The next day, Anger spent three pence to send a street urchin with a message: find Jim and tell him to come to the pub.

  At the pub's bar, Anger stared fixedly at two silver shillings placed on the table. A few dockworkers nearby were loudly debating whether their missing mate from last week had jumped into the river or been dragged off by something.

  When Jim arrived, he ordered a rum for himself, tossed his cane aside without ceremony, and sat down opposite Anger. His eyes, too, fixed on the two shillings. He didn't dare take them; the hand hidden under the table wouldn't stop trembling.

  "The BoneBird killer," his voice was very low, fearful of being overheard. "Anger, asking that is like looking for a clean drink in the river by the docks."

  Anger didn't reply. He sat across from Jim. He'd long since learned to give informants time to gather their thoughts, and himself time to observe.

  Jim waited a good while, then simply reached out and took only one shilling.

  "This half is for what I do know," he said. "But about a specific killer? No. At least, not the kind you're picturing—some knifewielding madman slitting throats in alleys."

  "What do you mean?"

  Jim glanced around, confirming no one was paying attention to their little nook.

  "BoneBird ain't a person. It's a place. And an... occasion."

  He paused, watching Anger. Anger gave a slight nod for him to continue.

  But then Jim stood up and left.

  Anger didn't rise. He simply watched him go, then waited for the better part of an hour before Jim returned to the pub.

  From inside his coat, Jim produced a bone disc about two inches in diameter. Its center was concave, carved with the abstract form of a bird. The skeleton was clearly visible, the eye sockets empty.

  "This is a BoneToken," Jim said. "Half the ticket to the game. A fellow traded it to me for some... things. Don't know where he got it—bought it or peeled it off some corpse."

  "And the other half?" Anger asked.

  "The other half, some call it the 'Live Key'," Jim said. "But what in blazes it actually is? Truth be told, I don't know."

  Jim grinned. "That's your puzzle, Mr. Big Detective. I took my fair share. As for you learning the other part, well, that's your own hunt."

  "So you can't find the killer's nest, but you took a shilling for this... trinket?" Anger said.

  Jim nodded, simply wrapping the bone token in a cloth and pushing it toward Anger.

  "This is yours now. But don't say I gave it to you." The rum arrived. He took a sip, waited for the serving boy to leave, then spoke again. "Don't ask me about the Live Key anymore. It's not that I'm unwilling. It's just... I hear those who've truly been to the game and come back alive either clam up tight or spout utter gibberish. Raving nonsense."

  Anger picked up the clothwrapped token. "And if you only have the dead token and try to force your way in?"

  Jim took another hurried gulp of rum. "First, you'd have to find it. Heh."

  ******

  Anger had sat for three hours. The trail of the Sunken Bell Priory had effectively gone cold. For now, he could only try to learn more about the BoneBird killer's dice and wait for the convergence of the twin moons.

  Sitting in the safe house, he placed the BoneToken beside his logbook. Perhaps he could try asking his diary.

  Anger took the BoneToken in one hand, his main notebook in the other, and opened it to a fresh page, simultaneously attempting to activate his peculiar sight.

  As his eyes perceived the strange hues emanating from the token, lines indeed began to form on the blank page, sketching the rough outline of a skeletal bird. Then, a sentence wrote itself below: Hobbs' Veterinary Hospital.

  Success on the first attempt. He hurried out, found a passerby to ask, and learned that Hobbs' Veterinary Hospital was located southeast of the intersection of Three Dogs Street and Old Church Lane. The place had been derelict for years.

  When Anger Hastings stood before Hobbs' Veterinary Hospital, he held the BoneToken in his right hand.

  The decay here beggared description. Yet, he noted the profusion of recent human footprints in the grime coating the floor, trailing from the back door into an inner room.

  Frowning, Anger moved inside. The door to the back room was slightly ajar, a sliver of light leaking through the gap. He didn't push it open immediately. Instead, his hand moved casually to his hip, confirming his weapon was there, before he finally pushed the door open.

  "You're late," a voice came directly from within the room.

  The light inside wasn't harsh. In the centre of the room stood a massive dissection table, its surface stained beyond recognition. A hunched man wearing a blackened leather apron was using a file on a piece of bone.

  "I didn't set a time," Anger remained by the door, ready to draw his pistol.

  The man looked up. He was around fifty, his left eye milky with what was likely a cataract. He stared at Anger, not seeming surprised. His gaze flicked to Anger's hands: one holding the BoneToken, the other resting near his holster. The man recognized the caution in the visitor.

  "Anyone coming here with a Token has an appointment," the man said.

  "You're the caretaker here?" Anger asked.

  "Was a vet," the man replied offhandedly, dropping the file onto the table amidst a clatter of bones. "Now, I'm just a... materials processor. Makes ends meet. First time?"

