Matt approached the woman with slow, deliberate steps, the brown priest's robe shifting faintly beneath his dark jacket. She was still struggling against Slowness, trying to form another desperate hymn. Her eyes—those two miniature suns still glowing weakly—stared at him with a mixture of terror and recognition.
He stopped about a meter away.
"I'm sorry," he murmured softly, almost politely, without any real emotion. "It's nothing personal."
Before she could answer, Matt raised his hand and placed two fingers against her forehead. A tiny spark of Poisonous Flames emerged—controlled, minimal.
It didn't burn her.
It only brushed her skin, just enough for the corruption to seep directly into her nervous system.
The woman shuddered once. Her eyes rolled back, and she collapsed unconscious onto the damp cobblestones, her body limp but still breathing.
Matt watched her for a moment.
I didn't need to kill her. Not yet.
He turned toward the corpse of the man of the Hanged Man Path, which lay in a puddle of dissipating shadows and rotting flesh. Without wasting time, he knelt beside it.
The mediumship ritual was simple and quick now that he had mastered it.
He pulled a lead dagger from his pocket, set down the small improvised cauldron he always carried, and lit a green candle with his own spirituality. A handful of dried herbs scattered across the ground as he constructed the spiritual wall in less than twenty seconds.
Earthy smoke rose slowly into the air.
Matt touched the ruined forehead of the corpse and murmured in Hermes, his voice clear and steady:
"Eternal Mother, Source of Life, receive this soul that has returned.
Allow me to speak with what remains."
The smoke thickened.
A translucent gray shape rose from the body—the spirit of the Shadow Ascetic. Its hollow eyes stared forward without expression.
Matt wasted no time on formalities.
"First question," he said calmly. "Is there any place where Beyonders gather? Hidden locations, outside the control of the orthodox churches. Sects, organizations—anywhere they meet without the Night Hawks or the Punishers watching."
The spirit took a moment before answering, its voice a distant, hollow echo.
"…The Black Market of the Northern Docks. Beneath the Old Bridge. Every new moon. Those who do not wish to be seen by the churches gather there. They buy, sell, trade."
Matt nodded once.
"Second question. Do you know potion formulas from Paths other than your own?"
The spirit tilted its translucent head.
"Only one. Sequence 9 of the Lawyer Path: Lawyer."
Matt leaned forward slightly.
"The ingredients."
The spirit spoke in a monotone voice, as if reciting something memorized long ago:
"A fruit of wisdom.
The tongue of a labyrinth parrot.
90 milliliters of labyrinth parrot blood.
One black olive.
Nine drops of cypress bark essential oil.
One white jasmine flower."
Matt memorized every word.
The spirit began to fade, its translucent form dissolving into gray smoke.
"Thank you," Matt said simply.
The spirit vanished completely.
The alley fell silent, except for the faint breathing of the unconscious woman and the distant murmur of the river.
Matt remained kneeling beside the corpse of the Shadow Ascetic, perfectly still. The smoke had dispersed. The alley was quiet.
He wasn't in a hurry.
He knew the Beyonder characteristic would appear soon.
So he waited.
Minutes passed in a silence that felt almost reverent. The Tussock River murmured faintly in the distance. The worms that had begun moving around the corpse suddenly stopped, as if even they sensed something important was about to occur.
Then it happened.
From the ruined chest of the man, a cluster of gray-black shadows emerged.
It wasn't solid.
The shapes were ethereal, almost liquid, twisting and merging together like living smoke. They floated in the cold air for a few seconds, pulsing faintly, before beginning to condense into a small dark translucent sphere.
Matt extended his hand without emotion.
The shadows slid into his palm, cold and sticky, and he placed them into the inner pocket of his jacket.
He stood.
Without delay, he began the ritual of sacrifice to the Mother.
He touched the corpse's forehead again and murmured in Hermes, voice low and precise:
"Eternal Mother, Source of Life, receive this offering that returns to the cycle.
All that rots nourishes. All that is destroyed fertilizes."
The earth beneath the body opened with a soft, wet sound.
Thick, gleaming roots rose from the soil, wrapped around the corpse, and dragged it downward. Within seconds nothing remained—no bones, no clothes, no blood.
Only a faint scent of fertile soil.
The soft creaking of roots settling back into place followed.
Matt packed away the candles, the cauldron, and the lead dagger.
Then he brushed his hands together.
Done.
He walked toward the unconscious woman and lifted her easily into his arms. Her body felt light—almost fragile after the corruption he had injected into her. Her head fell against his shoulder.
Her hair smelled faintly of sunlight… and fear.
Matt carried her toward a nearby motel about seventy meters away.
He climbed the drainage pipes with the same effortless ease as always. The woman's weight posed no problem. Reaching the second-floor roof, he carefully placed her on a burlap sack he had left there nights earlier.
He sat beside her, watching the fog curling through the distant alley.
She remained unconscious, breathing with difficulty. The corruption from his Poisonous Flames had stopped spreading.
It wouldn't kill her.
At least not yet.
Now…
We have time to talk.
Matt leaned back against the wall bordering the motel roof. The wind from the Tussock River was cold and damp, but he barely felt it.
The woman lay beside him, breathing unevenly. The corruption had left marks along her legs and torn parts of her clothing, exposing pale skin, but it wasn't killing her.
Only keeping her asleep.
He glanced at her sideways.
What a romantic image, he thought dryly.
A man of questionable origin, wearing a priest's robe under a stolen jacket, bringing an unconscious woman to the roof of a motel.
That surely makes an excellent first impression.
He ran a hand through his hair and let out a quiet chuckle.
What will she think when she wakes up? "Oh, what a gentleman, he saved me from a shadow lunatic and brought me to the presidential suite of a motel."
Or maybe: "This degenerate is about to sell me to the highest bidder."
Matt shook his head, amused at himself. The cold calm of the Wingless Angel was still there, but it hadn't completely erased the part of him that could still mock things.
Two weeks ago I was selling bread for a cent and begging like a dog.
Now I kidnap Beyonders and carry them to rooftops.
Progress, I suppose.
He looked toward the fog wrapping around distant street lamps. The alley where everything had happened was now silent.
No one had come to investigate.
And what if she wakes up and starts singing again?
Will I have to cast Slowness again?
Or simply… let her try to kill me?
It might be interesting to see how strong her light is against my flames.
He leaned back a little more, arms resting across his knees. The bone dagger weighed quietly in his pocket. The gray shadow cluster from the dead man was there as well, cold and still.
All of this is… strange.
A few months ago I would have been nervous.
I would have thought: "What if she sees my face? What if she reports me?"
Now I only wonder whether it's worth keeping her alive.
And I'm not even sure I care about the answer.
A gust of wind moved the woman's hair across her face.
Matt watched her for another moment.
She's beautiful.
Even unconscious and half-poisoned.
That's new too.
Before, I would have felt something.
Now… I just register it.
Like noticing a leaf is green before it rots.
He exhaled softly.
I'm still wearing this priest's robe underneath everything.
If she wakes up and sees me dressed like a priest after dragging her to a motel… she'll probably think I'm some kind of pervert having a religious crisis.
The woman's fingers twitched slightly.
Matt became still.
Waiting.
If she wakes up right now… what will I do?
Then she moved.