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The Cults of Voynich City
Chapter I: The Cult of Lost Souls
HUMAN RESOURCES
Stewart Cinn rolled the stamp on the pad of red ink, lifted it into the air, and slammed it down on the request form with a heavy thud. “Denied.”
“Denied?” The old man, face covered in symbolic tattoos, looked up in shock. “How? I filled everything out perfectly.”
“I apologize, Minister, but it is the view of Human Resources that your need for sacrifices at this time is superfluous at best.”
“Superfluous? You can’t mean—!” The minister’s shock gave way to an anger that burned in his eyes. Not literally. Given the man’s patron deity of choice, Stewart wasn’t concerned about any flames.
“Terribly sorry,” Stewart said, sliding the stamped form across his desk. He made a slight adjustment to its positioning, making sure the stack of papers aligned perfectly with the edge of his desk. “Human Resources recommends that the Ministry of Winter check that their calendars are up to date. Offering sacrifices in the middle of summer is a waste of time, effort, and valuable personnel.”
“Sitakalam is expected to sit and watch as His brother receives offerings day-in and day-out?”
“Yes, actually.” Stewart sighed, lightly pressing his glasses up the bridge of his nose. “I understand you are new to this, Minister, and I am trying to be understanding, but the Ministry of Summer has preferential treatment during this time of year. Your god agreed to the stipulation in 1082.”
Standing from his desk as he spoke, Stewart moved to the filing cabinets at the side of his office. He took but a moment to rummage through and find a copy of the aged document he needed.
“It is all in the Treaty of the Seasons, signed by Sitakalam of Winter, Venalkkalm of Summer, Vasantakalam of Spring, and Saratkalam of Autumn, witnessed by the heas of the Ministry of Agriculture, Ministry of Weather, and the four ministries dedicated to the named gods. That includes the Ministry of Winter.”
The Minister of Winter stared down at the desk as Stewart slid the treaty into place next to his denied request form. The old man reached a hand forward and slowly started turning one page after another. As his eyes started roaming over the document, he muttered a slur under his breath. “Those cults.”
Stewart sat back in his seat, clasping his hands together as he watched the old man search through the text. Likely trying to find some loophole that wasn’t there. With the animosity between the ministries of the seasons, such things had been searched for aplenty in the 936 years since the treaty had been signed.
It was quite irritating, in Stewart’s opinion. There was a reason why no gods had ever been worshiped within the Offices of Human Resources. HR would never agree to service the random whims the various sanctioned deities would require of their followers or the fevered dreams and delusions those followers felt compelled to follow irreverent of their deity’s actual commands. Any request to had to be written down, forms filled perfectly and completely in triplicate, and then had to be approved by precise Actuators such as Stewart.
Frankly, the other ministries were lucky HR existed. Were it not for them, Voynich City would have become another Necropolis long ago. Naturally, the ministries didn’t often see it that way. To them, Human Resources was obstructionist in the extreme. And yet, who was it who kept the city running? Not the Ministry of Order.
And certainly not the Ministry of Winter.
Smiling at the thought of that dark joke, Stewart waited patiently until the deep chime of the Grand Old Church’s belfry reverberated throughout the city. As soon as the fifth chime finished, he leaned forward.
“I apologize, but the Office of Human Resources is closed for the day,” he said, reaching out to retrieve the treaty. “I am sure the Ministry of Winter has a copy of the treaty within its archives for perusal at your leisure. If you require a replacement, you may submit LP form 3018 to our lovely receptionist on the first floor.”
Stewart stood, moving to the filing cabinet to return the document to its proper drawer.
“We had two sacrifices last summer. We’ve had none and summer is almost out—”
“There wasn’t a plague ravaging the city last summer, nor were storms ravaging our crops and threatening famine. Again, I am sorry, but there simply aren’t the resources to go around at this point in time.”
“Sitakalam won’t stand for this!” the minister said, tone dangerous. He stood abruptly and, from the folds of his deep blue and white robes, drew a jagged dagger. The shiny blade gleamed with a thin layer of frost. “Give me my sacrifice!”
Stewart stopped halfway to the cabinets and grabbed his cane from its place leaning against the side of his desk. He whirled on the minister, using the top half of the walking stick to swat aside the man’s hand as he lunged with the knife. Stewart landed an easy strike to the man’s wrist, knocking it upward.
A flash of silver flew through the air from the frosty blade, striking the ceiling over their heads. The lights in the room flickered as a layer of frost grew over the ceiling.
Stewart ignored both the lights and the sudden cold as his analytical eyes snapped from point to point around the minister. An old man. Not a combatant. Not used to fighting or pain—self-mutilation was not a common practice at the Ministry of Winter. The fight was effectively over as it was, but the danger of that dagger meant he was still a threat until it was removed.
A quick swipe of the cane against the man’s bald head knocked him off balance. Just a light tap, but it sent a shower of snow across the office. A follow-up thrust shoved him back into the chair. A final strike to the dagger sent it clattering to the floor from his loosened grip.
“I would recommend you reconsider that action,” Stewart said, keeping his tone calm and level as he used his cane to fling the dagger off into the corner of the room behind his desk. “If Sitakalam takes issue with the treaty He signed, it is up for review and reinterpretation in 841 years. Until then, unless the Ministry of Winter wishes to find themselves labeled a hostile cult, I expect you to abide by our decisions.”
While watching the old man clutch at his forehead with his eyes squeezed shut, Stewart half-turned to his desk. There was a small wooden box covered in glowing green runes. On the front side, a series of grated slats sat above a small array of runes with needles jutting from their centers. Stewart pressed down on one of the runes. Once he felt the small prick in the tip of his finger draw blood, he said, “Miss Peel, would you be so kind as to send in security to escort the Minister of Winter from the building?”
“Another altercation?” Miss Peel’s flat tone carried well over the aetheric airwaves. “Shall I prepare incident form 810B as well?”
“Thank you.” Taking his finger off the rune, Stewart sucked at the small drop of blood, making sure he didn’t drip anywhere on his desk or clothes. With the prick being so tiny, it stopped bleeding in seconds.
