Welcome to Chapter 19.

I hope all of you had a great Christmas and are looking forward to a happy and healthy new year. At the end of 2022 I would like to take the opportunity to thank all of you; readers, supporters, editors, and friends for the reception and support that my work and I have been shown in such abundance. I hope you continue to enjoy where the story goes.

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Time is a bit of a flexible concept to an Evo in the best of circumstances. Between the time dilation effects of their cities and their bunkers and their extremely long lives, patience is not something that comes easily to them. Waiting, in any form, is far from a favored pastime because everything is dragged out to almost unbearable levels. This isn't to say that we are a necessarily impatient race. It's just that everything seems like it is taking longer than it would to the normal human, primarily because a lot of our time is spent in our own minds where time flows at a rate of about forty-five minutes to every one minute outside it. This meant that the four days it took for Miguel to respond to my message about meeting the Inquisition leadership felt like an eternity.

Of course, I tried to make that time as productive as possible. The first night, after Phillippa had left the apartment - on weak knees and with a massive smile on her face - had been spent working on the computer system. It seemed to be capable of a lot more than I had originally envisioned, and I was trying to see how far those extra abilities could be pushed. I was interrupted every few minutes by pictures from Becky showing her blonde head between Philippa's thighs and then close-ups of her tongue, delving into her lover to scoop out my seed. I remembered her note saying that her fingers would be involved, but either the plan had changed, or the pictures hadn't covered that part of their festivities.

Night two was spent balls deep in Faye, over and over again, in every position imaginable when the laws of physics didn't apply. To put into context how long we spent together and how utterly draining it was, I will only say that part of our experiment was to see how long we could go without any rejuvenation time needed between orgasms.

I came fifty-eight times, sometimes with as long as an hour between them, before we were both too exhausted to continue. We passed out in each other's arms.

The third day, unsurprisingly, was spent resting.

It was early on the fourth day that I received a call from Miguel, a week to the day since I had cornered him and 200 of his Inquisitor co-workers in Malaga. I was given an address of what the Inquisition decided was neutral ground in Den Haag, The Netherlands. I was British and new to this whole rivalry thing, so I had no idea if this really was neutral or not, but by the mid-afternoon, I was on a flight, and by late afternoon I was getting out of a cab at the address that I had been given.

I looked up at the building in front of me and blinked.

Den Haag... The Hague... not like the city, but the actual Hague, or at least what politicians and diplomats have called "The Hague" since the end of the second world war. Its official title was, however, a little different— The International Court of Justice.

"Of fucking course! I mean, why would it be anything less?"

I took a deep breath and started to walk. Slowly padding through carefully manicured gardens and then climbing the steps outside. The Inquisition had played something of their hand here. This was clearly designed as an intimidation tactic, not only to show how powerful and important they were but to highlight, in no uncertain terms, that the law was on their side. Unfortunately, compared to the intimidation tactics used by parents over the years - not to mention their willingness, bordering on eagerness, to follow up on threats made - this attempt at striking fear into me was, at best, rank fucking amateur! I knew exactly how to respond.

When responding to any bullying tactics, on any level, from the schoolyard to international politics, there are only ever two realistic responses that have any likelihood of working. One is to ignore them, the tactics, I mean. It may be fairly easy to ignore a school bully, but it's a little harder to dismiss the diplomatic representatives of an entire country... or the inquisition. The second option is to show strength. There is the tried and tested theory that bullies only respond to their show of strength with one of your own. It is a cliche, but like all cliches, it is a phrase that has been proven right so many times, in so many ways, that it has become a cliche. The problem with this approach, and the one that is rarely explained to the victim of middle school bullies, is that you have to be prepared to back it up. It is true most bullies are cowards and will often back down at the first hint that their prey is not going to be an easy meal. But there are more than a few who are not and will respond to this show of strength with the one thing that allowed them to be a bully in the first place—raw aggression.

The moral of the story, for any victim of bullying taking this second option, is that you have to be prepared to show your strength. If your bluff is called, you must be ready to punch someone in the face! And, more than likely, be punched in the face in return. It doesn't matter if we are talking figuratively or literally. You are calling their bluff; expect them to call yours too.

So my options were either passiveness and diplomacy or aggression.

No prizes for guessing which one I went with.

