be perfect. Sabrina had always begged him to adopt one-he couldn’t afford a dog when he could barely feed Sabrina and Anthony, so he always said no to her, but when a stray started following her around one day he didn’t have the heart to tell her to get rid of it. It only lasted about two days before an Overseer hit her in the face with the hilt of his sword and took the dog from her.

His heart rate is starting to stabilize now. David closes his eyes, breathes out. He had tried to get the Emperor to sign off on a dog for her, in Dunwall Tower, sold it as a guard dog. Unfortunately, the Emperor was horribly allergic. He should have gotten a guard dog for her later on. Maybe he should get one for Anthony, just so they can both sleep better at night.

“...auditioning for the Golden Cat…”

A cat would be nice, too. Anthony has always been a cat person. Maybe he’d get...both…

Those aren’t the girls talking. Not his girls.

David strains for the snippets of conversation, whispers uttered somewhere beyond these bars. He can’t see them, even through Void Gaze, but he hears like a bat now.

“Ugh, that fool!” The voice is more distinct now, listening for it. “She caught that stray Hatter easy enough, but not everyone will be fooled by a pretty face and a few tears! What if she comes this way?!”

Crackled, shrill. Accent clearly upper-crust Dunwall. He couldn’t hear the other one very clearly, but she almost sounded like-

“Then so much for our little sister.”

His lungs go still. His throat is paralyzed, unable to breathe in or push air out. His arm muscles lock up, his shoulders rigid, and he feels as if his knees will give out if there’s even the slightest bit more pressure on them.

It was her. One of her. One that wore a mask and giggled and taunted, who told him all the grisly details of Sabrina’s corpse being dredged up from the water and reminded him what a horrible Protector he was, who did it while hurting him and laughing at his pain.

David stumbles backwards. His hands grasp at the wall, trying to find some sort of lifeline. They skim down the slicked bricks and David has to scramble to keep his footing, because his legs can’t hold up his weight anymore.

He can’t move because she took a knife to the bottom of his feet, cut them to ribbons and made him walk on salt. He can’t breathe because she held his head under the water and didn’t let him up until black spots covered his vision. She did it all while cackling, because it was funny to her, that she could hurt David and that his Sabrina was dead and that there was nothing he could do about any of it.

There’s no air. Just pain, red hot and twisting, and David allows it to envelope his being and burn him alive. He can’t think like this. Can’t feel sorrow or longing, can’t regret or worry. There’s only pain. There’s no room to feel anything else.

Faces swim in front of his eyes, and David would bat them away if he could unlock his hands from his side. They’re probably chained up anyway, he can’t remember the last time he hasn’t been restrained in some manner, like he’s ever fought back, like he’s ever resisted what he knew he deserved.

They want him to talk, but he knows he won’t. He will never open his mouth again. He is as silent as his Empress, entombed in her early grave, and he feels like every breath he takes was stolen right from her flooded lungs. No, he won’t give them what they want, but he’ll take their punishment. He’ll take everything they have for him.

The whips across his back, knives and hot irons at his flesh. Pliers in his mouth, the taste of metal and blood. The guards hauling him out of his cell during yard time to let the other prisoners beat him. The guards beating him themselves, spitting on him, saying all kinds of vile things. Then back to the witches, and they’ll touch him and hurt him and make him pay for it, back to the pain and mouths and fingers and blood and cold-

“David!”

A biting pain at his cheek. A hand pressed against his mouth, and the sound of flesh hitting flesh again, but he feels nothing.

“Ow, Catspaw!”

“Don’t hit him!” Joan hisses. “You’re not supposed to hit them!”

“Well, did you have a better f*****g plan?!”

Paul in front of him, one hand gripping David’s shoulder. He removes the other from David’s mouth. “It’s us, David. Please don’t try to bite me again.”

Joan steps to his side, taking hold of David’s other shoulder. “Let’s sit down, big guy, you’re not looking too hot.”

David slides down the wall until his butt hits the ground, his legs stiff and his heels scraping against the floor because he can’t remember how to bend his knees.

“What’s wrong with him?” Galia’s face appears above Joan’s head, curious and annoyed.

Joan snaps her head around. “There’s nothing f*****g wrong with him, Fleet, f**k off!”

“David.” Paul rests his hand at David’s jaw, his eyes boring into his. “David, what happened? What’s wrong?”

He must be able to babble something slightly coherent, because they send Galia twenty feet away to the bars to listen. Joan helps him crawl to the side of the walkway and pats his back half-heartedly as he vomits into the sewage.

“There’s definitely women over there,” Galia whispers as she returns. “But you’re sure they’re witches? David, we can take a few witches.”

He can feel his undershirt sticking to him, cold sweat breaking out across his back. David shivers. Joan wordlessly hands him a piece of candy wrapped in pink paper.

“Witches tortured him in Coldridge, Galileo.”

“Yeah, but that was like...a month ago.”

David finally gets his numb, shaking fingers to comply long enough to unwrap the candy and pop it in his mouth. Butterscotch. He f*****g hates butterscotch. He sticks it between his tongue and the roof of his mouth and sucks hard.

Joan is giving Galia murder eyes. “Okay, give me your hand. I’ll rip out all your fingernails and we’ll see how you feel about me in a month.”

“Catspaw. Fleet. This isn’t helping.”

It’s really not. Every word is like driving a nail into the back of his skull.

“Ugh.” Joan scoffs, but then she looks to him, her regular facade melting away. “You want us to take you back, David? The three of us can take care of these ladies.”

No. f**k, no. He’s not leaving them down here. Why the hell did he bring them down here at all? He shouldn’t have given Paul and Galia the Bond. He should have followed Joan down her immediately, killed the witches himself.

If those witches get their gnarled, filthy hands on any of them, David will never forgive himself.

“No.”

David tries to get up, but Paul has to grab him to keep him from toppling over into the water. He stumbles back, hands up when all three reach out to steady him. “I’m fine.”

“David, you look like my old man in the five minutes before he croaked.”

“I’m fine,” he repeats, rubbing his closed eyelids with his thumb and pointer finger. “Or I will be. Just give me a minute.”

“And then what?” Galia huffs.

“Then we’re going to put your powers to real use.”

The girls exchange glances. Off to the side, there’s the sound of a match being struck.

“Here, David. Just breathe in deep.”

Paul shoves a pipe into his hands, its substance already smoking. David wrinkles his nose.

“Do I want to know what this is?”

“Nope.”

David puts the pipe to his lips and breathes deeply. At least he doesn’t start coughing, though he can probably thank thirty years worth of smoker’s lungs for that. He gets in three hits before Paul takes the pipe away from him.

“Give that a few minutes…” Paul says as he takes a puff himself. “Should help.”

“Would some booze help?” Joan shakes the flask he knows she always keeps on her hip. Paul playfully swats at her hand.

“This is baby’s first drug session, Catspaw, let’s not overwhelm him.”

“I’ve done harder s**t in my life,” David says, though it’s been decades and he didn’t really agree to it at the time.

Paul laughs and claps him on the back. “See, he’s feeling better already.”

It’s another minute or so before it kicks in, but David can feel the tension in his muscles drop, can take a real breath finally. He realizes how hard he’s been gritting his teeth.

“They’ll be planning an ambush,” he says, his tongue feeling rather odd as he speaks. “There will be a woman in the cistern, pretending she’s hurt.”

“Who would fall for that?” Joan rolls her eyes. David neglects to comment, instead pulling out his sword and walking ahead.

“We won’t be. Come on. We have some weed extermination to do.”

“She’s going to run her voice hoarse by the end of the day…”

David can see the witches through Void Gaze, poised at the side of the stairs. Swords in their hands, flowers sprouting from their bodies.

