Hex maintained a steady pace along the rural roads leading back to the city. The brougham, built for longer journeys, handled the poorly maintained roads well, though its passengers still felt the occasional jarring bump.


    The horizon glowed faintly, heralding the approach of dawn, though the surrounding countryside remained shrouded in darkness.


    Percy clung to the carriage, facing backward, as he watched the road vanish into the void behind them. His hands gripped the footman’s rail so tightly that his fingers had gone numb beneath his thin wool gloves.


    In the passenger compartment, Cordelia and Elsbeth huddled together with Harrow sprawled across their laps, sharing warmth. Through the cracked window, wisps of tobacco smoke drifted into the night air, their faint scent wafting past Percy''s nose.


    The wait by the carriage had been long, tedious, and nerve-wracking. When Percy saw the group returning, relief flooded through him—but it vanished at the sight of their condition. They were covered in dirt, faces streaked with sweat, dragging with exhaustion. Most troubling of all was the tension in their eyes, stealing glances over their shoulders, warily scanning the woods.


    He tried to deny what they were doing—what they had done. But he knew, and how he wished he didn''t. They were at the murdered boy''s grave—digging. This realization shook him to his core, and when haunting, unnatural wails began to rise with the wind along the hill, he ignored Hex''s instructions and fled to the carriage, curling up on the floor with his overcoat pulled over his head.


    He should have been less surprised when a growler appeared on the road behind them, its coachman urging his horses at a reckless speed. While such cabs were standard in London, finding one thundering down a rural lane before dawn was suspicious.


    The growler bounced and lurched over the uneven terrain, its wheels skidding and spinning on the loose dirt. Its passengers—if there were any—would be enduring a bone-rattling ride. Percy reached a chilling certainty as it rapidly gained on them—they were being pursued.


    Percy yanked the bell cord to signal trouble, then thrust his arm outward—a command for Hex to increase speed. Glancing back, he saw the growler''s menacing silhouette drawing ever closer, its driver showing no signs of relenting.


    This was no coincidence. Percy was sure of that. Everything he had overheard—and pieced together—about tonight''s events pointed to one chilling conclusion: someone was pursuing them with ill intent.


    His heart thundered as the carriage accelerated, the horses charging forward at Hex''s command.


    Corvus took flight, his dark form vanishing into the trees. Percy barely had time to track him before the brougham hit a rut in the road. The jolt sent him airborne, his foot slipping off the rail.


    For a terrifying moment, he dangled precariously, the ground rushing by beneath him. With a desperate heave, he hauled himself back into position, his heart hammering in his chest. The somber and lonesome ride home was now a heart-pounding chase. Percy did the only thing he could; he braced himself against the carriage wall, gripped the rail tight, and held on for dear life.


    A spark flashed from the carriage window as something clattered to the road with a plink, plink. Within seconds, thick gray-white smoke billowed upward, shrouding their path in an opaque veil.


    Percy watched with awe, struck by the cleverness of the two women. For a fleeting moment, despite his growing reservations, he felt pride in being part of their strange little circle.


    The smoke slowed their pursuer, the growler’s silhouette fading into the haze. Encouraged, Percy pounded on the carriage wall. The window slid open again, and Elsbeth’s face appeared.


    “Again!” Percy shouted, waving his hand in a signal. She nodded and disappeared, leaving Percy to focus on his timing.


    Percy counted down in his head as they approached another turn: Fifty yards, forty, thirty… He dropped his arm, and sparks cascaded from the carriage once more.


    Another wall of smoke rose behind them, thicker this time, obscuring the turn in the road. He grinned despite the cold biting his face. They had gained valuable time and were nearing Uxbridge Road—their gateway to the city.


    The bridge rattled beneath them, hooves striking wood like a drumroll. Though the smoother surface steadied the carriage, Percy''s grip remained tight as his eyes darted to the swirling mist behind them, probing the haze for the outline of the growler.


    If they could hold their lead, they might return to London unscathed.


    <hr>


    As they made their way down Uxbridge Road, Percy allowed himself to relax—just a little. They had left the deep woods behind, and the occasional dwelling or business now punctuated the roadside, offering some comfort.


    The pursuing carriage was still following but had fallen farther behind, and thankfully, Hex hadn’t eased up on the reins. With the morning sun inching closer to the horizon, Percy clung to the hope that daylight would drive away the lingering shadows of the night. It was all too much; like the others, he was tired to his bones.


    He scanned the skies along the road''s edge, searching for the raven. Through the thick haze of smoke that obscured his view during the chase, he had glimpsed Corvus tormenting the growler''s driver. Now, the troublesome bird had vanished.


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    He was not worried about the bird''s safety but his own, wary that he might become its next target.


    When he felt something brush against his boot, he dismissed it as a branch or debris caught during their harried escape through the forest. Reaching down to dislodge it, he froze in horror.


    It wasn’t a branch.


    A clawed hand brushed the rail—a tar-black mass coiled like smoke, its surface slick and shifting. Percy’s stomach churned as the hand grew, morphing, stretching talons, a thing of nightmare taking shape.


    His breath caught, his chest tightening as his mind struggled to process what he saw.


    Then, like something from a fevered dream, a misshapen head emerged beneath the carriage, its face twisted and sharp, like a gargoyle forged from shadow itself.


    Its elongated, narrow face was framed by pointed ears that swept back like wings. Where eyes should have been, there were only empty sockets, dark and cavernous. A grinning mouth stretched wide, revealing a long, black tongue slithering across twisted, tar-like lips.


