Class Reptilia

They stayed in the safehouse for three more days. It was surprisingly easy for Ember to settle into the rhythm of the place: the basement clinic and its revolving door of patients; the hooded figures that entered and exited on the ground floor at odd hours; the basic, but warm meals that stretched just enough; and early mornings and late nights spent by the hearth in the common room. It was a quiet resistance, the kind that simply endured under the suffocating, ever-present fear of discovery.

For the most part, Ember spent most of her time in the basement, avoiding the room she shared with the other female Linnaeans. It was usually occupied by Callia, who still made her uneasy, especially after the sparring wounds on the vermes' face had completely healed just one day after Ember had inflicted them. The situation had become all the more dire when, at lunchtime, Ember had returned to the room to see Callia holding an entire rooster to her face, its neck hanging broken. She had shifted when the door opened and just looked at Ember, her terrible hole of a mouth red with blood. Ember had fled.

So she saw little of Blackstone, Callia, and Kairo, and even less of Orthus and Lilith. The rat-Linnaean only came into the room once, in the early hours of the morning, her posture stooped and her limbs dripping with exhaustion. She was gone by the time Ember awoke again.

On the evening of the second day, Ember returned from the clinic to see Kairo in the common area, stretching out his long legs. He was making no effort to contain his predator's aura, and his presence lay heavily over the room, putting her on edge. She paused in the doorway.

"I don't bite," he said without looking at her.

She laughed a little. "I doubt that."

He stood up, dusting off his palms. "What are you always down there for, anyway? There will be no rest after the mission."

"It's just something to do," she replied. "It keeps my mind busy."

He nodded as if it made sense. "Stretch with me," he said, and Ember blinked at him. I really don't understand him at all.

"All right," she agreed, and they went through the caracal's routine together. Kairo's skill was evident from more than just his flexibility—he breathed through every move, deep and slow, each movement purposeful.

"I've been thinking about your fight with Callia," he said suddenly."You know what she has that you don't?"

She scrunched her brows together, tamping down the urge to blanch at his unsolicited advice. "Well… her fighting style is a perfect match for her skills."

He snapped his fingers. "Exactly. Did you get your species only recently?" He asked, and she confirmed it with a nod. "It's obvious. You're fighting smart, which is good, but you're not embracing your source species. You're treating it like something to be contained and kept separate from your human self. You'll self-destruct that way."

Ember swiped a hand through her now-short hair. After the incident with Charlie, she had spent a lot of time suppressing her instincts, except when emotion inevitably brought them to the surface. "Point taken. What should I do instead?"

"Your species isn't just a weapon to be used," he explained. "It's part of you, no matter what. You're a snake, right?" She nodded. "Have you actually gone out and observed one? Tried to understand it?"

Ember blinked, suddenly a little embarrassed. "Well… no. I suppose not."

He smiled a little, exposing his canines. "Just think about it."

Suddenly, the openness in his expression was too much to bear, and bands of guilt tightened around her chest. She stood up and dusted herself off. "I-I will," she said, turning for her room and hoping that, for once, it was empty.

***

The first change came late at night on the day that she had spoken to Kairo. She was sitting by the hearth, watching the flames, when Orthus stumbled through the door. She leaped up, biting off her greeting when he pulled down his hood, revealing pallid skin and sunken eyes. "Sit down," she said, leading him by the shoulders to the worn-out couch. She hurried to make him something to eat: oats, with a little bit of butter and a side of pickled beets.

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They sat together on the sofa, knees knocking together. "Are you all right?" she whispered.

"Fine," he sighed, pausing to eat another spoonful, "but no closer to finding out where she is." His two-toned irises reflected the orange flames. "And I miss the water."

Something in Ember's chest softened. It will be a long time before he sees it again, even if everything goes right. "What do you miss about it?"

He sighed. "The weightlessness… the way the sun filters through the surface," he looked up, as if imagining it. "There is no peace on land."

No response seemed adequate, so Ember turned back toward the fire. "There is some news, though," he said, his voice even quieter than before. He leaned close, his mouth almost touching the shell of her ear. "I found out where the human prisoners are being kept."

She looked at him sharply. "Is there a way in?"

He nodded slowly. "They're civilians, so security is lax."

"But?"

His mouth drew into a thin line. "...But they've got them working at the ironworks factory. We might not have much time left."

***

It was nighttime in the city, and Deacon James was praying. He sat in the first row of pews, watching the low light of the flickering candles illuminate the stained-glass windows, where stories of the Goddess's triumphs were told in all the colors of the rainbow. At the front of the church was a massive pair of wrought-iron wings, brutally twisted into shape by a metalworker, a reminder of the Goddess's merciless—but unerring—divine justice.

On this night more than any other, it was difficult to calm his thoughts. It was a relief when he heard footsteps and looked up to see Deacon Patrick. The man wore long, black robes that pooled around his elbows, giving him an apparition-like appearance.

James stood up to shake Patrick's hand. He disliked the man (an old classmate who was rumored to be next in line for ascension), but the apostle's instructions were absolute. If anything, the mystery surrounding this job meant that he had been trusted with something important.

"Deacon Patrick," he greeted, putting more warmth into his words than usual. "May the Goddess's light show you the way on this dark night. How do you fare?"

"I'm well, thanks to the Goddess," Patrick replied, bowing at the waist. It was the first of several increasingly complex pleasantries that they exchanged for several minutes.

"What tidings do you bring?" James asked once propriety had been satisfied.

"A message from our supervisor," he replied, sounding a little rehearsed. "There were concerns about a security breach in the old prison, so a reshuffling has been conducted. The high-profile prisoners, including the Linnaean spy, have been moved to the old wool mill in the warehouse district."

"Shall I direct tomorrow's holy visit there, instead?" James asked. He was indeed the prisoner's spiritual adviser, although it was a title that meant more in theory than in practice when his charges were sometimes unconscious and always unwilling to speak.

"That's right," Patrick replied, and James could hear his relief now that their conversation was coming to a close.

"Understood. Thank you for the message. Care to pray with me?"

"Of course," Patrick replied, and they lowered themselves to their knees before the great wings. James felt the familiar, almost comforting, sting of the cold floorboards on his knees; the creaking of the old church in the wind; the prayer which came so easily to his tongue. He hoped that the Goddess would be pleased by how he had done his duty.

***

On the night of the fourth day, Lilith returned. The party, finally whole again, gathered in Blackstone's room for a briefing.

"I have it from the Order themselves. Our spy and the other high-profile criminals have been moved to a stronghold east of Midtown," she said, her voice low but quick with excitement. "It's a converted factory, and I was able to get a description from an ex-employee." She pulled out a piece of paper, smoothing it down on the desk, and the other Linnaeans leaned over to get a closer look.

The building was four stories tall, with many small windows. Each floor had a fairly open floor plan—except the basement, where it looked like the supervisor's offices were housed—and was labeled with its purpose: carding, spinning, weaving, and finishing.

Blackstone stroked his beard. "What are our options for entry?"

"There are the standard entrances and exits," Lilith explained, "but also a fire escape and a basement door that leads to the boiler room." Her pointer finger settled on a trapdoor on the roof. "Although the most promising, in my opinion, is a maintenance hatch that the girls used to sneak out to smoke."

Blackstone considered her words. "I agree. They're likely to have blocked off the basement, but the maintenance hatch is less obtrusive. Humans rarely expect an intruder from above." He drummed his fingers on the desk. "Orthus and Lilith, you rest. Kairo, find out the patrol schedule and if the roof is accessible from the nearby buildings. Callia and Ember, help clean up our traces here and prepare the team for our mission. We leave tomorrow at midnight."