Her voice still makes his stomach churn. But he swallows it down. Thumbs the edge of his sword, presses down ever so slightly until he feels that twinge of pain. Then he’s alright, for the moment.

“Is someone actually coming this time, or is it another false alarm?!”

“Patience, sister. It’s only a matter of time before they’re caught in our web.”

‘There is magic at work here. Potent and familiar, and exceedingly hostile. You are in danger.’ Sabrina’s voice is gentle, concerned. It feels out of place.

He turns to the girls, crouched next to him besides the iron storm door that separates the cistern from the sewer line. “I trust you two can take them alive.”

Galia’s scarf is pulled up over her mouth and Joan has her mask on, but they both nod in agreement.

“Good. You have three minutes.”

David begins to crank the wheel that lowers the door. He can hear one of the witches hush the other, whisper that someone is coming. As soon as there’s enough space for them to clear the space, David pulls his arm down to Slow Time, allowing Galia and Joan to Blink through to the other side.

Then David Blinks up to the platform where the other witch is caterwauling. Paul is already ascending the steps, exactly as planned. The witch reaches her bony, green arm out towards him.

“I think I can walk...if you just help me up…”

Paul stares at her impassively. He hides his pistol well, clutched in his hand behind his back, just in case this goes south. David steps to the side, just out of the witch’s field of vision, his footsteps light and silent. She doesn’t even notice him until he reaches over and grabs her wrist, pulls to expose the milky underside of her arm, tossing his sword up and flipping it around, aiming it down.

“Clever.”

He plunges his blade down between the two bones of her forearm. She screams, for real this time. David feels nothing.

The witch’s eyes are full of confusion, panning up until they reach his face. Her mouth drops, snaps closed, and her eyes narrow. “David! I...I almost had you.”

Off to the side, Paul scoffs. “No, you didn’t.” He flicks ash from whatever it is he’s smoking over the side of the railing. “You didn’t even come close.”

“Tell me why you’re down here.” David hears himself say. “What are you looking for?”

The witch smiles at him, though he can tell it takes effort. “Why? Is there something worth looking for nearby?”

David twists the blade, bringing with it a sick, meaty sound as one of her bones snap. Paul continues to stare and smoke, nonplussed.

“Tell me what your orders are and I’ll make it fast.”

“Why do you care?” she shouts, her face twisted in pain. “You won’t live to see us win. Lady Delilah will hunt you down like the dog you are.”

“That’s enough.” David brings the hilt in on her chest, effectively knocking her unconscious. He puts a boot over her chest, just in case she comes to before bleeding out.

As scheduled, Galia and Joan Blink in, forcing two witches to their knees in front of them. Galia’s witch is tied nicely, her hands behind her back with a tear in her shirt and her hat missing. Joan’s no longer has two hands in which to tie together, but she’s wrapped a cord around the witch’s upper body, trapping her elbows to her sides.

“My bad,” Joan says, tossing a still-bleeding hand onto the floor. “Fleet was being a dickhead, had to save her incompetent ass.”

“I would have been fine!” Galia squawks.

The witches both gasp as the same time, upon seeing David standing there. Joan’s one-handed witch opens and closes her mouth a few times, like a fish. “You...you’re…”

“David.”

“David!”

David rolls his eyes. She’s the one with the scratchy voice. Not her.

On the floor, the red-headed witch groans. David kicks her head to knock her out again.

The scratchy-voiced witch sputters. “But, but you’re dead! She told us so!”

“She also told us to keep an eye out for him because no one’s found his body yet, i***t!”

She has shoulder-length brown hair that parts in the middle, and large brown eyes with thick, full lashes. If David had seen her somewhere else, he would think she was pretty. The thought makes him want to puke again.

Without word, David steps forward and sends his boot into her stomach.

The witch doubles over, trying to regain her breath. David straightens himself up again. “You and I have plans.”

“Do...we…” she coughs.

David turns and looks down at the unconscious, red-haired witch, toeing the flowers growing from her shoulders. “You’re going to tell us why you’re down here.”

“Really?” The dirty-blonde witch with the shrill voice says. “And what if we don’t want to tell you?”

Paul picks up their unconscious sister and heaves her over the railing. She splashes, and David leans over just far enough to see her floating face-down in the water.

“You’re going to die today,” David says, turning back. “But if you tell us what we want to know, I’ll kill you fast. Painlessly, even, if you’re quick about it.”

The dark-haired witch laughs. “You think my sister and I are so easily swayed?”

Can’t say for her sister, David thinks, as the other witch is growing rather pale. Though she did just have her hand cut off, so that might just be blood loss.

Joan steps closer and smacks her upside the head. “That offer only extends to your sister. You owe David some quality time.”

The blonde witch looks nervous, but when David approaches her she puts on an angry face and spits at his feet. “You’re a bastard, David! We should have killed you and fed your body to our hounds!”

“Charming.” David keeps his face neutral.

His refusal to engage only seems to enrage her further. “You’re worthless, just like that filthy w***e you called an Empress, and Delilah will see to it you both share the same sewer grave! I-”

David thrusts the blade through her gut and extracts it in one smooth motion. The witch gasps a few times, the air whistling through the hole in her lung, before she pitches forward. Her cheek meets the bloody floor with a smack.

Paul steps forward and collects the body, tossing it over the edge with the other. Their sister stares, eyes wide and disbelieving but also angry, in a way.

“You won’t get anything out of me,” she says in her gravelly voice.

“That’s fair.” David steps forward. “You can tell me as much as I told you. But then I get to take your role.”

“I wasn’t the only one, you know!” The witch speaks quickly, her neck pivoting around to look at his accomplices as David tosses her in the middle of the platform, puts his boot on her stomach to keep her from moving. “A dozen of us volunteered! That’s what we do, we protect our fellow women, and you forced yourself on the Empress!”

“Ew.” Galia’s sourness is apparent from even here. “And you believed that?”

Joan sidles up next to him. “You were protecting her...from her Protector? And then you killed her? s**t’s not adding up, sweetheart.”

The witch shakes her head. “You don’t understand! Men like him take whatever they want! It’s up to us to-”

“b***h, David is not one of those men. Your mistress is the grubby one.”

“Don’t you have, like, men in your coven?” Galia asks from behind. “Why are they different?”

“They’re probably all fags.”

“Paul!”

“What? I am one, so I can say it!”

“You’re all traitors!” the witch yells.

David kicks her ribs, listens as all the air rushes out of her lungs.

“I’d save your breath. You have few of them left.”

The witch wheezes, but soon her features knit in anger, and she rests her head against the floor as she glares up at him. “Then go ahead, David. You don’t exactly have an artist’s arsenal at your disposal, but let’s see how you top my work.”

“I think you’ll find I’m rather resourceful.”

David grips his sword, wondering where to start. He can’t remember all of what acts were hers and what belonged to other witches, but he remembers enough. And here, he doesn’t need to leave a living victim.

He wants to cut the skin off her eyelids. Let her bake in the sun, lay pieces of metal on her sensitive flesh and let it heat to the point of pain. He wants to see her struggle for breath, bubbles from her lips and to feel her fight against him as she tries to raise her head. He wants to violate her, make her feel as violated as she made him feel, show her that she has no control. It’s all his now.

He’s earned this. He put up with them for six months, six goddamn months of taking everything they had without uttering a single word. He deserves to be on the other side for once. Just this once. He deserves to...to be like her.

He hadn’t said a word in Coldridge Prison. They knew he wouldn’t. They kept hurting him because they liked it, got some sick sort of enjoyment out of his pain and grief. He knew he deserved it, but he still hated them with an intensity he didn’t think possible.

She’s not going to say one word more. She’s not going to give away Delilah’s secrets. He’s going to hurt her because he wants to.

