Chapter Twenty-One #2
“Maxwell Henderson, a once-great member of our order has turned traitor. He bit the hand that fed him, as it were. He stole our knowledge and used it to fuel his own ambitions,” the Head’s steady voice breaks into thunderous passion.
“What are his crimes?” the Heart asks. He’s one of the very few I don’t know beneath the mask, but he’s held the seat for as long as I can remember, and I’ve gotten comfortable with the idea that I’ll never find out.
“Brokering secrets,” the Head says, as Maxwell stumbles beside him. “By day and by night. Rupturing the very fabric we’ve worked so hard to weave into this tapestry.”
The Heart’s gaze shifts to the accused, expecting a defense.
“It’s just business.” Maxwell sounds defeated. He is like a drowning man, gasping for air, after being rescued from drowning. “We’re competitors. All of us. No one’s ever accused the others of foul play. Of course this would happen one day, when one of us was brave enough to move on the Crawfords.”
“By day,” the Head says.
Maxwell slumps his shoulders. “What happens at night doesn’t involve you.”
“Unless it puts the Veil in danger. Would I be wrong in suggesting you’ve done so?”
“You’re damned fucking right.” His voice echoes throughout the hall.
“I did what every one of you has done,” Maxwell snaps, chains rattling as he struggles. “I just did it better. And now you’re pretending this is about loyalty, not control.”
“Then pray tell, why did I find a reporter skulking around my yard?”
A reporter? Could this be Lilith’s visitor?
Voodoo’s dossier was filled to the brim with information about Raymond Lincoln. It contained his address in Kinkako, his financial records, criminal background checks and surveillance reports, but none of them indicated he was law enforcement.
This is the first I’m hearing about a reporter getting this close at all. While it’s a rare occurrence, there is always a chance that the Head handled the matter personally.
Maxwell crumbles in an instant, dropping flat on his ass, his skin turning several shades darker. He has not gone red from embarrassment. It’s more the sickly green of a dying man.
“I’m sure,” the Head continues, “that some of you would have seen him too. Perhaps in passing. Asking questions that border on knowing.”
“No, I can explain,” Maxwell tries to fight. “My inquiry had nothing to do with the Veil.”
The Head ignores him. “You sought vengeance for your son. You attacked me to salve the wound. But I warned you to stop him that night. I warned you of the consequences if anyone went looking for the girl.”
No response.
The Head’s vague statements cause me to turn towards Maybelle. She can’t have a clue about what’s going on here. I’ve been to every meeting the Veil has conducted since I was ten years old, and this is by far the most outrageously confusing one I’ve attended.
I can’t see what’s happening behind her mask, but I can imagine it.
A scrunched face she’s trying to hide, ashamed, because the comfort of anonymity hasn’t set in.
A mind racing with the possibilities of what her position could bring, but indecision about whether she’s the right person, after seeing this display.
A thoughtful, yet hurried shift in attention to Lilith and whether the two of them should run while they still have the chance.
She doesn’t realize that escape is no longer a possibility, even as the ink is drying on the marriage certificate.
“I trust the Council has made their decision,” the Head asks, after giving them a moment to digest his argument and the accused’s lackluster rebuttal.
The Head’s gaze shifts to the Council.
The Heart does not answer immediately.
The hall holds its breath, the weight of centuries pressing down as his fingers curl slowly around the arm of his chair.
“We have. All evidence suggests the Hand has betrayed us,” the Heart declares. His voice is ancient and slow, meant to convey his sentence clearly. “As such, Maxwell Henderson, the disgraced Hand, will face the full penalty of our law.”
The Head extends an arm, palm up. I remove one of my blades and lay the handle in his hand.
“Death.”
The crowd murmurs, looking on in shock and disbelief. Many have never witnessed an execution. Some are too young, fledglings among our kind, and others were brought in too late.
Let this be their lesson.
I grab Maxwell by the back of his neck and force him to his knees.
“He was my son,” Maxwell mutters to no one, as if tugging a single heartstring among our people might spare him his fate. “What would you have done?”
“Nothing.” The Head presses the pointed tip into Maxwell’s chest, piercing the flesh but not deeply. “At least you and your son will have something in common in the next life…”
Maxwell emits a loud, throaty scream as the Head speaks. It reverberates against the walls, and settles uncomfortably across my skin, making the hair on my arms stand upright.
It’s a strange sensation. I’ve never felt it before.
“A great big fucking hole in your chest,” the Head finishes his final insult and thrusts the blade forward, while chuckling at his own dark remark.
Maxwell Henderson goes limp.
No one makes a sound as I retrieve my sword and return to my position a few steps behind the Head. Maybelle, most surprisingly of the lot, is silent. She has just witnessed a murder at the hands of her new husband, and yet she doesn’t move.
I was wrong about her. Perhaps she is cut from the same cloth as us.
Out of duty, I will stay for Maybelle and for Elias’s induction.
But as that sorry affair takes place, I don’t believe anyone is happy to sit through it.