“Martin, is that you?” The voice behind the Faceless Man asked. “What are you still doing out?

  The Faceless Man turned around slowly to see a man walking towards him. It took him a moment, but he soon recognized Sly, Martin’s coworker who he had just been drinking with.

  “Sly?” The Faceless Man responded but paused. He was worried for a moment his voice would reveal him, but relaxed when he heard Martin’s voice responding. Of course, he thought, of course the voice would change. He took a deep breath and remembered the Martin he had been stalking for the past few weeks. “Ah I, just stopped for a piss.”

  “A piss and a roll in the mud from the looks of it. Did you find someone to roll about it with you?”

  “You know anyone worth the death Boudica would bring upon me for that?”

  “No one that would risk that for you.” Sly reached over to brush some of the mud off Martin’s jacket, but found his hand quietly pushed away.

  “Suit yourself,” Sly said, giving Martin a quick once over anyway.

  “I thought you were headed the other way for business,” the Faceless Man asked.

  “Aye, but we finished sooner than expected. You sure you’re alright?”

  Sly took a step to the side to let more of the lamplight illuminate the Faceless Man.

  “I’m fine. I’m fine. I’m- I think I’m just getting old.

  Sly let out a laugh. “You are old. Come on, let’s get you home.”

  “Alright, but if you offer me your arm, I’ll throw you to the ground.”

  “I’d like to see you try. I’ve been taking Bartitsu lessons and I’m ready to toss anyone around like a sack of potatoes.”

  They set off and Sly immediately launched into a story about the last time he had seen Jimmy Brown, but the Faceless Man barely listened. At first, he was concentrating on his body, trying to maintain the gait of a drunkard, but to his horror, as they drew closer to Martin’s house he could feel his control over his body gradually weaken. Soon rather than trying to fake stumbling in the street, it took all he had not to collapse into Sly.

  Could it be that Martin was rejecting him? Was he not strong enough to maintain this facade? Or maybe the True God had seen his shameful actions and was punishing him for this sacrifice to the Faceless God. A sharp pain rose in his stomach. Although he hadn’t eaten in hours, he felt like he was going to be sick.

  “Martin. Do y’hear me Martin?” Sly had stopped talking and was looking at him.

  “Hmm?” was all the Faceless Man could muster.

  “I’ve not seen you like this before,” Sly said.

  “Drunk? S’hardly the firstime.”

  “I reckon I’ve seen you drunk more than sober, but this seems different.”

  “I’m fine. I’m fine. I jus need a gu’nights sleep.”

  “Alright, old man. Just a few blocks more now.”

  They walked the remaining distance in silence, Sly keeping a close eye on what he thought to be his friend. They rounded the final corner and the roof of Martin and Boudica’s house could just be seen through the fog. The sight of it nearly caved the Faceless Man’s knees in. Getting caught now would mean the waste of the last few weeks of training and planning and the late hours spent surveying the dockyard and stalking Martin through the streets. It would mean the complete loss of his family, their true fates never to be known or avenged. It would mean his sacrifice to the Faceless God was all for nothing, save for the eternal damnation he would find himself enjoying.

  The Faceless man tripped on an uneven stone, going down painfully to one knee. His stomach gave out soon after, vomiting all over the street, its contents black with the tinge of dried blood.

  Sly backed up as if not wanting to get infected. He was a true friend though and after a deep breath and a curse, brought himself back to Martin. He gently laid the back of his hand against Martin’s forehead.

  “You’re burning up, friend.” He wiped his hand on the back of his trousers. “Come on, there’s a fine for dying in the streets and making more work for the sweepers. You’re just a block away from dying in your own bed.” Sly grabbed the Faceless Man and helped him to his feet, throwing his arm over his shoulder. Together they walked in an awkward lock step, Sly practically carrying the weight of both men. Agonizingly slowly, they approached the front door. As they got closer, the Faceless Man began to squirm, writhing and twisting as if to escape from some trap Sly held him in.

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  “Would you knock it off?” Sly barked. “Anything that’s behind that door is just what you’ve got coming to you.”

  That was precisely what the Faceless Man was afraid of.

  In his preparation, he had seen Boudica, but never full on. He had always seen her from a distance or from the shadows. He could tell she had some beauty to her, although tough living as a washerwoman had aged her prematurely. There was a sharpness to her face, but a kindness underneath to those who were worse off than her. The Faceless Man wondered which face would be waiting for them at the door.

