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The prisoner’s face changes and he knows she means it. Good. So do I.
Alcott’s smile returns, but it is not playful now. “Who was the order from?”
The man’s jaw tightens. I see the calculation in his eyes. Pain may loosen him, but fear already has him. Fear of us. Fear of The Collector. Fear of what happens if he speaks. Lazarus drags a tall chair obnoxiously across the floor and sits backward upon it, arms folded over the backrest.
“Let me tell you what I suspect,” he says. “You are not important enough to know the full shape of the machine. Men like you rarely are. You were given a name, a direction, and perhaps a reward if you returned with information.”
He states this while gestural counting each finger; the prisoner says nothing.
“But you know enough to be afraid,” Lazarus continues. “Which means you know enough to be useful.”
Olive looks at the man. “Names.”
No answer. Alcott lifts the blade again, raising his eyebrows.
“Locations,” I add.
Still nothing.
Lazarus leans forward. “The next gathering.”
The prisoner’s eyes flicker.
There. All of us see it.
Olive’s voice lowers. “What gathering?”
The man’s lips press together. Lazarus looks at me. Then at Alcott. Then at Olive.
“An exclusive, dark party,” he says.
Lazarus cocks his head in curiosity.
“Secret gathering. Held every few years for men with more money than conscience.”
Alcott’s expression sharpens. “You know of it?”
“It confirms the whispers,” Lazarus replies. “I know women who disappeared after such gatherings. I know men who came home pale and laughing. I know enough to despise every soul involved.”
The prisoner pauses, then speaks again, “you cannot get in.”
Olive’s smile is slow and terrible. “Watch me,” she threatens.
He shakes his head. “Governors attend alongside Lords, trade kings. Bloody Magistrates. Men who own docks, factories, courts, newspapers. You think killing one man matters? You think killing Jack mattered? There is always another monster waiting to be fed.”
Silence settles over us. This is not a single enemy, it is an intricate web. The Collector sits at the center, but every thread leads to someone powerful enough to purchase silence, flesh, and law itself. Olive turns away from the prisoner first. Her face is calm, but I know better now. I can see the fury beneath the stillness.
“When is the party?” she asks Lazarus.
He rubs one hand over his mouth. “Four months, give or take. If the pattern holds.”
“Four months?” Alcott repeats.
Lazarus nods. “Possibly less. Possibly more. Invitations circulate quietly, but I can ask without appearing too eager.”
Olive begins pacing as my eyes follow her despite my best efforts.
“We need names,” she says. “Access, proof. Routes in and out, who supplies the women. Who transports them? Owners of the property.”
