Bane

September 29, 1964

Emily Walker answered the door before Samael Grifford could knock, and half-curtsied. "Your honor, welcome to our home."

Grifford returned her gesture with a half hearted bow. "Were it only under better circumstances, Emily. Is your husband home?"

"He's waiting for you in the drawing room, judge. Please come inside, and out of the sun."

Grifford nodded once, and stepped past the threshold of the entryway. Emily stepped aside as he passed, and shut the door behind him. Grifford continued into the foyer, through the hall, and turned right to the drawing room. Clayton was sitting by the hearth staring at the long dead ashes of a once fire. Grifford cleared his throat, and Clayton glanced over his shoulder. When he saw Grifford, he stood and acknowledged the judge. "Judge, it's an honor to have you in my home."

"Let us do away with formalities for now, Clay." Grifford admired the drawing room a moment, and found his way into the comfort of the seat across from Clayton's.

"Very well." Clayton bowed his head in reverence to the judge, and took his seat.

"I'm afraid I've kept secrets from you, Clay." Grifford sank back into his seat. "I received your message about the attack on your home, but I'm afraid I could not respond."

"You're a busy man, judge. I understand."

"Now is not the time for formalities. Let us speak plainly."

Clayton blinked, feeling the same discomfort he felt when Martin Bellar addressed him without the traditional formalities of The Order. "Alright."

"Good. The night of September twenty-seventh you called for me. Do you remember what time?"

"Uh..." Clayton scratched at the back of his neck. Down the hall, past the den, from the kitchen he could hear Jonathan repeating the word no. "I want to say just a little while before midnight."

"It was exactly a minute before midnight. Rosa took the call, recorded the time, and because you insisted its importance, your message was delivered to me by one of my personal Zealots."

"I don't follow."

Grifford held up his hand. "At the time you called me, I was at the quarry."

"The quarry? That late at night?"

"More specifically, I was a few hundred feet underground... and yes. That late at night."

"The mine."

"Yes, Clay. I was down in the mine. The research team requested me an hour before your call. They discovered something."

"Research team? I didn't know we had any local teams at work."

"Our project, The Hands of God has been a tireless effort on all involved. The quarry was how we imagined the idea. It was necessary to dig, but we had to disguise it. It would do us no good if we deemed it an archeological dig site."

"It would attract unwanted attention."

"Correct... but what is to anyone just another quarry? We dig around, cart it off by the truckload, and when we finish we fill it up with water. Maybe toss in a few fish for the locals, and call it a lake. Our dedication to preserving nature, and wildlife."

"What did you find?"

"Research has no idea. The church may know but if they do, they are not telling: they want it reburied. Personally, I do not think it can help The Order... but I believe it may be tied to you."

"What's down in the mine?"

"It is not exactly a mine." Grifford swallowed, and spared himself a moment of thoughtful silence. "It was there already. A local found an old piece of pottery on the land before we started digging. The fool thought nothing of it, and sold it at the bazaar. He sold it to Marisal."