Nida answered the door in a modest gray abaya, and nodded her head to both Clayton and Emily with respect. "You are early! Delightful, but we were not expecting you for another hour yet."

"Was it nine?" Clayton feigned embarrassment. "I was worried we would be late."

Emily rolled her eyes. "Oh, Clay."

"I know, Em."

"He's always lecturing me, Nida. If you're on time, you're late."

"All the same, welcome to our home. It is an honor to have you here."

Emily tilted her head, admiring Nida's plain attire, intense blue eyes, and decided immediately she liked the woman, regardless what Clayton thought. Emily extended a hand. "It's our pleasure, Mrs. Sharif. Clayton's told me so much about you."

"Please, call me Nida. I hope there was some good of me in your husband's tales. I can be frustrating to new friends." Nida took Emily's hand with a light, delicate hold and shook it once, releasing her hand immediately after.

Emily smirked. "He's done you no justice."

"Please, come inside. I prepared a place for the both of you at our table. It is our hope you may enjoy a meal with us, and perhaps we find there are more common things between us than there are different."

Emily half-curtsied, and stepped forward. Nida moved aside, welcoming Emily into her home. Clayton stopped before the threshold of the door. "It seems you've made a friend of Emily."

"I hope we should all be friends in good time, Clayton Walker."

Clayton nodded. "If we're going to practice at friendship, call me Clay."

"I do not believe you to be so malleable a man, Clayton Walker. It is no disrespect to you if I call you Clayton?"

Clayton considered the question. "So long as you don't use my full name, I don't see why not."

"Why not your full name?"

"Usually if someone's using my full name, I'm in trouble."

Nida stared at Clayton with a quizzical expression. "A man of your maturity can get into trouble?"

Clayton blushed. "Not exactly... but let's just say it usually means I'm sleeping on the couch."

Nida made no attempt to hide the amusement on her face. "Will you not please come into my home, Clayton? Amir is home, and I am sure you two will get along."

"Will we?"

Nida shook her head only once. "Nobody gets along with Amir. He is... sarie alghadab?"

"Irritable."

"...no. Mazeaj. Annoying."

Clayton laughed. "I hope he doesn't hear that."

"Our secret, Clayton. Our secret. Come into our home quickly, the air has a chill and we would not want you to become sick."

Clayton offered Nida a brusque smile, and nodded as he passed her. Inside the house was very plain. It was, for all intents and purposes one of The Order 'til safe houses. Less about comfort, and more about laying low. A place between places, usually while The Order deliberated on what they would do with the temporary residents. In most cases, guests were under protection of The Order, however application of an ultraviolet light was not something he would suggest. Even when cleaned, blood left its mark, and under ultraviolet light, the house would probably be visible from the sky.

The Order called it a Safe House. Those in The Order knew it colloquially as a Purgatorium. Purgatorium was a clever witticism adopted from the sharp tongue of a now long dead hunter whose keen observation brought a much needed humor, however grim the humor may be.

Purgatorium was in reality a place where wards under the "protective custody" of The Order often awaited judgment, unwitting to their possible plight.

There were no photos on the walls, no television in their den. The furniture was plain, and cheap. It was cheaper than what the safe house had when they moved in.

Nida followed after Clayton, commenting on his expression, and guessing the correct nature of it's cause. "We are not people of very many material needs. For this, we may enjoy a simple life unhindered by the "joys" of your Western culture."

"Well, you're now part of our "Western culture", as you put it. We're going to have to get you a housewarming gift."

"No need, Clayton. Our house is warm enough."

Clayton glanced over his shoulder at Nida as they walked toward the dining room.

She was smirking at him.

"Clayton Walker." Amir bowed his head once as Clayton entered the dining room. "We are honored to have you as our guest."

"Emily, and I are pleased to be here. How are you enjoying your home?"

Amir shrugged. "It has walls, windows and a door. It will suffice."

