A Darkness Below: Chapter 3

Thank you everyone who gave me feedback on my previous chapters. Big shout out to @jedau for once again being an excellent source of creative advice and positive feedback! Enjoy this third chapter, and let me know what you thought of it in the comments. Upvotes are, as always, very much appreciated!

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The train came to a stop at the station, jarring Maggie from her sleep. Her dream had been pleasant, despite the outcome of their trip to Limerick, and she groaned in defiance of being awake.

"I'm not gonna hear it, Maggie. We're home, so let's get on with it," Daniel said, standing from his bench and reaching over to tug on her arm. Despite the audible protests, she acquiesced and pulled herself out of her nook. Her coat was still somewhat damp, which was something she'd have to get rid of as soon as possible. It was enough that her hair looked a mess, even in a bun, but she had no interest in spending the rest of the evening in wet clothes. Thankfully, it wasn't raining here, so she'd be spared any further precipitation on the way back to Cahir.

Daniel lead the way off the train and out of the station; she was content to walk behind him. Finnigan had bothered her more than she let on. Most of the time, she dealt with general threats like that the same way they all did. She ignored them, and she moved on with what you were doing or what information you were trying to gain. For some reason, though, that particular encounter was bothering her. Maybe it was the way he'd said it, that sort of complete disregard for his situation. Even creatures of evil like that didn't boast or brag when facing down imminent death, not unless they were the mad ones and failed to really comprehend the concept of permanent death. But the rest of them? They all crumpled near the end and tried everything they could to stave it off for just one more day. Then again, maybe she was just being paranoid. It wouldn't have been the first time she wrongly trusted information given to her by a source like Finnigan.

"I'm gonna call for a car. You good on your own, Maggie?" Daniel broke her from her thoughts, and she had to blink a couple of times before her brain registered it was being asked a question.

"Huh? Oh, yeah yeah, I'll be fine. Just gonna take a seat here on the bench," she said, sliding down onto the wooden bench in the station by the ticket booth.

"You sure? You seem out of it."

"I'm fine, Danny boy," she replied firmly, "so go make the call and get us back home. I'm gonna catch my death of cold if I'm out of here much longer."

Daniel rolled his eyes and fished a coin out of his pocket, heading into the phone booth. Maggie shuddered and pulled her coat around her a bit tighter, trying unsuccessfully to keep the early spring cold out of her. About the only time she ever did warm up was in the summer, and only then when it was a blistering hot day outside. Then she complained about the heat and stayed inside; a vicious cycle if ever there was one. It kept her awake, which she was begrudgingly beginning to accept was going to be her state of consciousness from now until late in the evening when she finally laid her head down. Unfortunately, this also kept her mind thinking on what Finnigan said. She debated whether or not she wanted to tell her father about the threat. The link between Finnigan and any sort of relevant haunt or clan was tenuous; even she'd had her doubts about what they could have actually gained by questioning him.

Then again, like the war posters said, "see something, say something." Even if it was nothing more than the last defiant act of a creature about to die, there might be some truth to it. She wasn't privy to everything going on in the Republic, and her father was. If this had meant something, he'd know about it.

"They'll be sending a car in about a half hour. Sergeant Warrick’s coming to pick us up," Daniel said, breaking her reverie. She responded with a wince and a quiet nod, eyes unfocusing as she returned to her thoughts. Rather than taking a seat beside her, Daniel remained standing, leaning against one of the support pillars for the ceiling and fishing out a cigarette from his pocket. The stick was lit, and he returned his lighter to his pocket, taking a slow drag that lingered in the cool, damp air.
The silence clung to them as it wore on. Whatever her thoughts, Daniel was considering what would happen when they returned. He was honor-bound to tell the truth to their handler, and it would no doubt raise some questions that Maggie would have to answer for. Likely nothing would come of it; she'd put herself in more compromised positions before and walked away with little punishment, something the other hunters had noticed and resented. Daniel never had. Whatever the reasons the tribunals kept finding to let her off easy, it wasn't because she asserted her lineage. If anything, she was burdened by it, the way a child is overshadowed by their parent's accomplishments. He puffed on his cigarette, trying to visualize Warrick's face when they told him their mission had been fruitless. No doubt it would be equal parts severe and disappointed.

