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It was a quick job, finished while the night was still young. Bucciarati stood over the body of the last ghoul they had caught grave robbing as he cleaned his sword on a rag.
“I don’t know, Bucciarati, this feels too easy,” Mista said with a frown.
“Hunts don’t have to be complicated,” Bucciarati replied.
“But we’re still no closer to figuring out who’s been killing flower girls.”
“No, but neither did we suspect these two cases were involved,” Bucciarati chided as he gripped Mista’s shoulder and steered him out of the graveyard. “Be thankful this didn’t take long. Now we can move on to arguably more important jobs.”
The gunman relaxed slightly, but there was still a frown between his brows. “Let’s get a drink, hm? Since we finished so early.”
Bruno huffed a laugh. “I think it would better serve us to go back to the mansion and finish reports.”
Mista huffed. “Fine. But it is a good idea to relax every once in a while, Bucciarati.”
The team leader ignored him as they strode back to their carriage. Their coachman would have presumably alerted a clean-up crew by now so they wouldn’t have to wait for them.
The streets were emptier than usual even for nighttime. Bruno suspected it had to do with the recent flower girl murders, but there still seemed to be plenty of nightlife sequestered into the public houses where the occupants would probably stay until dawn—because it was safer. Never mind the fact that they were probably drinking with dhampirs and vampires alike.
“Hunter.”
The voice cut through the night, causing Bucciarati and Mista both to turn, seeing an old wizened woman wrapped in colorful shawls standing beside one of the pubs.
Bucciarati tipped his hat and Mista followed suit. “Signora, are you in need of assistance?”
“It is not me who needs assistance from you, boy, but the other way around,” she said firmly.
Bruno frowned. “I’m afraid I don’t understand your meaning, signora.”
She surprised him by stepping forward more quickly than expected. Mista’s hand went to the handle of one of his guns but the woman only took Bucciarati’s hand that was currently bare due to the fact that his gloves had been soiled during the fight. Her cold fingers sent a sudden chill down his spine.
“Please, young Hunter, allow me to read your fortune.”
A fortune teller then. Bruno could now see the sign sitting above the side door to the tavern they stood in front of.
He gently extricated his hand and smiled kindly. “Not tonight, madam, I have work that needs to be seen to—”
“It is of great importance,” the woman insisted.
Mista seemed to be getting more agitated by the second. He turned to Bucciarati, eyes wide as he gripped the other man’s shoulder. “You really should let her, Bucciarati. I’ve heard people talk about her. She’s the real deal.”
Bruno shot Mista a brief look. He knew of the gunman’s superstitions, had grown up with plenty of men like that being surrounded by sailors. But after his father had died and he had become a Hunter he didn’t put much stock into such superstitions.
“I feel it is of great importance that you hear your fortune this night, signore,” the woman insisted again. “Please.”
Bucciarati let out a soft sigh. “Very well. But only if it won’t take very long.” He supposed it was still early and he would feel like a bit of a prick to shrug the woman off—besides, Mista would never let him hear the end of it.
The woman looked oddly relieved and quickly ushered them into the tavern.
This establishment was mostly quiet except for a few men sitting around nursing their drinks. Obviously a slow night.
Mista headed toward the bar. “I’ll wait here for you,” he said.
Bruno rolled his eyes briefly but followed the old fortune teller into the back.
She drew aside a heavy curtain and beckoned him in.
The room was dimly lit by only the candles sitting around the table in the center of the room giving the place a slightly strange atmosphere. The smell of spices and incense was strong but not unpleasant. Bucciarati took his hat off as the woman motioned him toward the table.
“Sit,” she encouraged as she sat upon her own stool.
He took a seat opposite her, watching as she took up a small box and opened it. The woman pulled a stack of well-worn cards out and set them in front of her.
“If I may ask,” Bruno said slowly. “What made you call me from the street tonight?”
“I have been waiting for you for several days now,” the woman said simply. “I have had this feeling that it is of great importance that you know what is to come.”
