"...you've accomplished a feat you cannot fathom, Goodman Walker. This is the beginning of the end of Coven everywhere. In thirty years we will push them into a corner. In sixty, you're looking at the recession of the heathen scum across these United States. Seven generations in, long after we are echoes of memory, the word witch will be long out of memory."

"It feels wrong."

"I understand your trepidation, and I can only hope in time you will understand the necessity of this project."

Clayton flexed his back, and tilted his head to one side, and then the other, stretching the sore muscles in his neck. "Your honor, I must confess my concerns. They're mystics, Nida and Amir. Even among their own people, heretics."

"I know what they are, Clay. Were I to tell you, would you have gone then?"

"...no."

"I thought not. I hate withholding things from you... but I was not lying when I said I favored your line. You always choose the correct path, but sometimes you choose the path you only believe is correct."

"I choose right doing, Judge. I choose what I know is right."

Grifford nodded, and clasped his hands together. "Of that I've no doubt whatsoever. You've only ever done right by The Order. You, your father before you, and his. What if this isn't about being right, or wrong?"

"It's about good, and evil. You can't have one foot in the door, and one foot in the war... it has to be all in, or not at all."

"I don't disagree with you, Clay. Truly. This project is our all in. If this is an evil, it's the lesser of all evils. Sacrifices must be made, and lesser evils can be the good of a greater cause."

"Or it can make us as bad as our heathen enemies, Judge."

"True. It is a fine line we walk, but are we not to walk the straight and narrow path?"

"With respect, you know the answer."

"The path of righteousness, then? We are blessed with the tools to turn the tide of this war, and it could start in your lifetime. You want an end to the Silent War, do you not?"

Clayton nodded, and cleared his throat. "I do."

Samael Grifford clapped him on the shoulder, and grinned his broad, cracked grin. "We all do! You are not alone in this war. God knows it feels like it. The Hands of God will end this war and wipe the heathen filth from the face of the world. This is God's work we're doing. Deus vult illud."

"Deus vult illud. God wills it." The resolve in Clayton's voice was gone. In the end, it was always quod voluntatem Dei. The will of God.

"Peace, Clayton Walker. The future of your family is very bright. Enjoy them." Judge Grifford made a severe expression. "Not all of us are so fortunate."

✟ ☧ ✟

Nida opened the door before Clayton was able to knock. An awkward silence hovered between them.

"Please, come inside. I would have tea prepared for you, but you cannot stay. You are here to check in on us."

Clayton felt warmth in his cheeks, and decided he was more embarrassed than upset. She was who she was, and if God willed it, then it was the will of God at work now. "Thank you, Mrs. Sharif."

"Nida." She placed her hands one on each Clayton's shoulders. "Nee-da."

Clayton nodded, feeling uncomfortable with the petite woman's hands on his shoulders. Nida withdrew her hands slowly, sliding them down Clayton's chest a moment. She gave him an ambiguous expression, and cleared the door way so he could enter. "Is Amir here?"

She shook her head once. "He is meeting with your associates. He will begin working tomorrow." Nida swept her arm toward the inside of the house, gesturing for him to enter. "Please. Come inside."

"I can't stay. I just wanted wanted to check in and see if your accommodations we're comfortable."

"I have been in worse, Clayton Walker. These will do. You wanted to discuss with me the terms of our agreement?"

Clayton stammered a moment, composed himself, and scratched at the back of his neck. "I did, yes. Our terms."

"Perhaps you could come inside just a moment then, and explain them to me. In detail."

He shook his head, standing on her porch and feeling particularly helpless in the company of this harmless looking woman. "I appreciate your hospitality, but you'll never see me in without your husband present. My intentions are pure, but I would never want you, or Amir to get the wrong idea."

Nida frowned, only for a moment. Then in her thick accent, she spoke just barely above a whisper. "You're an honorable man, Clayton Walker."

"Clay. My friends call me Clay."

Nida laughed. It was a Melody in Clayton's ears. "We are friends now, are we? Not associates? We are hardly more than strangers, I would say."