  They arrived at the border of the property and the Faceless Man stopped squirming. Short of running away, there was nothing that could stop him from going home, and the way his body was burning like some twig on a fire made him doubt he could escape from Sly even if he tried. He tried to control his breathing, but his chest was tight and his breath came in tortured gasps.

  “Sorry,” he said, “I’m sorry.” Elisia. He needed to be stronger. He thought he had felt pain when he had been reborn as a faceless man, but being reborn as another man was an entirely different level of pain altogether. His transformation into a faceless man had left him outwardly disfigured, but overall left his body healthier than before with no lingering side effects. His transformation into Martin however left him burning and aching. The tightness in his chest must be related to a life of drinking and smoking. His shoulder felt an odd stiffness, likely the result of an old injury. And the fire in his veins would not cease. He could feel it crawling through every part of his body from the tips of his toes to the very roots of his hair.

  “Sorry.” He said again before vomiting to the side of the door.

  “It’s not me you need be apologizing to,” Sly said, as he raised his hand to knock on the door.

  His fist came down once, twice, a third time, with all the finality of a guillotine striking the chopping block.

  “Just a moment,” came a voice from inside. Boudica, surely, but in his fevered state, it sounded like a demon from hell or some vampyr coming to punish him for turning from the True God.

  The door creaked open and there stood Boudica. She was dressed in a simple dress, its light blue faded and the hems slightly frayed. Her hair was pulled down and messy, as if she had just gotten out of bed, which in all likelihood, she had.

  “Sly,” Boudica said, looking at him in surprise. Her eyes turned down to look at the Faceless man. “Love,” she said, less surprised this time.

  “Sorry to disturb you, Boudica. I found him in the street on his way home.”

  “Drunk again, are you?” Boudica said, a mix of contempt and fear rising in her voice.

  “It’s not—” Sly began. “I think there’s something else going on here. Help me get him in.”

  Boudica was a clever woman and picked up on the trace of worry in Sly’s voice. Together, the two of them wrestled the Faceless Man out of his shoes and clothes and brought him to bed.

  “He’s burning up, Boudica. We had a fair amount of drinks at the pub, but I’ve seen him drink far more and still beat the shit out of a rival docker. There’s no way he’d be this bad after that much whisky. And to see his vomit. Nothing we were drinking was that black.”

  Boudica was at the counter, wetting a towel to place on her husband’s head. She didn’t say anything for a moment. Moving over to the bed, she gently placed the back of her hand on Martin’s forehead to check his temperature.

  “Sorry. I’m so sorry.” The Faceless Man said again, his eyes locked on the woman who was now to be his wife.

  She gently shushed him and placed the wet cloth on his head. She softly closed his eyes and bid him rest. In that moment, Sly could see the love that the two once had for each other. It had long been hidden through years of neglect and violence. Seeing it, he felt a twinge of loneliness.

  “Well, it looks like you’ve got it under control. I’ll just be—” Sly began to make his exit.

  “Just a moment,” Boudica said. She brought him toward the entrance of the house and the two began to whisper out of earshot of the Faceless Man.

  Worried by the silence, the Faceless Man opened his eyes. Before he could turn his head to look toward the door, he noticed something directly above him, hanging from the ceiling. It was a man. His hand and legs were stuck to the ceiling and the Faceless Man could see just the back of his head. A drop of something fell on the Faceless Man’s cheek. With a shaking hand, he brought it to his face and wiped it off. Holding his hand above his face he could see the unmistakable red tinge of blood.

  A low, guttural moan began, and the head slowly began to rotate left. The man’s features slowly came into view as the head rotated farther and farther. Soon it reached the farthest point of rotation for a human and paused for a moment, but then with a sickening crack it continued to rotate. At that point the Faceless Man realized he knew who it was that was poised above him—Martin. Even with the eyes crying blood and the face obscured by shadow, he could recognize the darkened mirror that he was now gazing into.

  Martin opened his mouth to moan and more blood came pouring out of his mouth, splashing down onto the Faceless Man. The Faceless Man began to trash, but it was as if he was chained to the bed. No amount of effort would release him. The moaning got louder and louder and he thrashed with more and more effort until suddenly it was quiet. The moaning had stopped, Boudica and Sly’s whispers were gone, and the only sound was the pounding of the Faceless Man’s heart.

  In his thrashing, his head had ended up looking towards the far wall, eyes half closed. He slowly turned to look up. Martin’s head was angled slightly, gazing directly at him. His right arm had come free of the ceiling and was outstretched, fingers spread as if to grab the Faceless Man by the throat. They froze there for a moment, neither capable of blinking. And then, silently, Martin fell.

  The Faceless Man screamed.