At five minutes to six o'clock, by and large, Wednesdays at The Huntsman's Retreat Lodge was near empty. Retired men of The Order lounged, sipping spirits, and reflecting on the good old days.
Divinae wiped her bar in lazy circles, musing over a half completed crossword puzzle.
The heavy double doors leading into the lodge opened and Lillian Plow stepped inside, surveying the grandiose Nordic architecture, the fireplace hearths, and candelabra chandeliers. "What a darling little lodge."
Divinae glanced up from her crossword puzzle. "Members only."
"Members only, members only." Lillian waved a dismissive hand. "How much is membership in such a fine establishment like yours?"
"Closed membership." Divinae penciled in a word onto her puzzle. "We're not currently accepting applications."
"Not currently accepting applications." Lillian nodded, repeating Divinae as though the words had a special weight or meaning.
The fireplaces suddenly lit up, fires roaring to life in each. The candles flickered, the wicks burning on each the chandeliers.
Divinae regarded Lillian with the same boredom she did wiping her bar, and musing over her crossword puzzle. "Cute trick."
Lillian heard the old men in the lodge shifting in their seats, and standing; she felt their eyes on her, the tension coming from their tables. She smelled the alcohol in their sweat, and smiled as someone coughed violently on his cigar smoke.
"Divinae, is it? Divinae, who's in charge here?"
"This is my bar, witch. You're not welcome here. You're not welcome at Driftwood Heights. You're not welcome in Driftwood."
"Not welcome here." Lillian glanced over her shoulder. The old men were fat and out of shape, whatever their lives may were in their active years.
"Get out." Divinae was no longer bored. No longer leaning on her bar. Her pencil sat neatly on the crossword puzzle. She dropped her bar rag to her feet.
"Do you know who I am?"
"I don't rightly care." Divinae drew her hands up behind her, finding the pistols holstered above the seat of her blue denim jeans.
"I am Lillian Plow. You go and tell your masters that Driftwood is no longer theirs. The true children of Driftwood are taking back what is theirs. You tell them they are no longer welcome."
"Alright, so this conversation is over." Divinae drew her pistols on Lillian, except there were no pistols.
Lillian smiled politely and held the pistols up by the barrels, one in each hand. "Nasty things, these." Lillian dropped them to the floor, and they clattered as she kicked them away.
"Killing me won't get you your way."
"We'll just have to see, won't we?"
✟ ☧ ✟
Lillian strode out of the burning lodge with an unconscious Divinae over her shoulder, the heavy double doors closing behind her. She continued to the lot, the muted screams from inside the lodge drowned out by the crackling, raging fire as it consumed the once handsome building.
She dropped Divinae in the dirt at her feet. "You get to live. You get to live with the fact that you couldn't save those poor men."
Lillian bit into the tip of her thumb, drawing blood, and knelt beside Divinae. She painted a slash over her cheek, scooped up a small handful of the brown-orange dirt from the lot, and she sprinkled it over the wet blood on Divinae's cheek. "Here, forward you are marked; may this mark be never shed. No scrubbing, no washing, no cleaning will ever it remove. Wherever you may go, your mark be seen, and all will know your failure." Lillian spat on Divinae's face. "So mote it be."
✟ ☧ ✟
"Goddess, give me protection from the outside world. Let what be spoken against me do no harm. Let whatever fear be mine be for naught. Let mine confusion be dispersed. You see my pain, and I am for you, your child, your soul..."
Beatrice screamed, startled, at the sound of knocking on her bedroom door.
"...I need a dream to cast away this pain, please send me something to soothe my soul."
Another series of sharp knocks at her bedroom door, and Beatrice began to shake, tears spilling down her cheeks. "H-hold on!"
Three more raps against her bedroom door, and Beatrice was on her feet, feeling light headed, her legs weak. The floor felt like it was rocking.
"I'm coming, please hold!" Beatrice stepped slowly, cautious on her footing, and when reaching her bedroom door, opened it.
No one.
Beatrice stepped out of her room, and into the hall, passing the clock. It was five minutes until six o'clock. There was nothing, and no one. She crept quiet as she could, living room, kitchen, guest room... no one, and nothing.
She tiptoed back to her bedroom.
"Goddess, give me protection from the outside world..."
The bedroom door slammed shut -and Beatrice collapsed, blubbering an unintelligible prayer.
Lillian's whisper was close to her ear. "You would have been better off taking your own life, Beatrice MacAllan."
Outside, the night was peaceful, the sky clear. Through the tree outside her window, anyone looking would see the ice crystals forming in beautiful fractal patterns from the inside of Beatrice MacAllen's apartment until the widows were frozen over.
