St. Dameron

Carlisle considered himself to be one of the smarter lads in the Cutter's gang.  He may not be the strongest or meanest, but by gods he knew how to make some good coin in one night.  The Cutters were unforgiving when it came to gang weekly dues, which is why Carlisle found himself in his present predicament.

      He had managed to heft up a few shingles on the roof of a tavern one night in the Black Drags just long enough to slither through a child-size gap.  It had been raining steadily the last couple of days, and he had had a hard time lifting the wet wood.  The tavern was little more than an oversized sagging pile of wood, but the owner served strong enough alcohol to attract a good number of patrons.  Carlisle knew that alcohol meant money, and alcohol meant fumbling fingers.  The boy also knew that the bar maid was a kindly middle-aged woman that spent most of her energy intercepting the odd grope and squeeze as she waded through the smoke-filled hall.  Sometimes she was careless and did not sweep the floor.  Maybe...just maybe there would be a few bronze pieces left on the floor.  Even one would be enough to get him through weekly Cutter dues.  What Carlisle had not counted on were the voices down on the floor.  He recognized the really deep one as Big Jon Merrin,  the neighborhood underboss for the Merrin family syndicate.  The boy squinted against the firelight rising through a gap in the slats.  Big Jon was explaining something...

"...and as you can probably tell, the deal only took a few moments.  Then the kid walked out first, and then the lady.  She didn't make it far though.  A couple of my guys found her a few blocks away.  You'd have had to set up a forge and bellows to burn her that bad through the mud and rain."

The boy recognized Big Jon's form sitting at the bar, but the other man was cloaked and hooded in the corner.  Could it be...?

Ice and gravel.  "Is that all?"

A slight pause.

"Y-yes. Most definitely."

The last words triggered an explosion from somewhere Carlisle could not see.  Dust flew into his eyes and his ears rang.  When the boy finally managed to blink away the dust, he crammed his face against the crack in the boards.  The smoke had not entirely cleared, but the bar was smoldering.  Breathing up in the ceiling would be a problem soon.  Big Jon stood up from behind the bar, surveying the damage.  The man's big forearms raised up to shield his face.  Apparently Big Jon did not like what he saw.   

Like a glass of icewater down his back, Carlisle registered the blood splattered across the floor. 

The cloaked figure he had seen earlier stepped into view, a swept blade held low in his grasp.  He skirted the blood, striding over to Big Jon.  The large man stammered,
"Y-you don't UNDERSTAND!  The four of them made me...they were going to KILL me.  I'll tell you everything.  Everything!  Please, Mister Saint Dam..." A blur of motion.
Big Jon splashed to the floor in two pieces.   
The cloak spoke.
"I already know everything, Mister Merrin."

Saint Dameron?

The boy's heart rammed into his throat like a piston.  Carlisle knew the name and the stories by heart.  He heard the faint flick of a thumbnail on metal.  Carlisle squeezed his eyes shut and waited for the blow to fall.  Certainly this was no way to die, stuck up in a bar-room ceiling, hacked to death by the boogey man, having never properly loved a woman...
Something small, flat, and cold bounced off his face and came to a rolling stop on the slat across from him.  Slowly, his eyes opened to a glinting gold piece.  Greed overcame fear, and he quickly snatched the coin into his hand.  Carlisle peered back down into what was left of the bar, but the man had disappeared into the rain.