A Prayer in the Rain

Afternoon sunlight filtered through a veil of gray clouds as Charles sat astride the horse that had carried him to his destination. Though he arrived two hours later than planned—delayed by the overnight rain and the bandit encounter on the road—he was finally here.

His pocket watch from the Department showed it was a little past two o'clock, though Charles was more accustomed to judging time by the position of the sun. The sky had begun to clear, and the ground was gradually drying, leaving only lingering moisture from the previous night's downpour evaporating in the sunlight.

Charles lifted his spyglass to study the scene ahead. The sulfur mine lay deep within a valley, surrounded by steep limestone mountains that formed a natural fortress. Thin sulfuric vapor drifted in the air like a faint mist, carrying a stinging stench akin to rotten eggs. On the highest peak near the mine stood an ancient stone temple. That, he knew, was his true objective.

His keen gaze swept over every detail through the spyglass. Four guard towers rose at each corner, presumably watching over prisoners while offering a clear view of the temple itself. Much of the other details were obscured by the ring of mountains encircling the area.

'The temple must have guards,' he reasoned. 'If it really is a secret laboratory, they wouldn't leave it unprotected.'

He trained the spyglass on the four guard towers. 'And those tower sentries... some might be in league with the people behind this,' he recalled what Humphrey had told him about the powerful connections involved. 'They wouldn't entrust such an important place to outsiders.'

Charles weighed his options. 'Daylight won't work. The sentries on those towers can see any movement clearly. I'll need to wait for darkness—or for fog thick enough to conceal me.'

He considered the advantages of different times. 'Night or early morning? At night, darkness provides good cover, but security might be tighter with more frequent patrols. Early morning might mean fewer alert guards—some might be drowsy at shift change—but fog is unpredictable. Some mornings it's thick, other times barely there. If wind blows through, it vanishes instantly. Plus the limited time window before sunrise.'

'Night it is,' he decided. 'Even with more guards, at least I know darkness will last. Better than gambling on fog that might not materialize.'

With that settled, Charles looked for a place to secure his horse. He searched for suitable cover, but the surrounding environment was inhospitable—vegetation withered from sulfuric fumes, a polluted river contaminated by mining runoff. The one advantage was the absence of wildlife for miles around, eliminating any concern about predators approaching while they rested.

Eventually, he found a rock crevice that could serve as shelter. He tied his horse to a dead but still sturdy tree trunk, then set down his gear. His body, having gone without sleep all night, demanded rest. He settled onto the ground, back against the stone wall.

His thoughts drifted to what had happened earlier—specifically the disturbing euphoria he'd felt while draining the bandit's consciousness. That intoxicating sensation had overwhelmed all his awareness, even his survival instincts.

'Too dangerous,' he thought, trying to shake the memory from his mind. 'If someone had attacked then, I'd have been completely vulnerable. Like a drunk in a brawl.' He'd seen inebriated fighters easily dispatched by more sober opponents simply because they couldn't defend themselves properly.

Charles pushed these thoughts aside and retrieved some stale bread and salted meat from his pack. The bland taste combined with the sulfuric odor pervading the air made for an unappetizing meal, but he forced it down nonetheless. He needed strength for the night ahead.

After eating, he positioned himself as comfortably as possible on the hard stone ground, using his leather bag as a makeshift pillow. His gaze lingered one last time on the stone temple atop the mountain before his eyes finally closed.

…

Afternoon light streamed through the meeting room windows as everyone sat in silent attention while Theodore read from the dossiers of death row inmates he had compiled.

"First candidate: Malcolm Blackthorn," Theodore began in a steady tone. "Convicted of murder, rape, and armed robbery. More than ten major felonies to his name." He paused momentarily. "His most heinous crime involved murdering a family's father, then assaulting the wife in front of their children. Even other prisoners refer to him as 'the scum.'"

A collective intake of breath sounded around the table. Joseph's brow furrowed in disgust.

"Second: Isaiah Pemberton, formerly a high-ranking border official," Theodore continued, turning a page. "Arrested for human trafficking—abducting refugees and local villagers to sell as slaves. Also implicated in child abuse and forcing women into prostitution."

"Third: Theodosia Rutherford." Theodore hesitated. "This case is unusual. An older woman pathologically obsessed with her son. She systematically tried to separate him from his wife, eventually hiring thugs to assault her daughter-in-law, intending to frame the young woman for adultery..."

"I can't believe such a mother exists," Viola murmured, shaking her head.

"There's more," Theodore added. "When the daughter-in-law reported the attack, Theodosia arranged to have her permanently silenced. That's what earned her the death sentence."

"Finally: Barnaby..." Theodore stopped abruptly, raising a handkerchief to his mouth to suppress a wave of nausea. "His case... involves the abduction of several young girls, whom he tortured in the basement of an abandoned mansion. When authorities found the children's remains... they had been dismembered... along with detailed records documenting each stage of his torture methods."

When Theodore finished, he turned to Edward. "Chief, which one should we select?"

Edward sat quietly for a moment before answering, "For this decision... I want everyone's input. Let's take a vote. One vote per person."

Theodore nodded. "Understood." He laid the four sheets of paper on the table. "I'll place the profiles here. Each of you can put a coin on the inmate you choose."

He placed his own coin on Barnaby's record. "I'll start with this one."

After Theodore's demonstration, each member proceeded to cast their vote.

Sebastian looked back and forth between Malcolm's and Barnaby's profiles before finally placing his coin on Barnaby's sheet.

Andrew reached toward Malcolm's paper but hesitated. After a moment's consideration, he withdrew and instead placed his coin on Barnaby's profile.

Abigail and Simon each placed their coins on Barnaby's dossier without hesitation.