The minister, having managed to open his eyes through the mild pain he was experiencing, leaned forward. Stewart placed the end of his cane on the minister’s chest and pressed him back into the seat.
“You don’t understand, the world is doomed!”
“Ah. More cult talk.”
“It is!” The man looked desperate and lost. The layer of frost over his bald head had started melting, leaving a long drip of liquid running down the center of his tattooed face. “There are signs! The plague! The storms!”
“Cults have been claiming the end is neigh since the dawn of time,” Stewart said, tone turning terse. This line of talk hit a bit of a sore spot for him. “And yet, the world continues turning. The periodic nature of the storms is unnatural, but a sign of the end times? The only signs that matter to me are arithmetics and statistics. And let me tell you, Minister of Winter, the statistics paint a grim picture of the city’s immediate future, but nothing apocalyptic.”
The door to Stewart’s office opened. A pair of security personnel entered. They wore the standard security uniform of a tight-fitting black vest, held closed by a series of straps and silver buttons running horizontally down the front, with a long tail around the sides and back, but open in the front. Each wore a featureless white mask, obscuring their identities.
“Get up,” one said, voice crisp and about as frosty as the minister’s weapon.
Removing his cane from the minister’s chest, Stewart took a step back to let HR Security do their job.
The minister struggled to his feet, wincing as he did so. A small bit of blood dripped from a gash on his forehead, staining his robes but thankfully leaving the room untarnished. The man ignored it, making to move toward the corner of the room where his knife had ended up. Before he could complete his first step, one of the guards moved to block his path.
“No,” she said, putting out her hand. Her voice was deep and rough. While the mask hid her face, Stewart knew that dark hair and olive skin. Kimberlee Kind, a fairly new member of HR. Though new did not mean incapable. With the muscles she had pressing against the uniform, she could snap the old minister like a twig.
“The Ais Blade,” the minister said, reaching out a hand.
Stewart, putting on his most polite customer-facing smile, put as much false cheer into his tone as possible. “If you misplaced one of your possessions during your visit here, you may collect it from the HR department for Lost and Found items. Unfortunately, as already mentioned, HR public business hours are over. You may visit Lost and Found on Monday when business hours begin.”
“But—”
Kind gripped his shoulder. Security had given him a chance to walk out with some dignity. Now he was being forced out. With the other security guard holding open the door, she marched him out.
The door shut lightly behind them.
Stewart, taking his seat, leaned back and steepled his fingers against his chin. He stared up at the ceiling with a steadily growing frown on his face.
A splash of water dripped on his nose.
The frost on the ceiling was starting to melt.
“Lovely,” he said. Making a mental note to foist the Ministry of Winter off onto Lockwood next time they came knocking, he pressed a button on the intercom and called for a custodian.
BEFORE THE STORM
Stewart stood, looking out the window of his office with a glass of amber brandy loosely gripped in one hand. The sun had fallen below the horizon a short time ago, leaving only the faintest hint of its glow against the bottom of thick black clouds that sat above the city. The bank of clouds obscured any sign of the moon.
A storm was coming. A heavy one, again, according to the reports that had been pouring through the offices this morning. The Ministry of Weather had been sending out their clerics and votaries, running checks, giving prayers… And yet, the storms had come again. Tonight’s, from behind the glass panel window, looked particularly vicious.
The first few had come out of nowhere, dark clouds bringing raging rainstorms that took the city by surprise.
Now, however, Stewart had data. The Office of Human Resources collected as much information as possible from the Ministry of Weather, the Grand Old Church, the Ministry of Agriculture, and a dozen other minor sources. Anything that threatened the ongoing operation of Voynich City drew HR’s attention. And with that attention, and his prestigious position of an Actuator, he had managed to compile a wall of information.
Given their sphere of operations, Stewart had thought that turning the information over to the constabulary would see things put right. But that had been two weeks ago and the storms were still coming.
“Still here, Mister Cinn?”
Stewart turned to find Dorothy Peel standing with an impeccably straight spine at the open door to his office. One hand clasped the wrist of her other hand, both covered in white gloves. She wore a tan-colored long coat. One heavy enough to wear through the coming storm. It didn’t quite fit her; the shoulders were too broad and the sleeves had been rolled up. Stewart could not recall having seen his secretary with such a coat.
It wasn’t her coat.
Donning a wan smile, Stewart flicked his eyes to the clock on the wall. “I should be asking you that. Your shift ended two hours ago, did it not?”
“You produce far too much paperwork, sir.” Her tone remained just as flat as the gaze she leveled at him. “When next assaulted, it would take quite the burden off my back if you would drop dead.”
“I’ll try to keep that in mind,” Stewart said, smile not flinching in the slightest. Despite her words and cool demeanor, she wasn’t actually upset. He had known her long enough to tell. Half-turning, looking back out the window while keeping Peel in his peripheral vision, he changed the subject. “Had a meeting with management this evening regarding the state of the city. They’re going to be shutting down the building early on storm days going forward.”
“Well, that’s something.”
“It’s deterioration. Shutting down, giving in… All agree something is amiss and yet none wish to do anything about it.”
“Is that really your job, sir?”
Stewart turned fully away, swirling his brandy in the short glass before taking a small drink. “Bad storm tonight. Might be the worst one yet. And the nights are dangerous these days. Care for someone to walk you home?”
A flicker of a smile crossed her face, reflected in the window pane, before being replaced with her statuesque flat gaze in short order. Stewart caught the thumb of her hand clasped to her wrist lightly brushing over one of the cuff buttons peeking out from the rolled sleeve. “That will not be necessary, sir. An HR Security personnel offered to escort me home.”
Nodding slowly, Stewart turned back to her and set his glass atop his desk. The movement bought time for his mind to hop from one guard to the next until he matched the general builds of the guards with that of the long coat Peel wore. “Understood,” he said. “I am certain Miss Kind will see you home safely.”
The air pressure in the room shifted as Peel adopted a murderous glare. “Good day, sir,” she said, spinning on one foot.