When they wore masks, David knew there were girls under there, but he always imagined them with the faces of monsters. Her pretty face can’t fool him, but it did throw him for a moment. How normal she looks.

David knows he’s a monster. He sees it whenever he looks at his hands, whenever he sees his face in the mirror. He knows it by the way Anthony sometimes looks at him in that strange mixture of pity and apprehension, because David’s always been a horrible person but Anthony does not recognize the wickedness he has become. Out of necessity. For him.

David’s a monster, yes.

But he’s not this kind of monster.

He pulls her up to her knees, gripping the back of her head. He lets the knife clatter to the floor, seizing her chin. Then he twists.

The snap makes Joan visibly shudder.

David lets the witch fall back down, her neck an impossible angle, her eyes glassy and unblinking.

“Well...I…”

Joan takes her mask off, looking down at the dead witch in confusion. She blinks. Rounds herself up. Turns to Paul and Galia, both standing there frozen, Paul’s pipe halfway to his lips.

“Go do a quick sweep. Let me talk to David for a sec.”

Galia Blinks away. Paul looks slightly confused by her absence for a moment before shaking his head and walking off the platform.

Joan turns back to him, wrapping her arms around her midsection. “You...want to tell me what that was all about, tough guy?”

“She wasn’t going to give us any information.”

“Yeah, but…” Joan looks down and kicks the witch’s hand. “She deserved it.”

She did. Probably deserved a lot worse than what David was about to give her.

“We’re not the judge and jury, Joan,” he tells her. “We’re just the executioner bit.”

“Yeah, but you can have your fun with it.” She shrugs.

David blows air out through his nose. “This business isn’t about ‘fun’.”

“I just meant-”

“At what point would you stop killing because they deserved it,” he says slowly. “And just killed because you enjoyed it?”

Joan doesn’t say anything. David steps past her, reaches back to put a hand on her shoulder.

“She tortured you, David,” she mumbles.

“She’s dead,” he says. “She can’t hurt anyone now.”

And no matter how much he wishes it, hurting her wouldn’t have made him hurt any less.

Footsteps on the stairs. Paul makes a face as he jabs his thumb off to the side.

“So, um.” His eyebrows twitch up, uncomfortably. “We found something. You might want to see this.”

“Ugh, they somehow mader her even uglier...” Joan mumbles as she takes her turn looking through the keyhole. David is leaning against the wall, rubbing his eyeballs again.

Another f*****g Delilah statue. Almost certainly one she can possess, like the one at Timsh’s.

Did the witches just cart them everywhere? They were life-sized statues, hewn from marble or plaster or whatever the f**k things were sculpted with. It would probably take him and Joan both to lift one, and they were strong even before the Bond. He can’t imagine how many witches must be needed to carry them. But here it is, set up in its own little shrine with flowers at its feet.

Gross.

“Can I f**k with her again?” Joan turns and practically bats her eyelashes. “Please, David?”

“That was a dumb idea even at Timsh’s.”

“But it was funny!”

It really hadn’t been.

“I’m not sure if that’s a good idea…” Paul looks rather worried. It’s not an expression David’s used to seeing on him.

Galia huffs. She’s annoyed at because she hadn’t been the one to find the room and the shrine. David thinks the bonecharm she found is a more attractive find, but perhaps that’s just him. He’s just glad she found it before he could register the buzzing in his ears.

“Well, we can’t leave it here, so close to base,” she says. “We’ll need to go in to destroy it.”

“Yeah. And I can tell her what a rotten slut she is!”

“I’m not saying that.” Paul glares at the space above their heads for a moment. “I’m saying that we could be giving away our position.”

“Paulie, that’s dumb-”

“Think about it. They post witches in the Draper’s Ward sewers, and next day they’re all dead? We might as well take out a billboard.”

“Well, we already killed them, so…”

“We’ll have to provide some misdirection,” David says, watching the lights play off the ceiling. “Don’t suppose any of you have a map of the sewer grid?”

“I have a map of Dunwall.” Galia produces the paper from her pocket. Joan and Paul both give her odd looks, and she wrinkles her nose at them. “What? I like being prepared.”

“Give that to me.” David holds out his hand. Sewer lines usually ran directly under the streets-it wasn’t perfect, but it would do.

“Hey!” Galia protests as David presses am algae-soaked thumb to the approximate area of Draper’s Ward they’re under. He rolls his eyes.

“When this is all over, Galia, I promise I will buy you a hundred new maps.”

“It’s fine. I’m just giving you shit.”

“So what exactly are we doing?” Joan leans over, her hair hanging past her ear. “We moving some bodies, make it look like they died somewhere else?”

“No.” David rolls up the map and tries to tuck it into his coat, only to remember that he’s wearing Edgar’s and doesn’t have all his pockets. He hands it off to Galia. “We’re going to go take out some of the other witches patrolling down here. We could have started from anywhere.”

“Neat.” Paul c***s his head. “But we need more witches for that.”

“There are plenty down here.”

That’s what he’s gathered from Sabrina’s whispers about obsession and corrupted magic. She knows where the witches are. He’d let her lead him directly to them, but Sabrina’s directions wouldn’t be of much help down here. Sabrina didn’t seem to retain concepts like walls or understand that David is bound to the laws of gravity, for the most part. He was best following the general direction she tugged him in, then finding his own path and letting her decide if it’s the right one.

Joan turns to glare once more at the door. “But I can rub it in her face afterwards, right?”

“Maybe. If you behave.”

“Music to my ears.” She slides the mask back on and all is well.

Thankfully, none of them question the direction David leads them-they might excuse his general weirdness because he’s the one with the magic, but David highly doubts they’ll take ‘following the disembodied voice of the dead, psychic Empress’ as a respectable answer. Joan whispers that they’re coming up on the old water control station, and David Blinks ahead in order to survey the room with Void Gaze. Sure enough, there are two women wearing flowers wandering about. A room large enough to echo, machinery twice his height gone oddly quiet. Above, steel beams running under the ceiling, with just enough space for a human to balance.

David Blinks back to the group. “There’s two in there. I have a plan, but we’ll need to get high.” He stares at Paul. “Not your kind of high.”

Paul blows a strand of hair out of his face. “Oh, I get it. Pick on the guy who can’t jump.”

“This is going to take a while. Why don’t you double back and let everyone know we won’t be back for lunch?”

“Ugh, seriously?” Joan moans. “Gerald’s making fried hagfish.”

David eyeballs her. “Joan, you hate hagfish.”

“Yeah, but...” she mumbles. “I like food.”

“You’re really making me be the errand boy.” Paul rolls his eyes. “Fiiiine. I’ll tell them we’re training, or something.”

“We’ll meet you back here,” David tells him as he walks away, shooting them the finger behind his back.

David positions himself on top of the beams, creeping steadily closer to the witches at the pump. Joan takes up the left corner, watching the room in case there are more. Galia, still not entirely comfortable with Blinking around thirty feet in the air, (which he gets) is crouched on an elevated walkway, half-hidden by a wall. She peers from behind the bricks, casting nervous glances up at David above.

If they can get the women separated, that would be best. Restrain them both for questioning. But currently they’re sticking together like burrs, standing close and always looking at each other. David doesn’t even have his sleep darts, which makes things infinitely more difficult.

“I think Delilah wants us out of the way,” he hears one white-haired witch say.

Her brown-haired friend shakes her head. David hunches down to listen. “Why would you say such terrible things?”

“Think about it. She’s threatened by us.” The witch holds up her fishnet-gloved hand and pans to the room. “Why else would she put us here? She knows birds will never fly underground.”

“She’s not the only one we’ve been sent to find.”

David is practically planking on the beam in an effort to get closer. The room swallows up sound more efficiently than he would like. He has to concentrate to hear.

