Adelaide Meek lifted her pistol in the rain. The rainwater was tainted black as it fell from her hair, staining the pale wooden deck of the vessel indigo. Rivulets of ink ran down her pale face as she swept her bangs out of her eyes, her teeth standing out starkly from her slick black lips, "... why don't we talk, girl?"<br/><br/>The woman responded quite predictably with silence. That was all she ever seemed to bring to the table. This was the third time Adel had crossed paths with the Courier, and she had yet to get a word out of the strange woman.<br/><br/>The bitch had picked up a new tweed suit and parasol since Tuesday, but the blandly arrogant smile was the same one she'd worn earlier in the week. Confident and amused.<br/><br/>Adelaide had to admit she was having fun too. There were so few extraordinary people, when she crossed paths with one, she liked to savor the moment. She pulled back the hammer of her Colt with a solid "thunk", knowing full well The Courier didn't fear bullets. She was above such paltry concerns. But then Adel wasn't shooting to kill. Miss Meek was just trying to piss the tweed bitch off.<br/><br/>She knew from experience that it didn't matter how powerful you were. No one liked getting shot, "Come on, girl. We'll get out of the rain, get a couple of drinks. I'll pick up the tab, and then you can let me take that troublesome gift off of your hands. You could settle down. Live a normal life. Have some unsettling mute and badly dressed children."<br/><br/>The Courier gripped her parasol at the middle, playfully tipping her bolder hat upwards with the curved grip of her weapon. Her thick mane of blond curls were impervious to the rain. Like a china doll's hair, it seemed to have an unnatural buoyancy. Her smile was equally impervious to Adel's threats.<br/><br/>Adel sighed in that brief moment. She was a negotiator by trade. It was always quite disappointing for her when discussion broke down and the fighting started. There was only the slightest shift in The Courier's demeanor. A twinkle in the eye. But Adelaide knew that they were finished talking.<br/><br/>Her finger tensed around the trigger of her pistol, when the cylinder inexplicably snapped open, the spring-loaded chamber spitting out the shells onto the deck. She froze, still holding the empty pistol impotently at The Courier. Meek ran her tongue across her teeth, chuckling softly to herself, "Nice."<br/><br/>It was what the Courier did. She opened things. Lock boxes, puzzles, doors, anything. Even things that had no business opening. Even herself. They called her the Courier because of her penchant for hiding things inside her own body.<br/><br/>She gripped at the lapel of her tweed suit, her white gloved fingers sinking through tweed into the flesh of her chest bloodlessly. There was a "click" as of a key turning as her ribcage opened up like a cabinet, a dull roar escaping her chest cavity. It was the noise one could hear at the mouth of a particularly deep and dry well, suggesting an unfathomable depth.<br/><br/>Adelaide Meek twisted her wrist sharply, the Colt's cylinder snapping closed. Something reached out of the Courier as Adel holstered her weapon, "I wish we could have talked it out, girl." The Courier's veins stood out with an infectious purple hue beneath her pale skin, her breathing suddenly labored. The rain sizzled as it touched her flesh, boiling away as her "package" reached out an appendage that was sickly grey, twisted and gnarled flesh stretched at grotesque angles across it's bones.<br/><br/>"Now, I'm going to have to kill you and your ugly friend."<br/><br/><strong>Chichester Cathedral, Three Days Earlier</strong><br/>Morris followed Bishop Sherbone into the crypt. It was soothing to Morris, the damp lichen caked stone reminding him of nothing so much as his wine cellar. It was soothing to the aborigine as well, reminding her of nothing so much as a tomb. McFlynn liked dead people. They were quiet and vastly more trustworthy than their breathing counterparts.<br/><br/>And she was in need of soothing after her encounter on the rails. With her rifle slung across her shoulders, she wrapped her arms around the butt and barrel, looking like nothing so much as a scarecrow as she followed her employers.<br/><br/>Gripping the rifle kept her fingers from shaking. She had not tasted fear since she had murdered her father. It brought back a host of feelings she didn't much care to deal with. As such she had resolved to confront her fear, only next time with a substantially larger gun. The thing that had crawled out of that odd woman in tweed would stay down if she put enough lead in it, she was relatively sure.