In other words, it had been a slow night. Bruno tried to fight back a sigh and sat as patiently as possible while the woman picked up her cards.
“Are you ready young Hunter?”
Bruno gave her a nod.
She took a deep breath and plucked two cards, setting them down on the table between them. “Ah, yes, the King of Wands, followed by Strength—that would be you. A leader, you have no issue taking control of situations, and while sometimes you may chance making more daring decisions, you also have the courage to continue in the most adverse environments and situations, and the compassion to make the right decisions.”
“It is my duty as a Hunter,” Bruno insisted blandly.
The woman ignored him and set down another card. “The Three of Pentacles—you have a loyal team with shared objectives—objectives you may not have shared with them yet, but when revealed, they will follow you as always.”
Bruno frowned slightly, thinking of his secret project with Risotto but it was probably all coincidence. No one knew about that.
The woman laid down another card. “But we also have the Five of Wands, which tells of a conflict that will inevitably befall you. I feel that it will be greatly impactful to you and your team. Both internally, and externally.”
“And who is this conflict with?” Bruno asked, testing.
The woman pulled the next card and her eyes widened slightly as she set it down. “The Devil.”
Bruno raised an eyebrow. “Is that not supposed to be symbolic for hedonism?”
The woman shook her head quickly. “In this case, I fear it is a more direct representation. This devil will cause great upheaval and anguish to your team, Hunter.” She pulled the next two cards and placed them under the Devil.
“Hope is not lost, though; you will be aided in your journey by the Star and the Moon. The Star represents hope, a renewal of faith and healing. The Moon is representative of a more troubled soul suffering uncertainty and confusion, but one who is just as vital to seeing your fight through as the Star. You have not met these individuals yet, but when you do, keep them close. You will have need of them.”
She took the next card from the deck with a certain inevitability and placed it carefully under the others.
Bruno couldn’t help but feel a slight shiver run down his spine when he saw the depiction of the skeletal horseman.
“Death,” the woman said simply. “Upright, which means there will be an inevitable change coming, an unavoidable transformation, though I cannot see clearly what that might entail or whether it is for better or worse.”
Bruno did not believe in superstitions any longer, but yet he couldn’t deny that the cards in front of him and the old woman’s words sent a particular shiver down his spine.
“Thank you, madam,” he finally said and made to stand.
She suddenly reached across the table, grabbing Bruno’s hand before he could get up. “Go with caution, young Hunter,” she said earnestly. “Though I cannot tell what form it will take, the reaper is waiting for his appointment to be realized.”
Bruno stared at her for a long moment, nodded once and reached into his purse, pulling out a few coins which he placed on the table before taking up his hat again.
He made his way out to the bar where he met Mista, nursing a single pint.
The gunman looked up at him as he appeared. “Well? What did she say?”
Bruno huffed. “Fairy tales and hokum,” he muttered. “You shouldn’t hold stock in such things, Mista.”
“I don’t know, Bucciarati, I tell you, there was this one old lady when I was growing up that could predict the future nine times out of ten. Once she even told this shopkeeper that he would…”
Bruno filtered Mista’s rambling out as they stepped outside.
The night was slightly chilly and Bruno pulled his cloak more firmly around his shoulders, refusing to believe it was anything but the wind that was giving him a chill. It was indeed ridiculous to hold such stock in the things the woman said. Nothing she ‘read in the cards’ couldn’t be explained away by a little perception and guessing on her part due to his profession—which was also easily enough perceived by the sword and crucifix hanging from his belt.
He wouldn’t give it another thought.
Mista was still rambling as they walked down the sidewalk to where they had left their coach.
“And then there was the time when my friend picked a kitten from a litter of four and it scratched his eye out—"
It was then that the wind changed direction and blew so hard Bruno’s hat nearly left his head. He swore under his breath, reaching up to clap it back on, his cloak billowing out and briefly obscuring his view of the street.
The rattle of a quickly driven carriage sounded out at the same moment, along with a sudden shout.
“Bucciarati! Mista!”
Everything seemed to occur at once.