“You think we’ll be able to take that accursed Crown Killer, should she show her face?”

“Lady Delilah must have reason to believe in us!”

“Oh, sister.” The white-haired witch tuts and turns away. “Do you let her do all your thinking?”

“I have no reason to doubt my Lady,” the other witch says, her chin in the air. But after a moment she lowers it, looks to the ground. “I don’t understand why she can’t let one of us marry the heir. I understand that the girl was the simple choice, but now that she’s escaped-”

“Delilah isn’t looking for simple, love, she’s looking for malleable.”

Were they...talking about Anthony? He would think so, except he can’t think of a reason why Delilah would want to marry him to anyone but herself.

“I don’t believe you.” The witch crosses her arms and pouts. “We’ll just have to bring back the Crown Killer’s head ourselves. Then Delilah will see what a wonderful Princesse I’ll make.”

She pronounces the e part at the very end, even though you weren’t supposed to and nobody spells it that way anymore. David thinks that spelling is on some of Sabrina’s old documents, but they were the ultra-formal ones, with archaic wording and fancy calligraphy that might as well be a different language.

But then the witch Blinks away, and David searches around wildly to see where she might have gone. He spots her on the walkway about to turn the corner, right into where Galia is hiding.

David doesn’t think about it. The witch startles back when she sees Galia, draws her sword. David lets his own blade pierce the back of her neck as he falls, out through her throat and leaving only confused, choking death in its wake.

He shoulders the body before it even has time to fall. He grimaces at Galia, who just shrugs.

“Hey, one down, right?” she whispers.

One less to interrogate.

David carries the body back up to the beams, unsure of what to do with it. Couldn’t exactly leave it for her friend to find.

‘She left behind four young brothers. Missed them fiercely. They thought she ran away to marry a sweetheart, and now they will never know the difference.’

Joan Blinks next to him and motions to the corpse.

“I got an idea for that.”

“Oh?” David raises an eyebrow, glancing down at the remaining witch to ensure she hadn’t heard the echoes. “What’s that?”

Joan produces something round and glowing yellow from her pocket. “Like it? It’s a stun mine. I picked up a few at the slaughterhouse.”

“We’ll talk about your inability to share later. Put it on her.”

Joan hits a button, the mine turning from yellow to blue. It also starts beeping, which makes David think of the timer on the bomb at Coldridge, and he’s all too happy to shove the body off once Joan sticks the mine to the witch’s back.

The white-haired witch gasps as she sees her friend drop with a bloody smack to the floor, and she runs over with her blade drawn. Only for the mine to activate and shock her unconscious.

“Interesting.” David taps his lip. “How long will they stay like that?”

“Guess we’ll find out. Come on, better get her nice and secure before that happens.”

David examines the spent mine casing while Joan ties the witch to the railing with some rubber bullshit that looked like a hose. It looks like a Sokolov invention-but David has never seen it before. Possibly created in the two months between his departure and Sokolov’s apparent death, but that would leave an extraordinarily short testing period for Sabrina to authorize mass-producing the contraption. Delilah would have allowed it, but Sokolov wasn’t around to make it by then. Unless someone used his blueprints. Or if Delilah knew where Sokolov was.

“David?”

He shoves the dead mine into his coat. “Coming.”

Joan has the witch restrained nicely, her arms stretched out to the side and lashed to the poles. Her head droops onto her chest, but she’s still breathing.

Galia approaches with a piece of paper in her hand, a disgusted look on her face.

“What you got there, Gails?” Joan leans over the railing, tilting her head obnoxiously.

Galia thrusts the paper at David, practically shoving it up his nose. “Read this. Think we’ll get more answers from it than her.”

David has to find a good patch of natural light to read it by, but he recognizes Delilah Kaldwin’s loopy, ridiculously fancy handwriting.

Darlings-

Take to the sewers. The only reason our enemies have evaded us thus far must be because they are utilizing the tunnels, coupling themselves with the filth they think us too good to search. They are wrong. Scour the northeast. That’s where much of the graffiti is popping up, and dear Hydrangea mentioned the scent of magic permeating the sector. I want the Crown Killer and the heir brought to me alive. You may do as you please with whatever allies she’s aligned herself with.

And when you see that deceitful crow, I want you to bring me her heart in a box! If you find the rat, contain him in any manner to your liking until you have the girl as well. He won’t move against us if his daughter is threatened, so there’s no need to worry about my safety. I want him intact, and the girl unharmed.

Oh, and keep a lookout for David. He couldn’t have crossed the river, but it’s likely he managed to move north before succumbing. The state of the corpse is unimportant. Whoever finds him may take a finger as a trophy, but I need his heart and his spleen, preferably the head if it is recognizable. This isn’t an invitation to drag him to Dunwall Tower in pieces. Bring me his body as intact as you found it.

That’s five targets and thirty of you. I don’t think it a tall order.

Those who succeed will earn my undying graces.

Your Empress Forever,

Delilah

Empress.

She called herself Empress.

David sets the paper off to the side before he does something like set it on fire through sheer force of his glare. His hands shake.

In what world would she…

“You look like you sucked a lemon, David,” Joan remarks. “What the f**k does that say?”

“Ugh, Kaldwin talking about cutting David up and what body parts she wants.” Galia shakes her hair out of her ponytail.

Joan actually laughs. “Should be flattered. I told Edgar that when I die, I want him to have me stuffed like one of those taxidermied bears and put me in the corner of his living room or wherever. So I can continue freaking out all his one night stands.”

David makes a face. “That’s disgusting, Joan.”

“Or just hilarious. Don’t worry David, when you die I’ll prop you up in the courtroom so you can continue glaring at everyone.”

“Delilah is calling herself Empress now,” David derails. “She’s delusional, or...or something.”

Joan snatches the paper and reads in herself. Galia wanders back into view, fixing another ponytail. “She’s never going to be Empress, David.”

“Won’t she?” Joan mutters, still pouring over the page. “If she marries your boy, she will be.”

“No, it doesn’t work like that.”

“You sure?”

“I’ve worked for the Crown for five years. I know how this stuff works.”

“No.” David shakes his head. “She’d be Princess Consort. That’s the title for the wife of the Emperor...or Empress. They don’t inherently have power unless the ruling monarch gives them another title.”

There hadn’t been a spouse of the Empire’s ruler since before David was born. Sabrina’s father never married, and her grandmother died in childbirth, so there was no previous example they could draw from. He thinks it’s the same deal with Serkonos’s rulers-Duchess Abele has little power politically, but she has her own projects and is pretty much allowed to do as she pleases. The King and Queen of Morley are given de facto equal power, regardless of which party was the original heir, and they didn’t do royalty in Tyvia anymore. He gets why they’d be confused on the rules.

“Yeah.” Joan nods. “But what if Anthony died?”

“Excuse me?”

“In theory. If Anthony became Emperor, married Delilah and then died, what then?”

“I don’t think it matters, unless they had a kid?” Galia looks to David, unsure. David shakes his head.

“She could continue to rule, but only as Regent until the heir could take power.” Which there were no laws about. David always found that odd. Sabrina was old enough to be somewhat rational when she took the throne, though he really doubts a fourteen-year-old is capable of understanding what the position entails. But if her father died before she was born, if she was born in a palace and recognized as his heir right away, she could have technically been crowned Empress at birth. No rule stating she would need a Regent. Obviously they would have instilled one for a baby, but he often wondered where the cutoff point would be.

“And what if there was no heir?” Galia makes a face. “I mean, Delilah’s not that old, but have you seen her waistline? I don’t think that’s healthy for, you know, growing humans inside of you.”

