Samael Grifford's home office was large as any master bedroom.
Larger.
From his desk, situated in front of the thick ballistic glass bay window, to the mounted trophy heads from his big game hunts, there was nothing that did not echo the man's lavish tastes in comfort or reflect his mastery as a hunter of beasts, and men.
There were no suited armor display pieces standing in corners collecting dust and cobwebs; no tacky sword replicas hanging from the redwood walls.
A grand, thick furred carpet of mammoth skin spanned the floor from near the hearth of the massive fireplace, whose mantle held witch tomes encased in glass displays, all the way to the ornate bar Grifford's kept opposite of the fireplace. Two massive curling tusks twisted from it's either side, and disappeared into the painted ceiling like tusked struts holding the ceiling in its place away from the floor.
Clayton opened the double doors into Grifford's office, admiring the decor as he did.
He shut the doors behind him.
He stood alone in the office, staring out the protective bay window. Outside, a cacophony of scattered thunder clouds drifted across a sky already covered in darkened stratus clouds, the darkness layered over darkness.
"It is an attractive view, is it not?"
Clayton Walker glanced over his shoulder to see Judge Samael Grifford standing before the mammoth skin rug in a heavy black bathrobe, the double doors closing in silence behind him.
He nodded. "Indeed. Good afternoon, Judge."
Grifford walked over the mammoth skin rug, past Clayton, and around his desk. He stood at the window and admired the view, his back to Clayton. "Welcome home. I received your report on the Ruk. Well done. The Order dispatched a compliment of Zealots to aid American armed forces in training South Viet Nam."
"Thank you."
Grifford turned and grinned revealing a mouth full of aged and yellow stained teeth. Hairline fractures webbed across the judge's teeth; they looked as though they would shatter, or turn to dust any moment. Even in his advanced age, Grifford was hearty. His teeth would never shatter, never chip or break, and they would never turn to dust until long after he rested in the cold wormy Earth. His was a bloodline long lived, longer still because of the Rites and Blessings from The Order. The judge's grin faded, though he kept a pleasant tone. "...all congratulations aside, it is unnecessary that you're here on a routine report. You're not about glory, or recognition, Goodman Walker. This begs the question: what do you want?"
"May I speak plainly?"
Grifford nodded, waving his hand.
"My son is born only two months. I would ask you to give me leave to help raise him."
Grifford grimaced, his deep wrinkled face weary. "Who would you have stand for you in your absence? Goodman Hutchinson? Blackwood? Carter? Surely not Carter. You're a young man, Clay. You're the best man for your duties, and I dare say the best man in our part of The Order."
Clayton tilted his head, narrowing his eyes. "With respect, your honor... I need to be with my family."
"If I recall correctly, has Mrs. Walker not been assisted by Granny D?"
"She midwifed the birth, and attended Emily in my absence, yes... but I want to know my son. I want to help raise him."
Grifford reclined in his black leather chair, putting his bare feet up on his desk. He considered Clayton a long time, silence hanging thin in the office. "If only we were all as attentive as you, yes? I can't give you a leave of absence. We need you. I need you... out there in the field collecting data on the heathen religions."
"Nothing can be done to balance this out?"
Grifford averted his gaze from Clayton to the ceiling of his office. The murals painted on the ceiling quite literally cost a fortune. They told the story of The Order, from Salem to Driftwood. They were for all intents and purposes a detailed hieroglyph of their history. Of course The Order went farther back than Salem; farther back than the United States, and though their story began with the court of Oyer and Terminer, it survived into the contemporary world. "What I am about to say cannot be repeated outside this office, or in the company of others. Not ever."
"Judge." Clayton nodded an affirmative, glancing around Grifford's office. It suddenly felt more like a mausoleum, the mounted heads, and animal skins a reminder to anyone standing in the office who the judge truly was.
"The Order is old, Clayton. We have archives that span from centuries of inquisition." Grifford turned in his chair, pulling his feet from the desk, and setting them on the floor. He stood abruptly, in a way most hunters of The Order do, without warning or hesitation. He stood from behind his desk, and pushed his chair in.
"I understand, your honor. I only ask because this is my first child."
"...and hopefully not your last. The world is unstable, and much of it is from the infernal heathens twisting the natural order to their own ends. Much of it is from the innate evils that exist in the hearts of all men."
"Very well, your honor. I respect your decision."
"...and you hate it. In a nation of freedom, you're a part of a a society whose own Constitution impedes that of the secular United States. The times are changing, and with them so must The Order."
"Sir?"
"Who for is Jonathan matched when he is old enough?"
"Mary Hutchinson."
"Mary Hutchinson." Grifford nodded, his thoughtful expression a clear deception, as both Judge Grifford, and Clayton already knew the answer. "The Order is stagnant, static, and unchanging. For as long as we existed here in this country, we did things one way, behaved one way, and existed one way."
"Tradition keeps us stable, your honor."
Grifford shook his head. "Many our traditions keeps us complacent. This Silent War is at a stalemate. No matter how many join our cause, or who we train, they join an old order."
"We do our best."
"...but our best is no longer good enough. Coven out there in the world, in our territories, they're smarter. More able to hide, practice, and flourish than even a decade ago."
"The Order needs to adapt to these changes, then."
"You're more correct than you may know, Clay."
Clay narrowed his eyes. "How so?"
"These past five years I've spearheaded a domestic project within The Order. It is in it's infancy, but so far it is successful."
"What project is this?"
"We're calling it the Hands of God. This is a multi-generational project, Clay. Candidates are chosen from the purest lines."
"...and my line fits the bill?"