“Remember,” Stewart said, stifling a small laugh, “we are on observation duty tomorrow morning, Miss Peel.”
The door slammed shut, returning the office to relative silence save for the clicks of Peel’s heels fading as she moved down the hall.
As soon as the footsteps vanished into the distance, Stewart moved to the coat rack in the corner and removed his own long coat. It was an old favorite and served well enough to ward off the cold winds of these unnatural storms. The outer layer was made of heavy black wool. Tailored to fit snugly to his shoulders and hips, it was just what he would need tonight.
He put on his hat as well. A black felt bowler. He never went anywhere without it now. Finally, he took his cane from where it leaned against his desk. A simple piece of metal with no visible runes or decorations beyond its sleek silver handle.
Stewart could move about without his cane easily enough so long as the distances were short, such as around his office. Once the distances got too great, the wound he received from the incident that took his wife grew worse. As for stairs…
Taking a deep breath, Stewart started the trek downward. The Office of Human Resources sat off-center in Voynich City and was one of the taller buildings. Not as tall as the Grand Church’s belfry, but still several stories. Some of the newer buildings had elevators, but HR was an old structure. Almost as old as the Grand Old Church.
Ten flights of stairs downward, with one small rest part way, Stewart reached the ground floor.
There was no sign of Peel or Kind in the lobby. Not that he expected either to be around. Stewart made good time getting down the stairs, but not as good as someone without his limp. Composing himself after that hike, Stewart adjusted into his professional demeanor and approached the front desk where the receptionist’s quick fingers flew across the black keys of her typewriter.
She really shouldn’t be at the office this hour, but everyone had been working late in recent weeks. There was just too much to be done. All the more reason why Stewart didn’t agree with management’s decisions.
“Missus Bo. Terribly sorry to bother you,” Stewart said, placing a cloth-wrapped dagger onto her desk. “The Minister of Winter misplaced this while in my office earlier.”
Bo did not take her eyes off the typewriter. Her fingers didn’t slow in the slightest. Even still, she said, “I will see it delivered to Lost and Found.”
“Sorry to give you more work.”
“Not at all.” The typewriter dinged. She paused, glancing up even as she reached over to reset the carriage. “I’m planning on staying the night until the storm blows over. Home is a bit far for some of us, so we’ll be sleeping in the break room.”
“Ah. I had been about to ask… That’s certainly a wiser decision than I am about to make, I’m sure,” he said, more to himself. He took a single step toward the doors, planting his cane with a click against the marble floor. Pausing, he looked back to Bo. “I don’t suppose you saw Miss Peel pass through here?”
Bo, having already gone back to her work, did not look up from the typewriter to answer. “She passed through a few minutes ago in the company of one of the guards.”
“I see. Good. Good. She left something behind as well,” Stewart lied, “but rather than subject her to the bureaucratic horrors of Lost and Found, I’ll deliver it personally tomorrow. Thank you, Missus Bo. Have a safe evening.”
Aside from a vacant note of acknowledgment, Bo did not respond.
Cane tapping on the floor in a steady rhythm, Stewart pushed open the heavy doors to the Office of Human Resources and stepped out onto the moist street. The rain had yet to start in full, but the flagstone streets still gleamed with an unnatural wetness. A heavy wind forced him to better secure his hat.
The streets of Voynich City didn’t look like they usually did. With no pedestrians walking around this late on a Friday night and most businesses shuttered up tight due to the storm clouds overhead, it looked as if the city had been deserted. A single trolly that normally took Stewart home sat on the rails near the faint green glow of a streetlantern, idle and temporarily abandoned because of the storm.
True to Bo’s words, it looked as if Peel had just barely left. He caught sight of her bright red bob cut in the light of a streetlamp just as she turned down another street a block away. Rather than take his road home, Stewart hurried after her. He kept up a hasty pace in spite of his leg, only slowing as he reached the edge of the building on the corner of the street Peel had just turned down.
Peeking around the building, he spotted both Dorothy Peel and Kimberlee Kind walking together down the streets. Miss Kind, having loaned her overcoat to Peel, was not dressed in a state fit for the weather at hand. She had taken off her security uniform, holding it draped over her arm, which left her looking like she was ready to head into intensive weight training.
She was certainly showing off why she had been so quickly hired as security despite her newcomer status to Voynich City. However, Stewart couldn’t help but curl his lips into a small frown. She was also showing off a truly staggering number of tattoos running down her arms and back.
Tattoos in Voynich City carried connotations. A sign of obsessive devotion. To whom, he didn’t know. It might be blasphemous to admit, but Stewart did not believe any god was worthy of such slavish worship.
Tailing them was not an easy task. With the streets deserted as they were, Stewart couldn’t openly walk about. He would be far too conspicuous. Instead, Stewart stayed where he was, leaning against the side of the building while occasionally glancing around it. As soon as the two women turned down another street, he hobbled after them only to wait just behind a small wall, using the time it took them to make it to the next street as a rest for his leg.
Three such turns later and Peel finally reached her apartment building. A three-story brick structure with narrow windows and double wooden doors leading to a foyer that was half as opulent as the architectural aesthetic might otherwise imply. The sign hanging above the entrance read, The Little House.
Stewart approached closer, peering in through the window beside the front door. Peel and Kind were just inside, but rather than head into Peel’s ground floor apartment, the two women stood just outside, speaking to each other. He couldn’t hear what they were saying through the glass, but Peel removed the overcoat after a few moments of talk and handed it over to its owner.
Realizing that Kind was, in fact, not about to spend the evening with Peel, Stewart quickly ducked to the side of the building’s entryway.
Miss Kind emerged in short order, donning her long coat as she moved, filling it out far more than Peel had managed. A flick of the edges pulled the collar up and around her dark hair, offering some shield from the increasing wind. In contrast to her languid pace while walking with Peel, her steps turned hasty and quick. She walked right past Stewart, who lurked in the shadows of an alcove around the entrance, without apparent notice.
Stewart frowned, eyes following after the woman while his legs remained still.