“I think…” David has to wrack his memory for this, the snippets of Sabrina’s law textbooks she read to him during study sessions, all the discussions her advisors had regarding her totally-going-to-happen marriage. “It’s not an automatic thing. The reigning monarch has to name you their successor.” Like Sabrina did for Anthony. “Otherwise, they’d only take the throne long enough for the next person in line to transition into power.”

“Maybe that’s Delilah’s plan, then,” Joan says. “Have Anthony name her his successor. Then...you know.”

“Except courts aren’t stupid, Catspaw. Seventeen-year-old, healthy Emperor marries woman twice his age, then mysteriously croaks a week after their honeymoon? They’re able to call bullshit. And they would.”

She’s right. The marriage itself would likely be protested, though David has no intentions of letting Delilah get that far. There’s no way Delilah could get away with orchestrating an exchange of power like that. And she should know it.

The fact that it’s even a possibility, though, makes David’s skin crawl.

“I’m ba-ack!” Paul strolls in, wrinkling his nose at the corpse on the floor. “Got the party started without me, I see.”

“We still have one fresh victim.” Joan motions with her head. “That was quick.”

“Reed was outside being weird. Told him to tell the others and skedaddled.” He snaps his fingers. “No, wait, he was playing with Anthony. Didn’t see him, though. Think they were playing hide-and-seek.”

Cute. Anthony used to love playing that game. He and Sabrina played it with each other until she was admonished for it, told it was unbecoming for a princess of her age. You can’t act so childish, they said to the child.

“Are there weepers down here?” Paul wanders down the steps. David lets him bumble about. The witch is still unconscious, so they aren’t pressed for time.

“I think the witches killed a bunch before we got here,” Galia yells down. She turns back to Joan and David. “Anyway. What were we talking about?”

“We should be talking about Miss Flower Pants over here.” Joan thumbs over her shoulder.

Paul’s voice comes up from under the grates. “Uh, guys? I think I know why the canal went dry.”

Galia narrows her eyes and Blinks down to the lower level. Her gasp is equally impressed and disgusted. “Is it supposed to be pretty? It’s kind of...unnerving.”

“What is it?” Joan yells down.

“A f*****g tree!” The sound of metal hitting something...softer. “Catspaw, Fleet and I are gonna try and cut the vines! Start the pump up and maybe we can get it going!”

David Blinks down to see the tree quick, but it’s as off-putting as Galia says. Vines keeping their unnatural grip on the machinery, grass and flowers sprouting impossibly from the concrete. A strange moss that seems to almost glow covering the ground.

And it is uncomfortably silent. Full, like the air is singing, but nothing can be heard. David returns to Joan and watches her crank levers until the pump starts up again.

The three high-five each other when they return. David hates to be the killjoy, but he clears his throat. “So. The witch?”

They fight about how to wake her up for a hot minute, but Joan ends up pouring a bucket of water of her. The witch sputters, gasps. Her eyes fly open and she stares at David standing there, arms crossed, with trepidation.

“Oh, my Void,” she whispers. “You...how are you alive? Niane said there was no way you could have survived, with the open wounds and broken bones…”

As a response, David lets the Mark glow.

The witch’s eyes widen, and she trembles.

“Maybe I should…” Paul bats his shoulder lightly. “No offense, David, but you didn’t make much progress with the others.”

“The others?” the witch nearly shrieks. Her head whips sideways. “You...you killed Alyssa!”

“You killed my Empress.” David keeps his gaze solemn and cool.

The witch practically snarls. “She was worth ten times your Empress ever was!”

“That’s enough.” Paul holds up his hands, takes a knee to look the witch in the eye. “Tell me, do you really think Delilah is doing a good job running the city?”

“Don’t try to appeal to me, you vulture!” she spits. “You’ve allied yourself with a monster!”

“Right, right, you do know that Delilah has caused a couple thousand deaths out of laziness alone, right?”

‘You may appeal to her intelligence.’ David likes to think of Sabrina peering over his shoulder, whispering into her ear. ‘If you try her for sympathy, you will find none. Her heart is filled with darkness.’

“You’re here looking for me,” David says. “Me and Anthony. Why did Delilah send you here, of all places?”

“The writing on the wall.” She glares at him, but she’s talking. “It’s everywhere across the city. Blood or chalk, written in the darkest alleys and across the most prominent signs, reminding the city of your crimes.” She cackles. “Reminds them that you are watching.”

The Crown Killer is Watching. David is beginning to regret starting that.

“They don’t think it’s David, though.” Joan folds her arms.

The witch blinks, and her eyes go wide. “You! You’re the whaler girl Delilah was ranting about!”

“That’s me.”

“So you are the ones who kidnapped the heir,” she says. “Well, Delilah is following the footsteps you’ve left. She’ll smoke you out, mark my words.”

“Yeah. So, David and I have only killed, like two people. The rest is seriously just graffiti done by stupid people.”

The witch scoffs. Joan steps forward, grabs her by the flowers. “Tell us what Delilah knows about us,” she says in a low voice. “And give us a name.”

“A name?” The witch raises an eyebrow.

“Ashworth,” David replies. “We just need you to give us their first name.”

The witch smiles. “And why,” she says sweetly. “Would I do that?”

Without warning, Joan pops her across the face. She leans in, her air filter almost touching the witch’s nose.

“Who. Is. Ashworth?”

But the witch just stares. Blankly, almost. David almost tries to swat at his ear on instinct before he registers the faint, low humming.

“What’s going on with her face?” Galia stands on her tiptoes to see over Joan’s head. David senses the change in the air before he really understands it, and it’s like hitting all the piano keys on his nerve endings. The witch’s skin practically glows orange, the color so deep in her face it’s nearly red. It moves like her flesh is bubbling.

David seizes Paul, the only one within grabbing reach, by the back of his coat and throws him in the opposite direction. “Get away from her, now! Run!”

Paul and Joan obey without question, but Galia pauses to take out her gun. David wraps his arm around her waist and whips her around. “Are you f*****g deaf? I said move!”

The witch screams with ten voices, all high and impossibly grating. The ground shakes. David turns away and pushes Galia with all his might.

She Blinks to a safer distance, but Paul is unable to and Joan apparently hasn’t thought of it. David’s only experienced minor earthquakes, but this is how he’d imagine real ones go down. Cracking pillars and dust falling from the ceiling. He Blinks forward to try and grab the two when the toe of Joan’s boot catches in the grating, and she stumbles. Falls.

David has no time to pick her up, to find them both a safe spot, if there even is one. The air itself seems to be trying to shake them apart. He runs and throws himself on top of her, one hand over her hair and the other braced against the ground. Bends to cover her head and torso with his body and presses her into the ground.

They wait it out.

It’s only after Paul yells if they’re okay and Joan begins to stir that David lifts himself up, hands on Joan’s shoulders to steady her.

“Are you hurt?”

Joan shakes her head. Silent.

The damage takes his breath away. The flooring is cracked, fissured in some places, slabs of concrete crumbled and jutting into the air. Vines and thin, winding trees covering the walls and machines. He can’t even see the steel beams above, thanks to the leaf foliage. Somehow the water pump is still working.

He moves his feet and his boots squish. Water is dripping down through the grates, the entire floor resembling swamp grass. Murky, dark blue covering a mossy green.

The witch doesn’t look like a witch any longer. She barely resembles a human. She’s a burnt husk of a skeleton, what’s left of her skin having nearly the texture of wood. David’s vision spots as he nears her, like looking into a light for too long and seeing the imprints on his retinas.

There’s whispers in his ears. Low, indistinguishable. Not unlike the words he hears when he uses his magical abilities. The air feels heavy and full.

He turns back to the rest of the group, Galia and Paul still hiding behind machinery and Joan standing in the middle of it all as if profoundly confused. “She’s dead, guys.”

