[City of New York, November 3rd, 1866]

The sun began to set, and Karsten was nowhere near as drunk as Beckham and Aaron. He'd treated the others to a matinee performance of The Elves, or, The Statue Bride. They'd eaten a hearty lunch at a tumbledown bakery, and followed their meal with a stroll through the park. Everyone began drinking at noon, and they were loose and bubbling with laughter as they made their way across the city. Karsten brought them to a tailor and they acquired the latest in fashion.

He didn't think any of the others had caught him, but he'd had to supplement their money with a little unwitting donation from a silk-clad man who had entirely too little care for either his wallet or his manners as he'd addressed Inola. With this final infusion of cash, he took the now well dressed group to Delmonico's, where they were judged harshly by the upper crust. Karsten had a blast with an exaggerated slouch, loudly chatting with his mouth open, and even exchewing silverware at points. The others didn't seem to notice the reaction from their surroundings, nor his exaggerated lack of couth.

Karsten wondered what that said about him in general.

After their dinner, they gathered on the streetcorner in the gathering gloom. "I think that's quite enough for me," Aaron announced, barely conscious. "Big day today. Thank you for your kindness, Karsten."

Inola nodded with Dupont and smiled. "I believe I am done for myself. Though not as... thirsty as Mister Dupont, I think I may have passed beyond my own limitations."

Karsten looked at Romy, quizzically. She smiled at him, eyes bright and clear. "I have heard about the nightlife," she noted, "If you are not too done in by the day?"

"I am not," Karsten laughed. He passed a stack of coins to Inola, "Take this and wave a ride back to the dockhouse." 

"I couldn't possibly..." Inola started to argue. "You've been so generous already."

"It's easy to be generous with other peoples' money," Karsten laughed, and the matter was settled.

Separating from the others, Romy and Karsten began their search for after-hours amusement. As they walked, they passed a bottle of fine wine between them as if it was common tonic. "Where did you get this?" Romy asked, after sampling the drink. "I didn't see you buy it."

"I stole it," Karsten responded, flatly. "From the restaurant. I crept off to the kitchens and grabbed it."

"You steal so easily," Romy noted. "Is there really no guilt?"

Karsten's mood soured a bit. "Look at these people. Not the workers or the tourists out spending most of their savings. I mean the ones dressed like us, as we are now. The ones that eat at Delmonico's or go to the evening plays in the finest theaters. You see how wealthy and fat they are?"

Romy looked around, intrigued. "They're wealthy, but nothing special. There are those like them in any country."

"Exactly. There's nothing to them. They're just bags of money, that's their whole being. You'd never tell looking at them that there was a war just last year. You know why? None of them fought in it. Almost none of them sent their sons off to fight in it. You know what they did send? Their money. Wasn't a gift, though. It was an investment. They were getting in good for whatever business or factory they run to get some agreement with the federals. They spent more 'donating' to politicians than they did paying for the war. In return, they got lower taxes, they got tariff relief, they got promises to be the sole provider of blankets or boots or uniforms to this regiment or that one. If the rebs had won, they'd have turned around in a heartbeat and been whistling Dixieland on their way to the bank. Half of them were making the same investments in the other side, you see. No matter what, they'd have been the winners. So no, there is no guilt in me for taking what's theirs, nor is there any for making them the least bit uncomfortable with my presence. Far as I'm concerned, they can all go hang."

His companion was clearly taken aback. "You almost sound like a communist," she laughed, eventually.

"Like Willech?" he considered, thoughtfully. "No, I'm no communist. I just think everyone ought to contribute. And until they do, they aren't worth considering." He rummaged through his pockets. "Speaking of contributions, I'm afraid our visit to the bars may be a little shallow if I don't procure more. What's say we give my magic ring another go?"

Romy laughed and took another pull from the bottle. They traveled back to the gambling houses and sin dens until a particularly opulent one stood out. Karsten was nearly aghast at how perfect it seemed; it was obviously wealthy, with fine silks, fresh paint on the walls and sign, and furniture clearly made with an expert hand, but the clientele was rough and rowdy, and the staff looked young, vibrant, and most importantly naive. The sign showed a tiger in a wary circle with a bat-winged, dog headed serpent, and the name 'Himry House' was intricately painted in purple and black beneath. "This is the place," Karsten announced, and strode confidently into the establishment.

He selected a table in the corner and sat down, giving the sign above the dealer intricate scrutiny. It was a simple clay sign, displaying four triangles stacked atop each other, each with one angle pointed rightward. From this rightward angle, a line protruded from each giving the appearance of a ladder. A point-down triangle sat atop the rightmost side of the lines and directed its own line downward. The tablet looked ancient, but something about it was fascinating.

Romy sat across from him and grinned, and they got to work. This time, she actively assisted him in distracting the dealer by asking questions. She even cast a few suggestive glances at him. Neither he nor the other contestants noticed the jumping coins. This continued until Romy noticed a motif on the back wall. Her wine-drunk eyes squinted at it while the mirth drained out of her face. It was five chains arranged equidistant from each other and joined at the center. At the tip of each chain was a rough-carved stone dog head pointed to the left. Underneath were the words, 'I HAVE NOT FORGOTTEN MY BROTHER' in polished wood lettering.

Observing her rising panic, Karsten missed a bet and lost several dollars. When he cursed under his breath, she looked at the rear door to the staff rooms and saw that they were decorated with stained glass depicting the damned, wailing as they marched into a hellmouth. She cast about in rising horror until she saw the tablet above the dealer's head. When she looked finally at Karsten, she was even paler than usual, and her eyes were the widest he'd ever seen them. He made excuses about the time, collected his winnings from the placidly grinning dealer, and they fled into the street.

"What's going on?" Karsten demanded, touching the revolver hidden under his coat.