I went through the main doors and introduced myself to a charming middle-aged, human lady at the front desk, waited for someone to come out, and was then led through what I assumed were pretty standard security checks for a building of such importance. A few different levels of metal detectors and X-rays, fingerprint and DNA tests - which the computer in my apartment would have passed, even if something had been flagged, which it wasn't, and then deleted the records - before I was led through a labyrinthian rat warren of corridors that seemed to be intentionally designed to disorientate me before being dumped into an empty room and having the door locked behind me.

I rolled my neck. This was doing nothing to make me feel nervous or intimidated. This was just pissing me off.

The room was about as empty as it was possible for a room to be. There was a floor, four walls, a ceiling, a security camera in each corner, and two doors; the one that I had entered through and another identical one directly in front of me.

I couldn't have been standing there for more than a minute or two, although it certainly felt longer thanks to that time thing, before the door in front of me opened, and three burly-looking men in dark suits stepped into the room. The first thing that struck me about them, aside from wondering if they all used the same tailor, was that each of them was almost shadowed against the bright white aura that surrounded them. Whereas every person in the building I had seen to this point had been human, these three men were unmistakably inquisitors.

The second thing I noticed was that they were all armed. I should point out here, once again, that I am British and as astounding as it may seem to people in other parts of the world, we are not used to seeing guns. I could recognize the type of weapons they were holding - they were submachine guns, for the record - but knowing what make or model they were was just beyond me. Exposure breeds familiarity, in this case, a knowledge of the distinctions between one gun and another, and familiarity may not always breed contempt, but it certainly breeds complacency. To me, these weapons looked black, made of some kind of metal, and they looked dangerous.

However, the only other weapons I had seen before that room had been at the party. They hadn't done much to hurt me, nor had they been particularly useful in defending the people carrying them. These guards didn't seem to have been told that part, though, and two of the three spread out to opposite corners of the room and raised their weapons toward me menacingly.

Of course, they had no way of knowing that firing pins in each of their weapons had been turned to dust by my powers. But from behind them, their wielders felt safe.

As I said: Complacency.

The third man, either the man in charge or the man who had drawn the short straw, stepped toward me with a look of disgust on his face. "Spread your arms. You are going to be searched!" He barked in heavily accented English.

I took a deep breath and slowly blew it out, trying my hardest to look not only thoroughly unafraid but a little bored. I held my arms out. The man stepped forward, first running his hands from my wrists to my armpits, then checking my collar before firmly patting down my sides. To his credit, it was a far more thorough job than the rent-a-cop at the front desk had done. "I'm surprised you had the balls to come," he snarled as he worked his hands over my waist.

"Oh?" I tilted my head to the side. "Do you spend a lot of time thinking about my balls?" The man didn't answer; he just growled a little and worked his way down each of my legs. I must admit that I was a little disappointed that neither of his two friends saw the funny side either. "Hmmm, tough crowd. Must be the steroids."

"Looks like we have a comedian," the man said to his friends, sounding utterly unimpressed.

"Nah, not really," I shrugged. "I'm just... bored. Pissing you off is helping me pass the time until this..." I arched an eyebrow at him as he knelt before me, checking my socks, "... whatever this is, is finished, and I can talk to your bosses."

The man, apparently done with his checks, pulled himself up to his full height and size - a height and size he seemed rather impressed with - and eyeballed me. "So you are an Evo," he said, his voice making a sound that made it sound like the word itself tasted unpleasant in his mouth.

"So I have been told," I held his gaze.

"You don't look like much," he snorted.

"I get that a lot."

"I think you're full of shit."

"You're not very good at it," I said with a straight face. "Thinking, I mean. You should probably stop before you hurt yourself."

He stepped a bit closer, clearly trying that intimidation thing again and failing miserably. "I have other skills," he growled, this time trying to sound dangerous.

I cast a look over my shoulder to one of his friends who had circled behind me, then looked back to him with a shrug. "Good for you, man. A guy has to make his money somehow. I'm not one to judge what people do in their personal time."

The man stepped a little closer, bringing his hand up and tapping it condescendingly against my cheek. "You are going to be a good little Evo bitch, now, aren't you? You can go in, meet the bosses, get given your orders, and then fuck off like an obedient little...."

I broke his arm. He screamed.

