Bogdan Lusk, with Nathan Brant in the backseat, rolled up on the first soon-to-be pool-party guest while he walked down the street from a pub. The shit-house hotel he'd dodged to was at the end of the block. The man was Steve, but both Brant and Lusk had agreed he was still needed for now.

The man jumped as though he knew he was marked the second Brant rolled down his window and yelled.

"Hey fuck boy! Get in!"

Steve stopped dead in his tracks and stared at the car—his face contorting with anger. He'd had a few that night already and wobbled as though dizzy—but didn't say anything once he saw who'd shouted it. Glanced about himself on the sidewalk instead—no one was nearby.

"I have what you want at my house..." he said after wiping his hair back. "I found it like you asked. It was like you said... But it..."

"Good," said Brant. "Get in—we'll give you a lift to your hotel so you can get it!"

He stared at them, "I can take my own car..."

"Save the gas money," said Brant with a sneer.

"On no," said Steve—a twitch had run through him. "That's all right. It's no trouble."

"Rude," said Brant, "Besides we wanna have a chat on the way!" a friendly lilt had slipped into his voice, yet Steve knew they weren't really asking.

It was on the way to the house in the woods that Lusk had thought Steve might start crying from the stress. The blushed skin and the wetness in his eyes. The skull had been found like Brant had told and paid him to do—but something else had happened that night and the museum was compromised, or so he was trying to explain. What exactly he meant was now being extracted by Nathan Brant as Bogdan tore along the road.

"Someone else found my hidey-hole," mumbled Steve. "They saw me go in, and I sort of... Encountered them in the passageway... And chased them out! Scared them shitless—but didn't catch them. They talked," he almost moaned. "It's all fucked, they'll have told someone by now I expect. I was careful with my stuff—don't think they can prove anything—but I don't think I can go back to the museum. Please don't ask me too!"

"Who was it?" demanded Brant. Steve was in the front passenger seat, and Nathan was right behind him. Leaning forward so his mouth was close to Steve's ear—hands on the seat's shoulders—close enough to tickle him with the brown moustache.

"I... I think I know... But I'm not sure."

"How can you not be sure?"

Steve cringed at the breath on his ear, and Lusk almost laughed.

"It was dark... But there's only a handful of people it could've been..."

"Oh!" Bogdan said as they approached the house, and stopped them on the road with a sequel. "Wasn't expecting that kind of speed!"

A black Bentley was parked outside and all the lights were on. The curtains drawn so that nothing but bright cracks of orange loomed in the windows. Thwaite had already returned from Belgium.

Lusk peered at Steve side-ways, and said, "Good thing you brought that skull along. It'll be needed right off. You didn't try to clean it right?"

"The skull?" said Steve. "Of course not... You told me not too—and why would I?"

"Good."

"Hey mate!" Brant cut back in, "We need to finish this little chat before we go inside."

"Of course," said Lusk, smiling.

"Who the fuck," resumed Nathan, "Could it have been that compromised your little home away from home, and can their silence be bought? Or coerced?"

"I do have a most likely suspect... But that's not one-hundred percent sure! Please don't treat it like is. I don't think she... This person... I don't think they trust me anymore... Did try to get her in my corner... But."

"So no? No bribe? That's damned annoying. Real damned annoying."

"I-I don't think she'd take my money, n-no," stuttered Steve.

"Is she often there at night?" said Bogdan.

"Yes, but not alone."

"Security guard?"

"Yes, but not in my corner."

"That's a problem," said Lusk.

"Why?" said Steve. "I got what you wanted out of there already?"

"That's not all we need now. Thanks to some people," said Lusk. He glanced at Nathan who sneered back. "But let's go inside. This is Mr. Thwaite's decision, rightfully."

Bogdan Lusk enjoyed watching both Steve and Nathan Brant squirm while they sat in the living room, waiting for Mr. Rastus Thwaite to appear. Steve in his sport coat and jeans, sitting in an armchair with his hands gripped on the arms, a suitcase next to him. Lusk sat behind him this time. Nathan Brant sat on a couch nearby, legs crossed in a pretence of being casual.

Roger—a bodyguard had come down from Belgium with Thwaite. Tall and lean with curly black hair and a Welsh accent. He leaned by the hall door, staring at the two of them, arms crossed in a fine suit. Made sure his pose left his holstered pistol visible but said nothing. Lusk had never seen him before—which he didn't like.

No one said anything and everyone's eyes kept glancing at the corner of poorly stocked bookshelves where Thwaite always sat in a big white basket chair.

After fifteen minutes Mr. Thwaite entered in a thousand-dollar black suite. He'd come rushing back from some party earlier on, apparently, and Lusk knew his news had spoiled the event.

His presence held the room in sway as though he were a judge in court as hr casually sat in the basket chair before them, adjusted himself, and then examined the men with penetrating, imperious eyes. Eyes that knew more than they said—had seen more that Lusk could imagine.

Steve squirmed because all he knew is that whatever Thwaite's inclinations were, they required human skulls, and this evidentially filled him with a fearful revulsion. Lusk almost smirked, he didn't share his masters peculiarities but enjoyed people reactions to them.

In service Bogdan had met many people he and others might casually have referred to as evil before he met Thwaite, first as an army boy in Afghanistan, then as a mercenary in all sorts of other places before being hired by Thwaite and Venner's private security company.

