But iron, cold iron, is master of men all

Dark luster standing in the dim light of the Library window, eyes empty, mouth closed. Blood, heart, spirit: the golem had none of those things and required them all. Labyrinth watched, opening and closing her hand. She would not help, but she would not hinder. She held in her fist a die with infinite sides, spinning and stopping. Time was short, fragile seconds expiring ever faster as the die spun.

It was time to bring Nareth home. I called on the Outer Gods, the true Ones, and then Omega offered. I would have used Nareth’s blade upon Omega’s wrist, but Jack wanted her throat. A swift, deep cut, and my hand to the wound, then delicate fingertip brushstrokes on the golem’s forehead: EMET. On Labyrinth’s: MET.

I gave the dripping blade to Pontifex, a door only he could open, for he is intimately acquainted with the gift of pain. And pain he did cause, but he did not take it without consent: Abi wept as he prodded, demanded, forced her to remember the taste Jack’s razor, sour and biting cold at the moment of her birth, pulling her screaming into the world. Nareth, the bloody midwife. The pain of losing Nareth and the pain of bringing her back.

And it was enough: Nullam nunc dolor. The blade began to glow black in Pontifex’s hands. Hendrerit nec. A dark violent tendril arced from the blade to Labyrinth. Gravida eu, turpis. Probability and possibility collapsed. The die vanished. Things began to fall apart.

You must speak its purpose, Labyrinth had said to Omega. You are its creator. And the Lady with chilling finality: Nareth must act in accordance with my Will, for the benefit of us all. I shuddered, but it was too late to stop her; Nareth’s purpose had been cast. For the benefit of us all.

With sudden speed, the Watcher attacked. Wolfe, coyote, beast—Grrbrool ripped the heart from Labyrinth’s chest, all razor teeth and claw and blood-matted fur. He placed it, beating, into my hands. Omega lifted them up to her, lips bending close to taste the god’s blood. She gave Abi the choice: Bring her back? Or burn the heart? Abi whispered, Bring her back.

I opened my spirit to Legion, making the thing that should not, be: a beating heart in a chest of iron. Labyrinth’s exoskeleton disintegrated, only a few shards littering the floor. Larissa’s lips on the golem, a kiss, a breath and please live. Nareth’s eyes fluttered open. My bloody thumb on her mouth and speak.

Then Nareth was back. Her green eyes, watching. Her voice, speaking. Wondering why we were assembled. Some one said, We’re mourning. Mourning who? Nareth had asked. You, I replied.

Pontifex did not correct me. But Labyrinth was gone. Eris, Discordia, Azathoth, the Whisperer in the Darkness. Aunt Beast. Pontifex stood still and silent as stone. Artemisia whimpered, lost. We were mourning. But not for Nareth.

I knelt and picked up the few remaining shards of Labyrinth’s exoskeleton and quietly placed them in my pocket. She had walked in the world among us, but it was not the appointed time. Though I knew she went to await the Messenger, I wondered if she had truly gone. For of the many lessons Aunt Beast taught me, the deepest one was this:

She always wins.

A roll of the dice

Joah sits alone perched atop the bed in her room. Her boots and stockings are piled on the floor; her legs are tucked beneath her. She still wears the black and crimson dress she had on earlier when talking with Aunt Beast. She is weary from lack of sleep, yet rest eludes her. “There was a knight, and a lady bright, and three little babes had she,” she sings softly to herself, rocking.

Her fingers absently twine through the two chains around her neck, each bearing distinct ornaments: a small silver cross inlaid with onyx, a violently used razor from an earlier century. She gazes through the window at the bleak, early Toxian sun fighting its way through the perpetual haze that hangs over the city. “Choose, choose,” she murmurs. Blood. Heart. Soul. She sees the seal of the Book in her mind’s eye: Humanity, the Elder Ones, and the Watchers. Which is the path to Nareth? Omega says dead and lost forever. Legion says . . . just dead.

Joah traces the outline of the blade. Without thinking, she slides it along the curve of her thumb, leaving a bright sliver of red. “I roll the dice,” Aunt Beast had said. “Choose. The blade glances off mine skin. The blade flies from Artemisia's hand. The blade glows red. Choose.” Joah closes her eyes and sees Nareth’s blade, her sigil, flying through the air, lightly caught by Artemisia as she whirls and dances to the pipes only one touched by Labyrinth can hear. Without thinking, Joah begins to hum, her song conforming itself to the same tune.

She had chosen. The blade glows red. Joah runs her thumb along the edge of the blade again, feeling a thrill of bright, wet pain. “It is done,” Aunt Beast had proclaimed. “So many roads . . . undone.” She’d closed her hand as the dice vanished. “He will come to you, Joah. He came unto me. The prophecy . . . it says . . . he will slay thee . . . to aid me. The Beaumont Constantine. You will betray me. And the Sire of Nareth will slay the Final Vessel.” Joah wipes her bloody thumb on her skirt and wraps her arms around herself. She knows every decision limits the future. This decision has not yet been made, but the question has been asked. Many things seem to converge then fall apart. Aunt Beast has given her a weapon: Paradox.

Nareth’s blade grows hungry.