The Exorcist Doctor

It took an entire week for the Raven to evade the eyes of Blightmarch and Bleakhearth alike. He’d give the Three-Faces and the Saint’s Hands that much, at least. There were men in every back alley, dead-end tunnel, water route, and corpse bazaar he came across, so he could only move when the Vile was thick and the crows’ cries were too quiet. There were paths across Bharncair even the Three-Faces didn’t know, and he’d learned of them decades ago, before even most of the gangsters were born—and by the end of the seventh night, he reached the reserve laboratory.

Unlike the bright and splendid lab the Breeder had enjoyed in the Grand Ball, the reserve lab was in cold darkness: dark metal walls, no windows, a ceiling crossed by a hatch of heavy pipers, and enough red lanterns to make the shadows look wet with blood. Empty vat tubs stood in rows along the walls, their interiors scrubbed and dry. The workbenches filling the central floor were also fully stocked with tools, restraints, burners, glassware, preserved tissue jars, and surgical instruments still wrapped in oiled cloth, but otherwise, they were completely devoid of personality as well.

He hadn’t been here in a while. In fact, he’d never planned on using it, but he had it prepared just in case their primary lab was compromised.

Once he kicked in the heavy metal gates, he dropped the Breeder and Subject Zero onto the floor. The unconscious Subject Zero aside, the old man hit the metal with a pained grunt, clutching his ribs as his wheezing breaths scraped through the cold air.

“A little gentleness wouldn’t have ruined you.” The Breeder coughed.

The Raven turned away from the two of them, pulling his cane out of his coat. “Whatever you need to continue manufacturing artificial Myrmur Hosts, I’ll deliver here—new vials, Grave-Class stock, surgical reagents, test subjects, and assistants, too, if your hands shake too much.”

The Breeder scowled at him. “My hands don’t shake.”

“They shook in the catacomb.”

“I’d been struck in the face by your son.” The Breeder’s mouth twisted, though it didn’t become a smile. “He has your courtesy, Benedict.”

Benedict didn’t reply to that. He glanced over his shoulder to check on Subject Zero for only a moment—just to see if she was still breathing—before turning to walk away.

“In no time at all, this lab will be just as equipped as the old production lab,” he said. “Continue your work. If you need anything, you know how to call—”

“We have to destroy the Heartcord Clinic now.”

Benedict paused, one hand on the handle of the gates.

Behind him, the old man wheezed and pushed himself upright. His knees nearly failed him, so he grabbed the edge of a workbench, scattering a tray of clamps with a metallic clatter.

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“Not later. No after your work in Vharnveil is finished. Now,” the Breeder said. “It doesn’t matter that he’s your son. Whether it be fate, coincidence, or spite of the saints—choose whichever word lets you sleep—Gael Halloway is on your counter path. He will destroy everything we’ve worked for if we don’t handle him, so lend me a few more Blight-Classes from your place. I’ll make sure they’re done for by the end of the week.”

The red lanterns hummed softly.

Benedict listened to the pipes above the ceiling. Slow condensation dripped somewhere in the dark, ticking against the metal in uneven intervals. He’d always liked sleeping in his laboratories more than his bedroom for that reason. Even the quiet ones kept time.

“... I’ll do something about him,” he eventually said.

“Something?”

“All you have to do is buy me a little more time. Keep producing artificial Myrmur Hosts, keep selling them to our Vharnish patrons, and keep getting our funding from Cassian and the others. Just a few more months. Then it’ll all be—”

The Breeder let out a sound halfway between a scoff and a laugh. “A few more months, or so the Raven says. As if Gael hasn’t shortened all of our timelines by breathing in our direction.”

“He won’t find this lab.”

“He found the last one.”

“He followed Subject Zero. She was careless.”

“And who made Subject Zero unstable?” the Breeder snapped. “Me, yes, fine, blame the old worm with scalpels, but who insisted we keep Gael alive? Who insisted the clinic was beneath our attention? Who insisted sentiment wouldn’t interfere with scientific progress?”

Benedict’s fingers tightened around his cane, and the metal handle creaked once. The Breeder noticed. Of course he did. Old friend, old parasite—he’d known Benedict before the red mist, and before death was a door with one very particular lock.

So the Breeder lowered his voice.

“You’re unable, aren’t you?” he whispered. Then he smiled. Bitterly. “Everyone and anyone else, you’re willing to destroy, but not Gael. Not your precious boy. What, exactly, is this ‘something’ you’re going to do about him?”

“... Just do your job,” Benedict said plainly.

The Breeder swallowed whatever answer he’d been nursing and closed his mouth. If the old man were any braver, he’d say what he was thinking out loud, but he wasn’t—so Benedict pushed out of the lab and stepped into the dark corridor, lit only by the same dull red lanterns mounted along the walls.

Even he had trouble finding this lab, and he was the one who’d built it. With any luck, Gael wouldn’t find it for at least another four or five months.

He reached into his coat and withdrew a small vial from an inner pocket.

The glass was black-tinted, sealed with three rings of brass and one thin band of old bone. Inside, the dark little bug was in hibernation. A less accomplished scholar might observe it was dead, but he knew well that it was simply asleep for faster essence digestion, and that it was very, very close to waking up again so it could consume even more essence.

By his estimation, it’d be strong enough for him to attempt his experiment again in less than a year.

… One more year, Caria.

In ten years, this’ll all have just been one, long nightmare.