He rode in silence, clutching his briefcase between long bony fingers, fingers that itched to riffle through the pages of the file nestled inside. Perfect, he thought. Absolutely perfect. Extraordinarily so. His newest acquisition, Kail Joannson was everything he could hope for in a patient. Young, alone, without friends or family and for all the county knew or cared, very much insane.

There was a jolt outside as the carriage came to a halt. Frowning, Simmons set his briefcase down on the seat beside him and leaned his head out the window. "Jeremy?"

"There's some sort of delay ahead, sir. She's backed up for at least half a mile."

Leaning further out, Simmons saw that that his coachman hadn't been exaggerating. No less than a dozen carriages were lined up in front of them, and twisting his head around, Simmons saw two more drew up behind. Angry murmurs could be heard above the nervous whickering of the horses. Jeremy added his own curses to the mix as he reined in the matched mares, trying to keep them under control as they caught the scent of unfamiliar horseflesh.

"What's the meaning of this?" Simmons demanded to no one in particular. To his surprise, someone answered.

"We apologise for the delay, sir," a toneless voice said from below him. The doctor looked down to see a man of indeterminable age standing beside the carriage. He stood with his hands tucked into the sleeves of his bland, no-colour robe. His face was nearly covered by a deep cowl, though Simmons could see patches of a short beard and a beaky nose beneath. "We're under orders to search every coach that passes through here after nightfall."

"Under whose authority?"

"Ours," the robed man told him, pulling a scroll from his sleeve. "The Church of the Gray God."

Simmons scowled as he read over the scroll. At the bottom beside the florid signature was a drawing of a kneeling man robed in gray, his limbs and torso entwined with roses and thorns. "The Bone Priests."

The man pressed his lips together as he took the scroll back from Simmons, but said nothing.

"What are you looking for, anyway?"

"We won't know until we find it."

"Hmph. I see. I suppose your Gray God will descend from the skies and make the proper carriage shine with a Holy Light, then? No," he said quickly as the priest's eyes narrowed. "No, don't answer that. Science and religion never mixed."

"The Gray One has instructed us to seek out the evil in this world and destroy it."

"Evil?" Simmons raised a brow, amused. "Evil, is it? Well, Brother Bones, let me tell you something about evil." He leaned down close to whisper in the man's ear. The priest smelled of age and dust and parchment. "I've had my job for the last fifteen years, now. And every day, I've done the exact same thing. Do you know what my job entails? I kidnap people, I torture them, kill their minds, do things even your Gray God could not absolve me of. And when I grow weary of them, I kill their bodies or give them to someone else to do the same. And in every single instance, Brother Bones, I have done so completely within the boundaries of the law. In fact, I've found a way to do so such that I have the law's express permission, and support hat comes from London itself. If you are looking for evil, you can cease your search now."

The priest remained unruffled at the end of Simmons' speech. "Perhaps," was all he said. "But the Gray One shall deal with you in His own way. For the present, He has set us to the task of seeking out a much greater evil than you ..." his eyes traveled to the side of the coach, where the words "Warwick Asylum" were pained in large block letters. "Yes, much greater than you, Doctor. And once we have found it and dealt with it, mayhaps He will send us out to do the same with you."

"I cannot tell you how I look forward to that day, Brother Bones." Simmons said dryly. "Look, you're only stopping carriages and the like, no? I mean, this thing you're looking for, this evil, could it be hiding in an individual?"

"No ..." The priest frowned. "It could be a human, or at least, resemble one, but it could not hide in one."

"Well, you said yourself that I'm not this thing you're looking for, right?"

The priest nodded, wary of Simmons' intentions.

"Well then, I do believe I'll walk the rest of the way to my offices. Jeremy, follow me with the coach when these fine gentlemen allow you to pass." He grabbed his briefcase and cane from the seat and jumped from the coach. "Good evening, Brother Bones. I wish you the best of luck with your quest."