Clayton and Emily exchanged looks. Emily took point in the diplomacy. "Well, we hope it suits you well. We hope you'll find it comfortable during your pregnancy... and know that Clayton and I are happy to help you with whatever you may need."

"That is very accommodating." Amir stood at his seat and gestured for Clayton and Emily to take their seats. They exchanged another look, and Emily shrugged. Clayton waited for her to sit, and then took the seat next to her.

It was not the kind of comfortable he was accustomed, but he could pretend.

✟ ☧ ✟

"...and then I fell over, again." Nida was laughing, eyes squeezed tight shut as she finished her tale.

Clayton and Emily were smiling politely, but did not understand the humor in the tale. Clayton cleared his throat. "So, that's where from the term whirling dervish comes?"

Nida nodded emphatically, and snorted trying to restrain her laughter. Amir conversely, was not amused. He sat over his empty plate, hands folded over his paunch of a stomach.

"They are being polite, Nida. They do not understand your humor in this. Look at them, their mulabis fakhira. They may look underwhelming to the dull eye, but one foot of that fabric would cost our entire wardrobe. Many times over, I am sure."

"Amir, killjoy!" Nida's fierce piercing gaze burned into Amir. Amir glared back, but Nida did not back down. "I would think you were drunken but that we do not consume alcohol! You are acting jahil! These are our guests!"

"I am tired, Nida. They have stayed longer than anticipated, watajawazat ziaratuhum!"

Clayton coughed, interrupting the making of an argument. "You understand that I can understand you, right? All you have to do is say something, Amir."

"Have I not said enough for you to understand? I am tired, it is a long day already. I want to be sleeping."

"Amir!"

Amir's face turned a shade darker. He inhaled a fast, deep breath, and exhaled a long rambling string of phrase in his tongue, pointing at Nida, then at Clayton and Emily.

"Again. I can understand you. Of course we care, Amir. I only traveled seven-and-a-half thousand miles to bring you to the United States!"

Nida waved a hand. "He's angry. He prefers not to speak your tongue. It is meant to insult you."

Amir stood abruptly, shoving the chair out behind him with his legs. "Do not speak of me to others like I am not here!"

Clayton stood without force, and stepped away from his chair. He moved around it, and pushed it in neatly in a single smooth motion. "Emily, please excuse yourself, and wait in the car."

"Please, Amir. Nida. Excuse me. I think it is about time for me to retire for the evening. The dinner was delicious." Emily stood in the same manner as Clayton, out from her chair and around it, sliding it neatly to the table.

Amir nodded, his face red beneath his dark olive skin. He ran a hand through his thinning salt-and-pepper hair. "Go with God, Mrs. Walker."

"Go with God, Emily." Nida bowed her head respectfully, apologetic.

Emily's black stiletto high heels made no sound on the dull wood floors as she left the dining room with ethereal grace. No one heard the front door open, or close. Clayton waited until he heard the engine start in the car.

"Amir." Clayton grinned, baring straight, white teeth. "I know you don't care much for me. You don't have to... but understand something, please. You don't have to like me, Emily or the The Order. You will demonstrate a modicum of respect, or the deal is off. The Order will revoke your protection, and you'll be treated as any of our heathen enemies, God of Abraham, or not."

Amir opened his mouth and felt his voice catch in his throat. There was thick silence at the table, Nida's eyes on her empty plate, and Amir's large brown eyes wide, furious and bloodshot. Amir waited a moment longer, cleared his throat and in a respectful tone, "We are here because of her."

Amir pointed at Nida.

Clayton clenched his teeth, flexing the muscles in his strong jawline. He took a deep breath in through his nose, and released it from his mouth. "You are here because my Judge ordered me to bring you. You are as important to our accord as Nida. Nadjia will need a father, and I don't want to deny her one... but if you compromise anything, I will put you in your place, or I will put you down."

"There you have it." Amir flexed his neck. "With casual ease, he threatens me. This is the man for whom we sold our souls, Nida. Our souls, and our children. Not to their Inquisition, but to their crusade."

"Amir! They have given us a new life! A new home that is our?"

