Brick fired a bullet into the guard's chest, a foolhardy attempt to barge into the Krazzi using a Fenland gutter blade. Already chipped by the maid from earlier, he didn't want any more lacerations to his frame – the steel from a Fenland blade was as light as spider silk and as sharp as diamond – and it could quite easily gouge another chunk from his frame.

The Don had taken the left and Brick had drifted to the right, the circular room of the inner sanctum gave way to three narrow corridors that led to swirling columns of white marble and violet incense.

The three-point entry, unilateral to a triangle, obscured the Krazzi's eye for any hidden guards or trigger happy maids. It was the perfect place for a trap, a dead end cul-de-sac; a fortress of open doors, caressing your curiosity into tip-toeing into the temptation of finality.

Brick leaned against the cool of the wall and took a deep breath. He had one more smoke grenade but he couldn't see what good it would do. He had to chance it! Poke his head around the corner and hope to hell their aim was shit. Which, to be fair it had been.

The Don would probably take the center point which meant there was only one pathway obscured from view, which gave them both probably a few seconds to gain control of the room, put a bullet in the bitch and dance over her corpse.

Where was the Commodore? If he took the other corridor then they could secure the room and lock it down immediately but the old man was probably having fun. Or worse, dead. He was as tough as old boots but rusty and he couldn't wait for him.

He took a deep breath and walked into the temple, the billowing clouds of violet incense shrouding his vision, he held Brenda close, aloft. Breaks in the incense revealing to him, an altar and on it a book bound in black slate and bone. He immediately turned away, remembering what the gospel of the Flea King did to you, crept into your mind and hid, flourished in the layered memories of your mind and murdered your subconscious without knowing and the voice that second guessed you and preached right from wrong was in fact. . . something else.

The book was open, beckoning him forward, eager to be read. Brick felt the pull, not just of curiosity but a deeper yearning, one of the forbidden maybe, to cast his eye over a tale that knew no bounds of reality or fiction, of a tale, perhaps, of elder gods and plains yet dreamed; uncharted. The prospect of power offered freely via a gospel of words.

He pulled himself away. The book eager to spill its secrets, the Krazzi keener to keep his sanity.

He could almost hear the book breathing, beguiling him with pangs of arousal, wanting him, the hardened soldier to finger the heavily etched calligraphy. Probe its esoteric storytelling written in centuries old blood.

'My my. You have a cast iron will, Inspector.'

The Krazzi smiled. 'I was never one for stories . . . too busy nicking cars off Highpoint Sands boulevard.'

'Oh you disappoint me so. I thought Inspectors of the Watch were so learned gentlemen.'

'Well, if you mean learned in the ways of the single malt then I'm your man, Baroness.'

'So . . . one dimensional.' She said, almost disheartened.

'You sound like my fifth grade science teacher.'

The Baroness walked out of the violet smoke, dressed in a gossamer gown of flowing white. Brick held Brenda to his side.

Just one shot, Brick. Do it.

'Such bravado, Inspector. Yet it seems you lack the courage of your convictions. You break into my home and kill some children just to bring me to book. Yet when the time comes you cannot bring yourself to finish what you began.'

Brick immediately pointed the gun at her forehead and she willingly stepped forward, her ample curves evident through the revealing lace of her gown.

'End your journey, Inspector. Finish what you started.'

Brick tightend his grip on Brenda.

'Can you gun down an unarmed woman, what does your conscience say, Inspector?'

The Krazzi smiled and so did the Baroness.

Brick fired.

Xindii took a long and casual saunter through the Nuttergut Hill promenade, a place he thought, that had never really bothered him. Some adored it, whiling away the hours in shops of perfume and ecclesiastical art. Pretentious spiel filled the ether, a couple argued over the lineage of a dining room table, debating whether the fae oakwood from Kissledaw was any better than the birch from Darklands. The proprietor, stepping in as arbiter, basically prodding the woman as she draped her middle finger across the brown sheen, the husband holding his cards to his chest, mouth moot.

'You need the birch madam, the fae oak is poor man's wood.'

Some of these crooks were worse than those from the flea markets, it was just that their bullshit was more refined, debonair. It didn't matter what kind of suit they wore but the money they had paid for it had been hoodwinked from a beguiled customer.

Evening coffee in the cafes. Plump Nelly-Dooses at their feet, bags of purchases for the home, though god knows where they would go? It wasn't as if it was even Grox Eve and the last minute rush to the shops to claim a gift for a loved one who – didn't really – want for nothing. Nuttergut Hill, the affluent of affluent. This was where the high rollers resided, the fat cats of industry, the chairmen and the directors; those who paid tribute to the labours of Brentish. This was where the raeq stopped, only to be spent on trinkets and condos in Salt and 'poor man's wood.'

He turned left at the end of the Promenade, passing a young couple arguing over the colour of a pink lamp shade. He then made a right for Old Compton Place and ascended the steep hill to House Felstrom.

Hadigan, the man of pockets. Hadigan, the man who didn't die. This was one rendezvous he never expected. As far as Xindii was concerned the man was dead and had been for centuries, yet the power of his will remained. The man who had traversed and scaled the black peeks of Mo'Katha and found . . .

. . . It had been in him all that time! Hiding in the id. Speaking to him in the long nights as he battled the Ravnor. Perhaps, perhaps planting the idea of kidnapping the Kraken Brood, so that he could rejuvenate himself. But the plan hadn't worked. Kahn and Hadigan had battled it out in the abandoned station of Jeppa resulting in the man of pocket's supposed demise . . .

. . . But the gospel had saved him! Tyke had been his saviour, his telling of the story and his own 'edited version' allowing him to survive. Hidden, warm, ready to fragment himself into the world anew when the time was right, like a flea.

For years the consciousness of Hadigan hid, galvanising the gospel from the shadows, patiently prepping his return. He found it in the form of the Felstrom children, their appetites and heightened biology's a perfect match for his own. Tyke – by then – Gwendolyn Pendragon was his vessel, he needed the chemistry of life to bring him back into the world and the boys provided that but with Gustaf the victor. The cycle of life ensued, Hadigan's will hijacking the embryo. Weeks and months passed and he stretched in his new body and then he fell into the light, the hurt of the world as fresh as it had ever been.

The mismatched biology of Hotch, Human, Sub-Human and a driving force of elder god made his growth putrenatural, his desires and urges tempered by mother . . . she was going to be a vessel again, only this time by the gospels scribe, the Flea King.

The Mapper closed his eyes.

Tyke!

I'm so sorry.

I'll make it up to you, I promise.

Xindii pulled open the gates of House Felstrom and wandered up the beautiful, pristine driveway, the black slate shimmering in the moonlight. It was like the Mapper was walking on water as he quietly made his way up to the house where Gwendolyn's sweet prince stood, gazing – almost peacefully - along the smooth and intricately cut turf.

Hadigan pulled the cowl back over his head, revealing the crown of bone and bald smooth head.

It was just as Xindii had seen in his journey through Gustaf's mind. The new, albeit familiar and grotesque fisage of the man of pockets.