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  • Maureen Stevenson


Fifth-generation of a first made secret society, Marx Cannery stood in front of the window, watching the flames dance their ballet in the barrel outside. Today was the day that she would take what was rightly hers; by blood, and if she had to spill some to accomplish it, everyone could be damn sure she would. She gathered what she needed, tossed it into her bag, zipped it closed, turned off the lights and locked up. Marx tossed a picture and a sheet of paper into the burn barrel as she went by, muttering a curse as she did and climbed into her jeep, bringing the engine to life and peeling out.

It was a short drive to the Lodge, where the meeting was taking place. The Plaketts ruled the Lodge since stealing the position from the Cannery’s, making them Lady Electa in the order. The standing represented the virtue of endurance of persecution.

She laid her tools out and gathered what she needed placing certain ones at specific points outside of the Lodge. Donning her red robe with hood, Marx slipped her phone into her hidden pocket and fell in line, following her fellow members inside. It was going to be a gathering to remember.

The ceremonies droned on, and with each word spoken, the fire inside her blazed. She pulled out her phone, finger hovering over the screen. Her finger slid over the button, and there she was, watching a house burn down from the inside.

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