"I understand your hesitation, Nida. You're here under dubious circumstances. A stranger as you put it, showed up out of nowhere and took you away from your home..."

"From nowhere? I knew you were coming, and I should hope you are not still in doubt of our arrangement. You did not take us from our home. We chose to go with you."

"The terms, then. Your citizenship - for you and your husband - is processing. Our associates in the Immigration and Naturalization Service fast tracked your applications. This time next month you'll both be US Citizens."

"...and of our faith?"

"Congress shall make no law respecting an establishment of religion, or prohibiting the free exercise thereof; or abridging the freedom of speech, or of the press; or the right of the people peaceably to assemble, and to petition the Government for a redress of grievances."

Nida furrowed her brow. "What does that mean?"

Clayton smirked. "That is the first amendment of the constitution of the United States of America. Soon enough to be your constitution. It guarantees you the freedom of religion, and whatever religion you choose, neither the state nor the federal government can say, or do anything of it."

"...and we'll not be slain for it? There will be no one to break in our doors and destroy us for the truths we practice?"

"That part depends on you, and Amir. True, no state or federal officer is going to persecute you for your choice of religion... but you know who I am. You know who we are. If you keep to our bargain, then your freedom - and your protection - is guaranteed."

"Where will we live?"

Clayton stared at his expensive shoes, and felt guilty. "You'll live here, give birth here, and raise your child here."

"Nadjia."

"English, please."

"It is her name, Clayton. My child - my daughter - her name will be Nadjia. Her name means Origin."

Clayton stared into Nida's eyes, captive to the intense blue. Her lips curled at the corners, and she leaned into the doorway. Clayton broke eye contact first, and wiped his brow with the sleeve of forearm. "Origin would be an interesting name, too... you know, if you wanted to give her a more American name."

"I think I prefer Nadjia. I chose an American name between her first, and last."

"Her middle name. What did you choose?"

"Natalie."

Clayton did not hide his disdain, returning to Nida's piercing gaze. "Why Natalie?"

"For your American actress, Natalie Wood." Nida stifled a smile, but not for her eyes.

"You know, the name Natalie comes from Natalia. It means Christmas. It hails from a Latin origin. Natalia would be a beautiful middle name."

Nida rolled her eyes. "It is like I have the conversation twice. Sometimes I have no patience for such things. You'll tell me Natalia. I'll tell you Natalie is fine. You'll scratch the back of your neck, as often you do when you are nervous, or have nothing worth saying. Then you'll change the subject, and I will say you should come inside for tea. You will thank me, and remind me that you will not enter without my husband home. I will say you are very good man, and a loyal husband. You will presume my intentions, but say nothing, and you will feel the conversation is... ghyr malayim?"

"Awkward."

"No." Nida paused, touching her chin in a moment of concentration. "Inappropriate. You will feel the conversation is leading to an inappropriate place, and though you are far too polite to say so, you will wonder if I am an inconstant woman to my husband." Nida rubbed her hand over the small pregnant bump of her belly.

Clayton's eyes widened, and she laughed. "Nida..."

"...and then I tell you that I am not inconstant. That I admire you, despite your dislike for me and the faith that has chosen me. You will nod thoughtfully, but this is not alright with you. I will bid you a good afternoon, and then you will leave."

"You have to stop doing that, Nida. We cannot develop a trust between us if you tell me everything that will happen between us before it happens."

Nida arched an eyebrow, her perfect blue eyes mischievous. "I will tell you a secret, Clayton Walker. One I would never tell another. Not even Amir. Especially not Amir."

Clayton crossed his arms, shifting his weight from one leg to another. He made a pained expression, and nodded. "Go ahead."

"I do not know what comes once Nadjia is born. Perhaps it is I do not survive the child birth? Perhaps it is simply not for me to see. It would please me that you know I mean you no harm."

"I don't know what to say to that." Clayton scratched at the back of his neck.

Nida chuckled without conviction behind it. "What I see, and what I know are seldom one and the same. I rarely know what to say. My gifts, my curses, they are mine. I have never known a life without them. A good day to you, Clayton. Go with God."

