ã€ŠGreaves and Wren: The Death and Resurrection of Oliver Wrightã€‹


 Cradle to the Grave

    Corvus circled above the hill that loomed on the edge of the hamlet of Widdershire, his sharp eyes piercing the night, searching for signs of life¡ªa warm breath curling in the cold air, the brief flare of a match, the ember glow of a pipe, smoke or cigar¡ªan unnatural shadow where none should be.

    Tonight¡¯s work was best done in the secret of darkness¡ªa necessary, yet profane desecration of grave and body¡ªa ritual of dark enchantment meant to pry secrets from the dead.

    The tombs below were no place for the living.

    Here, the dead rested beneath crooked stones and moss-covered engravings that whispered forgotten names while naked trees cast their shadowy veil across the graves of those who had forsaken all earthly concerns.

    He followed the dirt road from the village, parallel to the murmuring brook, its chill waters black under the night sky. The road wound towards the old wrought-iron gate, hanging ajar as if inviting intrusion.

    The road bore fresh scars¡ªdeep cartwheel grooves, heavy hoofprints, and the mourner¡¯s scattered steps. All preserved in the frozen earth¡ªa grim record of the tragedy that enshrouded the village.

    Corvus settled on a low branch that creaked beneath his weight. It offered a clear view of the turned earth at the boy¡¯s grave.

    A simple stone marked the site.

    Scattered flowers lay around it¡ªfrozen in time, their colors still vivid in death, as though clinging to a life that had not yet slipped away.

    He lingered a moment longer, his sharp eyes combing the shadowed recesses where someone¡ªor something¡ªmight lie in wait. These darkened hollows offered refuge to watchers, poised to mark the approach of any who dared slip into the cemetery, whether their purpose was fair or foul.

    All was still¡ªsilent, as if the world was holding its breath.

    Corvus waited, unblinking, as cold gusts swept the clouds across the half-moon, deepening the shadows into an impenetrable black.

    Satisfied, Corvus¡¯s low caw signaled to his master that all was clear.

    He watched the shadowed form of a dog slip from the woods, hugging the road¡¯s edge before gliding into the tall grass beyond. Its storm-gray fur melted into the night, twin yellow glints betraying its presence in the hush of shadows.

    The dog was massive for a lupine, its lean frame masking its actual heft as it moved with rangy grace through the night. The wolf-like beast embodied raw power and fluid grace¡ªand though it lacked Corvus¡¯s keen intellect, the creature occasionally revealed flashes of cleverness that even Corvus could not dismiss.

    This was Harrow, his master¡¯s pet¡ªa creature Corvus regarded as friend and nemesis.

    <hr>

    Harrow moved cautiously through the grass, his pads silent on the frost-stiff earth, the whisper of stalks lost in the sighing wind. The air carried the scents of the countryside¡ªcrisp and clean, layered with the tang of woodsmoke and dew.

    It was unlike home in every way. The city¡¯s air¡ªthick with smoke, refuse, and the stench of humanity¡ªwas an inescapable miasma. The peacefulness of the countryside stood in stark contrast to the city¡¯s clamor: the endless clattering of carriages, the roar of engines, and the whistles that split the air like jagged glass.

    He reached the gate and crept further up the hill.

    A dry leaf crunched beneath his paw, sharp as glass in the faltering stillness. He froze, ears swiveling, breath held, waiting for anything to stir.

    Above, the bird shuffled on a branch, feathers rasping in the silence. Corvus watched with that eternal air of superiority, head cocked in disapproval. Harrow glared back, but the raven clicked and twitched, urging him forward.

    With a defiant huff, he resumed his patrol, stalking through the deeper shadows, weaving between weathered stones, and pausing wherever darkness pooled into hollows.

    All was clear.

    He returned to the gate and sat waiting, ears flicking as he stared down the empty road. Rising, he skulked toward the top of the hill, taking up sentry duty, nudging the raven away with disdain,

    Corvus gave an indignant caw, launching into the air and circling back to the gate to await his master.

    Love this novel? Read it on Royal Road to ensure the author gets credit.

    <hr>

    Corvus watched as two figures stepped onto the road, their long coats sweeping around them like shadows deeper than midnight. One was his master; the other, Elsbeth. An unlit lantern swung in her hand as his master¡¯s staff tapped the ground with rhythmic certainty.

    Though their cowls hid their faces, he could make out his master¡¯s wild hair and pale skin beneath.

    They strode steadily forward in silence, the weight of their unspeakable purpose pressing upon their steps. It would be a long night¡ªthey must be prepared to act at the third hour. Corvus did not doubt that when the moment came, it would be done.

    As they approached the gate, his master extended her hand, offering Corvus a fresh bramble as a reward. He hopped down, snatching the berry before gliding to perch on her shoulder. Through the cowl¡¯s shadows, he caught her smile and felt pride swell in his chest. Unlike that clumsy dog, he understood the vital importance of precision.

    Nearing the grave, he saw Harrow watching, envy gleaming in his eyes. Corvus spread his wings wide and puffed out his chest¡ªa pointed reminder of who truly held their master¡¯s favor. The dog had his uses, but only for tasks bound to the earth. Brute work. Lesser things.

    Corvus was a finely tuned instrument meant for the delicate, vital tasks that truly mattered.

    When she stopped, he glided to rest on a nearby stone, watching as she removed her cowl and shook free her wild mane¡ªcurls of red hair cascading down to veil her face.

    Cordelia Greaves crouched to grasp a handful of dirt, rubbing it between thumb and fingers, eyes locked on the small stone at the head of the plot.

    Dirty but legible, the words cut in stone told a tragedy too cruel for such a young soul.

    ?? Oliver Wright¡ª Born 2 Sept 1855¡ªTragically taken by his father¡¯s hand on 8 Dec 1861

    She paused, recounting all she knew about that awful night. Too many questions remained unanswered.

    She scattered the remaining dirt back onto the grave, brushing her hands clean.

    Other forces were at play¡ªshe could feel it.

    Strange things shrouded in darkness and mystery.

    She hoped the boy could provide answers¡ªa tangible explanation for why the young child lay interred in a plain wooden box, buried in the cold earth beneath this lonely hill.

    <hr>

    Hex gripped the reins with practiced ease, the wheels of the carriage crunching over the gravel road, a rhythmic sound broken only by the occasional clink of harnesses and the low snort of the horses.

    The cold air bit at their exposed faces, but Hex seemed unbothered.

    Percy hunched against the cold, his fingers white-knuckling the overcoat drawn tight across his chest.

    ¡°Do we have to take this road?¡± he asked, his voice barely audible over the sound of the wheels.

    ¡°Seems¡­ darker than the other way.¡±

    Hex shot him a sideways glance, a half-smile tugging at the corner of his mouth.

    ¡°It¡¯s the shortest route to Widdershire. Besides, the horses know the way. They¡¯ve made this trip before.¡±

    Percy¡¯s eyes darted to the shadowy woods lining the road. The trees loomed like watchmen, their gnarled branches twisting toward the sky, black against the faint moonlight.

    ¡°Even so, I wouldn¡¯t mind an extra hour if it meant staying on the main road.¡±

    Hex chuckled, snapping the reins as the carriage rolled over the uneven road.

    ¡°An extra hour would mean an extra scolding from my sister. You know how Elsbeth gets when she¡¯s annoyed.¡±

    The thought of Elsbeth in one of her moods was unsettling, but Cordelia was the one that genuinely terrified Percy. Her presence made his hair stand on end, like a cat sensing a prowling dog. And yet, she had the power to twist him into an eager, foolish thing, desperate for her approval.

    ¡°You¡¯re sure we¡¯re just meeting them, right?¡± Percy asked, leaning closer to Hex. ¡°This isn¡¯t one of their¡­ nights?¡±

    Hex raised an eyebrow, amused.

    ¡°One of their nights?¡±

    ¡°You know,¡¯ Percy murmured, glancing at the woods, ¡®when they¡¯re doing¡­ things.¡±

    Hex laughed outright, the sound echoing before fading into the night.

    ¡°You¡¯ve been listening to too much gossip. Cordelia and Elsbeth are special investigators, nothing more.¡±

    Percy gripped the rail as the carriage lurched into a deep rut, the lantern casting little light beyond their faces and the swaying hindquarters of the horses.

    Once steady again, Percy persisted. "But they''re always mixed up in things. Etheric things. Strange things, like... that bird."

    He pointed upwards, where the dark outline of Corvus circled in the moonlight. The raven gave a sharp caw, and Percy flinched.

    ¡°Corvus is just a bird,¡± Hex said with a shrug. ¡°He¡¯s handy for keeping watch. Besides, he¡¯s smarter than most people I know.¡±

    ¡°That¡¯s what worries me,¡± Percy muttered, pulling his collar higher to shield his face from the biting wind.

    He hesitated before adding, ¡®And what about¡­ tonight?¡¯

    Hex¡¯s grip on the reins tightened, though his tone remained light.

    ¡°Tonight is just a job. Same as always. You¡¯re not getting cold feet, are you?¡±

    Percy opened his mouth to protest but thought better of it. Instead, he sank lower in his seat, muttering.

    Earlier, Percy had helped load the carriage with ropes, shovels, long, thin boards, and various tools¡ªeach adding to his growing sense of unease. With Widdershire looming ahead, the unease that had lurked at the edges of Percy¡¯s thoughts took root.

    ¡°Hex¡­ does this have something to do with the case of Henry Wright¡ªthe man who murdered his son?¡±

    ¡°It does,¡± Hex said, though his gaze lingered on the hill beyond the town.

    ¡°As Wright¡¯s solicitor, Durry asked the girls to do some digging.¡±

    Edward ¡°Durry¡± Durham was a friend of the family and a close associate of the girls.

    Though Percy barely knew him, Durry involved the sisters whenever a case took an unusual turn. Their work was always peculiar and strictly confidential. Percy rarely learned the full details, but what little he knew made him grateful to be excluded.

    ¡°Digging,¡± Percy whispered, a grimace on his face.

    The horses tossed their heads uneasily as Hex slowed the carriage. His grin slipped into something unreadable, his gaze fixed on the mist-shrouded village.

    He extinguished the lantern, his eyes straining to pierce the darkness ahead.

    ¡°Stay sharp,¡± he said quietly. ¡°We¡¯re almost there.¡±

 Breaking Ground

    Cordelia Greaves stood over the grave, tightly wrapping the long coat around her. They had sufficient time to arrange everything, but she wanted to get started¡ªwaiting served no purpose.

    She turned to Elsbeth.

    ¡°Place the lamp behind that headstone. Dim light will suffice for the first part.¡±

    Elsbeth nodded, setting the lamp on the ground. She braced it against the weathered stone, her eyes flicking to the name etched upon its face. She couldn¡¯t resist. Facts clung to her like cobwebs¡ªtrivial or not, her mind always filed them away.

    She reached into her jacket pocket for a tin of lucifers and struck one alight, the sharp scent of phosphorus cutting the cold air. The lamp¡¯s wick flared to life, casting flickering shadows over the fresh mound of earth.

    Rising, she unhooked the short shovel secured inside her jacket, revealing the shoulder holster that cradled the Tranter .36 caliber dual-action revolver. In the lamplight, its steel gleamed¡ªloaded and ready. A spare cylinder, also loaded and ready, rested securely in her jacket pocket.

    The gun had always remained in its holster with only one exception¡ªa warning shot.

    "I suppose I should get on with it?" she said dryly, knowing the answer.

    Cordelia''s apologetic shrug confirmed it.

    "You''d best start digging. At least until Hex arrives."

    Then, withdrawing her ritual dagger from her coat, she added, "I''ll prepare the circle."

    With mild annoyance, Elsbeth drove the shovel into the earth, the blade meeting resistance. She brought it down again with more force, the stiff upper layer reluctant to give way. She tossed the shovel aside and withdrew a short-handled pick from a loop in her jacket.

    The point of the pick bit into the hard ground with dull thuds, and Cordelia nodded in approval. This would be easy work for Hex¡ªwhen he arrived. Her brother was always late, forcing them to account for his tardiness in their plans.

    While Elsbeth drove the pick into the frozen earth, Cordelia moved to the foot of the grave, her athame¡¯s dual-edged blade catching the faint light. This was no weapon¡ªits edges deliberately dulled¡ªbut a tool of power, meant to channel and control the etheric forces.

    Cordelia held the dagger in open palms, lifting it skyward as her lips shaped quick, precise murmurs. Though her words were inaudible, Elsbeth knew them by heart¡ªthe blessing of the athame never varied.

    The blessing complete, she moved due east, positioning herself just behind the headstone. Staff in hand, she pressed it into the soil, etching the first groove of the ritual circle.

    Moving clockwise, she carved a deep groove, inscribing the protective sigil until the circle stood complete¡ªa barrier against the unseen.

    Ending where she began, she sat, legs crossed, etching intricate symbols into the circle¡¯s edge with her athame.

    She retrieved a small bronze censer from her satchel and placed it atop the etched marks along the circle¡¯s boundary. She slipped a few pieces of charcoal inside, their edges dull and black.

    With a whispered incantation, she cupped her fingers and conjured a flickering flame, its blue light casting fleeting shadows across her face. The coals flared to life, glowing hot and red beneath the unnatural light.

    She reached into a pocket and withdrew a small glass jar of raw myrrh resin, its amber-like chunks smooth and firm in her palm. She crumbled the resin, each piece breaking with a soft crack as it fell onto the burning coals.

    Thick, fragrant tendrils of smoke rose into the cold night air, coiling and twisting like restless spirits. They clung to her robes, winding along the edges of the ritual circle as though testing its boundaries, before vanishing into the shadows beyond.

    After completing the eastern offering, Cordelia withdrew a bag containing pure white salt mixed with crushed bay leaves¡ªessential for the ritual''s protection and success.

    Bag in hand, Cordelia moved gracefully along the circle''s arc from east to south, sprinkling the mixture along the etched line, the crystals catching the faint light in the darkness like scattered stars.

    At the southern point, she paused before kneeling, her movements relaxed and precise. Each cardinal direction required a rite¡ªeast for air, south for fire, west for water, and north for earth¡ªbinding the circle to the elements and anchoring its power in balance.

    Elsbeth continued as Cordelia chanted, and when the surface dirt lay broken, she wiped the blade of the pick clean against her boot.

    This story originates from Royal Road. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

    Working with purpose, Elsbeth thrust the shovel into the soft, unsettled earth. The ground gave way quickly, seeming more eager to unveil its secrets than to resist the grave¡¯s violation.

    Piles of dark soil grew steadily along the edges of the grave, extending like shadows cast by the moonlight. Elsbeth kept the displaced dirt within the circle, tossing it away from Cordelia¡¯s work.

    Each shovelful came faster than the last, her breath growing labored. Sweat dampened her underarms and trickled down her back while cold beads formed on her brow, mingling with the chill of the night air.

    Where was Hex? Her brother had perfected the art of being late, always arriving at the opportune moment¡ªafter the hard work had been done. With a huff, she stabbed the earth with the blade of the shovel, leaving it standing like an accusation.

    He was blessed with youthful strength, while she shouldered the burden of being the clever one. By rights, he should be the one covered in dirt and sweat. She was a lady, after all¡ªnot the sort who promenaded through parks with frilly bonnets and dainty umbrellas¡ªbut rather a lady who mixed chemical compounds and carried a revolver.

    Would it kill him to show a little propriety?

    As she paused to wipe sweat from her brow, worry gnawed at her.

    Her strength had limits, and lifting the coffin might be impossible without him. In addition, given the dangers of tonight¡¯s ritual, Hex needed to arrive before Cordelia closed the circle¡ªonce sealed, no one could cross its boundary.

    Once the spell was cast, remaining within the circle''s protection would be vital.

    <hr>

    Hex pulled the brougham into a small clearing, stopping near the road leading to the cemetery.

    Handing the reins to Percy, he grinned.

    ¡°All you have to do is wait here. Keep your eyes open and the horses calm. I¡¯ll be back with the girls in a couple of hours.¡±

    Percy gulped, his wide eyes scanning the dark woods. Shadows danced in the corners of his vision, but there was nothing to see¡ªjust the oppressive quiet of the night. He opened his mouth to speak, but Hex cut him off.

    ¡°No lights.¡±

    Percy sighed, drawing his wool coat closer. The cold pierced his threadbare clothes, the oversized overcoat offering scant protection. He cast a longing glance at the carriage, his lips quivering.

    ¡°Stay out of the carriage,¡± Hex added. ¡°Keep on your feet and move around¡ªit¡¯ll help.¡±

    A hearty slap on the back sent Percy forward, nearly toppling him off the narrow seat. Hex laughed and jumped down, his boots crunching on the frosty ground.

    At the back of the carriage, Hex slung two coils of rope over his shoulder and grabbed a shovel.

    After hesitating, he decided to leave the pick behind¡ªElsbeth should have broken the ground by now.

    Last, he grabbed two long boards, balancing them across his left shoulder.

    ¡°Give the horses a quick rub-down,¡± Hex said.

    Then, turning to leave, he added, "Be ready for our return. We may be leaving in a hurry."

    Percy nodded, his teeth chattering as he clutched the reins.

    As Hex began up the hill, a sharp cry made him stop.

    Glancing back, he saw Percy flinching away from Corvus, who had perched beside him. The raven cocked its head, watching Percy with dark, intelligent eyes.

    Hex chuckled to himself. Corvus had an uncanny knack for unnerving people, but Hex admired the bird. He and Corvus were in silent agreement¡ªPercy needed to toughen up.

    Based on what had come before, Percy would endure countless nights at the fringes of strange and dangerous events. He would need to embrace this life or accept a mundane future of endless servitude.

    Hex cared for him¡ªPercy was the closest thing he had to a brother. He wanted more for him than a life of fear and second-guessing. Though Hex couldn¡¯t hand him a better life, he could open the door. Percy just needed the courage to step through.

    A grin tugged at Hex''s lips as he quickened his pace. Beneath his bowler, his eyes sparkled with excitement for the night ahead. Though the boards and shovel weighed heavy on his shoulders, his anticipation made him light on his feet.

    All he had to do now was survive Elsbeth¡¯s wrath¡ªand then the real work could begin.

    <hr>

    With a sharp click, the raven landed on the headstone. Elsbeth sighed in relief.

    Her muscles ached from the relentless heaving of soil, and sweat clung to her skin, chilling her beneath the cold night air. The wool of her garments warded off the damp as best it could, but her exposed hands, face, and neck were stiff and numb. Her ears burned and flushed as brightly as her cheeks.

    She could climb out of the hole but waited for Hex to lend a hand. The thought of hauling herself over mounds of peaty soil while wearing a skirt was less than appealing.

    When Hex appeared above her, staring down with that infuriating grin, Elsbeth¡¯s arms were already crossed, her patented scowl locked in place. Yet the glare didn¡¯t quite reach her eyes¡ªshe was relieved to see him.

    Better late than never.

    She sighed, extending her hands and bracing her boot against the hole''s edge.

    With an easy smile, Hex grabbed her wrists and hauled her up, catching her at the waist and setting her down gently.

    ¡°Light as a feather, dear sister,¡± he said, his grin widening.

    She ignored his charm, inspecting her coat and clothes with delicate precision, brushing away the dirt with feather-light touches.

    ¡°Save the platitudes for the silly schoolgirls you waste your time with,¡± she said dryly. ¡°You¡¯re late, and once again, I had to do your job.¡±

    Hex pursed his lips, mock seriousness crossing his face. ¡°Well, you knew I¡¯d be late, so in a sense, I¡¯m either right on time¡ªor possibly early.¡±

    Before she could respond, he leapt into the grave, shovel in hand.

    ¡°I believe this is yours,¡± he said, holding up the smaller shovel she had brought. ¡°I¡¯ll use a man¡¯s shovel if it¡¯s all the same to you.¡±

    His tone was playful¡ªa continuation of their eternal battle of the sexes. She took the small shovel without comment, securing it with a clasp sewn into the inside lining of her coat with practiced ease.

    They had always competed. When they were younger, she had won more often than not, her quick thinking and strategic mind outpacing his natural athleticism. But now that Hex was on the verge of manhood, the tables were turning.

    She had to push herself to keep up, especially with physical tasks like this. Still, where it mattered most¡ªintellect and reason¡ªHex couldn¡¯t touch her.

    Like her father, she excelled in science, mathematics, and logic.

    Hex took after their mother, a natural charmer skilled in social and political maneuvering, though utterly lost in mathematics or the sciences.

    She smiled to herself, watching as he worked. Let him have his moment in the dirt¡ªshe would win where it truly counted.

 Awakening

    At last, the dull thud of the shovel struck wood, hollow and unyielding.

    Hex froze, his chest heaving from the effort.

    With spade and gloved hands, he cleared away the remaining soil to reveal the coffin''s damp wooden lid. Carefully, he carved through the packed earth around its sides, making space to slide one of the boards beneath the coffin''s head.

    Elsbeth crouched at the pit''s edge, lantern light flickering in her eyes.

    ¡°Ready?¡± he asked, his voice rough with fatigue.

    Elsbeth nodded, gripping the first board as he heaved. The coffin shifted with a groan, its weight a grim reminder of the burden they carried¡ªnot just in effort but in spirit.

    At last, the box rested at an angle, tilted toward the grave''s edge.

    Hex climbed out of the pit, brushing dirt from his sleeves as he glanced toward Cordelia. She knelt at the northern point of the circle, murmuring a low chant, scattering loose soil taken from the grave over the runes etched into the earth.

    Elsbeth¡¯s arms ached from holding the board steady. Her muscles screamed in protest, but she refused to falter as Hex slid the second board into place beneath the coffin. Together, they tilted the box upward, the wood creaking ominously as it shifted with the boards.

    They stood together, heavy breaths freezing in the air.

    Cordelia inspected the angle but was unsatisfied.

    Hex groaned and returned to the hole, pushing the coffin to a steeper angle as Elsbeth adjusted the boards so it rested at a steeper incline.

    Climbing out, Hex joined the girls as they surveyed the result. They gave a simultaneous nod of agreement.

    They were ready.

    "Harrow! Come!" Cordelia whispered.

    The dog rose from his spot near the crest of the hill and padded into the circle.

    "Good boy, Harrow. Now lie down and wait."

    Cordelia gave a hand signal, and the dog made three tight turns of his body before settling down with his head resting on his front paws.

    Cordelia turned to them, her gaze steady and unreadable.

    She placed a hand on each of their shoulders.

    ¡°It¡¯s time to complete the circle,¡± she whispered.

    Extending her arms, she turned in a steady, clockwise motion, her voice low and resonant, repeating the phrase:

    ¡°This circle is open but not unbroken.¡±

    When the final word fell from her lips, a warmth rushed through the air, dispelling the bitter cold.

    Elsbeth gasped at the sudden relief, feeling the pins and needles of thawing extremities.

    ¡°Open the box,¡± she said, the command echoing in the stillness.

    Elsbeth fumbled with the crowbar tucked into her coat, the cold steel biting into her hands. She passed it to Hex, who hesitated, then set to work.

    The first nail gave way with a shriek, then the second. He paused, glancing over his shoulder. No one spoke. Taking a deep breath, he pried loose the remaining nails.

    With a final wrench of the bar, the cover broke free, and a sudden gust of air swept through the circle. The lantern light flared and flickered as if the tomb had exhaled a long-held breath.

    The boy lay still, his tiny hands folded neatly over his chest as though in quiet prayer. The body seemed too perfect, untouched by the grave''s decay. His skin was alabaster, unnaturally smooth, with no sign of blemish or bruise. His closed eyes gave the illusion of peace, but the faint smile tugging at his lips unsettled Elsbeth as if in death, he held some secret that the living could never know.

    A chill seemed to emanate from the coffin itself, and as the lantern light shone across his face, shadows gathered in the hollows of his cheeks, deepening the air of unnatural stillness.

    Hex knelt by the coffin, his jaw tight, his expression grim. He didn¡¯t speak, but his hands moved with quiet determination, brushing the soil from the edges as if in apology for their trespass.

    Elsbeth clapped a hand over her mouth, tears stinging her eyes. Even in death, he was perfect and fragile¡ªa lamb lost to a sleep from which he would never wake. But as sorrow surged within her, so too did an unwelcome nausea.

    She turned her head and retched into the dirt, her body betraying the flood of emotions she couldn¡¯t contain.

    Cordelia crouched beside her, her hand light on Elsbeth¡¯s back. ¡°It¡¯s all right,¡± she murmured. ¡°Take a moment. We need you steady.¡±

    The weight of the moment hung heavy in the silence.

    Having come this far, they all knew there would be no turning back. Whatever came next had to be meaningful¡ªproviding answers, purpose, and redemption for what they would do.

    Hex would not say it aloud, not here, but the thought echoed relentlessly in his mind:

    May God have mercy on our souls.

    <hr>

    Elsbeth stood as she started to recover and withdrew a handkerchief from her coat pocket, daintily wiping the bile from her lips and chin. She still looked pale, but color was returning to her face.

    Hex moved to her side, placing a steadying hand on her shoulder.

    She pushed him away gently. ¡°I¡¯m fine, Hex¡ªreally. Thank you, though.¡±

    Hex raised an eyebrow, unconvinced. ¡°You just vomited, Els. No need to rush. Take a moment.¡±

    Elsbeth huffed, embarrassment coloring her cheeks. ¡°I did not vomit, Hex. I merely retched¡ªthere is a difference, even if you¡¯re too coarse to appreciate it.¡±

    ¡°There she is,¡± he said with a grin. ¡°Feeling better already.¡±

    Her expression was deadpan as she removed the watch from her pocket. ¡°Seven minutes, 22 seconds,¡± she called to Cordelia, shoving the timepiece back into her jacket.

    ¡°Yes, Els,¡± came the dry response. ¡°Seven minutes and 18 seconds.¡±

    They were ahead of schedule. They needed to start at the cusp of the witching hour, three past midnight.

    With a few minutes to spare, Cordelia sat perched on the grave¡¯s edge, deftly rolling loose tobacco into paper.

    ¡°Roll one for me, will ya?¡± Hex asked, settling onto a mound of dirt.

    Cordelia handed him the finished cigarette and began rolling another.

    ¡°Hex?¡± Elsbeth said, her tone sharp with disapproval.

    Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

    ¡°Come on, Els. You¡¯re my sister, not my mother,¡± he quipped. ¡°Besides, it¡¯s the middle of the night, and we¡¯re sitting in a cemetery after digging up a child¡¯s grave.¡±

    He gestured to the boy¡¯s coffin.

    ¡°If I¡¯m going to reassess my choices, smoking doesn¡¯t even make the top five.¡±

    Hex¡¯s words struck a chord. Elsbeth knew he was right. The deeper they ventured into this life, the more she felt the pull of another¡ªone she was desperate to leave behind but had never managed to escape. Pretty dresses with crinoline hoops, perfect hair, polite conversation. A world of tea and sewing, afternoons spent hosting callers, nights at the piano. Safe, respectable, endlessly dreary.

    She had chosen a different path¡ªa life with Cordelia, filled with puzzles and danger, science and alchemy. But the world she yearned for, Medicine, would never truly accept her, and the one she¡¯d rejected, polite society, never stopped pressing its demands.

    She felt stretched thin, straddling two worlds she could never fully belong to. Only her father understood her choices, always telling her, ¡°Stay true to yourself, Els. Happiness will follow.¡± She clung to his words, though the path ahead felt anything but straightforward.