<br/><br/>Bishop Sherbone lifted the flickering lantern to illuminate the way. Sussex born, he was one of the few Protestant clergymen that was of rigid moral character and unwavering piousness. His virtue was beyond question, which of course, led to many questions. There had to be something wrong with someone who was so focused on others salvation.<br/><br/>Both Morris and Catherine thought he was an utter prick. He seemed oblivious to this and shared his opinion for the fifth time since they had arrived, "I again wish to say that this is not a course of action I would recommend."<br/><br/>“Right-right, well no one asked you, squire.” Catherine replied from behind the two men, already tired of the Bishop's nasally whine.<br/><br/>Doctor Morris laughed affably, resting the palm of his hand against the Bishop's shoulder, “Forgive my guest. She is a hunter first and a lady second. I am aware of your concerns, Bishop Sherbone. Yet you must be aware of the Illuminati's agent arriving in Sussex two days ago, yes? The mercenaries we sent to collect the package proved inadequate."<br/><br/>Catherine rolled her eyes at the word "inadequate", contemplating beating the little bureaucrat unrecognizable. It was tempting, but charity work didn't pay the bills. Murdering for free was anathema unless she couldn't help it.<br/><br/>"So the train accident was The Courier? Yes. Dreadful business that.” Sherbone fumbled with a sliding lock that looked older than the chapel itself.  He hunched over the light as he manipulated the latch with his free hand, murmuring softly, “But given the circumstances, I would think one abomination run rampant would be enough."<br/><br/>"The best way to fight the darkness is sometimes another kind of evil, my friend. The Courier serves the ideals of the Illuminati. She would destroy everything on a whim of her masters. If it is the will of her "Grand Architect" she could feasibly be the end of all things, Bishop. I am led to believe that your charge is more… practical. We feel risking a few thousand souls is better than losing everything."<br/><br/>“A few thousand souls slides so easily from your tongue, Doctor. Does not our Lord say there is greater cause to rejoice at the return of a single stray above the retention of a flock?”<br/><br/>“I am not God. I do not have the luxury of ignoring the numbers. As I said, we need to be more practical about this.”<br/><br/>"No? You will be fast friends, this beast and you, for she is nothing if not practical.”  He at last managed the complicated latch, the door opening only with great difficulty, having swollen into its frame.<br/><br/>“I like her already.” Catherine snickered to herself as the men continued their little dance. She thought little of church policy, regardless of the fact they paid her handsomely. Church policy and morality were extremely pliant if the right pressure was applied, be it money, power, or sex. The Bishop would protest, the Doctor would insist, like a game of badminton they would go back and forth, despite the fact the outcome was predetermined.<br/><br/>They were going to let “her” out.<br/><br/>Catherine was amused to find that the Illuminati referred to their own pet monster, The Courier, as “Her” as well. She had no true loyalty to these protestants over their enemies, but the Illuminati were less inclined to hire outside of their own circle. So, it was interesting to her that both her employer and their enemy should have a bogeywoman in their vaults.<br/><br/>Unlike the Illuminati’s nameless trollop, this one compensated with a great many names. Some might say they were aliases, but point of fact, this was entirely inaccurate. She owned each and every name, bought with power, money, or sex. It was no wonder she was this church’s bogeywoman, because she had all of their favorite party favors tucked into her back pocket. The riflewoman couldn't wait to meet this creature.<br/><br/>“We took great pains to trap her here. Her guards are volunteers. They have been rendered mute and deaf for their safety and the security of this Chapel and Mother Church. We feed her once a week to keep her less... mobile." Sherbone explained as they began to descend once again, walking down a long spiral staircase. The thought of all of the weight of the earth above his head made Morris slightly queasy, though he kept such concerns to himself, enduring the cramped quarters.