"Warrick's gonna be pissed at me, isn't he?" She turned her green eyes up to him, furrowing her brows.

"Oh I'm sure he will be," Daniel replied, "but it's not like we coulda got something from that knuckledragger anyway. Dredgers are notoriously unreliable informants."

"Hm," she replied, turning her eyes back to the floor.

"Oh c'mon, Maggie, cheer up. I know I was an ass back in Limerick, but it'll be alright. Just don't like rushing things is all. There was a chance he could have mumbled on something about a bigger fish up the stream, y'know?"

"Maybe," she mused, before deciding to share her concerns with him. "You think there's anything to his threat about taking down the Order?"

"Pah, bunch of nonsense spouted by a demon facing the gates of Hell again, no doubt," he said, shaking his head and exhaling a plume of smoke toward the ceiling. "The freaks don't have the kind of numbers to manage that."

"Maybe, but how many of us have enlisted to fight the Nazis? We've barely got thirty people at Cahir now, and only half of those are hunters,” she said, looking up at him. The thought had occurred to him as well, and it played across his face for a moment. Still, he dismissed it, shaking his head and finishing his cigarette before he responded again.

"Unless all twelve undercrofts we know of banded together, I don't see them standing a chance, even now," he replied, tossing his cigarette down on the floor and stubbing it out with his foot. Maggie shot him a look, which elicited an exaggerated sigh before he picked up the crushed remains of his coffin nail and tossed it in the waste bin. "Not like anyone else gives a damn."

"It's an eyesore, and so is when you spit. Lord Almighty, I don't know why I liked you in the first place," she jabbed, flashing him a grin. He responded with an eye roll before sliding onto the bench beside her.

"It was my boyish good looks, and the size of my coinpurse, lassie," he said, grinning from ear to ear. She gave him a shove and shook her head, crossing her arms over her chest.

They weren't kept waiting much longer. The car arrived ahead of schedule, pulling up to the side of the road and coming to a halt. It was a beat-up Ford, a vehicle that had seen better days, but given the desperate need for war resources, it was a miracle that the Order even managed to keep that. Maggie grimaced when she saw who was sitting in the driver’s seat.

“I should be ready for an earful, shouldn't I?” She hung her head, but Daniel nudged her toward the car. She obliged, walking to the left rear door and climbing in. Daniel climbed in opposite her.

The man in the driver seat was exactly who she dreaded having to deal with: Sergeant Timothy Warrick. That wasn't what they called him around the barracks, though. The stout, powerfully built man with a shock of blond hair on his head and full beard was called the Taskmaster, and rightfully so. Of all the instructors she'd had, he was by far the harshest. She had him to thank for her ability to take care of herself in a pinch and her deadly precision with a gun and a stake. She kept her eyes aimed at the back of the seat in front of her, waiting for the hammer to fall. It didn't take long.

“So I take it your interrogation went well,” he said, not bothering to look back. Maggie winced, but she knew better than to keep her mouth shut.

“He didn't have anything, sir,” she replied meekly.

“I don't suppose you actually asked him enough to judge that, did you?”

“I-”

“Don't bother answering,” he barked, crossing his arms over his chest as they started back down the road. “Daniel filled me in. We spent more than a week developing that lead in the hope you'd learn something about the Dredgers and their angle in Limerick, but you got flustered and bollocksed it up in an instant. Don't think you're going to get off lightly with this.”
Daniel braced himself for the daggers that would no doubt fly from Maggie's eyes at him, but the actual result of the chastisement was anticlimactic. She closed her eyes and sighed quietly.

“Yes, sir.”

Apparently Daniel wasn't the only one to be surprised by her reaction. Warrick turned to look at her from the corner of his eye, creases forming around the edge as it narrowed. Contemplating his response, he decided to simply let the matter hang, turning back toward the windshield. He'd say nothing more of it; the disciplinary hearing would be conducted when they returned. Likely his threat would be empty, given her father's position and their strained numbers, but it would serve a purpose. Simply writing off the process was one step closer to chaos, and that was something he refused to allow.
The rest of the drive was made in silence. Maggie leaned her head against the window, watching the dreary sky and damp, green hills roll by as Daniel leaned his head back and caught some shut eye. She was secretly cursing herself for getting him involved in her mess, but it couldn't be helped. They worked together, and her failures reflected on him as much as they did on her. The same went for successes, too, and they'd had their fair share of those.