    ¡°Roll one for me, won¡¯t you, Cee?¡± she asked.

    Cordelia handed her a cigarette, already lit. Cordelia always knew when she was teetering. Elsbeth loved that about her.

    Hex leaned in, lighting his own from the ember of hers. The three sat silently, slowly drawing, the smoke rising in thin spirals. If her mother could see her now¡ªsmoking in a cemetery, the grave of a child yawning open at her feet¡ªit would be the end of her.

    They let the minutes pass in quiet thought, and when the hour neared, Elsbeth stamped out her cigarette, watching Cordelia take one last drag.

    It was time to do what they had come to do.

    <hr>

    Cordelia withdrew a pair of tiny spectacles from her pocket and placed them carefully on the boy¡¯s face. She had lifted them while examining the boy¡¯s room during their inquiry at the Wright house.

    She adjusted the frames with a surgeon¡¯s precision, her fingers lingering briefly as though reluctant to disturb the unnatural stillness of his small form.

    While adjusting the lenses, she examined his exposed skin, searching for unusual marks or abrasions, but found nothing unusual.

    Though she longed to examine the entire body¡ªespecially the wound around the throat¡ªthey had already ventured far beyond both reason and law. Still, if they came away empty-handed, she worried her frustration might overwhelm her better judgment. As if this wasn¡¯t desecration enough, the thought of performing an autopsy at the grave site, even a superficial one, seemed a step too far.

    Elsbeth withdrew a small, tightly wrapped bundle of parchment from her coat pocket. The paper was thin and brittle, its surface gleaming faintly from the powder within. She handed it to Cordelia with delicate care, resisting the urge to voice a warning about its volatility. Their laboratory tests of the mixture had already provided ample caution for them both.

    Elsbeth clasped Hex''s hand and drew closer to him. She had witnessed Cordelia perform magic before¡ªunexplainable things that had sown doubt and fear in her science-oriented mind. But nothing before had reached this magnitude. Tonight was entirely different, something that defied God himself. If it worked, it would shatter Elsbeth''s tenuous hold on her faith and damage her belief in knowledge and science beyond repair.

    When the third hour struck, Cordelia began her incantation, her voice low and rhythmic, carrying an ancient cadence that seemed to vibrate in the marrow of their bones. Though incomprehensible to Hex and Elsbeth, the sharp, guttural syllables struck like daggers into the silence, each word charged with an unsettling energy that set the hairs on their arms upright.

    Harrow raised his head slightly, his ears twitching as though attuned to a frequency imperceptible to human ears. His usually steady breathing had grown shallow, his golden eyes fixed on Cordelia with a mix of reverence and fear.

    Cordelia stood tall, her athame glinting faintly in the flickering lantern light. She lifted it in her right hand, tracing concentric circles in the air, her motions precise and hypnotic. As the blade moved, faint trails of shimmering light lingered briefly, marking the air with glowing runes before fading into the void.

    The first sign of the change came with an oppressive, suffocating silence so complete that Elsbeth could no longer hear her breathing. The circle seemed to shrink around them, the darkness thickening, swallowing everything outside its bounds.

    As the darkness became complete and absolute, Hex raised the lamp higher over the grave, but its feeble light barely cut through the pitch-black veil that enveloped them. Even the faint glow of the stars had vanished, leaving the sky an unbroken, featureless abyss.

    Elsbeth clasped Hex¡¯s hand tighter, her pulse pounding in her ears like a drumbeat. The air within the circle seemed heavier, suffused with an energy that defied reason and belief. If Cordelia succeeded, everything Elsbeth held as truth would crumble beneath the weight of the impossible.

    Then, the oppressive silence lifted, and the wind came. It began as a faint whisper, a stirring of leaves that grew into a howling tempest. Dirt and debris spun wildly in a vortex just outside the circle, the barrier holding firm against the chaotic onslaught.

    Hex braced himself against Elsbeth, gripping the lantern tightly to keep it aloft, while Elsbeth clutched her coat against her chest, her knuckles whitening as she fought the urge to flee.

    Harrow flattened himself to the ground, his body taut and still, his gaze fixed on the twisting figures that stalked the circle''s edges.

    The groans began¡ªlow at first, like distant cries carried on the wind, swelling into wails, as the air rippled and strained as if the very fabric of the circle was under siege. It was a sound that seemed to crawl under their skin, vibrating in their bones and clinging to their thoughts like an unwelcome shadow. They were voices of anguish, despair, and rage, their mournful cries like fingers clawing at their ears and souls.

    Cordelia¡¯s voice rose above the cacophony, her chants now a scream, raw and primal. Her face, barely illuminated by the flickering lantern, was a mask of fierce concentration, her lips moving with relentless precision as she called forth the etheric forces, her arms cutting through the air as she etched glowing runes that hung momentarily before dissolving.

    With a sudden gesture, flames burst forth from her fingertips, igniting the alchemist¡¯s paper in her left palm.

    When the mixture of phosphorus and magnesium powder caught, a flash burst outward with an intensity that seemed almost alive, a searing white light swallowing the night whole, obliterating all darkness and replacing it with an unearthly, all-consuming whiteness.

    The light hung suspended in the air, its brilliance so intense that Elsbeth and Hex instinctively shielded their eyes. Shadows fled before it, retreating to some distant corner of existence, leaving the circle bathed in a purity that felt alien and holy all at once.

    Elsbeth squinted, blinking rapidly as her vision struggled to adjust. In this otherworldly glow, all sound ceased, as though heaven held sway. Even the spirits¡¯ groans had vanished, leaving only an unnerving quiet, every particle stilled as if frozen in time.

    Then, slowly, the light began to dim, fading like a dying ember until the familiar darkness of night crept back in. The wind stilled, and the vortex was gone¡ªthe circle remained intact.

    Cordelia stood, arms raised in triumph or supplication (Elsbeth couldn¡¯t tell which), her breaths coming in deep, controlled heaves.

    Her body relaxed, and she lowered her hands, removing a small cotton bag from her pocket. Its only contents were purified salt. With deliberate care, she placed the bag into the boy¡¯s cold hand, gently curling his lifeless fingers around it.

    Cordelia stepped back, her eyes fixed on the boy¡¯s face, her expression unreadable.

    The three of them stood in tense silence, watching and waiting.

    Seconds passed, stretching into eternity.

    Then, faintly, the boy¡¯s eyelids fluttered, his pale lips parting slightly as though to take a breath.

    Elsbeth¡¯s hand flew to her mouth as his eyes opened¡ªlarge, unfocused, and filled with bewilderment.

    The boy¡¯s chest shuddered faintly, his small frame twitching as though unsure of its reawakening.

    His wide and unfocused eyes darted between them, pupils dilating like a newborn creature exposed to light for the first time.

    When his lips parted, the soundless motion carried the weight of a question no one could answer. It was as if he had awoken from the deepest sleep, dragged back to a world he did not understand.

    Elsbeth swallowed hard, her heart pounding. She wasn¡¯t sure if fear or wonder gripped her, but she knew one thing: no matter what happened next, what she witnessed tonight changed everything.

    <hr>

    Elsbeth crouched at the grave''s edge, her breath steady despite the whirlwind of emotions roiling beneath the surface. She withdrew her sketchbook from the inside pocket of her coat and flipped to an empty page.

    She selected a charcoal stick from a case strapped to her belt.

    Her focus was entirely on the boy lying below, his chest rising faintly as though each breath was an effort drawn from some unseen well of life.

    The boy¡¯s face, pale as alabaster, seemed almost serene now, yet his wide, unfocused eyes still carried the bewilderment of a soul caught between worlds.

    His tiny hand rested limply over the bag of salt, the stark white cotton contrasting against the darkness of his burial clothes.

    Elsbeth¡¯s hand moved quickly, boldly capturing the boy¡¯s likeness. The charcoal glided over the paper, tracing the soft curve of his jaw, the slight part of his lips, and the unnatural stillness that lingered in his limbs.

    She hesitated, then added the faint impression of the spectacles so carefully placed on his nose, their thin wire frames lending an eerie fragility to his features.

    The ritual had left its mark on the scene¡ªthe dirt mounded around the grave, the faint remnants of glowing runes in the soil, and the deep, unnatural quiet that seemed to hang over the circle. She tried to capture it all¡ªthe boy at its heart and the stillness that defied nature.

    She glanced up at Hex and Cordelia.

    Hex stood close by, his expression shadowed with awe and unease, the lantern casting long shadows across his features.

    Still standing within the grave, Cordelia watched the boy intently, her gaze unreadable but tense, as though bracing for something unseen.

    With a few final strokes, Elsbeth finished her sketch. It wasn¡¯t perfect¡ªher hands were trembling, and the charcoal smudged where her palm had brushed the page¡ªbut it captured the moment well enough.

    Elsbeth swallowed hard and closed the sketchbook, securing the leather strap as if trying to lock the image away.

    ¡°Finished?¡± Cordelia¡¯s voice broke the silence, low and steady.

    ¡°Yes,¡± Elsbeth replied, slipping the sketchbook back into her coat.

    ¡°All right then. Let¡¯s meet Oliver.¡±

 Tales from the Crypt

    ¡°Hello, Oliver,¡± Cordelia said, her voice soft and gentle.

    The boy raised his eyes to meet hers, confusion still clouding his expression. ¡°W¡­where am I?¡±

    Cordelia glanced around, her eyes moving between the mounds of dirt, the twisted shadows of trees, the stark headstones, and finally the cold, open grave where they stood. She waited a moment, letting the stillness settle as recognition slowly crept into his mind.

    ¡°We are in the cemetery on the hill overlooking Widdershire,¡± she said gently.

    ¡°This is where your body lies, buried just seven days past.¡±

    The boy¡¯s dark eyes dropped to the dirt at his feet. He nodded slowly, his tiny hands trembling as fragmented memories stirred.

    ¡°I¡¯m so sorry for what happened to you,¡± Cordelia continued, her voice laced with sorrow. ¡°And I¡¯m sorry for this. But I need to understand¡ªI need to know what happened.¡±

    For a long moment, Oliver said nothing, his lips pressed into a thin line.

    ¡°I know it¡¯s hard,¡± Cordelia murmured, her words both soothing and insistent.

    ¡°But if you tell me what happened that night, we might find the truth. And perhaps that will help someone.¡±

    His lips trembled as he lifted his gaze to hers. Confusion and pain swirled in his wide, dark eyes¡ªpuzzle pieces struggling to find their place.

    "It was around my throat... squeezing," he said, panic clear in his eyes. His hands twitched as if yearning to reach for his neck to ensure whatever had strangled him was truly gone.

    ¡°What was around your throat?¡±

    ¡°I¡­ I don¡¯t know. It was black¡ªcold.¡±

    Cordelia studied the boy with silent intrigue.

    ¡°Perhaps you should start at the beginning.¡±

    The boy considered this, then nodded.

    ¡°I¡­ I had a bad dream,¡± he whispered at last. ¡°I was afraid.¡±

    Cordelia nodded, careful not to rush him. She could feel the spell¡¯s power ebbing with each passing moment.

    ¡°I went to Papa¡¯s room¡ªbut he wasn¡¯t there. I think he was still downstairs¡ª¡± Oliver bit his lip, guilt flickering in his expression. ¡°He works when he¡¯s sad.¡±

    Cordelia caught the lie but let it pass.

    ¡°I was scared¡ªfrom the dream. I tried to sleep. Then I heard footsteps on the stairs¡ª I was happy for a moment¡ªthinking it was papa.¡±

    Cordelia remained silent, letting the words settle.

    ¡°The door opened,¡± he continued, his voice uneven. ¡°I saw someone standing there, watching me. It was dark, I think¡­ I think it was Hetty.¡±

    He hesitated, frowning in thought.

    ¡°I went to speak, but¡ª¡± His voice wavered. ¡°She had a box. She said scary words. Then¡­ it opened.¡±

    The boy¡¯s fingers dug into the fabric of his trousers. ¡°Something came out. Something dark. I heard it hit the boards.¡± His voice dropped, barely audible. ¡°It was blacker than coal.¡±

    Cordelia¡¯s stomach twisted.

    ¡°That¡¯s how I could see it,¡± he whispered. ¡°It was so black.¡±

    He stopped, his eyes wide, pupils blown with fear as he relived the moment.

    ¡°It¡¯s all right,¡± Cordelia soothed. ¡°You¡¯re safe here. Take your time.¡±

    He swallowed hard, forcing himself to continue. ¡°I started to sit up. But before I could¡ª¡± He sucked in a sharp breath.

    Cordelia remained still, waiting.

    ¡°A hand. Cold. Like ice. Pushed me down. I struggled, but¡ª¡± His breath came faster. ¡°It pressed down harder.¡±

    His fingers twitched as if feeling the pressure all over again. ¡°Then it let go¡ªjust a little¡ªand I opened my mouth to scream.¡±

    His whole body tensed.

    ¡°It went inside like a snake. Hurt my throat. I couldn¡¯t¡­ couldn¡¯t breathe.¡±

    The words came out hoarse, broken.

    His gaze locked onto Cordelia¡¯s, pleading.

    ¡°I gagged, but it just kept going. I kicked, bit down, and clawed at it¡ªbut it didn¡¯t stop.¡±

    His hands clenched into fists. ¡°It was inside me.¡±

    Cordelia¡¯s heart sank. ¡°Oh, Oliver.¡± Her voice was gentle and steady, though she reeled at its horror. ¡°I¡¯m so sorry.¡±

    The boy¡¯s shoulders slumped, his fingers knotting into the fabric of his cuff.

    ¡°I¡¯m dead, aren¡¯t I?¡± It was almost a statement.

    Enjoying this book? Seek out the original to ensure the author gets credit.

    Cordelia held his gaze and gave a slow, solemn nod.

    The boy exhaled shakily. ¡°It was like a snake, but it changed. It moved like a shadow but felt solid. It had feet and a tail¡­ I remember that because¡ª¡± His voice faltered, eyes dark with memory. ¡°Because it wrapped around my throat.¡±

    Again, his small hands twitched with the urge to raise his arms to his neck.

    ¡°It squeezed,¡± he whispered.

    ¡°Even when it left my mouth, I had no breath. And Hetty¡ª¡± His voice broke. ¡°She was gone. The door closed, and I heard her go down the stairs.¡±

    Cordelia felt a cold weight settle in her chest.

    ¡°Do you remember anything else?¡± she asked, though her voice felt distant, as though it belonged to someone else.

    Oliver nodded sharply.

    ¡°I heard a voice cry out¡ª No!¡±

    His brow furrowed.

    ¡°Then¡­ footsteps coming up the stairs. I only saw black. The tail around my throat, still squeezing. I felt light-headed¡ªspinning.¡±

    His breath came in short, shallow gulps.

    ¡°It was all very far away. The door crashed open. Screaming. A woman¡ªbut I couldn¡¯t see. And then¡­ nothing.¡±

    The boy looked down mournfully, his chin sinking to his chest.

    Cordelia let a beat of silence pass.

    ¡°Did your father work late often?¡±

    ¡°No.¡± The boy shook his head, not looking up.

    ¡°He¡­ he drinks sometimes. He misses my mum.¡±

    Cordelia¡¯s chest ached at the quiet, truthful confession.

    ¡°She died too,¡± he added, even softer.

    Cordelia squeezed his hand.

    ¡°That¡¯s all you remember?¡± she prompted gently. ¡°Smells, sounds¡­ anything?¡±

    The boy shook his head.

    ¡°I miss Papa,¡± he whispered. ¡°And Mama.¡±

    She swallowed against the tightness in her throat.

    Her voice was warm but steady.

    ¡°You are very brave, Oliver. A brave little soldier. Thank you for telling me. You¡¯ve helped so much.¡±

    The boy looked at her, sadness deep in his gaze.

    ¡°Can I go home now?¡±

    His voice was so small it made her heart ache.

    She crouched beside him, taking his hand in both of hers.

    ¡°Of course, my sweet boy. Let me take you there.¡±

    She touched his brow and murmured a soft, final incantation. His chest rose with one last breath¡ªdeep and slow. Then he exhaled, and the magic ebbed away.

    Oliver Wright was gone.

    Cordelia brushed a stray lock of hair from his face, her cheeks damp with tears. The boy¡¯s face was peaceful, but the weight of his story lingered, a heavy burden that would haunt them all.

    She drew her athame, her voice low as she whispered a blessing over the grave.

    Hex and Elsbeth bowed their heads, each murmuring quiet prayers.

    For a long moment, silence reigned, broken only by the faint rustle of leaves.

    Finally, Cordelia stood and extended her hand. Hex pulled her up, steadying her as she regained her balance.

    ¡°He must be returned to rest with care. And then we must go.¡±

    Elsbeth exchanged a glance with Cordelia, emotions flickering just beneath the surface. There would be time for tears later. For now, their focus had to be on restoring the dignity of the grave¡ªand covering their tracks.

    The ride home would be long and silent, each replaying the night¡¯s events repeatedly in their mind. When sleep finally came, it would offer no solace, only restless dreams and lingering shadows.

    <hr>

    Cordelia watched as Hex sealed the boy¡¯s coffin. Then came the shuffling sound of dirt striking wood, all else swallowed by the hush of the cemetery.

    She traced the edge of the ritual circle with her boot, blending the scattered salt into the soil, erasing the evidence of their trespass. Leaves, piled high at the circle¡¯s edge, proved helpful in concealing the freshly disturbed earth. No casual onlooker would know what had transpired here, but the truth could not be so quickly buried if someone knew what to look for.

    They worked quickly. Each wanted to be far from this place, someplace warm, someplace where the weight of their actions did not press so heavily on their chests.

    Cordelia knew peace would not come until they understood what had happened to Oliver Wright. Whatever lay behind the unnatural force that had taken him remained a mystery. So far, they had only managed to scratch the surface. The housekeeper, Henrietta Hampstead, also known as ¡®Hetty¡¯, had been instrumental in killing the boy, but an unrevealed truth lay deeper still¡ªlike the body of the young boy¡ªwaiting to be unearthed.

    Her thoughts were interrupted when Corvus took flight, the rush of wings breaking the silence.

    His sharp caw cut through the cold air ¡ªa warning.

    Harrow stiffened, hairs along his spine bristled, and a low growl rose in his throat as he turned toward the dark woods along the rise.

    Cordelia¡¯s pulse quickened.

    Something was out there.

    She met Hex¡¯s eyes and mouthed the word "hurry." He nodded quickly and moved faster, scattering the last leaves with deliberate, measured steps. Elsbeth stowed her tools with quiet efficiency, her face pale but composed.

    ¡°Is someone out there?¡± Elsbeth asked, her voice steady but low.

    Cordelia¡¯s gaze flicked to the shifting shadows beyond the trees. The night had its own kind of stillness that could be deceiving¡ªbut this was different. The air felt charged, like the moment before a thunderclap.

    ¡°Someone¡ªor something,¡± she murmured.

    Elsbeth and Hex exchanged glances, then moved in tandem, closing ranks.

    ¡°We have everything,¡± Hex said. ¡°Let¡¯s go¡ªnow.¡±

    Cordelia gave a low whistle, summoning Harrow to her side. He obeyed, but his gaze remained on the woods, muscles coiled, ready to spring.

    As they moved, they kept their pace measured¡ªunhurried, but purposeful¡ªpushing down the panic.

    Corvus circled high above, a black shape against the dim glow of the encroaching dawn. The raven might see what they could not.

    The cemetery gate loomed ahead. Beyond it, the dirt road stretched into the darkness, leading back to the carriage where Percy waited.

    Harrow let out a quiet whimper, and Cordelia reached down, brushing her fingers over his head. It was a reassurance, but for whom, she wasn¡¯t sure.

    <hr>

    They passed through the gates and onto the dirt road, moving with steady, measured steps. Hex led the way toward the brougham, his shoulders tense, eyes scanning the woods for movement.

    It wasn¡¯t long before the carriage''s shape emerged from the gloom, and they saw Percy leaning against the side, his coat pulled tight around him. Relief washed over his features as he spotted them, and he jogged forward to help carry the boards.

    In silence, they stowed the items along the back and roof of the carriage.

    Percy opened the door for Elsbeth, who stepped inside without a word.

    Cordelia paused, leaning against the carriage as she rolled a smoke, her eyes fixed on the shadowy hill behind them. Satisfied there was nothing following, she called softly to Harrow, who padded to her side.

    Together, they climbed into the passenger compartment.

    As Percy closed the door, a rush of wings startled him, and he ducked instinctively. Corvus swooped low, landing on the seat beside Hex with a triumphant squawk.

    ¡°Bloody bird,¡± Percy muttered.

    ¡°I heard that, Percy,¡± Elsbeth said, her tone sharp.

    ¡°Sorry, Miss Elsbeth. Won¡¯t happen again,¡± he mumbled, glaring at the raven, which seemed to smirk back at him.

    ¡°Go easy on him, Els,¡± Cordelia said, still on edge. ¡°He¡¯s not wrong. Corvus can be a right arsehole sometimes.¡±

    Elsbeth gave her a pointed look. ¡°Please, Cee, let¡¯s not encourage vulgarity. Otherwise, it¡¯ll be ¡®bastard¡¯ this and ¡®bugger¡¯ that, and before long, someone will drop the C-word over tea. Mother won¡¯t stand for it.¡±

    Percy gawked at her, his expression a mix of shock and confusion.

    Cordelia slumped against Elsbeth, eyes closed, weary from the strain of the ritual.

    ¡°Percy, let¡¯s go,¡± Elsbeth said, almost pleading.

    Percy went toward the front but froze when Corvus threw a sharp squawk and flapped his wings threateningly.

    ¡°Looks like you¡¯re riding on the back,¡± Hex said, smirking. ¡°Corvus has staked his claim up front.¡±

    Percy muttered something unrepeatable as he climbed onto the rear step.

    ¡°All set!¡± he whispered, his annoyance clear to all.

    Hex urged the horses forward, and the wheels creaked as the carriage moved over the dirt road.

    The group gave a collective sigh of relief as the cemetery began to fade from view.

 Unexpected Encounter

    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¡ªbut 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¡ªwhat they had done. But he knew, and how he wished he didn''t. They were at the murdered boy''s grave¡ªdigging. 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¡ªif there were any¡ªwould be enduring a bone-rattling ride. Percy reached a chilling certainty as it rapidly gained on them¡ªthey were being pursued.

    Percy yanked the bell cord to signal trouble, then thrust his arm outward¡ªa 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¡ªand pieced together¡ªabout 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¡ªtheir 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¡ªjust 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.

    Unauthorized usage: this tale is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings.

    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¡ªa 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¡ªonly 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¡ªshouldn¡¯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¡ªthieves, gangs, corruption¡ªbut 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¡ªnot monsters. Where danger had rules and men killed for money or spite¡ªnot 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¡ªno, John Ashcombe in polite society¡ªsat 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¡ªdark, sharp, and full of calculation.

    ¡°Master?¡± the coachman ventured hesitantly. ¡°Shall I¡ª?¡±

    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¡ªsmoke.¡±

    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¡ªyet, 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¡ªand 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¡ªunusually 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.

 Home Sweet Home

    The city was already stirring to life when the carriage arrived at Cordelia¡¯s flat on Wicker Row. After the long night, the group was anything but lively.

    Cordelia and Elsbeth headed to the second-floor flat, leaving the boys to deal with the carriage. On returning, they would find a bakery and pick up something to quell their hunger. Elsbeth instructed Percy to keep Hex on track but didn¡¯t expect them to return soon.

    The second-floor apartment was cold. One of the great windows stood open, letting in the morning¡¯s chill and the sounds of the alley below. Corvus perched on the sill, his dark eyes watching as Elsbeth shut the door behind them.

    ¡°In or out, Corvus?¡± she asked, grasping the frame. The bird squawked and flew to a perch by Cordelia¡¯s desk. The desk was little more than towering shelves of books, each overflowing with loose notes and scraps of paper.

    Cordelia knelt by the hearth and scooped coal into the grate with practiced ease. She laid peat and crumpled paper atop the coal, struck a match against the hearthstone, and watched flames begin to crackle. The small fire offered little warmth but would suffice to heat water for tea. And coffee, Cordelia''s preferred indulgence.

    Elsbeth hung her coat by the door, regretting it immediately as the chill bit her through the second layer. She removed the shoulder-strap holster and placed it with the coat.

    Rubbing her arms as she crossed the room, she sank into the worn settee near the hearth. Cordelia headed for the pantry, the floor creaking beneath her bare feet. She shivered again as she pulled a blanket around her shoulders.

    ¡°Must you walk around like that?¡± Elsbeth asked, eyeing the exposed calves beneath Cordelia¡¯s raised hem.

    Cordelia smirked. ¡°I live here.¡±

    ¡°You might give Percy the wrong idea. You know how he gets around you.¡±

    Cordelia smirked, pouring water into two pots over the fire.

    ¡°I do. But we have a bigger problem with Percy than his youthful exuberance.¡±

    Now it was Elsbeth¡¯s turn to smirk. They both laughed as Cordelia joined her on the small settee, tucking her feet beneath her.

    ¡°Percy is not an idiot. He will put two and two together¡ªif he hasn¡¯t already.¡±

    Elsbeth hesitated. Despite Percy¡¯s status as a servant, he was family. He had always been the odd one out, yet always loyal. He deserved honesty.

    ¡°What are you suggesting? We tell him everything?¡±

    Cordelia thought about this for a moment.

    ¡°I don¡¯t think we have any choice. He¡¯ll feel like we don¡¯t trust him if we don''t. And, if we get ourselves into a situation¡ª¡±

    ¡°Like being chased by a cab in the dead of night?¡± Elsbeth interrupted.

    Cordelia nodded. ¡°Exactly. He becomes a liability if he doesn¡¯t know what¡¯s happening.¡±

    ¡°And if something happens to him, we¡¯ll never forgive ourselves,¡± Elsbeth said.

    Cordelia nodded. ¡°And let¡¯s be honest. We need him. He¡¯s another pair of hands we can trust. That¡¯s not something we can buy.¡±

    "I¡¯m not sure this is a trust issue. He¡¯s not exactly eager about what we do. He doesn¡¯t share Hex¡¯s devil-may-care attitude. He doesn''t want to know."

    Cordelia¡¯s grin turned wicked. ¡°Let me worry about that. I have a way with him.¡±

    Elsbeth deadpanned. "I''m sure you do."

    Cordelia leaned back, eyes half-lidded with exhaustion. ¡°Besides, he got the best view of the growler. We need to know what he saw.¡±

    Elsbeth doubted he had seen much. He had likely spent the entire episode clinging to the carriage. Eyes squeezed shut, whispering prayers through trembling lips.

    Their discussion about the mysterious growler was important. But right now, all she wanted was for the kettle to boil.

    Tea first. Answers later.

    <hr>

    The tantalizing scent of hot sausage rolls filled the room. Percy carried a small package tied with string. Elsbeth hoped it contained Chelsea buns.

    Percy looked annoyed, and Elsbeth caught Hex¡¯s mischievous grin. As usual, Hex had been teasing him mercilessly. Their dynamic was as predictable as it was amusing, and despite herself, she gave a small smile. After everything that had happened, seeing some semblance of normalcy was reassuring.

    Hex pulled a chair beside the small sofa and handed Elsbeth a sausage roll wrapped in brown paper. Her stomach growled in response, but she hesitated, waiting for the others to gather.

