For most of the denizens of Meridian the start of the day began with the rising of the sun, but for Ezra it was when the sun was preparing for rest that he lumbered from his bed. He cursed the chill of autumn as he rubbed the slight fuzz that sprouted from his scalp. The hot water was acting up again, so Ezra shaved carefully as he scrapped the hair from his scalp. This routine was becoming second nature to him, but Ezra was still bothered by how little of the sun he saw. Ezra finished his preparations, while he reflected on whether humans were ever meant to be nocturnal.
            Ezra checked his undergarments which would make wearing the heavy armor more bearable. Putting on armor on one’s own person is a nuisance that plagued the knights of old to the police soldiers of today. To adequately fasten each piece of armor required a certain limberness that the armor hindered. Ezra adjusted his armor to ensure that his face was completely obscured. Satisfied that the tattoos on his face which identified him as one of the Gypsy were hidden, Ezra approached the glyph which regulated the heat and retrieved his sword and sheath. He tested how easily he could draw the blade, then equipped it. Ezra could hardly stand living in the district barracks, and hoped that soon he and his fellow Sarafan in the Night Patrol would be housed in the Stronghold before the winter set in.
            To commute from the central barracks to the more lawless parts of town was often an inconvenience, thus the Sarafan Lord issued the policy of quartering Sarafan patrols in the districts which they would patrol. The Sarafan Stronghold was rather drab within, but the consistent heating and lack of jabbering from neighborhood fishwives were two qualities that left Ezra nostalgic.
            Ezra cracked open a window, and slipped a hand to test the iron bars. Dissidents and career thugs were already inclined to attack Sarafan, and living in enemy territory was begging for trouble. Satisfied that it was secure, he shut the window to keep the meager heat from escaping.
            The stairs creaked under the weight, and coins clinked downstairs as a card game was underway. A handful of Sarafan from the Day Patrol were blowing off steam, and an equal number of Night Patrol labored to stay relaxed for the task ahead of them. Accusations and counteraccusations of cheating flew freely between the players in empty shows of bravado. Ezra paid little mind to the game as he examined the bulletin board with reports of missing persons. Factoring in murder, accidents, runaways, vampiric activity, and the other typical causes of people going missing; the number was still far above average for the area.
            “Why do you bother with those fools who are good as dead, Ezra?” mocked Martin of the Day Patrol, “Our job is to kill vampires and keep the living humans in line.”
            “Daytime sissies don’t get it,” retorted Brutus, holding his cards in one hand while twirling an old whistle in the other, “We’re the ones who fight the vile creatures, heroics are in our blood.”
            Ezra looked over his shoulder as he opened the door, “Don’t try explaining it, some faggots just take a job to earn a pension.”
            Once out, he took care to lock the door fully. Ezra cast his eyes to the heavens and studied the clouds of orange chalk and red paint globs on a purple sky. The horizon was concealed by the towers of tenements, hiding the sun from the denizens of the slums. The debris from the Industrial Quarter dispersed in the air. Luckily, by the time it reached this district the pollution was only a mild nuisance.
After long hours of labor, the residents blew off steam in the multitude of taverns and other establishments of dubious reputation. Drinking songs echoed from all sides as Ezra marched along his route. At the ward gate on the other side of the street he would check in with fellow patrolmen. However, in front of the butcher’s shop Ezra spotted a pair of street thugs. That they had the audacity to be out in the open wasn’t a surprise given the hour, but Ezra observed the markings and knew them to be of a gang that didn’t operate in this neighborhood.
            “You two!” Ezra barked, “Get the hell out of here, and I’ll forget that I laid eyes on you!”
            “Sod off!” snapped back one of the goons as they drew their weapons, spiked clubs that were fashioned from craftsman’s tools. Ezra drew his sword effortlessly and stood his ground. The first thug swung hard and high; and Ezra threw his shoulder to block it. Ezra loosely wrapped his free hand around the blade to measure it out, stabbed low, and stopped the sword short of disemboweling his foe. The second hoodlum circled around Ezra to attack from behind. He withdrew the sword and slammed the hilt into the face of his second enemy. The second street thug staggered back, blood gushed from his broken nose, and he became dizzy. Ezra raised the sword high, and with the finality of an executioner split the forearm in two.
            The once boastful cretins laid in the street and cradled their wounds. Sword sheathed, Ezra demanded an explanation, “What are you doing in this neighborhood? Copper Nails swarm this area, you idiots think that you could start a war with them?” Ezra ground his boot into the belly wound, “What set are you with?”
            “Ow… ow…” the gang member struggled to push away the boot, “Owl’s Head! We’re Owl’s Head!”