My left hand came around to clamp his hand to the right side of my face while my right hand shot up with all the strength my ability-infused muscles could produce and smashed into his elbow. His arm snapped like a twig, and shards of bone pierced through the skin as a scream of utter agony was launched from his lips.

His friends reacted in a second. The impotent clicks of their completely useless weapons were only matched by the looks of wide-eyed confusion as my left hand released its grip on the guard, shot out in a knife strike, slammed into his neck hard enough to clamp his throat closed for a few seconds, and my foot swept his from under up. He dropped to the ground like a sack of shit, desperately wheezing as he tried to suck in a fresh lungful of air.

I stooped down next to him. "Your friends are wondering why their guns aren't working and if they should come to help you out," I said menacingly with a nod over my shoulder to them. "But that would be a mistake. They'll end up making a mess all over this beautifully decorated room when I shatter their skulls like so many eggs." The two other guards glanced nervously at each other. "Or they can stay where they are, and we can pretend this was all some misunderstanding," I finished.

The door slammed open, and an older, better-dressed man strode through, pausing mid-step to take in the scene before him. The two guards behind me were still just standing there, still glancing nervously at each other while holding their broken guns at me for reasons that none of us could comprehend. The first guard was sitting on the floor with the top half of his body propped against the wall, cradling his shattered arm in his good one and still struggling to suck in a full breath. I had crouched down next to him.

"What the..." The well-dressed man murmured to himself. "What is going on?!?"

The two still-upright guards snapped to attention. The one crumbled next to me just groaned. I turned my head to the newcomer but didn't make any attempt to move. "Bob! Good of you to join us!" I said with a blatantly fake smile on my face. I have no idea if the guy's name was Bob or not, but I was feeling insolent and defiant after dealing with that guard. If it annoyed him, all the better. "I was just explaining to your friend here why it is unwise to talk down to his betters. Getting frisked in an overly-enthusiastic manner and talking about male prostitution is fine by me, but I have to say, the rest of it leaves a lot to be desired." I stood myself back up.

The man who will forever be known as Bob, whether it was his name or not, glowered at the two intact guards. "You were told to escort him to the conference room, not search him. He has been through security, for fuck sake, and as you can see, if he wanted to hurt anyone, he wouldn't need a weapon. Which part of that were you unclear on?" He didn't wait for a reply. Instead, he just turned toward me. "Mister Roberts, I must offer my sincerest apologies for your treatment at the hands of these... men. Please allow me to escort you to the conference room. The council is looking forward to meeting you."

I nodded and walked past him as he gestured to the open door and the hallway beyond. "Not the best of starts, Bob. Not the best of starts at all, but it's nothing a good old-fashioned sit-down can't fix," I clapped an arm around him in a grossly over-friendly gesture. "Lead the way, my good man!"

"Err... Mister Roberts, My name is Arnold."

"That's good, Bob. It's nice to meet you."

********

The room was... well, at least this one contained furniture. Halfway down the corridor from the first room, Bob had ushered me through a nondescript door on the right side of the hallway and stepped in behind me before locking it.

A perfectly ordinary office desk sat in the middle of the room, two leather chairs facing it on our side - presumably for Bob and me - and one on the other. In that chair sat a woman. It took me a few seconds to take in her startling beauty due to the sheer blinding brightness of the aura surrounding her. Every inquisitor had an aura, but it didn't seem like any two of them had the same one. Some were large, surrounding a decent-sized area behind them, others were smaller, and all of them varied in terms of brightness too. A massive amount of combinations were possible between those two variables and, I quickly realized, could be used to fairly accurately gauge an Inquisitor's power. This woman's Aura was enormous, and it was blinding. Even compared to Reinard Montreaux, this woman seemed to be incredibly powerful. I realized, though, as my vision started to clear, that - to my surprise - that sudden blossoming burst of fear in my chest, no matter how subtle or overwhelming, simply did not happen when faced with this woman. More than that, it suddenly occurred to me that I hadn't felt it with any other inquisitor since the party.

That was something to think about.

As my eyesight slowly grew accustomed to the dazzling aura surrounding this woman, I started to notice more about the room. Most of it, as you would imagine, was fairly innocuous, but the large bank of monitors covering the wall behind, dozens upon dozen of them, each containing a face, caught my attention.