The castle grew on the horizon until it took up the windshield. The medieval fortress stood in stark contrast to the green hills around it, rising like a gray sentinel from the earth, wooden portcullis raised like an open maw. Cahir had long belonged to the Order, for more than a hundred years, and in all the tumult of the last century, it remained an unchanging secret symbol of their unending fight against the darkness. They passed through the gates and into the outer courtyard, rolling through the gravel before coming to a stop in the motorpool that had once been a stables.

Warrick stepped out as soon as the car stopped and waited for the two in the back. Daniel was equally quick to leave; only Maggie took her time getting out, which drew the ire of the Taskmaster, and he made his displeasure plain.

“Stop dragging your feet and get to your bunk. Get changed into some decent clothes and head over to the captain's office; he's already been appraised of what happened, and I'm sure he's eager to determine the next course of action for you,” he said, narrow eyes glaring at her before turning and heading through a door at the far side of the stables, disappearing inside.

“I'm sure you'll be fine, Maggie,” Daniel said, exhaling a deep breath and shaking his head. Maggie just slumped her shoulders and started for the door to the barracks.

“I'm sure I will be,” she replied, not bothering to look back as she stepped through the door.

She hurried across the outer courtyard to the female barracks and pulled the door open, ducking inside. The hall was lit by electric light, an amazing accomplishment given the scarcity of resources over the past few years. It had been upgraded to electrical lighting nearly twenty years ago, when Edison's grand invention had taken America and, by extension, England by storm. Now all it did was serve to remind them that there was a war on that they were not part of, not bound by the same rules as the rest of Europe to ration and donate to the war effort. At least, it did for Maggie.

The men and women of the Order occupied separate barracks buildings. Unlike the male barracks, which consisted of an open floor with bunks and footlockers, the female barracks had individual cells that ran along the side of the building. Each cell was large enough to provide a space for a desk, and a comfortable bed, but not much else. She hadn't made particular use of her assigned space, devoting it instead to the collection of books and reference material to develop leads she was handed down from her superiors. The armoire was the only bit of furniture that had some sort of elegance to it, though its contents were equally plain. She closed the door behind her and removed her coat, snapping some of the water off of it before setting it on the bedpost closest to her, then stripped her still-wet dress from her body, shuddering as she finally came free of the cold garment only to be exposed to equally cold air. It entered her mind then to turn the heater on underneath the window at the far end of the room. It wouldn't do much right now, but the room would be blissfully warm when she returned to it.
Maggie grabbed her towel from the side of her armoire and reached up, drying her hair. It would do until she could take a proper shower; she wasn’t dirty anyway, not really. She wasn’t dreading the disciplinary hearing that she’d have to report to in forty minutes, either. At worst, she’d be relegated to mundane tasks here at the castle. Likely she’d be put on suspension from field work for a few weeks before they’d realize she was still one of the best field agents they had, and they’d send her back out with Daniel. Her father would likely mention something to them and have her do some menial labor as a penance, but nothing serious ever came of them. She’d stood in front of enough of them by now to know this was what would happen. As she dried her hair and patted her body down, she mused over what inane tasks they’d assign to her.

The only thing that really bothered her was the way her father insisted on covering for her. It was never in any authoritarian capacity; William Winston Harold Sullivan was far too nice outwardly to ever sound like a dictator. No, he showed up with a small smile, insisted he was only there to watch the proceedings, and would make a gentle suggestion after her contingent leader decided what to do with her. It was always a kind word and a gentle hand with him, and everyone bent over backward to acquiesce, even if they didn’t want to. It aggravated her to no end.