Amir slammed his hands onto the dining room table. "If this is our home, then am I still not alsulta here?"

Clayton clenched his fists tight, and released them. "If you are so in a hurry to meet your maker, you may continue. If you want to live to see grandchildren, you will watch your mouth, Amir Sharif. You're correct. This is your home, and because I respect your home, and your authority in it, I will take my leave."

Nida looked crestfallen.

"I do not approve of our accord, Clayton Walker." Amir scowled, and combed his fingers through the top of his thinning hair.

"That makes the two of us, Amir. We are going to be family. You will be my brother, Nida my sister. If you can cooperate. You're not the only one under your roof who had to compromise."

"I am tired, Mr. Walker. I would discuss this with you another day when we have clear minds, and calm hearts."

Clayton's brow darkened. He took a deep breath, exhaled and nodded. "Agreed. Clearer heads will prevail. A word of advice, Amir. Keep your hands off Nida. The life inside her is all that stands between you and I right now." Clayton half bowed, and locked eyes with Nida.

"Go with God, Clayton."

Amir grimaced. "Go with God, Mr. Walker."

✟ ☧ ✟

The ride home was tense. It was worse when they arrived and pulled into their driveway to find Judge Grifford there with a compliment of cowled hunters.

Grifford was dressed the same, in his fatigues, but without his cowl.

Clayton sighed, and parked his car, turning the engine off. "Great."

Emily frowned, and kept her voice to a whisper. She covered her mouth as though she we're yawning. "You didn't call them on Amir, did you?"

"When? Between the time you and I left? No. I didn't call, and that means something else. Something worse."

Clayton opened the driver side door, and slid out of his seat to his feet. "Judge Grifford. Goodmen. To what do we owe this unexpected honor?"

"It is bad, Clayton." Grifford made a subtle gesture, and his hunters dispersed to walk the property. Grifford waited until they were gone.

"Jonathan?" Clayton's expression betrayed him, the brief moment of panic on his face giving away his worse assumptions.

"He is fine. Fast asleep under the watchful eye of our new prospect, Dean."

Clayton felt the tension leave his shoulders, and his back. He felt nauseous for a moment, and then composed himself. He caught the relief on Emily's face. "How may we help you?"

Grifford arched an eyebrow. "I need you to sit in an ecclesiastic tribunal. There will be a hearing."

"Who?"

"Malcolm Bishop. I did not want to believe it, but I saw it with my own eyes."

"What happened?"

"Bishop left on assignment to dispatch a ceremony for the heathen month of Rowan."

"Does he live?"

"Miraculously, he lives... scarcely, but he lives. Bishop is the one on trial."

Clayton felt his heart sink. "I cannot believe it. What are the charges?"

"The murder of ten Zealots of The Order." Grifford hung his head, staring at his feet. He felt - willed - his eyes to well up. When he returned his gaze to Clayton, his eyes were brimming. "I sent my personal Zealots to aid with eradicating the heathens in the Rowan grove."

"I don't understand why Bishop would go rogue."

"That is what we hope to ascertain."

Clayton covered his face a moment, and groaned into his hands, wiping his hands down his face. "Why do you have an execution squad with you? Surely he is not recovered."

"He survived ten armed zealots."

"...you have to admire his resilience. Your honor, we can't just execute one of our own without getting his side."

"Or confession."

Clayton nodded. "Or his confession."

"...ah, but you are correct, Goodman Walker. Cooler heads prevail."

"That's the second time I've heard that tonight." Clayton's paced. "How long will he be out?"

Grifford barked laughter. "Out? He is awake, Goodman. Miserable I imagine, but awake. He managed to get himself to Doctor Bellar."

"Which one?"

"The brother." Grifford grinned his crack toothed yellow grin. "He patched Bishop up with little more than what he had at home."

"At least he can keep a secret."

Grifford shrugged. "You made a sound decision in bringing him in. I knew I could count on you to make the decision. Always the right decisions."