Without a backwards glance, Simmons set off on foot. He could feel the priest's eyes on him as he walked, but refused to turn around. "Idiot priests," he muttered as he walked, talking long, angry strides.

Though the Church of the Gray God had only been in existence for half a year or so, the Priests and Simmons had been in conflict ever since he had found them waiting for him outside his offices one morning, at the gate of the Warwick Asylum. What right they thought they had there, Simmons hadn't a clue. In lieu of explanation, one of them had handed him a document stating a formal request that the asylum be shut down. This was the first Simmons heard of the Church's self proclaimed mission to rid the earth of all whose existence went against the natural Holy Order, as defined by their Gray God. The asylum, housing those who were mentally unstable and often criminally insane was high on the list. At Simmons' sputtered protests, they priest in charge had said without any sign of interest or inflection in his voice that it was not the presence of the committed they had issue with, but rather the actions of the staff involving the inmates. Simmons had protested ignorance, but when this failed to remove the priests from his doorstep he was forced to produce letters from the State that granted him express permission to carry out his clinical experiments on the residents of the asylum. The priests grumbled and the priests argued, but in the end the priests left.

Since then, Simmons had wanted as little to do with the new Church as possible. Unfortunately for him, the Church did not share his feelings. Nearly ever day after their initial meeting, the same three priests would return and stand outside his offices, never speaking a word. They simply stood before the door, holding the Church's request for the asylum's closing. They continued to stand there for over a week, grating on Simmons' nerves to the point where he finally wrote to London demanding that something be done about the matter. A few days after the letter had been sent, the priests stopped coming. Stopped having anything to do with him at all, actually. For a while, Simmons eyed every priest he saw with suspicion, half expecting something even worse to come out of nowhere. But it seemed London had put a stop to whatever it was the Church thought it could get away with, and he hadn't been bothered since. Not until tonight, at least.

"Of all the bloody things -- evil! Evil indeed. Twits, the whole lot of them. I'd as soon see every last flaming priest hung with his own thorn vine, like their Gray God. Shut down the Warwick -- pah!" He spat on the side of the road, his strides quick with repressed fury. He hurried past the motionless carriages, sneering at the priests who searched their contents. In retrospect, he probably should not have said all the things he did. But his anger could not be helped. It seemed that with this new Church, it was one thing right after another, all sent to gall Simmons into a fury.

And yet, the more he thought about it, the stranger it all seemed. While new religions were not uncommon on the streets at that time, the strength and ferocity with which this one had sprung up was nearly unheard of. When they had first begun appearing, most of the population had brushed them off as another idealist group, like the countless others who had risen and fallen before them. If anything, they were a bit stronger on preaching towards morals and good ethics than usual, but it soon became clear that this would not be just another in-again out-again church. Under ordinary circumstances, Simmons knew the papers would be full of news from this strange Gray Church, but as it happened, the new religion began to flourish just about the same time as reports of missing persons began cropping up at an alarming rate. At any other time, the people of England wouldn't give a clipped coin about the missing people. Undesirables, whores, drunks and gutter trash. But it had gotten to the point where even the higher-ups were beginning to take notice.

The streets were damn near deserted, Simmons noted as he walked. The homeless, sick and drunk were usually out in droves on a such warm night, but aside from the fading whinnies of the horses and the clack of carriage wheels, there was naught but silence. His footsteps were the only sounds in the soft night, accompanied by the soft tapping of his cane.

For a brief moment, Simmons felt a chill run down his spine. Strange things were taking place in England, and he knew of no one who liked it one bit, himself included. While the asylum was located at the fringes of the docklands, and his house in the midst of a good neighborhood, well populated, he was far enough away from London proper to be out of touch with anything but the most important news. Lately, he had begun to feel that separation more and more strongly.