Peel made it home safely. His primary objective was complete. But now, Kind was walking on her own on the night of a storm. There was a strong pressure within him, accompanied by ghosts of a woman crying for help, to follow Kind and ensure she reached her destination safely as well. However, he clamped down on the feeling, using a force of will to keep where he was.
He did not know where Kind lived or how far she would have to walk. It could be around the corner. It could be on the other side of the city. He didn’t know her well. Or at all, really. She was new to HR and the city as a whole. One of the last confirmed visitors before the storms started rolling in.
There had been no visitors to the city since.
With the sun having already fallen and the smell of impending rain growing stronger with every passing moment, he did not have time to shadow her.
Closing his eyes, Stewart pulled up a mental map of the city, marked with all the data he had collected on the storms thus far. All the data he had sent to the constables, which they had done nothing with. He wouldn’t sit about and do nothing.
He had the data. These storms came like clockwork. There was pattern and, where there was pattern, there were answers to be found.
Adjusting his bowler, Stewart stepped back out onto the street. He turned his back to Kimberlee Kind and started walking toward his next objective of the evening.
There was something going on tonight that the constables simply couldn’t ignore.
Stewart would find it.
TRIANGULATION
Voynich City sprawled across both sides of the Tepkaloch River, which let out into the Crescent Ocean to the south. At the city center on the eastern side of the river, buildings stretched tall, made from dark bricks and large windows. Arcane streetlamps bathed the roads in a green hue, providing light even in the darkest hours of the nights.
The western side of the city lacked a great number of the amenities the eastern side possessed. It wasn’t stricken with poverty—through sacrificial rites and ancient rituals, the various ministries of Voynich City created more than enough food and housing to go around—but it was a great deal older. Or rather, the western side of Voynich City hadn’t suffered a great fire and subsequent rebuilding.
The buildings in Old Town were smaller and often made from wood. Only the Grand Old Church’s belfry stood high over the land, looming with an eerie blue glow that highlighted the edges of the buildings and illuminated the underside of the dark clouds.
Crossing over one of the seven bridges of the Tepkaloch River, Stewart entered into the narrower streets of Old Town. Risk assessment reports reached his desk every morning; Human Resources had to know the status of the city in every aspect to make sound judgments. While there had been a few disappearances on the eastern side of the river, people had gone missing in Old Town after ten of the twelve most recent storms. The constabulary was supposedly looking into it, but…
The storms were still coming and there had yet to be any arrests made.
He headed further into Old Town, moving past the vacant market square until he reached a modest little shop. One of the Ministry of Agriculture’s automats. With the tall buildings on the eastern side of the river blocking much of the wind and the smaller buildings keeping the funneled air a bit calmer, this side of the river hadn’t quite shuttered their windows and locked their doors for the night. It would be soon, but for the moment, the automat was still open.
Stewart stepped inside. A cozy little place with large glass windows. One of a few buildings on this side of the river to have been built with more modern specifications. Chairs and tables dotted the floor, leaving just a small path to the back wall with dozens of little glass-covered cubbyholes. Each had a small slot for a coin to the side, which would open the glass covering and allow access to a variety of foods. Baked bread and pastires, sandwiches, a peat pie kept warm through the use of heat staves carved into the cubbyhole’s walls, and more besides.
The prices were a bit higher than normal. A consequence of the potential upcoming famine. The Ministry of Agriculture had raised prices, not in an attempt to starve people or gouge them of their funds, but to encourage a more frugal living style for the time being in the hopes that there would be more in the storehouses for later on.
After purchasing a breaded chicken sandwich and filling a cup with fresh tea from a dispenser, Stewart took a seat. There was only one other patron. A man who, judging by his brown Ministry of Agriculture robes, might have been the chef at this automat. Aside from a slight glance, the man didn’t pay much attention to Stewart, choosing to focus on a newspaper spread out on his table.
That suited Stewart just fine. He had an inkling. A notion. A thought and idea fueled by the data and reports that had crossed his desk. He wasn’t positive of his assumptions, merely educated guesses, but after the constables failed to act on his data, he had started taking matters into his own hands.
Stewart pulled out his pocket watch, unlatching it from his suit before setting it down on the table. He made sure it was fully wound before he started eating his meal. All the while, he stared at the steadily ticking second hand, watching it go round and round.
Thirteen minutes, fifty-seven seconds passed before he saw what he was looking for.
A bright flash outside the automat’s windows. He immediately noted the position of the second hand in preparation to count.
The immediate rattling of the windows with the deep bellows of thunder startled him. He jumped up, graspin ghis cane in a tight grip.
“Damn!” the chef shouted, jumping to his feet as well. He rushed to the windows and peered out at the sheet of rain now falling on Old Town. “Blasted, baleful weather. Told the wife I’d dust out early tonight and here I am sitting around like an oaf.”
Stewart stared out the windows as well. That had been… close. Closer than expected. The storms always started with a lightning strike. According to his analysis, the strikes were in or near the same spots for several storms in a row before moving to a different location in the city. He had been out and about during the storms before, triangulating the lightning strikes at the start of the storms. Now…
“I apologize,” Stewart said, calming down from his own start as he quickly gathered up his pocket watch and bowler hat. “I thought you were open deliberately. I would have warned you if I knew.”
“Naw,” he said in that distinctive Old Town drawl. “Was keen on some numbers taking the last of my food. Didn’t right want it all to go to waste. Spared me some of that, fella. Suppose I’ll shutter up here for the night.”
“I imagine that would be wise unless you live close by.”
The chef shook his head. “Not so much, no. You? I’ll agree to you staying through the worst of it, least I can do.”
“That’s mighty kind of you,” Stewart said, tapping his cane across the floor as he moved toward the door. He pulled his overcoat around him tight. It did not look pleasant out. “I don’t have far to go.”
“Heading out in that?” the chef said, shaking his head. “I wish you luck, fella, but I don’t envy you. I’ll be locking the doors behind you. Strange nights, these are.”
“That they are,” Stewart said, pulling open the store’s front door.
The wind hit him immediately, forcing him to hold his hat with his cane hanging onto his arm. It took the chef coming up behind him to close the door as the wind was a bit too much for him on his own. That left him standing out on the street, rapidly feeling the rainwater soak right through his heavy coat as he wondered if this was really as good of an idea as he had first thought.
