Someone has sliced through the ancient earth with unstoppable will. Diggers have carved up old rocks and blasted through antediluvian formations. Centennial trees were felled and processed to produce the train tracks in front of us. The steel of its beams glints under the light, cold as the ancient stone that surrounds it but more dead than wizened. Cross half the country and I could find their exact copies, but I would be hard pressed to find ancient mountains eroding quietly like the Black Hills do. I find it all quite interesting. Truly, progress reaches out to everyone, ready or not.

On said tracks waits an armored moving fortress that I shall call a train for the sake of simplicity. I am feeling lyrical at the moment, and will indulge by comparing it to some invasive species of armored beetle belching smoke like a dragon belches fire. Men will soon shovel coal into its sooty entrails, but for now the beast squats quiescent in the clearing, waiting.

Waiting for us to be ready.

Urchin, John and I have changed into our uniforms with record speed. I have hidden my hair into a slightly larger cap and dressed myself in a baggy uniform with the vest reaching to my thighs for additional discretion. A delicate use of the Vanheim essence has softened my expression until I look more like a young boy at the edge of puberty than an adult woman, an image I shall reinforce with proper posture and gait. With Urchin and the very noticeable John by my side, I expect that I will merely be overlooked as a new recruit among a cadre of veterans. If necessary, I shall use a bit of suggestion to reinforce that effect.

John turns instinctively when we are approached. The assembled troops of Mr Adler and Mr Bingle scramble to prepare their weapons under the disapproving glare of Adler himself, a man with intelligent features and horn-rimmed spectacles, but also an unfortunate short stature that several of Mr. Bingle’s mastermind antagonists and backstabbers have shared over the volumes. I am not quite certain where this prejudice comes from, but I suspect it might be an emotional scar associated with Napoleon, who was said to be short himself. In any case, the man walks to me with clear anger in his steps and two goons by his side.

It always amuses me when people realize that my own small size is merely a trick of perspective, that I am in fact rather tall for a woman, and that yes, John is that large. Truly. The thugs’ eyes widen when it becomes clear they are in the presence of a superior specimen, an alpha goon as it were, though to underestimate John’s patient intellect would be a mistake. The man is unimaginative but he can be quite thorough. Adler does not stop. To him, every goon is too large to matter anyway, I suppose.

“So, you are a woman,” he accuses.

“Yes,” I amicably reply.

I want to smile and allow myself to do so. Ah, but our perspectives must be so different. He believes he plays a high-stake game for his own future and that the next hours will decide his fate. Fortune or infamy will be his until death depending on our performance, he thinks. Only we three know that Mr Adler is playing with loaded dice and that, although Alexander may die in the process, evil will not be allowed to succeed no matter what. He will necessarily be caught and punished. My condescending smile sends him into a fit of barely contained rage.

“And you are supposed to be our demolition expert? Do you have any idea — “

“Hush,” I reply. “Shhhh. There, there,” I reply, and place a finger before his mouth.

Adler is too stunned to react. One of the goons is more sensible and realizes I have insulted his employer, but a simple shake of John’s head suffices to convince him he is not paid enough to jump to the defense of the obnoxious man’s honor. I use this opportunity to clear the air.

“You were about to tell me how much you have worked and sacrificed for this plan to come to fruition, and then lament that your partner is showing a terrible lack of professionalism by bringing in a woman to handle the explosives. I appreciate that I may not look like what you expected, but let me instead remark upon certain facts regarding your own preparations.”

By now, Adler has recovered. Instead of showing anger, his expression has turned cold and calculating. His pale blue eyes search my face for hints of something — I do not know what exactly.

“Firstly, you did not order nearly enough dynamite to force an arm-thick vault open. I have brought my own just in case. Secondly, you did not order percussion caps so the explosives you bought could not have been detonated. Thirdly, the structure of the vault means that I will have to shape the charge or risk a full collapse, a process that only a few people on the planet know is even possible. And fourthly, I am also an expert safe-cracker.”

I tap on the small chest in Urchin’s hand.

“This is plan A, and…”

I point at the conical shaped charge in John’s large mitts.

“This is plan B.”

I look into his eyes, leaning forward until we are level.