            In the distance a pair of fellow patrolmen caught sight of the fight, then made haste through the Ward Gate. Ezra recognized them, he wasn’t certain if they were twins, but the only way to tell them apart was that Darius was the one with a lengthy scar on his scalp. That injury was during a quarrel with a vampire in the Industrial Quarter, not the fight itself, but a reckless peon that tinkered with heavy machinery. Darius and Bacchus slow their stride, and observe the two hooligans lying in the street. Bacchus declared, “I hate having to process idiots like these.”
            “At least we don’t have to worry too much about whether they live or die,” Ezra consoled, “Better call the meat wagon to pick them up.”
            “I’m on it,” Darius turned and hurried back to the Ward Gate. The Owl’s Head member with the dismembered hand cried out, waving the stump arm as a rat gnawed, refusing to let go of the stump. Ezra and Bacchus kicked at the rat, then Bacchus grabbed one of the dropped clubs and swung at the vermin. Ezra and the hoodlum cursed at Bacchus, who kept swinging without much regard for their safety. The club hit the mark, and sent the ravenous rodent squealing as it flew. Stunned and half dead, the rat twitched in the waste and trash on the sidewalk.
            Shortly afterward, a large, lumbering automobile arrived to pick up the two Owl’s Head gang members. A Glyph Wright swung wide the back doors and seemed to float as he exited the back. The strange man examined the two like specimens for study. The Glyph Wright guided the broken men into the vehicle, turned to look back to the Night Patrol, nodded in apparent approval, and slammed the doors shut. The transport for arrested criminals revved up before it sped away. The three Sarafan watched the automobile make a sharp turn and vanish. Bacchus noted, “Even if scum like them are too injured to fight, I’m still curious how guys that scrawny can keep them in line.”
            “Before the fall of the Pillars, the Circle of Nine was said to command magics normal humans could never comprehend,” Ezra suggested, “In those days, there were practitioners of magic of varying skill and disciplines. Perhaps in addition to introducing the machines, the Sarafan Lord had access to the sorcery of old. Who knows, maybe the machines are old knowledge, too.”
            “Nerd,” Darius retorted as he jabbed Ezra in the arm, “But I guess you need brains since you can’t skate on good looks like us.”
            “Just watch out for machinery,” Ezra responded, and the banter continued as they went about their patrol for the night.

            A week later…

            Ezra sat in the corner of the Blue Lady, with his back turned to the patrons. He wanted to enjoy a beer without any taxpayers noticing that he was in the same ethnic group as the street gangs that extorted, attacked, and occasionally killed them. A handful of Sarafan were aware of this, and for the most part he was unmolested on this point. Still, he wished the knowledge of his background to remain obscure for his peace of mind. However, he was still disturbed by the earlier incident. The casualness of two gang members on their own in enemy territory, in all his years he never met anyone that damned stupid.
            The patrons eyed Ezra cautiously; still paranoid that he may be listening in or have some other agenda in mind. A hush lingered; only interrupted by the occasional dart striking the board or an empty mug striking the counter. A man dressed warmly entered the bar, and ignored the regulars as he made his way to the table where Ezra was drinking. The man took a seat at the adjacent table without a word, and Ezra didn’t acknowledge him as he continued to sip from his mug.
            “I heard that you found the Ashford boy when he ran away. I also heard that you were able to talk him into coming back home to take care of the family without beating him like a sick dog.”
            “Smacking a kid that old just makes them more defiant, and it never teaches them to man up.”
            “You know about the spike in missing persons. The problem is bad in your area, but it’s hell in the others.”
            “Are you insinuating that the Sarafan are incompetent?”
            “Not at all, but there are some real devious minds at work in this city, and not all of them are Cabal.”
            Ezra didn’t bother to turn his head as the man rose from his seat and walked away. The door swung opened and snapped close before Ezra replaced and adjusted his face armor. He noted a quick shift in the mood as he took his leave, but his work demanded that he refrain from chastising the rabble until he learned what criminal plot was underway.

            Martin stood at the corner, and glanced about every which way as he waited. Ezra and the twins approached from the Ward Gate. Martin waved wildly to them like a little kid and Darius muttered, “How the did this simple bastard get into the Sarafan?”
            “He can smack away arrows and throwing daggers like baseballs,” Ezra explained, “I don’t know how he does it, just be careful about getting hit on the rebound.”
            Martin scanned the area, and reported, “I’ve checked the immediate area; the only place that seemed suspicious was the butcher’s shop. I don’t think the butcher and his wife have any family, but I can clearly see that there are at least six people inside.”
            “Could be a delivery,” Bacchus said, “Smuggler’s Den supplies all sorts of items, especially food during a shortage.”