Another bolt of lightning and rumble of thunder, striking somewhere far more distant, taunted his thoughts.
He didn’t look back to the automat. Some might call it pride. He would probably call it pride as well. Seeing the pitying look on that chef’s face would strike a blow far worse than soaked clothing.
Though if he stood out in the downpour too much longer, he might just have some second thoughts about that.
Shuddering, Stewart planted his cane on the ground and moved, turning left at the first street. He hadn’t seen the actual bolt of lightning scorching the backs of his eyes. Thus, the lightning bolt had been out of view. But it was somewhere close. Stewart had an inkling of what he might find if he hurried to the striking point fast enought.
It didn’t take long to find at all.
Up a small hill stood one of Old Town’s larger manors. This side of the river was lousy with them. Old Town was, as the name implied, old. That meant old money. The building, a large box-like shape with pillars holding up an extended roof around its front and side walls, had no lights on in any of its dozen windows.
Out front, a tree was smoking and steaming despite the rain. Split in two, the glowing and burning insides could easily be seen even with the dark, moonless sky removing all external illumination. Normally, a lightning strike would cause normal red flames.
This tree smoldered in a sickly violet light.
There were two other husks on the property. Trees that had been hit by lightning in the past. A few scorch marks and burned flagstones marred the property as well. The unkempt yard was otherwise overgrown.
Hurrying past it, relieved to be out of direct rain under the roof over the door, Stewart lived one of the large knockers and slammed it back down. Resounding thuds reverberated across the wooden front of the home.
No one answered. Testing the handle, Stewart found it wouldn’t budge.
Hefting his cane, he slammed it against the glass of the door. If he was wrong, he had the money to make an apology go a long way. If he was right…
Unlatching the door, he stepped into a dark foyer. As soon as he was fully inside, he smelled it.
Rot.
The stench of decaying yet still-living flesh. Someone in this house had caught the plague. Perhaps all of the residents. The smell was strong enough to make even him gag. He didn’t know whose house this was or how many members made up their household. It could be an entire family plus servants.
Had they died? It would have been recent. Stewart knew the smell of the dead and this wasn’t quite it. Death would explain the lack of lights, but so would being bedridden.
Stewart ran his thumb along the handle of his cane until he felt the sharp spur sticking off one side. After twisting the handle three clicks, he pricked his finger on the spur. As the blood filled the runic stave, a faint green light provided Stewart with the ability to see his surroundings.
The manor looked abandoned. A thick layer of dust coated a decorative table and the plant atop it had wilted. Thin strands of green light reflected off cobwebs clinging to the corners of the windows and doorways. The banister had broken near the top of the stairs leading up to the second floor while debris littered the foyer.
“Hello?” Stewart called out in a soft voice, just in case someone was around. “I apologize for the door. I’ve come to seek shelter from the rain.”
He didn’t hear the slightest peep of a response. Of course, with the storm raging outside the cracked window, his sense of hearing was somewhat impaired, but he felt like words would have made it through.
As he crossed room to room, Stewart found some traces of life. Through a dining room off the main foyer and into the nearby kitchen, he came across a trail in the dust leading from what was likely an exterior door to another door in the kitchen. Opening the interior door, he found another set of stairs, this time leading downward. While the stairs themselves were unlit, a faint violet light leaked from a crack beneath the door at the bottom.
A nausea gripped him as the stench of rot wafted up from below.
Stewart broke the stave in his cane with a twist of its handle, extinguishing the green light. The violet light at the bottom of the stairs grew all the more apparent. Keeping a hand on the railing, he carefully descended.
SACRIFICE
A wine cellar.
Stewart peered through a crack in the door at the bottom of the stairs, waiting, watching, and listening. For all his analysis of the storms, Stewart didn’t actually know what he would find. Something unsanctioned, certainly, but no specifics.
Approaching without caution could be dangerous.
So he spied from the door, observing the kegs lining one wall of a long corridor while angled shelves held bottles on the other. Brick pillars dotted the middleway, supporting the roof overhead. At one point in time, it might have been the pinnacle of the homeowner’s possessions, wealth and taste in spades to show off to any and all visitors. But now, with more bottles broken than not, stains marring the floor, and that pungent rank rot filling the air, Stewart had to clamp his damp handkerchief to his face in an attempt to keep himself steady on his feet.
Although he saw no people, the faint trail that had led him to this door became obvious down here. There were obvious footsteps leading through the spilled mess. Right past a toppled shelf, the violet light poured through an open doorway halfway to the far end of the corridor. Most ominous of all, however, was what Stewart heard.
Rhythmic sound of deep chanting.
Approaching without tapping his cane on the ground, Stewart put his back to the wall just next to the doorway. Adjusting his glasses, he slowly peered around the opening.
A fanciful tasting room, circular in shape, had a number of people standing around a long table. A small fireplace to the side of the table emanated that violet light. Elegant carved chairs with floral-patterned red fabric lay toppled and forgotten around the room. Their cushions soaked up…
Well, it probably wasn’t wine given what was on the long table.
Three people were strapped to the table. With the table longer than it was wide, they were laid side-by-side with their hands and feet dangling over the edges, tied together underneath. Two, a man and a little girl, were obviously dead already. Their bodies were still and the table shined with fresh blood spilling over the edges. The final individual strapped to the table at the far end of the room, near another door that might lead to more storage or even other areas of the manor above, struggled and thrashed with enough vigor that he was tearing skin against the ropes binding his arms. He might even be struggling hard enough to break bone.
Quite understandably, in Stewart’s opinion.
There were other people in the room. Six stood chanting, wearing clearly homemade robes fashioned from whatever the tailor had in reach—bedsheets, curtains, upholstery, and the like. A seventh man stood near the surviving victim, his back to the closed door. He had his hood down, showing off the living rot of his plague-stricken face. In one hand, he grasped an open tome. In his other, raised high above the final victim on the table, he held a blade etched with glowing violet runes.