✟ ☧ ✟

"It is pandemonium out there." Grifford sat at his desk, his black gloved hands resting on the arms of his chair. He watched the last of the sun dip below the forest. From across his desk Malcolm Bishop stared at the back of his chair.

"Hell is seeping up into the world."

Grifford swiveled his chair, turning to face Bishop. "Hell, indeed. Instability in Egypt. Rioting in Calcutta - Kolkata it's called, now - and Zanzibar has fallen to African revolutionaries. If I cared anything of the prattle on a communist threat, I would say we had yet another threat here at home. As it is, I'm certain the House of Un-American Activities Committee has it under control."

"Your honor?"

"Yes." Grifford's hard eyes stared at Bishop. "Yesterday began the start of the Rowan Celtic Tree Month. Rowan, the Witch Tree."

"...there are Rowan in Driftwood?"

Grifford nodded, and stood from his chair. He circled around his desk and sat on it, now at face level with Bishop. "There are ten. You will find them below Driftwood Heights, near the cliff face. Do you know the place?"

Bishop shook his head.

"Where we hold the market on weekends at the plateau of the heights, if you were to walk toward the cliff face and fall, you would land in the small grove of Rowan. Tonight the heathens will gather there, Goodman Bishop. No one leave the Rowans tonight."

"I understand, your honor."

"Very well. Then go and prepare yourself. It should not take you long to dispatch them." Grifford grinned, revealing his aged and cracked teeth. "I would trust no other with this task but you, Goodman Bishop. I look forward to its conclusion."

"I will not let you down."

Grifford placed his hand firmly on Bishop's shoulder, and squeezed an affirmative. "I know. Dismissed, Goodman Bishop. Be safe out there."

Grifford watched Malcolm Bishop turn diligently on his heel, and stride from his office. The doors shut behind him without a sound. He waited a while, and in moments was rewarded with the sound of Bishop's car. Grifford watched Bishop's car pull out of the long driveway, past the gates, and onto the main road until it was no longer visible. Still sitting on the edge of his desk, Samael Grifford reached for his phone, and dialed.

The line rang twice and someone on the other end of the phone answered. "Your honor."

"Go to where the Rowans grow. Bishop does not leave there alive. Plain clothes. Nothing to identify The Order. Do not hurt him, do you hear me? Make it fast, and painless as possible."

"Yes, your honor." They hung up. Grifford stared at the phone in his hand a moment longer, and then placed it back onto the receiver.

Grifford swiveled his chair, staring out the window into the early night sky. The stars shone through breaks in the sky, as the first quarter moon of the month appeared at the next break in the clouds. Bishop truly was a cunning, and ruthless hunter... but he was too good, and his ability was a threat to The Hands of God project.

It was a necessary sacrifice, however tragic it may be. If ensuring House Bishop ended tonight, then it was worth it.

The project was worth a hundred Bishops.

✟ ☧ ✟

"Praise be to God." Bishop's gravely high voice echoed from the Rowans, and from everywhere around them, calling from the cliff side beneath Driftwood heights. The half moon in it's first quarter lit silvery light into the thin layer of alto-stratus clouds, casting an eerie glow in the sky above him.Bishop was thankful for the pale light.

It was all the light he needed.

More than enough... which was a lot less than most people could adequately use for more than sky watching.

Bishop stared through his cowl, hidden in the shadows of the damned grove of Rowan trees planted by the heathen coven that plagued Driftwood.

"He's here somewhere. Fan out."

There were ten of them, dressed plainly, armed with pistols, rifles and flashlights. Light strong enough to blind him, and burn his eyes.

Cursed before his rites and blessings with Xeroderma Pigmentosum, he lived his life in shadow. The strongest light he could handle without blistering, or falling ill was moonlight, or a moderately bright lantern.

The Rites and Blessings should have cured him, but the curse proved powerful.

Unbreakable.

As a young man, Bishop learned to live with discomfort, and turned his curse into a strength. There were none better at guerilla combat than he, and among the hunters of The Order, the good judge counted him among the best.

