9:00 PM
Bane watched from the shadows, the women getting into their cars. They smelled like fear, and death, but the fear and death of others. There were no escorts walking the women to their cars. They wore no cowls, or cloaks, but they felt the same as those he fought before.
There were too many for him to take here, alone. He could fell them all, no doubt of it... but it would be a painful, and costly battle. The kind that took days - maybe even weeks - in recovery. No. He could wait.
Bane stared, keeping his tattered and stitched leather duster pulled over him enough so that he could blend into the dark, and still see out. They weren't going to take well to the missing guards at the gate, and when they found the bodies it could very well be a blood hunt for him.
It did not matter.
Every last cowl wearing witch hunter of the modern inquisition would fall. Then, and only then could he surely be rid of that nagging conscience that once was Jonathan Walker.
One at a time, their machines came to life. In a long row, they began leaving, one after the next.
When the last of the lights behind their rolling machines (Cars. They're called cars.) were out of sight, Bane was on his feet, running for the entry. The door was wooden, and heavy looking. He pressed against it, and it bowed.
Veneer. Decoration. Vanity.
He drew his leg up and thrust the heel of his boot through the door in a single motion, pushing his shoulder into the flimsy door. It splintered around him, and he crashed into the concrete wall across from it.
He was inside, and inside there were lights on.
There was another guard. Bane reached for his guns, but this time the guard was faster, throwing a long bladed dagger. Bane held his arm up, and winced when the blade cut through it. He felt the sharp metal between the two bones in his forearm (your radius, your ulna...). The guard sounded an alarm, and fled immediately, retreating into the main room of the heavy building.
Bane followed immediately, ignoring the dagger stuck through his forearm, the blade scraping against bone, cutting thick muscle, and severing veins. As he hurried into the main room, the largest of them (...it looks like a cafeteria...), he saw them all. They were waiting for him. Ten of them.
Ten.
There were only eight leaving.
(...the word you're looking for is shit...)
Most were wearing their cowls, but the one who caught his attention immediately was older. Old. By mortal standards. The steel gray hair did not disguise who he was to Bane (Who he is...).
Who he was. Be silent.
Bane narrowed his eyes, even as the older man stared into them.
"Leave us." The old man said. The hunters around him hesitated. "Leave us! Gerald, take these whelps, and leave me to this cuss."
"Bart..."
"Get out, or I'll have you stripped of your dynasty. I'll put your boy on the street."
Gerald hesitated a moment longer. "There's only one way out."
"We'll need to work on that, but later."
Bane drew his pistols and began firing on Bartholomew Walker. Bart dodged, left, and right, all the while rushing Bane.
Impossible! No one moves that fast.
(...You've made a grave error.)
Be silent!
Bane emptied his pistols, and threw them down at his sides in time to meet Bart Walker head on. The man was large, broad shouldered, and strong. Almost as strong as he. The two collided, and Bane grasped Bart by his duster, stopping the old man cold in his assault. He raised him up, and for a moment he was weightless. Bane pulled him back down, and into the concrete floor of the building.
"Now!" Gerald's scream echoed off the concrete walls, and the young hunters, the men, and women of The Order drew their weapons and rushed toward Bane, and Bart, knocking over tables, toppling chairs, and three leapt over the tip rail, and onto the stage. They drew, and threw their blades.
Bane had no time to react. Before he could release Bart, before he could stand, he felt three searing pains pierce through him, one through his shoulder, and two through his side. To the hilt. Bart seized on the opportunity, and kicked hard, thrusting his legs into Bane at the knees.
Bane toppled, falling onto Bart, who used the momentum to roll with Bane, and mount him. He held the giant by its throat. Gerald, and the nine others rushed past them, through the entry hall, and out the shattered door.
Bart rolled off Bane, and to his feet. The giant stumbled to his.
"Just you and me, Jonathan."
"Jonathan Walker is dead!" Bane's muffled bellow echoed through the empty room.
"No need to shout, boy. Let's see what you've got. If you've got anything left."