“Yeah yeah, you were some big to-do thirty years ago, but now you’re an old man with a cane,” she muttered to herself, before she chastised her mind. He’d been a good father. He still was. She couldn’t fault him for wanting to watch out for her, even if she chafed under it. She made quick work of her uniform, throwing on the blouse and the green wool jacket with a grimace. The uniforms were always a pain. Ever since the Great War, the Order had decided to modernize and militarize their clothing and organization, so naturally green wool replaced priest’s shifts and nun’s headdresses. Most of the younger men enjoyed the idea of playing soldier. Maggie didn’t need a uniform to achieve that.

Maggie tossed her hair up into a ponytail as she left her room, tugging her red hair back and tying her black ribbon into a small knot to keep it in place. Her boots thumped quietly on the stone floor as she made her way down the hall to the barracks door, stepping out into the exterior courtyard. Brisk steps carried her across the grass and the gravel, walking through a stone archway that separated the barracks from the three administrative buildings on the other side of the castle grounds. She smoothed her fingers down the front of her olive drab jacket, picking a piece of lint from the field insignia on her lapel as she hung a right, hugging the dividing wall and making for the nearest set of double doors. The doors led her into the typing pool, where she passed several scribes at work on their typewriters. The sight reminded her that she’d have to file a field report sooner rather than later, and the thought made her groan. Paperwork. They were an organization that hunted monsters under the blessing of the Catholic Church, and they still had to fill out paperwork. A few paces past the scribe’s desk she hung a right, walking down a short hallway to the second building, pausing at the double doors that led to the officer’s executive suites.

“Alright then,” she whispered to herself, and opened the doors.

The doors led out into another hallway, which terminated at a stairwell. The stairs led up to the apartments the ruling council kept at the castle. To her right, though, was the door she was looking for and loathed seeing. Stepping through it, she retraced the steps she’d taken every time she’d been called to a disciplinary hearing, walking past the first two office doors to the last door on her left. Composing herself, she knocked crisply on the door twice.

“Enter,” came Warrick’s voice from the other side.

She opened the door and stepped through, shutting it quietly behind her before she marched in front of the desk at the opposite side of the office. Behind it were seated three men, who composed her direct chain of command. There was Warrick, seated to her left, who was her first line supervisor. Seated behind the desk was her contingent leader, James Barclay. He had the dubious distinction of being the only Scotsman in their branch of the Order, so in his own way, he’d had to fight against the established order here to prove himself worthy of his title.

Only he hadn’t. He’d proven, time and time again, that he preferred inaction and consideration over more direct methods. Her father had insisted that she was simply being impetuous, and that reconnaissance was worth more than direct action was. Somehow she didn’t buy that line when it came to her esteemed contingent leader. There was reconnaissance, and then there was excessive hesitation. She snapped her heels together and rendered a sharp salute.

“Hunter Lance Corporal Sullivan, reporting as order, sir.”

Barclay stood and rendered a more relaxed salute in return before motioning to the chair behind her. She slid into it and sat bolt upright, resting her hands on her legs.

“You’ve been brought before me today because, according to Field Sergeant Warrick, you failed your mission due to gross errors in judgement and disregard for commander’s intent. Based on your previous disciplinary record, I’d wager this was a direct, intentional violation of your orders. Field Sergeant Warrick has already informed me as to what happened, and I’m certain your field report will clarify any details that he left out. Have you anything to say in defense of your negligence?”
Maggie bit the inside of her cheek to keep herself calm. This ponce was going to sit behind his cushy desk and lecture her about negligence and disregard. She let it go, and released her cheek.

“No, sir.”

“Very well. You are suspended from field work for thirty days and confined to the castle grounds for the duration of that time. Your field sergeant will assign you new duties as appropriate.”

Before she could respond, the door handle turned and the door creaked open. She didn’t have to look back to realize who it was; Barclay rising from his seat and then promptly sitting back down was enough for her to know that her father, as expected, had decided to peek in on the proceedings. The door closed behind him, and Barclay recomposed himself.

“Do you understand the nature of your sanctions and agree to abide by them?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Very well. You are dismissed. You’re dismissed as well, Sergeant Warrick, with my thanks.”

She stood from her chair and saluted again, which Barclay returned while seated, before she turned and headed for the door. Her father gave her a nod, which she did not return, and she stepped out of the office into the hall. Warrick followed her out and caught her in the hallway.

