Chapter 49: Blood on a Sunday
Back at the Cathedral, as folks wrapped up their weekly rituals and penance, the small side door burst open with a loud crack.
The sudden noise cut through the sanctuary like a whip. Heads turned. Whispers stilled.
A man, red-faced and slick with sweat, sprinted straight down the aisle—straight to the pulpit.
Bishop Cornelius Fletcher's jaw tightened.
'This had better be important.'
He kept composed as the man reached him, offered a quick bow, then leaned in close.
"I'm sorry, your grace. There's been an incident at the shipyard. Some men have been murdered."
Fletcher straightened. Wordless. His robes shifted as he turned, striding past the pews without a glance back. His pace was fast. Focused.
He'd been scanning the congregation for a while now. Searching. Now his patience had snapped.
'Where is Michael?! Of all times to vanish… If the Inquisitor finds me unprepared—damn it all…!'
He didn't stop walking.
And it didn't take long after that for all of Denton to start buzzing.
A murder at the Fairweather Shipyard didn't happen every day.
----
Truth be told, a body in the street wasn't enough to stir hearts in a place like Denton. Folks had seen worse and said less. But someone dying at a Fairweather establishment? On a Sunday?
That got tongues waggin'.
Add in tied up native women—Boom—Instant talk of the town.
Levi couldn't believe how fast the crowd had swelled. Whispers turned into shouts, curiosity into outrage, all before the bodies were even brought out.
He eased a bit when he saw the natives—blankets over their shoulders, bindings cut. The two unconscious men from earlier had been dragged out too, breathing but out cold.
Ten saved. Two, maybe three, dead.
'Could've gone worse. Still… not makin' this a habit.'
He and Maggie had played their parts well enough. No one seemed too focused on them. He kept moving now and again, hoping for a better look, or at least pretending to.
He was actually starting to feel a little proud of himself. Right up until he saw the sheriff pushing through the crowd—Deputy Silent Dart trailing behind him.
'Shit. Can't leave now. Can't look like I'm duckin' out.'
Then came the stretchers. First the two goons Carl had with him.
Then Carl.
Dead.
Levi could see it plain—his face locked in a strangled gasp, blood matted in his beard and hair. A flicker of guilt passed through him. They'd worked together, even laughed once or twice.
But relief hit harder.
Carl was dead. Only person who might now recognize him was that native woman—and she'd seen nothing but a shadow wrapped in rags.
So he kept to the edge. Played it cool. Looked curious and seeming concerned. Asked a few questions in a low voice like the rest of the gawkers. And every second, he kept Silent Dart in the corner of his vision—and made damn sure to stay out of his.
He was just about to lean toward Maggie, let her know he was slipping off, when he froze.
Coming through the far side of the crowd—robes shifting like smoke, face unreadable—was the Bishop.
'Goddammit.'
Now he really couldn't leave. Not without raising suspicion. Especially if anyone noticed he was gone from church early.
So he folded his arms, lowered his head, and stayed put.
Just another concerned citizen, hoping no one looked too close.
Maggie leaned in, voice low.
"You should go. Let Edmond and Rufus know what happened."
Levi started to reply, but she flicked an eyebrow at him.
"Just go, monsieur protector. Let those two old dogs know. Maybe zey can help?"
Levi blinked—then caught it. The way she said it. The phrasing wasn't for him. It was for anyone listening.
She was giving him an excuse. A cover.
Even whispered, words traveled. Especially around augments.
He leaned in, played along.
"Don't let anyone in your shop you don't know. Until they find whoever did this, keep that damn door locked."
She nodded, just once. He gave her a small look of thanks, then turned and slipped into the crowd, his face set like a man on a job.
'Next time I see somethin', I'm gonna mind my own damn business.'
No one paid him much attention as he weaved through the bodies. Silent Dart glanced at him briefly, but the deputy knew the kid worked weekends. Nothing strange there.
Once past the crowd, Levi moved quick. Every step felt like pressure bleeding off his shoulders—until it all came crashing back.
"Shit!"
The kids.
He broke into a run, urgency finally real. His day just kept getting worse.
----
Back at the shipyard, Maggie made her way toward her shop, speaking with a few workers still on shift. She didn't notice the eyes on her.
Clouded and stained. Unmoving. Watching.
Brother Michael stood beside the Bishop, hands clasped behind his back as Cornelius spoke with the sheriff. The Bishop hadn't questioned his absence during the service—Michael had simply said he'd been ill. Common enough for him.
The Bishop never considered another reason. Never asked what was in Michael's hand behind his back.
A torn rag. Faintly bloodstained. Still warm.
He turned his gaze toward the road Levi had taken. Smiled.
Then turned back to his duties.
----
CRASH.
The desk shook as Gideon Hawthorne slammed his metal palm into its surface, the impact splitting a crack clean through the wood grain. Documents, inkwells, and everything else went airborne, shattering across the floor like bone and glass.
"Goddammit!"
The curse ripped from his throat, clipped and bitter. He spun, pacing hard, each bootstep a hammerbeat. The gears in his wrist hissed with every twitch, fingers curling in rhythm to the rising pressure in his jaw.
He kicked a toppled chair halfway across the room.
Then stopped.