From outside, no one could hear Beatrice begging, sobbing for her life.
✟ ☧ ✟
Lazarus, soaking in the bath tub had not even a moment to struggle when Lillian appeared beside him.
"Don't bother." She said sitting on the edge of the tub. Lily dipped a finger into the water. "Your water is tepid."
"You can't frighten me, Lillian Plow. I am not Beatrice MacAllen, you will not steamroll your way through my existence."
"I understand, Lazarus... and I respect what you're saying." Lillian made slow circles in the water with her finger, and the water surrounding Lazarus began to harden.
"If your tricks can be done, undone they can be."
"Oh yes." Lillian showing teeth, as the water solidified into scoria lava rock. She pulled a pocket watch from inside her pants pocket, and set it beside the tub. It was five minutes until six o'clock. "...but not by the likes of you."
✟ ☧ ✟
"If you only agreed to join me..." Lillian took a seat on the couch next to Amos, admiring the cuckoo clock on the wall above his television. "Five minutes until six. Amos, darling. We have to make this quick."
"Your madness has to end, Lillian. Return to us, and turn from the destructive path you walk."
"How is your emphysema, Amos?"
Amos coughed, and scratched at his throat.
"All this time you waited, praying to the horned god for healing, and what did he do for you? Slow it a little? Aid you in dying a little longer? You horned god is impotent, powerless - your horned god is flaccid."
Amos struggled for breath. "We were friends, you and I. Hang the circle, for all it's worth... but we..."
"...we had a good thing going, yes. Friends since what - grade school - right? Wasn't it you who brought me into all this? I suppose in so many ways, this could be counted as your fault."
Amos did not look scared, only sad. He shook his head, unable to speak,
"You are my favorite, Amos Caverly, and I do love you. You'll not suffer as has your fallen circle. You will die... but it will be just like falling asleep."
Amos closed his eyes, breathing shallow breaths as the air in the room thinned.
Lillian watched his eyes grow heavy, the lids heavy, and drooping shut... and then he was gone. He looked peaceful to Lillian, in that sleep that slept forever.
"I will miss you, Amos. The laughter. The love. The friendship. You will be the bar to what I hold all others."
Lilian flickered a moment, and was gone.
✟ ☧ ✟
"Slow down. Calm down. Tell me what happened." Solomon Dean checked Divinae's vitals. The woman was never in her life prone to panic, or irrational fear, but there in the brown-orange dirt lot at Driftwood Heights, where once stood The Huntsman Retreat Lodge - now only the skeletal remains of the great hall - Divinae Fargas did just that.
She feared, and she panicked.
Samael Grifford watched from his seat in the car, frowning at Divinae's broken composure, wishing she could take relief on the knowledge they would destroy the one responsible.
His eye caught the mark on her cheek.
A red stained smear, covered in dirt, and the longer he stared, the dirtier it looked. Judge Samael Grifford rolled down the window, and called from the car. "Solomon, clean that mess off her face."
Solomon did as instructed, and brought a sterile cloth to her face, wiping away the mark placed there by Lilian. When he was finished, the mark yet remained. Solomon set the sterile cloth aside, and produced an alcohol wipe.
He cleaned the smudge again, smearing it over the entirety of half her face... but when he withdrew the wipe, the mark still yet remained. "She's been cursed, Judge Grifford. The mark will not leave her face."
"Let her be, then." Samael called from his seat on the car. "Divinae, we will find a solution, I promise you."
Divinae nodded, locking eyes with Grifford, even as Solomon Dean put the suppressor in place on his pistol. He stood quietly beside her, "If you could please tilt your head away from me so I may get a better look at your mark?"
Divinae did as she was instructed. Samael Grifford nodded to her, and rolled his window up.
Outside there was a muted pop, and Samael watched Divinae's body slump over, an into the dirt lot.
"Was that necessary?" Clayton Walker drew his attention away from the tinted window, and stared at Grifford.
"She was cursed. Doomed... and she was marked with something that would have followed her the entirety of her life. We did her a favor, I promise you."
"Is it something you would want done to you?"
"Clayton, I must be frank. I don't care for the tone of your voice. Adjust it. We have all we need to know for now."
"That we've been attacked by a witch?"
"That we were attacked by a specific witch with a specific kind of strength atypical of the other neo-pagans drawing pentacles on their parents basement floors."
"Someone who violates the rules?"
Grifford laughed, but solemnly. "Not only ours, theirs. Everyone's."
"Everyone's?"
