Web of the Weaver: Sidestory, Mysterious Death in a Gray Boy Zone! Secrets Start To be Unveiled!

The store was dark, rich with the scent of fruit and bread. AT the end of the aisles was a grandmotherly looking women reading a news paper. Her eyes widened when she saw us.

“¡Tú eres la chica que luchó contra el diablo!”

“I—pardon me?” I said. I thought I knew but she’d been…

“The girl who fought the devil,” Stimmons said.

“Leviathan?” I said, mind going blank for a moment as the woman bustled around and started shaking my hand.

“¡No, ese bastardo de Kaiser! ¡Es un puto monstruo!” Then she looked up at me and turned bright red. “I’m sorry,” she said, her voice heavily accented. “I was so excited. My little brother lived in Brockton Bay.” She gestured towards a picture on the wall, a few candles on a shelf below it. It was a teen, looking serious in a tuxedo at some kind of event. “My little nephew… Papi always told him to stand up for anyone who needed it… But…” She sighed and suddenly looked old. “He stood up to the Empire, and they beat him to death.”

“I’m… sorry,” I said. I didn’t know what else to say.

“It is fine. He is with Christ now, looking down upon us. He always said he’d never forget to watch us.”

I nodded.

“I’m…”

“Ah, I’m sorry, I’m Maria Escobar. Do you need anything?”

“You know of the boy who killed himself?”

Maria nodded, crossing herself. “That poor boy, so nice… he was a good boy. There will be a Mass for him, this Sunday.”

“That’s good.” I held up the half-burned candle. “But I’m not certain—we found this by where he’d entered the…”

“Lugar de los santos atormentados.” She paused. “Place of the tormented saints.” She crossed herself again.

“Saints?” I asked.

“It’s…” She looked around for a moment. “Father Lake says it’s just a superstition, but I believe it. As Christ was tormented, so are they, but because they may never die, they will be alive to see Christ return, and will be freed and healed as his Saints who lived through the tribulation. They suffer as Christ suffered, to help redeem the earth.”

I said nothing for a moment. But it made sense. How could a religious person reconcile the meaningless suffering of the Gray Boy victims with their religion? Make the suffering mean something.

“Do you… have any ceremonies?”

“We pray for them in church. And once a week, we leave prayers and candles, asking the saints and angels to relieve their suffering.”

“Have you ever… entered?”

Her eyes went wide. “No! We would never gawk at their suffering.”

“I understand.” I expect you’re telling the truth… but then… “Was Michael a part of this…”

“No.” She shook her head. “Poor niño, he was into his games and school. The police wanted to know what he did wrong! Asked us if he ever tried to steal booze.”

“Ah. So, he wouldn’t use this?” I indicated the candle again.

“Oh no, that’s for the team. They come in here every few weeks and buy a bunch. I guess its for some silly game thing, unless they go to a lot of confirmations.”

“Was Michael a part of this?”

“He came once or twice…”

I nodded. “Thank you, Mrs. Escobar. We won’t take any more of your time…” I turned and then, as if I’d thought of something, casually spoke. “Oh, I forgot, when did you say they started buying candles?”

“The beginning of last year.”

And the beginning of school football…

“Thank you I—“ I stared, there were candles facing me. Prayer Candles, some for success in business, safety in law breaking and…

I picked up a candle, staring at it. There was an illustration of a mass of bugs rising up, and underneath it, the image of St. Michael, holding up his shield and below him a cowering man.

“Light the candle and pray,” I read the instructions. “St. Michael, who cast down Satan, raise your shield that I might be saved from the Demon that comes for me as I attempt to go about my labors.” Then there were instructions to fix this in your mind, and keep the candle lit for seven days before you “regained your property.” Underneath that was a note that the manufacturer did not condone criminal behavior.

It wasn’t the only candle. I counted at least four saints…

“This is…”

“Oh, that…” she suddenly glanced at Agent Stimmons. “It’s a mistaken shipment. Those are candles that criminals think shield them and the Devil in the Bay is up here, so they buy them. Like I said, I don’t normally stock them.”

Stimmons tried to stifle a laugh.

“Why do they think the devil is up here?” I asked.

