Chapter 38: Sanctified in Service
He could feel it.
Watching them die like that. Seeing the guilt—the only thing left in that girl's eyes before the end. It churned in his gut, boiling over.
Not rage. Not some hero's righteous fury.
Just pure, seething hate.
He hated what he saw. Hated how many times he'd seen it before.
Who knew what that family had done? Harbored natives? Crossed the wrong official? Only God and the Devil knew. And the Church liked it that way.
Watching the Inquisitor kneel and pray over their crushed corpses sent venom straight to his gut.
'Hypocrites. All of 'em.'
Then a thought crept in.
Maybe the rumors were true.
Maybe these men weren't men at all.
Pulling his hat lower, he raised a hand to shield his eyes.
'Let's see what he's made of.'
He activated his thermal vision.
And froze.
'What the hell am i looking at?'
Nothing.
No glow. No heat. No living warmth beneath the robes. Just cold. A deep, solid blue.
His mind barely had time to process it before the Bloodhound moved.
The Inquisitor straightened. Abrupt. Mechanical. His head turned—toward Levi.
He almost—
Bright red.
Someone stepped in front of him. He deactivated his vision.
A tall, skinny man in a black suit. His back to Levi.
The Hound hesitated, tilting his head.
Then, without a word, he turned. And walked toward the cathedral.
Finally, the crowd began to stir, most refused to move first, but there was enough shifting, so he shouldn't stand out. Levi took it as his chance to slip away—
Until a deep voice stopped him.
"Your name is Levi, correct?"
A threat?
His body tensed, hand drifting toward his knife as he turned. But the moment he saw who had spoken, his grip loosened—just a little.
Solomon Graves.
The man stood like a headstone—tall, ebony-skinned, unmoving.
Levi exhaled slowly.
"And you're Solomon."
"Mr. Graves, if you would."
Levi's eyes flicked to the Inquisitor, still walking away. He turned back, impatience plain on his face.
"What can I do for you, Mr. Graves?"
"Nothing at the moment. I simply wished to introduce myself… and offer a bit of advice."
Graves' tone was smooth, deliberate.
"You should never look at a Hound like that. They tend to take offense."
Levi's grip tightened. Had he been watching him?
As if reading his thoughts, Graves gave a small, knowing smile.
"Don't worry. I was merely standing in the right place at the right time. Till we meet again, Mr. Wilson."
With a slight bow, he turned and strode toward Whispering Pines Road.
Where the dead belonged.
Levi frowned. His stomach twisted.
"Hold on… Wilson? I never told him my last name. Maybe Rufus?"
He watched Graves disappear down the road, hands folded behind his back like he had all the time in the world.
Levi made a note to stay the hell away from that man.
His eyes drifted back toward the cathedral. The Bloodhound was gone.
Only the bodies remained.
They'd stay out for a full day before being dumped in an unmarked grave.
The frontier had taken more lives.
And as Levi turned toward the orphanage, he told himself he shouldn't care.
No one else did.
----
As the setting sun cast it's last rays over the horizon, Levi threw on his poncho and stepped onto the porch.
He sank into one of the rocking chairs, resting on a full belly, feeling better than he had in a long while. His eyes flickered with a soft glow as he looked up—fading reds and oranges rippling like water. The cold night was creeping in.
"Winter's coming."
The screen door creaked open.
Edmond stepped out, settling into the chair beside him.
"Think we got enough to get through it?"
"We'll be good. The bounty was more than enough."
Edmond tipped his hat low, thinking. Then—
"I never asked—how's it feel? Being a bounty hunter? Think you'll stick with it?"
Levi didn't answer right away. Just kept watching the sky, taking in the last streaks of color. His eyes glowed again before fading back to normal.
"Are they all like that? 'Cause if they are, think I'd rather stick to the docks."
Edmond smirked. It was the answer he expected. And it made sense. But something about it didn't sit right. Maybe it was pride, maybe something else—but a part of him didn't want to give up on the idea just yet.
"Crimson Song."
He said the name like a ghost of a thought.
Levi tensed. His gut turned.
"They're not all like her. But I won't lie to you—most of them don't deserve it. Even the ones that do. They're just victims of this world."
"So why do it? Why not just go after the outlaws? The ones that do deserve it?"
Edmond almost laughed.
"Things aren't that simple. You should know that by now."
Flipping his hat back, he sat forward, shrugging off his coat.
"Five years back, sickness swept through Denton. Bad one. All the kids got sick. Medicine they needed was in short supply."
He motioned toward the edge of the property, where a lone cross stood beneath a cluster of bare trees.
Inside the house, Rufus lingered in the doorway, holding a finger to his lips as he motioned for the kids to stay quiet. He guided them toward the back of the house, keeping his steps light. This wasn't a conversation for them. Or for him.
"We didn't have the money for it. But there was a bounty—one that could've paid for it all. I refused to take it. It was a Waster, killed a dozen settlers over a few months. A young man I knew. One I served with."