If you have ever seen the third Matrix movie, you will understand what I mean if you think of it like the room the main character finds himself in when he meets the Architect. This wasn't like the office in Malaga, where a few fifty-five-inch TVs had been bolted to the wall to form a larger screen. This was more than a hundred individual screens which, together, formed the entirety of the back wall of this office. I had realized when looking at the camera feeds from Malaga that an Inquisitor's Aura could not be seen through a screen. They didn't look unlike any other human unless you saw them in person. Still, given the power and apparent importance of the woman in front of me, I had to assume that they were also highly ranked Inquisitors.

"Mister Roberts," the woman stood and offered her hand. "My name is Isabelle Bernhardt. Thank you for meeting with us. Please, have a seat."

There was something disarming about this woman, and it was more than her startling beauty. She was older than me, that was for sure, possibly in her late thirties or early forties, but she had the same classical, regal beauty that Charlotte had expended a huge amount of power to possess. Her hair was a luxurious caramel color that flowed in waves down onto her shoulders, and her eyes were deep pools of molten brown. What was more interesting was that those eyes sparkled with her seemingly genuine smile. The need I had felt to challenge the intimidation tactics presented by her institution started to waver as I nodded and shook her hand.

"Please, Mister Roberts is my father, and he is not a nice man. Pete will be fine." I stepped around one of the leather chairs and lowered myself into it. "This is Bob... Sit down, Bob."

Bob rolled his eyes but took a seat anyway.

I could see the amused-looking smile creep onto the lady's lips as she regarded what must have been one of her underlings, almost certainly knowing full well that his name wasn't Bob. "Thank you, Pete," she said, turning her attention back to me with a smile, "If I could also extend the same courtesy to you, please call me Isabelle. Pete, the rest of the Inquisitor council will be observing this meeting," she gestured to the screens behind her, "but I have been given full authority to conduct these talks with you as I see fit."

I nodded and waited for her to continue.

"Now, I believe you had a conversation with one of our field managers in Malaga, a Mister Miguel Alverez. He has relayed the details of that exchange to us, along with the video file. The council has reviewed that file and agrees with both you and Mr. Alvarez that this represents a very serious and potentially very dangerous situation. But I would like to start, if I may, with a detail that the council found very strange; you did not know anything of the Philadelphia accords?"

"No," I answered simply. "I feel it is important to point out that I am the only known Evo to come into my powers during adulthood, it is a circumstance that seems to have put me in the position of something of an outsider when it comes to the Conclave, I don't know the things I would normally have been taught by them, nor do I know what they know. But in the time since speaking to Miguel, it has become clear to me that none of the Evos I know had any idea that the Conclave fought alongside the Inquisition during the War of 1812. Neither they, nor the Sect knew about the rogue faction of the Inquisition, and none of them know anything about the peace treaty. More than that, considering the number of attacks that are still being carried out against Evos in both Orders, they had been led to believe that not only are the Conclave and Inquisition still at war but any communication between you would be considered treason. The few people I trust enough to have told what I now know have all been astounded that this has been going on behind the scenes."

She nodded slowly. "I have checked our records. There is no information at all in our systems about the party where the most recent attack took place. More than that, in the time between the signing of the accords and today, there have been exactly nineteen Inquisition interventions... what you would call attacks, and only two of them were serious enough to warrant the death of the Evos in question, both of them were members of the rogue faction. The others were just imprisoned."

"Although I have no idea what the exact number of attacks against Evos has been, I know that in the same period, there have been at least several hundred attacks. We have proof that at least two of them have been carried out by Inquisitors."

"I would like to state for the record," she said with a slight smile and a nod to the screens behind her, "that I am grateful for Mr.... For Pete's apparent knowledge of the distinction between Inquisitors and the Inquisition."

Bob must have spotted the look on my face and leaned over to whisper into my ear. "It's the same as Evos versus the Conclave. In our case, Inquisitors is the name of our race, whereas the Inquisition is the name of our organization. You were definitely attacked by inquisitors, there is no doubt about that, but Ms. Bernhardt is making it clear to the rest of the council that you are not automatically accusing the Inquisition of being involved."

"Ah, good to know. Thanks, Bob."

"Pete, you said there have been two attacks. Has something else happened since you spoke to Miguel?" Isabelle said.