    ¡°Percy has the jelly tarts,¡± Hex said through a mouthful of food. ¡°Three raspberry, three strawberry, and two plum. I¡¯d say I made an excellent choice.¡±

    ¡°Don¡¯t talk with your mouth full,¡± Elsbeth chided, hiding her disappointment. Next time, she would instruct him to get Chelsea Buns.

    ¡°Someone¡¯s tired,¡± Hex grumbled, taking another large bite of the sausage roll.

    Cordelia returned with two cups and carefully poured tea for Hex. Her movements were slow and precise to avoid stirring the leaves.

    Percy lingered near the kitchen table, clutching his hat.

    ¡°Will it be tea or coffee, Percy?¡± Cordelia inquired, her voice warm, though touched with unmistakable amusement.

    This tale has been unlawfully obtained from Royal Road. If you discover it on Amazon, kindly report it.

    Percy hesitated. ¡°Coffee, if you please.¡±

    Cordelia poured the steaming liquid into a cup and handed it to Percy.

    ¡°Pull up a chair, Percy, right next to me.¡±

    Her tone was soft and lilting, a voice that made Percy¡¯s ears burn. He complied, dragging the chair over with a loud scrape of wood against the floor. He sat close to the fire but not so close to Cordelia. Though enchanted by her, some instinct kept him wary, like prey sensing the spider¡¯s web.

    With everyone settled, Elsbeth finally allowed herself to eat. The greasy pastry was warm and satisfying, the perfect antidote to the long, cold night. She sighed as warm food filled her, the tension in her shoulders easing.

    Tired and dirty, after the warm meal, sleep wouldn¡¯t be far behind. They needed to discuss the night¡¯s events, and it couldn¡¯t wait any longer.

    <hr>

    Cordelia opened the discussion with a question.

    "Did the growler follow us from Widdershire?"

    Percy hesitated before deferring to Hex.

    "It came from a road that leads to a farm near Acton. The road behind us was clear when we left Widdershire. Then, right after we passed the farm road, it appeared. That¡¯s correct, is it not, Percy?"

    Percy nodded. "I observed nothing until we were past Widdershire. When it did appear, it was moving at an alarming pace. At first, I thought it was a hackney cab, but now I''m certain it was a private carriage."

    Elsbeth spoke up.

    "The Miller farm belonged to an elderly couple who recently died. With no heirs and years of unpaid taxes, the property defaulted to the Crown. Two weeks ago, it was leased through an agency. The agency declined to disclose the tenant''s identity.¡±

    Everyone turned to stare at her.

    Elsbeth had extensive knowledge about many subjects. But this information seemed oddly specific and relevant.

    "What?" she said, uncomfortable under their stares.

    Her mouth made a clicking noise.

    "Father mentioned it not long ago. An associate of his conducted the post-mortem. He remarked upon the peculiar circumstances of their deaths. Father passed the information to me, likely expecting I''d tell Cee. I investigated but found nothing noteworthy. I have watched the matter, which is how I became aware of the recent lease.

    The other three exchanged knowing looks but remained silent.

    Cordelia shook her head, though she was hardly surprised.

    "Percy, you''re sure the carriage was pursuing us?"

    Percy shifted in his seat. "They weren''t out for a casual pre-dawn stroll. If Hex hadn''t urged the horses on, they would have overtaken us in less than a minute."

    Then, hesitating, Percy added, "That smoke slowed them down."

    He glanced at Elsbeth, hoping she wouldn''t explain the exact nature of the effect. When it came to the two women, his curiosity died a quick death¡ª'' ignorance is bliss'' was his motto.

    "Smoke bombs. Of my invention," Elsbeth said, pride clear in her voice.

    Cordelia brought them back to the core issue.

    "So, the carriage joined the road from the farm, then pursued us toward Uxbridge Road and London. The only questions that matter¡ªwho were they, and what did they want?"

    Hex offered a suggestion. "Could be they were pressed for time¡ªor a band of highwaymen eager for an easy mark?"

    "Highwaymen might explain their retreat as we approached the city," Elsbeth said.

    Hex and Cordelia nodded, weighing this theory.

    "Or," Elsbeth added, "the sun was breaking. Did they find a cause for concern?"

    It was something she immediately regretted saying. The look on Hex''s face told her everything she needed to know. Despite all they had seen and heard, the mere possibility of vampires struck him as absurd.

    "What now? Are you saying Varney himself pursued us?"

    Elsbeth snapped back, "Varney the Vampire? As if I would lower myself to reading such rubbish as penny dreadfuls." She continued with aristocratic disdain. "If anything, I prefer Polidori''s Lord Ruthven. It¡¯s far more refined. The vampire character reflects Lord Byron himself.¡±

    Elsbeth didn''t like feeling ridiculed, even if she deserved it.

    "Let''s be honest, vampires are the vain invention of decrepit men. Forever preying upon and betraying innocent young women. Nothing but lewd seduction leading to a lady''s ruin. It''s all thinly veiled vice¡ªutterly indecent if you ask me."

    "So you do read them?" Hex said, arching an eyebrow.

    Elsbeth shrugged, a slight smile playing at the corner of her lips.

    "Only in the privy," she said, "then I use them to¡ª"

    She left the statement unfinished, letting their imaginations do the work.

    Hex laughed. "Fitting, I suppose."

    Percy stared at the cold cup of coffee clutched in his hands. Then, he spoke, immediately regretting it.

    "That''s not why they stopped."

    They turned their heads, waiting. Percy groaned. Why hadn¡¯t he held his tongue?

    "Well¡ª" he began, then stopped.

    He settled back into his chair, the color draining from his face. His hands trembled as he tightened his grip on the cup, unwilling to look up.

    Cordelia¡¯s voice softened. ¡°What is it, Percy? You may speak freely.¡±

    "You¡¯ll think me mad,¡± he muttered, his gaze fixed on his cup, unwilling to meet their eyes.

    Cordelia caught Hex''s eye, her meaning unmistakable. Say something.

    Hex cleared his throat. ¡°Look here, Percy. You''d also call me mad if I told you what I saw last night. Whatever it was, we must know.¡±

    Percy inhaled, weighing his options. If he told them the truth, they would laugh¡ªor worse, they would believe him. Percy looked up. They had all been through something last night. He could see it written on their faces. The faces of his friends. If he couldn¡¯t trust them, he couldn¡¯t trust anyone.

    Before he could begin, Corvus squawked as if commanding him to speak.

    ¡°Blasted bird,¡± he grumbled, waving a hand at the annoying raven.

    He looked at Hex, who gave him a firm nod.

    And so, with an exhale, he began. The words were hesitant at first, then came tumbling out in a steady stream.

    ¡°It happened right after we hit Uxbridge Road. The growler had fallen behind, thanks to Corvus and the smoke. I¡¯d juststarted to relax when I felt something brush my leg.

    ¡°At first, I thought it was a branch, but when I looked¡ª¡± He swallowed. ¡°Something was climbing the rail.¡±

    He paused, his breath coming in shallow gasps.

    Cordelia leaned in. ¡°Describe it.¡±

    Percy¡¯s grip tightened around his cup.

    ¡°Black as tar. Featureless but shifting like it was deciding what shape to take. Clawed fingers¡ªfirst two, then three, then four. No eyes, empty sockets, but I swear it was watching me.¡±

    His jaw clenched as he recalled the terror of that moment.

    ¡°I kicked it with all my strength. It tumbled from the rail onto the road. The growler stopped soon after¡ªI can only assume to retrieve it.¡±

    More silence.

    "That''s all that happened. It was over in seconds, and it was terrifying."

    Cordelia put her hand on Percy''s knee.

    ¡°You were brave, Percy. You saved us all from that thing. I dare not think what might have happened had you not been there.¡±

    Percy looked at her in shock. Cordelia thought him brave. All he had felt was terror.

    ¡°I¡ªI am glad to have helped. I should never wish harm to come to you or Miss Elsbeth. But I did not feel brave. I only felt frightened.¡±

    Hex exhaled. ¡°Courage isn¡¯t the absence of fear, Percy. It¡¯s standing against it despite wanting to run.¡±

    Percy wasn¡¯t sure he believed that. The mere thought of that creature getting inside the carriage made him ill. Percy doubted his courage. Yet, he knew he would never forgive himself if any harm came to Cordelia or Elsbeth. But then, as he looked around the room, something else struck him.

    Not one of them looked surprised.

    None of them looked as though they doubted a word he had said.

    His stomach turned.

    ¡°You already know what that thing is, don¡¯t you?¡±

    Cordelia sat back, pressing her lips together.

    ¡°Not exactly,¡± she admitted. ¡°We know pieces of the truth, but we do not yet grasp the whole of it. Rest assured, there is more to discuss after we get some sleep.¡±

    Elsbeth stretched, rubbing her temples. ¡°Right. Sleep. We¡¯ll talk later.¡±

    Cordelia yawned, pulling a blanket over her head.

    ¡°Everyone get some rest. There¡¯s much left to figure out.¡±

    Exhausted, they each found a comfortable resting spot. Their sleep was restless, hampered by visions of the revived boy, the threat of a creature lurking in the shadows, and the pursuit of a mysterious carriage.

 Great Expectations

    Percy opened his eyes as he felt a long, rough tongue slide along his cheek and circle his eye with a wet slurp. Harrow let out a soft, whimpering whine, and Percy groaned, pushing the dog away.

    He squeezed his eyes shut, trying to keep the light at bay for a few more moments. He and Harrow had slept on the floor. Their spot remained warm, and the sunlight streaming through the window felt pleasant against his skin.

    Hex''s soft snores echoed from the table where he slept¡ªslumped in a chair, his head resting on his arms.

    Percy yearned to drift back to sleep. To return to the warmth of pleasant dreams. The pressing need to relieve himself urged him to get up. It was a battle he knew he would not win. Harrow whined and paced by the door, suffering from the same need.

    Percy could let the dog out alone, but his urgency meant choosing between the chamber pot near the washstand or finding a spot in the back alley. He could see Cordelia''s sleeping form on the sofa with a clear view of the pot, so he chose the alley.

    "Come on, Harrow," he murmured, "let''s take a walk."

    Before reaching the door, he heard Cordelia''s voice from beneath her blankets.

    "Percy, don''t be too long. I need to brief you on tonight''s plan¡ªensure you have all the information."

    Percy grimaced. What would he be getting himself into this time?

    ¡°Yes, Cordelia. We won¡¯t be long.¡±

    Cordelia heard the door close and Percy''s footsteps fade as he approached the street.

    Rising from the settee, she stretched her cramped arms and legs. A sigh escaped her lips at the sight of the empty bed¡ªshe now wished she had claimed its comfort. She had assumed Elsbeth would take it, but her friend had chosen the lab instead.

    She shed her clothes, keeping only her shift and knickers. While Hex slept nearby, she made hasty use of the chamber pot. She would need to dress before Percy''s return. Her undress might be acceptable around Hex, but Percy was another matter.

    Time was pressing. Expectations were for Elsbeth to be home for afternoon tea, and it was already past noon. The trip across town would be slow, and Elsbeth would need at least an hour to make herself respectable.

    Cordelia moved to the washstand, cleaning her face and hands in cold water. She shivered, the room''s warmth fading. She had reopened the window to allow Corvus to stretch his wings and seek his lunch.

    Even after an initial wash, her hands remained dirty from the night''s work. She needed to clean beneath her nails. She had soap, but she wouldn''t use it. The poor quality of the bar meant its cleaning agents were inert and unable to lather without warmer water, rendering it useless. Instead, she used a small knife to remove the dirt beneath her nails.

    She dressed, tying and buttoning the stiff outer garments required for proper society.

    Most of the clothing was Elsbeth''s. Not only was she brilliant, but she also had impeccable taste in fashion. Cordelia''s style tended toward the mystical¡ªfitting her unconventional nature. She had taken to ''borrowing'' Elsbeth¡¯s cast-offs to reduce odd stares and leers. Elsbeth never objected. Cordelia suspected this sharing had been her friend''s intention all along.

    Time to wake up, Elsbeth.

    A smile crossed her face as she cracked the door to the lab. Elsbeth lay sleeping on the day bed, still dressed, boots untied but remaining on her feet. After last night, Elsbeth was a complete mess. An hour might not be ample time to transition her to the proper English woman her mother expected.

    She sat at the edge of the bed, leaned over, and kissed her friend''s temple. She loved Elsbeth with all her heart. Their closeness transcended mere friendship. They were sisters in every sense of the word. A closeness she had never thought she would have.

    She lost her parents at a young age and lived with her grandmother afterward. When her grandmother¡¯s health waned, arrangements were made for Dr. Wren to provide for Cordelia¡¯s care. Dr. Wren had raised her as part of his family and provided everything she ever needed. He had given her a family and the freedom to be herself, but most of all, he had given her Elsbeth. For that, she would be forever grateful.

    Her face still close, she whispered in Elsbeth¡¯s ear.

    ¡°Els, darling, time to wake. You¡¯re expected for tea, and you know how Mother frets over punctuality.¡±

    Elsbeth stirred, but her only response was a groan.

    Cordelia gave her a gentle shake.

    "Come now, Els. You need to get across town, and it''s already midday."

    Elsbeth''s eyes opened to see Cordelia¡¯s face pressing close. Her long curls cascaded across her chest and face, and her red lips were full. Their delicate moisture drew her forward, and she brushed her lips against them. Lost in a moment of desire, she began to tremble. She pulled Cordelia closer and pressed their mouths together in a full, lasting, and complete kiss.

    Elsbeth let her head sink back into the pillow as Cordelia pulled away. Her lips tingled from Cordelia¡¯s warmth, the sensation lingering like an unspoken promise. Elsbeth closed her eyes and drew deep, slow breaths.

    Cordelia smiled. Her fingers lingered longer than necessary as she tucked a curl behind Elsbeth¡¯s ear.

    ¡°There is hardly time for that, my love. We have places to be. Get up and get a move on. We need to make a plan; then I have to head out for a bit. We¡¯ll meet back here tonight.¡±

    ¡°Where are you going? I had hoped for your support at tea. Mother means to parade me before another eligible gentleman, no doubt.¡±

    Cordelia smiled. ¡°That, I¡¯m afraid, is something you must navigate alone. I have to see Durry. I need him to get me before Henry Wright within the next few days. It mustn¡¯t wait longer.¡±

    Elsbeth sat up. Talking to Henry Wright was crucial.

    ¡°We need him to tell us everything he knows about Hetty Hampstead. She is behind this. We need to know what he knows. We need to find out everything.¡±

    Cordelia nodded as she moved towards the door. ¡°That¡¯s the plan. Now, be a dear and make haste.¡±

    With that, she left the room, leaving Elsbeth alone. Elsbeth replayed the kiss in her mind, stuck on a single thought.

    When, she wondered, would she have another?

    <hr>

    Elsbeth took her turn at the washstand, attempting to salvage what remained of her dignity.

    Her hair was a disaster¡ªwild, tangled, and beyond repair. The only solution was to twist it into a severe bun that made her look like a woman twice her age. Gone were her best features¡ªher long, brown curls, the only charming thing about her. Instead, all anyone would see were her thick, fleshy earlobes. In short, she would be hideous.

    Reading on this site? This novel is published elsewhere. Support the author by seeking out the original.

    Her dress, which she had taken great care to protect, was no better. The dark fabric had done a terrible job concealing dirt, clinging to every bit of grime from the night¡¯s work. Why had she worn a dress in the first place? Next time she went grave digging, she would most certainly wear trousers.

    And now¡ªafter everything¡ªshe was expected to sit through tea.

    She would need her own washstand, a proper mirror, and every beauty implement she owned to make herself presentable. Given the disaster before her, she should have started an hour ago. Instead, she stood here, fuming.

    This was a girl problem. And it was infuriating.

    Hex, of course, looked perfectly fine. She hated him for it. Despite sleeping slumped over the table, he had bounced up like a spring, now stretching through his calisthenics routine, showing no ill effects from the long night.

    On the other hand, Percy remained his usual rumpled self, and the fact that no one cared only deepened her resentment.

    She wanted to punch them both.

    With a grimace, she gave up. Time to hear Cordelia¡¯s plan. Then, she would face the inevitable¡ªreturning home, making herself presentable, and enduring another round of her mother¡¯s endless fussing.

    Somewhere along the way, she would need to find the will to pretend she cared.

    <hr>

    Cordelia sat at the table, talking with Hex and Percy. The boys fell silent when they saw her joining them. Percy, looking uncertain and uncomfortable.

    ¡°Perfect timing, Els,¡± she said. ¡°I was about to tell them the plan.¡±

    ¡°How exciting,¡± Elsbeth said, trying not to sound too droll.

    ¡°Tonight, we head to Acton to survey the Miller farm. If the carriage that chased us came from there, there might be a connection to Henry Wright¡¯s case. We need to see it for ourselves.¡±

    Elsbeth expected this, though she¡¯d preferred a less hands-on approach. Examining records and questioning the leasing agent. But that was her way. Cordelia preferred to see things with her own eyes.

    ¡°Everyone?¡± Elsbeth asked.

    ¡°Yes.¡± Cordelia nodded. ¡°We need every pair of eyes. It should be low risk. We¡¯re observing. Besides, Percy hasn¡¯t had the chance to be involved. And who knows, he might even find it thrilling.¡±

    Elsbeth glanced at Percy. He looked deeply un-thrilled. But she knew him well enough to know he wouldn¡¯t refuse Cordelia. He never did.

    ¡°Regarding preparations. Hex, you¡¯re in charge of transportation and tools. Percy, you¡¯re his assistant. Elsbeth and I will handle supplies.¡±

    The boys signaled their understanding.

    ¡°Because this is a reconnaissance mission, some special rules will be in effect.¡±

    Cordelia waited to make sure she had their attention.

    ¡°First, dark clothing and gloves. Nothing bright that might reflect light. Tonight is a half-moon, and there won¡¯t be many clouds, so keep that in mind. It will be cold, so dress warm.¡±

    ¡°Hex, you¡¯re the driver. You need to get us there, find a place off the main road to park, and bring us back to the city.¡±

    ¡°Percy, you are our eyes and ears. You must remain alert at all times. If you see anything unusual, speak of it with haste. You will ride the rail both ways, and when we are on foot, you will be last, watching our flanks and our rear.¡±

    Seeing the confusion in Percy¡¯s eyes, she paused.

    ¡°Flanks and rear. That means everything not in front of us. Nod if you understand.¡±

    Percy nodded.

    ¡°We expect persons to be present, so we can¡¯t drive up and knock on the front door. Once we park, I¡¯ll cover the carriage with a veil that will obscure it. Then, we set out on foot. Corvus and Harrow will act as forward scouts. Then Hex, myself, Elsbeth, and Percy. We¡¯ll stay spaced along the road''s edge, two to a side. Again, Hex is leading. If he stops, we stop. If he crouches, we crouch.¡±

    ¡°Everyone following?¡± Cordelia asked.

    Hex and Elsbeth nodded, but only Percy grumbled, ¡°I know what flanks are, but why am I always last?¡±

    Cordelia ignored him.

    ¡°Once we reach the farmhouse, we¡¯ll take up positions to observe. Follow my lead. If anything goes wrong, you all head back to the carriage. If I don¡¯t return within a few minutes, Hex, you take Elsbeth and Percy and return to the city. Don¡¯t risk waiting.¡±

    ¡°If there is a veil over the carriage, how will we find it again?¡± Hex asked.

    ¡°If you know it¡¯s there, it won¡¯t appear veiled. It¡¯s a trick of the mind, Hex, not invisibility.¡±

    Hex considered this and seemed satisfied.

    ¡°I don¡¯t like the part about leaving you behind. You wouldn¡¯t leave any of us behind,¡± Elsbeth said, the worry on her face evident.

    ¡°True. But I have options that the rest of you don¡¯t have. I¡¯ll be fine. Plus, Harrow and Corvus will be with me.¡±

    Elsbeth was not satisfied but accepted the answer.

    ¡°Finally, we leave around seven, which puts us there around eight. It¡¯ll be dark, so Hex will bring a lantern. We won¡¯t light it unless we need it. ¡°I¡¯ll decide how to proceed once we know the situation. Got it?¡±

    They all nodded in agreement.

    ¡°Okay. Any questions?¡±

    Percy raised his hand.

    ¡°No, you cannot ride in the carriage.¡±

    Percy lowered his hand.

    ¡°Any other questions?¡±

    Hex raised his hand.

    ¡°No, you may not carry a gun.¡±

    Hex lowered his hand.

    Elsbeth raised her hand.

    Cordelia arched an eyebrow.

    ¡°Elsbeth?¡±

    ¡°Well, it¡¯s not exactly a question¡ªI¡¯m going to wear trousers.¡±

    Hex gave her a questioning look. ¡°You¡¯re going to wear trousers under your dress?¡±

    Elsbeth rolled her eyes, ¡°No, Hex. I won¡¯t be wearing a dress. I¡¯m wearing trousers.¡±

    ¡°Smart,¡± Cordelia said. ¡°It makes sense for this type of investigation. The question is, where can we find you trousers?¡±

    Both of the women turned to look at Hex.

    ¡°What? You need me to find you trousers? I¡¯m not even sure they make them in your size. You¡¯re all legs and no waist, so you¡¯ll need a tiny belt. While at it, I could acquire a fake beard and top hat to complete the look.¡±

    Percy chimed in. ¡°Children¡¯s clothes might work.¡±

    Hex found this hysterical, but the dour expression on Elsbeth¡¯s face warned him away from an outburst of laughter.

    ¡°Hex,¡± Elsbeth said, her voice a low growl, ¡°figure it out. Or so help me, to prove my point, you and Percy will be wearing dresses tonight.¡±

    Hex glared back but decided it was best not to argue.

    ¡°Everyone clear on their roles?¡± Cordelia asked.

    Percy raised his hand again.

    ¡°Yes, Percy?¡±

    ¡°What about that thing? From the rail. If it¡¯s as you say, won¡¯t that creature be a threat?¡±

    Cordelia looked at each of them. She could see the worry creeping in.

    ¡°Good question. First, that is a role for Corvus and Harrow. They will be our first line of defense and provide an early warning. I¡¯ve thought about what might be effective against such a thing as shadow and tar. That¡¯s why Elsbeth will bring torches. Fire will be our best defense.¡±

    No one responded, but the mood of the room seemed to sour.

    ¡°All right then. I¡¯ll see you all by seven.¡± Cordelia said. ¡°And Hex¡ª¡±

    Hex smirked. ¡°Yeah, yeah. Don¡¯t be late.¡±

    He clapped Percy on the back. ¡°Come on, Percy. It¡¯s time for us to find some lunch. And ¡®lady¡¯ trousers.¡±

    Hex gave a hearty chuckle. ¡°Lady trousers. Can you imagine?¡±

    Percy groaned but followed him out the door and down the stairs.

    Cordelia watched them go, then turned to Elsbeth.

    ¡°Adorable, aren¡¯t they?¡±

    Elsbeth smirked. ¡°When they¡¯re not being insufferable.¡±

    They both laughed.

    ¡°Think they¡¯ll be on time?¡± Elsbeth asked.

    ¡°Well, there¡¯s always a first time. But I wouldn¡¯t bet on it being tonight.¡±

    <hr>

    Elsbeth braced herself as the carriage stopped before the Wren household. She had endured the ride across town, lost in quiet thought. She was crossing between worlds, leaving behind the wild, exhilarating danger of life with Cordelia and¡ªwith great angst¡ªreentering the polished, predictable theater of Victorian society.

    Here, the roles were written long before birth, and deviation was not an option.

    This afternoon, her mother would direct a precise performance in which each knew their part by heart.

    She was to be the dutiful daughter. The eligible young woman poised to surrender herself. Body, name, soul, and fortune¡ªto a husband who would shape the rest of her life.

    A life of bearing children and managing a household. A self-disappearing act, an invisible acquiescence into polite society. The same surrender that generations of women had made before her.

    Hex, meanwhile, played a far more enviable role. The charming young heir, free to wander, falter, and take his time. The world would wait for him.

    The world had never waited for her.

    Then there was Percy¡ªnot quite on stage, not entirely off it. A servant in the house, never a player in its grand productions. He was visible yet unseen, essential yet ignored.

    Elsbeth did not envy Percy¡¯s fate¡ªshe had no desire to disappear. But she did not envy Hex either. His freedoms were illusions, mere delays before duty.

    What she envied¡ªwhat she ached for¡ªwas something neither of them had.

    She wanted to be seen. To be more than a well-bred possession, suffocated by expectation.

    She wanted to be Cordelia.

    Cordelia lives by her own rules and answers to no one. Society had long since stopped trying to break or bend her. She would, without apology, always be herself.

    Elsbeth resented her for it.

    Not in a way that threatened their friendship, but in a way that sat deep in her bones, restless and raw.

    They were alike in so many ways and yet so different.

    Cordelia would carve her future. Elsbeth would be given hers whether she wanted it or not.

    Cordelia existed without compromise. Elsbeth was property.

    She was a brilliant, well-bred, well-trained young woman. But despite her learning, passions, and dreams of more, she was a possession all the same. And she could do nothing to change that.

    Not without losing everything.

    The carriage door swung open, and Elsbeth entered the life that awaited her. She pushed the bitterness deep inside. Into that already crowded space where it wouldn¡¯t hurt.

    At least, not yet.

 Sleep Over

    They studied the farmhouse from the overgrown weeds in the yard. The place looked derelict and long abandoned. Though the old couple who owned the farm were recently deceased, years of neglect had taken their toll.

    It stood at the crest of a slight rise, its stone walls weathered and pockmarked with age. Once sturdy and proud, the gray stone had begun to crumble at the edges, worn thin by wind and rain.

    The roof was a patchwork of sagging thatch. It bore dark patches of rot where moisture had settled too long. Stray bits of straw jutted out like the bristles of an old, neglected broom.

    The small, grimy windows, set deep within the stone walls, warped and flecked with dirt, let no light escape. The shutters hung at odd angles. Their once-sturdy hinges were now rusted, the wood warped and splintering. The front door was no better, tilted in its frame, barely held together by its corroded iron bands¡ªa brass knocker shaped like a lion¡¯s head dangled by a single, loose nail.

    The barn stood a short distance from the house, its wooden frame warped by years of disrepair. The slanted roof had partially caved in, and the gaping doorway yawned like a mouth missing half its teeth. Though in poor shape, it seemed undisturbed¡ªas if whatever had come to this place had no use for livestock, only the farmhouse itself.

    No smoke rose from the chimneys. No candlelight flickered from within¡ªno birds stirred in the barn rafters. The entire scene lay in eerie stillness. There was no sign of the mysterious carriage and no sign that anyone was present. Whoever had leased the farm was not here or had never arrived.

    A cold wind stirred the tall grass, whispering as it passed through the weeds. A faint creak sounded from within the house¡ªlike old wood shifting beneath an unseen weight.

    ¡°We aren¡¯t going inside, are we?¡± Elsbeth asked.

    Cordelia arched a brow. ¡°Of course we are.¡±

    Elsbeth sighed. Of course, they were.

    Hex, lying beside them, cleared his throat. ¡°Let¡¯s hope no one¡¯s home,¡± he muttered.

    Cordelia¡¯s eyes flicked to the darkened doorway. She took a step forward.

    ¡°If they are, let¡¯s not keep them waiting.¡±

    <hr>

    The front door groaned on its hinges as Hex gave it a push. The iron latch protested with a rusted screech before the door swung open into the darkened entryway.