Bruno threw his arm out, swatting his cloak to one side so he could see, at the same time, backhanding a figure who had come up in his blind spot.
The figure toppled backward, just at the moment a hansom cap pulled to a stop, the startled horse rearing in confusion as the figure toppled into the street, pummeled by the horse’s hooves and the carriage wheels alike.
“Holy shit!” Mista cried, rushing past Bucciarati to grab the horse’s reins.
Bruno could only stand there, staring at the man’s dead eyes, wide with unseeing horror, blood seeping into the cobbles.
Fugo leapt down from the hansom, swearing profusely. “I didn’t mean to run him over, dammit! He just jumped in front of the carriage!”
“Fugo, what on earth are you doing?” Bruno finally demanded. “What is all this? This man—”
“Was about to stab you in the back,” Fugo snapped, reaching up to grab the horse’s harness and calm the beast, cupping his hand over its nose so it couldn’t smell the blood. “Mista, pull him out of there.”
The gunman bent and grabbed hold of the man’s coat, pulling him from under the carriage. A knife clattered onto the street from his loose hand.
“I don’t understand what’s going on,” Bucciarati demanded of Fugo.
Fugo huffed and went over to the corpse, starting to riffle through the man’s pockets. “We got a message from one of our informants after you and Mista left that the ghouls were running a racket with a certain doctor in the area—Dottore Cocci. He’s been grave robbing on top of other unethical medical practices.” He pulled a bloody piece of paper out of the man’s coat and straightened up as he opened it. “Ah, here’s his shopping list.”
Bruno took the paper and looked through the list, sickened by the requests for specific ages and genders.
“But what led him to being here trying to stab Bucciarati in the back?” Mista demanded.
“That, I cannot give an answer for,” Fugo said, staring back at the corpse. “Though the timing was…unfortunate for him.”
“You can say that again,” Mista muttered as he kicked the man’s boot. “Still, good riddance, I suppose?”
Bruno shook his head, still not entirely able to process the bizarre course of events. That coupled with the fortune telling earlier had put him in an odd mood. However, he supposed it was possible that this was the death the old woman had seen in his future. Though it would have been easy enough to predict death in the life of a Hunter.
He glanced closer at the paper then, seeing an odd mark in the bottom corner.
“Fugo, what do you make of this?” he asked, handing the paper back to the young man.
Fugo took it and adjusted his glasses. “Well, it’s the symbol that was used for the Roman legions.”
“And who else do we know that uses that?” Bruno asked darkly.
“Leaky-Eyed Luca,” Fugo muttered. “Our informant mentioned him as well. Said he might have knowledge of the flower girl murders.”
Mista glanced at the paper himself. “That slimy bastard has his fingers in a lot of pies around here, I wouldn’t be surprised if he was in on it.” He glanced up at Bucciarati. “Want me to look into it?”
“No,” Bruno said decisively, tucking the paper away. “I’ll look into it myself tomorrow night. Mista, call for another clean up. We’ll head back to the manner for tonight.”
Mista nodded and hurried back toward their carriage which was just around the corner.
Bruno continued staring at the dead man, wondering how close the unfortunate doctor had come to stabbing him in the back. If the wind hadn’t blown his cloak would he have seen him coming? Or would he have still missed him and therefor had no reason to accidently elbow the would-be murderer into the street?
Was it all fate, or just a bizarre coincidence?
“Bucciarati?”
Bruno finally tore his eyes away from the corpse, to see Fugo looking at him with a slightly worried expression.
“Are you all right?”
Bruno shook himself, took a deep breath and nodded firmly. “Of course. I’d call this a job well done, Fugo—despite the rather unfortunate ending.”
He clapped the young man on the shoulder and stepped up into the hansom cab. “Let’s go meet Mista then and head back home. Polpo will want the reports on this first thing in the morning.”
Fugo climbed up after him and Bruno urged the horse into motion.
He decided that he would not overthink anything that happened that night. He would go home, write the report, and tomorrow he would continue the investigation into the flower girl murders.
After all, fate only really had a way of catching up to you if you truly believed in it.