  "I need into the game," Anger didn't want prolonged conversation.

  "You're a policeman. Why enter the game?"

  "I'm investigating."

  "Investigating? Do you know what this game is? Is your investigation worth your life?"

  "It is. Just tell me the rules. My hide's tough."

  The man sighed, his reluctance to dissuade evident. "Very well, Inspector. In the BoneBird game, there is no law. Only rules. You want in, I'll tell you the most basic one. I won't stop you marching to your doom." He turned and fetched a glass jar from a shelf behind him. "Rule one: The 'Living Key'. It means what it says. It must be alive... or in the process of dying."

  If you discover this tale on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

  Anger frowned. "Be clearer."

  He dared to take two steps forward. Now he could see the jar's contents: a severed human finger joint, carved into the shape of key teeth.

  "Every piece of flesh on you counts as 'living'," the man grinned, showing a keen desire to explain. "Abstract, this. The game doesn't want flesh. It wants living debt. A heart that just stopped beating, still clogged with its owner's resentment. A freshly severed finger, still tangled with unpaid curses. Even a lock of hair, if its owner swore a blood oath with it—the hair becomes part of the vow. Heard of curses? That's the stuff."

  He fixed his good eye on Anger. "So, which piece are you planning to part with? A finger? An eyeball?"

  Anger fell silent, not immediately agreeing. But he might indeed possess something analogous.

  The ring from the severed finger of the eighth nun from Sunken Bell Priory... Just the Latin phrase 'Per sanguinem gemellarum' etched on it spoke volumes of its anomalous nature.

  The man sensed his hesitation. "Having second thoughts?"

  Slowly, Anger drew the ring from his document bag and placed it on the dissection table.

  "Someone was entombed alive. This is from her forefinger, cleanly severed. The ring was still on it when I found her."

  The man's single good eye widened. His tone held a note of shock. "A VowRing of the Silent Confraternity."

  "The Silent Confraternity? I've heard of the Sigil Weavers. What is this 'Silent Confraternity'? Another underground society?"

  He looked up at Anger, his expression complex. "You don't know what this signifies? Their tenet is a vow of silence. As for the rest... best not to inquire. These old societies are more ancient than you think."

  "Listen," the man suddenly lowered his voice, leaning in. "This isn't just a ring. It's a prison. A person's silence and fear... all the words she never spoke are locked inside. Her soul was... compacted."

  Mumbojumbo merchant, Anger thought, utterly unimpressed. He'd hoped for secrets, not this superstitious drivel meant to gull the credulous. Trying it on him was a mistake, though Anger didn't call him out.

  Setting the ring down, the man scrutinized Anger anew. "Using this as your Key means you temporarily shoulder that debt of silence. In the game, you might hear their whispers. You might suddenly find you cannot speak. And if you lose... your soul could be entangled by this debt. Worse than death."

  Anger looked at the ring, feigning acceptance of the man's explanation. "Worse than cutting off my own finger?"

  "Flesh cut might not grow back, but at least that's your debt," the man said, his expression grave. "But the debt in this ring... belongs to a powerful, wronged spirit. You borrow her boat to cross the river, you risk being dragged under by its previous owner."

  Anger pretended to hesitate briefly. He had considered offering a finger or something else. Now that the man had validated the ring's 'worthiness', why not use it?

  "I choose the ring."

  "Why?"

  "First, I'm a policeman. My fingers are still useful. For writing, shooting, sifting evidence," Anger replied coolly. "Second, if their debt can help me find the truth, then being haunted... would be a form of repaying a little justice."

  The older man studied him for several long seconds. "You're cleverer than I thought, Inspector. Fine. This ring is qualified to serve as a Living Key."

  The man turned back to the dissection table. "Come back before sunset tomorrow. The game opens every seventh night. Not tonight. If you're coming, be ready. Wear the Key. And don't get any ideas about raiding this place. I'm just the gatekeeper. Catching me is pointless."

  ******

  A full fortyeight hours. Carter glanced at his pocket watch. Two days of pacing, of sitting on edge—it had been years since anything had unsettled him so.

  The deadline he'd given Hastings had passed by over an hour.

  Outside the priory gates stood two black carriages bearing the Church's silver chalice crest. Three figures in deep black cassocks were speaking with Harris. Harris kept nodding, his fingers nervously rubbing his truncheon.

  Sergeant Perkins came jogging from the direction of the main building, his face slick with sweat. "The Church lot, sir. They say they're going in."

  Carter stuffed his pipe back into his pocket. "Hastings?"

  "Haven't seen him. Not since yesterday afternoon."

  Carter gave a curt nod. He'd expected as much. A man like Hastings—clever, stubborn, with eyes that saw too much of what they shouldn't.

  "Let them in," Carter said.