His eyes stayed locked on that cross, like nothing else in the world existed.
"My foolish ideals cost her her life. Lyla died waiting for medicine I could've bought. But by the time I was willing, it was already too late for her."
Edmond finally looked at Levi. His face gave nothing away.
"Sometimes, it ain't about what should be done. It's about what needs to be done."
He leaned back, adjusting his hat over his eyes.
"Eliza needed peace. So did the folks she hurt. You gave them that. Whether she deserved what happened, or deserved to be remembered like that—I don't have those answers. But Rufus and I? We do what we know. We do what we need to."
A pause. Then—
"Guess you need to figure out what you know, and what you need to do."
Edmond shifted under his coat, settling in.
"Something tells me, though—whether you and I want to admit it—those blades aren't leaving your side anytime soon."
A slow exhale. A small smirk.
"Now off with ya. Porch is my nap spot."
Levi sat there a moment, turning Edmond's words over in his mind. Eventually, he stood and stopped just before opening the screen door.
"Any tricks for dreams?"
Edmond sighed, then shook his head.
"Sorry, kid. Wish I had an answer."
Levi figured.
Even if he did, he had enough sense to know, every man had to face his own demons.
Stepping inside, he left Edmond to his nap, but the words stuck with him.
What did he know? What did he need to do?
He wasn't sure. But one thing kept coming back to him, just like Edmond said.
Glancing at his arm, he felt his shoulders lighten. His thoughts cleared.
He knew who did this to him.
And he knew they needed killing.
Clenching his fist, he turned toward the basement door, his face set.
"I got time. Maybe bounty huntin' won't be so bad. Just gotta get used to it."
"Used to what?"
Rufus' head popped out from the hall, a smoke clenched between his teeth.
"Used to that fuckin' shine! Grow some hair, ya eavesdroppin' son-of-a—hey!"
TSUNK! TSUNK! TSUNK!
Bolts whizzed past as Levi dived for the basement door.
"Fucking psycho!"
Boom-bam!
"Fuck!"
Bang! Slam! Smack! Crash!
Levi hit the bottom of the stairwell, wide-eyed, heart pounding.
Flat on his back, staring at the ceiling, he groaned.
"I hate him. I hate him so much."
Rufus stood at the top of the stairwell, grinning around his smoke, teeth shining in the dim light.
"Grow some on your balls before you talk about a man's hair. Little bitch."
Slam!
Levi lay in the dark, staring at the ceiling, bruised and thinking.
Maybe bounty hunting wasn't a good idea.
----
It was cold. Far colder than it should be.
The thought flickered through Bishop Cornelius Fletcher's mind before he forced it aside. He needed to focus.
Standing on this side of his own desk felt unnatural. Wrong. But the man seated before him demanded respect. A fool would complain. A dead fool.
So, he smiled. He fawned. He waited.
The Hound of Heaven said nothing.
A minute passed in silence. Then another.
Fletcher swallowed. He had no idea what could even be said between them. A Hound didn't speak.
Finally, the Inquisitor moved.
Fletcher tensed as a brass box was pulled from the Inquisitor's robes and set gently on the desk between them. A long, bony finger pressed a button on the side.
Like before, the hum of a spinning record filled the air.
But this time, the voice that followed was more human.
"Bishop Cornelius Fletcher. By decree of the High Pontiff, you are to redouble your efforts. The scourge spreads. Reports of Wasters are rising. The enemy gathers. We must be prepared."
Fletcher kept his face still. Show nothing. Not fear. Not doubt. Nothing that could be mistaken for weakness. Or something worse.
The voice continued.
"This is the beginning. The Reformation will usher in the Purge. All who walk the righteous path must guide their flock in the days to come. But the flock must be clean."
Silence. A beat of static.
Then the Hound reached into his robes again.
A single piece of parchment slid onto the desk. A wanted poster.
"The heretic provided shall be your top priority. Bring him to heel. Alive. Notify me the moment he is secured. This is your duty, your holy charge. Your path to God is written before you. Walk it without hesitation."
A final pause.
"Sanctify your hands in service. Amen."
The voice cut. The hum of the box faded.
Only him and the Hound of Heaven remained.
Slowly, Fletcher lowered himself to his knees, pressing his forehead to the floor. His voice even, yet fervent.
"Your servant obeys the will of our Lord."
He stayed bowed. Still. Silent.
Even as the Hound rose.
Even as the Inquisitor paused beside him, breath like distant thunder in his ears.
Even as the cold deepened.
It was only after the Hound had left—long after—that Fletcher finally stood.
His hand trembled as he slicked back his black hair, feeling suddenly twice his age.
Then his eyes fell to the wanted poster.
Something gnawed at him. A whisper of familiarity. A memory just out of reach.
"Why does he look familiar?"
He stared at the drawing.
A young man. Hair tied back. Eyes like a killer's.
Face covered in scars.