Devil's Workshop

“What. .” The stranger stopped, then started again, nervous. “What is this? Who are you?”

Oh, the stranger didn’t know! He had stumbled upon Jack by accident. Under the hood, Jack smiled. His cracked lips broke and he tasted copper.

“Come closer, little fly,” he said.

“I need to. . There’s no time.”

“Someone is following you,” Jack said.

“I don’t know. I mean, yes, they’re looking for me.”

“And where will you hide?”

“Here. Down here.”

“But this is my home. You may only hide here if I allow it.”

“Why are you chained like that?”

“Come closer.”

He heard the stranger shuffle in place, undecided.

“It’s all right,” Jack said. “I can’t hurt you, can I? You can see that. So where’s the harm?” Every word scorched his dry throat. He savored the pain. “Come and take this off my head so that we might see each other and converse like the gentlemen we surely are.”

The stranger didn’t move.

“What’s your name, little fly?”

“Cinder. . My name is Cinderhouse, but I fail to see how that matters.” The stranger, Cinderhouse, feeling brave now after his initial confusion, feeling like Jack couldn’t hurt him, chained and hooded in the dark as he was. Jack smiled again. Such a perfect little fly, a tender morsel already caught in Jack’s web, but still unaware of the danger.

“Oh, it matters to me, Mr Cinderhouse. Do you mind if I call you Peter?”

“But that’s not my name.”

“It’s not meant to be a name. It’s a title.”

“I don’t understand.”

“Tell me, do you understand this: Exitus probatur?”

“What?”

“Never mind. They’re not close. The men following you. They’re far away, aren’t they?”

“I don’t know where they are. I think I killed one.”

“We have time before they follow you here. You’re quite safe with me, Peter. I can protect you.”

“Don’t call me that.”

“But why not? I should think you’d be honored.”

Cinderhouse shuffled closer, the soles of his shoes dragging grit from the floor.

“Take the hood from my head and face me,” Jack said.