“I will get us through that door and into the safe, Mr Adler. Count on it. You should make sure your part of the plan goes off without a hitch instead of worrying about me. After all, there are so many complex steps to follow,” I assure him with a smile.

I enjoy the burst of anxiety that spices the man’s essence at the thought that, perhaps, we are onto him. That we know he will betray us. The sweet hint of terror and faster heartbeat makes the two Courtiers at my side react. One of Urchin’s talons digs into the wood box with a creaking sound. Fortunately, they both fed yesterday and we should be fine for a while.

Adler chases away the suspicion out of a deep-seated belief in his own superiority. I can practically see the cogs turning in his head. He is the smartest person present, and therefore cannot possibly have been outsmarted. Thus comforted, he finally frowns when it occurs to him that I have taken control of the conversation. A man like him needs to have the last word. I allow it.

“Make sure we do get in the vault. It’s all our heads on the line if we don’t,” he says.

With one last glare to imply that this is a threat on my head and my life specifically, he departs. I watch him stomp away with cold delight.

“Should we get on, Miz Ari?” John asks.

“As soon as our team is ready, yes.”

Night just fell and the temperatures are already freezing. The mortals hurry with great haste to close the armored doors behind themselves. We move on in a middle carriage with the rest of the Godling’s agents. They outnumber us six to one, I’d say. It seems like an large number for a gold convoy escort but I admit not being familiar with the mint’s security protocols. In short order, the heavy train leaves the wilderness, pushing on through copses of old pines. There are windows in our carriage though they look more like murder holes than anything else. I keep an eye out while many of the men check their weapons one last time, probably hoping they will not have to use them. If a gunshot rings outside then things will have gone tragically off course.

It takes an hour for the ground to be more level and for the path in front of us to open on a small wooded valley. The ‘ka-chunk’ of the wheels slow down until we slowly, slowly stop. I bid John open the gate and we move out on a small concrete platform. A simple stone path leads up towards a tiny hill with forests and snow-covered earth all around. A few lights to our left hints at the edge of the military base. To the right, the tracks extend east back to our origin and, if everything goes well, our destination. A few heavily dressed sentries with lanterns are making their way down to the first car which Adler is in the process of exiting. They do not seem alarmed.

I feel Whispers and Honoré leave from the other side. Their task will be to cut the telegraph line and I wish them good luck in this weather. Felicia will stay with the train and cover us with her rifle if the worst comes to pass. The rest moves on, carrying heavy crates filled with stones and guns instead of the expected gold. We form a column two-men wide and walk briskly. The weather means that we wear scarves on top of our hats which will conveniently hide the nervousness of the thugs. All thirty of us move on with commendable discipline, the guards merely waving us on. I hear them talking to Adler.

“No carts, sir?”

“In this weather? Through the snow?” the man replies with acerbic condescension.

The guards are chastised. We climb a short incline up the hill, taking great care not to slip. Gas lamps cast a timid glow on the squarish concrete and stone building. Our destination, the Gold Bullion Depository. The brutal cube emerges from the frozen earth like a peering hunter, its barred windows inspecting us as we approach the gates. Two pairs of guards open it with some difficulty and we accelerate so most of the heat stays in. In passing, I admire the thick steel panes and solid walls. This place could withstand artillery bombardment. We are fortunate to have a way in.

“Mr Adler sir, good to see you,” A keen man with sharp dark eyes and a thin mustache greets. He wears the mark of a captain on his shoulders. The local guards watch us pile into a sparsely furnished entrance with limited interest. I see a desk, murder holes hiding the snub nose of a gatling gun, and a door leading further inward.

“Mr MacTavish is not with you?” the officer asks.

“He is at the back,” Adler curtly replies.

Ah, I can see doubt bloom in our guest’s mind. He was not picked at random. I believe MacTavish might be the man holding the second part of the vault’s combination, the one Adler was unable to get. He is an important person and should be at the head of the formation as well since his presence is required to open the vault. I wonder if the captain will act on his suspicions.

To my surprise, he does. While Adler approaches the far door in his urge to press on, the captain casually approaches us as we stand at the middle of the formation.

He did not truly pick us at random. Urchin possesses the same magnetic charm most old Courtiers share, though his takes on a more roguish edge. The captain is perceptive enough to pick up on it.