Those outside the grove were hunting him, but he could not sense magick in them. The taint of conjuring was not among even one. Bishop lay low, avoiding their flashlights. He would have to take them down one at a time, quietly. He had his daggers, the handmade twin set he forged during his time in advanced education and training.

They swept around the perimeter of the Rowan grove in three rows of three, and one tailing then. Bishop might have run, could have escaped, but not before he completed his assigned task. No, they were not coven, but clearly they knew of him, which made them his enemy. If they knew of him, then they were aligned with his enemy, and like his enemy, they would have to be judged, sentenced and sent to meet their maker.

The last among them was just past his line of sight and Bishop was on him from behind, cutting into the flesh of his throat to the bone as he drew his daggers across from either side. Bishop dragged the dying man into the shadowy grove to bleed out in silence as the nine remaining circled.

Bishop waited, his heart beating calm in his chest, his brow dry and free of sweat. Neither eager, nor excited, Bishop focused waiting for the remaining nine to enter the grove.

"Walther, come around front. We need an extra light."

Silence, and the nine stopped their patrol. One of the men - a different voice than the whoever called for Walther first - called for Walther now. "Walther! Walther!"

"He's here! He's somewhere in the grove!"

Someone with a worn Irish accent spoke above the rest. "Oi! Spread out! Keep your eyes forward, your back facing the trails. If he's in there, you don't want him behind you. Shoot to kill boyos!"

The nine split into three groups of three, dividing around the perimeter of the grove. Irish was the first to call out. "Malcolm Bishop! We know you're in there! Why don't you come out and we can put an end to this already."

Bishop's raspy, high voice called from the grove, the cliff side, the very ground beneath their feet, its hollow echo surrounding them. "Lay down your arms and go, and you may live. Do it not, and you will die - all of you - here tonight."

Bishop detected their movement outside the grove, turning on heavy boots with heavy unpracticed, untrained steps. He reached above for a branch, and pulled himself into one of the trees. He climbed higher up, and could not see them, but he could hear them shuffling, turning their weapons on wherever they heard his voice.

His voice was everywhere.

The talent with casting the voice was neither magick - which hunters of The Order were unable to use - nor of the Rites and Blessings. It was little different than the tricks used by ventriloquists, or magicians. It was a talent of practice, and for witch hunters in The Order, it came in handy. It was a talent for offense, and defense. It could confuse, startle, or even frighten the enemy. At most, right now, they were unnerved...

...but not afraid.

If they were not afraid, then there was a familiarity in its use. There was some degree of training against it. There were no Coven in Driftwood that had the resources to train a team to even remotely rival a hunter of The Order, no less be an equal. Coven were for the most part blue collar, maybe comfortable income, and had little time to devote to real training.

White hot pain burned through his eyes without expectation, and Bishop stifled a scream. He clenched his eyes shut, holding his covered hands and arms up to the blinding force of the light. There were a number of loud cracks, each followed by a sharp and sudden pain. Bishop felt the tree slip away from him, and then empty space around him.

He was falling.

Despite the pain, he was thankful for the collision with the ground; thankful he was not farther up in the tree, and thankful he landed as flat as he did. Bishop heard the footsteps around him, but when he opened his eyes, he only saw bright stars and blotches of muted colors and light.

He felt someone kneel beside him.

He smelled the whiskey on the man's breath, the stink of it in his sweat; he could hear the guilt of betrayal in the man's voice in the way his Irish accent thickened as he spoke. "There weren't a need for any of that. Weren't a need to kill Walther. We here are under orders, boyo. I'm taking no pleasure in snuffing out one of our finest."

Bishop turned his blood stained cowl to face to the sound of Irish's voice. Against the pain of his wounds, the aching everywhere in his body, Bishop lashed out, his daggers in hand. He kept his eyes shut tight, listening for the sound of movement, of panic, or reloading weapons. He felt his blade stop against bone, the heft of someone's weight falling beside him, choking on their own blood. He did not hear Irish's voice, and was certain the leader of their lynch mob was now dead, or dying. Bishop heard another loud series of cracks, like a whip snapping nearby, and felt sharp hot pain in his shoulder, his biceps, his