The Coven smelled of damp wool and scorched incense.
Its familiar clutter of spellbooks, empty bottles, and ancient weapons seemed almost indecently comforting.
Coil emerged first, followed by Hull, whose boots struck the flagstones with a noise like a dropped safe.
Vixen stepped through last, adjusting her hair.
The black door shut behind them.
For several seconds nobody spoke.
Then footsteps sounded.
Demon stood beside the hearth, his lean face illuminated by green flames.
Grip occupied the divan, where he was methodically removing splinters from his left hand.
“You’re late,” said Demon.
“We took the scenic route,” Coil replied.
Grip grunted. “Through where?”
“An error.”
Hull sat heavily in an armchair.
It collapsed, recovered, and collapsed again, apparently uncertain which century it occupied.
Vixen surveyed her companions. “You escaped?”
“Eventually,” said Demon.
“We found ourselves in a kingdom where every promise became a physical object.
Grip promised to neutralize the pretender “
Grip displayed his wounds. “The pretender was a remarkable bastard.”
“We stole a boat,” Demon continued, “sailed through a sea of memories, and came ashore in a place where shadows were resided. Fortunately, I knew the Way”
Coil nodded appreciatively. “Professional work.”
“Then we followed a talking crow to a door.”
The shadowrunners looked towards the new door in the wall.
It possessed neither handle nor keyhole.
Upon its surface, silver letters slowly arranged themselves into a sentence:
THE COMPACT REMAINS IN FORCE.
Hull rose. “I’ll break it.”
“Certainly,” said Coil. “And when it opens into the inside of your skull, do try not to inconvenience us.”
Vixen approached the door, listening.
From somewhere beyond came the faint clink of armour.
She smiled.
“Gentlemen, I believe our landlord has arrived.”
Demon poured five drinks.
“Excellent,” he said. “We should discuss the rent.”
And somewhere beyond, something ancient began to laugh.
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