The gate to the asylum was bolted shut. A chill wind blew aside his coat, cutting through his shirt to make its way around his collar and sleeves as he fumbled for his key. He shivered, pausing his search long enough to look up and scan the surrounding darkness. The sounds of traffic had long since faded into the otherwise silent streets, and though he strained his ears for any sound of life, Simmons could not even make out the scratching of rats that usually faded to the back of his hearing. For one crazy moment, he fought an urge to turn and run back the way he had come, climb back into the coach and order Jeremy to drive them straight home.

Simmons closed his eyes, willing himself calm. You are a doctor, he scolded himself as he dug the gate key from his pocket. A man of science, of reason and logic. Act like one. The gate swung open without a sound, but that only served to unnerve Simmons more than a creak would have. Without a single glance back, he entered the gate and slammed it shut behind him.

As he walked through the lighted pathway that led up to the building's proper door, he began to breath easier. He berated himself for being so easily spooked at nothing, even managing a small chuckle at his foolishness. The only thing out of place in the night was those damnable priests, sticking their noses into business that was in no way theirs, word of the Gray God or none. Simmons considered writing yet another letter to London, requesting a restraining order against the priests and his property, on the cause of harassment. Smirking at the thought of it, Simmons reached out to grasp the handle of the front door, when something caused him to look up.

He felt his heart leap and skip a beat. For a moment, he forgot how to breathe as his entire field of vision was engulfed in black. He stared, skin cold and heart pounding as the thing on the wall peered back down at him.

"Name of God," he finally said with a small groan. The bird just looked at him "Jesus." Simmons leaned back against the door, one hand over his eyes. When he took his hand away, the raven hadn't moved an inch. What was wrong with him? Simmons spat in disgust, but found his mouth too dry to produce enough saliva to even wet his throat. Scared by a raven. He was wound too tight, that was for certain. He had let those priests get to him and this was the result. Still shaking his head, he opened the door and stepped into the asylum proper, wiping his hands off on his trousers. He felt safer once inside the stone corridor, the torches offering a bit of light to warm the otherwise cold building. Ravens, priests, evil incarnate -- Simmons sighed, brushing a strand of lank, dark hair from his eyes. He made straight for his offices, wanting nothing more than to bury himself in paperwork and files all dealing with scientific evidence, working theories, case studies and observations that made sense. Logic, science, reason. That was all he wanted just then.

"Excuse me, sir."

Simmons felt himself jump as the hulking figure of a man stepped from the shadows beside him. An instant later he recognised the voice and cursed himself mentally, though it did nothing to slow the pounding of his heart. "Yes, Gregor?"

The guardsman slowed his pace to match his employer's. "Did you want me to get that patient ready, the one we talked about the other day?"

Simmons frowned, trying to recall which inmate Gregor was speaking of. An image flashed into his mind, a shock of auburn hair, pale skin, amazing hazel eyes. He smiled, the night suddenly seeming not quite as bad as a few moments before. "Yes, the one who was accused of murdering those street whores. Yes, I would like to see him in my private offices tonight. In -- oh, say, half an hour." He caught a flicker of disappointment in Gregor's bland face and raised an eyebrow. "Was there something else?"

Gregor shrugged. "Me and the boys, well, it's been a while, y'know. We was wondering if you didn't mind us having  a piece of the boy ourselves beforehand."

"I see." Simmons did see. "Very well," he said after a brief pause. "One hour, then. But take care that you don't hurt him overmuch. I want him coherent and awake when you bring him."

"Of course." Simmons didn't like the smile that settled on the guard's features, but he said nothing. He was used to the activities of his guardsmen, knowing full well that the state couldn't care less about what happened to the residence of the asylum. It kept the men happy, it kept problems with the inmates down a minimum and as long as he didn't have to look at it, he simply put it out of his mind. The only time he denied the guards their entertainment was when dealing with new inmates, particularly troubled individuals or when he needed them unharmed, untampered with. Sometimes he would let them have the particular unfortunate after he administered his own special touches. It was always more interesting, that way.