"Umm, sort of." I answered after a pause. "The video you received is the playback of my own memory of the attack on the party. I have since... let's say I have uncovered memories of another attack that happened in February of 1888. Although Inquisitors were not responsible for the death of the Evo in that attack, they were certainly trying their best. More than that, they were trying to prevent an exchange of information that I believe would have shed light on their identity."

"I see," Isabelle answered ponderously. "Do you know what that information was?"

"No, the man was killed before he could pass it on, and the intelligence was lost."

"Damn, that would have made life easier. Is it possible for us to see that memory? I understand that these may be sensitive subjects. We are aware of how serious the sharing of personal memories is taken within the Conclave."

"Are you?" I snorted. "Well, consider yourself more informed on that subject than I am. I have no problem showing you. I just need a screen of some sort."

Isabelle smiled and nodded before pressing a button on the desk in front of her. A small hatch appeared on the top of the desk to her side, directly in front of Bob, and a computer monitor slid upwards through it.

"Okay, that's pretty cool," I chuckled at it. "I am gonna have to get one of those for home." Isabelle stifled a giggle as I leaned over and reset my hand on the back of the screen. "Can they see this?" I nodded to the rest of the council.

"Yes, they will be able to see anything that is displayed on this screen."

"Great, then here goes. Bob, do you have any popcorn?"

"I... do not," Bob replied with another eye roll and a sigh.

"Ah, well, maybe next time."

I let the memory of Matthias and Jaques play out on the screen. Isabelle, Bob, and the entire council sat in absolute silence as they watched. I didn't fail to spot, however, the wince and shudder that washed over Isabelle's face as she watched Sterling's murder of Jaques. This was a woman who was unfamiliar with violence. Considering who I was hunting, this did a lot to discount her as an enemy in my mind. There is always some kind of joy, or at least a satisfaction, in watching an enemy be defeated, if not outright killed. It is just in our nature. We tend to dehumanize the people we are fighting against. It is part of war. So we overlook the fact that the person being killed is someone's son, or father, or husband. Mother, daughter, or wife, and just see the end of an enemy.

The look of sadness bordering on shame that spread across the faces on the screen behind Isabelle, not to mention Isabelle herself, gave me the distinct impression that none of these people considered either Jaques or Matthias their enemies. At the same time, it was hard to ignore the fact that the rank-and-file Inquisition, namely Mr. Slappy, the guard with the newly snapped arm, had treated me with not only hostility but open disgust. There seemed to be a massive disparity between what was happening in this room and what the rest of my experience had been so far. I still, for example, hadn't forgotten about the blatant intimidation tactics that had been used before this, either. The contradiction was not lost on me.

Still, I was never a man who thought that first impressions were the be-all and end-all. Charlotte, arguably my closest friend, had slapped me and called me an asshole the first time we had met. I was not ready to dismiss the tactics used by the Inquisition up to this point, but I would be lying if I said that Isabelle wasn't giving me a little confidence that this could be a productive relationship.

I waited in silence as they watched the video playing.

One of the men on the one of the screens behind Isabelle started to say something, but there was no sound. Isabelle pressed a finger to her ear, listening through what must have been some sort of earpiece. She nodded a few times before turning her attention back to me. "The Inquisition has always kept very stringent records; we should be able to find out who was assigned to Paris on that night. That should lead us to some answers, hopefully. My colleague is quite alarmed about these events and is going to start looking into it immediately."

"I feel like I already know the answer to this question, but I still want to hear it from your side. What is so alarming about it? From your perspective, I mean."

Isabelle took a deep breath, seemingly weighing her answer very carefully before she spoke again. "Reinard Montreaux was what the rest of the world would call a fanatic, an extremist. He was against the peace accords from day one and was very vocal about it during meetings of the Royal houses. Despite this, his house had weathered the bulk of the fighting against the Rogue faction during the War of 1812 and suffered the lion's share of the losses. If memory serves me right, the Montreaux-branch of the Inquisition suffered more than sixty percent of our total casualties. Thousands of men and women. Bear in mind that there are five houses, and all of them are expected to share the responsibilities fairly and equally between us. But when it became clear what was happening, that it was a dangerous rogue faction of Evos responsible for the War, he was first through the breach, so to speak. It is also worth remembering that Reinard is... well, was not the head of his house. He was a second son, the third in command. But his father, the king, made his decision, and Reinard appeared to accept it."

I nodded, paying attention.

