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presence.”
    The placid eye rolled to both men and needled them. Paul’s throat dried from tip of tongue to the root of his stomach—breathing wasn’t even a question.
    “Yes, Brother Quintana, the Archbishop was informed of your meeting.”
    “Then why’d ya ask?” Ray threw up his hands.
    Paul just stood there, frozen, heart thundering. The door swung open. He flinched, unable to question the tradition he was taking part in. He hoped it was a tradition. From the darkness a noose dropped around his neck. His guide, Ray Traven, a noose now around his own neck, shot a grimace before the ropes tightened.
    With a single yank Paul hit the floor with Ray. He could hear Ray’s teeth click. His body slid forward and the door closed swiftly behind. He tried to speak, to scream, but the invisible force just hauled him along. Rolling across a dank corridor, he kicked out, swung his body over to save his lip from being torn off. Air deprivation made the darkness crackle with fireflies. He clutched at his burning neck. Just to let a thread of air inside, he tried to wiggle his fingers under but the hempen rope sunk deeper into his skin.
    Screams came lofty and low. Laughter and hell-play ricocheted off the unseen rocks. Subterranean breathing; burning chest; burning throat; wheezing; working just for one lousy gasp. This was it. Paul knew his struggle would be the ghastly punctuation of his life—
    It ended quickly.
    In a dream the noose was removed by church sentinels. No, not a dream. They had removed the noose and set Paul in a chair. How long had he been sitting here? Had he lost consciousness? The lingering burn remained so intense he touched the tender flesh to be sure. Paul even saw the red length of rope coiled around the sentinel’s fist and this wasn’t reassurance. Ray’s body slumped over an old monastery table. A sentinel stood fast behind the red velvet chair, probably to catch the drunk when he eventually toppled sideways. Paul had never seen interior guards before and in the scarce torchlight he only distinguished banded muscle and black armor—barbarian warriors with assault rifles and ammo belts.
    From the end of the long table, a door squeaked like a rodent. The sentinels shuffled noisily to attention. A man walked in, but in the shadows Paul only saw a mouth gliding into the room. Like the guards, the mouth didn’t appear to have the capacity for expression; it was an axe-wound turned clammy in the grave. On the far wall, something rattled happily at his approach.
    The Archbishop took a seat and his soft, girlish face became a nest of torchlight and painted runic design. Shaped eyebrows were delicate over a barbarous nose and mirrored sunglasses. Sandeus Pager folded his gloved fingers. The smell of women’s perfume, Chanel maybe, drifted across the long table.
    “I apologize for any injuries, brother Quintana, but the trial of ropes has been performed since the rule of Kublai Khan.”
    Paul tried to clear his throat. “Archbishop, I—”
    “Tell me Quintana, do you really think you can kill your way to the top? There are other ways to sit at my side.”
    “Justin, he was depressed—”
    “Better yet, don’t speak just now.” Pager took off his sunglasses, folded their stems neatly and set them down. “I’ve already heard the suicide story from the sentinels. I laughed then. Don’t make me laugh now. Humor turns my reasoning very quickly, and I want to remain fair.”
      The Archbishop took out what looked like a bronze cigarette case and set it on the table. “You’re resourceful and young, and have a natural acumen with powers of the mind. Justin Margrave was several rungs closer to complete naïveté, but there are plenty other strong individuals in the Church of Midnight—even some acolytes better suited for my flank.” Sandeus made a face like he’d just heard glass shattering. “Yet, there was the Gauntlet. I really wish we could get rid of the fucking thing, but there it is,