Sam's outrage at being taken prisoner overrode her common sense. Her sense of justice, overblown as it was, often led her to overestimate her ability. She attributed the fact that she wasn't dead multiple times over to her quick wit and skill. In this case, she knew there was at least one unnaturally strong old man and two overgrown brutes in his employ. She set about finding some sort of weapon with which to protect herself and resolved to start carrying some form of firearm no matter how expensive they might be.

  Firearms were kept tremendously expensive by the American Empire. The common folk could rebel if they had access to firearms. So they kept them expensive, they kept them elite, and they kept them by law out of common hands. Only the wealthiest of American nobility could afford a rifle of any sort. The Empire gave them to military officers while the soldiers still had to scrap in the mud with sabers and spears.

  This didn't mean they were unheard of. Black market gunsmiths could be found throughout the Empire. Sam had a few leads on gunsmiths in the city. This artificial scarcity wasn't always the case. Before the beginning of the American Empire, back before the country was founded by the first emperor, firearms were more common. It put the common man on even footing with the sorcerers. Guns started to cause magic itself to be less favored. Why wait and pay such a heavy price for a magical effect when one could send a bullet towards one's enemy at minimal cost?

  Sam began to explore the underground passages. A long, disused hallway led to the cells where she and Missy had been held. There were two other rooms identical to the ones she and the girl had been kept in. She assumed they must have been servants' quarters at one point, or maintenance rooms, or, given the age of the buildings, slave quarters. Flickering electrical light bulbs hung overhead.

  The ruined hallway ended at another long corridor. This one was kept in better repair. The stones that made the floor and the walls were still smooth and worn with age, but the mortar between them had been kept in good condition. The hallway was wider and had a few touches of paint and decoration, like someone at least tried to make it presentable. Several plain, worn doors lined the walls. She tried a few. Most were empty rooms, but one contained cleaning supplies, including a mop. Sam pulled the wood handle out of the mop's head. She readied it like a spear.

  At the end of the long hallway stood a set of double doors. They were made of polished, dark red wood. They had no latches to lock them shut. Sam made her way towards the doors. She was determined to find out where this Reverend kept himself. She aimed to give the inside of his head some fresh air.

  At first, killing did not come easy to Sam. Her service in the military and her rough life prior had made quick work of such weakness. She considered her morality more a collection of "eye for an eye" than "turning the other cheek." She never did manage to take the eye of the man that took hers. But if she found him again, she would.

  She tried not to kill casually. But she knew an enemy left alive would come back and kill her if they could. In her city, justice came slow, if at all. Often folk had to take justice into their own hands and seek out morality afterwards, if such was to be found.

  This Reverend Smith had imprisoned a child, had captured Sam, and as far as she was concerned, that was a guilty verdict. She was going to kill him come hell or high water. If she couldn't find him now, she'd come back and find him again. Sam's sense of justice would not allow her to forget a crime as large as kidnapping a child.

  When she approached the door, Trashwater the rat returned. "Human. I have found an escape for thee, clear of enemies."

  "Thank you, my friend," said Sam. "I have to find Missy's mother."

  "Foolish human, make thy escape! I have found a path for thee. What matters the human pup's mother?"

  "Wouldn't you save your mother if she was in danger?" asked Sam.

  "I was not told to protect my mother," replied the rat. "I was told to protect thee."

  "What about your brother, then? Wouldn't you save him if he was captured?"

  The rat hesitated a moment before answering. "Very well, human. I smell her in this room. Open the door. But be wary. She stinks of blood and magic, like the others."

  Sam opened the door. The room inside was dimly lit with candlelight. Thick red carpet covered most of the stone floor. Candle sconces lined the walls, giving off a soft, warm glow. In the center of the room, a large bed made of dark wood sat with its canopy hung closed. Spiral wooden posts held up red curtains that were so dark they almost looked black in the dim light.

  Beyond the curtain on the bed, a figure stirred and lifted itself up. Sam could make out the white of her eyes and her dark skin. A hand reached out, pushed the curtain aside, and in the light Sam could see the bed covers were the only clothing she wore. A bare shoulder shone in the candlelight as the woman leaned to see who entered.

  Sam recognized the woman's face from the photograph she had seen, and from the family resemblance to her daughter. This was Louisa Jones, Missy's mother.

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  Her skin was a rich, dark brown. Her hair hung down her shoulders in thick curls. She was a beautiful woman, Sam thought. She then wondered whether to beat her with the mop handle on account of how the woman had thrown Missy into a cell and left her for days.

  "Well, hello," said the woman. "Rarely do I get visitors here."

  Her voice was soft, barely above a whisper. She purred each word like a cat.

  "Are you going to come in and join me or are you going to stand there with the door open? You're letting out all the heat."

  Sam didn't quite know how to respond to all of this. She said, "Are you Louisa Jones?"

  "Why, yes."

  "I'm Samantha Fontaine. Missy, your daughter, is an acquaintance of mine. She asked me to help find her missing dog."

  "Oh, why yes, I do remember that. Did you know we never had a dog? She’s just a stray Missy used to feed in the backyard. I don't allow pets on account of the mess they make."