"There are those within our order who believe the accords were a mistake, that we simply gave the Conclave an opportunity to rebuild and to branch out into other means of control. The accords stipulated that none of their members are allowed to hold high political office, but we also know that these days, high political office is only one of a myriad of ways a person can become powerful. The accords account for none of these. For centuries, Reinard Montreaux was the firebrand to whom these malcontents flocked. As far as we knew, he allowed them to express their views but kept them in line. He was sworn to maintain the peace. The apparent death of the entire Montreaux line in that crash twelve years ago seemed to have put an end to the whole argument. The hostility toward the accords seemed to end with him."

"But he wasn't dead," I added.

"Precisely. So here is our concern. It is looking increasingly likely that we have had our own rogue faction for almost as long as the peace accords have been in place. The attack in Paris, obviously over a century before Reinard's "death," suggests that this faction was openly attacking Evos right under our noses. But it's not like Reinard had his own private army; Inquisitors are sworn to answer to whichever Royal presides over the territory in which they are operating. So an Inquisitor could be working in South-East Asia and would answer to one house, then could move to Europe and answer to another. There is very little in the way of personal loyalty to Royal houses. This is by design; it stops any one family from growing too powerful. Yet your video suggests that Inquisitors have been acting against Inquisition law in territories that were never controlled by the Montreaux house. The faking of the Montreaux's deaths obviously suggests that they are responsible for this, but it doesn't tell us who the traitorous lower-ranked Inquisitors who follow him are. But this video might."

"The second issue," she went on, "concerns that obviously staged plane crash. As I said, Reinard himself was against the accords, but his father, the King, was one of their most ardent supporters. That plane crash did not just appear to kill Reinard, but the entire family, meaning that something happened to the rest of the family. Did they all switch allegiances and join forces with Reinard? Were they always with Reinard and just played nice during the Royal meetings? What have they been doing for all the time since the crash? If they have supporters, as they clearly do, judging by the attack on the party, who are they, and how are they communicating?..."

"Communicating... that is something the computer should be able to track fairly easily."

"...Why did the Montreaux King allow this action? The things he would have had to give up to be part of this deception are beyond imagining. Not to mention the fervor with which he supported the peace accords during the Philadelphia summits. His sudden, or even gradual, change of heart to be a part of this is beyond comprehension. So what happened to him for him to agree to it? For that matter, is he even still alive? Was this a coup? There are... so many questions. I am not sure a threat this large has loomed over the Inquisition since the church excommunicated us."

"That sounds like a story that involves alcohol."

"You have no idea," Isabelle scoffed. "And one for another time, I am afraid."

"Yeah, priorities and all that. Right, Bob?"

"Sorry?" Bob squinted again.

"Never mind." I turned my attention back to Isabelle. "So, what you are saying is that the Montreaux family are the head of a snake you thought were dead, and the Inquisitors acting on their orders are the body of the snake that you didn't know existed."

"An over-simplification, but basically, yes."

"Then I would say you have a pretty massive problem."

"The council agrees," she nodded. "To be honest with you, the fact that we are meeting with you and not the leadership of the Conclave should be more than enough evidence of that."

"So, why did you?"

"I would imagine it is for the same reasons that you came to us rather than dealing with them. We have lost trust in them. The simple fact of the matter is that whoever we have been communicating with has not been honest with us, or you, or the rest of the Conclave for that matter. Attacks never sanctioned by the Inquisition have been allowed to be portrayed as that. The fact that none of your members are aware of the peace accords is, frankly, astonishing to us, and..."

"Wait..." I interrupted. "What do you mean "whoever you have been communicating with?" Don't you know who they are?"

"Well, that's the thing," she replied carefully. "When the accords were drawn up, it was realized that whoever held the responsibility of passing the information of errant Evos along to us would hold a tabooed position within the Conclave leadership. It was decided that, for their safety, the identity of the person holding that position would be a secret known only to the Archon."

"Fuuuuck!" I groaned, pinching the bridge of my nose.

"And now you see our problem."

"Yeah, I'm pretty sure the Archon has no idea who that person is. I'm almost certain that Thomas is not the same Archon who held power back then."

"Who?" Isabella narrowed her eyes. "We were under the impression that the current Archon was Issac."

"Nope never heard of him. It's Thomas now. So that position of communicating with you could have been hijacked... fuck.. Centuries ago, and nobody within the current leadership of the Conclave would know anything about it."