Chest rising. Shoulders drawn tight. That damned buzzing behind his eyes again.
He closed them. Counted slow.
One. Two. Three—
He turned on his heel and marched for the door, metal hand twitching as it hovered near the handle. But before he touched it, he paused. Deep breath. Another.
When he opened the door, it was with the poise of a Hawthorne.
Not a sound. Just smooth motion.
He stepped through and closed it gently behind him—quiet like a man who hadn't just lost control. Then smoothed back his hair with two precise sweeps of his fingers, adjusted his collar, and straightened his coat cuff with a faint hiss of pneuma.
By the time his boots hit the stairs, Gideon Hawthorne was composed.
Controlled.
But the glint in his eye said otherwise.
'Seems this week is set on testing me.'
First, his men—beaten in the street by some streetbred brat. Then, his little experiment turned to smoke and scrap. But neither of those gnawed at him half as much as what he was about to do now.
Talk to his family.
The Hawthornes sat at the top of the heap in Red River. Richest blood around. Untouchable in court, in church, in coin. Outwardly, they were everything high society aspired to—discipline, faith, tradition.
Behind closed doors? It was grease and gears. Money laundering, black contracts, quiet disappearances. Nothing the world didn't already suspect. But suspicion was safe so long as the carriages stayed polished and the donations arrived on time.
Gideon wasn't worried about the whispers. He was worried about his father.
Ezekiel Hawthorne.
The Patriarch. The name that still made even church officials straighten their spines. The only man Gideon had ever feared. The only one whose silence cut deeper than a blade.
He paused just shy of the door. Took one quick breath through his nose—measured, hidden. Then knocked.
Tap. Tap. Tap.
He stepped in, shut the door behind him, and turned the lock with a soft click.
The room stretched wide and tall, trimmed in leather and gold. Walls lined with books, aged and untouched. Trophies hung between them—glass-eyed beasts and proud horns frozen in time. A bear from the Northern Wilds. A frontier lion. Even a gator skull from the swamps below Bayou Territory.
But Gideon didn't spare them a glance.
"You called for me?"
Gideon kept his tone calm, posture squared. His eyes flicked once toward the firelight before settling on the only man in the room who mattered.
His father sat behind a monstrous desk of carved ironwood, steam coiling faintly from vents at his collar. His silver hair lay perfectly in place, swept back like a blade. One mechanical finger tapped the armrest in rhythm with the ticking of a mantle clock.
The Vaporguard augmentation along his throat clicked softly with each breath—subtle, but always heard. It wasn't for show. Nothing Ezekiel wore or did was. He was the patriarch. The architect. And the room bent around him accordingly.
From across the study, Gideon's younger brother Silas, grinned without shame.
"You really botched this one. This is what happens when you add tools to a job that only needed a hammer."
"Hush, Silas. You weren't summoned to comment. You're here to observe."
To his Father's right, his mother Tabitha Hawthorne sat with her back straight and hands folded neatly. Green eyes scanned the room the way a hawk scanned a treeline. The brasswork on her mechanical fingers caught the light like surgical tools. Her dress bore fine embroidery of Old World design, each thread a silent warning that everything here—every inch of it—was controlled.
"But Mother—"
"You've heard the news."
Ezekiel's voice carried across the room, smooth as glass and twice as cold as he addressed Gideon.
"Now. Tell me what you know."
The room fell still.
In the far corner, Silas leaned against a shelf of ledgers that hadn't been opened in years. His wild hair stuck up in all directions, goggles pushed back on his forehead, and his multi-armed exosuit clicked as it recalibrated.
And then there was Jonah. The Eldest son.
Still as a statue, shoulders like a damn barn door. Arms crossed, head lowered, shaved scalp catching a dull glint under the lamplight. The scar across his face carved deep from temple to jaw. Jonah Hawthorne didn't speak unless there was something that needed crushing. And right now, he looked like he was waiting for permission to do just that.
He stood in the corner, steam coiling from his boots. Watching. Scowling. Quiet.
A rare thing, indeed—the Hawthornes, all in the same room. And it was obvious, something had gone wrong.
Gideon straightened his coat.
"I've yet to receive a full report. All three of the men I assigned are dead. The entire shipment's been seized. No word yet on who pulled it off—but I've already reassigned better men. We'll know soon."
"There's no need for that. I assure you."
The voice cut through the room like a knife in a quiet barn. Cold. Confident.
Everyone but Ezekiel tensed. Heads turned.
A figure emerged from the shadowed wall—through a door hidden behind one of the bookcases. Robes black and clean. Brother Michael.
Gideon didn't seem surprised it was him, eyeing the man skeptically.
"I hope you're serious."
Michael smiled, though it didn't reach those stained, unnatural eyes.
"I find little joy in humor, young master Gideon. Just as I find little humor in losing a fortune in gold. So I am very serious."
He stepped forward, slow and steady.
"Fortunately… the Lord placed me where I was needed."
Michael reached into his robe.
His pale hand withdrew a torn scrap of cloth, stained dark. He tossed it onto Ezekiel's desk.
"The young one—the bounty hunter. It seems he has developed quite the appetite for spilling your men's blood. A troubling habit, born of defiance, and fed by sin."