Lusk's mud-coated shoe slammed Sonny Brant in the side, and he shouted, "Get up and get down to your brother. Go!"

Pointed down the hall with a leather-black finger.

Sonny rubbed his head—there were little chunks of glass in his ski-mask—a small streak of red ran past one eye and he picked the offending piece out and looked at it before flicking his eyes to Lusk.

"One more try... Haven't blooded the knife yet," he muttered this and dropped his gaze back to the glass. Let out a single forlorn chuckle, and added, "Best two out of three."

"They'll run into the freaks on the stairs!" Lusk grabbed him by the medallion on his chest. "You're not needed. Go! The way you came. Meet your brother."

"Shit," muttered Sonny, nodding glumly. "I'll just go this way then?"

Tossed the glass away as though he were skipping a stone on Davis's chest and then followed the crowd to the West, pistol in hand and fiddling with more bullets. The medallion snapped free in Lusk's hand when he did. Sonny sure didn't seem to miss it.

"Other stairs!" hissed Bogdan.

Sonny ignored this and kept his path.

"Insubordinate cunt," Bogdan tossed the medallion up in the air caught it. "I'll hold this for you!" he called after Sonny with a grin.

Shoved the thing in his breast pocket along with the one he'd lifted from Roger.

Turned from Sonny when a thrown door slammed against the stopper. Pried open by a crowbar and leading to more offices. Looked like the main hub of the museum's backstage.

Only one office was occupied. Only one light was on.

407.

Shone down from the roof to where Mary Lithgow stood behind the desk. Hadn't Thwaite said he desired a death of a certain particularity for her?

When stocking masked men turned to face her she began to sink lower, crying.

"Should've run with the others," said Bogdan, shaking his head. Heart was pounding from the cocaine. "Or shouldn't've answered the fucking phone."

On the desk before her—as she sank into the chair—sat a decorated black box that Bogdan could only assume to be one of the prizes.

"What a piece of shit!" indignation welled up, and he felt his face getting hot. "Couldn't sell it a flea market I bet! Fuck."

Both Monocle and Smiles stared at it awhile before looking up to the woman looming behind it. One glanced at an ornate black chest on the floor next to the desk. The other stared at a row of items on a table next to the frightened woman.

"That's the fucking lot?" hissed Bogdan.

A hand shot out and grabbed the knob of the office as though it were seizing a neck to strangle. Locked—yet it continued to tug and shake. When it withdrew it was only because the long sharp end of a crowbar smashed the glass to pieces.

Bogdan felt the full force of Mary's scream—was inclined to be knocked over by it—but that was probably just the coke. He kep his feet.

A gloved hand connected to a black arm shot through the break incognizant of the glass that cut into the sleeve as it pressed against frame before ripping the door open.

Both entered in a rush. Mary moaned as she stood. Turned and tried to bat her chair aside and out of her path—perhaps to dive for the window—but before she could the first blow came.

Light shined across a stocking that hid a gaze terrible in its indifference as it brought the crowbar down. Hit her shoulder and cracked something below.

Forced to her knees she crumpled against the chair. It rolled when she pressed—tumbled her onto the floor while both ski-masked men scrambled to either side of her. One grabbed the desk and tried to flip it, but the thing only slid.

A smushed, featureless face brought the metal down on Mary's side again—stabbed in under the arm but not very far—partly glanced against her bright dress before catching and plunging. The hatchet of the other came down on her outer thigh and wrent a great hole as she writhed and screamed and was answered by another blow, and another.

This was the intent and order of the witch Kaikeyi and Joris Venner—Grand Sotor the Third.

Lusk hopped forward and up onto the desk—even though he felt his suit tear at the crotch—and sprayed several rounds of the Uzi into Mary's chest. That finished her with the gnashing of fabric and stench of gunpowder. A drop of blood hit the window she might've fled through. Both pendant-clad figures stood with a startled sharpness and for a moment stared at him.

But there was nothing extra to that gaze. No added evil or menace or even detectable intent. For a moment they were still as statues and stared at his face before turning to collect the artifacts as their programming dictated.

Bogdan Lusk stepped off the desk and turned from them before walking slowly back to the security room. Neither figure followed.

He'd done so to make sure the cameras were absolutely fucked, as they ought to be, but stopped and stared at the valise laying on the floor. Steve hadn't hidden it that well after all. Is that why he's seen nothing ghostly this whole time? Or were the medallions that effective?

An idea hit Lusk then. As he stared his hand landed on the pill bottle in his pocket and he thought to himself that he at least might try to make things better. Because that's the way Thwaite and Venner want it right? Might not help Lusk—but he might be able to help them?

"Fuck it!" Bogdan roared and ripped the cap off.

Maybe it's why nothing much seemed to be happening anyway. Lights went out? A laugh? That's what they busted their asses digging up graves to achieve? A stupid special effect?

The zipper down the middle of the valise hissed before he tugged the bag's lip to the side. Oiled bones sat stacked in a jumble; glistening in fluorescent light beneath his gaze, and he shrugged—tipped the bottle—and the finger bone tumbled in.

Nothing. He returned to the hallway. Lights that'd been left on were now off.

Wind poured through the halls too—lifted his tie and tickled the stocking mask.

Smell of fresh dirt in the air.

Behind him a boot thudded and a spur clicked with it.

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1000 words.

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