Mary sat at the back of the room, one leg folded neatly over the other, her black-lacquered nails drumming thoughtfully on the purse clasped in her lap.
In her life - her mortal life, that is - Mary Mallon had been a devout Catholic. Raised by the most pious of Irish parents, she had prayed daily, said grace, attended Church each Sunday and made Confession often. She had kept faith throughout her unjust imprisonment, in the midst of all the doctors' lies and accusations, for she had known that this life was just the prelude and if she were good and virtuous then when she died she would ascend to live with the Lord in Heaven.
What a load of bullshit that had turned out to be.
The Christians, she knew now, were liars, just like the rest of them. Liars and traitors.
But she'd clawed her way back, oh yes. Heaven may have been content to consign Mary Mallon to oblivion, but the world could not forget Typhoid Mary.
"Numbers or not, they've got the superior strength," she said in her soft Irish brogue. "They've believers in every corner of this country and to hurt them at all we would need to strike at that. Or," she paused, another thought coming to her. "Or perhaps... yes. Why not encourage them to expend their power against the New Gods? You say they've some quarrel already. Were we to, say, fan those flames..."