    A fine layer of dust billowed up in the cold air as they stepped inside. The air was stale, thick with the scent of old wood and dry fabric, and something faint and acrid beneath it all¡ªlike oil left to rot.

    Hex stepped in, waving a hand before his face as dust motes swirled in the lantern light.

    ¡°Charming,¡± he muttered. ¡°Love what they¡¯ve done with the place.¡±

    Though the house had the bones of a once-cozy home, signs of disturbance were everywhere. Once properly arranged, the furniture stood at odd angles, as if dragged and ransacked.

    The contents of a writing desk lie dumped into a heap, its drawers left hanging open, their insides scraped clean. Someone had cut the chairs and couches open along the seams, their stuffing spilling loose like open wounds.

    Cordelia crouched near the cold hearth, her fingers tracing a scattering of fine white dust across the mantle.

    ¡°No fire since the deaths,¡± she murmured. ¡°Not even a squatter for warmth.¡±

    Hex turned in a slow circle, his lantern sweeping across the walls, blank spaces where paintings once hung.

    ¡°If someone was looking for something, they weren¡¯t subtle about it.¡±

    He prodded a nearby chair with the tip of his boot. "Would¡¯ve been easier to burn the place down.¡±

    ¡°Not if they hadn¡¯t found what they were looking for,¡± Cordelia said.

    Elsbeth pulled her coat tighter as she examined the floorboards near the sitting area. She knelt, running a hand over the uneven edges. Several had been pried up and then hastily replaced. Whoever had done it hadn¡¯t bothered to disguise their work; the boards no longer fit together.

    ¡°Someone was thorough,¡± she said. ¡°And whatever was hidden here¡ªit¡¯s probably gone now.¡±

    Hex blew out a low breath. ¡°Great. So, what¡¯s the plan? We pack it up and head back to town?¡±

    Cordelia turned her attention to the stairs. The narrow wooden steps climbed into darkness, their edges softened by dust and neglect. ¡°We check upstairs,¡± she said.

    Hex groaned but took the lead, his lantern casting long, shifting shadows along the hallway walls as they ascended. The upstairs was in a similar state¡ªdust settling over abandoned lives¡ªbut one bedroom stood out.

    It had been searched more violently than the others. The mattress slashed open, its stuffing torn out and left in heaps. The wardrobe doors hung open, their contents dumped onto the floor. Even the floorboards had been pried up, gouges left where nails had been torn free.

    Cordelia ran her fingertips along the edge of an empty picture frame still hanging on the wall. The glass shattered, its shards still glinting on the floor below.

    ¡°Someone wanted something here very badly.¡±

    Elsbeth frowned. ¡°You think this was the daughter¡¯s room?¡±

    Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

    Cordelia nodded. With Durry¡¯s help, Elsbeth uncovered a request for adoption¡ªa young girl, around eight years old, almost thirty years past. The daughter, now grown, had not come forward, and despite the authorities¡¯ attempts to find her, her whereabouts remained unknown.

    ¡°Why wouldn¡¯t she claim the inheritance?¡± Hex muttered. ¡°I¡¯d take a free house.¡±

    ¡°If she thought someone was looking for her,¡± Elsbeth pointed out, ¡°she might have wanted to disappear.¡±

    ¡°Not to mention the back taxes,¡± Cordelia added.

    Percy, lingering near the doorway, took a hesitant step inside. His foot caught an old oil lamp, sending it toppling with a clang. He jumped back, startled, then scrambled to right it, glancing sheepishly at the others.

    Cordelia¡¯s gaze shifted to the lamp. ¡°That still has oil in it,¡± she noted.

    Percy froze, looking down at the faint residue now glistening where a small amount had spilled across the wood. ¡°Should I¡ª?¡±

    ¡°Won¡¯t hurt to have another lamp,¡± Cordelia said.

    Elsbeth lit the lantern with a quick match strike, its weak flame flickering to life. Percy adjusted the wick, but its sudden surge made him start.

    Hex smirked. ¡°Try not to set yourself on fire, Percy.¡±

    Percy¡¯s face turned pink, but he muttered, ¡°I wasn¡¯t planning to.¡±

    Cordelia ignored the boys¡¯ banter, crossed to the window, unlatched it, and pushed it open to let in wisps of cold air.

    This house still held secrets. Something remained undiscovered.

    Whoever had searched the place had grown desperate, their methods frantic and reckless. That meant they hadn¡¯t found what they wanted. Cordelia exhaled, watching her breath curl in the lantern¡¯s glow.

    A creature had killed Oliver Wright. Perhaps the same one that Percy had booted off the carriage. The housekeeper, Mrs. Hampstead, had tried to kill the father, only to take the boy¡¯s life instead. The pursuing carriage had come from this property. And now, unseen hands had torn this house apart, a desperate search, looking for something they couldn¡¯t find.

    Her jaw tightened. She had a sinking feeling that whatever it was, it was still here.

    She turned toward Hex. They were all watching her.

    ¡°Hex, there must be a root cellar. Let¡¯s see what we find there.¡±

    Hex nodded and turned to head downstairs, pausing when Cordelia continued.

    ¡°Percy and Elsbeth should make sure the beds are usable. We stay here tonight.¡±

    A look of unease crossed their faces, but they said nothing.

    Hex headed down the stairs, Cordelia close behind.

    <hr>

    Hex entered the kitchen, his lantern casting a dim, flickering glow over the dust-laden countertops and the heavy wooden table in the center of the room. The air was thick, carrying the scent of dried herbs, old wood, and something musty, like rotting potatoes left too long in the dark.

    Cordelia followed close behind. Her keen eyes scanned the shelves along the walls, where jars of preserved fruits and vegetables stood forgotten, collecting dust.

    ¡°Root cellar should be in here,¡± she murmured, running her fingers along the wall near the hearth. ¡°Older houses like this always have one beneath the kitchen.¡±

    Hex nodded, lifting his lantern higher. The floorboards creaked beneath his boots, and he stepped forward, listening. The house was too quiet. There was not a whisper of wind, no distant creaks of settling wood, only a silence thick enough to smother sound.

    A faint scrape broke the stillness.

    Hex stiffened. Cordelia¡¯s gaze flicked toward him.

    ¡°Mice,¡± he said, forcing a smirk. ¡°Or the bones of the old place shifting.¡±

    Cordelia didn¡¯t look convinced.

    Hex cleared his throat and pressed on, stepping toward the pantry alcove near the far wall. His boot scuffed against something hollow, and he paused, glancing down.

    A wooden latch.

    ¡°Here we go.¡±

    He crouched and gripped the handle, tugging at it. The trapdoor groaned open, revealing a steep set of narrow wooden stairs, their edges worn and uneven. Cold air rushed up from below, bringing the scent of damp earth, mildew, and something stale.

    Cordelia arched a brow. ¡°Well?¡±

    Hex exhaled, holding up the lantern. ¡°I¡¯m not afraid if that¡¯s what you think.¡±

    She smirked. ¡°Never said you were.¡±

    Hex muttered something under his breath and descended.

    <hr>

    The lantern light struggled against the dark, casting long, shifting shadows along the packed-earth walls. The cellar was more extensive than expected, stretching deeper beneath the house, its stone foundation bracing the walls in uneven patches.

    Rows of wooden shelves lined the space, sagging under the weight of jars of preserves. A dusty workbench stood along one side. Covered with rusted tools and scraps of cloth, it looked as if someone had started a repair and never finished.

    With caution, Hex stepped forward, the damp air clinging to his skin. His boots crunched over something brittle¡ªshards of old pottery. He swept the lantern to illuminate barrels, a few crates, and an abandoned wooden chair missing a leg.

    Nothing unusual.

    Still, a weight sat in his gut. The silence here was worse¡ªa kind of heavy quiet, like the earth was holding its breath.

    He frowned, listening. A faint sound. A shuffling, somewhere in the darkness. Hex¡¯s grip tightened on the lantern. His mind offered logical explanations¡ªa loose board, the echo of his movement, or something shifting from years of neglect.

    But something about it felt¡­ off. He cleared his throat. ¡°Right, well¡­ nothing interesting here.¡±

    Turning on his heel, he climbed the stairs, pushing the latch shut a little too hard once he emerged.

    Cordelia watched him. Hex rolled his shoulders, feigning nonchalance. ¡°Just a bunch of rotting vegetables and dust. We can leave it to the rats.¡±

    Cordelia studied him briefly, then said, ¡°Good to know.¡±

    Hex exhaled, rubbing the back of his neck. The noises were nothing more than the house settling. The old place breathing in the cold night air. He told himself he wasn¡¯t spooked. Not at all. But why did he feel such unease?

    Might it be that which lay undiscovered in the furthest corner of the root cellar? In a place where the lantern¡¯s glow hadn¡¯t reached lay another wooden hatch, its edges warped with age. Unlike the rest of the basement, this door bore scratches¡ªdeep, ragged furrows gouged through the grain.

    And behind it¡ªsomething waited.

    Still. Silent. Awakening.

    Wracked with hunger.

    <hr>

    Percy and Hex stood side by side, staring at the small bed. They had plenty of blankets, but there was no getting around it¡ªif they lay down, things would get very cozy.

    Hex scowled. ¡°Christ, this is worse than a Whitechapel lodging house. At least there, I could pretend the bloke next to me was already dead, so I wouldn¡¯t have to worry about him rolling over. Might as well be back in St. Giles¡ªpacked in like rats, only with fewer knife fights and a lower chance of waking up with typhus.¡±

    Percy stiffened. He had heard of those places¡ªthe squalid conditions, the rampant disease, the men who slept in doorways because even the worst of the slums had no room for them. But it had never occurred to him that Hex had spent time among them. West London and East London were different worlds, and the people in one rarely, if ever, crossed into the other.

    Hex smirked at his expression. ¡°Relax, Percy. Back in Spitalfields, you¡¯d have six other lads crammed into this bed, all fighting for the warm spot. And let me tell you, this is luxury compared to a fourpenny coffin house¡ªat least here we get to lie down.¡±

    Percy blinked. ¡°A what?¡±

    Hex propped himself against the bedpost, arms crossed. ¡°Fourpenny coffin house. You pay for a rope strung across the room, lean against it, and sleep standing up. No joke.¡±

    Percy gawked, unsure whether Hex was pulling his leg or telling the truth. He wasn¡¯t sure which was worse.

    Still, the bed now didn¡¯t seem so small. Without another word, he pulled off his boots and lay down, claiming the side nearest the door.

    Through the thin walls, he could hear the low murmur of voices from the next room. Cordelia and Elsbeth were talking, their words blurred beyond recognition. He strained to listen, catching only the rise and fall of Cordelia¡¯s voice, its cadence lulling him into something close to comfort.

    He tried to make sense of the muffled conversation, but in the end, it was no use.

    Sleep took him soon after, light and uneasy.

 Unwanted Visitor

    The knock came just after midnight.

    Measured. Deliberate.

    Rebecca stiffened, her fingers tightening around the edge of her shawl. The house was dark, save for the dim glow of an oil lamp on the mantel. The fire had burned low, embers reduced to dull coals. Outside, the street lay silent beneath a shroud of cold mist.

    She had been expecting him. Dreading him.

    And now, he was here.

    She moved toward the door, willing her hands steady despite their trembling. Her pulse thudded against her ribs, so loud she feared he might hear it.

    She hesitated.

    For a fleeting moment, she considered leaving the door unanswered, pretending to be asleep. But no¡ªReginald Blackthorn was not a man who accepted avoidance as an answer.

    A second knock. Louder.

    Rebecca exhaled shakily and unlatched the door. The moment she cracked it open, a gloved hand pressed against the wood, forcing it wider.

    Reginald stepped inside, uninvited.

    The air in the room seemed to constrict, tightening like a rope drawn taut. His presence was an imposition, a heavy weight settling over the space. He was sharply dressed, as always¡ªhis dark coat tailored to perfection, his gloves pristine, and his expression carved from ice.

    Rebecca swallowed.

    Behind him, half-hidden in the gloom of the walkway, his familiar lurked¡ªwatching. Though she could not see its face, she felt its cold and patient gaze pressing against her spine.

    ¡°You took longer to answer than I expected, sister.¡± Reginald¡¯s voice was smooth, effortless. He removed his gloves one finger at a time. ¡°Were you hoping I¡¯d go away?¡±

    She said nothing.

    Rebecca shut the door, her throat tight. She refused to let her gaze linger on the creature following him inside. Instead, she turned toward Reginald, whose eyes were already sweeping the room with dispassionate coldness.

    ¡°Beth is upstairs,¡± she said.

    He tilted his head as if considering this fact.

    ¡°Then let us keep our voices low,¡± he murmured, voice smooth as silk.

    The familiar slithered into the shadows of the parlor, claws clicking against the wooden floor.

    Reginald moved toward the mantel, trailing his fingers over a porcelain ornament as though he found the modest home quaint.

    ¡°You had one task, Rebecca,¡± he said lightly. ¡°And you failed spectacularly.¡±

    ¡°I followed the plan¡ª¡±

    Reginald raised a hand.

    ¡°I have no interest in excuses.¡± His voice remained calm, though beneath it lay something sharper. ¡°Henry Wright still breathes. The boy is dead. That is the only fact that matters.¡±

    Rebecca¡¯s fingers curled into fists. ¡°It wasn¡¯t supposed to happen that way. I was careful¡ª¡±

    The author''s content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

    He raised his hand again, and for a fleeting moment, she thought he might strike her.

    ¡°¡®Careful¡¯ would have meant the untimely death of a grief-stricken man, a quiet tragedy soon forgotten. Instead, we have a child murdered¡ªallegedly by his father. A sensational story, making headlines from London to Liverpool.¡±

    His stare pinned her in place. Each word cut like a blade.

    ¡°And now? A police investigation. A trial looming on the horizon. And who, dear sister, will be at the very center of it?¡± He tilted his head. ¡°You. The indispensable witness. Tell me, does that sound like careful to you?¡±

    She clenched her jaw, hands twisting together.

    ¡°And as if that weren¡¯t enough, we now have interlopers poking around, asking questions.¡±

    Rebecca¡¯s stomach twisted.

    Cordelia Greaves. The strange, inquisitive woman with the sharp eyes. And her companion¡ªElsbeth. Yes. That had been her name.

    Reginald studied her intently, lamplight flickering across the sharp angles of his face.

    ¡°Who has come sniffing about?¡±

    She hesitated. Any sign of reluctance would only make him suspicious.

    ¡°A woman,¡± she said. ¡°Carrying a letter from Henry¡¯s solicitor. I put it with the other papers.¡±

    Reginald tilted his head. ¡°Her name?¡±

    ¡°Cordelia Greaves.¡±

    He showed no noticeable reaction, but something shifted¡ªa flicker of recognition.

    ¡°Interesting.¡±

    Rebecca forced her breath to steady.

    ¡°Only the one?¡±

    ¡°No. Another young woman accompanied her. She gave her name, but I do not recall it.¡±

    Reginald¡¯s gaze lingered on her long enough that her skin prickled. Then, slowly, he smiled.

    ¡°Then let¡¯s move on, shall we?¡±

    His tone lightened, but the cold edge remained.

    ¡°Despite your failures, our arrangement still stands.¡± He turned, casting a glance toward the desk. ¡°You have located Wright¡¯s research?¡±

    Rebecca hesitated. She had some of Henry¡¯s notes, but they were incomplete. Pieces were missing¡ªimportant ones.

    Reginald¡¯s smile thinned.

    ¡°Well? Tell me you at least accomplished that.¡±

    ¡°I retrieved what I could.¡±

    ¡°Which means you failed.¡±

    Rebecca¡¯s throat tightened. ¡°I did what I¡ª¡±

    ¡°What you could, yes. How convenient.¡± His voice was like glass¡ªthin, fragile, but with a blade¡¯s edge.

    ¡°You always did lack resolve.¡± He stepped closer. ¡°Tell me, sister, did you retrieve these notes by charm? Or was it something else?¡±

    She stiffened.

    ¡°We both know what you suggested, Reginald.¡±

    A low chuckle. ¡°Indeed. And did he believe your whispers? Did he tell you what you needed to know in the throes of his drunken fornication?¡±

    She flinched at the mockery in his voice, his cruel accuracy.

    He leaned in, eyes gleaming. ¡°Tell me, dear sister, were the documents hidden because your snooping made him wary?¡±

    Rebecca cast her gaze to the floor.

    Reginald clicked his tongue. ¡°Tsk. Another failure.¡±

    Then his patience snapped.

    ¡°I waste my breath. What do you have?¡±

    She swallowed, her voice unsteady.

    ¡°I have fragments. The formula is incomplete. Henry hints at a solution but laments the lack of a suitable test subject. That was Dr. Hayworth¡¯s concern.¡±

    Reginald considered this.

    ¡°Yes. When last I spoke to Elias, he swore they were close. The serum worked, but the effects were temporary. The affliction always returned. Unfortunate.¡±

    He adjusted his gloves.

    ¡°If Wright does not have the missing pieces, we will find another doctor who does.¡± He extended his hand. ¡°Fetch the papers.¡±

    Rebecca obeyed. When she returned, he took them without inspection. His expression had grown cold, but a flicker of amusement danced behind his eyes.

    ¡°There is something you should know,¡± she said. ¡°He knows your connection to Hayworth. He¡ªhe knows your name.¡±

    Reginald stilled.

    Then, with a hiss of irritation, he struck his boot against the floor.

    ¡°That is most inconvenient.¡± His voice turned to ice. ¡°And an excellent reason why he should be dead.¡±

    Rebecca took an unconscious step backward.

    Reginald did not follow. He merely studied her as if calculating something.

    After a long silence, his voice sharpened.

    ¡°I have yet to recover the artifact. If you are keeping something from me¡ª¡±

    His lips curled.

    Rebecca¡¯s stomach turned to stone. But she met his gaze, steady.

    ¡°We have been over this, dear brother. I know nothing of an artifact.¡±

    Reginald took a slow step toward her.

    ¡°Because it has everything to do with you, whether you realize it or not.¡± He exhaled. ¡°Rumsfeld was clever. I¡¯ll grant him that.¡±

    The name sent a chill through her.

    Reginald watched her reaction with amusement.

    His smile returned. He turned toward the door, setting a hand on the latch.

    ¡°Do not disappoint me again, Rebecca.¡±

    A pause.

    ¡°Next time, you might not be the one who pays for it.¡±

    The door clicked shut behind him.

    Rebecca barely registered the familiar slithering after him.

    She turned toward the room where her daughter slept.

    She had never been more afraid.

    And never more certain.

    She had to find a way out.

 Ghouls Night Out

    The first thump stirred Percy from his restless sleep. His body tensed, but his mind¡ªstill sluggish with exhaustion¡ªresisted wakefulness. A second thud followed, louder this time. The noise reverberated through the farmhouse¡¯s wooden beams with a bitter groan.

    Percy¡¯s eyes snapped open.

    Next to him, Hex groaned and rubbed his face. ¡°Bloody hell, Percy, keep it down¡ªsome of us are trying to sleep.¡±

    Before Percy could answer, a third impact struck, splintering wood somewhere below.

    They both sat up.

    For a moment, they listened. The house creaked, and a faint wind whistled through cracks in the walls. There it was again: a rhythmic pounding from below¡ªslow, persistent. Something was trying to get out.

    A door creaked open down the hall, and Percy realized the girls were already awake.

    Hex threw off the blanket and swung his legs over the side of the cot, reaching for his boots. Percy scrambled up as well, his pulse hammering in his throat.

    Elsbeth stood at the top of the stairs, revolver in hand, her eyes wide but steady. Cordelia stood behind her, listening. Hex peered down the stairwell, but darkness swallowed the lower steps whole.

    ¡°Lanterns,¡± Hex said. ¡°Can¡¯t see a bloody thing.¡±

    Elsbeth tossed Percy a tin of matches. His hands trembled as he lit both lamps, their flames clawing at the gloom. The thudding from below had escalated to a frenzied, splintering rhythm. Whatever was down there would break free soon.

    ¡°We need to move,¡± Elsbeth whispered. The noise below was growing frantic. If they hurried, they might still make it to the carriage before it broke free.

    They crept downstairs, lantern light spilling over the sitting room¡¯s disheveled furniture. The floorboards shuddered with each blow. Percy¡¯s throat tightened as Harrow materialized in the kitchen archway, hackles raised, fangs bared, and a guttural growl rumbling in his chest.

    Elsbeth gripped the revolver, eyes locked on the wooden hatch in the kitchen floor.

    The root cellar.

    The hatch door buckled, wood groaning under the force of another strike. A deep, wet snarl vibrated from beneath the house.

    Hex inhaled. ¡°Percy¡ªstand on the hatch.¡±

    ¡°What?¡± Percy hissed, eyes darting toward him.

    ¡°Just do it,¡± Hex muttered, already moving toward the fireplace.

    Percy shot a panicked glance at Cordelia, who nodded once, calm as a blade. Grimacing, he planted his boots on the shuddering hatch, lantern abandoned on the counter. The wood heaved beneath him like a living thing.

    Cordelia and Elsbeth exchanged glances as Hex seized the iron poker from the hearth. He hefted it, rolling his shoulders like a cricketer stepping up to bowl.

    The hatch door splintered further, dust sifting from the ceiling as another guttural moan seeped through the cracks.

    Hex tightened his grip.

    Straight wrists. Elbow high. Play the ball late.

    Coach¡¯s old advice flickered through his mind, absurd yet steadying. He took an experimental swing, the poker slicing air with a whistle.

    This wasn¡¯t cricket. No polite applause and no sunlit pitch. But if that thing broke through, he¡¯d drive it back to whatever hell spat it out¡ªwith the full force of a perfect strike.

    Percy clung to the hatch, knees trembling. ¡°Hex¡ª!¡±

    ¡°Eyes on the target,¡± Hex muttered, stance widening. ¡°Time the stroke.¡±

    Then¡ª

    The hatch exploded upward with a violent crack.

    The violent surge of the hatch sent Percy sprawling backward into the pantry. Shelves laden with jars of preserves and vats of oil shuddered violently.

    A large vat teetering above his head reminded Percy of Mrs. Leeford¡ªthe Wren household¡¯s iron-fisted housekeeper, his surrogate mother, and undisputed tyrant of the kitchen.

    She¡¯d skin him alive if he made such a mess¡ªagain. How many times had he spilled oil or lard across her pristine floors? Her voice would ring out as she chased him, slipping and sliding in the chaos. It had been pure comedy at the time, but in the end, she always caught him, dragging him around by the ear and scolding him as he scrubbed the floor.

    The first ghoul heaved itself through the hatch before he could right himself. Hex swung hard, the iron poker striking true with a dull crack¡ªbut the thing was too fast. Its unnatural momentum carried them both backward, crashing into the sitting room. They were a flurry of tangled limbs, groans, and guttural snarls in the dark.

    Hex hit the ground hard, the ghoul looming over him, its mouth yawning in a grotesque, lipless grin. Its teeth¡ªlong, splintered remnants¡ªglistened with black spittle as it lunged for his throat.

    Cordelia seized the brittle remains of its sparse, wiry hair and yanked it backward with all her strength. The ghoul screeched when her booted heel slammed into its ribs. The blow sent it careening into the wall, jarring loose a picture frame, which fell with a clatter against its skull.

    The author''s content has been appropriated; report any instances of this story on Amazon.

    She got her first good look at the creature, and what she saw froze her breath. The ghoul¡¯s gray, mottled flesh clung to a skeletal frame, mouth twisted in a rictus grin. Once a woman, now a monster, it stared at her from lifeless sockets, its unhinged jaw exposing broken teeth and clawed fingers that twitched against the floor like a spider testing new legs.

    And above all¡ª

    It reeked of death.

    Before Cordelia could react, movement in the corner of her eye sent a spike of fear through her chest. She twisted to see Elsbeth, pistol raised, aiming¡ªnot at the first ghoul but at something else.

    A second creature was pulling itself from the hatch, its clawed fingers digging into the wooden floor. Its movements were fluid and fast, and the black pits of its eyes locked onto Elsbeth.

    Elsbeth froze. Percy crouched behind it. If she fired and the shot missed¡ªshe would hit Percy. Her fingers trembled for a fraction of a second before she turned and took aim at the first ghoul instead. It rose from the wall, shoulders hunched forward, its mouth curling into a wicked sneer.

    Breathe in, steady your aim, and squeeze the trigger.

    The shot rang out like a thunderclap.

    The muzzle flash illuminated the room, stark shadows flaring against the walls. The bullet struck home¡ªa small, perfect hole punched clean through the creature¡¯s sunken chest.

    It reeled back, its body jerking from the impact.

    But it didn¡¯t fall.

    A thick, black ooze, viscous and tar-like, welled up from the wound, dribbling down its gaunt ribs in sluggish strands that clung to the wasted flesh like ink soaking into old parchment.

    No blood. No cry of pain.

    Only silence.

    Then, the ghoul moved¡ªslow and deliberate. Its withered fingers curled toward the wound, pressing against the ragged hole.

    And then¡ªit poked at it.

    Elsbeth¡¯s breath hitched as it wiggled a long, bony finger into the wound, tilting its head with something that almost resembled curiosity. The black ooze bubbled as it parted around the intrusion¡ªthe texture of the gouged flesh resembling something rotten, gelatinous, and wrong.

    Then, to her mounting horror, the ghoul grinned.

    A dry, rattling laugh rasped through its throat¡ªa gurgling, wet sound that sent ice knifing through her veins.

    Elsbeth stepped back, bile rising in her throat. Her grip on the pistol tightened, her breath shallow, rapid.

    The thing¡¯s grin widened.

    And then it lunged.

    <hr>

    At that exact moment, Harrow attacked. The two forms collided, his powerful jaws clamping down on the ghoul¡¯s arm with a deep, snarling growl. The creature staggered back against the wall, but if it felt pain, it gave no sign. With an almost casual flick of its grotesque limb, it swung wide, hurling Harrow across the room like a rag doll.

    The dog slammed into the wall near the kitchen, his body hitting the wooden boards with a sickening thud. He slumped to the floor, shallow gashes carved into his shoulder, his breath ragged.

    Cordelia¡¯s scream tore through the chaos. ¡°Harrow!¡±

    For the briefest moment, everything slowed. Her world narrowed to the still form of her companion, her blood turning to ice.

    There was no time for distraction as the second ghoul skittered across the floor. Its movements were a nightmarish parody of life, its limbs jerking and contorting as it closed the distance.

    Elsbeth threw herself sideways, feeling the touch of its rotting flesh as the creature rushed past and smashed into the couch.

    ¡°Up the stairs! Now!¡± Hex roared, shoving Cordelia toward the steps.

    Cordelia resisted, her wide, panicked eyes locked on Harrow, who struggled to rise from the floor.

    ¡°Go!¡± Elsbeth barked, grabbing the simple wooden chair from the writing desk and taking a defensive position on the bottom step. The flimsy chair wouldn¡¯t be much of a weapon, but it was all she had. They might have a chance if she could hold them back long enough to reach the upstairs bedroom.

    ¡°Hex!¡± she gritted out. ¡°Let¡¯s go!¡±

    But Hex wasn¡¯t moving.

    She saw his eyes flick to the kitchen¡ªwhere Percy stood, pale and unmoving, like a spectator watching the scene unfold.

    Hex wasn¡¯t going to leave Percy.

    ¡°There¡¯s a door in the kitchen!¡± Elsbeth snapped. ¡°Percy can get out! We have to go, Hex¡ª, now!¡±

    Hex¡¯s grip tightened on the poker, his knuckles white.

