Lumiere stared at him in shock.
"I… I don't know. He got away—but there's no way somebody could survive injuries like those."
Wilhelm cupped his face in his hands. "How long was I out?"
"Just over a week."
"Where are we?"
Lumiere gently settled Xia into the bedside chair.
"Naples. Stay here, I'll go get Tao and the others. He said we're to meet as soon as you wake—figure out our next steps."
"Yeah… okay."
After Lumiere left, Wilhelm threw off the covers and looked down at himself. Just as he feared: his leg was gone. Burns covered him from face to foot.
He sighed.
Somewhere, buried beneath the pain, was a deeper frustration. Logically, the Count had to be dead. But nothing about Saint-Germain had ever followed logic. He'd already been killed twice, and nearly again. He'd taken a cannonball at point-blank range—and kept fighting.
This wasn't over. Wilhelm could feel it.
And he was ready to sacrifice everything to make sure Saint-Germain never hurt anyone he loved again.
By this time, the Count had scrambled east—somehow—his destination: Jerusalem.
He was missing all of his skin, his body riddled with holes, yet he moved without hesitation, walking as though nothing were wrong.
Panic erupted through the city streets at the sight of him. Many believed a djinn had appeared. That illusion persisted until he reached the Sultan's palace, where a solid wall of guards stood before the gates—spears, shields, and rifles in hand, determined to stop him from entering.
An hour later, they were all dead.
As he stepped deeper into the palace, nearing the throne room, a chill crept up even his scorched spine. For all his monstrosity—for all his strength—he felt something close to fear. He was a rat in a pit of dragons.
The throne room was vast, possibly a quarter of the palace's footprint. Every wall gleamed with gold. At the center stood a grand staircase, every step occupied by a soldier in ceremonial armor—imposing, silent, and many. At the summit, draped in sheer curtains of silk, sat a veiled throne.
Behind it waited the monarch of Jerusalem: Amon.
Saint-Germain was not alone in the room.
To his left stood a Japanese man clad in full samurai armor. He carried a massive washing pole sword on his back and a shorter, bandaged katana at his hip.
Beside him, a young woman in elegant East Asian robes. Her straw hat cast her face in shadow. She held no weapons, but her silent presence beside the swordsman gave her weight.
To the Count's right stood a giant—at least three feet taller than him, and far more massive. His entire form was wrapped in thick, tattered rags, concealing every detail.
At the foot of the stairs stood another figure, also cloaked, but dressed in the most opulent silk robes imaginable. In one hand he held a simple wooden staff, he was the high priest.
This man approached the Count.
"Do you remember me, Saint-Germain?"
The Count knelt on one knee—only to be struck across the face with the staff.
"Lower. Answer when you're spoken to."
Saint-Germain immediately groveled. "Of course. My apologies, Elijah."
Elijah smiled beneath his mask. "Raise your head."
The Count looked up. "If I may ask, sir… will Eros be joining us?"
Elijah shook his head. "The doctor is in Greece. If you want to fix that sorry body of yours, you'll have to go there."
Saint-Germain began to rise, but was struck again.
"We're still expecting another attendee, but that's not important. You're the reason we're holding this meeting, Germain."
Elijah stepped closer. His shadow loomed large.
"Word has it you failed to stop the prince's little crusade."
"I killed hundreds of them, sir. Please—"
Another strike silenced him.
"Is the prince alive?"
"Well… yes, b—"
"And how many of his men remain?"
"Less than ten…"
Elijah sighed. "Then you've failed your mission. And until it's done, you will not be paid by the Sultan."
Saint-Germain rose again, ignoring Elijah's blows. He stepped forward, fury in his voice.
"There's no way a handful of men could kill the king! It's absurd—I demand my payment now!"
He lunged.
Before he could touch Elijah, his legs were severed clean off.
Behind him stood the samurai, his washing pole unsheathed—blade glinting, not a drop of blood staining it.
Saint-Germain collapsed, snarling.
"What do you think you're doing, Fuyuki?"
The swordsman sheathed his blade and turned away.
"You heard Elijah. You failed. You're lucky we let you stand among us at all. Why would we make an exception for you?"
The Count dragged himself forward, his stumps leaving streaks on the golden floor.
"Come on, Fuyuki. We've known each other for ten years. We did jobs together. I thought we were friends."
Fuyuki turned and spat in his face.
"Don't compare me to garbage like you. I've hated you since the day we met."
Saint-Germain pouted, somehow grotesquely childlike. "That's so mean. What did I do?"
"You trafficked humans. Sold weapons to warlords. Ran a gladiator pit in America. You're not a soldier—you're a parasite. I kill for a cause. You kill because you don't belong anywhere."
The Count was silent for a moment.
"…Fair enough. You owe me a trip to Greece, though. Eros can't reattach limbs unless they're fresh."
Fuyuki didn't answer. He simply walked back to the robed woman.
The Count grinned up at Elijah. "Still don't get why we don't just wipe out the rebellion in Cyprus. It's their only route to us. Would solve everything."
Suddenly, the rag-wrapped giant lifted a foot and slammed it down. The entire room trembled. A crack split across the marble floor.
Saint-Germain froze, drenched in cold sweat. "I was just joking!"
Elijah turned to the giant. "Don't worry. No one will touch Cyprus as long as you hold up your end of the bargain. Also be careful, we melt gold below this room and a lot of it."
The giant nodded and fell still again.
Elijah faced the group. "By Sultan Amon's order, Saint-Germain, you are to travel to Greece alongside Fuyuki and his maiden. After you recover, you'll receive further instructions."
The Count's eyes bulged. "Further instructions? I haven't even been paid for this one! I lost men—"
"You've been replaced."
A voice echoed from the grand hall.
Saint-Germain whipped around. "You replaced me with the American?"
A slim man stepped into the room. He wore white leather and denim, a cigar glowing in his mouth. His boots echoed as he entered.
"No hard feelings, Germain," he said, grinning. "Your supplies kept me and my boys going for fifteen years. I owe my success to you, in a way."
Elijah greeted him warmly—very unlike his treatment of the Count. "I'm glad you're well, Black. Your cousin didn't join you?"
Black tipped his hat to his chest. "White died on the way here."
"Oh… I'm sorry to hear that."
Black burst into laughter. "I'm messin' with you. He called y'all oppressive scumbags and stayed the hell away."
"Oh…"
"I agree with him, but the money's too good."
Elijah frowned. "Why didn't you kill him?"
"Tried. But he caught a train to New York. Ain't worth chasing him from Texas."
Elijah sighed. "Fine. You know your assignment?"
Black tilted his hat back into place.
"Don't worry. It'll get done. I'm John Black, after all."