“Damn weather eh? Did you travel long?”

“All the way from New York, sir,” Urchin replies in a convincing eastern accent, not too posh, not too low.

“I don’t recognize you. You’re from the mint over there?”

“That’s right.”

“Well, give my greetings to commissioner Trent when you return.”

Urchin frowns convincingly. He blinks and his expression suddenly turns confused.

“Who’s that, sir?”

“Nevermind,” the captain replies with a chuckle. “I made a mistake. Trent works in Pittsburgh.”

“If you say so, sir.”

The officer turns to leave. Urchin and I share a look of amusement while John remains impassive. The brave officer tried to bluff a vampire with the oldest trick in the book, trying to catch us in a lie. Mortals are so cute, sometimes. Meanwhile, the heist group delves further into the complex while the outside door is closed behind us.

Quietly, thugs jump on the four guards still with us and disable them with Whisper’s poison darts. The sleeping men are tied with ropes and muffled. There are so many of us in the way that the captain does not realize something is wrong.

The main room leading down proves to be quite large, with a central space open to the second floor where balconies allow guards above to shoot down. None of them stand vigil for now. Our group disables the guards present including a very angry captain and a sleepy Gatling crew. After that, we walk into a side room where we take care of a few clerks still working. Most of the guards on this floor are currently eating their meal, however, and they are grouped.

“There are many of them together,” Adler observes.

“We could clear the upper floor first, then call half of them out. The less people we face at a time and the less chances that one of them warns the others,” Bingle replies.

Adler agrees. For all his confidence, the man has little experience with heists. Bingle officially holds the title of most accomplished planner and so we use keys to unlock the way up. As for me, I suspect his luck will hold until the last moment, so I am fine with anything he decides. Nevertheless, a nod on my part sends Urchin and John up. As a woman and an essential part of the group, I am left behind. I can still follow their progress through my Magna Arqa.

Bingle splits his troops into two groups. One goes from dorm room to storage space, taking out anyone in their way without hesitation while the other lingers in the main corridor. Urchin prevents a wandering guard from asking questions by hitting him in the nose with the flat of a thrown knife. Soon, they have tied and muzzled most guards including the telegraph office members. Only the alarm room remains. They try the door, finding it locked. The guards react to the noise of a turned handle with panic. One of them opens the slit only to find the ugly mug of Bill Hannigan inches away from his nose.

“Who the fuck are you?” he asks.

“Private Hannigan, sir. Bringing you sandwiches from downstairs. Your pals are too busy moving the gold in so they sent poor me up instead.”

For a small instant, I consider that the infiltration should fail here and now. Guards like this one should have clear instructions not to open the door if anything feels amiss. Fortunately for us, he is hungry, tired, and the mint does not deploy its most astute grunts in the ass end of Minnesota.

“What sort of sandwich is that?” the guard asks as he opens the door, none of his five acolytes awake or aware enough to stop him.

“KNUCKLE SANDWICH!” Bill roars.

The melee is short and one-sided, owing to John and Bill’s presence. Meanwhile, it takes more self-control to stop myself from groaning than it did sparing the last person who jumped through my office window. I am positively horrified.

The last guards above the surface are still eating when our men return, and we must move on or risk alerting the vault level that something is amiss.

“Fear not, friends of justice, for I have a plan,” Bingle whispers with utter conviction. “I shall lead them out where we can surprise them. Be ready!”

A moment later, the fearless godling barges into the eating room where he half screams, half whispers:

“Quick, we’ve been followed. There might be robbers. Quick, quick, hurry!”

The guards are used to following orders. They race out in under three seconds, slowing down when they find themselves in the main room surrounded by strangers.

“So… about those robbers?” the lead sergeant asks.

“That’s us,” Bingle answers from behind.

The rake.

Once again the guards are caught off guard and vastly outnumbered and, once again, they are subdued before they can so much as scream. With the surface secure, we immediately head down the stairs to the vault level proper. I also pull in my Magna Arqa to avoid triggering sensitive wards. It feels unlikely but I would not want to take unnecessary risks.