“I mean, I’d hope.” Paul steps out. “What the f**k was that?”

“I don’t know. But it means we have to be more careful.”

“Do you think they can all do this?” Joan holds her arms out. Her voice is much softer than normal.

David shakes his head. “No. The others would have done it themselves.” And whatever it was, it was very intense magic. That woman was an irregularly powerful witch. “But going forward, we should assume they can.”

“So what?” Galia shrugs. “Are we not going to question the witches?”

It would make things profoundly easier if they were able to get information from one of these witches, David knows. He hadn’t had extraordinarily high hopes, but it was a nice hope to have. Discover Ashworth’s identity, uncover the Butcher mystery. Find out how Delilah could be defeated.

But that information wasn’t worth any of their lives. They could attain it another way. Hopefully.

“No. No, we’re changing this mission to pure liquidation.”

“I think, uh, we got you covered there, boss.” Paul lifts up his soaking wet boot and peers at the underside.

David gives him a dry look. “Don’t call me boss.”

“What do you wanna be called? Master?”

“Uh, no. I have a name. Use it.”

They relocate to a maintenance room off the side to do their planning, due to the extreme feelings of ‘what the f**k’ they have regarding the pump station. David can hear the hum of bones somewhere close by, but he does his best to ignore it. Not the time. He’s not in the mood to see the Outsider’s stupid face.

“We’ll split into pairs to cover more ground,” David says, flattening out Galia’s map on the floor. “Joan, you take Paul. Galia and I will search over here.”

“Why does she get to stay with you?” Joan complains. Galia gives her a glare.

‘Because if I stick her with you I’ll be short a girl at the end of this’, David thinks, but Galia doesn’t really need to hear that. “That’s a fair division. One experienced magic user on each pair. Galia and I have worked together before, so it makes sense for us to pair up.”

“I guess,” she grumbles. “Paul’s not as smelly as some of the other guys, at least.”

“Hey, I bathe more than you!”

“Also remember that Paul can’t use our transversal ability.” David stares Joan down. “So do not leave him stranded somewhere fifty feet in the air.”

“Aw, but that’s funny.”

“I will make you climb to the top of the clocktower and take away your powers.”

He doesn’t actually know if he can do that, but the threat makes her shut up.

“Are you okay, David?” Paul asks. “You’re acting like there’s a fly buzzing around your head.”

“He can hear those freaky whalebone things,” Joan sulks. “The charms and the runes? It’s creepy as hell.”

“There are runes nearby?” Galia seems to brighten, getting to her feet.

David motions behind him. “Somewhere back there. If you think you can find them, go ahead.”

Galia runs off while David maps out their paths with Joan and Paul. They keep to irregular, looping patterns just in case someone’s able to track their progress. Throw them off their trail if they can’t discern one easily.

“How are you going to find us?” Paul asks. Joan snaps her fingers.

“David can Summon us when he needs us. You should feel a connection or something to him-or me too, maybe. I’ve been an only child for a while. I dunno how this works.”

“I think I know what you mean.” Paul purses his lips. “So you’ll call for us when it’s time to meet up?”

“Say every hour or so, I’ll call for one of you. Just to check, see where we’re at. There’s-” He stops, counts. “There were thirty witches, and we’ve killed seven so far. So we know how many corpses we need.”

“And destroy any of those creepy statues,” Joan says.

“Right. And don’t let them see you face.” He doesn’t know how much Delilah can see through the eyes of her statues, if she’s still looking through them when she’s not directly possessing them. But he’s not taking any chances.

Galia bursts back in. “I found them!” she squeals.

David raises an eyebrow, but doesn’t say anything. He’s surprised she found them so fast, without the ability to hear them or see them through Void Gaze. Without Sabrina showing them to her.

Galia hands the runes to David, her grin deflating. “They were on one of those shrines. I tried kneeling at it, but He didn’t appear.”

Of course He wouldn’t. He didn’t choose Galia to Mark.

“Galia,” David says, tucking the runes inside his chestplate. “If the Outsider ever appears to you, tell Him to f**k off.”   

It takes all day, and well into the night. But in the end, twenty-seven witches are dead, including two of the elusive male witches. A group of three had apparently fled Dunwall before David and his team even came across them. Left a note for their sisters and brothers, apologizing but stating that they no longer believed Delilah could save Dunwall. That the city is doomed. Which it well might be. Certainly is under her.

David tries not to keep count of how many lives he personally ends. He kills and wipes away the blood and tries to ignore Sabrina’s voice giving her opinion on his victims. He doesn’t reflect too long on the deserting witches, how it shows that some in the coven aren’t as fanatically dedicated as they thought. Because then he’d start to wonder how many needed to meet their end on his blade. And they all had to die for the safety of everyone in that mill, for the future of Dunwall. So he quiets that part in his head and lets Sabrina’s words fall on deaf ears.

It’s around midnight when they finally trudge back into the Draper’s Ward system, Joan riding Paul piggy-back unapologetically. David’s own back has been giving him trouble for several hours, but he quashes the voice inside telling him to dial it back. The job was done, and he’ll be back in bed soon. At peace with the knowledge that they’re all safe. They killed an entire legion of witches tonight.

And destroyed two out of three of those statues.

“Can I go in and talk to her?” Joan’s still wearing the mask, but she claps her hands together as she jumps down from Paul’s back, staring from behind those yellow lenses. “Are you going to make me say please?”

David rolls his eyes and brushes her away. “It would be smarter not to engage.”

“No, it would be smart to let Joan send her on a wild goose chase. Come on, David, you said I could!”

He said if she behaved, though he meant it in a teasing way. He huffs. “Fine.”

“Ooh! Can I come too?” Paul raises his hand. “Gails, give me your scarf. I’ll look like one of those Tyvian peasant women, with the scarves over their heads.”

“No, no, this isn’t a goddamn party.” David waves his arms. “Joan goes in alone. She keeps it to a few minutes. Then we blow the damn thing up.” He turns to Joan, already at the door. “The mask stays on, Joan. I don’t think I need to tell you to be careful what you tell her.”

“David,” she says seriously. “I am the careful-est b***h to exist this side of the Wrenhaven.”

The door swings shut behind her, and both Paul and Galia position themselves at the knob, taking turns looking through the keyhole. David watches through Void Gaze, as Joan wanders up to the statue. She stares at it, then takes out her pistol and fires a shot into the ceiling before David can bang on the door and tell her not to.

“Wakey-wakey, bitch.”

“Oh. You again.”

Galia, evidently the one with the first turn at the keyhole, leans back and muffles her exclamations of “geeze, f**k” with her hand.

“I see you found one of my outposts. Don’t worry, dear, more of my sisters will be along to apprehend you shortly.”

“Yeah. No. They won’t.” Joan tosses the letter at Delilah’s feet, letting it drift obnoxiously to the floor. “One of your little instruction sheets got around to me. Did you really think I wouldn’t find out?”

“That haircut is not doing her face any favors,” Galia mutters. David absent-mindedly nods. Delilah had seemed so regal, so imposing at Timsh’s. He had seen her from the side then, and had just worked Anthony out of her claws. She’s not nearly so intimidating now. Head-on, standing in an upturned coffin, her shrine a little corner of the sewers. Anthony hidden safely away from her, her little army broken. They hold the better hand now.

“Knowing what’s about to happen won’t stop it from happening, my love.” Delilah’s voice remains even, still sickenly sweet.

Joan holds her hands up. “What’s going to happen? Your sisters aren’t coming. I killed them.”

“You’re lying.”

Delilah keeps a straight face, too straight. David knows her tells, the little cracks to show that she’s getting nervous.

“Go connect with your other statue things, then. Talk to your witches. Go on, I’ll wait. They won’t answer.”