    The second ghoul twisted its head, its blank eyes locking onto him. It gathered, shifting onto all fours, muscles coiling beneath its withered flesh.

    Then it sprang.

    Hex managed to react right before the thing was upon him. He swung the poker with a roar, the iron rod ringing out against the creature¡¯s skull with a sickening crack. The impact sent the ghoul crashing into the small front window. Glass shattered, the delicate chime of splintering panes an eerie contrast to the brutal violence of the moment.

    Elsbeth turned as the female ghoul lurched forward, its movements now frantic. Its claws raked the air as it charged the stairs, its jaws snapping like rusty shears and loose skin peeling away with every manic clack of its teeth.

    Elsbeth slammed the chair forward, jamming it into the creature¡¯s chest. The ghoul shrieked, clawing at the wood, but Elsbeth held firm, her boots digging into the worn floorboards.

    Behind her, she heard Cordelia muttering an incantation¡ªher voice low, urgent, and crackling with unseen power.

    Elsbeth had no idea what spell her friend was working, but she prayed it would be enough to stop this thing.

    Hex stood in the center of the main room, staring at the second ghoul as it twitched and twisted upright, preparing to lunge again. He stood between them. If they both attacked at once, he wouldn¡¯t stand a chance.

    Elsbeth bared her teeth, bracing herself. If she could keep this one focused on her, Hex might have a chance to take the other one out. She threw her weight forward, kicking out, her boot slamming into the ghoul¡¯s chest.

    Focus. Keep it here.

    ¡°Come on, you rotting devil!¡± she snarled, voice raw. ¡°Come and get me!¡±

    The ghoul¡¯s head snapped up, sunken sockets locking onto her.

    Then, with a ravenous glare, it lurched forward.

    <hr>

    Then, Harrow was up and back in the fray. Bloodied and limping, he launched himself toward the stairs, his robust frame colliding with the female ghoul like a battering ram. His fangs found flesh¡ªor what remained of it¡ªand he clamped down hard on her left arm. A deep, guttural growl rumbled from his throat as he locked his jaws, his teeth sinking deep into sinew, crushing with enough force to snap a man¡¯s bone in two.

    The ghoul staggered under the weight of the attack.

    But there was no scream. No pain. No frantic struggle to dislodge him.

    She turned her head slow and deliberate, looking at him with mild irritation.

    Harrow snarled, shaking his head with malice, refusing to let go.

    Rancid, grayish flesh tore beneath his fangs, peeling away in long, wet strips to reveal the blackened muscle underneath.

    Still, the ghoul made no sound. And then¡ªit sighed¡ªa slow, bored sound. Then, with unnatural strength, it wrenched its arm free. Not with panic. Not with urgency. Only cold, dispassionate efficiency.

    The flesh did not rip cleanly. It peeled. Like old parchment curling in fire. Long, glistening ribbons of shredded skin dangled from the exposed white of the humerus.

    A sickening squelch filled the room as Harrow staggered backward, his muzzle slick with the dark, putrid ichor that oozed like tar from the wound.

    The ghoul did not even look at the ruin of her arm. Did not acknowledge the horrific mutilation. With torn skin hung in dripping shreds, it gave no notice.

    Her attention was already back on the stairs, already on Cordelia and Elsbeth. Already moving forward.

    ¡°Oh God¡­¡±

    Elsbeth¡¯s voice was a whisper. Her fingers gripped the stair railing so tightly the wood seemed to groan beneath her knuckles.

    It doesn¡¯t care.

    The ghoul took a slow, deliberate step forward.

    Its ruined arm swayed at its side, the jagged edges of torn flesh scraping against the wooden banister with a sickening, wet drag.

    Cordelia and Elsbeth recoiled, a cold wave of nausea rolling through them.

    This thing wasn¡¯t only a perversion of life. It was something worse.

    It was something that refused to die.

 The Floor is Lava

    Percy stood frozen in the kitchen doorway, his pulse hammering in his ears. The scene before him was pure chaos. Hex was in the middle of it all, battling between two monstrous creatures that moved with feral speed¡ªthe strength of Hex''s desperate swings was overmatched by their strength.

    Any second now, he might go down. And then what?

    Percy¡¯s breath caught. He had to do something. Rushing in would be suicide, but standing by and doing nothing? It was unthinkable to leave Hex to face these things alone.

    Think, think, think!

    Then, the memory struck like flint.

    Mrs. Leeford. The kitchen. The countless times he¡¯d spilled oil across the kitchen floor. It had been treacherous to navigate, every attempt ending in a chaos of limbs, culminating in a fall.

    The oil.

    It was the only way. His eyes snapped to the pantry shelves. Without hesitation, he lunged for the most enormous vat of oil he could find. His fingers curled around the cool ceramic as he lifted with all his strength. He needed to act fast¡ªHex didn¡¯t have long.

    As Percy moved into position, Hex took the full brunt of what had once been the farmer. The ghoul crashed into him, its clawed hands flailing, reaching for any part it could grasp.

    He staggered back, slamming against the stone hearth with a bone-rattling crack. Pain shot through his ribs, stealing the breath from his lungs. Shoving the creature away, he landed a solid punch to its decayed jaw, but the ghoul only twitched, its milky eyes fixed on him with hollow hunger. The impact sent a sharp jolt of pain up his arm, and he knew immediately that he¡¯d hurt himself more than the monster.

    His chest heaved as he fought for breath. This was it¡ªdie or run. His eyes darted toward the kitchen, but the distance was too great. The creature was too fast. It would catch him, drag him down, and that would be the end of it.

    Then he saw Percy.

    Standing in the archway, gripping a vat with both hands, struggling under its weight. What the hell was he doing? They were all going to die, and Percy was collecting pottery?

    ¡°Use the furniture!¡± Percy called.

    Then, with all the strength he could muster, he hurled the vat into the center of the room.

    The heavy ceramic tub exploded on impact, sending a thick wave of oil spilling across the floor. The smell hit Hex first¡ªrancid cooking oil. The viscous liquid spread, creating a thick pool that ran over the broken floorboards and soaked into the already aged wood.

    Hex¡¯s mind reeled. What was Percy thinking? Then the ghoul lunged toward him¡ªand the answer became clear.

    Its feet lost traction, and its momentum betrayed it, sending it skidding out of control and crashing into an awkward, flailing heap.

    By God, Percy had done it! Brilliant, bloody brilliant!

    If Hex could avoid the oil, he could make it to the kitchen, where they could either flee through the side door or hold a defensive position like the girls on the stairs. Standing on the couch, he flashed Percy a lopsided grin. A childhood memory surged forward¡ªthe two of them, leaping from chair to chair, bed to bed, shrieking with laughter.

    Unauthorized use: this story is on Amazon without permission from the author. Report any sightings.

    The floor is lava.

    A mad grin crossed his face. ¡°The floor is lava!¡± he called to Percy.

    He took two steady steps along the couch before leaping for the chair¡ªa perfect path to the kitchen. But as he sailed through the air, searing pain tore through his right leg, the ghoul¡¯s claws ripping through skin, pain like fire as they dragged across his flesh.

    Hex cleared the floor, but his body twisted mid-air from the slash''s sheer force. He landed hard, the chair cracking beneath him before it buckled completely. Wood splintered, and Hex tumbled, hitting the floor in a graceless heap at Percy¡¯s feet.

    Dazed and throbbing, Hex looked up with a pained smirk. ¡°The floor is lava. Remember?¡±

    But Percy had no time for jokes.

    He grabbed Hex by the shoulders and dragged him into the kitchen, gritting his teeth as Hex groaned in pain. Harrow whined from beneath the table, his tongue lapping at the blood pooling along his matted fur.

    ¡°Sorry, old boy, I need this.¡±

    Percy flipped the table onto its side, shoving it against the archway. It wasn¡¯t much but might buy them a precious second or two.

    Then he turned back.

    The male ghoul had given up trying to stand. Instead, it crawled through the oil, its fingers scraping against the floorboards, dragging itself forward with predatory ease. Its rotted mouth gaped open, black ichor oozing between its jagged teeth.

    Its progress was slow¡ªbut inevitable.

    Percy¡¯s mind latched onto what Hex had said: The floor is lava.

    And he knew exactly what to do.

    <hr>

    The ghoul on the stairs scrabbled forward, its jagged nails raking deep grooves into the wood as it hauled itself upward, snapping its jaw with mindless hunger. Every movement was wrong¡ªits limbs twisting in odd ways that were a grotesque parody of human motion.

    Elsbeth and Cordelia could have retreated to the bedroom, barricaded themselves in, and bought some time. But they hesitated¡ªHex¡¯s pained shout from below cut through the chaos, sharp and unmistakable. If something had happened to him¡­ No. They couldn¡¯t run for safety.

    As they began a push down the stairs, a sudden crash echoed from the main room. The floor bloomed with a dark, viscous tide of oil, and the ghoul¡¯s claws screeched against the planks, failing to gain a grip.

    Percy.

    Elsbeth had no time to wonder what he was doing because the ghoul in front of her was upright, its decayed hands clutching at the stair railing, its jaw widening into an obscene grin.

    Elsbeth tightened her grip on the revolver. Enough of this, she thought. If this thing wanted to get to Hex, it would have to go through her. She threw the chair at the creature¡¯s legs, then leveled the gun with both hands.

    ¡°Eat this, you fetid spawn of hell!¡± she snarled and pulled the trigger.

    The boom of the shot exploded through the narrow stairwell, and the bullet punched through the ghoul¡¯s face in a spray of rotted flesh and bone. It jerked backward, ichor dripping from the ruined hole where its right cheek had been, but there was no cry of pain¡ªno reaction at all.

    Then, out of nowhere, Cordelia¡¯s arm shot past Elsbeth¡¯s shoulder. Her palm blazed orange, and she slammed the glowing hand against the ghoul¡¯s ruined face. Hell itself ignited, and the thing shrieked a grotesque, gurgling howl.

    Beneath her touch, its waxy flesh boiled and blistered, sizzling like fat in a pan. The acrid stench of burning rot filled the air. It stumbled backward, flailing in pain, and then it hit the oil-slick floor and went down hard with a sickening crunch.

    Elsbeth turned the corner of the stairs just in time to see the second ghoul clawing toward the kitchen. Percy''s flipped table blocked the archway, and Hex watched at the side door. Why wasn¡¯t he moving? He should be running, escaping. Then she saw Percy, lantern in hand.

    Oh hell.

    ¡°No, no, no,¡± Elsbeth whispered under her breath. Then, she turned and urged Cordelia back up the stairs.

    ¡°GO. GO. GO!¡±

    Cordelia hesitated just for a second. Then¡ª

    CRASH.

    The lantern shattered.

    A fire wall erupted across the oil-slick floor, and the house became a bonfire. The ghouls screamed in pain and fury. Their silhouettes twisted against the orange glow, writhing, contorting, crawling. But Elsbeth knew they were already done for.

    She didn¡¯t stay to watch them burn; grabbing Cordelia¡¯s wrist, she bolted up the stairs to the bedroom. The fire would spread quickly, and she knew the second floor wouldn¡¯t be safe for long.

 Rumsfeld Pays a Visit

    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¡ªwhen she outlived her usefulness.

    And Beth? It was a thought that was too vast and suffocating, so she pushed it away.

    Then¡ªA 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

    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¡ªdamp earth, dried blood, and something sweet and rotten, like fruit left too long in the sun.

    Rebecca instinctively stepped back. ¡°What¡ª¡±

    ¡°You don¡¯t remember me?¡±

    His voice rasped, layered¡ªas 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¡ªthe Blackthorn servant who vanished the night the family fell¡ªthe 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?"

    If you find this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the infringement.

    His laughter was a dry, hollow thing. "You don''t even know what it is."

    She squared her shoulders. "I know perfectly well¡ª"

    "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¡ª¡±

    ¡°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¡ª"

    "You think your dear brother only craves riches?" Rumsfeld let out a humorless laugh. "He''s looking far beyond wealth and power¡ªhe''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¡ªeven 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¡ªgrief.

    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¡ªyou 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¡ªa truth you cannot hide¡ª"

    A pause, heavy with menace.

    "He''ll see you as nothing more than a threat.¡±

    And then¡ªhe was gone.

 Reckless

    Elsbeth slammed the bedroom door behind them, her heart hammering as she jammed her shoulder against it. Cordelia spun, wild-eyed, chest heaving.

    ¡°Give me that chair!¡± Elsbeth barked.

    Cordelia shoved the chair toward her, and Elsbeth wedged it beneath the knob, jamming it tight.

    A heartbeat later, the door shuddered.

    A guttural, snarling wail erupted from the other side as something slammed into it, hard. The whole frame shook, dust sifting from the rafters.

    Cordelia backed toward the window, already prying it open with both hands. The frame, swollen and warped with age, resisted.

    ¡°Come on, come on,¡± she gritted through her teeth.

    Another slam. The chair beneath the knob creaked, but held¡ªfor now.

    When Cordelia finally forced the window up, fresh air rushed in, colliding with the rising heat licking up the staircase. Even from here, the thick scent of burning oil was overpowering, the fire below roaring out of control.

    We don¡¯t have much time.

    Elsbeth spun, yanking at the heavy, floor-length curtains. They tore loose in a cascade of dust and fabric.

    ¡°Tie this to the bedframe,¡± she snapped, dragging the sturdy wooden bed closer to the window.

    Cordelia worked fast, wrapping the thick fabric around the carved headboard. She knotted it tight, then tugged. The bedframe groaned, shifting across the wooden floor¡ªbut the curtain held.

    Elsbeth exhaled in relief. Twelve feet down. Doable. Not ideal, but they wouldn¡¯t break their necks.

    Then¡ªanother crash at the door. The chair jumped but still held..

    It was now or never, and Elsbeth didn¡¯t hesitate.

    Throwing one leg over the windowsill, she grabbed the curtain in both hands, the fabric wrapped around her waist to brace the descent. The wind bit her face, and for a fleeting, ridiculous second, she was thankful she hadn¡¯t worn a dress for this little adventure. Then she laughed at herself; the least of her problems right now was someone seeing her naked legs or frilly undergarments.

    Elsbeth gave one last look down. Then she dropped.

    The curtain twisted, her grip burning as she slid down, her boots scraping against the rough stone exterior. At the last second, she let go and landed in a crouch, the cold ground jarring her knees.

    Above, Cordelia leaned out the window.

    ¡°Hurry!¡± she called.

    Elsbeth stepped back, prepared to catch her if she fell.

    Cordelia swung one leg over, gripped the curtain, and slid down faster than Elsbeth, her palms slick with sweat from the heat.

    She dropped the last few feet, stumbling backwards, and Elsbeth caught her elbow before she fell.

    They turned in time to see the boys running from the kitchen door, Harrow at their side. The fire consumed the farmhouse, the glow spreading in the windows, black smoke billowing into the night.

    The ground beneath them rumbled. A deep, groaning crack shuddered through the air.

    Then, the chimney collapsed.

    Unauthorized reproduction: this story has been taken without approval. Report sightings.

    A cascade of brick and soot crashed into the sitting room, taking part of the exterior wall with it.

    And there¡ªhalf-buried in the rubble¡ªsomething long and wooden tumbled loose.

    Cordelia froze, her breath catching.

    Then she moved.

    Elsbeth managed to grab her arm, holding her back. ¡°Are you mad?¡±

    But Cordelia wasn¡¯t listening. Her gaze locked on the object, half-hidden in the wreckage.

    A long wooden box.

    Cordelia tried to pull away, but Elsbeth¡¯s grip tightened.

    ¡°Let me go¡ªthat¡¯s what they were searching for! It¡¯s important. I have to know what it is.¡±

    Elsbeth yanked Cordelia back, their faces nearly colliding.

    ¡°You are not going into that fire. Nothing in that box is worth dying for.¡±

    Cordelia hesitated, then nodded. ¡°Okay,¡± she murmured, her voice soft and resigned.

    Elsbeth¡¯s eyes narrowed. Too easy. Cordelia never backed down that easily¡ªshe was all-or-nothing, a reckless force of nature who did as she pleased. That¡¯s when she caught it¡ªCordelia''s fleeting glance toward the flames, her fingers twitching at her side.

    Mother-loving God.

    Elsbeth spun to see Percy vanish into the burning wreckage.

    ¡°Percy!¡±

    Percy leapt from one collapsed beam to another, his silhouette almost invisible against the searing glow. Flames licked the sky, and thick, black smoke billowed upward, smothering the stars. Nothing would be left of him if he fell¡ªif the house caved in. They wouldn¡¯t even have a body to bury.

    Hex lurched forward with a noticeable limp. His trousers were shredded and soaked with blood where the ghoul¡¯s claws had torn through. The ghouls had almost killed them all¡ªand now, Percy was throwing himself headfirst into the fire, all for a box.

    They would have a serious talk about taking reckless risks after this.

    ¡°Catch!¡± Percy¡¯s voice rang out, hoarse from the smoke, and a wooden box tumbled through the air. She watched it flip end over end before landing in Hex¡¯s outstretched hands.

    Hex immediately dropped it with a yelp, shaking out his scorched fingers. ¡°Bloody hell¡ªhot!¡± He gave it a few gentle kicks towards Cordelia before stepping back, cradling his singed hand against his chest.

    Then, as Percy turned to escape, a beam collapsed before him with a deafening crash, sending embers and fire roaring skyward.

    ¡°For God¡¯s sake, Percy¡ªbe careful!¡± Elsbeth screamed.

    The farmhouse groaned under its weight. The entire second floor was coming down.

    Percy rocked back on his heels, eyes darting to the flames around him and then to the crumbling floor ahead. He had seconds.

    Hex planted himself near the threshold, extending a hand. ¡°Come on, Percy¡ªI¡¯ve got you!¡±

    Percy sucked in a breath, bent his knees¡ªand jumped.

    The moment he leapt, the structure gave way, sending flaming debris crashing into the cellar below. A wall of heat blasted over them like the breath of some ancient, angry god.

    Hex caught Percy in mid-air, staggering under the impact as they hit the dirt. Percy gasped, his hands and clothes singed, his face streaked with soot. His once-blond hair was smoked black, and for a brief moment, he looked eerily like the ghouls they¡¯d just fought.

    Elsbeth¡¯s first instinct was to berate him for being a reckless idiot. But the words caught in her throat.

    They had almost lost him.

    ¡°I can¡¯t believe you¡ª¡± she started, but stopped herself. Hex was shaking his head, still breathless from exertion.

    The farmhouse was now a roaring inferno, flames leaping from what remained of the collapsed roof. A shower of sparks drifted skyward like fireflies as the structure buckled, sending more beams crashing inward. Beyond the house, the barn stood within reach of the embers, its dry wood threatening to catch. Even the sodden fields wouldn¡¯t hold back the fire forever.

    They¡¯d face something close to an international incident if they didn''t leave now.

    Elsbeth forced her voice to remain level. ¡°We need to move. Percy, you¡¯re driving. Hex needs medical attention.¡±

    Percy and Hex spoke at the same time. ¡°I don¡¯t think that¡¯s a good idea.¡±

    Hex gave a ragged chuckle. ¡°I can still drive, Els. I¡¯ll get us out of here, then you can tend to my leg and¡­ well, everything else.¡± He held out his injured hand for her to inspect. His fingers looked swollen, and there were dark bruises on his knuckles.

    Elsbeth exhaled in anger, whipping around to face Cordelia. ¡°This couldn¡¯t have gone worse. We walked straight into danger, completely unaware. We need to be smarter next time."

    "You need to be smarter,¡± she said, emphasizing the point with an accusing finger.

    Cordelia, to her credit, didn¡¯t argue. ¡°Agreed. We¡¯re dealing with something far more sinister than we expected.¡± She tapped the box with her fingertips. ¡°Whatever¡¯s in here might tell us who¡¯s behind all this¡ªand why.¡±

    Elsbeth rolled her eyes. ¡°You''re going to get us all killed in the process. And for what? A mystery box?"

    She turned to Percy. ¡°And you. You can gloat about your heroic stupidity later¡ªright now, we need to disappear.¡±

    There were no protests. No arguments. Everyone knew the truth: they had survived tonight, but that outcome had been anything but certain.

    The mood was grim as they turned toward the carriage, the distant crackle of flames behind them a warning.

    If there was one they all knew, the discussion of tonight¡¯s near failure was far from over. Elsbeth would see to that.

 Ashes

    Rumsfeld crouched in the shadows beneath a towering tree at the farm¡¯s edge. Before him gaped two open graves, their pine boxes shattered and splintered from being pried apart. The clotted, hardened soil suggested recent desecration¡ªa week old at most.

    Thick, oily smoke still curled from the wreckage of the farmhouse, the scent clinging to the damp air. He had caught it on the wind as he left Widdershire, pushing himself forward with unnatural speed, yet still arriving too late. Whoever had been here was already gone.

    He might have suspected Reginald if not because the wretched Blackthorn spawn was on the hill overlooking Widdershire. Rumsfeld had no doubt he was searching the boy¡¯s grave for the painting that held the Lazarus spell.

    The painting lay hidden here for thirty years, safe within a recess formed by the chimney stones. Now, the farmhouse was burned to its foundation, and the chimney lay half collapsed. The box that housed the painting would have endured the fire, but had it remained undiscovered?

    He knew Reginald had not found the painting. If he had, he wouldn¡¯t still be searching. That meant the box should still be here, and if it were, Rumsfeld would reclaim it and return it to the moors of the Blackthorn estate. There, he would consider the destruction of the scroll¡ªeither through magical fire or by its direct use. He had no desire for the curse of longevity. His current half-vampiric form already doomed him to outlive all he had once loved. He could transcend to full vampirism by feeding on humans¡ªand in the process¡ªclaim the near-immortality his (now dead) masters had once possessed.

    No. He refused.

    He had lied to Rebecca but had intended no malice. He could unlock the spell and, in doing so, restore his youth and vigor¡ªyet he had long since abandoned such mortal desires. This decrepit form, this mockery of a man, suited him better. It kept him isolated and prevented him from indulging in the hunger that gnawed at him. It kept him from becoming the thing his masters intended him to be. His refusal to feed, to complete the transformation, was his last defiance¡ªhis only rebellion against the sins that haunted him.

    His only purpose now was to keep the spell from Reginald.

    And as for Rebecca? He deemed her unworthy. A pale shadow of her mother¡¯s greatness, an unwitting pawn in her brother¡¯s schemes. Her legacy was to live out her life as a withering remnant of the Blackthorn name.

    He clenched his jaw, memories surfacing unbidden. Almost thirty years had passed, yet that night remained stark in his mind. The overwhelming force of the assault, the desperate look in his mistress¡¯s eyes.

    Escape with the children, she had pleaded. Not ordered¡ªpleaded¡ªa request, not a command.

    This story originates from a different website. Ensure the author gets the support they deserve by reading it there.

    She had known it was her end.

    And if he had stayed, it would have been their end, too.

    At her behest, the carriage had flown through the darkness, hidden under layers of magical protections. It was invisible to the members of the Magic Council who swarmed the estate, their intent deadly and final.

    The silent and withdrawn boy, Reginald, was left at an orphanage with nothing but a blanket and a sharp rap on the wooden door.

    Rebecca¡¯s fate had been different.

    He had taken her to his sister¡¯s farmhouse. A place where she would be cared for and loved. His sister, barren and desperate for a child, had welcomed the girl without question. And though he had sworn he would return, they had both known the lie in his words.

    The only thing he had done was to ensure the painting was well hidden within the stones of the chimney. A precaution¡ªone he had always feared would not be enough. The smoldering ruins before him justified that fear.

    Rumsfeld stepped over the scorched wreckage, embers casting eerie red glows against the night. Small patches of grass still smoldered where sparks had leapt from the blaze. His boots crunched over charred wood as he moved through the debris. With his superhuman strength, he overturned fallen beams and collapsed chimney stones.

    Then, he saw them.

    Two bodies. Not human.

    The remains from the graves.

    And then, a flicker of recognition¡ªa cold, creeping certainty settling into his bones.

    One of the bodies was the remains of his sister.

    A bitter, unfamiliar thing rose in him¡ªrage.

    Reginald had done this.

    Rumsfeld¡¯s hands curled into fists, but the anger faded, swallowed by guilt. I brought this upon her. His sister had been doomed when he left Rebecca in her care. It hadn¡¯t even mattered that the painting was hidden here¡ªReginald would have torn the place apart regardless.

    And she had suffered for it.

    Tortured. Murdered. Then forced back into this ghastly form, only to die again.

    He studied the corpse, noting the odd mark on her face¡ªthe imprint of a hand¡ªa sure sign of magical fire.

    A conjurer was here.

    Likely the work of the Magic Council, still pursuing the last remnants of the Blackthorns.

    So, Reginald had other enemies. Good. Let them deal with him.

    He turned back to the ruins, continuing his search, his movements more frantic now. The box was nowhere to be found.

    He dropped to his knees, pushing away ash and soot, combing through the wreckage with increasing desperation. His search led him to the pit where the floor had collapsed into the cellar, but finding nothing, certainty struck him.

    The painting was gone. Someone had taken it. Whoever had been here tonight now possessed the Lazarus Spell.

    A slow exhale left him, more of a growl than a breath. He could not return to the estate now. Not with the spell unaccounted for. It was too valuable, and Reginald would stop at nothing to take it back. Stopping Reginald was the only way.

    A sound snapped him from his thoughts. Voices. Distant, but closing in. People were arriving. Neighbors, most likely, drawn by the smoke from the fire.

    His time here was done.

    He turned away from the voices, and then, without another glance, he leapt¡ªhis inhuman speed carrying him from stone to beam, from beam to treetop.

    The men on horseback arrived in time to see him standing among the embers. Then he was a shadow, flicking away and disappearing into the woods.

    Rumsfeld did not look back.

    There was only one place to go now¡ªLondon.

 Treatment

    Inside the carriage, Elsbeth sat in silence, watching Cordelia soothe Harrow. The dog lay prone along the bench, eyes closed as Cordelia¡¯s fingers traced the scratches across his right shoulder and chest. Her low, melodic chant hummed through the air, steadying his breath and smoothing the tension from his fur.

    Elsbeth swallowed. The fear of what had happened finally surfaced, creeping through her in waves. She relived the moments of sheer terror¡ªfighting for her life, protecting Cordelia, and worst of all, watching Hex, brave but foolhardy, locked in close combat with the most horrifying creatures she had ever imagined, let alone encountered.

    Percy, of all people, had saved them. Percy. The boy who flinched at his own shadow. It defied belief.

    Her rational mind rebelled against accepting that tonight had been real¡ªan actual, waking nightmare. This, only days after the sight of that young boy propped up in his grave, scared and lonely, eyes searching, his voice full of fear and sadness. That night, something inside her had fractured, shattered like glass, its shards scattering to the dark corners of her mind. Jagged pieces waited in those recesses, ready to cut her if she probed too far.

    And now, she felt even more broken.

    Yet, Elsbeth refused to break even as she teetered on the edge of collapse. The reality of what she had experienced might defy science and faith alike, but she would confront it. Answers existed. She would anchor herself in the tangible, the empirical. She would understand.

    She took a steadying breath, then finally spoke¡ªher voice tinged with anger, fear still clinging to its edges.