  "Miss Jones, are you here against your will? You see, Missy was captured, but she says you were the one who put her in the cell."

  The woman inched closer to the edge of the bed, holding the covers over her bare skin. Her eyes flashed at the mention of her daughter being captured and the accusation Sam had thrown at her.

  She slid one bare leg from the bed, pressed her foot against the floor. She stood up, draping the maroon cloth in front of her. She walked towards Sam, with a small smile curling her lips.

  "Well, what can I say?" said Louisa. "Missy is a willful girl, prone to disobedience. I am a kind mother, but even I have my limits. Missy could have come out at any time if she simply apologized."

  Sam's confusion had ruled the interaction thus far, but she'd been in a cell next to Missy for days. Not once had the girl's mother come to check on her. Sam wasn't one to question harsh parenting. Her own father was kind before his death. Her mother died in childbirth. She never knew the woman. The kindness her father had shown stuck with her, though. She reckoned that was how all parents should be.

  But the city and the world were harsh places. She'd seen children whose parents were harsh grow up to be successful, rich, and happy. Not being a parent herself, she reserved judgment.

  Now, however, having seen Missy's house, having spoken to the young girl, and having been held captive in a cell next to the child, her anger once again overruled her common sense.

  "Now, ma'am," she said. Her voice strained to keep a steady volume. "At the risk of seeming impolite, what the fuck are you talking about? I've been held captive by that fucking reverend for three fucking days now. That little girl could have just apologized? Who the fuck would she have apologized to?"

  Quicker than Sam's eyes could follow, Louisa dropped the sheets and crossed the room so fast a gust of wind pushed at Sam's greasy hair. The woman caught Sam's throat in her hand and pulled them eye to eye. She casually slapped the mop handle from Sam's hands. Sam struggled against the grip on her throat in vain. She pulled at the fingers holding her and couldn't move them.

  Louisa pulled Sam close against her bare skin and turned Sam's head, examining her face.

  "You're not too ugly, are you? A little plain, maybe. Given a proper bath, you might even be pretty."

  She wasn't choking Sam, but the grip was tight. It was hard to breathe. Sam was getting tired of people choking her lately. She tried to strike at the woman, punch her stomach, slap her face. None of her strikes had any effect.

  Trashwater, emerging from his hiding place in the hallway, scrambled toward Sam, leapt up onto her pant leg, climbed up her body. Louisa hadn't noticed the rat in the room. Sam felt the rat scrabble on her back, using his tiny claws to make his way up to her shoulder. He emerged from underneath Sam's hair and sank his teeth into Louisa's hand. The woman yelled, dropped Sam, flung Trashwater back against the nearby stone wall.

  Sam wasted no time running for the door. Louisa moved too quick for Sam to see, and appeared in front of her, catching her once again by the throat. This time she hauled Sam back toward the center of the room.

  "Oh well, now you will make a greasy snack," said the woman, her voice rough with anger.

  "Stop right there!" barked a man’s voice.

  "Ms. Samantha! They got us!" cried Missy, her voice a high-pitched squeal.

  "Foul monster!" shouted Curbdirt.

  The Reverend Smith strode through the door, his eyes squeezed tight. "What do you think you're doing?" he thundered. "That woman is to be left until the moon is full. There's a reason she has not been given to you."

  Louisa cast him a look. "How am I to know? You do not share plans with me. Instead, this woman invades my space, insults my parenting, and then has her disgusting little rat bite me! Sacrifice or not, I'm gonna kill her."

  "You will do no such thing unless I command it. Samantha Fontaine, aren't you the resourceful one? And you have some clever little friends, don't you?"

  He held Missy up, his arm extended. The girl kicked and hollered. With his other hand he held up Curbdirt.

  "Take care of your daughter." He flung Missy towards Louisa, who dropped Sam to catch the girl.

  Missy looked to her mother. "Mama? I'm scared, Mama," she whimpered. "Can we please go home? I promise I’ll be good."

  "Hush up, little girl," said Reverend Smith. "Now, Miss Fontaine, you are going to have to tell me where you got yourself talking vermin. I would ask the rat, except, well, I think it's time for a little extermination."

  Curbdirt bit and scratched at Smith's hand. All to no avail.

  The Reverend looked at Sam. He twisted his face into a grin and squeezed. Sam heard a dull crunch. Curbdirt's eyes bulged. He shuddered and then he moved no more. Reverend Smith dropped the little rat's body, then wiped his hands on his trousers.

  "You son of a bitch," Sam said on her hands and knees. She had only known the rat for a short time, but she was fond of him. The noble little creature had come to save her when no one else could.

  "Brother, no!" Trashwater said from the spot where he'd fallen. He faced the Reverend with his front paws spread wide. His voice trembled.

  "Evil wretch! How dare thee?" said Trashwater. "Thou wilt suffer as no human has suffered for a thousand years. Thou wilt face my vengeance!"

  The rat turned and fled the room.

  "Well, he was certainly full of bluster, but no action with which to back it up. I fear the vengeance of the little rat may have been overstated. I must confess, however, to being impressed at the sense of melodrama that both these creatures, well, the one that remains alive, are able to exhibit. Again, you must tell me where you have found such clever little pets.

  "Before I kill you."