“Well, I didn’t know the man, but a friend of his sister was in here talking…” and with that we spent several minutes hearing about a man, total disgrace to his family, had been trying to sneak into a building, he claimed to get some property, but everyone knew the truth, when a wasp nest became agitated and he told everyone that a daemonic voice recounted the punishments of Hell that awaited sinners to him as he fled. The Priest had heard his confession, both of the crime and his use of several bottles of liquid courage, and he was in rehab right now, but other people, upon hearing his story, also recalled hearing the rumbling sound of something laughing at the sinner who God had allowed it to punish…

An amusing story.

Well it would have been more amusing before Orb Weaver decided to talk while I was unconscious. I had a sudden image of a mass of bugs rising when I went to sleep, shambling around like some zombie from a bad film while punishing the guilty.

Then I calmed down. Agent Stimmons looked much more amused than he would be if the PRT had even the slightest worry about that possibility.

“I would like to purchase some, if you don’t mind.”

“Ah, no! Let me give them to you!”

Later as we headed back to the car, Agent Stimmons stared at me. “You’re not planning… to pull a joke on Orb Weaver, are you?”

“Of course not.” I shook my head.

“Good. Director Piggot has gone on at length about her hopes that Orb Weaver remains… calm.”

“He did make an impact.”

But no. However, if I should come up with a way that Orb Weaver can make use of this… I’d have to be very careful. In addition to being offensive, claiming actual divinity was something associated with very nasty groups. But implying… Yes. I could work with that.

With that, we headed back to the car.

But as he got in, Agent Stimmons looked at me. “So what’s your thought?”

“A group of people, associated with Michael. Signs that they have been there multiple times, and the football team bought candles found at the site. What do you think, Agent Stimmons?”

“I think we may have the who, but do you have the why?”

“No. Not for certain, but I will after tomorrow.”

****

That night, I ate and spent the evening in my room, a nice hotel room. I might have met the Wards, but the problem was, the nature of my investigation, the victim and the Gray Boy connection meant that right now the PRT wanted to keep it, as much as possible, on the QT.

I agreed, and to be honest…

I was tired. There were limits to what a week of therapy and Panacea could do.

And I was also…

You lied, or didn’t tell Stimmons the full truth. But I had a feeling I knew what the root of this was, and it might have been better had there been some deep meaning to it. But I remembered hearing that one of Winslow’s “rituals” for their football team was to pour a bucket of piss on new members. A silly, stupid, brutal initiation, reflecting the initiations of the gangs in a way that left stink and not scars. But it presented an issue for me be—

The phone rang and I quickly answered it. “Hello?”

“I am Accord.”

I went still. My bugs were tracking everyone in the building, and there was no sign of anyone moving but…

Accord was notorious for traps.

Don’t get paranoid. He’s also not known for being a show-off. If he wanted you dead, he wouldn’t warn you.

“Ah,” I started speaking, in a formal tone. “I am The Investigator. I take it this involves my current case.”

“Gray Boy victims can lead to disorder, especially if the Butcher feels disrespect was shown.”

And if I’m right, disrespect was certainly shown. Fuck me.

“And you wish the case resolved in a way that doesn’t cause disorder, which would mean little public knowledge of what happened.”

“Yes.”

“Before I continue, I must ask—the Butcher is known as your enemy for a number of reasons. Can you assist in preventing any retaliation?”

“Yes. The Butcher reigns but does not rule. The other members of the Teeth follow his orders, but can also guide him due to the instability of the Butcher Collective. They are also not immortal. So long as the events are not broadcast in a way that the Butcher cannot ignore them and there is punishment for any perpetrators, they can be convinced to maintain the calm of the city.”

Now that’s interesting. I’ll have to bring that up to Director Armstrong, although he probably already knows.

“I will communicate this to the PRT and Protectorate, and ensure that any others in this case, understand the vital importance of being discreet. May I also point out that if it comes to the peace of the city or their welfare, you would likely choose the peace of the city?” In other words, if you don’t play along, Accord will totally murder you in some very convoluted manner.

“You may. Also, my associates in the Bay have spoken very highly of both your skill and your discretion. I may at some point in the future wish to hire your services.” With that, the phone went off.

I lay back in bed, taking some deep breaths. Well. That hadn’t been terrifying, not at all.

Then I brightened up. I might not be able to use Orb Weaver to motivate my suspects to talk, but Accord and the Butcher were certainly an excellent substitute.

With that, I undressed and went to bed.