Rebecca sat rigid in the parlor, anxiety clawing at her chest. She pressed her fingers to her temples, willing the pain behind her eyes to subside. Frayed nerves denied her sleep, her thoughts circling the same terrible certainty:


    Reginald was going to kill her.


    She would die by his hand when he got what he wanted—when she outlived her usefulness.


    And Beth? It was a thought that was too vast and suffocating, so she pushed it away.


    Then—A knock. Sharp. Measured.


    Rebecca’s breath caught. Not him. Not again.


    She hesitated, her fingers tightening around the edge of her shawl.


    Another knock. Louder this time.


    Her pulse pounded as she moved toward the door. Hands trembling, she unlatched it and pulled it open a sliver—


    A thin and pale hand slammed against the wood, forcing it wide.


    A figure loomed in the doorway.


    Rumsfeld.


    He was too tall, his limbs long, a wasted sinew on the verge of failing to hold his frame together. His once-fine clothing hung in tatters, the fabric worn thin and moth-eaten. Shadows from his hood obscured much of his face, but what little was visible was worse.


    His eyes burned with fevered light, deep-set in a face that appeared like death.


    A sickening scent clung to him—damp earth, dried blood, and something sweet and rotten, like fruit left too long in the sun.


    Rebecca instinctively stepped back. “What—”


    “You don’t remember me?”


    His voice rasped, layered—as if two voices whispered beneath his own. He tilted his head, watching her with eerie, childlike curiosity.


    “Little Rebecca. All grown up.”


    A shiver raked her spine.


    For years, he’d been a ghost story—the Blackthorn servant who vanished the night the family fell—the man who’d smuggled her and Reginald to safety then, disappeared into the dark.


    “You shouldn’t be here,” she managed.


    Rumsfeld’s lips curled too far, revealing the teeth of a predator.


    “Oh, but I should,” he crooned. “Your brother hunts something, does he not?”


    Rebecca stiffened. "And what concern is that of yours?"


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    His laughter was a dry, hollow thing. "You don''t even know what it is."


    She squared her shoulders. "I know perfectly well—"


    "Do you?" He stepped closer, and the air in the room grew colder.


    Then, with softness: “What do you think he seeks?”


    Another sharp prickle ran down her spine. "A valuable artifact."


    Rumsfeld snorted.


    "Yes, but you haven''t the faintest idea what it is, do you?"


    Silence stretched taut.


    “It’s a painting,” he said finally. “Of you.”


    He watched her think, waiting for the realization to dawn. When she only stared, confusion knitting her brow, he continued.


    "You sat for it, didn''t you? A portrait?" he mused. The fevered light in his eyes flickered, something calculating beneath the madness. "You must have been... what? Seven? Eight?"


    Rebecca stilled.


    She had sat for a portrait. She remembered the stiff dress, the artist’s reek of turpentine, and the ache in her neck from holding still.


    Her throat tightened. "That... that painting is lost."


    Rumsfeld leaned in, voice hushed with reverence.


    “Not lost. Hidden. When I brought you to my sister, I hid it close by. Sealed in a box, a spell woven into the painting, a spellbound tapestry—”


    “Waiting,” he hissed.


    She retreated a step. “Waiting for what?”


    His smile split wider. “To be claimed.”


    “Stop speaking in riddles!”


    Rumsfeld spread his arms, sleeves falling back to reveal skeletal wrists.


    “Magic isn’t only ink on parchment. It’s woven into the world. Breathed into being.” His breath frosted the air between them. “That painting is a spell, Rebecca. The Lazarus Spell.”


    "I don''t know what that means," she said, her mind racing for the reference. Jesus? Had he not raised Lazarus from the dead? Was that the purpose of the spell?


    "Resurrection?"


    Rumsfeld considered this, tilting his head.


    “That is not its purpose, but in the right hands, it might be used for such a thing. But, its true purpose is to cheat death, to stretch life far beyond God''s intent."


    The realization struck her. The room shifted, feeling smaller, the air pressing in on her.


    "No." She shook her head. "That''s not—"


    "You think your dear brother only craves riches?" Rumsfeld let out a humorless laugh. "He''s looking far beyond wealth and power—he''s looking to be eternal."


    His words hit her like a physical blow.


    Rebecca had known Reginald sought something arcane, something powerful enough to reshape the world in his image. But immortality?


    "That''s impossible," she whispered.


    Rumsfeld’s grin turned feral.


    “Tell me that when you’re dust and he still walks.”


    The parlor walls continued to press in, her breath growing shallow.


    She took a step back.


    He advanced, slow and deliberate.


    “You could live forever, too, Rebecca.” His voice softened, coaxing, as he lifted a clawed hand. “We could be together. No sickness. No decay. Like your mother and father. Feeding together. Growing our number. No one could ever threaten us—even Reginald.”


    Rebecca shuddered.


    His blackened nails hovered near her throat, while the cloying stench of rotting sweetness filled the air between them.


    Her jaw tightened. "Is that what you want?"


    Her voice steadied, despite the fear coiling in her stomach.


    "After my mother begged you to save me? You wish to destroy me? To curse me to suffer as you do?”


    For a heartbeat, his mask slipped.


    Behind the madness flickered something raw—grief.


    Then it vanished.


    “I want nothing,” he snarled, turning away to stare at the door.


    His voice fell low, as if he was talking to himself.


    "I must recover the painting tonight. It must not fall into Reginald''s hand; he is too close. His ambition will turn the world black."


    "And in your hands?"


    He turned his head, watching her with his cold, dark eyes. "Using it would be the simplest way to destroy it. Alas, I do not have the gift to unlock it. I am nothing more than its custodian."


    “As for you, little Blackthorn—you should run,”


    Rebecca’s breath hitched. “Run?”


    He glanced back, his voice dropping to a ragged whisper.


    "Because when Reginald discovers you know the truth—a truth you cannot hide—"


    A pause, heavy with menace.


    "He''ll see you as nothing more than a threat.”


    And then—he was gone.