Ginn Hale - Wicked Gentlemen

Nervous, Harper thought, but he didn't say so. Instead he smiled.

"You should wear my clothes more often. You look good in black."

"So, what now?" Edward asked.

"Now you go to a safe house."

"A safe house?" Edward asked. "A safe house from the Inquisition? Are there really such things?"

"A few." Harper turned and strode quickly along the walk-way. Before Edward could question him further, Harper took a sharp turn and swung down the emergency stairs to the ground of Hells Below.

He led Edward through the narrow streets. Decaying houses and rumpled, dark shops jutted into the streets and hunched against each other like drunks.

"They're going to ask you what the Inquisition wants you for," Harper said quietly. "Don't tell them. Just say that you're a physician looking for work. There aren't any doctors down here. You're worth more than any reward. They'll sell their own kids before they'll turn you over to the Inqu—"

"Will, you're coming with me, aren't you?" Edward broke in. Oily droplets of condensation spattered down from the cavernous roof and drummed across the roofs of the crumbling houses. Harper and Edward walked under the cover of the over-hanging eaves.

"You'll be fine," Harper began.

"No. You don't understand." Edward glanced askance to see if anyone was near enough to overhear them.

Three Prodigal boys played with a nest of rats at the far end of the alley, but none of them took any note of either Harper or Edward.

"Will, it isn't going to be safe for you in the city. They made me sign a confession. I didn't want to, but—"

"I know. I went through the files and pulled it out."

"You did?" Edward looked a little startled. "How did you know?"

"That's just how the Inquisition works. They get confessions and then use them to bargain for trial testimonies."

"Are you angry?"

"Not with you. You did the smart thing. Hell, you did the only thing you could. If you hadn't given them that confession, they wouldn't have stopped torturing you. You wouldn't have been in any shape to escape when I came for you." Harper frowned. "I'm just sorry I didn't get you out sooner. I shouldn't have left you the way I did."

"You had someone else to look after." Edward shrugged. "Did you take care of him?"

"We need to take Wax Street." Harper pointed ahead.

"You could be less obvious about not answering, you know," Edward said as they continued on.

"You see that little chapel." Harper inclined his head toward the brick building. "That's where you're going. You'll want to talk to Bastard Jack."

"Not his real name, I hope," Edward commented.

"You never know with Prodigals. It doesn't matter. Just ask for him, and tell him that Nick Sariel recommended him to you."

"What if this Nick Sariel is there?"

"He's locked up at Brighton," Harper said. "Just drop his name if they ask. What's going to interest Jack is the fact that you're a physician. Once he knows that, he'll piss himself to make a friend of you. The only other thing you have to remember is not to mention me, not to anyone down here. Inquisition captains are never popular, and neither are their friends." Harper patted him on the shoulder, then stepped back. "You think you've got all that?"

"Yes, but—"

"Good. Take care of yourself, Edward."

"Will—"

"Just say goodbye," Harper told him as coldly as he could.

"Goodbye."

"Goodbye."

Harper turned before Edward could say anything more and walked away. He didn't want to drag this out, and he didn't want to discuss it. The less time Edward spent in his company, the better chance he had. Harper knew Edward was watching his retreating back.

Only after he knew he was well out of Edward's sight did he turn back. He dashed back to the wooden fire escape that was nailed to the back of a rotting tenement. Two of the steps snapped under Harper's weight, but the rest of the ladder held. He climbed up onto the roof and looked across to Wax Street. Through the haze of falling condensation, Harper watched as Edward slowly approached the brick chapel and then disappeared inside.

Though there was no day or night in Hells Below, it felt suddenly much darker to Harper.

Harper wanted to think calmly. He wanted to feel that familiar, detached coldness enfold the burning rage inside him, but it wouldn't come. He didn't know why. Perhaps it had been seeing Edward hunched in that cell, too frightened to even look up. Or Joan, dressed like beggar and covered in filth, staring at him as if he might harm her. Perhaps it had been holding Belimai's shaking body in his arms and knowing that nothing could ever give Belimai his innocence back. Or perhaps it was simply remembering all those things and looking out over the desolation of Hells Below. The injustice seemed infinite. Fury welled up through Harper.

He had spent years gathering evidence and following the correct procedures of prosecution. All the while, Abbot Greeley and his friends committed brutal crimes whenever they pleased and had witnesses murdered at their leisure. Time after time, Harper had crushed his own anger and poured his strength into the belief that justice had to prevail.

But justice did not prevail. It struggled, floundered, then sank into oblivion.

Harper had been told as a child that God brought Justice to every man. Harper had believed that. Even as his innocence fell from his body, even as he uncovered mutilated women and gutted Prodigals, Harper had clung to that promise. Now he couldn't make himself believe it any longer. No wide-eyed saint or righteous angel was going to give Harper Justice. He didn't even want it any longer.

What he wanted now was vengeance. For that, he did not have to wait on heaven's judgment. Vengeance he could take with his own hands. It wasn't smart. Harper knew that, but he didn't care. His life was already in ruins.

When Harper had left Hells Below, the drops of condensation clung to his hair and skin like baptismal waters. His anger cooled as he walked, but it didn't fade. By the time he reached the open air of Champion Street, he'd already decided on a course of action. He made his way through the dark streets to Cherry Row and up into one of the squalid little flats.

Now, he watched from the grimy window as a single figure strode across the street below. Only a few of the streetlamps had been re-paired since the deluge the week before. This particular little road had only one working lamp. Harper smiled as he caught the shine of red hair under the light.

Harper pulled the curtains closed and walked carefully across the small, dark room to the door.

"Not much longer, now," Harper whispered to the woman on the bed.

She stared at him with wide, terrified eyes. She didn't even attempt a reply through the wadded-up cloth and silk stocking that Harper had used to gag her. The deadness to her responses told Harper that he was not the first man to treat her this way. She hadn't tried to cry for help. She had already known that no one would respond to the screams of a whore. She hadn't even struggled against Harper's strength when he slammed her down onto the bed and tied her. She lay still, giving Harper no reason to hurt her, no resistance to beat down. She just watched him, with an expression of hopeless knowing.

"This will all be over soon," Harper said quietly. "Just stay where you are, and you'll be fine."

She nodded slightly. Through the darkness, Harper smiled at her.

The sounds of footsteps on the stairs grew louder. Keys jingled like bells as Brandson tried to find the right one. At last the door swung open. Brandson stepped inside and groped for the wall lamp. The door fell shut behind him. Harper silently twisted the lock back into place.