Stewart sucked in a breath, tightening his grip on his cane’s handle. For a moment, he saw that man’s crying face flash into the form of his late wife as she cried and screamed in anguish.
The vision faded and his hand relaxed as the analytical part of Stewart’s mind took over. Seven against one was excessively poor odds. Even with them plague-stricken. They were certainly not standing stooped over, hacking and coughing, or otherwise displaying symptoms typical of the plague victims he had seen in the sanatoriums. The knife, much like the Ais Blade the Minister of Winter had used, could have unnatural properties. He didn’t know to which deity they offered their victims or what boons they could have been granted.
Not enough information. Too dangerous. He knew where they were until they moved. Even after, he should be able to track them down much faster now that he knew what to look for. If he fell here and now, he couldn’t say when the constables would take the information he had given them and actually make use of it. If he left, he could return next time with greater numbers.
Just before Stewart turned away, the door behind the head cultist swung fully open.
Stewart stalled as a featureless white mask appeared from the darkness. The figure beyond didn’t wear robes, but the long coat of HR Security.
The lead cultist spun around with about as much surprise as Stewart felt, but at least Stewart didn’t catch a baton to the face. The entire room stopped their chanting, but were shocked enough that the HR Security Agent struck him a second time before anyone could respond, sending the already reeling cultist to the floor with a cry.
The others didn’t remain stunned for much longer. They started moving; a few cultists pulled weapons from their homemade robes in the forms of knives or fashioned makeshift clubs pulled from bits of the broken furniture. One at the rear, closest to Stewart, drew a revolving handgun.
Although Stewart couldn’t see her face—and it was a her; his mind already matched height, build, and the way she carried herself—the HR security agent clearly hadn’t been expecting a firearm. The uniform she wore was inlaid with protective staves, but nothing that would stand up to a bullet.
Her surprise didn’t still her for long. She quickly put another cultist between the gun and herself, beating him down with a baton in each hand as she moved.
Stewart grit his teeth. When he first saw her come out from the door, he expected more to follow. None came. She was alone. One against six, thanks to her surprise attack having knocked out the lead cultist. Still not good odds. The two closest to her were quickly surrounding her to attack as a group and the others were moving around the table. If the one with the gun got a shot off…
Stewart moved around the corner, shifting his grip on his cane as he moved.
Two versus six was still poor odds, but all eyes were on the agent. That left Stewart completely free to act.
This was no time to hold back. Gripping his cane in two hands, he swung for the man’s head as hard as he was able.
The cultist crumpled to the floor, but not before the gun discharged toward the ceiling. Attention in the room shifted to Stewart, save for the agent and the cultist with whom she was currently engaged.
Stewart watched as body postures shifted and muscles tensed. Eyes flicked around as it dawned on the cultists that they were being ambushed. Stewart gripped his cane and twisted the handle into the third position.
He was already turning when a cultist let out an angry shout. He raised his cane just in time to catch the wooden leg of a chair. Shifting his weight and throwing his shoulder, Stewart sent the man reeling as his own club hit him in the face.
Movement in the corner of his eye had him raising his cane and taking three quick steps to the side, biting down on the ache rapidly spreading down his leg. A cultist brandishing a knife charged, altering her path along with Stewart’s movements.
A scrape of Stewart’s thumb against the spur of his cane handle filled another stave with blood. A flash of green light burst forth from the bottom end of his extended cane.
Ripped from her feet, the rot-faced cultist flew backward through the air and landed in the violet fire within the fireplace. The bedsheets she wore offered no protection against the profane flames.
As screams and the smell of burning flesh filled the air, Stewart struck again, snapping the wrist of the club-wielding cultist. A quick follow-up strike to the side of the man’s head cut his pained cry short as he crumpled.
Stewart immediately turned, analysis of the situation determining that one of the cultists from the other side of the table would have approached.
Instead, he found only one person standing upright, a thick metal truncheon in either hand. The cultists were writing on the ground save for one who was slumped over a toppled chair.
Pressing his lips together, Stewart took a quick look around the room. One plagued cultist was rolling on the floor, trying to extinguish the flames. One was moving a little, but not much. The other…
Stewart stepped over the cultist and used his cane to knock the gun from limp fingers. Another swipe sent it skidding across the floor to the far side of the circular room, well out of reach of anyone. Satisfied that he wasn’t about to be attacked in the immediate future, he planted his cane on the floor and leaned heavily against it, once again covering his mouth with his handkerchief.
“Mister Cinn?” she said, breathing heavily and not quite dropping her guard. Good instincts, though some of her caution was directed toward him. “What are you doing here?”
Taking a deep breath of air through the damp cloth, Stewart looked directly toward the woman. “Employee handbook, title sixteen, section seventy-two.”
“What?”
“Uniforms and insignia of the Office for Human Resources are not to be worn off HR premises save for when acting on official HR business.” Stewart cranked the handle of his cane to the second position, just in case. “You, Miss Kind, are not here on official business.”
Though her face was hidden, the rest of her visibly flinched. “I…”
“But as long as you are here, would you mind tying up everyone in this room?” Stewart grimaced as he shifted his weight. Moving about the room without favoring his bad leg had taken its toll. “I’m afraid I’ve overexerted myself.”
That actually got her to lower her guard toward him somewhat. She looked around herself and quickly nodded an agreement. Naturally, her first stop was the surviving sacrifice victim. She quickly undid his bindings, murmuring reassurances to try to calm him. However, she didn’t stick with him, quickly moving to tie up the most active of the downed cultists.
Stewart, exhausted though he was, did not sit idle. He moved about the room, ridding the cultists of their weapons. Most he knocked away with his cane, flinging them across the room to rest with the revolver. A few, he actually had to reach down and extract from under their bodies.
Which made him realize that everyone present was plagued. Every single one of the cultists had bodies covered in boils and rot. Not just a little either, these people, as far as he could tell, should have been dead weeks if not months ago. The sanitariums buried people half as dessicated as these wretched souls were.