"If that's the case, I would implore you reconsider tonight. Call off an execution for now... and let us - you and I - speak to him. We'll go together, and ascertain what happened."

"He killed ten of our own, Clayton. I cannot imagine any good reason."

"His line has only ever been loyal to The Order. I can't accept he would go off the deep end for any reason. The Bishops would die before they betrayed The Order."

"I pray you are correct."

✟ ☧ ✟

Bishop breathed through tubes, watching the blurry iron lung breathe for him through scabbed, wounded eyes. He watched the morphine drip, and lay there in the dim room, shadows flickering in the low lantern light.

The door opened, spilling the hallway light into the bedroom. Bishop heard a young boy playing in another room, loud sharp noises, the boy making explosive sounds every so often.

Two silhouettes stood in the doorway. Bishop closed his eyes, his pained smile on his face turning into a grimace. "You came."

"We did."

"Clayton Walker." Bishop coughed, and made a weak groan. "Clay. It is good to see you. Could you please close the door? The light... it's..."

"Yeah, Bishop. We can close the door."

Grifford cleared his throat, and put a gloved hand up. "We certainly cannot."

Clayton did a double take, and stepped aside as the judge entered the converted guest room. "Do you know why we are here, Malcolm?"

"I failed you. There was an ambush." Bishop paused, his lungs felt aflame. The burning, unbearable fire in his lungs. It hurt to talk. It hurt to breathe. "I killed them, of course. All of them."

"A confession?" Grifford's voice was strained, desperate. Clayton hated to see the judge's heart break.

Bishop squeezed his eyes shut, wincing from the light. He trembled under the pale light in the hall. "Confession, your honor? Clay? What is it? What has happened?"

"...you killed your own people, Bishop. Ten Zealots."

"Impossible. I would never."

Grifford stepped forward, halfway to Bishop's bedside, and stopped. He did not want to get close to the injured Hunter. Injured did not mean weak. "You did. I assigned you the Rowans. I sent in a team to aid you."

"Have you no faith?" Bishop coughed, the electrocardiogram signaled as his pulse rose.

"It does not look good. At what point did you realize they were not Coven? Surely you had to know."

"I knew. They didn't stink of magick... but they were intent on killing me. I heard them."

"They were my guard, my personal guard. Do not lie to me, Malcolm!"

Bishop's chest rose and fell faster and faster, his raspy high voice sounded wet in his throat. "I would never lie to you! My life for the order. You had a traitor among your men. A traitor."

"Your honor, could he be telling the truth?"

Grifford made a non-committal gesture, and returned his attention to Malcolm Bishop. "A traitor? I handpicked these men."

"...they weren't true to The Order, then. At least one among them, a traitor. Mislead the others... unfortunate. It was unfortunate... I was defending my life, your honor."

Clayton stepped into the makeshift hospital room, and shut the door behind him. "Those are serious allegations, Bishop."

"Only the truth from me. Only ever the truth. If you judge me guilty, do what you must." Bishop grimaced, his swollen bloodstained mouth was burned, chapped and cracked. Bishop closed his eyes, and his pulse slowed with his breathing and soon he was sleeping.

"I believe it." Clayton sighed, shaking his head. "He believes it."

"Disturbing."

"That I should believe him?"

"Disturbing Goodman Walker, that there could be a traitor among us. Whether he knew, or not... ten of our people are dead. There must be consequences."

"Exile, then. Leave him his fortune, and a stipulation."

"Stipulation?"

"Exile."

"...exile, but with what?"

"With the possibility at redemption." Clayton stared at Grifford's profile in the low lit room.

"Exile, for ten of his people. Our people."

"Exile, because I believe him innocent. A stay of execution, because you're uncertain he's guilty."

"Am I?"

"I know you, your honor. I've known you since I was small. If this man were guilty, he wouldn't be breathing."

"Exile, then. An opportunity at redemption."

"Thank you, your honor. I'm sure he'll prove to be precisely what we need, precisely when we need him."

"Time will tell."