Bane darted toward Bart. Bart closed the distance, side stepped, and scooped his instep into Bane's leading foot. The giant stumbled, lost his balance, and toppled through a bar table, breaking it in half. He pushed himself back onto his feet, grabbing the heavy remnants of the table, spinning and swinging it wildly at Bart. Bart dodged, and then ducked as Bane brought the tabled across him, overhead.
Bane's arm, his shoulder, and his side were saturated with his blood. He felt winded, and dizzy. He dropped the heavy, broken table, and reached for his shotgun. As he did, Bart aggressed, drawing his own dagger, and pushing the blade through Bane's throat. The long blade slid through the flesh, the muscle, and scraped bone as it came out the back side of his neck.
Bane kicked Bart Walker onto his back with a powerful forward thrust, and drew the blade from his throat. He stared at the blade a moment, and then down at the old, stunned witch hunter. He shook his head, and dropped the blade, turning for the door. He half-ran-half-stumbled his way through the entry hall, and out the door. The others were long gone, long retreated from the ambush.
Retreating (...just like you will...). Silence yourself already! You are long dead. Not but a weak collection of memories (but now your memories). Not mine.
Never mine.
(...yours now, and you cannot escape...)
Bane stumbled, regained his footing, and he fled.
He ran, dizzy, pulling the blade from his wrist, his shoulder, and two from his ribs. The pain was exquisite. Unbearable. I was never there. I do not know them. I never knew them.
I never knew them.
Never.
✟ ☧ ✟
Bishop arrived under the weak light of a waning crescent moon. His gloved hands flexed, opening, and closing.
Even beneath the tinted, polarized lenses of his goggles, it was bright to his eyes, a world bathed in silver moonlight. He pulled at the brim of his hat, the traditional hat worn by the men, and women of the order; not as large, or as bulky as their puritan ancestry, but insomuch recognizable by the enemies of The Order, and enough to strike fear in the hearts of those who know it's meaning. Worn in, and out of combat, whether a hunter be in fatigues ready for combat, or in his day-to-day life; worn less and less by the youthful generations of The Order, it commanded respect, and demanded recognition.
For Bishop, it was all in that place they called once-upon-a-time.
Was it he who betrayed The Order, or The Order who betrayed him? An argument whose answers changed depending on who told the tale.
Right, or wrong, he was an Exile, and the first rogue of the order. Bishop would gladly have given his life at the whim of its commands, and nearly did, but instead ten zealots died out there among the rowans by his hands, those would be assassins acting on behalf of the honorable Samael Grifford, God rest his soul.
...Bishop survived, but not before The Order took from him the one thing expected of all it's members, that one precious ability afforded not just to each and all it's hunters, but to all men and women; Bishop could not contribute to the next generation of his name, and so he was all but extinct, and the last of his line.
He knew the rites, and the blessings, and so he could not be allowed to die, but for his knowledge, he could not be allowed to produce a lineage.
How The Order failed, but it's failure belonged to it, and it alone.
He still loved The Order, its campaign against darkness, its tenets, and its code.
His wealth remained.
A gift from Samael Grifford, and a reminder who truly held the reigns.
...and now, Bishop was home, finally returned to the place of his father, seven generations back.
He stared down at his coat, the long duster worn by all hunters, his still riddled with the bullet holes of the failed assassins, and his body bore the scars more so than his coat, the duster whose design reflected the cloaks worn by the ancestry of their order, a tradition meant to remind Coven - all Coven - that the tribunals fell with Salem, and the Inquisitions fell with Spain, and Europa, but The Order, and The Order alone lived on.
Even through him.
His belongings, scarce as they were, moved from the unmarked freight trucks, into the shabby estate in its disrepair. Those moving the his few belongings were little more than dead men walking, frightened and condemned on a temporary stay of execution. Coven, judged already, but to live another day, if it meant one more sunrise, one more breath, one more word from another, even if that other were he.