    ¡°Harrow may not need stitches, but we should do them anyway, to be safe. Hex won¡¯t be as fortunate¡ªjudging by his trousers, his wounds are far worse.¡±

    Cordelia didn¡¯t turn. She nuzzled Harrow¡¯s muzzle, murmuring, ¡°We¡¯ll tend to him at the flat. He¡¯s fine, aren¡¯t you, love?¡± Her lips brushed his ears as she stroked his head. ¡°Mummy loves you so much, darling. Auntie Els will make you all better, and never worry, Harrow¡ªI will always protect you as you protect me.¡±

    Elsbeth¡¯s expression softened. She understood what Harrow meant to Cordelia. He wasn¡¯t only a protector, a companion¡ªa stand-in for the child Cordelia longed for but might never have. Harrow was Cordelia¡¯s constant, offering unconditional love in a world that often took more than it gave.

    All right, enough brooding.

    Elsbeth forced herself back to focus. Hex needed her attention now.

    He was her brother, yes¡ªbut more than that, she had always been his caretaker. Their parents had been good to them, loving in their way, but gentle nudges were their only guidance. Elsbeth had pushed Hex when he needed pushing and pulled him back when he veered too far off course.

    Then there was Percy.

    She didn¡¯t even know where to start with him. Although he was treated like family and considered a brother, her connection to him was very different.

    With Hex, love came with exasperation.

    With Percy, love came with a hard edge.

    The house staff had henpecked Percy and treated him like a delicate thing. He was a boy who had been kept safe in the nest for too long. He was timid, afraid to be alive.

    Until tonight.

    Her jaw tightened. Timid, coddled Percy, who¡¯d somehow rallied tonight. His quick thinking had saved Hex¡¯s life. She¡¯d have to reassess him¡ªwith gentle hands. But not too gentle. The boy still needed a boot to his backside more often than not.

    She leaned forward and peered through the window. Hex sat slumped in the driver¡¯s seat, his posture alone telling her what he wouldn¡¯t admit.

    She rapped the carriage window. ¡°Pull over. Now.¡±

    The carriage slowed, wheels crunching over the dirt road before pulling off near a cluster of trees.

    Shadows draped across the clearing, and the whisper of wind in the branches made the surrounding field feel vast and exposed despite its small refuge.

    Hex shifted in his seat. ¡°Here¡¯s good. No one will spot us from the road.¡±

    The carriage jolted to a stop.

    Elsbeth opened the door when she saw Hex swaying in the driver¡¯s seat. His face was pale beneath the sheen of sweat clinging to his brow, his usual ruddy complexion drained.

    ¡°You should¡¯ve let me drive,¡± Percy muttered, voice tight. ¡°You¡¯re hurt¡ª¡±

    ¡°I¡¯m fine,¡± Hex cut him off, though his words were slower than usual, thick and groggy. He tightened his grip on the seat¡¯s edge and tried to dismount, his wounded leg hanging awkwardly.

    A four-foot drop to the ground.

    He hesitated, jaw clenched.

    ¡°Let me help you,¡± Percy said, dropping down and moving around to his side.

    ¡°I said I¡¯m fine,¡± Hex snapped, though frustration laced his words more than anger. He shifted to slide down, but the moment his injured leg bore weight¡ª

    He gasped, staggered¡ª

    Percy caught his arm, easing him down before he could crumple outright.

    Elsbeth was already there, crouching beside him. ¡°Let me see.¡±

    Hex leaned back against the carriage, breath hitching. His trouser leg was soaked with blood, the fabric dark and sticky, clinging to the deep gash above his ankle. The area was already swelling, bruising spreading in dark, mottled patches.

    ¡°I told you I¡¯m fine,¡± Hex repeated, his voice weak.

    Elsbeth shot him a look. ¡°You¡¯re not. Please don¡¯t lie to me. That¡¯s not what we do.¡±

    She peeled the fabric back with care.

    If you encounter this tale on Amazon, note that it''s taken without the author''s consent. Report it.

    One long, jagged gash stretched across the side of his lower leg, narrowing as it reached the ankle. Another, more minor cut crossed below it. The bleeding had slowed, but the deeper wound gaped open, in need of stitches.

    ¡°It¡¯s not the worst I¡¯ve seen,¡± Elsbeth said, calm but forced. ¡°But it¡¯s bad enough. You¡¯re lucky you didn¡¯t slice a tendon.¡±

    ¡°Lucky,¡± Hex echoed, head tipping back against the carriage. His breath was shallow, eyelids fluttering.

    Elsbeth pressed two fingers to his cheek¡ªclammy, skin cool.

    ¡°Stay with me,¡± she murmured. ¡°You¡¯re not passing out on me, Hex. Not here.¡±

    Cordelia appeared beside her, gaze flicking between Hex and the wound. She tilted her head, watching the blood and swelling with an unreadable expression. Her fingers closed around the vial of tincture in her pocket¡ªthe one with myrrh.

    "Oil of turpentine," Elsbeth murmured, readying herself to clean the wound. "We''ll need to stitch this before it worsens. Then you can apply whatever you''re holding in your pocket."

    Elsbeth turned to Cordelia. "What is it, exactly?"

    "A tincture of myrrh. We''ll apply it before wrapping his leg¡ªit should speed the healing."

    Elsbeth nodded. "I have some sterile gauze we can use to cover the stitched wound, though we''ll need linen for the dressing."

    She withdrew Oil of Turpentine from the bag stowed in the carriage.

    "Hex, you might want to bite down on your hat. This is going to sting."

    "I refuse to ruin a perfect hat¡ªit¡¯s the first one that¡¯s fit me properly."

    Hex turned to Percy. "Be a friend and put your hand over my mouth."

    Percy gave Hex a deadpan stare. "Bite down on your hat, you stupid ox. I''m quite fond of my hand, so I will not put it anywhere near your mouth."

    Before Hex could finish arguing, his words transformed into a scream as his body went rigid, and his wounded leg jerked.

    "Bloody hell, Elsbeth! You enjoyed that, didn''t you?" Hex growled.

    "Quite a bit, brother. Almost makes up for the time you stuck gum in my hair."

    "Ha! That was a response to you putting ants in my porridge. You told me they were tiny raisins. Besides, you learned a valuable lesson that day."

    ¡°Really? What lesson did I learn?¡±

    ¡°You learned that scissors were not the proper course. A simple application of warm water would have dissolved the gum completely. Instead, you cut your hair and looked like an old broom.¡±

    The two glowered at each other, neither speaking, both dwelling on their shared history of sibling warfare.

    ¡°The ants were protein. I was making you strong. You couldn¡¯t even taste them.¡±

    Hex gasped. ¡°I could feel them crawling around inside me. It wasn''t enjoyable. I thought they would eat their way through me, making little holes, and then everything would leak out.¡±

    ¡°Well, that¡¯s hardly as bad as when you put itching powder in my knickers. My peach was red for a week. I had to seek relief in a cold bath, for hours, every day.¡±

    ¡°So did I!¡± Hex exclaimed. That was my punishment. Mrs. Granson stripped me down and dunked me in the tub with you. When we got out, your peach was still bright red, and my noodle was so shriveled and shrunken it might as well have been a peach.¡±

    Percy and Cordelia shared a knowing glance. Both had been around for these events and many others. Their sibling rivalry was infamous, and the two non-siblings had done their best to steer clear anytime the two started scheming.

    ¡°Well, Hex, I suppose it¡¯s good we¡¯ve outgrown all that silly nonsense. I can¡¯t imagine what it would be like if we still found ways to torture each other. Can you?¡±

    Hex''s voice filled with anxiety. "Wait? What? I don''t like the sound of that, sister. I insist that you let bygones be bygones. That is what family does, is it not?"

    Elsbeth didn''t hear him. She was already threading the needle.

    Elsbeth turned to Cordelia. ¡°What would you say, Cee? Ten to twelve sutures should be about right?¡±

    Hex glared at her. ¡°I¡¯m reminding you that I am your patient¡ªunder your care. You''re bound by the hypocrite''s oath to ease my suffering.¡±

    Elsbeth rolled her eyes. Hex meant the Hippocratic Oath. She was not an actual doctor; she only felt loosely bound by its ideals.

    Cordelia turned to Percy. ¡°Let¡¯s take a walk and let Elsbeth do her work.¡±

    As they strolled through the field''s grass, behind them, they heard Hex grunt and swear while Elsbeth admonished him for being a grown infant.

    ¡°Do you think those two will ever change, Percy?¡±

    Percy stopped and looked back. He thought for a moment, then answered. ¡°I hope not.¡±

    Cordelia smiled, taking his hand. ¡°Me too. I love them both just the way they are.¡±

    <hr>

    With the sutures and dressing complete, Hex sat in the carriage¡¯s doorway, looking better. Some of the color had returned to his face.

    Elsbeth stood to the side, staring toward the horizon. She was quiet and withdrawn, still weighing the night''s events¡ªtheir narrow escape from death, Hex''s injury, and Percy''s reckless retrieval of the mysterious box. They were dancing too close to the razor''s edge, and tragedy was inevitable if they continued this way.

    She watched as Cordelia savored a smoke while Corvus squawked his displeasure at the wisps curling around him. Harrow had regained his usual demeanor, though his movements still betrayed lingering pain.

    Percy stood near Hex, hands buried in coat pockets, eyes on his feet.

    Elsbeth knew her somber mood cast a shadow over the group, but they each needed time to process their brush with death. While Percy would likely agonize over every detail, Cordelia and Hex would soldier forward with their usual pragmatism. Though part of her wished they could celebrate their survival together, Elsbeth''s mind dwelled on Cordelia''s dangerous fixation on her investigations. But now was not the time. It would have to wait until they were alone.

    She returned to stand with Hex and Percy, hoping her feigned smile would lighten the mood.

    ¡°Percy, you¡¯ll need to get us back to the city. As Hex¡¯s doctor, I have given him strict instructions to take it easy.¡±

    Percy looked down the road in thought.

    "Isn''t there a church a few miles from here? We could rest there until morning. I''d prefer not to navigate these roads in the dark."

    "A church? Do you want to burn that down as well?" Hex said, only half-joking.

    Percy only stared, unsure how to respond.

    "That was quick thinking¡ªsetting the place on fire. You may have found your calling: resident arsonist."

    Though Hex tried to joke, the pain made his delivery fall flat.

    "Thank you, by the way. It was brilliant. You probably saved all of us."

    The sincerity was there this time, and Percy knew that Hex meant every word.

    Percy rubbed the back of his neck. ¡°I was just thinking¡­ it might be good to be near something holy. You know, in case¡­¡±

    He gestured at Hex¡¯s leg.

    ¡°In case you start to turn.¡±

    Hex stared at him, then at his leg, his face a shade paler. ¡°You mean¡­ turn into one of those things?¡±

    ¡°Percy!¡± Elsbeth said, punching him in the arm. ¡°Why would you say something like that?¡±

    Percy clutched his shoulder where the punch had landed.

    ¡°Miss Cordelia told me to keep an eye on him, in case¡ªyou know¡ªhe started showing the signs.¡±

    ¡°Really?¡± was all Elsbeth could muster.

    All eyes turned to Cordelia.

    She sighed and rubbed her temples. ¡°Percy, my love. Why must you betray me?¡±

    Percy blinked. ¡°It wasn¡¯t a betrayal, Miss Cordelia. You told me to watch him.¡±

    ¡°As a precaution. With subtlety. I didn¡¯t expect you to announce it to the patient.¡±

    ¡°Percy¡¯s right, however. We should go to the church- as a precaution. If he starts to turn, holy water might do the trick. If not, we¡¯ll put him down before he can harm anyone.¡±

    Elsbeth was aghast at the thought and spun on Cordelia, who was quick and prepared, spinning away while laughing hysterically.

    ¡°Hilarious, Cordelia. Look what you¡¯ve done to poor Hex. He¡¯s as white as a ghost.¡±

    ¡°Oh, it was worth it, my dear. The look on your face when I said, ¡®Put him down.¡¯. I think I peed myself.

    Elsbeth could see Percy holding back a laugh and the overwhelming relief in Hex¡¯s posture.

    She let out a long sigh. At least the mood was brightening.

    Hex attempted to join the levity.

    ¡°By the way, Els, you look very nice in ''lady'' trousers. You should make that your thing.¡±.

    Cordelia nodded in approval. ¡°We should get you some that fit better¡ªmade with a woman in mind. Show off your curves a bit more. You could start a new trend. Everyone in London will follow suit. You know what sheep they are.¡±

    Elsbeth shook her head. ¡°I don¡¯t think they''re ready for that, and I¡¯m sure I¡¯m not ready.¡±

    She smiled, happy they were alive, but it had been a long night. It was time to go home.

    ¡°All right. Let¡¯s get this circus moving. I want to sleep in my bed for once.¡±

    As the boys moved into place, Cordelia pulled her aside.

    ¡°I do like you in trousers,¡± she whispered, her mouth close to Elsbeth¡¯s ear. ¡°But, all joking aside, the church might be the best idea.¡±

    Then, without waiting for a response, she slipped past Elsbeth, her hand sliding across her derriere.

    Elsbeth inhaled, torn between irritation and something else she wasn¡¯t ready to name.

    She exhaled through her nose, rolling her shoulders back as she turned to Percy.

    ¡°Percy, assuming you¡¯re not planning on burning it to the ground, let¡¯s stop at the church until morning.¡±

 Schemes at Black Church

    The wagon crept forward, its wheels crunching over the debris-strewn path¡ªwhat had once been a road, now overgrown with tall, brittle grass. The night¡¯s cold had stiffened the tendrils, bending them like fallen soldiers to the damp earth. Their whispered cries buried beneath the steady rhythm of hooves and the groan of wooden axles.

    Dawn had begun to creep along the eastern ridge, its faint light silhouetting the ruined church ahead. The driver pulled the reins, bringing the horse to a halt.

    Reginald Blackthorn stepped down, his boots sinking into the damp earth. He held a black rose in a globed hand, its petals as dark as the charred stones of the Black Church.

    Locals spoke of the ruin in hushed tones, but the name did not reference some dark worship¡ªthe damage a consequence of wildfire. A dry summer had sent flames tearing through the low woods in ''51, blackening the stones but sparing the structure. The congregation had not been so resilient. With windows shattered and boarded, abandoned pews followed. Most parishioners defected to other churches, while the more desperate left the area to find work.

    Reginald strode through the old cemetery, passing the weathered markers of long-forgotten men and women. The rise of the land carried him toward the tree line, where a headstone leaned backwards, half-swallowed by moss and time.

    He placed the rose at its base, crouching to trace his fingers over the faded inscription.

    Alice Anne Farmer

    1799 ¨C 1854

    A name unknown to history, belonging to a woman who had lived and died without consequence¡ªno heirs, no legacy, no claim to the world beyond her grave. Yet in death, she would become something far more significant.

    Reginald would see to that.

    She would be his plague, his omen of suffering.

    Reanimated, she would move among the desperate, her touch carrying sickness and unrest. Through her, he would turn the poor into festering wounds upon the city¡ªwounds that would spread outward until they reached the men who sat in high offices. The men who dictated the price of bread and the worth of human labor.

    She would be queen of the wretched. Her throne born from rot and ruin.

    With a wicked smile, he rose, turning back toward the wagon. The pine box lay silent in the bed, its occupant oblivious to the role he was yet to play.

    The driver sat motionless, head bowed¡ªwhether dozing from the long night or muttering a prayer, Reginald neither knew nor cared. This man, Wyman, had proven himself valuable and reliable. Reginald had no reason to question his loyalty; to a degree, he could trust Wyman to act independently¡ªa rare commodity among men and servants.

    If you spot this narrative on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

    Reginald climbed into the seat, and with a flick of the reins, the wagon trundled onward.

    The yard sloped upwards toward the grand tombs of forgotten men¡ªpoliticians, merchants, barristers, all entombed in stone to mark wealth and legacy. In life, they had amassed power by standing on the backs of the helpless, but in death, they were claimed by the same earth as beggars.

    Reginald would not share their fate.

    With the Lazarus Spell and his perfected blood serum, his name would not be carved into a grave but into history itself¡ªhis dominion stretching beyond centuries, beyond kings, beyond the fleeting whims of mortal men.

    The carriage halted before the Toliver family crypt, its iron doors locked with thick chains. John Ignatius Toliver had once been a man of importance¡ªa name in Parliament, a whisper in elite circles. Now, he was nothing but dust, sealed away with his descendants and ancestors.

    Reginald¡¯s driver dismounted, unlocking the chain and pushing the heavy doors apart. The air inside was stagnant, thick with the scent of damp stone and decay.

    The crypt had opened, and space cleared for its new occupant''s brief stay. When night fell, the body of the boy would be moved to the Black Church, where he would perform the ritual.

    The church was also ready¡ªa ritual circle etched into the wooden floor, with cuffs and chains affixed, designed to keep the boy from wandering too far.

    At least in his physical form.

    The circle in the church would serve as a prison¡ªfor both body and soul. When the time came, the child would become spirit. Freed from his flesh, and cast beyond the confines of the church to fulfill his purpose: a ghost sent to haunt a singular mind.

    A mind that would see him, recognize him, and follow¡ªdespite knowing it was a trap.

    Cordelia Greaves.

    Reginald¡¯s mouth curled in a slow, knowing smile.

    He watched. He listened. He knew.

    Her father had been one of them¡ªone of the men who hunted his family. One of the self-righteous martyrs who led the charge against his mother and father. A man who stood triumphant among the ruins of Blackthorn Manor as its last embers died.

    And yet, that night, he had died all the same.

    Reginald knew how and why.

    He also knew about Cordelia¡¯s mother and that her death had shifted power within the council, allowing the cowards and schemers to gain control.

    The men and women who hid behind the hubris of righteousness, suppressing knowledge and magic out of fear¡ªafraid to be surpassed, replaced. They lounged in their great rooms, clutching their glasses of sherry and congratulating themselves on keeping the world of magic in chains.

    But those chains were already breaking. He and Cordelia Greaves would see to that. And that was why she would be helpful. She would come when she saw the boy. She would follow. And when she did, she would serve his purpose, whether she willed it or not.

    Reginald and his driver lifted the box from the wagon and moved it into place within the crypt. The ritual would wait until tonight¡ªhis actual work lay in London.

    Today, he would meet with a key member of Parliament. A man he would help elevate to the pinnacle of power, only to replace him when tragedy struck. Then, Reginald Blackthorn would stand at the helm of the world''s most powerful government, and his long reign would begin.

    Reginald smiled as the chains clinked back into place, sealing the tomb again. By midday, he would be in London, orchestrating his political pawns.

    And when he returned tonight¡ªthe actual game would begin.

 Portraits and Portents

    The long and narrow box lay on the table, its dark wood worn smooth with age. Cordelia loosened the tarnished clasp, and the lid creaked open. Nested inside, a tightly rolled bundle lay wrapped in brittle cloth, neatly tied with a thin black ribbon.

    The two women stared at the contents, wondering what secrets lay within. The aged and delicate outer cloth made them hesitate. They stood in silence, their thoughts racing¡ªknowing they had no choice but to remove it for inspection.

    "Let''s be careful," Elsbeth said.

    Cordelia nodded, her hesitant expression mirroring Elsbeth''s concern.

    "I think it must be a scroll¡ªnothing else would be stored like this."

    "Only one way to find out," Elsbeth murmured, her eyes fixed on the box.

    Cordelia carefully removed the contents, holding both ends with the tips of her fingers. It felt heavier than regular parchment and had a rigidity that reminded her of canvas. She felt an odd sensation when she grasped it and knew immediately that magic was at play. This added a level of danger she hadn''t anticipated, and given Elsbeth''s mood after the harrowing events of the night, she wasn''t sure she should say anything.

    She rested the scroll carefully on the table. The torn and tattered outer wrapping revealed little about what lay hidden underneath, but what she could see reinforced her impression that it was canvas. She took a step back and turned toward Elsbeth. Best to be honest, she thought.

    "It''s heavy, like canvas, so I think it''s a painting, but¡ª"

    Elsbeth narrowed her eyes. "But?"

    "It''s magical in some way. I can feel it."

    Elsbeth unconsciously took a step back. "Okay. So what does that mean?"

    Cordelia hesitated, searching for words to let her logical-minded friend assess the risk without panicking.

    "I can''t be certain. It could be a protection spell or something to preserve the scroll. Or a spell might be woven into the canvas itself¡ªthe essence of the item."

    Cordelia paused.

    "It could also be cursed."

    Elsbeth''s eyes went wide, and she took another step back.

    "Though that''s unlikely¡ªI just can''t rule it out. Let me handle it for now."

    Elsbeth shifted uneasily. "Are you sure we should open it?"

    Cordelia answered without hesitation. "Yes, we must. We know it''s important, even if we don''t know why. After tonight''s events, we need every piece of information we can find."

    Elsbeth knew she was right. Whatever this object was, it could be central to everything they''d discovered. They needed to understand it, especially if it posed a danger.

    "This isn''t how anyone would normally store a painting," Elsbeth remarked, leaning closer. "Be careful with it¡ªit might be as fragile as the wrapping."

    Cordelia nodded, unrolling the cloth slowly until the canvas began to unfurl on the table. The material was surprisingly well-preserved; its edges cracked, but the image was remarkably intact.

    As it lay flat, the lantern light flickered across the painted surface, illuminating the portrait of a young girl who appeared to be no older than eight or nine. She wore a high-collared dress in muted tones, dark curls framing a pale face with wide, serious eyes. Her hands were folded in front of her with a calm, unnaturally still composure. The portrait''s eyes seemed to follow them as they moved, a half-smile curling at the corners of her lips.

    They studied the image in silence. After a moment, Cordelia ran her fingers lightly along the edge of the canvas. "No name. No artist''s mark. But look here." She pointed to a faint design in the lower corner¡ªa sigil or heraldic emblem worn away by time.

    Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

    Elsbeth leaned in to study the faded symbol. "A family crest, perhaps? I don''t recognize it, but it might help us trace its origins."

    Cordelia nodded slowly. "If this painting belongs to a specific family, that could explain why it was hidden. But why wrap it up and conceal it in a box?"

    "Why was it hidden, and from whom?" Elsbeth wondered aloud. "How long had it been there? Who was meant to find it¡ªand why?¡±

    ¡°Honestly, Cordelia, we''re left with nothing but more questions."

    Cordelia''s fingers hovered just above the painted surface, where the air seemed to hum. "The magic¡¯s here," she said softly. "It''s faint but unmistakable. It''s woven into the very fibers of the painting."

    Elsbeth shot her a skeptical glance. "Why a painting? Could a connection be between the portrait and the magic¡ªor perhaps the girl herself?"

    Cordelia''s eyes glinted with curiosity. "We can''t be sure. The painting might be merely a vessel for the magic or be bound to the painting itself. We''ll need to start our investigation with that mark in the lower corner¡ªit''s our only solid lead."

    Elsbeth''s gaze drifted back to the girl''s painted eyes. They seemed unnaturally lifelike, as if the girl were guarding a secret just beyond reach.

    "I don''t like how she''s looking at me," Elsbeth muttered.

    Cordelia let out a gentle chuckle. "Perhaps you need to get some rest. It''s been a very long night."

    "I''m not sure I''ll sleep much with that thing staring at me," Elsbeth said, her attempt at humor not entirely masking her unease.

    Cordelia settled into a pew at the front of the small church, tucking a carriage cushion beneath her head and wrapping herself in a blanket. "Nothing could keep me awake now. Find yourself a spot to rest, darling¡ªthe boys are in the carriage, and Percy''s taking first watch."

    Elsbeth nodded absentmindedly, her eyes fixed on the portrait. Something gnawed at her consciousness, an unease she couldn''t quite place.

    Her thoughts circled back to the girl''s face, the faint lines of the sigil, and the disquieting sensation that had taken root in her chest.

    "What are you hiding?" she whispered to the darkness.

    <hr>

    Elsbeth drifted between wakefulness and sleep, her thoughts tangled in the painting''s labyrinthine lines. Exhaustion had settled deep in her bones. Before she realized it, her eyelids grew heavy, and sleep claimed her.

    And in that sleep, she dreamed.

    The portrait of the young girl loomed before her¡ªnot framed upon a wall, but alive, floating in the shifting gloom of endless space. The child''s face seemed familiar yet wrong, her eyes too knowing, her soft curls stiff and unnatural like dried paint strokes. Shadows bled from the edges of the canvas, pooling into something thick and alive.

    A flicker of movement.

    The child in the portrait began to age.

    The transformation began slowly¡ªsubtle shifts in the fullness of her cheeks and the set of her jaw as the girl became a young woman. Then, the paint cracked and shifted unnaturally, the soft innocence eroding into something harsh. Her features elongated, her curls darkened and straightened, twisting into a severe bun.

    The eyes remained the same.

    Recognition struck her like lightning.

    Her stomach lurched.

    She was no longer looking at the young girl.

    She was staring into the face of Henrietta Hampstead.

    Her lips moved, whispering something soundless, something urgent.

    Then¡ª

    Elsbeth jolted awake with a gasp, her breath ragged as the church swam into focus. The lantern on the table had burned low, casting only a feeble glow into the room''s dark corners.

    She exhaled sharply, running a trembling hand over her face. The dream''s unease clung to her like a shroud, refusing to fade.

    Then, something deep within her demanded proof.

    She pulled away from the table and retrieved her charcoal box and notebook.

    Her hands moved with fevered urgency, dark strokes flying across the page. Smudges formed on her fingertips, dust settling into the lines of her skin, but she barely noticed. She had to capture the image before it slipped away¡ªbefore the waking world could steal whatever truth the dream had revealed.

    Her heart pounded as the figure emerged. Gone was the soft, angelic child from the portrait, replaced by something else entirely.

    A woman materialized on the page. Her jaw was sharp, her gaze unwavering. The once-gentle waves of hair were now bound tightly, severely. A grim knowledge lived in her features, something cold and weathered by time.

    Hetty.

    The housekeeper of the Wright household.

    The woman who had cast a shadow over their investigation¡ªwho had meant to kill Henry Wright but had murdered his son instead.

    Elsbeth barely registered the movements behind her¡ªthe shifting shadows, the soft pad of footsteps.

    A breath.

    The scrape of a chair leg.

    Then, Cordelia''s voice was quiet and unnerved.

    "What in God''s name are you drawing?"

    Elsbeth jumped, the charcoal slipping from her fingers. She turned to find Cordelia looming over her shoulder, the lantern light casting stark shadows across the drawn lines.

    Cordelia''s brows furrowed as she studied the image, her gaze darting between the drawing and Elsbeth in an uneasy silence.

    Elsbeth swallowed. "It''s her."

    Cordelia''s expression darkened. "Who?"

    Elsbeth licked her dry lips.

    "The girl in the painting..." she whispered. "She isn''t a girl anymore."

    She tilted the paper in the dim light as if the slight adjustment might make the impossible truth more digestible.

    "It''s Hetty."

    Cordelia inhaled sharply, her shoulders tensing. When she spoke, her voice was quiet but carried a sharp edge.

    "That''s impossible."

    The two women stared at the portrait, sharing a moment of unspoken understanding.

    Elsbeth reached for Cordelia''s hand, gripping it tight.

    "It''s not impossible," she whispered. "Just improbable¡ªand most unexpected."

 Becoming

    Rumsfeld moved through the great city like a phantom, slipping between streets half-drowned in mist, his presence dissolving into shadow before any wandering eyes could register him.

    The city slept; only a few restless souls stirred behind thick, hazy glass, lanterns flickering like dim sentinels against the night.