The near-sacrifice huddled in the doorway, apparently unable to find strength in his legs. He sat crouched with his hands drawn tight around his knees. Upon seeing Stewart approach, he just flinched back even further. It looked like he was also a victim of the plague, though in a far reduced severity. The skin around his eyes had reddened and looked unnaturally wrinkly and his ears had sriveled, but his face wasn’t that of a walking corpse like the cultists in the room.
Eyes drifting away from the man on the floor to the two actual corpses still on the long table, Stewart eyed the sigils carved into the wood around them. Blood soaked all but the fresh ones where the living sacrifice would have died. Yet there were flecks of dried blood in the rough carvings. The table had been used before.
Stewart didn’t recognize the script. He considered himself an individual knowledgeable on the subject of cults and unsanctioned deity worship, but none of the lettering carved into the table triggered any of his memories.
Just as he was about to look away, Stewart caught Kind’s mask facing directly toward him as she tied up the limp arms of the man who had wielded the pistol. She stared for one moment before motioning behind him.
Tensing, hand tigtening around his cane, Stewart ignored the protest in his leg and spun around. But there were no threats behind him. Just the open doorway. He looked back to see Kind directly pointing a finger.
Following it, Stewart found himself staring at the survivor.
He grimaced behind his handkerchief, realizing what she wanted. This sort of thing… he hadn’t done it in a long time. Ten years, roughly. Even then, it would have been his wife’s job.
Letting out a small sigh of regret, Stewart tried to channel his most comforting tone of voice. “Hello, good sir. Are you… quite alright?”
The man, without lifting his head from his knees, mumbled something that Stewart couldn’t quite hear.
“Pardon?”
“He said we just had to believe… They had a way to live until the healers found a cure. I… I was so scared. I…”
Stewart narrowed his eyes. The survivor lifted his head, but not to look at him. Instead, the man looked at the lead cultist on the ground. His head lifted more, but stopped at the table.
“Marc. Tracy… They’re dead and I—”
“This man tricked you into coming down here?” Stewart asked. The book the head cultist had been holding was still on the ground. “This is quite important,” he said, bending to pick the book up. “What did this man say—”
The survivor moved, planting his hands on Stewart’s back and shoving him. A spike of pain shot through Stewart’s bad leg as he fell, thrown under the table.
The survivor rushed around the table, picking up the dagger that glowed with violet runes from where Stewart had knocked it.
“I’ll be there soon, Tracy, Marc. I’ll be—”
Stewart, struggling to get back to his feet, couldn’t do much beyond watch as the man slammed the knife into his own chest. He wobbled; Kind rushed toward him, but he fell forward, hitting the table and driving the knife further into his own chest.
Kind gripped his shirt and flung him from the table without any care for his new injuries. The correct decision, in Stewart’s opinion, but it was too late.
The heart-blood from the former survivor poured out across the table, pulled from his chest as it touched the first sigils etched into the wood. The violet flames in the fireplace roared, filling the air with wretched whispers of vile origin. The fire lurched forth, stretching out thin malformed tendrils that reached across the room. The first of which wrapped around the woman Stewart had knocked into the flames earlier.
Her cries of pain broke Stewart and Kind from their shock.
“Run!” Kind shouted.
“Easy for you to say,” Stewart grumbled, planting his cane on the ground. Just before hauling himself up, however, he scooped up the head cultist’s book. Clutching it to his chest, he hobbled after Kind, who had not bothered to wait up for him.
The doorway on this side of the room opened up into a short hallway connected to far nicer stairs than those he had taken to get down to the cellar. Clearly the path the owner of the manor would have used with guests to reach the wine tasting room. The opulence of these stairs did nothing to help him climb them. With the heat of those flames licking at his heels, he grit his teeth and told himself that he would rest for a week if he made it out of this.
Thankfully, Kind lived up to her name as she noticed his struggles. Turning from the top of the stairs, she jumped back down, hooked his arm around her shoulders, then practically carried him the rest of the way up.
The stairs brought them to a small reading lounge filled with a great many books. As much as he wished otherwise, there wasn’t time to rescue any. The flames—now yellow and red—were swiftly following behind. Kimberlee Kind, knowing the path she took to reach this point, continued helping him through the manor and out the front door.
It was still pouring rain when they reached the open air. The wind wasn’t as heavy, but that was little comfort. Taking a moment to breathe, Stewart tucked away the cultist’s book into his overcoat in the hopes of keeping its text as legible as possible.
The flames continued to consume the house, now looking entirely normal save for the small fact that the rain wasn’t stopping it. Luckily, the manor grounds provided a firebreak, keeping the fire from spreading beyond the property.
With the normal-looking flames, the interrupted ritual, and the fact that no maddening creatures were crawling out of the swiftly burning wreckage, Stewart let out a small sigh of relief that the cult had not called forth some terrible entity from beyond the stars. All that they had managed was to burn down the building.
Still, Stewart stayed where he was, watching the fire burn. Both to be certain… and because the prospect of walking home with his leg still aching was simply not appealing.
AFTERMATH
“What did you say to him that made him decide he would rather die?”
Stewart lowered the cultist’s tome, leaning away from the light of his lantern. A woman stood in the doorway, clothes cleaning to her toned body. Mask gone and uniform missing, Kimberlee Kind had dripping black hair, tied tight on one side of her head, pinned with little brass clamps, while hanging loose on the other side of her head.
Stewart leaned forward against his desk, looking her muscled form over from head to foot.
His scowl deepened.
“You’re dripping water all over my wooden floors,” he said, leaning back in his chair and turning his eyes to the book. “I thought you went to the constable.”
“I did. They won’t move until morning when the storm ends.”
Stewart glanced to the side. The rain still ran down his windows, but the intensity had diminished significantly. It was little more than a light drizzle now. Quite a departure from the previous storm nights when the wind and rain would rage until daybreak. At the moment, Stewart was taking that as another good sign that some obscene entity hadn’t been drawn into this world.
Though he had to admit that the book’s writings were also reassuring.
“I am quite sure I locked my door,” Stewart said, flipping to the next page.
Kind strode across the room, thick boots thumping against his nice floor. She held up a number of thin metal rods, then plopped down into the chair opposite from him with a wet squelch against the leather. “Going to need something a little stronger to keep me out.”