As we descend into the heavily fortified bowels of the installation, I cannot help but feel excited at the thought of all that gold waiting for us deeper in. Life has taught me on many occasions that there is more power in a single document or a useful contact than in solid metal, and yet gold is still gold. It has a certain weight to it. A glint, too. A nervous energy fills our mortal companions with every step down the narrow passage. It ends quite deeply, deeper than I expected. I judge there are at least three to four levels worth of unused rock above us when the barely lit way ends on a small landing. An unadorned corridor leads deeper in still with several barred partitions separating us from our goal. Guards wait by each one, including the first.

“Evening Mr Adler. Terrible weather to travel in,” he greets.

“Indeed,” the man coldly replies.

“Is Captain Blucher not with you?”

“He went to see the train crew. Why?”

“It’s just… according to protocol, I can’t let anyone in without…”

I can practically hear the grinding of teeth within Adler’s mouth, but to his credit the man merely replies in a tone that could freeze warm toffee.

“But of course, I can wait for his return if protocol is so important.”

It only takes two seconds of annoyed shuffling and pretentious glaring for the doorman to relent. Adler is a known quantity. I understand the poor guard. Better to entertain an important superior than to stick to a protocol no one will commend him for obeying. In theory. In practice, John smoothly subdues him as soon as the column has moved on enough. We reach the vault’s entrance within another minute, leaving a string of strung up sentries in our wake. The takedowns are so fast and silent that the next sentry cannot detect them beyond the mass of crate-carrying men.

The vault’s antechamber is large enough to host fifty men, with no furniture beyond a few chairs. Another gatling gun waits by the tunnel entrance. Interestingly, someone linked four steel panes around the muzzle to protect the crew while they fire. An intriguing innovation, perhaps a necessity considering the number of steel bars on the way to the entrance and the dangers of ricochets. Half a dozen men wait here by the massive door, with a little surprise to the left. There, in a fortified vestibule, stand two guards.

Mages.

Oh, they wear the normal uniform, but their auras are unmistakable, and while I have almost perfect control over my own, the same cannot be said about my two Courtiers. The mages grow aware of our presence. The tremulous call of their panic immediately garners my minions’ attention, but I take the initiative by shocking them with my own aura before they can trigger the vault’s magical alarm, which Bingle was not aware of. The directed pulse I aim at them attracts their gaze to me, where I capture their attention.

Rather than crush them, I send feelings of patience and biding one’s time. They assent with ease, surprising me until one of them discreetly takes out a pristine handkerchief embroidered with the symbol of the White Cabal. In answer, I lift my cap a little to let them see my bound hair. We do not know each other but we know of each other. An understanding is reached. There will be no need for violence.

I smirk to myself. There has to be at least five different interest groups represented here, all wearing the same uniform, all pretending to be on the same side.

There has to be a joke there. A vampire, a mage, a godling, and a traitor enter a gold vault…

“Good evening Mr Adler. Is Mr MacTavish not with you?” a guard asks.

“He is right… bah, why do I bother? You are the last ones.”

“We… pardon?”

The robbers jump on the remaining guards. Urchin and I make a big show of waving our revolvers under the mages’ nose through the bars of their little box, which they exit with their hands up. We bind them comfortably and in a way that would let them escape easily as reward for their help.

It is done.

With little fanfare, we have taken over the Gold Bullion Depository in under fifteen minutes without casualties and with only a minimum of violence. We could not have done it without an inside man but it will not matter to the journalists. Oh, what beautiful waves that will make.

Perhaps I should have kept the operation a secret. Sephare’s furious tantrums always amuse me. Ah well, I am almost a hundred years old — an adult now. I must act responsibly.

“I believe my turn has come to shine,” I announce to the room.

Suddenly, quite a few pairs of eyes land on me.

“Yes!” Bingle declares from the side. “Get us through that door, miss. What do you need us to do?”

Aaaand Bingle has monopolized the attention. Probably for the best.

“I need Adler to input his own combination, my tools, and some calm. Urchin, John, and you may stay. And those two guards, I might have questions. The rest must leave.”

“What do you mean, leave?” Adler interrupts.

He leans forward in an amusing attempt to be intimidating, though I have to admit that the numbers at his back make a decent case.

“You would not be trying to pull a fast one, would you?” he pointedly asks.

