"You've gotta be fuckin' kiddin' me," said Beckett Donnelly, planted on the cold wooden bench in his cell. "Fifty-six people. I knew the Deus Islands changed a lad, but fuckin' hell. You didn't even have the guts to kill a gnat before you left."

Beckett's cousin, the once esteemed Tobin Guthrie, took the cell beside him, divided by a dozen rust-covered bars. The former man of God had his hands over his neck, whimpering like a scorned child, trying his damnedest to yank his hair off his scalp. A blindfold hid his eyes, blue as the sea once upon a time. The last person who got a glimpse of them said otherwise, though they'd never live to tell the tale.

"I told you not to go, Tobin," said Beckett. "I don't know what they've done to you, but if you did all of that just to prove a point—"

"I wanted to make a difference, Beck," said Tobin, sighing as if the words leaving his tongue took his energy with him. "But that wasn't it. That wasn't me!"

"And what if it was?" Beckett scooted closer to Tobin's cell. "I've been in here longer than you. They say it's in our blood. We all reach this desire to kill at some point. Perhaps you've just reached yours. Even preacher men aren't safe, Tobe."

"I am not a killer!" Tobin shouted. He toned his voice down to a gravely whisper and said, "I am not you."

A small grin crossed Beckett's face. "Seems you are now. Like I said, it's in the blood. Not even your fault."

"Beck," said Tobin, all his energy transported away, "I didn't mean to lash out. Forgive me."

"Did you not hear me, Tobe? I'm not takin' it fuckin' personal. This is your new life." Beckett sat back. "You're farther from God than you thought you were."

This world will not destroy my faith, Tobin replied in Lochtish, a language Beckett hadn't heard the man speak since they were kids. He loved the harshness of it, the disorienting spelling, the way he could piss off a local Mundiman just by saying hello.

"Definitely don't be speakin' that around here," Beckett said. "Otherwise, prepare to have an orifice filled. If you're fortunate, which I completely fuckin' doubt, they'll let ya choose which one."

Silence in the room, though thunder growled in the distance beyond the walls.

"I know it's unfair, Tobe," Beckett said. "That's just how it fuckin' is."

His cousin didn't speak another word, neither in Mundi nor Lochtish. Hours went by, and rain fell upon Novus Mundi as the two prisoners fell asleep, a booming thunderclap wishing them farewell.

When the hem of the sun had peeked over the world's edge the following morning, Beckett awoke to a horrible sound repeated beneath his cousin's breath. He turned and saw Tobin with his neck crooked, as if dangling from a noose, his face red with streaks of dried blood and his nails digging into the seat in his cell.

Indevitatus, Tobin whispered. Indevitatus...Indevitatus...

"Tobe?" said Beckett.

Indevitatus...Indevitatus...

"Tobe, wake the hell up."

The words halted, but Tobin glared up at the ceiling, more drops of crimson seeping through his blindfold. He breathed as if pinned against the wall, harsh, agonized. He was crying? Laughing? Some repeating noise born from an uninhibited emotion. His body was there, but the soul and the mind, misplaced.

"Tobin!"

The former preacher man awoke with a scream. His face glistened with sweat and blood.

"Tobin, take off that blindfold," said Beckett.

"No!" shouted Tobin. "No, Beck, that can't be allowed."

"Why not?" said Beckett, scratching his beard. "Some long-gone gobshite nick your eyes outta your skull?"

"I don't know. But I can't take it off!"

Beckett's eyes narrowed. "Tobe, I've seen far worse than vacant eye sockets. I'm not gonna go mad just 'cause I've known you longer with eyes than without 'em."

Tobin said nothing. He shivered in his seat, soaked from head to toe in sweat, like a corpse washed ashore.

"Tobin," said Beckett, "what happened while you were there? Did you see something you shouldn't have?"

Silence from his cousin once more. Beckett watched Tobin's lips. They mouthed the same omen. Indevitatus. Indevitatus.

"What's this nonsense?" said Beckett. "Some kind of curse?"

Tobin shivered.

"I know you, Tobe. Something's pullin' your strings. What could it be?"

Tobin breathed, cold enough for steam to generate.

Beckett's eyes widened. "Where's Rita?" he said.

Three loud knocks resonated through the halls. Following the clanking of undone locks, the door flew open, and two Mundimen officers stepped inside, the shadows of the room dulling their golden armor a humble shade of bronze.

"Goddamn it," said one officer, armed with a curly mustache and a grating royal twang in his words. "I'd wagered only one of you would survive the night. You've lost me thirty units."