  Perkins hesitated. "But, Inspector... the crypt—"

  "Let. Them. In." Carter was washing his hands of this. It was the Church's business now.

  The three blackclad figures approached. The leader was an internal investigator from the Tribunal.

  "Inspector Carter. I am Bishop Morris, representing the Diocese. We received your report. Given the... singular nature of this incident, I am leading the inquiry personally."

  "I only reported an anomaly," Carter said flatly. "Twelve bodies, nuns, sealed behind a fresh wall. It falls outside police jurisdiction."

  "Hmm. And the scene?"

  "Preserved. My men only removed a small section of brickwork to confirm the presence of remains, then withdrew. Once sighted, I posted a guard rotation at the entrance. No one has entered."

  "Including Detective Hastings?"

  Carter's muscles tightened. The Bishop seemed particularly interested in the man from Central.

  "Detective Hastings assisted with the preliminary scene assessment," he chose his words carefully. "Given the nature of the case, I advised him to stand down. He agreed."

  "Very good," the Bishop said finally. "Please, lead the way."

  Carter had lied. He'd said he reported it the moment it was found. He'd told everyone. Even warned the old man.

  He led the way, bull'seye lantern held high. The wall was still there. The blood of the inverted cross had dried to a crusty black, its edges curling. The breach was slightly larger than the hole Perkins had made. The smell had become unspeakable.

  One of the churchmen produced a small silver box from his robes, opened it, and daubed a waxy substance from within beneath his nostrils. Only then did he bend and thrust his face into the opening, stepping through.

  Bishop Morris stood before the pendulum, leaning on his staff, observing it for a long, long time. So long Carter's legs began to cramp.

  "The pendulum remains in situ. The twelve... victims. Their postures match your report."

  "Victims?" Carter, a detective who usually gave the Church's quagmire a wide berth, was slightly taken aback by the term.

  "Those who have given themselves on the path of faith," Bishop Morris turned to him. "Inspector, please wait outside with your men. The work that follows requires quiet."

  "I need to file a record—"

  "The Diocese will provide a complete investigatory report to the Yard," the Bishop cut him off. "For the purposes of case closure."

  Carter's grip tightened on the lantern handle. "Closure? On what grounds?"

  "Animal disturbance resulting in misadventure," the Bishop said smoothly. "A feral dog pack entered the derelict structure, causing partial collapse. Some animal remains were discovered and disposed of."

  "But the wall—twelve—"

  "There is nothing in the wall," Bishop Morris looked at him. "Inspector, you and your men discovered a hazardous structure and secured it. The East End Division has performed a commendable service."

  Carter said nothing more. He turned and walked back up the stone steps. Best to get this hot potato off his hands pronto.

  Back in the priory's forecourt, Perkins and Harris stood by the carriages. Two younger blackclad men stood opposite them. No one spoke.

  Carter emerged, Bishop Morris following close behind.

  "Inspector," Harris began, "they said we have to—"

  "Cooperate with the Church's work," Carter shot Harris a look. "That's an order."

  "Inspector," Perkins blurted, "what about the nuns?"

  "There are no nuns. Don't ask questions you shouldn't," Carter said. "We cleared out a dog den. Remember?"

  Perkins opened his mouth, then closed it.

  Bishop Morris stepped before the two constables. He donned the Veil of Silence.

  "A simple rite of purification," the Bishop's voice was gentle. "Please, close your eyes."

  Harris shut his eyes first. Perkins hesitated, glanced at Carter for a signal, then complied. Finally, Carter too closed his.

  After a short period of murmured liturgy from the Bishop, all three men stiffened slightly, then relaxed.

  When the Bishop removed the veil, Harris's eyes opened first, looking vaguely puzzled.

  "All done?" he asked.

  "All done," the Bishop smiled. "Thank you for your cooperation."

  Perkins opened his eyes. He looked at Carter and blinked.

  "Anything else, Inspector?" Perkins asked. "I'm a bit peckish."

  "Nothing else," Carter said. "Back to the station."

  "The report the Yard requires will be delivered," Morris said. "Furthermore, considering the nature of this event, the Diocese will allocate a small... stipend to the East End Division. For the men involved."

  Carter didn't refuse. In the East End, refusing Church 'generosity' usually meant your patrol route suddenly tripled in drunkanddisorderlies, and every cartridge requisition needed triplesignature approval.

  "Appreciated," he said.

  "One more thing," the Bishop added. "That Detective Hastings... he truly has not returned within the fortyeight hours?"

  "I told you. He agreed to stand down," Carter said. "Haven't seen him since. He's a clever one. Knows what to touch and what to leave well alone."

  "If he does contact you, inform me. I would pray for him personally. To prevent... unfortunate karmic attachments."

  "He doesn't put stock in karma."

  "No matter. Just tell him I wish to speak with him."