Chapter Seventeen

"Partners"

* * * * * * * * * * *

[Would you like to continue your partnership with Minerva Aincroft for another 24 hours?]

(Yes/No)

The display hovered over Minerva's head, unbeknownst to her. I thought long and hard about what to do and it ultimately came down to whether I could trust her or not. Would she share information with me? Did she see me as an ally? Or dead weight?

The answer was obvious. I tilted my head ever-so-slightly towards the "yes" option.

[You have renewed your partnership with Minerva Aincroft! Her experiences will enter into your log for the next 24 hours.]

I felt a pang of guilt in my stomach. But it had to be done. There were still too many unknowns with her. Plus, if she was going to investigate the inquisitor, she was putting herself in the line of fire. If things went south and she was executed, all her knowledge would be lost to me.

Minerva glanced at me, "Is something wrong?"

I shook my head. "No, just processing everything."

"It'll be fine. I'll take care of it," Minerva said matter-of-factly.

For some reason, the way she dismissed me stirred memories of my past life—working part-time jobs with grumpy employees who grew tired of explaining things to the new guy, saying things like, "just hand it over" or "Didn't anybody train you?"

I couldn't help but laugh. 

"What's so funny?" she demanded.

"Nothing, it just reminded me of something from, you know, back then."

This took her by surprise. With all the focus on the circle and the witch hunt, we had forgotten that we were both active aberrants. One of the few people here that remembered what it was like to be alive at one point.

"Let's just get through this, alright?" she said. "We'll cover more ground if we track different threads anyways."

As nighttime arrived, we agreed to stay within Minerva's prison. She explained that her trait was completely impenetrable for the entire night. A demon could claw at the barrier for hours, to no avail. That sounded good to me. After two straight nights of encountering demons, I was happy to have a night where I could rest easy.

"Bed goes to the guest, right?" Minerva said as she sauntered towards my bed and laid down. 

I glared at her. I probably would have offered the bed anyways, but it bothered me that she took it for granted.

She pulled the covers over her, then turned to me. "By the way, I can't be killed in this prison, so I wouldn't try anything." She then turned her back to me and fell fast asleep.

Out of curiosity, I picked up the paper airplane that Elara had made from the pamphlet and tossed it at Minerva's head. Just before making contact, it ricocheted off an invisible barrier, bouncing away with a sudden thrust of momentum. It landed against one of the walls and caught on fire. I watched it wither on the floor, crumpling into ash.

Hm, she really can't be hurt in here.

When I was certain Minerva was asleep, I pulled up my log and sorted the entries into a character sheet for her.

<Minerva Aincroft>

Age: 28

Occupation: Woodsman (Aberrant)

Demonic Trait: Prison Cell

<Prison Cell>

A trait that allows the user to trap a single subject within a prison for a night. 

Both the user and the prisoner will be protected from any outside attacks during this period.

The user has the ability to execute the prisoner at their whim.

[Hidden Condition]

I tilted my head in confusion when I saw the "hidden condition" line. It was displayed over blurred out text.

There's something about her trait that she's not telling me.

I felt reassured in my decision to continue my partnership with her. If she was keeping secrets, so would I.

I laid down on the ground, careful to stay away from the walls for fear of being burned, then fell fast asleep.

* * * * * * * * * * *

When morning arrived, the light-wrapped walls started to fade, letting the sunlight in through the window. Minerva yawned awake, brushing her messy hair out of her face. 

She was surprised to find me already up, looking through my logs for any clues I might have missed. I could tell she was amused by my trait, but she didn't find much value in it.

"I'll look into Inquisitor Hawkthorne," Minerva said. "When he's alone, I'll use my trait on him, and  If we're lucky, the circle will be conquered by next morning."

I hoped she was right, but couldn't help but feel skeptical. From my perspective, Minerva had come up with a plausible theory, but now she was searching for clues that proved it right. 

Instead, I would tackle the problem in reverse—investigate the targets and track the breadcrumbs back to witch.

After Minerva left, I cleaned myself up using the well water behind the inn, put on a fresh set of clothes, strapped Quill to my back, then set out for town.

My first stop was the butcher's shop. Minerva thought Walter was a convenient way for the witch to kill three people at once. But something about that didn't ring true to me. I went through Walter's log entries from the night of the attack and found something that slipped my memory.

[Walter's Log: The demon whisper by my ear, "... But that's what kindness gets you sometimes."]

"That's what kindness gets you..." What did that mean?

When I arrived at the butcher's shop, the front doors were locked with metal chains. Likely put there by the inquisitors. Instead, I made my way to the side, careful that nobody saw me, and found one of the windows unlocked.

The inside was just as it was when Ulrich and I holed up in there. The meat hooks and shelves were empty, while the knives hanging against the wall were sharp from disuse.

There was one empty spot where the butcher's cleaver once hung. I was reminded of the horrific scene the demon had left behind—Walter and Marcia in the middle of the street, soaked in blood.

I shook off the memory, then made my way up the stairs, where the Kemps resided. It was a humble home with a space to cook, sleep, and eat. Thick, wooden beams ran across the ceiling. Judging by the half-eat bowl of stew on the dining table that had started to go bad, the place hadn't been touched since the night they were killed.

After going through the cupboards and the chests, I found little of note. A few spice containers, wool clothes, and some pages that had the alphabet written several times in a shaky scrawl. Somebody was learning how to write. 

I left the shop, slightly disappointed by my search. But as I left through the side window, I noticed there was a small area behind the shop I hadn't noticed before.

It was a small patch of land surrounded by a wooden fence that came up waist-high. There was a vegetable garden with squash and lettuce. And in the corner, stood a small chicken coop that could hold two, maybe three, chickens at most.

I moved to get a closer look, when a smell suddenly hit me—the scent of rotting meat. I covered my nose with my arm then peeked inside the coop. Inside lay two dead hens, decomposing and covered in maggots.

Seriously? Nobody let them out? 

But then I noticed the iron lock on the coop's door. In addition to that, the structure was built atop a stone base, the supports were made of thick timber wood reinforced with steel braces, and  thorny brambles were scattered around the wire mesh. The Kemps had gone to great lengths to keep anyone from getting to their chicken.

I then recalled that Walter had mentioned something about this. I pulled up the logs and read through our conversation in the shop. 

[Log Entry: The butcher replied, "More like what hasn't. Sickness has torn through every farm in a ten mile radius, thieves are breaking in and stealing what little I can salvage."]

People must've been breaking into the chicken coop and they had to beef up the security.

This wasn't a good sign. People were getting hungry and having to resort to theft. It also meant they were more likely to riot. Ultimately, it meant the trials would only get more violent from here on and our clock was ticking.

I continued to search the property, but found nothing that stood out. I returned to the main street to discover the stray dog had appeared on the shop's front steps, pawing at the front door. 

It must be waiting for Marcia.

I felt bad for the stray. It had no clue what had happened to the Kempts. I purchased some bread at a nearby bakery, tore some pieces off, and tossed them to the stray. It sniffed at the pieces, wary at first, then happily scarfed them down.

Because my investigation of the butcher's shop was a dead-end, I pulled up Minerva's logs only to be bombarded by a constant stream of entries.

[Minerva's Log: Trouble brewing. Can't be see—]

[Minerva's Log: They've called guards. I h—]

[Minerva's Log: I can hear them shouting. They're clo—]

[Minerva's Log: Have to run.]

The entries kept popping up before I could finish reading them. But one thing was clear—Minerva was in trouble.