Interlude (Only take this option if only route available)

The hall was never silent; whispers gathered in the corners, eased through the shadows, scuttled under the rows of empty seating. They pooled at this centre, under the large, circular mahogany table, its centre hollowed out to provide space for a podium.

Nine seats around the table. Seven occupied. Old friends. Old enemies.

There were other chairs, pushed back, away from the table, occupied in more open sessions, ignored in this intimate one. The nine chairs were the important ones. They were the ones that mattered.

The seven watched the two empty seats, as if waiting for them to gain occupancy. In the waiting the whispers mocked, until one of the seven could not take the mockery anymore.

“They’re not coming. Again. And we have to do something, now.”

The woman who spoke was short, dyed dark black hair, lustrous and fake, an attempt to hold back the years. Her voice chased the whispers away, commanding the room, used to being heard. Her sharp business suit suited the occasion, red blouse, grey jacket, pencil thin skirt.

“We are doing something,” the fat, Santa Clause like man beside her stated.

“It’s not working.”

Her gaze drifted to the priest, uncomfortable at the table, unused to the seat, although he had been sitting in it for years. His thin face blanched, then bristled at the accusations, not just in the words, but also in the looks the other gave him. He straightened. He stared back.

“If you’d kept records of what was done, then I wouldn’t be having so many problems. Your records are pitiful, some would say non-existent.”

“Don’t your people have records.”

“My people were not involved at the start, as well you know.”

“Your people were brought in for your knowledge. If you’re saying that’s insufficient, then maybe you don’t deserve a place at this table.”

“Come, come, let’s not argue like this,” a large, heavy woman, broad shoulders, broad hipped, rich clothing that doesn’t quite fit. Her shock of curly hair takes up as much space as her large head. Her eyes, behind horn-rimmed glasses are terrifying. “We all know we’re doing our best. No-one expected us to be in this situation. The ceremony was a one off. It was never meant to be repeated. That’s why they didn’t record the details. You have all the records we have about it. Find the answers.”

“Well…” the priest licked his lips nervously. He was not a normally nervous man. But this time he was. “I might have an idea. A missing ingredient. You won’t like this. Trust me, you won’t like it.” He paused, not for effect, but with indecision. His fear of the next words made those words stick in his throat. His eagerness to speak them made them stumble out. “The blood from a defloration.”

“No.”

A new speaker, an old man, in a crumpled suit several decades old, rich once but now frayed, just like him. Just like him, it remains impressive. His eyes burn with a savage intensity. His jaw juts out. His bony fingers wag.

“You think our grandparents would use something like that? That is the very opposite of their intentions. The opposite of everything they stood for.”

“I just…”

“No. No explanations. No justifications. They didn’t do that. Didn’t. This is just one of your petty games. We know why you’re suggesting it. We know all about you. Your superiors told us everything. Everything.”

The priest paled at the words. Then he straightened his posture and stared back at the old man.

“I can show you my findings. It’s the best way.”

“Find another. That was not the way our grandparents did it. That’s not the way we’re doing it. Find an alternative.”

“What if there isn’t one.”

“Then we’re back to plan B. Find the witch that did this. Find her and get her to undo the damage.”

The others nod. Only the priest remained immobile. The only one not to agree. But he didn’t raise any objections.

Note: The Clean the House route is a repeat of an earlier chapter. If both routes are available please take the other one, or you'll just be repeating yourself.