GEIST: PRELUDE

CHAPTER THREE

The year was 1884, by Imperial reckoning, for this far land was not of the Waking World.

Dawn never came to Holy Gothica, the City with the Iron Sky, and it was The Inquisition's duty to keep it so. Within a fog of ill omen, Ser Hector Thaddeus knelt before the corpse of a prostitute, fishnets and lace strewn about, a doll mask stitched to her face. She had been found and reported as, "impaled on a broadcasting pole," like all the others. He tested her wounds with holy water—it sizzled on contact. Something unholy had murdered the serf.

"Men shall die for this," he muttered. "That I promise."

Though bald and ebony, Thaddeus's limbs were of metal and wheels, far stronger than flesh. Above a brass respirator his eyes were cold and piercing, as tubes jutted from his neck, cabled to the engine fused to his lungs. He was dressed in a military uniform under a trench coat, yet wore the hat of a witch hunter. Across his back was an electro-staff of chrome and copper, topped with a raven, while hanging from his belt was a sword of blessed iron—both were the arms of a paladin sworn to the Third Gothic Imperium, right or wrong.

Truly, these are dire times.

Thaddeus watched as bystanders quickly looked away, moving down the bustling streets. He shook his head. If only they understood the price he paid to keep security. Of his own virtue he was justly proud, and Thaddeus tried to see the same in everyone, but in a totalitarian state, sometimes punishing the guilty came before protecting the innocent.

Such is my charge. My burden.

He counted the remaining hours until he could go home to his townhouse on Bosch Street, enjoying the Circus of Hours by his happy lonesome. But as he brushed the filth off his coattails, he heard something in the distance, a vomitous moan. Thaddeus drew his sword and turned to the alley, his fluorescent eyes shining in the darkness, as something cast a shadow.

"Ugh," a familiar voice wheezed. "Why did I sign up for this? I'd almost rather be back pushing pens. You know I can't stand the sight of blood."

"How long are you going to act like a conscript?" Thaddeus's words reverberated from the speaker on his throat. "I almost killed you then and there, Leng, thinking you were a leper."

"Heh, nope." The shadow stood upright, wiping his face with a handkerchief. "But if this keeps up, it wouldn't surprise me if the plague takes the city." Walter Leng came forward as lamplight shimmered off his greasy hair. He was awkward, with a monkish raincoat over a suit and tie, punctuated by a lazy slouch. He was clean-shaven, his wan fingers never far from the revolver on his side. "Damn," the deputy wheezed. "Sorry about that. Same case, I take it?"

"Indeed." Thaddeus lowered his blade, turning to the corpse. "The third victim since mid-Martus. All in a month's time." He sighed. "Pitiable. No doubt she died in terror, butchered by our murderer. I pray this harlot is absolved for her sins, and passes to the Kingdom of Ends."

"Yeah, ditto." Leng came to his side, eyes glued to a ledger filled with calligraphic prayers. "Any new leads or suspects? This has been going for a while, hasn't it?" He gagged again, as if catching a whiff of death. "Do you know?"

"Not until we check the Vox Networks." Thaddeus sighed. "For all our industry, we can't even track down this psychopath." He laid a hand on his forehead. "I am missing something."

"What I don't get is, why the telephone poles?" Leng sighed, pondering. "I mean, can you imagine the hassle it takes to put a body up there? I know our systems malfunction during the surges. But still, I can't think of how anyone can do that."

"Those blackouts will be the death of us. Black magic, I warrant," Thaddeus said. "Whenever the Cacophony creeps from realms chthonic, these murders are soon to follow." He turned to the pole. "I do not understand, Leng, why this is happening."