“Sullivan, hold up.”

Maggie stopped and turned to look at him, clasping her hands behind the small of her back.

“As far as this confinement goes, I don’t give a damn about you leaving the grounds. You can take that and put it on me if it comes down to it. But you have got to stop bollocksing up investigations. You’re not helping anyone, and I’m tired of having to sit in front of Barclay and listen to him go off on one of my people, like he knows anything about field work.”

“Yes, sergeant.”

“Don’t you ‘yes, sergeant’ me, lass. That’s fine and dandy for him in there, but that’s not gonna cut it with me. Am I making myself clear?”

“...yes. Sergeant.”

Maggie was stone-faced, in spite of Warrick’s growing frustration with her. She admired his restraint, though. Of all the men under him, she was the only one that managed to drive him up a wall. The door opened again and caught both their attention, and they both saw her father walk out of the room. Warrick snapped to attention, but her father simply waved his hand.

“Relax, sergeant. I’m just here to see what’s going to happen to Maggie now that she’s been put on sanction.”

“I was going to assign her to the scribes, sir. Get her to file and correct reports. Hopefully the attention to detail she’ll utilize there can serve her field work after she’s returned to duty.”
William smiled a bit wider, but Maggie turned her attention back to Warrick, standing straight and cutting a sharp profile at parade rest. William stepped down the hall with his cane, coming to a stop just a couple of paces from the pair.

“If you could, have her assigned to provide sustenance to our guest downstairs. You know the rules with that. Might encourage some restraint on her part,” he said, eyes taking on a mischievous gleam. Maggie groaned internally. Last thing she wanted to do was end up downstairs, feeding some decrepit monster that was chained to a wall. Warrick, on the other hand, seemed pleased by the idea.

“Excellent suggestion, sir. I’ll see that she takes to it in addition to her filing duties.”

“Fantastic. If there’s nothing else, sergeant, I’d like to speak to my daughter a moment.”

Warrick snapped to attention and turned to leave the room. Maggie remained where she was until he was gone before she turned to her father. “Really? Feed the wretch in the dungeon? How is that going to teach me anything?”

“Well, for a start, it’ll teach you to remain calm and collected in the face of the enemy. It’s also going to teach you to listen. He likes to talk, and he’s been lacking in substance lately when I’ve gone down to talk to him.”

“Oh, so now I have to go down and do it because he doesn’t want to talk to you. What, you think a pair of tits and some legs is going to change his mind?”

“Maggie, calm yourself. I never meant that and I didn’t think that.”

“No, but it’s just as well. I get that I’m in trouble. That’s why I didn’t mouth off or fight back or anything else. But this is nonsense. I’m not going to be subjected to going down there and dealing with your pet project-”

“Mareid,” he said, the smile leaving his features and his brow furrowing slightly. “You’re under sanction. I’m not asking you to go down there and take samples from him, or subject him to experimentation, or anything else. Just toss him a blood pack, and listen to him for a few minutes. Right?”

Maggie stood stock straight and stared ahead, clenching her jaw. She didn’t want to go down there. She’d thrown out all of that reasoning to cover the fact that she was afraid to go down there in the dungeon with that thing. She’d been down there twice before, when she was younger, as a dare among her and the male trainees, and that had been enough. Now it looked like her father wasn’t going to budge on it, and down she’d have to go again.

“You’ll be fine. He’s not going anywhere, and he can’t get free. He’s warded down more heavily than anything else the church has had the pleasure of storing. You’ll be alright. Now, if you please, head to the infirmary and get a pack to take down to him.”

She gave a nod and let her head hang down a bit as her father gave her shoulder a pat. He turned and headed out of the room, leaving her alone in the short corridor. Oh well, she thought. If that was what she was going to have to do, she might as well get it done with and out of the way. She dropped her hands and turned, leaving the room and heading down the hallway to carry out her task.

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Andrei Chira is an anarcho-capitalist, former 82nd Airborne paratrooper, vaper, and all-around cool guy. He's a father to one wonderful little girl named Kate, lives down in Alabama, and spends his time writing stories, posting to Steemit (not as much as he probably should), and cultivating the mental fortitude to make it through three years of law school.