“Why do you keep your face covered, little peony?” Delilah leans forward. “Are you so horribly scarred that you can’t bear to look upon me with it on display? What are you hiding under there?”

“I’m not hiding anything.” Joan folds her arms. “And neither are you. You can’t hide your plans from me, Delilah. You can’t hide from what you did to the Empress and her family.”

“You little…” Delilah brings her hands up as if trying to strangle Joan from afar. “You wretch! You kill my sisters, my associates-”

“You said you didn’t care about Timsh.” Joan shrugs.

Delilah snarls so intensely they can see it plain on her stiff, marble features.

“Where is the boy?”

Joan just stands there, staring.

Delilah lets out a short, deep scream. “You have no right to him! He’s mine!”

“Anthony doesn’t belong to anyone.”

“His sister entrusted me to care for him!” she cries. “She asked me to keep him safe, from that monster he calls a father!”

Anthony has literally never once called David his father.

“Again, David’s dead.” Joan taps her foot. “He died of a tetanus infection, like, two days after we picked him up, and we gave him a proper burial because we’re not f*****g animals. So you’re not gonna find him now.”

“Tetanus?” Galia pulls back from the door with a pinched expression on her face.

Paul shrugs. “I think that’s lockjaw? David?”

“Don’t know, but I don’t have it.”

“Well, aren’t you kind and altruistic,” Delilah mocks. “That man murdered my future wife because he couldn’t stand the thought of her lying with, loving anyone but him.”

“Will you cut the crap about the Empress already? I don’t buy it. I know you’re the one that had her killed, so save your f*****g breath.”

“Where. Is. Stark?”

“He’s safe. Far away from you.” Joan motions. “Long out of Dunwall. Out of Gristol, actually. So good f*****g luck looking for him.”

David is rather unnerved by how easily Joan is able to lie. Her face is concealed, which would keep any tells hidden, but still. Really, David has never seen her lie with her face shown. He doesn’t know her tells. He had known Sabrina’s, who was an exceptionally prolific liar, often undermined because David could always tell when she was lying. Anthony rarely lies-to David, at least-but he at least knows what it looks like. If he didn’t know Joan’s information was blatantly false, he could believe her.

“Fine. Keep him hidden.” Delilah flicks her hand as if dismissing her. “I will rescue him once again once I have your head on a platter. There is no place in the Isles you can hide from me.”

“Then come find me, Delilah.” Joan holds her arms out. “If you have the stomach to wade through the Flooded District, face all the people you killed with your incompetence. You and me will battle it out under the Empress’s eye.”

“Oh, little cuckoo.” Delilah raises her fist. “When I do find you, I am going to tear out your heart and walk in your skin.”

“I’m not into that kinky s**t, sorry.”

“You think you’re so mysterious and special,” Delilah continues. “But I know how you perform your deeds. I know the Mark on the back of your hand. Just like I know the one on mine.” Her voice goes gentle, calm. Reigning herself in. “Five of us chosen, but history will only remember one. De-”

“If they remember any of us.”

There’s a stunned silence. Then,

“How dare you interrupt me! I-”

“No, once you’re dead we’re going to drop you in a potter’s field and strike your name from everything imaginable.” Joan says, plucking a grenade from her coat interior.

“I’m going to-”

“If I do my job right,” Joan raises her voice just enough to speak over her. “Then history won’t remember me. It won’t need to. It’ll remember one name and one name only.” She pulls the pin. “Emperor Anthony Stark, first of his name.”

She throws the grenade, turns on her heel, and slams the door shut behind her right as it detonates and sends Delilah’s effigy to pieces.

“Under the Empress’s eye?” David has to ask. “Where did that come from?”

Joan shrugs, blowing smoke out of her mouth. “I dunno, I just said the first thing that popped into my head. She can drive herself crazy trying to figure out what it means.” She takes another drag. “Sounded really cool, though.”

Wetness squishes under their feet as they exit the sewers, the water level higher now with the pump going. Joan pumps her fist in the air once she sees the water wheel turning.

“Sweet, now Jerome can’t blow the power again!”

“And you can get your engine coil back and take me for that boat ride you promised,” Paul says, but Joan shakes her head.

“No, because we’re geniuses and locked ourselves out of the engine room. Thank Edgar for that.”

They Blink topside, grabbing Paul by the hands and hoisting him up after he complains about having to use the ladder.

“What happened down there remains between us.” David looks at each of them in turn, his eyes lingering on Paul. “I mean it. Tell no one, and don’t reveal your powers unless it’s life or death.”

“Don’t worry, David.” Paul shoves his hands into his pockets, grinning. “You guys are the only ones I’d really tell anyway. Thalia and Gerald are lame. I wouldn’t tell them if they paid me.”

“I’ll keep quiet too,” Galia says, letting her hair loose for the final time this night. “But Zhukov will probably still find out, just to warn you. It wouldn’t surprise me if he already knows you’re Marked.”

David doesn’t like that, but as long as Zhukov keeps it to his f*****g self, he’ll hold off on knifing the guy.

Joan stretches her arms out and yawns in an exaggerated fashion. “Well, I don’t know about you f***s, but witch hunts are tiring business.” She turns to the guardhouse she and Edgar sleep in, windows still lit up. She frowns. “Guess it’s time to face the music.”

“If Edgar is really upset about you doing your own thing, he can go choke on a cock.” Paul crosses his arms. “He doesn’t own you.”

“He gets kinda clingy.”

“Why? You’re not his girlfriend.”

Joan waves him away. “I wouldn’t put up with that from a boyfriend. But Edgar and I have been friends for a long time. And he’s not the most independant.”

“So what, he can’t be away from you for a day? That’s his own problem.”

“I’m going to bed,” Joan announces, pasting a strained smile on her face. She claps David on the back, and he hides the wince. “Night-night, fuckers.”

David walks the other two back into the mill, checking behind himself periodically until he sees Joan open her door and slip inside. Galia peels off to her own sleeping quarters, but Paul stays and smokes down a cigarette with David in the storeroom, watching the water wheel turn. They’ll have to think of some way to explain this, how they fixed it and why they were in the pump station at all. He listens for Galia’s door, opening and shutting as she slips in.

“Just wanted to say thanks, David.”

Paul doesn’t look at him, continuing to smoke and tap his ash into the canal.

David blinks. “For the powers?”

“For trusting me.” Paul shrugs. “And for choosing me. Most people pass me right over.”

David sucks in another lungful of smoke. “Thank Joan. She vouched for you when we were talking about this.” He doesn’t mention that Paul wasn’t at the top of his list, if he was going to choose allies to give the Bond to. Definitely in the top five, but not first.

He’s glad he chose Paul, though.

“Well, still, you could have said no. And you didn’t.” Paul nudges him with his elbow, tossing his cigarette butt into the water. “I’m going to hit the hay. Let me know when you need me again. I’ll take any excuse to get away from Thalia for a day.”

David waits on the bottom step until he hears Paul’s door click closed, then tiptoes up the stairs. He makes a detour to the kitchen, as even though they had snacked continuously throughout the day on whatever food they found in the witches’ hideouts, his stomach is still growling.

Ricardo is fast asleep on the cot, both Reed and Rose curled up on the floor in front of the stove. She and Lydia must have been released earlier today, then. He doubts Anthony had lessons, but hopefully their return still distracted him. A blanket covers everything below their chests, so David can’t see how bad Rose’s leg still is. Reed turns and nestles his face into his sister’s chest, and her arms instinctively curl tighter around him.

David grabs half a loaf of bread and swallows the entire thing on the walk back upstairs. Anthony’s side of the room is still lit up. David quietly slides his sword under his bed, noting he’ll need to clean the blade before it’s fit to return to Sabrina’s table. Edgar’s coat is stained with witch’s blood and stinks of mildew. He shrugs it off along with Joan’s wristbow, hides them as well. He’d give them back to Joan when he remembered it.