Viola held her coin, eyes moving between Theodosia's and Barnaby's papers. "Though Theodosia is undeniably wicked," she said softly, "what Barnaby did... is far worse." She added her coin to Barnaby's growing pile.

Joseph, the last to vote, glanced at Isaiah's profile. "A corrupt official like him deserves punishment too," he remarked, his voice even. "But a public execution would perhaps be more instructive." He then placed his coin on Barnaby's dossier with the others.

Edward surveyed the unanimous selection. "The decision is clear," he said, turning to Amelia. "Please draft the necessary documents for the Department of Corrections and the prison where Barnaby is being held."

"Yes, Chief," she responded.

…

Charles's eyes opened beneath the sheltering overhang. The sky had deepened to a rich indigo as the last light faded. Stars had begun to appear, though thick clouds were rapidly gathering, obscuring any moonlight.

He rose to his feet, stretching to ease the stiffness in muscles that had rested on stone. After taking a few swallows from his waterskin, he checked his equipment: the handkerchief, Humphrey's pistol, his knife, and other potentially useful items.

The sulfuric odor remained pervasive, now mingled with the night's chill, making it even more acrid to his nostrils than during daylight. In the distance, lanterns glowed atop the guard towers, pinpricks of light marking the sentinels' positions.

Taking up his spyglass again, Charles observed the guards' movement patterns. Despite the darkness limiting visibility, he could discern their basic patrol routine. They moved in pairs, with shift rotations. Each tower maintained two guards on duty.

'I'll need to mind the shift changes,' he thought. 'That's when they're most vigilant.'

His attention turned to the stone temple. Light leaked through cracks around doors and windows, confirming occupancy. 'The entrance probably has guards... but there must be a secret access point somewhere. A place like this wouldn't use the main entrance for moving equipment or... test subjects.'

Charles exhaled softly, watching the dark clouds advance overhead. 'Another hour and the clouds will completely obscure the moon. That will be the optimal moment.'

The wind grew stronger, carrying increased moisture and the sharp tang of sulfur. Looking skyward, Charles noted the rapidly gathering storm clouds. 'Rain's coming,' he realized, returning to his horse to retrieve a change of clothes. Wet garments could leave telltale drips inside the temple. Having dry clothes to change into after infiltration would be essential.

By the time he had crept closer to the temple, rain was pouring down as predicted. Water cascaded off the roof, forming small rivulets that followed the temple's contours down to the ground. The downpour was both advantageous and problematic—it masked sounds and reduced visibility, but turned the ground treacherously slick and weighted down his already-soaked clothing.

From his vantage point, Charles observed several workers circling the temple. Though dressed in common, dirt-stained clothes, their alert posture and watchful eyes betrayed professional training. These were clearly guards, not laborers, positioned to protect whatever secrets lay within.

The heavy rain drove most of them under shelter, their torches providing only limited illumination through the deluge. Charles recognized this opportunity. He would need to combine darkness and rainfall with his ability to momentarily disorient his targets.

'Speed and precision are crucial,' he reminded himself.

After studying the guards' movements for some time, Charles noted how the foul weather kept most from straying far from shelter. They huddled beneath overhangs or in doorways rather than maintaining a thorough patrol.

'Plenty of blind spots,' he observed, feeling rain streaming down his saturated cloak. 'But I'll have to watch for footprints in the mud.'

When a guard passed near his hiding place, Charles employed his power. The man's eyes grew unfocused, staring vacantly into the darkness. Charles seized the moment to slip past, careful not to sink his boots too deeply into the soft mud.

Making his way behind the temple, Charles discovered an old cemetery with weathered headstones.

'The rear entrance might be better,' he reasoned, moving silently along the wall. 'Going through the front risks immediate detection.'

At the back door stood two guards under an overhang, speaking quietly while sheltering from the rain. Without hesitation, Charles exerted his power on both simultaneously. Their eyes glazed over as they stared blindly into the storm.

He rushed to the door and tried it, only to discover it was securely locked. 'Damn,' he thought. Breaking it open would create too much noise, certainly alerting other guards.

Retreating behind a gravestone, he searched for another point of entry. That's when he noticed a window to one side that glowed more brightly than the others. Looking closer, he saw it was slightly ajar.

'Finally, some luck,' he thought, though caution tempered his optimism. An unattended open window could be a trap, or someone might be inside the room. He needed to investigate carefully.

Approaching stealthily, he pressed against the stone wall as the relentless rain covered any sounds of movement. Cautiously, he peered through the gap.

The room appeared to be a storage area—wooden shelves lined the walls, filled with books and rolled parchments. An oil lamp hung from the ceiling, casting a subdued light. No one seemed present; only dust particles drifted through the lamplight, sparkling like tiny diamonds in the air.

Charles meticulously examined the window frame for traps but found none. He eased it open wider, the aged hinges making a faint creak. After one more survey of the room, he decided to climb inside.

As soon as his feet touched the floor, Charles removed his drenched cloak and quickly changed into dry clothes from his waterproof pack. Though the change took only moments, each second increased his tension, fearing someone might enter unexpectedly.

Just then, footsteps echoed in the corridor outside. Charles darted behind a bookcase, holding his breath. The footsteps passed by the door and continued onward, gradually fading away. He exhaled slowly, then crept to the door, opening it slightly to peer out.

Torchlight flickered along the hallway, casting strange shadows on the walls. He could see the main ceremonial hall and several wooden doors. Light seeped from beneath some of them, indicating occupied rooms.

'I need to find access to a lower level,' he thought. 'If this is truly a laboratory, it must be underground.'

As he carefully made his way down the corridor, soft chanting reached his ears. Charles halted, turning toward the sound—it seemed to emanate from the direction of the altar.