"I'm afraid it's worse than that," Isabelle sighed. "Whoever holds that position was still feeding occasional names to us up until about thirty-five years ago; that was the last communication we had. Long periods of time are not unusual. As I said, there have only been a handful of instances of its usage in the whole time since the accords. What is more concerning is that this person knows that these attacks are not being officially carried out by the Inquisition, yet is actively allowing the Conclave to think that they are. Holding back that information can only mean one thing..."

"That they are working with the Montreaux's."

She just nodded.

"So, if I may ask, who on your side holds the responsibility of communicating with the Conclave?"

"That's a little different on our side. The short answer is that the head of any of the Royal families is capable of using that communication channel. We are in Europe, which is controlled by my family, the Bernhardt's, so here, it would be my mother. But that answer would change depending on where in the world you were."

"You're a Royal?" I squinted at her.

"Yes, I thought I mentioned that."

"Errr, no. You just gave me your name."

"Oh, my apologies. It's not very often that I have cause to use my full title. I am Princess Isabelle Maria Bernhardt, the first daughter of Queen Eliza Bernhardt and second in command of the Bernhardt line of the Royal Inquisition."

"I have questions... about a few things you just said there... but they will probably have to wait."

The smile on her face grew a little wider. "I am hoping that this is going to be the start of a long and fruitful working relationship, so we should have plenty of time to answer them. But why did you ask about the lines of communication?"

"Because I want you to use them."

"I beg your pardon?"

"Yup. I want you to tell the Conclave that I attacked you and request that I be sanctioned for death. I want to see who in the Conclave knows about it and if that information ends up in the hands of your traitors. Then I can sit back and see who comes for me."

"Pete, I have to warn you. That could be extremely dangerous." Isabelle cautioned.

"Not necessarily," I smiled. "Not only am I capable of looking after myself... the party being a good example, albeit one I didn't even break a sweat on... But I am going to see them coming. Because you are going to tell me."

Isabelle held my eyes for a few moments before touching her finger to her ear again. Although this time, I didn't see any of the faces talking. She nodded after a few seconds and took a deep breath. "The council has no objections to your plan, providing you understand and accept the risks. I will be your contact within the Inquisition, and we will be in contact regularly. We expect to be kept up to date on the progress of your investigation."

"I can agree to that."

"Normally, we would assign a security team to back you up, but the information you have given us makes it hard to know who to trust, also, that would give away your plan. But we will get something in place as soon as we can..."

That was already a refreshing change of pace from what I had been dealing with from the Conclave.

"...Bob will ensure you have my contact information before you leave."

"But, my name is..." Bob huffed in exacerbation.

"Quiet Bob, don't interrupt the lady. It's rude!"

He huffed a little louder and slumped back into his chair. I didn't miss the playful smirk that graced Isabelle's face. She absolutely knew that man's real name but was more than happy to play along.

I liked her

"Me too." Faye's voice giggled in my head.

"Pete, you need to understand the gravity of this situation," she cautioned me again. "When this treason becomes known to the rest of our Order and the Conclave, it could mean war. We need to do everything within our power to stop that from happening, and if we can't, we need to ensure that the right sides win. There is going to be bloodshed. Probably a lot of it."

"Oh, I'm counting on it," I answered honestly. "My enemies are the Montreaux's and anyone supporting them. I don't care which Order those people used to belong to. As long as we have the same opinions on that, and you know and accept what is going to happen to them, you will have my full support."

"And you will have ours. It would seem that we are unlikely allies in this fight."

I nodded and stood, holding out my hand to the Princess. She, in turn, also stood and shook it, a graceful smile curling her lips. "Good luck, Pete. I will let you know when it is done."

"And to you."

Our hands stayed joined for a few more seconds before they parted. "C'mon, Bob. Time to go."

The man to my side sighed heavily and nodded before following me out of the door. "Yes, Sir. If you would please follow me."

*******

Depending on how the lit gods have handled the end of the year, this will either be the last story of 2022, or the first of 2023. The plot is thickening for our hapless hero and the shadows are gathering around him. The people in those shadows could be friends or they could be enemies, they could be guilty or innocent. It will take some drastic action for him to find out which are true. Stay tuned to find out if his plan pays off

Until then, happy new year

Stay awesome

Nova