Martin had passed another uneventful hour in that safe house. He sat alone in the rocking chair, igniting his lighter and watching it burn. He let his power flow into it, causing the flame to grow and shrink. By the time one of the Faceless boys came to relieve him, the lighter was nearly empty, and he had quite the mark around his thumb. As Jacques had promised, he was in bed before midnight.

  Another work week passed equally uneventfully. Martin continued to spend his time after work at the library, searching for clues about his past or practicing with his powers, slowly feeling his control sharpen. On his day off, Monika had a previous engagement with a friend from Eldridge University who was going to bring a package to her brother, so Martin would be heading alone to the house Margaret shared with Brendon and the others. He decided to attend the morning mass first, consciously avoiding the confessional, before making his way across town.

  As he drew near the bridge, he noticed a boy smoking on a low stone wall nearby. The same boy he had seen last time he had come. The boy had been looking at the house, but began to look anywhere but when he saw Martin had noticed him.

  Martin withheld from action for now and made his way across the bridge. Heading directly to the door, he knocked before turning around to look at the boy again. He was already gone, leaving only a still-smoking cigarette butt on the wall he had vacated.

  The door opened partially behind him.

  “Oh, it’s you,” came a petulant voice.

  Martin turned back around to see Sam staring at him through the crack. His black eye had mostly healed, but he still kept it hidden behind his hair.

  “It’s me.”

  “Margaret isn’t in. Come back later.”

  Sam started to close the door, but Martin stuck his foot in quickly, blocking Sam. Sam brought the door back slightly to push again with more force. Martin gave the door a shove, sending Sam staggering back and granting Martin admittance to the house.

  “Hey, you can’t just barge in here like that.”

  “Oh? And what if I were a gang member? You think they’d just politely leave after you were kind enough to open the door for me?”

  Another voice spoke from down the hall before Sam could reply.

  “Martin, is it? Cillian said you’d be back.”

  Martin turned his head to see Margaret’s boyfriend, Brendon.

  “I said I’d be back. To everyone in the room. Weren’t you listening?”

  “Ah, right. Sorry, I was a bit preoccupied at the time. Margaret’s not in at the moment. She’s doing some volunteering at a soup kitchen. You’re welcome to wait in the parlor if you’d like.”

  “I see. How long do you think she’ll be gone?”

  “I dunno.” Brendon scratched his head as he spoke, holding back a yawn. He looked as if he had just woken up. “She’s usually gone a couple of hours.”

  “Hmm. Okay. I won’t impose upon your hospitality, but I’ll come back this evening. If she comes back, let her know I’ve stopped by.”

  “Sure, no problem.”

  Martin turned to leave, giving Sam a look that caused him to shrink back.

  “Hey, Martin,” Brendon called out. “What’s your relationship to Margaret anyway? I get that you’re friends with her dad, but she said she’d only met you once.”

  “I am friends with her dad. I’ve also…” He was about to say he had been a father himself, but caught himself in time. “I’ve also seen what these streets can do to girls like Margaret, and I know how much she means to her father. I don’t want to see either of them hurt.”

  “I see.” Brendon’s hand was still in his long hair, where he had scratched his head, giving a slightly ridiculous look.

  “Do you really love her?” Martin asked.

  “More than anything.” Brendon hadn’t impressed Martin as one particularly confident or eloquent, but that answer at least came quickly and without wavering.

  “Then get her out of this life, before things get bad. You don’t seem like the type to want to be a hero anyway.”

  “I…I know.” Brendon finally lowered his arm, crossing them instead in front of himself. “Cillian says this is going to work, and I really want to believe him, but I’m not so sure myself some nights.”

  “Brendon,” Sam said in surprise.

  “It’s true, Sam. We’re picking fights with those weaker than us, but Martin’s right. It’s only a matter of time before we pick a fight we can’t win.”

  Sam looked like he was ready to argue, but glanced at Martin and held his tongue.

  “I’m glad you realize that, Brendon,” Martin said, turning back towards the door. “We’ll speak more when Margaret’s back.”

  Martin left, closing the door behind him and making his way back across the bridge. As he crossed the bridge, he made a left instead of the right he had taken home last time. The left brought him past the stone wall where the boy had been smoking. The cigarette was still there, burned out now, but the wall was otherwise empty. Martin walked past it, turning a random corner suddenly and almost bumping into someone.

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  It was a young boy with brown hair and a few freckles on his cheek. A fresh cigarette dangled from his lips.

  “Oh, hello there,” Martin said. “Mind if we have a quick word?”

  The boy cursed and turned to run. Martin reached out to grab him by the collar, but to his surprise, the boy had already ducked out of his jacket, leaving Martin clutching only clothing. Martin let out a curse of his own and sprinted after the boy. The boy was fast, but Martin was chosen by Faceless God, whose power flowed through his veins. His training, combined with the God’s blessing, meant the pursuit lasted only a moment before Martin grabbed hold of the boy again, this time by the arm, where he was fairly certain the boy wouldn’t be able to escape from.

  “Let me go. I didn’t do nothing.” The boy's cigarette was somehow still in his mouth, although it had gone out during the chase.

  “You were watching that house. Why?”

  “It’s a nice house, isn’t it? I just wanted to enjoy the view.”

  Now that Martin had a moment to look at the boy more closely, he could see a flash of color poking out from under his shirt. He reached in and removed a striped red silk handkerchief. Something about it rang a bell, and he remembered some of the intelligence Sly had shared with him after Gascoigne had left last week.