"Everyone's!" Grifford put a gloved hand to his face. "Did you know - and of course you do not - we found three known associates of this monster?"
"Found them doing what?"
"Found them being dead. Beatrice MacAllen. Dead. Frozen near solid in her home. That's a hell of an air conditioner, if you ask me. Lazarus Harmon, was found trapped inside his bathtub. Inside a solid piece of rock as large as the tub itself. They're dismantling the tub as we speak, and it will take a crane to transport him. Amos Caverly. Amos was reputed as her closest friend. Suffocated in a vacuum. Do you see a pattern?"
"The elements. Fire at the lodge. Water. Earth. Air..."
"Or a lack of. This witch, this Lillian Plow has declared war on The Order. We will strike back, but carefully."
"Why? Why not let's just execute her now?"
"...because we have a concern. Consider this: all three deaths, and her burning our lodge occurred roughly at the same time, if not exactly the same time."
"How did she manage to coordinate that herself?"
"Simple. She was in all four locations. All at once."
✟ ☧ ✟
The car ride to Grifford's estate bore down on Clayton with a terrible silence.
"I have to return to Salem."
"I think I preferred the silence." Clayton shuddered. "What are we going to do with the witch?"
"Nothing."
"Nothing. Just sit idly while she accumulates power out from beneath us?"
"Driftwood is yours. You'll do nothing until I speak to the tribunal, and find an appropriate response. This is a new threat."
"We've killed pagans before."
"None so much like this one. This woman, if she is still merely a woman, burned down our lodge, and killed her coven... and she did it all at once."
"We're immune."
"She doesn't have to cast on you, or against you to burn your house down around you. Be careful, and for now just watch. Act only of you have to... and keep her from rallying others."
"How?"
"Parlay. Negotiate. Do whatever you have to do to keep the peace. Make nice."
"Make nice."
"Clay, we can't lose Driftwood... and she will not do anything to bring the full weight of The Order down on her."
"She killed eight veterans, and Divinae."
"That's the war. It's always been. Sometimes we kill them. Sometimes they kill us. She made a statement, and sure, it's reprehensible... and we'll get her. Just not today. You stamp out that fucking pride, Clay Walker. Don't forget Jonathan. Don't forget Nadjia. You stay true to this course. I will return when I can."
✟ ☧ ✟
Clayton stood on the smoldering ruins of The Huntsman's Retreat, kicking through the ashes.
The sky was clear for once. The stars were bright overhead.
"It is a sorry sight, and I am sorry I had to do it."
"You're Lillian Plow."
"I am." She stepped up beside him. "Why are we here?"
"We need to talk."
"No. Why are we here? Why do your people kill my people? Why do my people have to kill yours? Why is it, after millennia, still there is inquisition?"
"You killed nine of my people." Clayton stared wide eyed down at the petite woman. She was dressed plainly except for a small, black polished crystal dangling from a simple leather cord.
"How many of my people did any one of those nine kill in their long careers? Do the atrocities they committed in the name of your order earn a golden sunset sipping liquor, and smoking expensive tobaccos? My people struggle, praying to mutable, diluted gods. Wealth. Cancer. Philanthropy. Whatever their reasons, your people are the ones with blasphemous sums of wealth, and power. Driftwood will be mine... or I'll die fighting for it."
"It's just another inquisition in reverse, you hypocrite. Your way, or no way. You will be held accountable for what you've done one day."
Lillian cocked an eyebrow. "...but not today?"
Clayton shook his head. "Not today. I know you know you would lose a full scale war with The Order. There would be mass casualties, and innocent people would die. For now, whether you're willing to admit it, or not, we're at a stalemate. I don't want unnecessary blood on my hands."
"Are you suggesting a truce?"
"A tenuous truce. You know we can take you out of the picture, and don't think for a moment we won't... but I'm aware your capability..."
"...you've no idea, Walker."
Clayton ignored her. "...and I'm not willing to make my city into a bloodied battleground. No one knows who we are, or what we do. No one needs to. A tenuous truce. Do whatever you will, but you will neither hurt, nor kill another living soul. If you do, I don't care if I'm excommunicated, you'll pay the price."
"I believe you. There will be a time where I will make you eat those words, Clayton Walker but, whatever. Hunt whomever, kill whomever. Leave me alone. I'll leave you alone."
"Then we have an accord."
Lillian Plow extended her hand.
Fighting all restraint, fighting every ounce of revulsion in him, Clayton shook her hand, only once.
"We have an accord, Clayton Walker. From here forward your society will have no power over me."
"Unless you break your word. Not one life lost."
"Not a one."