Darren Craske - The Eleventh Plague

'Damn it all, George!' yelled Quaint. 'No matter what you might be you need to know the truth…if only to awaken the embers of a conscience in you.' He strolled around the table, closer to the old man. Amazingly, his voice exhibited genuine grief, despite what a treacherous and evil creature he was facing. 'Your son is dead.'

Sir George looked at Quaint. He knew that parlour tricks were not part of Quaint's arsenal. In a duel such as this, his weapon of choice would be the truth, for it would wound far more deeply.

'Oliver is…dead?' he mumbled. 'But…he can't be!'

'It's true, George,' confirmed Quaint.

'What…what happened to my son?'

'You did,' Quaint replied.

Oliver Dray had been no saint, and responsible for many a crime of his own, most notably throwing his lot in with Quaint's enemy, Renard. Perhaps he deserved his fate. As Police Commissioner in the dockland district of Crawditch, Oliver had used his position to flout the very laws that he was sworn to protect.

'Cornelius, tell me what happened, I beg of you!' Dray pleaded.

Quaint whispered through a sharp intake of breath. 'You beg of me?' The conjuror took pleasure from Dray's pain. He was looking weaker and paler by the second as he tried to consume the information. Quaint wanted to prolong it. He resented giving the old man any sense of peace. He did not deserve it. But as Quaint looked into the eyes of the monster for the briefest of moments, he did not see a devil, no demon clad in human flesh – he simply saw a father, in mourning for his son. 'George, are you that detached from your conscience that you thought your machinations would never come back and bite you in the arse?'

Dray clawed madly at the downy hair on top of his balding scalp, drawing blood. 'I know what life I gave Oliver! I'm not that detached from my conscience…but he was a grown man…he could have walked away at any time. But I don't understand…how did it happen? How did my boy die?'

Quaint submitted to his own conscience. 'I can tell you the how, where and when he died…but you already know the why, don't you? The how: Oliver was murdered by a psychotic killer named Tom Hawkspear on Renard's orders. The where: Crawditch in London, in the yard of his own station. The when: around the end of November.'

'And no one even told me? How is it that I don't know? How is that it takes you – you of all people – to tell me of this?'

Silence manifested itself between Dray and the conjuror. They sat in a kind of restrained, unspoken conversation, as if waiting for something to happen.

'November, you say. And Oliver died…as a result of a Consortium plot in London? But that can only mean-' Sir George Dray sat back in his chair, as if an elusive equation had plagued him all day and he had just deciphered the answer. 'Tell me this is all part of your plan, Cornelius, please. Tell me this is you!'

Quaint shook his head vehemently. 'Once I'd found out just how deeply Oliver had been pulled into the plot, I went to him. I wanted to save him. But I was too late…too late to keep him from the rot that had set in…too late to save him from himself. He wasn't just killed, George – he was mutilated horrifically. He was hung by his entrails from his station, his blood painting the pavement, naked apart from his regulation jacket. Was that the sort of death that you wanted for him?'

George Dray snatched up his walking cane and hoisted himself to his feet, his green eyes aflame. He was remarkably agile, imbued with the potent medicine of vengeance.

'Where are you off to?' asked Quaint.

'To vent some anger!' snapped back Dray. 'I know who was running the plot in London in November…the one who was supposed to be holding Renard's leash…and I aim to find out exactly what she's got to say about it!'

'George, wait!' yelled Quaint, snatching hold of the old man's arm.

'I'll have plenty of time for waiting later. Right now it's answers that I want…that and a little revenge,' Dray seethed, the veins in his head pulsating under his flesh. 'Crawditch was Jocasta's project and I want her head on a pissing plate for this! She has to be brought to bear!'

'You want to settle a score, that's fine! I don't blame you…but you can do a whole lot more than just make her pay her penance. You can right a wrong…reset the balance of Oliver's death.'

Dray turned, his eyes almost looking through the conjuror. When he spoke, his words were sharp enough to cut diamonds. 'If you're trying to appeal to my conscience, you're wasting your breath. I'm detached from it, remember? But my vengeance, now that's another thing entirely…that I am very much in concert with. I'm sick, Cornelius. Dying to be exact. I don't know how much time I have left, but I promise you this…before I draw my last breath that bitch is going to pay!'

'George, listen to me…all I want is an end to this!' snapped Quaint. 'It's within your power, you know it is! If you're dying, then go out with some dignity…go out with some humanity, for God's sake, man!'

Dray shuffled on the spot anxiously. 'You could've let me squirm, twisted the knife in my guts even more. Lesser men certainly would have…I would have.'

'I didn't do it for you, George,' said Quaint.

'Aye…I know that,' muttered the old man. 'Whatever it was that poisoned Oliver, you and he were still friends once. Let's say I could even the score between us – and only this score, mind…we still have others to occupy ourselves with – what would you ask of me?'

Cornelius Quaint did not ponder long. 'Well, there is this one little thing…'

The Embrace of Death

A THIN TRICKLE OF blood seeped from the corner of Aksak Faroud's swollen mouth as he spat in the face of the brawny Hades Consortium jailer in front of him. The jailer cackled remorselessly and punched him in the gut. Faroud's head snapped back, striking the base of his skull against the solid rock wall, and his eyes rolled listlessly in his head. Blood-soaked bile spewed from his mouth, dribbling down onto his bare chest.

'You Clan Scarabs are not like us. You are filth, picking off any carrion weaker than you. Thieving…intimidating…killing. But no more,' said Jailer Veriz, wiping his hand over his mouth as he savoured his attack. He leaned closer, his eyes scouring every inch of Faroud's face in detail, as if he despised every speck of his being. 'This is how the Hades Consortium treats animals like you.'

'You…think yourself so different…to me?' protested Faroud weakly, barely able to vocalise the words. 'We do what we do…to survive. What is your excuse?'

Faroud was silenced by a blow to the ribs and the breath was purged from his lungs. His Scarab brothers, Kulfar and Nehmet, had been the lucky ones. Death had claimed them quickly. Faroud knew that soon he would join them. He did not have the strength within him to fight any longer and falling into death's embrace seemed more appealing by the second. As Jailer Veriz clenched his fists once again, Faroud closed his eyes tight, knowing this was the end. There was no one to save him now.

Or so he believed.

Faroud heard a sudden noise…a dull clang of metal striking against something solid. He opened his eyes slowly.

Standing over the unconscious body of his jailer was an elderly woman clad in an elegant mud-splattered dress, with a pair of heavy iron manacles swaying in her hands. Faroud blinked hard to remove the delusion, but to his surprise, it did not dissipate.

'Who…are you?' asked Faroud dazedly.

'Escape first, introductions later,' replied Madame Destine. 'We have to find Cornelius!'

The Turning of the Tide

LADY JOCASTA ENTERED the audience chamber clutching a large, cylindrical roll of parchment under her arm. Sir George Dray sat alone at the chamber's table with an expectant look on his wrinkled face.