Had known an assortment of brutish lads and lasses who did nasty things from time to time—ruthless actions for their own gain and pleasure. Those types of people who didn't really seem to care for the impact of their actions on others. But what had they really done to earn the moniker of evil? In the truest force of the word? Deception, perhaps? Some stole from others or scammed them out of their money frequently. A few he knew had committed murders, others did rapes, or otherwise abused their power by beatings and malicious action, but not more than a handful of times in their entire careers. Mostly liars, cheats, and bullies. All a bit like Nathan Brant—maybe even Steve. Cruel and careless regarding human life. Sociopaths maybe—but evil?

He might not so easily use such a word after having met Rastus Thwaite and his strange circle of friends—including Mr. Joris Venner—despite the fact he'd never directly seen or heard of them doing as such. There was simply a superiority of evil in Thwaite's entire bearing. Some spiritual caprice that would turn a hideous confession into something naïve and cute in his eyes.

"So," said Thwaite—his voice seemed to echo. "You have the skull? The one that burned blue beneath Pan's gaze two nights ere?"

"Yes!" shot Steve. He picked up the suitcase, and in a grovelling half-crawl put it at Thwaite's feet. Thwaite lifted and opened it before smiling when he held skull in his palm and gazed into empty eyes.

"Sotor the Second," he said, "Oh, my friend. Despite you're life you still only have the skull of a man? Where are your horns? Were they bashed from your head after your great folly?" smiling, he brought it to his face and planted a peck on the cranium.

Handed it to Roger after who took it into another room—though he carried it with fear—as though it might burn him. Lusk watched this with a squint. He was new if he showed such fear.

"T-the stake is in there too," murmured Steve.

"The stake?" Thwaite's eyes shined at the word.

"At the bottom of the case."

Thwaite rested the bag in his lap and then retrieved a metal stake, stared at it with pleased eyes, and said, "It was with his skull?"

"Yes," said Steve. "Through the mouth. They staked his head down and then buried it in the wall. Y-you said you wanted anything buried with the skull, right?"

"Correct," said Thwaite, he rotated the metal in his hands. "This is not an unexpected—yet still very interesting—development. I applaud your fastidiousness."

Thwaite nodded at Bogdan, and Lusk dug into a pocket before tossing a small roll of notes onto Steve's lap. Steve jumped when they hit, glanced at Bogdan, and said, "T-thank you," Bogdan frowned and shook his head, and Steve's eyes went wide before repeating the thanks to Mr. Thwaite, who simply nodded, and directed his attention to Nathan Brant.

"It is fortunate," began Thwaite, "That I now have my skull and bones, for you have failed to get my reliquary."

"Three things," said Brant definitely. "You were right about the blue fire—it led us straight to it, but first of all, it was buried much deeper than you lead me to believe it would be. Took more time. Second, the spirits were far more active too, and not all were repelled by the medallion you gave me. That helped muck things up. And third, that blue fucking fire was much larger and brighter than you lead me to expect. It attracted a lot of attention—just all sorts of random assholes walking up and then the fucking fire department. I'm afraid we was driven off by the local tribesmen then."

"Where is the reliquary now?" Thwaite was scowling, and said, "Can you re-acquire it?"

"The police will have it now, I expect."

Steve lit up—in a terrified sort way—and burst, "It'll be at the museum soon!"

Brant shot a scowling look at him, but Steve only smiled and continued, "Mary Lithgow, the resident archaeologist at the museum, hauled ass out there this morning! She wants to claim it for us—the museum I mean—and I think she'll get it if the contents can skip the Treasure Valuation Committee. And she wants it enough to make that happen. I assure you of that. She wants to write all sorts of papers and shit and boost her career with it. Once it's at the museum you can get it from there easily. You just have to do whatever you did on Saturday and make the cameras fuck themselves again."

Thwaite did not smile, but he was not displeased by this—his expression lightened even—and he glanced at Bogdan. His head tilted; an index finger touched a lip for a moment. He'd just had an idea.

"I will assess the truth of this and begin considering such arrangements," he said after dropping the finger. "Make no concrete plans and take no actions without guidance."

Lusk only nodded. So did Brant.

Thwaite looked upon Steve again, and said, "The package shall be ready for insertion tomorrow."

Steve frowned and seemed to crumple inside of himself.

"About that!" said Nathan Brant with considerable force—near glee. An enormous smile took hold of his face. "Steve fucked that part up. A right old bungle. His hidey-hole is compromised he says. Can't insert anything now. He's too scared to even go near the museum."

Thwaite's eyes darkened, and he studied Steve.

Bogdan broke-in, "I'm afraid that appears to be accurate, but only one person knows for now—or so he says."

"Will they talk?"

Steve bit his lip, staring directly at Thwaite's burning, dominating eyes, and then breathed, "I think—"

"To whom?" Thwaite cut him off.

"One of the security guards who's not in my corner. Maybe the police..." his voice died, and he breathed, "Probably has already if she was ever going to at all."

"Are you able to silence them?" bellowed Thwaite.

"N-not easily, I think," stuttered Steve. "No."

"Bring me a sample of each's hair," said Thwaite.
"This person who say and the security guard. You must get an item of theirs too."

This struck Steve like a blow, he shook his head, and then spat, "What?"

"No?" said Thwaite. "You are not able?"

"Well, maybe—er—yes!" corrected Steve, "But why?"

"That is not for you to know—you must only be confident that this shall solve the problem, at least long enough for you to insert the package. You're fate past then is not my concern so long as does not conflict with my own."

Steve just stared, and before he could answer they were interrupted, and all faces save Thwaite's swivelled.

Something clattered outside. Pottery falling to stone—someone was there. Thwaite smiled, and then let out a single laugh.

"Who's that?"

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