"Wonderful, I'll add that to my ever-expanding list of sins," Beckett said. "Release my cousin, and I'll be sure to confess every bloody wrongdoing the next time I stumble into a church. I must warn you, entering a church is one of many things I'm completely incapable of doing sober."

"Perhaps you could add this one to your list of sins?" replied the other Mundiman, and with a snap of his fingers, a third came along, gloved hands dragging in a young woman, pinning her arms behind her back. Chestnut brown hair, tan skin, and blue eyes, Beckett recognized his daughter instantly. He leapt from his seat, slamming his hands against the bars in front of him.

"Rita!" he yelled. "What the hell is she doing here?"

"Forgive us, dear Creator," whispered Tobin.

"This pretty thing caught a man in the throat with a razorblade," said Mustache. "Seems that she's reached the age where this curse in your bloodline finally awakens, Mr. Donnelly."

Beckett stayed silent, his eyes darting away from his daughter, burrowing through the wall, hoping to find light in any way or form.

"Tell me, Mr. Donnelly," said Mustache, "where does all this bloodlust come from? You, your parents, your cousin, and now your daughter. An odd tradition, I'd say. Seems we can't blame the girl's mother, however, even if one has to wonder how much disease a Priesic whore like her was carrying when she gave you Rita."

"Say anything about her or her mother again, I'll take a razorblade to your fucking knob, you cunt!" said Beckett. "Let her go! The only one you need here is me."

"Bloody Lochtishmen," chuckled Mustache. "You can't stop a disease just by eradicating patient zero, Mr. Donnelly. You must also remove anything and everything that it's consumed. And unfortunately for Father Guthrie and your daughter, you radiate an enormous and destructive influence. And for that, you shall burn."

Beckett gripped the bars so tightly, his hands paled. The cool steel between his fingers reminded him of the blade that put him in that cell. Blood splashed his face and hands that evening, spraying from the bastard's throat. The man's last words regarded Rita and her mother, too.

"You should consider the paths in life you've allowed your daughter," said the second Mundiman, a faint scar grazing his left eye. "A rabid dog or a cat in heat. Is this really what you want for her?"

Indevitatus...Indevitatus...

Faint Scar glared at Tobin. "What the fuck is he going on about?" he said.

The bars between Beckett and his daughter opened, and the soldiers shoved Rita inside. She hissed her teeth at them, but Beckett jumped in front of her and launched his fist into Faint Scar's nose. The Mundiman stumbled back, blood seeping through his hands as they shielded his nose, and Mustache took his place, forcing Beckett deeper into the cell.

"You fucking Lochtish beast!" he shouted, and the cobblestone jabbed into Beckett's back as he met the wall with the officer's help.

"Guards, leave them alone!" Tobin shouted. "That's my family! Leave them alone!"

Beckett blocked a punch from Mustache, the sensation akin to catching a speeding brick. He watched his daughter fail to yank the soldier away, but in her attempts, she'd snatched a small knife from one of Mustache's holsters.

"Rita, no!" he said, but the girl drove the knife into Mustache's cheek. When he screamed, Beckett saw the tip of the blade burrowed into his mouth. It didn't take long for his teeth to glow red from the blood pooling around his tongue.

Mustache backed away, shrieking. He glared at Rita with loathsome eyes. Faint Scar reentered the cell and threw his arms around the girl from behind. She screamed as drops from his bloody mess of a nose sprayed her neck and shoulder.

"Rita!" Tobin said. "Do something, Beck, save her!"

In that moment, Beckett didn't know why, of all gut feelings, this one propelled him the fastest. He forced his hands through the bars, grabbed his cousin by the collar, yanked him closer.

"Wait, Beck, what are you doing?"

Beckett lifted the blindfold, looking away as he did so. Tobin's panic vanished in a flash, as if his mouth were sealed shut. Each hand took a bar, and they screeched as he pulled them apart and climbed into Beckett's cell.

His head twitched to his right so quickly, the bones in his neck cracked like rocks. Faint Scar saw his eyes, shoved Rita away, breathing rapidly. He stumbled out of the cell, unable to look away from Tobin, and every blink of his eyes drew blood. By the time he was out of the cell, having broken eye contact with Tobin, he was screaming.

All that was left was Mustache.

Tobin forced him against the other wall. He met the cobblestone so fast, a crater had formed around him, tracing his armor, nibbling at it. His face turned bright red, and veins crawled across the skin on his head like worms. Tobin's hands pressed into Mustache's chest plate.

"I can't breathe," coughed Mustache, and a strange sound left his tongue as Tobin's hands cracked into his chest like plaster.