Within the hour, his belonging were loaded from the truck into his gloomy home; paint peeling, bullet riddled walls cracked, jambs splitting with wood rot; The Order he may love, but its will no longer held over him any command.
"Condemned." His high raspy voice cracked through ruined vocal chords, damaged by the assassin's attempts to hang him.
Those movers, those drivers, those coven who tarried, and labored to load his things into the worn estate, mustered before him, eyes cast to the dead, dry and cracked lawn. They spoke in broken spirits, a monotone unison. "Honored Goodman Bishop."
"Condemned, my home - my ancestral home lies on disrepair. Who among you dies tonight? Who among you lives to see another sunrise?"
"Goodman, I am tired of servitude."
"Gregory Knott, you tire of servitude. It is your wish to rest with your ancestors?"
"Yes."
"Hang him from the oak." Bishop's voice was dismissive, casual, and bored.
Gregory Knott began to weep, with a sudden seeming to a change of heart. Bishop ignored it. "Do you want last rites, Gregory Knott hereafter known as The Condemned, that one day you and I should meet in paradise not as enemies, but equals?"
"I was weak, Goodman! Weak only for a moment, please reconsider! Stay this execution!"
"You made your decision before your brothers, and sisters, and they bore witness to your demand for rest. You are already judged here on earth, do you require last rites?"
"Brothers! Sisters! We are more than he is! Help me! We can still escape this stupid fate! This is America! We have a right to our religion! A right to life, and liberty!"
"...and consequences thereof. I am bored with your sniveling, an tired of your begging cowardiced voice. Last rights, or none? Paradise as equals, or the lake of fire for you?"
"You! Abigail Simpson! You were my friend! Speak for me!"
The condemned, Abigail Simpson spat in his face, and slapped him over a cheek. "Do not drag us into the grave with you today, you selfish coward! You are a dead today, not us! Face it like a witch, an animal, or a man! I don't care! You die today, Gregory Knott! Not me!"
"Abigail Simpson. Bring a rope, and tie me thirteen rings to my noose."
Gregory Knott wept into his fat hands, his shoulders heaving. He flinched when he felt the weight of the noose slip over his head, and rest on his back.
"Gregory Knott, you were long ago condemned for your malicious use of Magick in what the cause resulted in the death of an innocent child. The time for pleading is past. Your kind walk on this world is over. You will hang here from the bough of this oak until you are dead, dead, dead. May God have mercy on your soul. Abigail Simpson, bring me a ladder."
Abigail did as commanded, and returned with a rickety looking ladder of frail, splintering wood rungs.
"Place it against the oak."
She did.
"Gregory Knott, this tree stands seventy years now, and was grown already when placed into my land. Her roots fed from condemned men, such as yourself. I offer you one last time. In paradise, as equals, or the lake of fire with you?"
Gregory Knott wept, nose running, eyes tight. He nodded. "Grant me pardon..."
Bishop ushered Gregory Knott to the ladder. "To the top rung with you, to the highest branch where you tie your rope tight, as penance for what you have done."
Gregory Knott obeyed. The ladder, rickety and old as it was, groaned and bowed as the heavy man climbed. He clambered Roche thick bough of the oak where he shimmied out half way and began to tie his rope. As he did, Jacob Bishop scaled the ladder, and with strength, and balance blessed by the divine rites of The Order.
He heaved Gregory Knott to his feet. "Ego facultate mihi ab Apostolic Sede tributa, indulgentiam plenariam et remissionem omnium peccatorum tibi concedo et benedico te. In nomine Patris, et Filii, et Spirtus Sancti. Amen. We will meet as equals from on high, brother in Christ."
Bishop shoved Gregory Knott from the bough, and the man fell quickly. There was a sharp wet snap, and Gregory Knott wept no more. Bishop dropped down from the bough, landing light on his heavy booted feet. "Do any of you, the condemned, wish to retire to your eternity today?"
Silence.
"Cut that body down before it starts to stink. Bury it in the roots of the old oak." Bishop made for the front door. "When you're done burying that lump, come set up the house."