    Elsewhere, drunkards staggered from gin houses, piss-stained and slack-limbed, muttering half-formed prayers to an unhearing god.

    He ignored them.

    There was no need for hurry¡ªyet.

    The night belonged to him.

    The river lay before him, its oily skin black as ink, its broad and deliberate form gliding past the sleeping city with an eternal patience that mocked his hunger. Along its banks sprawled the docklands¡ªa maze of warehouses, piers, and moored vessels, some abandoned, others waiting to bear their burdens with the coming day.

    Morning was still only a rumor.

    The thought of it sent a slow, dull ache through his bones. The early sun would not kill him, but it would sap his strength, prolonged exposure reducing him to a frail husk until night reclaimed the sky.

    And he could not afford that¡ªnot now.

    He needed shelter.

    But more than that, he needed to feed.

    The hunger clawed at him, raw and consuming, eroding the thin wall of restraint he had so carefully maintained over decades. In the northern moors, it had been more straightforward. There, he had survived on game¡ªdeer, hare, even wild dogs when desperation demanded it. He had kept himself weak by choice, lingering in decay rather than embracing the monstrous inevitability of what he could become.

    But here?

    Here, the great city swarmed with life.

    Filth. Sickness. Desperation.

    Soon, the streets would swarm with the clatter of carts and the stench of human industry.

    Here, he could feed properly. And if he fed properly, the transformation he had long resisted would finally be complete.

    This is necessary.

    The thought came unbidden, unchallenged.

    Yes. Let Reginald see what the Blackthorns have made of us.

    Ahead, a lone figure stumbled along the cobbled street, a man deep in his cups, swaying like a marionette with half-cut strings.

    Rumsfeld inhaled.

    The man reeked of gin and sweat, his blood sluggish with drink but warm beneath the surface, his heartbeat a slow, steady drum¡ªripe for the taking.

    But there was another scent.

    A woman.

    Nearby, in the mouth of an alley, he heard her laughter¡ªlow, knowing, tinged with something brittle. A man was with her. The quiet rustle of fabric, the soft grunt of exertion¡ªhe knew the sounds well enough.

    If you discover this narrative on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen. Please report the violation.

    His lips curled into something that wasn¡¯t quite a smile.

    Three bodies. Three offerings.

    It would be enough.

    With the barest crouch, he sprang.

    The drunkard didn¡¯t even have time to scream before Rumsfeld seized him by the throat, yanking him into the alley. The force sent the man¡¯s head cracking against the stone wall. He twitched once, then went limp, stunned but still breathing.

    Good.

    No artistry here¡ªjust efficiency. He would not feed on this one¡ªthis one was to stoke the fire.

    Holding him up with one hand, Rumsfeld braced his other against the man¡¯s forehead and tore his throat open with a single jerk.

    The blood bloomed in the dark, hot and coppery, the violent spray drenching him.

    Rumsfeld groaned, the warmth washing over him, igniting something deep in his marrow. The scent, the taste¡ªthe sheer ecstasy of it sent him reeling.

    It was not enough.

    Not nearly enough.

    He let the man slide down the wall, still twitching, his life draining out in pitiful gurgles.

    The lovers had gone still.

    The woman leaned against the wall, her hands braced, her partner''s grunts syncopated with the slap of flesh. She hadn''t yet registered what had happened, but her hips were frozen mid-motion. The fog of pleasure still clung to her expression, but beneath it, creeping fast, was the dawning awareness that something was wrong.

    Rumsfeld watched, detached, as the man finished with a shudder. Pathetic. Human coupling had always been a dance of desperation¡ªclumsy, fleeting, a spark struck against the void. He''d known it once and craved it. Now, it seemed as nothing more than crude drawings on a cave wall.

    The man, still inside her, stared at Rumsfeld with bleary, unfocused eyes. His expression hung slack-jawed with drunken confusion.

    He had not yet processed what stood before him.

    Rumsfeld tilted his head, amused.

    I am an Angel of Death, he thought. That, my friend, is what your addled mind fails to comprehend.

    The moment stretched¡ªthen shattered.

    The woman¡¯s eyes flicked down to the body at his feet, to the puddle of blood spreading across the stones, to the thingstanding before her¡ªblack-eyed, soaked in gore.

    Her mouth fell open.

    A single word, barely a whisper, slipped from her lips.

    ¡°No.¡±

    Rumsfeld moved.

    With inhuman speed, he tore the man from her, spun him around, and plunged his hand into his chest.

    His fingers curled beneath the sternum, wrapping around the still-beating heart.

    The man gasped, his post-coital haze evaporating into pure terror as the pain struck him all at once.

    Rumsfeld squeezed.

    Blood erupted from the man¡¯s mouth in a thick, gushing torrent, and Rumsfeld caught it¡ªdrank it in heavy, greedy swallows, moaning low in his throat as the warmth flooded him.

    The woman screamed.

    He silenced it with a single look.

    With a final crush, he burst the man''s heart like an overripe fruit, and the body crumpled.

    Rumsfeld exhaled heavily.

    He turned to her now, licking his lips.

    Her hands trembled as she pulled down the hem of her dress, as if preserving her modesty might protect her from the horror she now faced.

    Pity.

    He took a slow step forward.

    She backed against the wall, her breath shallow and frantic.

    "Please," she whispered, palms raised as if her flesh could deflect damnation.

    Rumsfeld smiled, his fangs glistening in the moonlight.

    Rumsfeld crowded her against the wall, blood-slick fingers hiking her skirt. His hips pressed hers¡ªa pantomime of the act he¡¯d just witnessed.

    Nothing stirred. No heat, no pulse of desire. Only the hunger, vast and yawning.

    Try, hissed the ghost of his humanity. Remember.

    As she struggled in his arms, he felt it¡ªthe pure terror coursing through her veins, spiking her blood with the chemicals that heightened the rush, that made it sublime.

    He pressed his mouth to her throat and bit deep.

    Ecstasy roared through him as her blood hit his tongue¡ªsweet, vital, alive¡ªbut his human desire remained inert. A statue. A tomb.

    Her body bucked against him.

    Her heartbeat hammered wildly, erratically, as he drank her down, her warmth filling him, strengthening him, transforming him.

    Yes.

    This was what he had denied himself for too long.

    The agony of starvation unraveled, peeling away the last of his restraint.

    And with it¡ª

    The last of his humanity.

    He pulled back, panting, his lips stained black with blood.

    She twitched in his arms as death neared.

    He laid her down gently, brushing the hair from her face.

    She would return.

    He would find her.

    Guide her.

    Teach her how to feed.

    How to serve him.

    After thirty years, he would no longer be alone.

    As she took her last mortal breath, he leaned to whisper in her ear.

    "I must leave you for now, but we will meet again¡­ and then you will see how beautifully we rot."

    Dawn''s first blade cut the horizon as he melted into the shadows. Behind him, the alley stewed in carnage¡ªa poem written in viscera, its stanzas clear.

 Yard Hounds

    Detective Sergeant Hargrave sat in the back of the hackney, his gaze fixed on the rain-slicked streets of London sliding past the window. The gaslights blurred in the glass, casting long streaks of gold through the gloom. He said nothing. His mind churned through the day''s events¡ªtwo different crime scenes. Both unsettling. No clear motives. No easy answers. And something about them both that gnawed at his instincts.

    Across from him sat Constable John Brim, his eyes closed, arms folded tight against the damp chill of the carriage. They hadn¡¯t spoken much since leaving Acton. Neither had eaten since morning, and now, dusk crept toward night. Their hunger was a distant concern. Darker thoughts occupied both men.

    Brim was young, sharp, and, in Hargrave¡¯s estimation, too clever by half. Newly minted from school, ink still drying on his certificate, he¡¯d stepped into the Metropolitan Police without ever walking a beat. He hadn¡¯t wrestled drunks in the gutters of Whitechapel or waded into the thick of an angry mob. He¡¯d never had to peel a frozen corpse off a doorstep before sunrise or pry the truth from a frightened suspect.

    In short, Brim had no scars that seasoned a proper detective.

    He did have an education¡ªa rare thing in a department that drew its ranks from the city¡¯s roughest edges. That alone had secured him a fast-track position, leapfrogging over seasoned officers who¡¯d earned every stripe the hard way. The resentment, Hargrave knew, ran deep. It always did.

    Still, there was something in Brim¡ªsome flicker of potential. Hargrave wasn¡¯t sure whether it was bravery or foolishness, but the boy asked questions most would not. That, too, was dangerous, particularly after what they¡¯d seen at the farmhouse.

    They would file reports, of course. Two, to be precise. One for the department and another for eyes that never met the public¡¯s gaze. Hargrave already knew the official version wouldn¡¯t¡ªand couldn¡¯t¡ªmatch what they¡¯d witnessed.

    You couldn¡¯t walk into Scotland Yard talking about ghouls and grave-robbing and things that bled through the veil of death. Not unless you wanted a permanent desk assignment or a quiet dismissal.

    Brim hadn¡¯t yet learned the wisdom of keeping his mouth closed. Hargrave only hoped the boy wouldn¡¯t learn that lesson the hard way.

    Hargrave broke the silence.

    ¡°There¡¯ll be two reports for the farmhouse. One official. One for the classified files.¡±

    Brim turned, brow furrowed. ¡°Two reports? Why?¡±

    Hargrave didn¡¯t look at him. ¡°Because the Lieutenant doesn¡¯t want the Captain reading about things that raise uncomfortable questions. Questions no one wants to ask, or answer.¡±

    Brim frowned. ¡°Then why bother writing it at all? If no one¡¯s going to read it¡ª¡±

    Hargrave cut him off, voice dry. ¡°Because you¡¯re a good copper. You saw something, you recorded it. That¡¯s what we do.¡±

    Brim sat back, uncertain. ¡°So¡­ who reads the second report?¡±

    ¡°Me, then it gets filed. There¡¯s an old clerk named Reaves. If you need the report again, he¡¯ll pull it from the vault. It might take a day. Longer if it suits him.¡±

    ¡°Sounds like throwing it in the fire would be easier¡ªor not writing it at all.¡±

    Hargrave smiled. ¡°Tempting, but not how it works.¡±

    Brim nodded. ¡°So¡­ we don¡¯t discuss the unofficial report?¡±

    Hargrave¡¯s gaze flicked toward him. ¡°Only with me. Not with Mercer. Not with Smith. Not with anyone in the department. And for the love of God, Constable, leave the monsters out of it.¡±

    Brim was quiet a moment.

    ¡°Ghouls,¡± he muttered.

    ¡°What?¡±

    ¡°If I had to guess¡­ those things. They were ghouls. Maybe.¡±

    Hargrave¡¯s eyes narrowed.

    ¡°The two bodies in the farmhouse match the general description of the prior owners. Except they died months ago. And yet¡­ you think they were alive when the fire consumed them.¡±

    ¡°Their faces twisted in agony. Hands shielding their faces. Corpses don¡¯t do that, Sergeant.¡±

    A long pause.

    Hargrave sighed, rubbing his temple. ¡°The graves were disturbed. Coffins broken. The bodies were removed. The house burned to the ground. Those are the facts.¡±

    ¡°And the bodies were placed in the house? Why?¡±

    ¡°Your guess is as good as mine. Some deranged soul dug them up, staged the scene, and either set the fire or fled when it started.¡±

    ¡°And the handprint on the face?¡± Brim pressed.

    ¡°A whim of nature. Nothing more.¡±

    Brim wasn¡¯t convinced. ¡°A third desecration¡ªthe boy¡¯s grave. His body is gone. Same night, different place. Doesn¡¯t seem like coincidence.¡±

    ¡°No, it doesn¡¯t,¡± Hargrave said. ¡°But we¡¯ve got no proof they¡¯re linked. Until we do, separate cases. Separate reports. Mercer and Smith keep the Wright case. We handle the farmhouse.¡±

    Brim exhaled, frustrated. ¡°So our official report says someone dug up two graves, placed the bodies in the house, shot them, and then burned it down?¡±

    Hargrave gave him a sidelong glance. ¡°Now you¡¯re learning.¡±

    Silence stretched.

    Then Brim spoke, voice quiet.

    ¡°Sergeant?¡±

    ¡°Yes, Constable?¡±

    ¡°Tell me what you really think.¡±

    Hargrave stared out the rain-slicked window.

    What did he really think?

    This case¡ªthe ghouls, the graves, the fire¡ªit wasn¡¯t the first time he¡¯d smelled rot that didn¡¯t come from corpses.

    He wasn¡¯t green like Brim. He¡¯d seen too much and stopped believing in coincidence a decade ago. Over time, he¡¯d learned the truth others refused to see. There were things in the city that went far beyond reason.

    There were things that go bump in the night.

    But he wouldn¡¯t say it. Not to Brim. Not yet.

    Unlawfully taken from Royal Road, this story should be reported if seen on Amazon.

    Still watching the rain, he answered Brim''s question.

    ¡°No.¡±

    Darkness had settled when their hackney rattled into the Yard''s narrow courtyard. Rain drizzled from the eaves, collecting in pools among the pitted cobblestones. Hargrave stepped out first, grimacing as he stretched his legs and pulled his coat tighter against the cold.

    Inside the building, something felt wrong.

    Officers huddled in the halls, speaking in hushed, urgent tones, while others rushed papers from desk to desk. Candlelight flickered across uniformed figures moved with purpose. The air hung heavy with the smell of wet wool, smoke, and ink.

    "Like someone kicked over a hornet''s nest," Brim muttered, falling in beside Hargrave.

    Hargrave grunted. He felt it, too¡ªthe tension hung thick and heavy. Something had happened.

    Under the gas lamp''s glow near the east wall, Mercer paced with his pipe clenched tight in his jaw. His troubled gaze flicked toward the Yard''s entrance as if anticipating more bad news.

    "Mercer''s still here," Hargrave said. "Let''s brief him on the Widdershire incident. Professional courtesy."

    Their boots echoed against the slick stones as they crossed the courtyard.

    "Evening, Mercer," Hargrave called.

    Mercer turned, his eyes lighting with recognition¡ªand something else. Relief? Worry?

    "Hargrave." He drew on his pipe once, then removed it, exhaling smoke through his nostrils. Though he didn''t address Brim directly, his glance carried professional warmth.

    "Didn''t expect you back so soon. Thought you''d be in Acton all night."

    Hargrave shook his head. "We wrapped things up in the later afternoon. Two graves disturbed and the bodies stolen¡ªlooks like they were placed in the farmhouse before they set it ablaze."

    Mercer blinked. "Bloody hell." His frown took in both men.

    "We also stopped by Widdershire. There''s been a development in the Oliver Wright case."

    Mercer''s brow furrowed. "As if I haven''t enough on my plate after this morning. Smith and I were set to close that case."

    Now, it was Hargrave''s turn to look puzzled. "What happened this morning?"

    Mercer¡¯s eyes went wide, and the grim expression on his face deepened.

    ¡°You don¡¯t know, do you?¡±

    Hargrave raised an eyebrow. ¡°Know what?¡±

    Mercer gestured toward the Yard''s doors with his pipe. "Three bodies found in Shadwell early this morning¡ªan absolute bloodbath. A pair of constables stumbled upon it, and the place erupted into chaos. The press is swarming all over it, along with two MPs from Whitehall. The Commissioner''s buried up to his ears in it."

    Brim swallowed hard. ¡°What happened to them?¡±

    ¡°Dead. Two men torn apart. One had his throat ripped out, and the other¡ª¡±

    Mercer stared at his pipe, words stuck in his throat.

    ¡°The other had a hole in his chest as large as my fist, like someone reached in and tore his heart out. Most god-awful thing I have ever seen.¡±

    Mercer fell silent, and Hargrave gave him time to collect himself.

    "You said there were three. What about the other one?"

    Mercer nodded slowly, his eyes distant with horror. "Yes... yes. A woman¡ªfound alive, but she died shortly after¡ªhad puncture wounds in her neck. Teeth marks¡ªfangs, I suppose. She was pale and cold. Nothing could be done to save her."

    Hargrave glanced at Brim, but the Constable''s expression remained carefully neutral. He''d receive a thorough dressing-down if he dared mention the word vampire before Mercer.

    "The higher-ups are trying to pass this off as an animal attack. The sheer brutality of it all¡ªand now the press and locals are nattering about vampires and werewolves. Such nonsense when there''s another predator far more dangerous than both."

    Brim waited, curious what Mercer meant.

    Meeting the young constable''s gaze, Mercer spoke.

    "Humans, lad. Never underestimate the wretched brutality that man is capable of."

    <hr>

    Hargrave and Brim made their way towards the central atrium of the Yard, where a steady churn of officers moved in and out of the main doors.

    Sergeants barked orders over the clatter, assigning constables to hastily formed patrols. Maps of East London, stained with ink and sweat, lay spread across tables, with Shadwell and the surrounding parishes circled in red. Names were called, and orders snapped: Cannon Street, Cable Street, and Ratcliff Highway. A visible show of force to calm nerves, though every man knew they were grasping in the dark.

    As the patrols filed out through the Yard¡¯s gate, lanterns swinging from their hands, a hush fell over the courtyard. In their wake, anxious whispers took root among those left behind. Fear had settled over the city like the thick, choking fog rolling in from the river¡ªand no one knew when, or if, it might lift.

    Inside, the noise hit them like a wave¡ªboots clattering, voices echoing, and the clink of metal cups against desks.

    ¡°Bloody hell,¡± Brim murmured. ¡°Feels like half of London¡¯s constables are here.¡±

    Hargrave nodded. ¡°Shadwell¡¯s got them stirred.¡±

    A clerk brushed past, arms full of reports, and nearby, a young policeman flipped through a stack of sketches, each more grotesque than the last.

    ¡°Is that from the scene?¡± Hargrave asked.

    The young man looked up. ¡°Yes, Sargent. Shadwell. You hear?¡±

    ¡°We heard,¡± Hargrave said, brushing past. ¡°Get those sketches to Mercer.¡±

    They made their way through the maze of desks, passing Smith and Mercer¡¯s office, its door ajar. Smith¡¯s voice carried, strained, speaking with someone inside¡ªlikely the Commissioner.

    Hargrave paused long enough to glance inside. A gentleman in a fine coat, too well-dressed for a detective, leaned over the desk, speaking urgently. A Whitehall man, no doubt. Trouble. Hargrave didn¡¯t linger.

    They passed Reaves, the Yard¡¯s records keeper, who sat sorting through a bundle of ¡®unclassified¡¯ files. He gave them a nod, but his usual dry smirk was gone.

    ¡°Evening, Reaves,¡± Hargrave said. ¡°Long night?¡±

    The older man grunted. ¡°Longer tomorrow. Shadwell¡¯s turned this place upside down. Two journalists tried to bribe me for autopsy notes.¡±

    Hargrave raised a brow. ¡°How much?¡±

    ¡°Three pounds.¡± Reaves chuckled dryly. ¡°I considered it.¡±

    They reached their desks in the far corner of the main room. They were separated from the chaos but close enough to hear the low murmurs of those piecing the Shadwell murders together.

    Hargrave sat, cracking his knuckles, while Brim fumbled for pen and paper.

    For a moment, neither spoke.

    Then Brim broke the silence.

    ¡°We¡¯ve been out all day. We find a burned house and two dead bodies, a boy¡¯s body missing from its grave, and when we get back¡ªthree more corpses in Shadwell. Different place, different method, but¡­ it feels connected.¡±

    Hargrave nodded slowly, his voice low.

    ¡°It is. But we¡¯re a step behind. Come morning, we stop looking for suspects and start looking for a pattern. Our reports can wait.¡±

    He stood, pulling his coat tighter.

    ¡°All right, Brim, grab a fresh notebook. It¡¯s time to take a trip to the morgue.¡±

    <hr>

    The cold air struck like a punch as Hargrave and Brim stepped into the morgue''s stone corridor. Gas lamps sputtered along the walls, casting wavering shadows that made the place feel more crypt than clinic.

    ¡°I¡¯ve always hated this place," Hargrave muttered, pulling his coat closer.

    He stopped and turned to Brim, his voice dropping low.

    "I hope you''re ready for what''s waiting in there."

    Brim stared down the hallway at the double doors leading to the morgue. Though he''d been here before, that experience offered little comfort for what tonight might bring.

    "I''ll manage," he said, feigning confidence.

    Hargrave studied him, and Brim sensed unspoken words hovering between them¡ªsomething his superior struggled to articulate or hesitated to share.

    ¡°Look, Brim, there are aspects of this case that make me uncomfortable, and given your predilection towards supernatural explanations¡ª¡±

    Brim cut him off, anger flashing in his eyes. ¡°I have a predilection towards not glossing over the unexplained because it¡¯s inconvenient.¡±

    Hargrave gave him a hard stare. He could feel the tension rising between them but knew it was the day¡¯s events, not the two men.

    His expression softened.

    ¡°John."

    It was the first time he had used the constable''s first name. Hargrave hoped the familiarity would shift their dynamic¡ªfrom Sergeant and Constable to two men who, while not quite friends, needed to trust each other when things turned dark.

    "That''s a good quality for a detective, but it can bring unwanted trouble. In all my years on the job, after everything I''ve seen, I''ve hit my head against that wall more times than I can count."

    Brim said nothing, but the anger subsided.

    "Over time, I found an unorthodox way of handling the unexplained cases¡ªthings the department wouldn''t touch."

    ¡°On your way home, pick up some less prominent papers. Scour the back pages for advertisements. Look for the name ¡®Greaves.¡¯ Tomorrow, you find her, see what she knows. Share what you have to, but keep the details blurry. If anyone can shed some light on this, she can.¡±

    Brim nodded. He wasn¡¯t sure how this woman could know anything about their case, but something told him to trust the detective.

    ¡°Greaves,¡± he whispered.

    ¡°Greaves,¡± Hargrave confirmed.

    Then, after a long look toward the morgue''s doors, Hargrave warned him.

    ¡°Be careful with her, Brim; the woman¡¯s a witch.¡±

    Brim stared, uncertain if Hargrave was joking.

    He wasn¡¯t.

    Hargrave¡¯s gaze remained fixed on the doors, his jaw tense.

    ¡°She operates outside the law, outside reason. But when the world starts slipping sideways, she¡¯s the one people turn to. She helped me once when I had no one else to turn to. Now I¡¯m asking you to do the same.¡±

    Brim hesitated, then nodded.

    ¡°I¡¯ll find her.¡±

    Hargrave gave a tight nod of approval.

    ¡°Good. I¡¯ll handle the dead. You go after the living.¡±

    With that, Hargrave walked down the hallway and pushed open the morgue doors, the heavy wood groaning on its hinges. The cold inside the room rushed down the hall like a wave. Brim watched him vanish into the flickering gaslight, the doors thudding shut behind him.

    He stood alone in the corridor, the echo of Hargrave¡¯s words still ringing in his ears.

    A witch.

    He wasn¡¯t sure what he believed anymore¡ªbut if this Greaves woman held any answers, he intended to find them.

 Newgate Gaol

    Durry held the carriage door as Cordelia climbed in. They were to meet with Henry Wright, who was being held at Newgate Gaol, a prison looming just inside the city of London. Newgate Gaol housed the most hardened criminals, many awaiting trial but a few convicted and serving time. It also held debtors and lesser offenders, all packed together in the same airless stone corridors.

    Durry bristled at the situation. Scheduling a meeting had been unusually difficult, with the keepers erecting obstacle after obstacle. This puzzled him since the system was straightforward¡ªpay for access. Though the Crown appointed the master keeper, the prison operated as a private business, and like any commerce, money smoothed the way.

    Cordelia''s presence further complicated matters. While women were allowed in Newgate Gaol, they typically entered as inmates¡ªwhether for petty crimes and unpaid debts or as companions hired by wealthy prisoners who could afford such privileges. It was a system where everything was accessible for the right price. Often, those who could pay but withheld found themselves in the vice of extortion, their cooperation elicited through pain and degradation.

    Women acting in a legal role were frowned upon and often considered activists or reformers. As far as the keepers were concerned, the system worked perfectly well. The profitability, though well hidden and off the books, was significant, and a good portion of it flowed to powerful men who saw no need for change.

    When they arrived at the front gate, he overpaid the driver, pressing a coin into the man¡¯s palm.

    ¡°Wait here. We won¡¯t be long.¡±

    The driver studied the money, weighing the request, then gave a slow nod and pulled the carriage into position along the prison wall.

    At the front desk, a clerk sat with a penny dreadful sprawled open before him. His gaze was fixed on the lurid text, and he seemed utterly uninterested in the world around him.

    Durry stepped forward, clearing his throat.

    ¡°Edward Durham. Solicitor. I am here to see my client, Henry Wright. It is of the utmost importance that I speak with him immediately.¡±

    The clerk didn¡¯t move at first. Then, with the deliberate slowness of a man who had no intention of hurrying, he lifted his gaze just enough to acknowledge Durry. His eyes slid lazily to Cordelia.

    ¡°Who¡¯s she?¡±

    Durry turned slightly, gesturing to her. ¡°Why, my good man, this is my estimable assistant, Miss Cordelia Greaves. She is my eyes and ears, essential in every way to my counsel for my poor client, Mr. Wright, who has been falsely and maliciously accused of murder.¡±

    The clerk¡¯s expression didn¡¯t change. He studied Durry for a long moment.

    ¡°You know you can¡¯t just show up whenever you like. We have schedules in place for a reason. ¡±

    Durry insisted. ¡°I understand, but I need to see my client immediately. I have new information and must question him before the details go stale. If I wait, I may lose my chance to prove his innocence.¡±

    The man gave an unimpressed nod. ¡°Can¡¯t have that now, can we? They¡¯re all innocent, if you can believe it. Nary a man or woman within these walls, not one guilty of any crime¡ªleast of all the one they¡¯re here for.¡±

    He tapped his fingers on the desk, considering.

    "Mr. Wright is being held in the Capital Convicts section. He¡¯s in solitary for his protection. Some of his neighbors don''t take kindly to child killers. He''s also under careful watch¡ªno one wants him taking the easy way out, if you know what I mean."

    Durry leaned in close, whispering. ¡°Come now, Kenneth. I thought we had an arrangement?¡±

    Kenneth spoke in a slow, hushed tone, keeping the movements of his mouth to a minimum.

    ¡°Relax, Durry. All for show.¡±

    Durry leaned back, keeping his expression blank. It was likely they were being watched.

    "All right," he said finally. "You''ll have to see him in his cell, which requires an escort. You won''t have much time or privacy. And I''ll require a donation for the privilege¡ªfive shillings ought to do."

    "I''ll give you three, nothing more."

    The man stared at Durry, but Cordelia couldn''t tell if this was all part of the act.

    "Four shillings, or you and the pretty lady walk," he said.

    Durry grumbled but reached into his pocket and placed the coins on the desk. The original agreement had been three shillings, but given the undercurrents surrounding Henry Wright, an exorbitant price was to be expected.

    ¡°All right then, I¡¯ve arranged an escort,¡± the man said, the coins disappearing into a pocket. ¡°Best you just follow him. He¡¯s not the talkative type.¡±

    Then he lowered his voice. ¡°He¡¯s going to leave you with a guard. Watch out for that one, nasty type. Special hire, specifically for Mr. Wright. All ears, if you know what I mean.¡±

    The narrative has been illicitly obtained; should you discover it on Amazon, report the violation.

    Then, with a wink, he added, his voice returning to normal levels, ¡°Keep that coin handy. You¡¯re going to need it.¡±

    With that, he led them through the back door.

