Cold ink always smelled worse than fresh blood.
Behind the steel-grated window sat Clerk Miller, his spectacles perched on the very tip of his thin nose. He was a man who looked as though he had been constructed entirely from grey parchment and dried glue, surviving on a diet of ledger lines and ecclesiastical silence.
"I brought an offering from the southern district," I said, sliding the small, cloth-wrapped parcel across the zinc counter.
Miller did not look up immediately. He finished dipping his steel-nibbed pen, shook off the excess black fluid, and drew a neat, horizontal line across his ledger. Only then did he reach out with two bony fingers to draw the package toward him.
"Parish of St. Jude," he murmured, his voice like dry leaves scraping across pavement. "A votive offering of minor weight?"
"A cracked red stone," I replied, keeping my voice level. "Slightly damaged during collection. The vessel was immature."
"And the vessel itself?"
"Left in the nave," I said. "Though I expect your collection boys have already swept the floor."
Miller peeled back the linen wrapping. The crimson fragment caught the dim gaslight, dull and fractured, like a piece of boiled sugar dropped on a dusty road. He tapped it once with a tiny brass hammer, listened to the flat chime, and nodded.
"Sanctuary cleaning was completed at three this morning," Miller said, dipping his pen again. "The remains were categorized as organic waste and transferred to the lime pits. Your account is credited for the retrieval, Father Greaves."
"Splendid," I muttered, resting my hand on the cold iron of the grate. "Let us hope the interest is generous."
"Our employers do not pay interest, Father. Only wages."
He stamped the ledger with a heavy brass seal. The wet thud echoed in the narrow stone corridor, a sound that signified another tiny horror had been successfully filed away under miscellaneous expenses.
---
Iron doors always groaned in the damp.
My boots clicked on the spiral steps as we descended. Caleb followed a step behind, his breath catching slightly in the cold draughts. His left hand was bare, the leather glove we had ruined during the Hound fight stuffed into his pocket like a dead bird, though his pale skin was clear of any marks.
Moist air hit us first, thick and greasy with the scent of boiled lard, kerosene, and hot brass. This was the Workshop, a vast cavern carved out beneath the chapter house where the weapons of our silent war were forged, scrubbed, and mended by men who never saw the sun.
Warmth rose from the floorboards in waves. Copper pipes ran along the low ceiling like modern veins, dripping condensation onto the stone floor where it hissed against hot grates. At the far end of the central aisle, three men in leather aprons were hammering a sheet of silver plating, their rhythmic strikes sounding like a slow, metallic heartbeat.
"You are late, Greaves," a voice cut through the steam.
Isidora Thorne stood beside a massive oak workbench, her arms crossed over her chest. She wore a dark brown jacket that fitted her like armor, her short black hair cut so severely it looked like a helmet. Her brown eyes flicked to my disheveled cassock, then to Caleb's bare hand, registering everything with cold precision.
"Courtyard clocks are always slow, Izzy," I said, leaning against a wooden pillar. "Or perhaps my legs are."
"Your legs would move faster if you did not drown them in gin every evening," she replied, her voice flat as a carpenter's level.
Before I could offer a suitably defensive retort, the heavy oak doors at the far side of the room flew open.
"Hah! Who goes there?"
Ezekiel Okafor strode into the workshop like a storm system that had lost its way indoors. He was a mountain of a man, his shaved head gleaming under the gas lamps, a thick black beard framing a grin that could have split an oak plank. He carried a massive bundle wrapped in thick sailcloth over one shoulder as if it were nothing more than a sack of turnips.
"Zeke," I said, nodding. "You sound remarkably cheerful for a man who smells of river mud."
"River mud is beautiful this time of year, Edmund," Zeke roared, dropping the heavy bundle onto the workbench with a crash that set every wrench and screwdriver dancing. "If you like the smell of dead dogs and industrial runoff, that is."
Izzy stepped back, dusting an imaginary speck of soot from her sleeve. "You are forty minutes behind schedule, Ezekiel. The brass fittings for the pneumatic cylinders need testing before the evening patrol."
"Fittings can wait, my small, angry shadow," Zeke laughed, clapping her on the shoulder with a hand the size of a shovel. She did not flinch, but her jaw tightened until I thought her teeth might crack. "Look at this beauty. She took a nick near the quay last night."
Canvas fell away as Zeke unknotted the hemp rope.
Revealed on the scarred wood of the bench was Michaelangelo. The weapon was a monstrous thing, a two-bladed battleaxe that looked more like a piece of locomotive machinery than an implement of faith. The shaft was wrapped in dark, oil-treated leather, capped with a heavy brass piston near the pommel.
Zeke reached down, his scarred forearms flexing as he gripped the haft with a single hand. He lifted the massive weapon without a hint of strain, holding it aloft like a gentleman showing off a new walking stick.
With a flick of his wrist, his thumb hit a bronze lever on the grip.
*Clack-hiss.*
Internal springs released with a sharp, pneumatic crack. The twin steel blades, previously folded flat against the shaft, snapped outward into a wide crescent moon. Instantly, a low, bubbling hiss rose from the housing as a chemical mixture ignited inside the hollow core, sending a faint blue vapor rising from the silver-alloy edges.
"Still got her bite," Zeke grinned, the orange glow of the heating blades reflecting in his dark eyes. "Though the left valve is sticking. She doesn't heat evenly near the tip."