    The creature’s eyeless gaze seemed to pierce him, its hollow stare filled with cruel amusement.


    Percy felt his stomach drop, and panic seized him. His body pressed against the side of the brougham, his hands gripping the rail so tight that his knuckles turned white. He tried to scream, but no sound escaped—only a strangled gasp rose above the creaking wheels and pounding hooves.


    The creature studied him, its head tilted as if curious. Then its claws shifted on the rail, the black mass flexing as it sought better purchase. Percy knew if it reached him, there would be no escape.


    A strangled cry caught in Percy’s throat as he swung his boot at the creature’s head, his heel connecting with a sickening crack. The thing’s claws scraped at the rail in a final, desperate grasp before it tumbled backward into the road, its inky form swallowed by the night.


    Percy slumped against the carriage, chest heaving, fingers aching from the death grip he had on the rail. He forced himself to look back.


    The pursuing carriage had slowed, stopping near where the creature had fallen.


    His stomach clenched. Were they looking for it? Did they know what it was?


    Creatures like that weren’t supposed to exist—shouldn’t exist.


    And yet, it had climbed onto the bloody rail.


    His mind fought against it, against everything his eyes had seen and his body had felt. The city had its dangers—thieves, gangs, corruption—but this? This was something else.


    He swallowed hard, eyes flicking toward the horizon.


    Dawn. Just let me make it to dawn.


    Let them return to the city, where things made sense, where carriages carried passengers—not monsters. Where danger had rules and men killed for money or spite—not whatever that thing had wanted.


    Whatever excitement he’d felt earlier had been snuffed out. This wasn’t an adventure. This wasn’t thrilling. This wasn’t fun.


    This was terrifying.


    He didn’t need Cordelia’s mysteries. He didn’t need the etheric or the unknown.


    He just needed out.


    <hr>


    The pursuing carriage slowed, the pounding hooves easing into a muffled rhythm against the dirt road. Mist from the morning dew hung in the air, curling like restless phantoms across the uneven ground.


    In the dim light, the driver dared glance at his passenger through the reflection in the fogged glass.


    Reginald Blackthorn—no, John Ashcombe in polite society—sat motionless, one gloved hand resting against his cheek, the other curled in a loose fist atop his cane. The crimson gemstone set into the handle gleamed in the early morning light, its depths swallowing what little glow touched it. His expression was unreadable, a portrait of indifference, save for his eyes—dark, sharp, and full of calculation.


    “Master?” the coachman ventured hesitantly. “Shall I—?”


    Reginald lifted two fingers, silencing him mid-sentence. The driver nodded, pulling the reins. The carriage creaked as it settled into stillness.


    Outside, something moved.


    A wet, dragging sound slithered through the air, followed by a low, guttural clicking. The driver stiffened, his hands gripping the reins.


    Reginald, however, did not react.


    A shape peeled itself from the shadows, its form unstable, shifting between something almost humanoid and something that defied reason. Its movements were sluggish, spent after the long pursuit and the hard fall.


    One malformed limb reached for the carriage.


    The driver recoiled, but Reginald barely moved. Only the faintest flicker of irritation touched his features.


    “Well,” he murmured, more to himself than to his driver. “That was unfortunate.”


    The thing hesitated, then folded inward, slithering into the rear compartment. The door clicked shut behind it.


    Reginald exhaled through his nose, tapping one long finger against the head of his cane.


    “Tonight was unexpected. Bravo for discovering their mischief,” he mused. “But you lost them, didn’t you?”


    The creature twitched with regret, its shape writhing against the seat, as if pained by his words.


    Reginald’s jaw tightened.


    “Smoke bombs,” he said, his voice a shade colder.


    “Of all things. Not magic, not fire, not steel—smoke.”


    His lip curled.


    “Rebecca’s blunder with the child has drawn… unwanted attention.”


    His fingers flexed over the cane’s pommel, irritation flickering through his placid expression.


    His thoughts drifted, circling back to the painting.


    Could they know about it?


    Impossible. He had scoured that wretched farmhouse, torn apart floorboards, upturned every stone—yet, the thing he valued most, the one artifact that genuinely mattered, remained hidden from him.


    He clenched his teeth.


    Curse Rumsfeld! That wretched traitor, crawling through the ruins of Blackthorn’s former glory, hiding the painting and its secrets even now.


    Reginald''s gloved fingers tightened around his cane. If Rumsfeld thought he could deny him his birthright, he was sorely mistaken. The painting would be his, along with the spell—and if his accursed sister didn''t betray him, the blood serum as well.


    Dealing with his sister was inevitable. As for her daughter... He remained unsure. He could sense her gift—unusually strong for her age. Raw. Untrained. But the talent was there.


    Perhaps he would take her under his wing. Perhaps, like her mother, she would prove… disposable.


    Decisions, decisions.


    His thoughts turned back to the interlopers.


    “Who are they, I wonder?” he murmured, his voice almost pleasant.


    “And what exactly do they think they’re playing at?”


    The creature shuddered as though sensing his amusement was fleeting.


    Reginald leaned back, stretching his legs out with casual elegance. His fingers drummed against the ruby pommel of his cane.


    “No matter,” he said, voice light once more.


    “They’ll have to be dealt with. One way or another.”


    A slow smirk curved his lips.


    “And if they’re clever enough to slip past us tonight…” His eyes gazed at the quivering form in the corner of the carriage.


    “Well, that means I’ll have to be even cleverer.”


    With a flick of his fingers, he signaled the driver forward.


    Things had just gotten interesting.


    Ah well. He thought. A game is only worth playing if the pieces move on their own.