Anthony is at his desk, papers strewn out across the surface. One book opened and propped up, one page underneath his pen. He taps the pen against the desk as he reads, his other hand at his chin. Deep in thought.

David just stands there for a moment, feeling himself swell with pride. And a bit of annoyance, as it’s clearly past midnight and Anthony should be sleeping, but mostly pride. Anthony is no stranger to hard work, and he’s absolutely brilliant. He’ll succeed where David hadn’t, find a cure to save Dunwall. Rule well and bring honor to his name, the name of his sister. The world will remember them.

David creeps up to Anthony’s side, puts his hand on the desk to get his attention. Anthony’s eyes slide over to it, follows his arm and finally turns up to see his face. Then Anthony bursts into a grin.

“David!” The chair scraps as Anthony pushes it back. “You’re back!”

And David is reminded, so much, of another Anthony running towards him in excitement. A Anthony with chubby cheeks and expensive clothes, excited to hear stories of whale watching and pirates and annoying foreign nobles. Running to him over the footbridge, when the air was warm and the flowers in full bloom and their world was alright.

This Anthony throws his skinny arms around him, careful not to jostle his damaged one, and David wraps his hands around his waist and his fingers quickly find a stitch where Ricardo has mended his shirt in off-color thread. His mind floods with excuses, but all he can think of is that Anthony hadn’t hugged him as often as he does now in literal years, and even more oddly, David doesn’t even mind.

Then Anthony takes a step back, his face alarmingly blank. “You smell like blood.”

David maintains eye contact. “We were training all day.”

“And your dummies bled on you?”

“There were weepers in the sewers,” David says truthfully. He rubs at his eye. “I was with Joan. Galia and Paul joined us.”

“Mmm-hmm.” Anthony takes his seat again, turning back to his papers.

“We fixed the water pump.”

“What if you got sick?” Anthony doesn’t look up, twiddling his pen in his fingers.

David refrains from laughing. “We took plenty of elixir, before and after. And none of the weepers touched us.”

“Could still be transmitted by blood…” Anthony mutters, even though that isn’t proven. “And there are plenty of rats down there.”

“We took out some rat nests too. Anthony, I wasn’t in any danger.” The lie weighs on his lips. He hates lying to Anthony, but it’s necessary. To protect him. Anthony would lose his ever-loving s**t if he found out what David was really doing today.

“Sure.”

“Anthony…” David sighs. “I wouldn’t lie to you. Not about something so important.”

That’s the truth, at least. He isn’t nearly as important as Anthony is.

“No,” Anthony agrees. “But you also won’t tell me everything.”

David is silent. Anthony sighs, tilts back the timepiece at the back of his desk to check the clock. “It’s late. I promised Reed we could help Jerome collect oxrush tomorrow, and he likes to go right away in the morning.”

“I can take you two to do that...” David mumbles. Anthony shakes his head.

“Jerome has his pistol. We’ll be fine.” He shuts his book, and David catches something about law in the title before Anthony blows out his light. “Good night, David.”

‘He wonders about your scars, about your nightmares and what goes on inside your head that you refuse to tell him about. He knows whatever possibilities he imagines are worse than what the reality must be, but he continues to imagine.’

One thing Anthony is wrong about. Nothing he conjures up in his head can compare to the truth.

He lays down without bothering to change, dangling his boots over the side of the bed. The night seems too still. He can tell Anthony is still awake.

Part of him thinks he should apologize, but he can’t think of exactly what for. David will never apologize for protecting him. For lying to him? Maybe. He could definitely apologize for worrying him, though Anthony would worry about David no matter what.

He replays the events of the day, trying to find places where he could have been more careful. That quickly becomes dozens of missteps and risky strikes, and he weighs on each of them. He knows he should sleep, but David is not eager to return to his nightmares, to see Sabrina and watch her murdered all over again.

He probably could have gotten more information out of the witches. The one in the control station was flagging in her loyalty-if they hadn’t pissed her off, hadn’t killed her friend, they probably could have convinced her to divulge more. The girls in the cistern-David will fully admit to losing his temper. And they had likely known that would happen. Insulting Sabrina like that...deliberate attempt to push every one of his buttons. And it worked.

Though some of her words concerned him. About him and Sabrina sharing a sewer grave. Sabrina was interred in her proper resting place, in the Imperial Crypt. David’s seen the sarcophagus when it was empty, saw her father be sealed in an identical one. Thick walls and a slab of stone that takes four men to lift, which would be cemented in place once the casket was laid down. To prevent body-snatchers, grave robbers. She was sealed in, and even if she never made it there, she’d be in the ocean. David almost wishes they had left her body there. He knows she would have preferred a sea burial.

He wouldn’t put it past Delilah to desecrate a corpse out of spite, but the only way she could even get to Sabrina now would be to smash her tomb to bits, which wouldn’t go unnoticed. Still. He’d have to check once they’re back. Void Gaze should be able to detect a body, so he’ll have to look to make sure she’s really there. That Delilah hadn’t taken her out and thrown her to the trash and rats.

It makes him feel vulnerable, to know Delilah has her body, even though Sabrina’s not occupying it anymore.

David sighs. He toes off his boots and slips his feet under the covers, turning over to let the stove warm his nose. It’s a bit chilled in here tonight. Chilly outside. Something told him there was a cold snap in their immediate future.

Okay, so they didn’t learn much today. Learned Delilah was looking for Joan, and the Crow Queen apparently-their alliance went sore, he guesses. The Rat King has a daughter. That one threw him. It was hard to accept that the monsters had faces under their masks-but he supposes they all do. Was her mother the Crow? It occurs to him now that he doesn’t even know if the King and Queen are actually together or if it’s simply a business arrangement. Odd that a couple would both bear the Mark. Unless it was their powers that attracted them to each other.

He doesn’t want to think about them. He doesn’t want to get into it, think about them as people when he cannot fathom how any person could do that to his young, selfless, lovely Sabrina.

Anthony’s breath has evened out. He has a few more hours to sleep until sunrise. Hopefully David will be able to fall asleep at some point by then.

At least Joan had provided some misdirection to Delilah. And Delilah is apparently fooled by her, since she still believes David is dead. She’ll have Delilah combing Rudshore now, clear on the opposite side of Dunwall from them, and thinking Anthony had been smuggled out and in hiding in f*****g Tyvia or something.

It bothers him that Delilah got this close in the first place, but then, she had chosen an entire quadrant to search. One out of four chance she would have gotten it right. Something about the graffitti leading them there-he believes people would try copy-catting him, but what a bother to deal with. He couldn’t tell why it would be more prevalent here. Though there were areas nearby Draper’s Ward that were much poorer than the Ward itself, and much of the district had fallen to gang violence. Graffiti would be worse here in general.

If only they could have gotten more out of that witch. They could have worked Ashworth’s first name out of them. He doesn’t know how the investigation is going-he’s been brushed off whenever he asks, people trying to give him time to relax and rest. They don’t get it when David says he doesn’t need that.

But f**k, what were they going to find? At best, they’d be taking a guess which Ashworth would be most likely to turn to witchcraft and hoping it was the right one. And if they picked wrong, they’d have tipped off Delilah and the true Gardenia.

They could try interrogating a witch again, but David doesn’t know how they’d stop them from using that strange earthquake power. How they’d protect themselves from it. And according to f*****g Rothwild, Ashworth never spoke to anyone other than witches from their coven. Operated through them, never lifting a finger themselves, communicated through Delilah and Luca. Them and the…

The Chief Alchemist.

David shoots up in bed.