"It is loud, heavy, and entirely lacking in grace," Izzy said, her voice dripping with dry disdain. "A simple silvered saber would suffice for ninety percent of your targets."
"Sabers are for poets, Izzy," Zeke chuckled, releasing the pressure valve with a long, venting sigh of steam. The blades cooled back to a dull, ash-grey.
"I like my arguments to have weight behind them."
Caleb stepped closer to the bench, his eyes fixed on the intricate brass housing near the axe head. He forgot his usual awkwardness the moment grease and gears were involved.
Zeke looked down, his eyebrows rising. "Is that so, young Ransome?"
"Yes, sir," Caleb said, stepping up to the bench. He reached out with his bare left hand, his fingers tracing the delicate copper lines that fed the heating elements. "The expansion sleeve is misaligned. The heat from the chemical reaction is warping the primary seal. If you continue to fire the spring mechanism while the blades are hot, the housing will crack."
"Show me," Izzy commanded, her tone shifting from irritated to intensely curious. She stepped closer, pulling a small leather-bound notebook from her pocket.
Caleb did not hesitate. He reached into his pocket for his small brass pliers—a tool he carried the way other boys carried pocket knives. With three precise movements, he loosened the retaining nut, slid the outer casing back, and exposed the delicate valves within.
"Here," Caleb explained, pointing with the tip of his pliers. "The Order's standard issue gaskets are vulcanized rubber. They cannot handle the temperature Zeke's custom mix generates. You need lead-alloy washers here, and the pressure release must be cleared of carbon buildup."
Izzy watched his fingers move, her sharp eyes tracking every turn of the tool. "And the spring tension?"
Adjusting a small screw beneath the primary piston took only a moment. Caleb turned the small brass dial with a tiny screwdriver, his eyes narrowed as he listened to the internal click of the teeth. *Click.* "Try it now, Mr. Okafor."
Zeke picked up the axe again, his grip light. He touched the lever.
Blades deployed with a sound like a rifle shot, clean and instantaneous, without the slight stutter that had plagued it before. The hiss of the heating system was steady, a low, purring hum that vibrated through the heavy wooden table.
"By the saints," Zeke laughed, shaking his head. "The boy is a wizard with a wrench. Edmund, why do you keep him? He is wasted on your simple six-shooter."
"He stays because I am the only one who tolerates his silence," I said, though I watched Caleb slip his pliers back into his waistcoat with a quiet sense of satisfaction. "And because he knows how to clean my boots without asking questions."
Izzy made a sharp note in her book. "I will requisition the lead-alloy washers. We should upgrade the entire line of heavy axes if this modification holds."
"Don't go making my girl standard issue," Zeke complained, though he was already wrapping Michaelangelo back in its canvas cover. "She likes being unique."
Soot drifted down from the overhead vents as Zeke reached into his heavy leather coat.
Instead of another tool or a flask, he pulled out a folded sheet of newsprint. The paper was cheap, grey, and stained with grease along the margins—the sort of local rag printed in the northern counties where the coal dust settled thick on the presses.
"Found this in a tavern near the docks," Zeke said, his voice dropping its booming tone, replaced by something quieter, more professional. He laid the paper flat over the canvas-wrapped axe. "A captain from Yorkshire brought it down. Said the local constabulary is completely baffled."
I stepped forward, leaning over the table. The smell of cheap ink and damp wood rose from the page.
"What am I looking at?" I asked.
Zeke pointed a thick, scarred finger at a small column near the bottom of the third page. It was tucked between an advertisement for Holloway's Ointment and a notice about a stray bull.
"Read it," Zeke said.
My eyes scanned the small print. The heading was modest: *Unusual Occurrence at High Moor*.
"Dead at seventeen," I murmured, reading aloud. "But the report says he was found... smiling?"
"Aye," Zeke said, his face uncharacteristically grim. "And dry. The local coroner noted that the body looked as though it had been kept in a salt cellar for a year, though the lad had been seen alive on Tuesday."
"Landslides are also mentioned," Izzy added, pointing her pencil at the subsequent paragraph. "A portion of the old Roman road near the estate collapsed into a sinkhole three nights ago. The locals believe the earth is shifting due to the wet winter."
"Soil does not shift in neat circles," I said, my thumb tracing the edge of my collar. "And it certainly does not drain sheep."
"More gossip came from the manor," Zeke said. "Two of the housemaids fled the estate yesterday morning. They claimed the master of the house has locked himself in the library and refuses to see the light of day. The parish priest tried to visit, but he was turned away at the gate by a butler who looked like he had already been buried once."
Silence settled over our corner of the workshop, heavy and cold despite the heat from the nearby furnaces.
Caleb looked from the newspaper to me, his gray eyes searching my face for some sign of what this meant. He knew the signs as well as I did. This was not a simple beast hunting in the fog. This was something old, something that had been disturbed by the landslide, or perhaps invited in.
Our Order would not have a report on this yet. It was too remote, too small, hidden away in the northern hills far from the busy streets of London. By the time the bishops in Westminster noticed the scent, the entire household would be nothing but dry husks.
"Constables are treating it as a tragedy of natural causes and hysteria," Izzy said, her pen poised. "No one has requested our intervention."
"Which means no one will mind if we take a turn in the country," I said.
The notice sat small and quiet on the page. I read it twice, then folded the paper once. Zeke raised an eyebrow. I smiled and said, "Prepare for a vacation, Caleb." The boy did not look comforted.