“Are you afraid that I would drop several metric tons of gold down my waist pocket and make a run for it? Just back up in the corridor and leave the doors open, I do not mind. I just want you not to breathe down my neck,” I reply.

Adler huffs and puffs and threatens a bit but he knows he needs me. It takes him a good minute to unlock one side of the vault door and another for he and his goons to amble out, prisoners in tow. When our numbers have decreased, I turn to the last obstacle.

The vault door is massive, there are no other fitting terms for such an imposing disc of reinforced metal. It stands ominously under the yellow gaslight, its form alien, an unmoving defender hiding complex guts and bones, and beyond that, gold. More gold than any man could spend in a lifetime. A fortune like no other hiding in the shadows. For a moment I let myself forget about my power and how little that pile of metal means in the grand scheme of things. Instead, I immerse myself in the story and consider this last silent guardian in our quest for glory eternal. Only the hermetic surface matters, as unyielding as a mountain. Ah, yes.

With reverent attention, I take out my old magical glove. The form fits snuggly over my fingers and reminds me of my father who gifted it to me long ago. A flick of my index is enough to block the sound going out, and to create a small illusion for our ‘friends’ outside.

“You may speak freely,” I begin.

“You lots are not wearing masks,” one of the White Cabal mage says, “Do you intend to kill us?”

“Never!” Bingle says. “We will return the stolen wealth in two days at most, once higher authorities have gathered here to seek their lost funds, I assure you.”

“As long as it does not end in bloodshed…” another says.

I do not need to look to know he is looking at me, but I do not reply. I have already been generous in allowing them to speak. I do not have to give explanations to my allies. I am only bound to guarantee their safety, nothing more.

I soon realize that the wards themselves are relatively simple and also a late addition. Rather than enchanting the door, the mages have cast a spell they must constantly refresh, though I can appreciate its complexity. My first task is to disconnect the ward from the magical alarm in the security booth where the mages were posted. To do so, I sever the link and reattach it to a simple, stable construct so it does not snap and alert whoever is listening for the breach. Once it is done, I seize the ward’s heart and twist it, unraveling the entire spell.

“I told you we should have placed the anchor on the other side, but you said it was too complicated,” one of the mages complains to the other.

“It was too complicated. We would have needed to be physically present in the vault at least once every two days!”

I ignore them. Now that the magical defenses are unmade, it is time to address the mundane ones.

Safecracking is an art I have seldom practiced, but Loth did teach me, and I have always been a dedicated student. Given the size of the safe and my lack of heavy tools, the best path for us would be safe manipulation, the discovery of a safe’s combination through careful manipulation of the wheel. Once the right number has been reached, most safes will let out a tiny sound, or there can be an infinitesimal increase in the resistance of the wheel. To open a safe that way takes time and an intimate knowledge of the mechanism one is working with. Fortunately, I can cheat. A few whispered words and a spell opens an illusory aperture into the bowel of the vault, revealing the inner workings of the lock. I can now watch the effects of the wheel’s turn as I manipulate it.

Meanwhile, the mages bicker.

“I told you we should have protected that in priority,”

“Hush you, it would have made no difference. “

Click Click Click Clang goes the pin. I mess up once and have to restart but it does not matter. Sound and light guide me through the little dance. Eight to the right, forty-five to the left. Seventeen then, and thirty-six. I am patient and silent and really, really focused. Thirty-eight. Twenty-seven. Forty-two. Six. Twenty-one. Nine. Forty-two.

One.

A clang, loud and clear. John walks to the wheel and turns it, muscles bulging from the pretend effort. The massive door rotates on oiled hinges. Slowly, ponderously, it reveals its contents.

For a moment, I think I have opened the way into a maze, a labyrinth of brick walls leading farther in to the real treasure. My mind churns with possibilities. Is there a final layer of defenses? I expected chest-high stacks of bullions on wood planks to keep them off the ground, but soon I realize my error. Those bricks glint in the light with an unmistakable glow.

Those are entire walls of gold, filling space to the ceiling.

Oh, what a sight. What an incredible hoard. The amazing view steals my voice for a moment. Only when Adler speaks by my side do I detach myself from this breathtaking sight.

“Well, you did it. And concerningly fast too. I may have misjudged you after all. Crates, gentlemen. We do not have all night.”