<br/><br/>Sherbone lifted a small black vial from the confines of his robe, the flickering lamp light catching the deep black fluid inside. It looked rather like a common ink well. He placed it firmly in Doctor Morris’ hand, before continuing ever downwards, “You may have the honor of feeding her. Give it to her, being entirely clear that it is a gift. She will not drink it otherwise. Be certain she understands and YOU understand that it is hers freely. You do not wish to make any deals with this woman.”<br/><br/>They at last came to the door. It was strangely inauspicious for being the final seal against the Church of England's most feared prisoner. Age darkened oak, banded with iron fittings and bolts, it was only unique in that it was remarkably thick, almost a foot and a half. The volunteers sat on either side of the door, heads shorn and backs scarred from ritualistic attrition. The wounds across their shoulder blades from self flagellation were at best two days old. They squinted against the light, clearly not used to visitors.<br/><br/>Lips stitched shut, their breath was loud, a soft moan escaping one, though he apparently didn't realize it, his ears having long since been removed. It gave even McFlynn pause that these men had given up their lives for the simple cause of keeping this creature behind lock and key. They cast a baleful gaze at the Bishop as they stood at attention. They had not seen anyone but the Bishop and their charge in some decades, and so the presence of the others could only mean one thing. Dutifully they accepted Sherbone's signal, turning to grip the handles of the oak. Their arms tensed as they pulled at the massive door, sliding it aside by slow degrees.<br/><br/>"She has not been allowed any visitors during my thirty years on these grounds, but I am familiar with the policies involved. You would do well to listen to me. Choose your words carefully. Do not agree to any sort of barter. You are not to negotiate with her."<br/><br/>"How long has she been down here?"<br/><br/>"Not long enough." The bishop replied, lifting an arm in the way of Catherine. She looked at it curiously, as if she were thinking about cutting it off, as he blocked her from entering the room. Morris entered with no small degree of trepidation as he knew he would be forced to leave his escort outside. On the one hand, he would have felt safer with such a deadly woman at his back, but his orders were clear. He was to treat this prisoner as if she wear a plague victim, minimizing contact with others.<br/><br/>She was waiting for him across the room.<br/><br/>With yellowed flesh and brittle arms chained to the wall by her wrists, she looked more dead than alive. Her chest scarcely moved, the only hint she was still alive being the occasional swish of her long blond bangs as she exhaled slowly. The living corpse reclined atop a pile of stones, and had sat so long in the same position, the rocks had begun to weave into the flesh of her thighs. At the sound of the door slamming shut, she lifted her head with a ragged cough, her skin creaking from the effort. There was a chilling moment as their gazes met, hers a blue so pale that it bled into the whites of her eyes.<br/><br/>They shared the long pause, neither daring to breathe. At last she moved, simply smiling winningly, her lips splitting open from the tension. It was the knowing sort of smile one might find on the face of an old whore with a returning customer. She offered him a soft laugh that sounded like something dying in her throat as he approached with the vial, “I am Doctor Carl Morris. I have a matter I’d like very much to discuss with…” Her eyes had swept away from his, in favor of staring at the black fluid he clutched in a white knuckled grip, “With you. I see. Forgive me. Would you like to dine first?”<br/><br/>She simply stared at him, a cord fastened between her teeth to keep her from speaking. It looked like a holdover from the Spanish inquisition, wrought iron and hinged to snap open and closed rapidly. Twisting the catch on the side, it came free from her lips with a sticky sound that made Morris shudder. As her mouth was ungagged, the Bishop gave the signal and the monks sealed the door swiftly.<br/><br/>Morris looked back nervously as he pulled the waxen cork from the vial. He approached her as if she might suddenly vomit fire ants all over him. Unable to resist, he sniffed idly at the vial, confirming for himself its contents. It was indeed black ink. As he lifted it to her lips, his hand shaking ever so slightly, she clenched her teeth against the glass, refusing to drink. Doctor Morris remembered what the Bishop had said and he murmured timidly, “Oh, please. Drink it. It’s a gift between friends. It’s… freely given.”