“A dissenter has not only put our lives in jeopardy, but also risked exposing the Veil altogether.”
Chattering erupts among those behind the Council.
“I bring this matter before the Veil,” the Head speaks over the noise, when he’s had enough of waiting. “To rectify any transgressions and to slow the spread of the poison our Judas has released.”
With that, I head for the door that would have led them in and open it. Maxwell Henderson stands behind it; hishands and feet bound by chains. His eyes are baggy and his clothes messy, from his confinement in the railyard.
A flood of gasps silences the Veil. Every member stares at the accused in awe, as I lead him to the Head. This was a man they trusted, he was our second in command, and now he is our prisoner.
“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.