            Ezra watched the dead silence down the block, then turned to the others and instructed, “Martin and Bacchus, you two sneak into the back alley. Watch yourselves, and be ready to rush the door. Darius, come with me. We’ll go in the front, play it cool and ask a few questions.”
            Bacchus and Martin bolted around the corner and slipped into the alley. Ezra and Darius strolled down the street at a regular pace. They used their thumbs to pop their swords out, staying ready without alerting any passersby. Their heads remained still, but they kept their eyes moving. Every now and then, they could see into the alley their backup marching parallel.
            Every business has trouble keeping up a regular supply, and even then being able to sell it for enough to restock and stay afloat is a challenge. That’s part of the reason that the Sarafan has been reluctant to crack down on the Smuggler’s Den. Without the underground economy propping up all the other businesses, no amount of military might could stop the chaos. However, even those outside the law must follow rules and the Sarafan were duty bound to deal with such rogues.
            Darius opened the door, and a bell chimed. The butcher entered from the back, the old man’s broomstick legs trembled as he hurried to greet the Sarafan. Ezra glanced over his shoulder as he stepped in. Darius peered into the display of fine meats, his stomach growled at the sight in joy. Darius commented,             “You have a nice selection old timer. You’re lucky that nobody has busted in to take it all.”
            “We’re lucky that we have the Sarafan to protect us,” responded the butcher, “Is there a choice piece that I could wrap up for you?”
            “Don’t bother, we aren’t here to run errands,” Ezra spoke, “There’s been increased gang activity in the area. We’d like to know if you know anything about it.”
            “No, not a thing,” the butcher replied, “It’s been very quie-”
            The creak of a floorboard stopped the conversation, but Ezra nodded to Darius, who resumed speaking as Ezra placed a hand on his sword. Ezra stepped carefully into the back, and caught sight of the Owl’s Head member who was listening in from the stairs. The thug raced down the stairs with his club ready and Ezra rushed up to meet him, sword drawn. Darius rushed into the back as Ezra struck down the thug. Several more came from the second story to replace the first. Darius reinforced Ezra and held off the attack.
            Another group of Owl’s Head members leaped from the second floor onto the base of the stairs. One goon shattered his ankle on landing and fell over, but the others did not hesitate to flank Ezra and Darius. Darius turned back to face them as Ezra dealt with those above. The frame was split apart as Bacchus and Martin kicked open the door. They rushed to face off with the hoodlums, and the Owl’s Head were snared by their own trap. At the end of the fierce conflict, the one gang member to survive was the one who was immobilized.
            The Sarafan pressed the survivor, and he pointed to a bookcase. They inspected it, but gave to frustration and knocked it over. Behind it, was another set of stairs which descended into a dank basement. The butcher came into the back, knife in hand. Bacchus disarmed the old man and restrained him. Despite the aged man’s protests, the other three Sarafan investigated further.
            “Dearie, don’t be so scared,” the Sarafan halted at the faint sound of this voice, “You’re nice and lean, so scrumptious.” Moans and muffled screams alert the Sarafan and they hurry down the stairs. The cheap pinewood door shatters from the force of the knights, and they looked with horror. In the dim, dank basement a dozen people were bound and gagged. Splatters of blood decorated the walls and a heap of torn clothes stiff from gore laid on the floor. Baskets full of fresh human remains were gathered in the center of the wretched scene.
            The butcher’s wife turned from the young woman she loomed over. In a crazed frenzy, the old woman lunged with the knife. Furious, Ezra struck down the mad woman with a single backhand.

            Night Patrol surrounded the butcher’s shop, and sought out any remaining foot soldiers of the Owl’s Head gang. The one they captured, as well as the freed hostages filled in the blanks. The gang kidnapped people from different slum areas, and for a price brought them to the butcher’s. There, the proprietors’ used the kidnap victims for inventory.
            Darius was unable to aid in the hunt, for he was too busy vomiting in a corner. He had eaten meat from that shop on more than one occasion. Martin blew his whistle with zeal as he chased down street thugs and flushed them out of their hiding places. Bacchus decided to break early from his shift and sat by his brother as he drowned himself in drink. Ezra sighed deeply, perplexed by the entire case, and the limits of human depravity in general.
            Ezra turned his eyes to the night sky, and the cold, gloomy orb which watched over all the creatures of the night, human and vampire alike. On the rooftops, he thought he saw a silhouette perched high and observing the scene. Before he could discern its shape, it vanished, and Ezra came to wonder if his informant about the kidnappings was in fact a member of the Cabal. An odd choice for on of their kind, the slaughter would have been a prime supply of blood for them.
            “It doesn’t matter, there will be another night.”