[It's a little late (but never too late), and the handwriting seems... shaky, childish. The scribe is a man slightly overdosed high on painkillers, mended only on the outside by glamour in a vial, struggling to stop his hand from trembling with every word written, and the message is in no hurry to spawn across the page.
It's ample retribution, he thinks with a bitter smile. A David completely without the use of his hands is a completely useless David - no writing, no phone calls, no guns, no rituals, no seals; nothing. Were you kind enough to teach David a lesson, Mr. Gryffiths, or were you only angry and wanted to share the pain and helplessness?
No codes this month. Not when the Merchant can barely grip onto a pen, let alone write with it.]
9-18/2. Near Brixton market. V-day love pots stock x2.
[The following two messages were dictated to/taken down by a runner and delivered to the two men in person.] [Cesare Corrino] Hands fucked, Adam sealing, extra security personnel for seals he can't do. Problem in Peru - Julian thinks Library pre-empted. Going to Cuzco on 11th, deadline 14th; I can't fight and no time so we're dreamwalking. Will handle PR if dead Praetorians.
[Saito] Going to South America, must postpone dinner. My treat this time. You don't like me apologising to you, so - please forgive me for everything.
[Voicemail left on Cal Bishop's mobile from a public payphone in Liverpool St station] Cal where are you? If you were stupid enough to go to Peru you have to get out now. Don't call or email, all my comm lines are being monitored.