"We're where we should not be," Romy insisted, but came up short when several children blocked their path. The midnight street, which should have been crammed with pedestrians, were rapidly emptying. Romy huffed in despair and dragged Karsten by the arm to another street, only to be blocked closer by more children. "Let us pass," Romy called out.

"Please, ma'am, we're so hungry," the tallest boy responded in a deadpan voice absent any childish lisp. "We know you won big in there can you spare some money?"

"Sure, kid-" Karsten started, reaching into his pocket. He was stopped by Romy, who physically gripped his wrist. 

"Look at their eyes, but not too deeply," she hissed. 

Karsten obeyed, glancing at the eyes of the lead boy. Somehow, he had failed to notice that the eyes were two hollow pits of the deepest black. Just one glance and he felt himself being drawn in. Casting around, he saw that the others, too, were similarly marked. "What the hell?" he hissed back.

"I told you," Romy moaned, "We were where we shouldn't be! Stupid, I was stupid not to see the signs! He even called the place Himry!" She steered Karsten to another street, where they were again blocked. The only avenue of escape was an alley, and Romy took it in desparation. They were halfway down the passage when three boys and a little girl stepped out to block their path. Turning back, Karsten saw that the ambush was complete, though now an adult appeared with the small mob of children. 

He hadn't detected it before, but the alley smelled of old blood, like a butcher shop after hours. Once he knew what he was smelling above the city stink, it was unmistakeable; this is where they murdered men. 

The adult strode confidently towards them. He was pale, with short, dark hair and an aquiline nose that belied an almost Turkish jawline. He was tall and lean, and his steps were confident but light, like a panther padding around the jungle. He was well dressed, too well dressed in fact for the butcher's work that he clearly intended. His fingers were long, as were all of his limbs. His smile was smug, and hid his teeth, and one of his eyebrows cocked above inky darkness where his eyes should be.

Karsten knew a man about to kill by his stride, and reached for his gun. Romy stopped him again. "If you shoot him, you might make him angry," she warned.

"Little cheats," the man laughed in good humor. His voice was a deep and layered bass note that belonged more to the stage than in a back alley brawl. "That was fascinating to watch. What are your names?"

"We're nobody," Romy interjected, far too eagerly and exaggerating her accent. "Just visitors to this city, looking for some fun. We can give you the money-" she was cut off. The man was suddenly in front of them, causing Karsten to tear back and draw his weapon, thumbing the hammer in the same motion.

"Put that away," the man growled. His growl wasn't human, it reverberated in Karsten's chest like a tiger or a crocodile. Karsten's response was to pull the trigger. The shock wrenched his arm as the man's hand went from his side to the weapon in less time than it took for the hammer to fall. Instead of striking, the hammer harmlessly closed on the man's finger. The gun was yanked from Karsten's hand the way one might take a child's toy, and then hurled away. The stranger turned back to the pale woman and gripped her face. "You're one of Mary's, aren't you?" he mused.

"I..." she hesitated, staring into his eyes. "Yes," she finally answered, tension leaving her body.

"Let go of her!" Karsten attempted to tackle the man to the ground, but found him standing solidly as a fencepost and made no progress. The only thing he'd accomplished is knocking the wind out of himself.

"Mind the suit, boy!" he laughed, and hurled Karsten away almost as easily as he had the pistol. He followed up as Karsten slumped against the wall, gripping the bushwhacker by the throat and lifting him easily from his feet. With his other hand he pulled Karsten's lucky ring from his thumb and looked at it. "Ah, I see!" he chuckled. "Very clever. And you have a similarly charged steel token, I take it? To move from under the table! That is good. I like this one."

"He's under Mary Posat's protection!" Romy shouted, having shaken herself from her dreamy state. "You cannot harm him!"

"I can," the man chuckled. "Easily. But I won't. So Mary Posat is what she's named herself this time around? Interesting. I know what you are, but him... his purpose is a mystery." He shook Karsten like a dog shaking a rabbit carcass, and Karsten saw stars playing at the darkness encroaching his vision. "As is his name. You broke the rules, little blueblood. Tell me your names if you want the protection of hospitality."

Romy held back, chewing her lip with indecision and looking at Karsten's slowly fading consciousness. He silently begged her to give the man what he wanted. "I'm Romy Havek, and that man is Karsten Yeager."

"Ah, there, was that so difficult?" the man laughed, hurling Karsten bodily past Romy. Just as Karsten expected to skid along the cobblestones, he was caught by numerous little hands. Despite their diminuitive size, they held enormous strength, and absorbed the shock easily. He was deposited on his knees, where he coughed and sputtered. His weapon was pressed into his hand and he stared at it dumbly before looking back up at the menacing figure. The man dipped low into a courtly bow at least a century out of date, and announced, "I, my friends, am Mortimer. Mortimer Mot. You simply must tell me about your quest!"

"No quest," Romy answered, too quickly. "We're just-"

"Lying to me again," Mot chuckled. "My little lady, I invented lying, and then gave it up because I was far too good at it. Don't bother. 'Mary' is always questing this way and that. She never learned how to relax." At this last word, there was something else. Some tone, or a particularly dark flash of his not-eyes. Karsten felt himself suddenly a bit drowsy, and glancing at Romy saw that she had received the brunt of it. She swayed on her feet, once again tensionless, and smiled lightly. 

"We're going to dig for something in Saxony. That's all I know," she sighed.

"A dig in Saxony?" Mot laughed, a deep chuckle. "There is a game, then." He considered for a moment, and then flicked Karsten's ring back at him. "Keep the ring, and the money. Take it as payment for delivering a message. Tell my wife that I'll be seeing her soon."

Then, just like that, Karsten and Romy were alone in the alley.