He gasped and writhed as blood spilled out, drenching Tobin's arms. The white of his eyes met Beckett, and following two loud popping sounds beneath his chest, the Mundiman's final breath wheezed out. Tobin moved away and let the man's body collapse to the floor, his chest a cavernous hole expelling innards and bone. Blood coated Tobin's arms up to his elbows.

Beckett pulled Rita close, tried to cover her eyes, but she blocked his hand. "Tobin," he said, "what have you done?"

A low, monstrous voice sighed out of Tobin's body. "Humans make strange sounds," the voice said. "They shriek like animals, crack like stone. Their lungs pop so loud when you squeeze them just right."

"Who are you?"

The stranger made Tobin's hands rub against each other, intrigued by the oily sensation of blood between his fingers.

"Return me to the islands," he said, refusing to look back at his witnesses.

"The Deus Islands?" said Beckett, and the thing in Tobin's body nodded. "What will you do when you return?"

"Finish what I've begun."

"What have you begun?" said Rita. Beckett looked at her.

"Liberation."

The hands met the blindfold and slid them back on. Tobin's body shook, and the preacher man returned with a scream. He dropped down to his knees.

"Beck!" he said. "Beck, where are you?"

Beckett said nothing. He studied Rita's eyes, noticing how dull they suddenly appeared.

"Hello? Beckett?" Tobin cried. "Rita? Somebody answer me!"

"We're here, Tobe," said Beckett.

"What have I done? Why is there blood on my hands once more? Where are the guards?"

"You killed one of them," said Rita.

Tobin found her by the sound of her voice. "What?"

"You reached into his chest and crushed his lungs in your hands."

"Rita, enough," said Beckett. "You were right, Tobe. It wasn't you. You're a vessel for something."

"A vessel for what?" said Tobin.

Beckett shook his head. "I'm as clueless as you are. But whatever it is, it craves chaos."

"Is this what you were talking about? A sudden desire for violence awakening at the right time? A curse in our blood?"

"No, Tobe. One is only what I know and what you and Rita have had the misfortune of knowin' because of me. But this? What you have right now that's killed the Mundiman and possibly those fifty-six people? This is a curse."

Tobin wept, and thunder boomed again outside. Rita didn't look away. Her eyes radiated curiosity.

She and Beckett looked back as a dozen guards swarmed their cell, rifles drawn. Some of them had red smudges on their armor.

"Father Guthrie!" shouted one Mundiman. "What have you brought upon Novus Mundi?"

"I don't know, my son," said Tobin. "Everything goes dark. And then I wake up with blood on my hands."

"Officer Barlow came dashing out of this sector," said another Mundiman, "blood pouring out of his eyes, raving about returning to the Deus Islands. And then I watched him come apart like melting ice! His skin peeled and slid off until only his bones remained! I ask again: what have you brought upon us?"

A round of angry shouting rippled through the officers. Victory was not a possibility for the Donnelly's and Father Guthrie. The only option was to take in the hatred, face the inevitable.

Face the inevitable.

"We must return to the Deus Islands!" said Beckett. "It is the only way to quell whatever has come upon us."

The shouting died down. Dumbfounded silence took its place among some of the Mundimen.

"We've spoken with the abomination that's slaughtered the fifty-six," said Beckett. "We know who's killed your men here in this prison. Father Guthrie has nothing to do with it. He is innocent!"

"You expect us to believe you?" said a Mundiman. "After everything that's happened, there isn't a scratch on any of you! Perhaps you Lochtishmen unleashed this damned thing yourselves."

The shouting resumed. Beckett stood before the barrels of a dozen rifles.

"He's telling the truth!" said Tobin. "I have no memory of the slaughter. I couldn't even tell you how my hands have been coated with blood once more! But I can promise you, I wouldn't even think of causing this much pain and suffering."

"I'm sure she didn't either," said another officer. "Yet here you both are."

Beckett scowled. "She has nothing to do with this."

"But she has done enough," said the officer, "to join you both on your voyage back to the islands."

Beckett's face paled. He turned back to his daughter, who didn't return his fear back to him. Curiosity remained where he'd found it before.

"Seems a fitting consequence," said the officer. "A family of murderers shipped away on a vessel with a hundred other scum of the earth to the most isolated rehabilitation center on the planet. If a return is what you want, then that is what you will receive."

"Alone," Beckett said. "We wish to go alone! Do you have any idea of the violence that can ensue if Father Guthrie is allowed onto a prison vessel? What about the fifty-six?"

"Oh, he didn't tell you? Those fifty-six were on the returning vessel. Not a prisoner among them. Church members, doctors, nurses, cooks. He's slaughtered nothing but innocents."