"There's no polite way to say this. Through careful and specific breeding, within only sixty years we expect an entirely new kind of Hunter." Grifford was quiet, studying Clayton's strained expression.
Clayton massaged his forehead a moment, trying to will away the heat he felt in his face. "Your honor, you're suggesting eugenics."
"I'm suggesting selective breeding." Judge Grifford's voice had a sincere, but careful tone. "Since our society set its foundation in the United States at Plymouth Rock, have we not always been selective? Have we not flourished for this?"
"I agree with selective breeding. I agree with arranged marriage... but this, your honor? You're suggesting something else, entirely."
Grifford grinned, baring his cracked teeth once more. "It is bigger than that. It's bigger than us. I need you on board for this."
"What about Mary Hutchinson? What about the Hutchinsons?"
"...does the baby Mary Hutchinson come from a line of intuitives? Has her line ever shown the capabilities to anticipate tomorrow?"
"Your honor, that is heresy."
"No, Goodman. Not heresy, adaptation! I'm not suggesting we marry your boy off to some broodling from a heathen circle... these people are God fearing. They're Musselmen, sure... but lest you forget, it is an Abrahamic Faith. Abrahamic enough."
"It isn't compatible with the order, Judge."
"The Musselmen have been a thorn in our side since the Barbary pirates were sacking American trade routs. They're a dedicated people to their faith, which is more than I could say for many people in The Order."
Clayton crossed his arms, his expression brooding at Grifford. "They'll try for conversion. We don't mix, Judge. They hate us."
"Mark my words, Clayton Walker. They will not. You want to stay home and be a husband to your wife? A father to your son? You and I can arrange that to happen."
"If I agree to Jonathan marrying the child of some savage faith."
"You're ahead of your time in so many ways, Clayton. Marching behind Reverend King, pushing his agenda for civil rights... and yet, so far behind that you cannot open your mind to a better future for The Order?"
"A better future for The Order? With respect your honor, has my line not served?"
"Be calm, Goodman Walker. Do not forget with whom you address."
"Our line fought alongside the colonists in the revolution, the Civil War, the first world war, and my father in the second world war routing Himmler's Nazi madmen from their ongoing hunt for occult artifacts. We didn't do it just for freedom, or democracy. We did it for The Order. Everything my line has done - everything I ever did or do, I do it for The Order."
Grifford sighed. "Do you know what I love of you and your line? You're a line of feeling, and consequence. You choose the right path regardless of what may happen to you. This project is the right path, Clayton. I need you to trust me."
"Let us say in theory I agree to participate my line in your project. What then?"
"There is a blue-eyed Arab woman from Jiddah living in Egypt. Her name is Nida Sharif. She is with child. The siege is near an end, and I have faith President Nasser will maintain some semblance of stability there. You will go to Egypt, find this Nida Sharif, and her husband, and bring her back here. They may have demands, so be prepared to negotiate. We will accommodate them should they agree to come here."
"If I do this thing you want - and understand I do not agree with your project - if I do this thing, you will permit me to raise my family?"
"Yes." Grifford nodded, as Clayton relaxed his arms.
Clayton was quiet, the muscles in his jaw flexing. "...what do you know about this Nida Sharif?"
"She is in the direct lineage of the prophet Muhammad, if such a prophet truly existed. She is a Muslim Sufi, and she already knows you're coming. She knew before you did."
Clayton felt an unsettling cold in the pit of his stomach. She knew he was going to come before he did. If it was true, it meant Grifford knew. It meant Grifford always expecting his arrival, that the entire conversation until this moment was a formality. "How will I find her? Egypt is a big place."
"You won't have to look for her, she will find you."
Clayton slumped his shoulders, and wiped a bead of sweat from his brow. The project was wrong, and it felt wrong. "Can they be converted?"
Grifford's laughter was genuine, and warm. "To our faith? God, no... and we won't try. The child, however. Absolutely."
"Fine. I will agree to your terms."
Grifford nodded politely, and stood up from his seat. He moved around his desk, and extended his hand. "I hoped you would."
"Hoped?"
"Semantics. Fine, I knew you would. We have an accord, then?"
Clayton reached for Grifford's hand, hesitated, and then took his hand and shook it twice firmly. "We have an accord."
"Very well, Goodman Walker. If you'll excuse me, I have arrangements to attend. Go home. Love your wife, hold your child, and then pack your belongings. You won't be away long, and when you return, you'll return a husband, and a father."
"What will I do in The Order?"
"Likely you will retire, I imagine. We may need you from time to time, but if you succeed in this, you'll have fulfilled your duties. Good day to you, Clayton Walker."
✟ ☧ ✟
Emily was standing in the foyer with Jonathan in cradled in her arm when Clayton arrived, her eyes bright and happy.
"You know?"
Emily nodded, and squealed. "Baby, I know!"
"You're okay with this?"
"If it's for the good of The Order? Yes!"
"For the good of The Order? The Order what until now your faith has been particularly lacking..."
"If it's good for our family? Absolutely." Emily held her eye contact with Clayton, and then turned her gaze, and smiled at Jonathan. Jonathan reached up with a chubby hand and poked at Emily's face and made a gurgling sound. "I know, baby boy! Daddy's finally going to be with us!"
Emily then eyed Clayton sternly.
Clayton sighed, defeated. "I'll do it for you two."
"Baby, do it for all of us. Do it for you, too. You'll live a long life, and live to see our grandchildren. You won't fall on some distant foreign soil chasing heretics and heathens. You'll live to see Jonathan become a man... and he'll see you grow old with me, and become a grandfather. Do it for all of us."
"For all of us, then."
"That's right, Clay. All in, or not at all."