<br/><br/>At the words “freely given”, her jaw opened wide, the shriveled remains of her tongue vibrating at him like a rattlesnake as she hissed excitedly. Morris jerked back, almost dropping the vial as the bound woman wheezed at him with a powerful need. Steeling his nerves, he motioned for her to tilt her head back. This she did dutifully, her jaundice yellowed eyes following his every move as he approached. He tried not to look with any greater scrutiny than the task required as he poured the ink well down her gullet, the viscous fluid staining her teeth as she gratefully gulped it down.<br/><br/>He gave it a last shake, skeptical that this frail thing would be of any use. She was terrifying to be sure, but then he had heard tales of The Courier that made him question whether an ink drinking mummy harlot was what they required. And then “it” happened.<br/><br/>The color seemed to seep into her long blond hair, indigo bleeding from her scalp. She gasped and struggled against her bonds, her body seeming to almost re-inflate with each choked breath. Her hair danced with a life all its own, dragging itself across the wall, clinging like ivy to the rock.<br/><br/>Black ink spattered across the stone, impossibly landing in the form of phrases and words. Morris could make out the stray snippet before the ink crawled further across the wall, reforming more glyphs and words in its wake. The language was puffed up with legalese and Latin, like a treatise of law. Looking back at the door desperately, he could see the words had already crawled along the oak. The ink had etched the floor beneath him as well, managing to squeeze beneath his boots, leaving the words heretofore and profit stained into the soft canvas soles.<br/><br/>He turned back to the woman, who looked much healthier, though still quite terrifying as she offered him the same cunning smile she’d tried to share when he’d first entered. Her lips were black and glistening as she clicked her teeth at him playfully, amused by his fear. Morris reached for his boot knife by reflex, eyes widening as he took note of the text as it slithered up his boot, the sentences scrawling themselves out like a snake wrapping itself around his leg. He jerked away with a shriek, almost losing his balance as he staggered away from the witch.<br/><br/>In a panic, all he could think to do was cover his face, keeping his mouth and eyes shut, for fear that the ink might crawl inside him. He felt it as it tickled over his skin, like the onward march of a thousand ants. The need to scream welled up inside as he felt the ink seeping through his clothing to caress his bare skin, but he dared not open his mouth.<br/><br/>Growing dizzy, Morris held his breath despite the agony of suffocation, his fear lending the strength of panic to his efforts. At last he cried out for air, gasping and choking as he fell to the floor. Wild eyed, he found the walls were bare once more. There was no trace of the ink across his clothing or indeed anywhere. The only evidence that the instance had occurred was chained to the far wall, her lips still stained with a shimmering black.<br/><br/>Gloriously crafted, she was as pale as cream and her form preternaturally lovely. One might think a sculpter had crafted her piecemeal, cherry picking the most gorgeous example of each limb from an array of models. One would be right, after a fashion. She nodded her head, her long black bangs shadowing her face as she pleasantly introduced herself, “My name is Adelaide Meek. I would be pleased to discuss your matter, Doctor Morris.”<br/><br/>“…” he replied before scrambling for the door, breaking a nail off in the rough oak as he scratched and pleaded to be let out. If he could steady his breathing long enough to listen, Bishop Sherbone could be heard chuckling on the other side of the door. Catherine had the decency to cover her mouth to stifle her own laughter, though she had decided that while the Bishop was certainly still a prick, he was a prick she could at least share a giggle with.<br/><br/>Meanwhile, behind the door, only when it became apparent no one was coming, and this was normal, did Doctor Morris turn to stare at Miss Meek. Still chained to the wall and smiling like an antique salesman at a duchess’ estate sale, she tilted her head to the side cheerfully, “Would it help if I said I was sorry? I do not often entertain company. I am sure you understand.”