"Forgive me once more, dear Creator," Tobin whispered.

"He takes the life of a passenger aboard a prison vessel," said a Mundiman officer, "he'd only mark the end of their sentence. He's just as much a butcher as the rest of you. You should feel at home in a prison vessel."

"No," said Tobin in a cracking voice. "I will harm no one else. I will return to the Deus Islands redeemed and an overcomer!"

"Or an executioner," said the Mundiman, closest to the cell. "We leave in one hour."

* * *

Bright yellow drops of rain warmed Beckett's skin as took a step forward in the line of prisoners, trailing down the pier and concluding at the hatch to Vessel 13, a behemoth of charcoal-gray steel stretching two hundred feet into the sky and four hundred feet toward the sea. A hazy sun hovered thousands of feet above Novus Mundi, hidden behind a yellowish-orange blanket of clouds.

A Mundiman officer strut beside Beckett, and the officer raised a finger to a piece in his ear. "Final three incoming," he said. "Requesting a Machina for high priority prisoner confirmation."

Beckett's eyes widened. "A Machina," he said. "Puttin' our lives in the hands of a steel puppet?"

"Machina inbound!" called an officer behind the three of them, and Beckett and Rita looked behind to see the storied thing lumber through the rain toward them.

Machinas, nine-foot-tall automatons coated in bronze, golems built to serve the kings and queens of Novus Mundi. Always seen but rarely spoken to. Its head was a smooth sphere with a single camera built into the left side of its head, reminiscent of a monocle. Its hands reached its knees, and each step shook the ground, split the air with a boom. Steam whistled out of a slot in its shoulder, and it observed the prisoners like a lighthouse beaming into a fog-ridden bay.

"Machina," said the officer closest to Beckett, "state your credentials."

"Request authorized," said the machine in an authoritative, feminine voice. "Unit NMCC-57. Codename: Janus. Directive: prison vessel oversight. Assignment: Vessel 13. Departing at 13:15 for the Harlow Phoenix Institution located at the southernmost point of Morrigan, the largest island in the Deus Island archipelago."

Its head spun toward Beckett, the shadow of a giant in the rain of sunlight. Beckett didn't notice the small grin on his daughter's face.

"Beckett Cillian Donnelly," said the Machina. "High priority passenger of Vessel 13. Found guilty of the second-degree murder of Allen Olmstead while under the influence of alcohol. Sentence: to be determined."

"Lovely to meet you, too," said Beckett, and the Machina's head panned toward his cousin and daughter.

"Tobin Oliver Guthrie, cousin to Beckett Donnelly. Former priest of the Saint Odhrán Church. High priority passenger of Vessel 13. Found guilty of the massacre of fifty-six men and women aboard the Seraph on its returning voyage from the Deus Islands."

"I will clear my name," said Tobin. "Something has taken over."

"If this is true, I'm sure the evidence will reveal itself soon," said the Machina, and it panned toward Rita. "Rita Isla Donnelly. Daughter of Beckett Donnelly and Salma Torrente. Mother is deceased. Incarcerated alongside father. High priority passenger—"

"You have a woman's voice," said Rita, her smirk unmoving.

"Yes, with authorization from an officer, this can be changed."

"No. Never change that."

Beckett squinted at his daughter, then studied the Machina. "Hey, puppet," he said, "say what you need to say to her and fuck off."

"Beck, what are you doing?" said Tobin, and the Machina's head jolted in Beckett's direction.

"You can call me Janus," it said. She said. "As high priority passengers, it is my mission to ensure that no harm comes upon you until you have arrived at your destination."

Beckett forced himself to laugh. "Until?"

"Once you have departed the vessel, your life will be in your hands once more. Is that understood?"

"Yes," said Rita. That smirk hadn't left her face since Janus had approached her.

"Very well," said Janus. "Let us announce your status to your fellow prisoners and escort you to your designated quarters."

When Beckett returned his sights to the pier in front of him, he'd found that every prisoner before him had disappeared inside. The infinite sea rippled at the end of the pier, welcoming him to his future.

"I almost forgot," said Janus, and she bent her arm. "As high priority passengers, you have been permitted these."

The surface of her arm split apart and separated, revealing a chamber containing three golden knives. Beckett swept all three away. Rita glared at him, unamused.

"Mr. Donnelly," said Janus, "your daughter is the only female passenger aboard Vessel 13, and the only one who's nineteen years old. She will need one of those blades."

Beckett and Rita exchanged a look. The smirk was gone. Now, it was something close to hatred.

"This is a rare privilege," said Janus. "One I recommend taking full advantage of."