The goons rush into the vault’s sacrosanct interior. I refrain from slaying them here and there for ruining the moment. Ah, mortals, rushing everything. Would it have killed them to wait for ten seconds? Barbarians.

“Let’s have a look,” Bingle whispers reverently.

I leave John and Urchin to gather ingots and follow the godling into the vault’s shimmering innards. We find lanterns and light them as we delve deeper into this most unique of dungeons. The walls reach to the ceiling around us, reflecting what little light we have. To my surprise, Alexander finds a room near the back. He enters it first, his large frame blocking the way. I spot pedestals lining its walls as well as a few barrels.

“I can see an old document in a glass casing. By jove, this is… the Declaration of Independence!”

“Please do not steal the Declaration of Independence,” I remind him with a tired voice. “We will receive enough attention as it is.”

“And there is this strange armor. Looks old.”

I approach and peer through the opening while he moves in, but I can already feel the sharp grasp of apprehension around my black heart. There is magic in this room. I can almost taste it.

I identify the nature of said ‘strange armor’ in an instant.

“Wait, don’t touch—”

Too late. Alexander walks to its engraved breastplate and taps the surface under my mesmerized gaze. The golem activates immediately. Steel spears descend to block the doorway.

I need to decide. Do I go in to help or not? At a loss, I call upon my intuition, relying on it as if on a coin flip. The decision is immediate. This is not my doing. This is not my adventure.

The bars slam down in front of my nose. Alexander turns at the dreadful clang, but his attention is misplaced. I point through the opening and scream.

“Behind you!”

The godling jumps back and survives a vicious swipe more out of luck than out of skill. The golem takes one ponderous step upon the stone. Its armored sabaton lands with a sound that speaks of great weight. Its next attack brushes Alexander’s shoulder and takes some of his shirt away as payment. Blood pearls on the Englishman’s pale skin. He takes out his revolver.

“No! Find the core!” I advise him.

I see now that the room is a small square, its walls lined with precious items on pedestals and the odd crates and barrels. A central one bears a large paper document which I suspect might be older than I am. Fortunately for our protagonist, the golem has received clear instructions not to destroy its charge. A game of cat and mouse begins. The golem turns around, sometimes changing direction. It is deceptively fast. More importantly, it will not tire.

Alexander cannot last long. The abrupt changes of direction are already taking a toll. He is sweating under the warm winter clothes.

“The core must be in the chest, hidden behind that breastplate,” I tell him.

“I don’t have anything that can get through that!” the man bellows.

Neither do I, except… Rose. I materialize my soul blade and wince at the thought of letting a mortal touch it. Must I really?

Alexander stumbles and falls, then rolls under a downward punch. His back smashes against a nearby barrel and spills its contents. My decision is made, I must…

This… is impossible?

Impossible! It should not be here! It should not, and yet there is no denying it. I grab the bars with both hands. I know my mouth is open and I do not care. It is here, here! But how? And Alexander finds it, because of course he does. His fingers snap around the handle, missing the blade by some divine guidance. He surges to his feet with a valorous prestance and strikes. The blade sings, a perfect upward slice that leaves behind a silvery arc and an enduring chime like the persistent gong of an old church bell. The golem’s extended hand falls, severed cleanly. I could not have made a better cut. Cadiz could not have made a better cut.

Alexander Bingle takes a fencer’s poise, light on his feet, one arm back, the other firmly in control of the dragon’s claw. The same artifact I ‘liberated’ from the Fist of the Drowned God with Alexander’s own aunt, Miranda. The only thing reputed capable of piercing a dragon’s leathery hide. The godling waves the legendary blade and surges forward. He uses it like a saber with grace and the evidence of a dedicated training. The golem is outmatched. Its most potent advantage has always been durability and persistence. None of this matters in front of a weapon that could slice the beard off of God. In less than a minute and after a heroic struggle, the godling leaves the vault’s guardian as a dismembered pile of quivering spare parts on the ground. I have not moved, nor have I said anything. Alexander breathes heavily and stares at the blade, a strange longing upon his handsome face.

“Miss Ari? What is happening?” John whispers from the side.

I had not even noticed him.

“I think I just invited the godlings to the apocalypse.”