  “You’re a Scuttler, aren’t you?” He asked.

  “What’s it to you? It’s not illegal, is it?”

  Martin reached up with his other arm as if he were about to strike the child.

  “Why were you watching the house?”

  The boy shrank back from the blow that hadn’t come yet.

  “Easy. Easy. It ain’t worth a beating for. Those bastards broke up a few of our deals. They’ve got another thing coming. A few of the boys were just preparing a housewarming for them.”

  “When?”

  The boy laughed. “You got a watch?”

  Martin cursed. He let the boy go, throwing his jacket in his face and running back the way he had come. As he was approaching the intersection where he bumped into the Scuttler, a gunshot split the afternoon air. He faltered for just a moment as a second shot rang out, but then he pressed on, racing through the intersection and rounding the corner.

  He saw a group of young men running out of the house. They were dressed in a mix of bell-bottomed trousers and flashy silk scarves. They saw Martin running at them as they crossed the bridge and veered off toward the right, fleeing from Martin. Martin ignored them and crossed the bridge himself. He saw a rather disheveled-looking Sam run out of the house. Rather than approach the bridge, he ran the other way, deeper into the island. Martin made a quick note of the alley Sam entered before he pushed open the door and entered the house.

  Brendon was leaning against the wall, his clothing ruffled and bloody from a fight, and blood streaming down from a cut above his eye. On the floor lay George Gascoigne, his shotgun cradled in his arms and his chest covered with blood. Martin walked closer slowly and could gradually make out the two bullet holes in Gascogine’s chest. Brendon noticed Martin standing there and began to babble.

  “We…we were tussling, and then he came in, waving a shotgun. I don’t know. I don’t know. One of the Scuttlers must’ve been carrying.”

  “Hurry. Find a doctor now,” Martin barked at Brendon. He stared at him in confusion for a moment before Martin raised his arm as if to strike him and barked again, “Now.”

  Brendon wordlessly bolted for the door, pausing once to look over the scene in the hallway before hanging his head and running out into the street. Martin paid him no more mind and knelt next to Gascoigne. Nate looked up at him with unfocused eyes.

  “Ah, Martin. I knew you’d be here. You were always so… sympathetic…Where’s my Madge? Why’s my blood all over the shop? I just wanted to see her.”

  “Margaret’s not here today. She’s out doing some charity work, but I’ll find her.”

  “Margaret… That’s what she wanted to be called, wasn’t it?”

  Gascoigne let out a bitter laugh, which turned into a cough.

  “Guess I won’t be calling her that much.” His eyes locked on the lamp hanging from the wall, still burning despite the fight that had just taken place here. “You know…I feel like one of them bugs I was always picking up for those cranks. Drawn too close to the flame and now spread out on the table. How do you feel looking down, Martin? See anything worth buying?”

  “No, of course not, Nate. You’ll be alright. You’ll be back to selling bugs to those with more money than sense in no time.”

  Martin looked back up at the door, wondering what was taking Brendon so long.

  “It’s alright,” Gascoigne said with a deep sigh. “Martin, I need you to do me a favor.”

  “Sure. Anything, Nate.”

  “I don’t want to die under this paltry flame. Take me outside, under my father's lamps.”

  “I don’t think moving you is a good—”

  Gasoigne interrupted him with a cough, bits of blood speckling Martin’s jacket.

  “You said anything, didn’t you? I thought you were—” The coughing began again, cutting off Gascoigne’s familiar phrase.

  “Alright, Nate.”

  Martin reached under Nate and, with a grunt, helped him unsteadily to his feet. He threw Nate’s arm over his shoulder and half-carried, half-dragged the wounded man toward the door. They took the front steps slowly, stopping to rest for a moment once they hit the street level.

  Gascoigne raised his left arm, pointing just down the street at the nearest lamp. Martin grunted in acknowledgement and began to move down the street. A woman passing by let out a scream when she saw the blood pouring out of Gascoigne’s chest.

  “Stop screaming and go fetch a doctor,” Martin yelled at her. The woman fled at his command, but Martin doubted she’d obey.

  Slowly, he lowered Gascoigne down at the base of the lamp. His head rolled back to look up at it. It was still the middle of the afternoon, and the lamp remained unlit, waiting for nightfall.

  “Martin, be a good lad and fetch my pole, would ya? I think it’s back in the house.”

  “I’ll be right back.” Martin rushed inside and found the pole lying on the floor, partly bent where it looked like it had made contact with something rather forcefully. He grabbed it and hurried back outside. Nate was still staring at the unlit lamp. Martin tried to hand over the pole, but Nate shook his head.

  “Push it up through the gap at the bottom. There’s a knob you can hook to turn the gas on.”

  Martin bit his tongue and did as he was asked, threading the bent cane through the bottom of the glass fixture and turning the knob. A faint hiss could be heard as the gas began to escape.

  “Quickly, bring the pole back down and light the wick on it.”

  Martin brought the pole back down and fished the lighter out of his pocket. Gascoigne, despite his excesses, kept his tools well-maintained. The wick was neatly trimmed and lit easily. Martin quickly raised the pole back up, and with a small pop, the lantern ignited. The light was just barely visible under the rays of the afternoon sun.

  “It’s done, Nate.”

  Martin looked down at the lamplighter. His eyes were open, gazing at the lamp, unseeing. A few moments later, Brendon returned with a doctor and a constable in tow. They found them there. One man growing cold and the other shaking with rage. The lantern had already gone out.