<br/><br/>Point of fact, Morris did NOT understand, but he was having difficulty remaining terrified. Too many years of rich food and wine had left him in no shape for a prolonged panic. His heart was pounding loud enough now that stars danced in his eyes, keeping pace with the drum beat of his blood. Adel tried to offer him a reassuring shrug, but it was nearly impossible given that she was still chained to the wall, “Oh, please do calm down. I am not so terrifying. I used to be a person too, I will have you know. Do you have any past times? We could talk about that for a bit. I suspect that could not help but calm you, yes?”<br/><br/>And so they talked. And talked.<br/><br/>Morris was well read in all aspects of the medical profession, his study extending from the frailties of the human form to the more delicate workings of the mind. He had done extensive work with Eugen Bleuler personally, and had an encyclopedic knowledge of Freudian psychiatry. Additionally, he had been married twice before. And so he knew she was trying to manipulate him.<br/><br/>Knowledge of this fact was little defense against her charm. He listened to her speak on a higher level than most did with the appreciation a magician had for a fellow illusionist performing amazing feats of sleight of hand. She mimiced many of his gestures, involved him in discussions of minutiae, while cold reading him like a seasoned merchant. Even knowing full well what she was doing, he couldn't help but be won over by her sociopathic charms.<br/><br/>They had discussed theater for ten minutes before he forced himself to remember that he was talking to one of the most venomous of Satan's children, "Forgive me, but to the matter at hand, what makes you think you are any match for this Illuminus?"<br/><br/>“What made you think to come here? I have dealt with her family before. You know from whence such aberrations as she spring forth, and also the stock from whence I come. Put simply my daddy is bigger than her daddy."<br/><br/>"Nyarla..."<br/><br/>"Tut-tut. It is poor policy to speak the names of unspeakable things. Unlike most of those dark things that are hiding in the corners of your perception, he listens when you talk about him. I think the theater is safer fare if you want to continue negotiating with me."<br/><br/>"I'm not negotiating. You know what I am here for. The offer is fair and not up for discussion."<br/><br/>"Hrmmm... If I agree to take care of your Illuminati problem, then your little organization will never again imprison or hinder me?"<br/><br/>"That is the deal, yes."<br/><br/>"I accept." She stood up suddenly, her chains literally evaporating as if they were made of steam. The gesture immediately took the salt out of Doctor Morris and he backed up against the door, suddenly once again VERY cognizant of the fact he was speaking to a monster. She licked her black lips again, stepping closer to him, "I hope you realize, there quite literally is no double crossing me in this matter, Doctor Morris. A deal is a deal."<br/><br/>Nervous as she approached, he tilted his head away, as if he were afraid meeting her gaze would prove somehow bewitching. He stammered at her, "The Church of England will abide by its pledge. This world is full of crusaders. You can be their problem. They will most likely kill you, rather than keep you locked away as we did."<br/><br/>"I’m hurt… emotionally. But what if I AM injured?" She moved in a strange fashion, seeming to almost glide forward at terrible speeds. Adel rested her hand against his chest, whispering softly, "I should like very much to think that you have concern for my well being. You are a gentleman, aren’t you, Doctor? Do you not subscribe to an oath of some kind?"<br/><br/>"Injured? Hah! I’m sure we can compensate you for it."<br/><br/>"... oh? You will compensate me? You ARE concerned for my well being."<br/><br/>“We wish for this to be a successful partnership. I am sure we can afford to tend to your wounds, Miss Meek.”<br/><br/>“Good.” She reached down to grip his hand, giving it a firm shake, her voice again playful and light, “Such nobility is rare.” Her grip was warm and strangely soothing. She had the distinct odor of freshly washed flesh, lilac and frankincense. He knew better, but his nose refused to accept the reality of the situation. He almost reluctantly took his hand back, rapping gently against the door with his forefinger, "Let us out. We've made a deal."<br/><br/>The Bishop hung his head as he gave the sign to open the door.