“Did I do something to upset you, Miss Kind?”
“Yeah, why were you follow—” She cut herself off, blinking at the book in Stewart’s hands. After a moment, she recoiled, pressing herself back in the chair. “Is that the book the cultist had? Oh gods, you’re crazier than I thought.”
“The state of my sanity is not for you to worry about,” Stewart said, slowly closing the book. “It is quite the enlightening read. Those cultists were making offerings to a being they called the Nameless Void. The first quarter of the tome is more of a journal. Quite clear to read with tidy handwriting. It describes flashes of visions a man named Elias received after assembling an u ndedicated shrine and casting out an offering to any who might answer. He had been afflicted by the plague and, as his condition worsened, he grew frightened and desperate.”
“Yeah,” Kind said with a half-hearted scoff, relaxing somewhat now that the book was closed and on the table. “So are a lot of people these days. They don’t go calling… Nameless Void? What kind of name is that?”
“It being not a name is fairly self-evident.”
Kind rolled her brown eyes and shook her head. “Well, normal people don’t go calling Outer Gods down on the city.”
“They were frightened,” Stewart said, brushing his fingers over the tome. “The text starts descending into less and less readable script, inundated with sigils and scrawls much like what covered the table. But I believe I was able to discern the purpose of the ritual they were conducting.”
“Kill people to extend their own lives, obviously. I saw their rot-covered faces. They should have been dead.” She scowled at the book. “You should toss that into the fire.”
“It still has its uses. For example, telling me that you are incorrect. The Nameless Void did not ask for lives in exchange for its power, but additional followers. Worshipers.”
“They were killing themselves.”
“According to the book, they would have been brought back.”
Kind took on a dark look. Speaking in a low tone, she growled, “People don’t come back from the dead. Things come back from the dead wearing people’s skin.”
“No disagreement here. I’ve no intention to conduct the rituals. I’m just repeating what I read.”
“Well don’t. Repeating cult words is how you wind up in asylums. Or worse.” She slammed her hand down on Stewart’s desk. “Now why were you following me?”
“I was doing nothing of the sort. I found that manor entirely through my own analysis. I was rather wondering how you—”
“Earlier than that, Mister Cinn. I saw you. Don’t deny it. You followed me and Dorothy from HR.”
Stewart started somewhat, blinking. “You saw me?”
“Thought you were being sneaky, slinking around the buildings like that? You’re stiff as a board, lanky as a ghoul, and twice as tall to boot.” She glared. “You think you’re a smart guy, but I was a step away from bashing your head in. And when following you led me to those cultists…” A series of pops filled the air as Kind cracked her knuckles.
“You followed me?”
“Damn right I did, you creep. You’re lucky you helped me beat them down.”
That certainly explained a few things. Mostly how she found that cult. He was a bit surprised that he hadn’t noticed her presence, but he supposed he hadn’t really been looking for people following him. And once that storm started, noticing someone even on the same street would have been difficult. But… “Did Miss Peel notice?”
Kind, arms crossed over her chest, glowered for a long moment, clearly mulling over the question. It took her a minute to answer. When she did, she slowly shook her head. “Don’t know for sure, but I doubt it. Serious woman. Educated as well. Observant? Not…” Kind’s eyes narrowed then she nodded to herself. “Oh, I get it. You weren’t following me… After that business with the cult, I thought you were suspicious of me because I’m new in town. But you have eyes for Dorothy.”
“You’re reading too much into it,” Stewart said, tapping a finger on the worn leather of the book. “These nights are dangerous and I would rather not have to train a new secretary. Keep an eye on her, will you? You’re a bit more qualified for your position than I originally thought.”
“Don’t need you telling me. Not like she’s in danger. Dorothy isn’t sick. Even if she was, we wiped out that cult. Things’ll be going back to normal now.”
Stewart didn’t say anything. He would have liked to have gotten more information. He couldn’t fault Kind for rushing in—he nearly had, after all, and actually had upon seeing her start fighting—but a cult that dealt with resurrection was a dangerous opponent to have. How could they be sure that the cultists wouldn’t return?
Even if those caught in the fire at that manor had perished, there were likely to be others out there. Judging by what Stewart had read in the book, they had conducted a similar ritual at every storm. How many storms had there been in the past several weeks? How many supposed worshipers had been converted through voluntary sacrifice?
The one bright spot was the book itself. Books like these didn’t grow on trees. The type of people able to both receive visions sent from beyond and transliterate them into something readable were few and far between. Given the tome being more of a journal than a ritual treatise, Stewart doubted they had a copy. That alone could shut down their rituals.
Time would tell, he supposed. And in the meantime, he would have to perform some additional investigations of his own. It was a shame that everything had gone up in flames. He didn’t exactly have many starting places. The book’s author was smart enough to have scratched out names and locations from when it had been a journal and hadn’t written down any names in the latter pages.
The only thing he had to go on now was the one commonality all the cultists and sacrificial victims shared.
The plague.
“If you will see yourself out, Miss Kind…”
“Really? After the night we had, just go home?”
“If we wish to keep our jobs, then we had no night, Miss Kind. Nothing happened. I hope your visit to the constables was nothing more than a report of suspicious activity from a concerned citizen.”
“Yeah, yeah. I followed your instructions,” she grumbled. “Not very hospitable of you.”
“Ignoring your uninvited presence, it is late. I unfortunately have an early morning tomorrow. The Ministry of Agriculture has requested an Actuator to measure the efficacy of their restoration rituals.”
Pursing her lips, Kind nodded twice. Once to herself, then once again while making eye contact with Stewart. “Agriculture, huh? Dorothy will be there?”
“She will.”
Kind took a deep breath, clapped her hands to her thighs, and stood up. “Whelp. Guess that is as good a reason as any to get home.”
“Do you want someone to walk you home?” Stewart asked. He couldn’t resist. The words came out of his mouth before he could stop himself.
“Someone like you? No thanks.” She stopped at the door and glanced back. “Still think you’re a creep.”