    As they walked, Cordelia leaned in, brow arched. ¡°You¡¯ve a gift for making friends, Durry.¡±

    Durry pinched the bridge of his nose. ¡°That wasn¡¯t friendship, my dear. That was negotiation.¡±

    <hr>

    The prison stank of damp stone and stale sweat, the air thick with the weight of too many bodies confined in too little space. The corridor leading to the holding cells was narrow, lined with rusted iron bars, and slick with condensation. Somewhere, beyond sight, a man groaned in his sleep. Another muttered fevered nonsense under his breath.

    The guard escorting Cordelia and Durry barely spared them a glance. His boots struck heavy against the stone as he led them past cells filled with filth and misery, men slumped on benches or curled up on straw pallets, eyes hollow, faces drawn.

    The escort stopped and pointed down a long hallway where a large man stood leaning against the wall.

    The guard watched them approach with cold calculation, and when they neared, he rapped his truncheon against the bars. ¡°Wright, on your feet.¡±

    Henry Wright was at the end of the hall, his cell set far apart from the others.

    For a long moment, there was no movement inside the cell. Then, a slow rustling of fabric, a heavy sigh.

    Henry sat hunched in the shadows, his back against the cold wall, legs stretched before him. His clothes were the same ones he¡¯d been arrested in, now stiff with grime and the stink of unwashed flesh. He looked up sluggishly, his beard grown in thick and uneven, his eyes red-rimmed and sunken. His lip was cut and swollen, and his face and neck were covered with bruises, both fresh and fading.

    The keepers were notorious for using beatings and other cruelties as means of extortion. Methods meant to extract coin from those who could afford it. Henry Wright was a man of means, and if the beatings were any indication, the gaol keepers knew it and intended to extract their price.

    ¡°You have visitors,¡± the guard said, uninterested. ¡°Be quick.¡± He stepped back, leaning against the far wall but remaining within earshot.

    Durry turned to Cordelia with a slight frown. So much for privacy.

    Durry stepped forward first. ¡°Henry.¡±

    A flicker of recognition, but no real reaction.

    Cordelia studied him carefully. Although he was not yet a broken man, she could feel the weight pressing down on him.

    Cordelia smoothed down the front of her coat and stepped closer to the bars. ¡°Henry, my name is Cordelia Greaves. I am assisting Solicitor Durham on the investigative side of your case.¡±

    The man in the cell did not respond.

    ¡°Can you stand?¡±

    ¡°I can sit just fine,¡± he muttered, voice hoarse from disuse.

    Durry sighed. ¡°We haven¡¯t much time, Henry. We need to talk about your case.¡±

    Henry exhaled sharply through his nose, shaking his head as he rubbed a hand across his face. ¡°My case,¡± he repeated, laughter like gravel in his throat. ¡°My case is already decided, isn¡¯t it?¡±

    Cordelia exchanged a glance with Durry.

    Henry gave a slow, humorless smile. ¡°A father murders his son¡ªthat¡¯s a story people like, isn¡¯t it? No sense in complicating things with details. No need for truth when a lie will do.¡±

    Cordelia¡¯s jaw tightened. He wasn¡¯t wrong.

    Durry¡¯s voice was measured, careful. ¡°Then let¡¯s talk about the truth. We know you didn¡¯t kill Oliver. You were¡ª¡±

    ¡°Drunk,¡± Henry finished flatly. ¡°Passed out in front of the fire. I didn¡¯t even make it to my bed. But that doesn¡¯t matter. No one saw me there. No one can swear on a Bible that I didn¡¯t climb those stairs.¡±

    ¡°You couldn¡¯t have,¡± Cordelia pressed. ¡°Not in that state.¡±

    ¡°Won¡¯t stop them from hanging me,¡± Henry murmured. ¡°Not when they need someone to hang.¡±

    Durry took a steadying breath.

    ¡°We¡¯re looking for other explanations, Henry. Someone else who might have had reason to harm you.¡±

    Henry¡¯s gaze flickered slightly, but his answer was firm.

    ¡°I had a good life, Mr. Durham¡ªuntil I lost my wife. We lived a quiet life. I would work all day and then help Oliver with his studies. He was a good boy. He didn¡¯t deserve this. He was a good son. Innocent. A child¡ª¡±

    Henry Wright began to break down, and though he made no sound, Cordelia could see his body wracked with sobs.

    Cordelia thought of the boy, so soft and gentle¡ªso innocent. Then the guilt crushed upon her. The thought of what she had done intruding upon the peaceful rest of a dead child. This man¡¯s child. He would be horrified if he knew what she had done.

    The guard cleared his throat. ¡°The clock¡¯s ticking, Solicitor. Best get on with it. Unless you''re willing to contribute more.¡±

    He held out his hand, a wicked grin evident in his eyes, but his expression cold.

    Durry ignored him.

    Cordelia tried to focus, pushing thoughts of Oliver away.

    ¡°Mr. Wright, what can you tell me about your housekeeper, Henrietta Hampstead? Nothing is too small. Please, Mr. Wright. It¡¯s important.¡±

    The man looked up, and his eyes went cold. ¡°Hetty.¡±

    He rose from the bed, his legs unstable from disuse, and approached the bars. His eyes were fixed on the guard, who stood close, leaning against the wall.

    The guard returned his stare, his face filled with contempt.

    He addressed Durry. ¡°Not here,¡± he hissed, eyes shifting toward the guard before returning to Durry to ensure he understood.

    Then, he turned to address Cordelia.

    ¡°I see you¡¯ve caught the scent. Right witch of a woman, if you ask me. I caught on too late¡ªtoo late. Now I¡¯m here, and Anne and Oliver¡­¡± He trailed off, shaking his head, the sobs audible this time.

    Cordelia glanced at the guard, then leaned in, her voice a whisper.

    ¡°Are you implying that your housekeeper killed your wife?¡±

    ¡°I¡­ I am.¡±

    ¡°Why? How? What was her motive?¡±

    ¡°Again, Miss Greaves, Not. Here.¡±

    Then he spoke, more loudly this time. ¡°This is a place where information is as valuable as coin. Our friends,¡± he said, meaning the keepers, ¡°are always listening. Looking to profit.¡±

    The guard, still leaning against the wall, interjected.

    ¡°Best tell her now, friend. Soon you¡¯ll be swinging in the yard, noose tight around your neck.¡±

    Then he gave a callous laugh.

    Cordelia and Durry both glared at the guard but said nothing.

    Henry Wright¡¯s anger flared, and he lunged for the guard, slamming the bars.

    The keeper stepped in, his sudden movement sending Durry and Cordelia back toward the wall. A sharp crack rang through the corridor as his truncheon struck the bars.

    ¡°All right then, Time¡¯s up,¡± the keeper growled.

    Sensing the need for more time, Durry reached into his pocket for a coin.

    ¡°Sorry, Guvna. Far too late for that. Meeting¡¯s over.¡±

    Henry Wright reached through the bars, grasping Cordelia¡¯s sleeve, pulling her closer.

    The guard stepped in, and Henry released her.

    ¡°Get back to your cot now, or so help me¡ª¡± he said, the truncheon beating a steady, threatening rhythm into his palm.

    Henry glared at the keeper but made no move to back away. Instead, he leaned in close to whisper in Cordelia¡¯s ear.

    ¡°She¡¯s not working alone, Miss Greaves. I can¡¯t say more. Find the man she is working with.¡±

    He lifted his chin toward the keeper, his lips curling in a bitter smile.

    The keeper¡¯s grip on the truncheon tightened¡ªanother beating was coming.

    Then Henry stepped back into the shadows, his voice turning hollow.

    ¡°Do it, Miss Greaves. Do it for Oliver.¡±

 Letters

    Finally home, Elsbeth sat at her study table, a pile of medical journals spread before her. She angled the open book to catch the afternoon sunlight streaming through the grand window overlooking the garden. Around her, the main house lay quiet except for the occasional creak of floorboards and her mother''s soft murmurs from the parlor.

    For once, it felt good to be home. Too many long nights and a lack of sleep had taken their toll. The thought of sleeping in her bed tonight¡ªsinking into the deep embrace of the mattress, swaddled in clean sheets and blankets¡ªsounded luxurious. It was almost worth enduring her mother''s constant barbs, nitpicking, and the drama that would surely unfold at tea.

    Though terse and academic, the journals provided an odd comfort. Her years of study had become a grounding ritual that kept her isolated and away from her mother''s prying eyes.

    Here, she found sanctuary among knowledge and science, with her father ensuring a steady flow of fresh material. He took pride in her abilities and saw himself in her, and despite her mother''s intentions, he constantly reinforced that she must find her path.

    As if summoned by her thoughts, her father entered, a folded letter in hand, his step lighter than usual.

    Dr. Wren was a man of quiet authority, his presence commanding without effort¡ªbut tonight, a trace of mischief glimmered in his eyes.

    ¡°You¡¯re always buried in those journals,¡± he said, setting the letter before her. ¡°Not that you¡¯ve spent much time at home lately. I hope you¡¯re still seeing daylight?¡±

    She rolled her eyes good-naturedly. ¡°Father, you of all people should understand the value of study.¡±

    ¡°True,¡± he admitted. ¡°But even scholars deserve a reprieve. Open it.¡±

    Elsbeth hesitated before sliding her finger beneath the envelope¡¯s crisp edge. As she unfolded the letter, her breath caught.

    Queen¡¯s College, London.

    Her heart pounded as her eyes traced the elegant script.

    ¡°Father¡­¡± she breathed.

    ¡°An acceptance letter,¡± he confirmed, his smile widening. ¡°Biology, chemistry, anatomy. I¡¯ve watched your interest grow¡ªnow you¡¯ll have the chance to pursue it formally.¡±

    She clutched the letter, unable to believe it. ¡°But how?¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ve been speaking with colleagues,¡± he said. ¡°Queen¡¯s College is one of the few places where a young woman can study sciences in earnest.¡±

    A shadow of doubt crept in. ¡°Mother¡­¡±

    His expression softened. ¡°She¡¯ll come around. She loves you, but she has her own ideas about your future. I trust you to decide for yourself.¡±

    Elsbeth set the letter down and reached for his hand. ¡°Thank you.¡±

    He squeezed it gently. ¡°All I ask is that you pursue this with the passion and tenacity you¡¯ve always shown.¡±

    She nodded, determination rising in her chest.

    Footsteps in the hall made them both look up. Her mother entered, eyes immediately landing on the letter. A flicker of suspicion crossed her face.

    ¡°What¡¯s this?¡± she asked, her tone guarded.

    Before Elsbeth could answer, her father rose and took his wife¡¯s hand. ¡°An opportunity for our daughter,¡± he said. ¡°One I hope you¡¯ll support.¡±

    Her mother¡¯s expression wavered, torn between pride and apprehension. After a long moment, she exhaled.

    ¡°We¡¯ll discuss this later,¡± she said, but her voice lacked its usual steel¡ªalmost as if she knew the battle was already lost.

    "Our guests have arrived, and it is rude to keep them waiting¡ªbut you received another letter today. It was hand-delivered by a young man, quite handsome and dressed in his finest, although his clothes were a touch old-fashioned. He was trying to make a good impression. Mrs. Leford left it for you on the table in the foyer."

    Then, she turned toward the parlor and her waiting guests. "Don''t be long, dear; You will like this young gentleman. He''s studying to be a doctor."

    Elsbeth released the breath she hadn¡¯t realized she was holding as her mother left the room. Her father¡¯s reassuring smile remained.

    ¡°You¡¯ve earned this,¡± he said. ¡°Don¡¯t let anything stop you now.¡±

    <hr>

    Dinner had come and gone, but Cordelia had not joined them. Elsbeth wasn''t concerned, but she was anxious. She had important information to share: the second letter had revealed that a man named John Ashcombe had leased the farm. Though the name meant nothing to her, combined with what Cordelia had learned from Henry Wright, this lead might get them closer to understanding why Oliver Wright was dead.

    Elsbeth sat in the parlor, listening to the quiet sounds of her mother¡¯s needle pulling the fine thread through linen. The subject they weren¡¯t discussing hung in the air like a specter¡ªthe acceptance letter to Queen¡¯s College.

    For all her mother¡¯s careful politeness over supper, Elsbeth had expected at least one disapproving comment or an attempt at coaxing her toward a more conventional path. And yet, not a single word.

    It was unnatural.

    Her mother sat on the sofa, her posture flawless, the silver thimble on her finger catching the glow of the oil lamp. She worked with delicate precision, stitching the hem of a fine tablecloth, her face composed in quiet concentration.

    Elsbeth slouched in a high-backed chair by the fireplace. She thumbed through a medical text, though she had long since given up reading the words.

    ¡°Elsbeth, dear, sit up straight,¡± her mother said without looking up.

    Unauthorized usage: this narrative is on Amazon without the author''s consent. Report any sightings.

    Elsbeth sighed but obeyed, shifting her posture and closing the book.

    Her mother¡¯s voice softened. ¡°What¡¯s bothering you, darling? You¡¯re even more pensive than usual. Is it a matter of attending college? We can talk about it if you like.¡±

    Elsbeth studied her mother. There was something different about her tonight. Not disappointment, nor anger¡ªit was something else she couldn¡¯t quite put her finger on. A sense of resignation, perhaps.

    She had expected a battle. Instead, her mother stitched, quiet and serene, as if everything was already decided.

    ¡°Thank you, Mother. I¡¯m fine, just feeling more tired than usual.¡±

    She hesitated. ¡°I want to talk about Queen¡¯s College¡ªbut the news is sudden. It would be best if I slept on it. We could discuss it over breakfast if it won¡¯t give you indigestion.¡±

    She expected a sharp quip or a wry remark about the absurdity of her request. Instead, her mother smiled¡ªa genuine, warm smile.

    ¡°Of course, my dear,¡± she said, accepting.

    Elsbeth blinked. This was not how they played the game or fought their battles. Her mother gave in without a fight, which unsettled her more than any argument would have.

    ¡°I¡¯m waiting for Cordelia. I won¡¯t sleep if I go to bed now.¡±

    The rhythmic pull of thread through linen paused.

    "Did you open the letter from the young gentleman?"

    "I did¡ªit was information about a man who leased a property near Acton. Something Father pointed me toward a few weeks ago. Nothing interesting, I''m afraid. I''m keeping an eye on it in case that changes."

    "Is this related to Cordelia''s work?"

    "That was Father''s thinking, but as I said, nothing of consequence."

    "Well, I doubt anything could match the drama of that case with the young boy¡ªthough its end seems straightforward enough; the father will face his punishment for what he did to his child."

    The words stopped Elsbeth cold.

    She hadn''t known her mother was aware of Cordelia''s involvement in the Henry Wright case, but that wasn''t what struck her. Will face his punishment. She was right. Henry Wright would hang regardless of his guilt or innocence. It was the judgment of a public that knew nothing of the man and cared even less. Henry Wright would die, and the world would continue as it always had, one soul lighter mere moments after the platform dropped away beneath his feet.

    As if sensing Elsbeth''s unease, her mother shifted subjects.

    "Is the young man who delivered the letter someone of interest?"

    She stared at her mother, expression blank, as she struggled to adjust to the abrupt change in topic.

    "Arthur? I''ve only met him once. He works with deeds. Friendly but far too boring, if you ask me. If he is interested in me, I assure you it isn''t returned."

    "Well, I overheard him conversing with Mrs. Leford, and he seemed quite nice. I could invite him for tea, hmm?"

    "Of course, Mother. I''m sure you two will have a lot to talk about. Be sure to tell me how it went¡ªin case I need to console Father."

    She smiled to let her mother know she was only teasing.

    "Well, he was quite the handsome devil. Your father should be worried if he takes a fancy to me."

    Elsbeth waited for the smile to appear on her mother''s face, but it never came as she remained focused on her needlework. Trouble in paradise? She pushed the question aside. It was a subject that Elsbeth had no interest in thinking about. She faked a yawn.

    ¡°I¡¯m heading to bed. I hope Cordelia returns soon. Either way, I¡¯ll see you at breakfast.¡±

    Elsbeth stood, smoothing down her skirt, then hesitated. Struck by a rare impulse she hadn¡¯t indulged in since she was a little girl, she leaned down and kissed her mother¡¯s cheek.

    Her mother stilled for a moment, then patted Elsbeth¡¯s hand.

    ¡°Goodnight, darling.¡±

    She checked Cordelia''s room, but it was empty. Closing the door, she let out a long sigh. Her anxiety dissolved into annoyance. Her mind buzzed with details of the case, but so many pieces were missing that the puzzle refused to take shape. She knew that in this state, despite her physical exhaustion, sleep would elude her.

    <hr>

    She entered her room and lit two candles near the washstand. She avoided the mirror''s reflection¡ªafraid of what she might see.

    Before she could undress, she heard the sharp rattle of pebbles against the window.

    Cordelia.

    She moved to the window and saw Cordelia standing near the wall of rose bushes. She gave a slight wave and opened the window.

    "Els, come down. Hex and Percy are waiting with the carriage. I have a plan."

    What? Another plan? Why wasn''t Hex in bed recovering?

    She gave Cordelia a stern grimace but closed the window and headed for the servants'' stairs near the kitchen. The stairs led away from the parlor where her mother stitched. The house boards creaked despite the carpet that ran the hallway''s length. Her movement would not go unnoticed, but at least she could avoid any immediate questions. Tomorrow at breakfast would be a different story.

    She stepped out the back door into the cold air to find Cordelia holding her coat.

    ¡°I thought you might want this,¡± she said, holding it open so Elsbeth could slip into it.

    ¡°What I wanted was a nice quiet evening snuggled in bed. I should have known that such a simple thing was too much to ask for.¡±

    ¡°We¡¯re going to see Henry Wright together.¡±

    Elsbeth stopped, confused.

    ¡°I thought you went to see him today? Can we step back so I can understand what¡¯s going on?¡±

    ¡°Right. So, Durry and I went to see Henry Wright. We were escorted to see him in his cell. They supervised our conversation. They have him in solitary, under constant watch, for his protection.¡±

    A worried look crossed Cordelia¡¯s face.

    ¡°Els, his face and neck are covered in bruises. He¡¯s being beaten- regular beatings from the looks of it. He refused to talk in front of the keeper. He has a guard posted outside his cell. A mean bastard if I ever saw one. One of the other keepers says he was a special hire to watch Henry.¡°

    Then Cordelia finished the pitch with a hard sell, Cordelia style.

    ¡°Our man knows something, Els, but he won¡¯t say it before the keepers. We have to get him alone.¡±

    There was a simple way to do that, and Elsbeth felt it necessary to ask the obvious.

    ¡°Well, why didn¡¯t Durry set up a meeting in the solicitor¡¯s room?¡±

    ¡°He tried. They wouldn¡¯t allow it. I¡¯m surprised they let us in at all. Cost Durry 4 shillings to get us in the front door.¡±

    Elsbeth raised her eyebrows. Four shillings. A steep price for access to a client.

    ¡°So now, the plan is for you and me to walk into the Gaol unannounced and sway the keepers into allowing us a private chat with Henry Wright?¡±

    ¡°Yes, but not exactly.¡±

    ¡°Okay. So how is it supposed to work? What is the plan if we don''t waltz in relying on our beauty and charm? Do you have a plan, or will we make it up as we go along?¡±

    Cordelia looked hurt. ¡°Els, why do you put so little faith in me?¡±

    ¡°Tell me the plan.¡±

    ¡°I¡¯ll do you one better; I¡¯ll show you.¡±

    Cordelia withdrew two flat black stones from her pocket and placed one under her tongue. Then, without a word, she wasn¡¯t there. Like, disappeared, wasn''t there.

    Elsbeth stepped back in surprise.

    Her eyes pressed into the spot where Cordelia stood, and all she could make out were slight ripples of shadow.

    Cordelia spoke, the sound muffled and distorted. ¡°The magic mutes sound within a small area as well.¡±

    Then Cordelia reappeared, stones in hand.

    Elsbeth was too stunned to speak. The effect was terrific.

    ¡°What do you think? Bloody amazing, right?¡±

    ¡°You were standing right before me, and I couldn¡¯t see you. It was like you were invisible.¡±

    ¡°Yeah. And you were looking right at me. At a less direct angle, I would have been invisible.¡±

    ¡°How does it work?¡±

    ¡°Magic, of course. It¡¯s an enchantment of the stone. Distorts light. It works well in daylight, too, but the effect is different. At night, or in low light, it¡¯s almost invisibility.¡±

    Elsbeth was impressed. By the magic of the stone. Not the plan.

    ¡°So the plan is to use the stone to sneak into the Gaol and see Henry Wright. What about the keepers guarding him?¡±

    Cordelia reached into another pocket and produced a perfume bottle with a small bulbous pump. ¡°Sleeping potion. A bit of this near the face, and they¡¯ll be out like a light.¡±

    ¡°Pretty basic. What¡¯s the plan when the plan falls apart? Like when you spray your face by accident?¡±

    Cordelia frowned. ¡°Stop. If I spray anyone ''accidentally, ¡¯ it will be you.¡±

    "Have some confidence in me, Els. The plan is to make the plan work; we don¡¯t need a backup plan.¡±

    Elsbeth was skeptical. ¡°And when has the plan ever worked out as planned?¡±

    Cordelia shrugged again. ¡°Tonight will be our lucky night. After last night, the goddess owes us one.¡±

    Elsbeth sighed. ¡°All right, let¡¯s go. I have some news as well. I¡¯ll tell you in the carriage.¡±

 Break-In

    Cordelia and Elsbeth used the stones to find their way to the carriage¡ªa test run of sorts. They could have taken the main road, but sneaking through yards and gardens made their upcoming mission feel more real.

    Percy must have been startled when the carriage door opened by invisible hands. Moments later, the two girls were inside. If he was bothered by this mysterious occurrence, he kept it to himself¡ªthe less Percy knew, the better he slept.

    "Should Hex be driving? Last night, he could barely walk."

    "Don''t worry, love. You''d be surprised how well he''s healed," Cordelia said, a smile tugging at her lips.

    Elsbeth remained silent, but she understood. The ointment contained more than just myrrh. Though youth made Hex a quick healer, the wound had been too severe¡ªhe should still be hobbled.

    "Besides, Hex and Percy will stay with the carriage until we return."

    "What about Corvus?"

    "He''ll keep a watchful eye¡ªnothing more."

    Elsbeth let her mind settle. This was their third consecutive night prowling the darkness. Though earlier than their previous outings, fatigue crept in¡ªand with exhaustion came mistakes.

    The carriage rattled eastward through the darkened streets of Bloomsbury, its wheels clattering over uneven cobbles slick with winter''s damp.

    Elsbeth gathered her thoughts, contemplating whether to share her acceptance to Queen''s College. She knew she would attend¡ªthe opportunity was too extraordinary. Her dream of becoming a doctor seemed more attainable now. Times were changing, and she might be fortunate enough to stand at their forefront. Dr. Elsbeth Wren. The title resonated perfectly.

    She stared out the window, watching gas lamps cast pools of flickering yellow light along the quiet streets, holding back the fog that curled between buildings and wrapped around iron railings and soot-streaked windows.

    "I received a letter today from Arthur in the deeds department."

    Cordelia looked puzzled. "What? By Royal Mail?"

    Elsbeth feigned ignorance. She didn''t want Cordelia questioning why a man she hardly knew would hand-deliver a letter to the house.

    "I suppose. Mrs. Leford left it for me in the foyer. It contained the name of the man who leased the farmhouse¡ªJohn Ashcombe. Does that sound familiar?"

    "Doesn''t ring a bell. We should both ask around. If he''s just a random person, it''ll be harder to find information¡ªbut if he''s someone notable, that would make our search easier."

    Cordelia changed the subject.

    "Are you sure you can handle the stone safely? I''m worried you might accidentally swallow it. Who knows what would happen if it stayed in your stomach?"

    "I''m not going to swallow it."

    "Well, if you do, you''ll be the one fishing it out later¡ªand that won''t be pleasant."

    Elsbeth rolled her eyes. She wasn''t about to swallow the stone.

    "So when we get there, I''ll be following you. Do you know the way?"

    "We''ll enter through a service entrance¡ªwhere they bring in laundry and supplies. Once we reach the main wing, I''ll know where to go."

    Elsbeth wasn''t convinced. Cordelia had a habit of overlooking inconvenient details in her plans.

    "What about locked doors? I doubt you have keys."

    Cordelia shook her head dismissively. "Els, this is a prison¡ªpeople try to break out, not in. When Durry and I left the main office, we didn''t pass through a single locked door."

    A case of theft: this story is not rightfully on Amazon; if you spot it, report the violation.

    Though Elsbeth remained skeptical, she didn''t doubt Cordelia''s memory¡ªtheir minds were like sponges, soaking up every detail and scrap of information, no matter how minute.

    Ahead, the looming bulk of Newgate Gaol emerged from the mist¡ªgrim and hulking¡ªits high walls and barred windows stark against the shrouded sky.

    We''re really doing this.

    Elsbeth watched Cordelia from the corner of her eye. Her friend appeared calm and composed, without a care in the world. How long could they go on like this before something went terribly wrong?

    <hr>

    The heavy air inside Newgate Gaol carried a damp, oppressive chill, thick with the scent of old stone and mildew. Cordelia pressed her back against the cold wall inside the narrow service entrance, breathing steady but shallow. Elsbeth''s heart thundered in her chest, its pulse thrumming in her ears like a distant drumbeat. She had never attempted anything like this before¡ªnever broken into anywhere, let alone a prison¡ªbut there was no turning back now.

    The dim lantern light sputtering along the corridor glanced off them without catching, their outlines lost in shadow. Their footfalls, muffled by damp straw strewn across the stone floor, made no sound beyond the whisper of fabric and breath.

    Cordelia moved with purpose and confidence, as if she had walked such halls countless times before. Elsbeth followed close behind, willing herself to match that calm despite her racing mind. Every echo, every shift in the silence, rang sharp and clear. She steadied her breathing, anchoring herself to the task at hand.

    The Capital Convicts wing loomed ahead, marked by a thick iron gate and a poorly lit alcove. Two guards sat half-slouched at a crude wooden table with scattered dice between them. One guard scratched his beard with a yawn while the other swigged from a tin cup, unaware of the invisible intruders closing in.

    Cordelia reached into her coat and drew out a slender glass bottle. One squeeze, then another, and a mist hissed through the air like a sigh. The scent of laudanum and poppy oil drifted in the air before the guards slumped in their chairs, dice clattering to the floor in a forgotten scatter.

    Elsbeth exhaled through her nose, feeling the tension ease from her shoulders.

    With practiced ease, Cordelia retrieved the ring of keys from one guard''s belt. Within moments, they were inside the wing, walking past locked cells where shadows shifted and murmured behind bars.

    Elsbeth''s eyes darted to each doorway, expecting some sudden alarm, some cry in the dark¡ªbut nothing came. At the far end of the corridor, behind a rusted gate, waited Henry Wright''s cell. Cordelia turned the key, the lock''s mechanism grating before the door swung open.

    Henry lay on a narrow cot inside, his state of consciousness impossible to determine in the heavy darkness. As they stepped into the cell, leaving the door ajar behind them, they removed their stones, their forms emerging like ghosts from the gloom.

    Though Elsbeth''s fingers tingled with nervous energy, she stood tall, ready to hear whatever truth this man had to offer.

    A sharp intake of breath and the creak of the cot¡¯s thin mattress broke the silence as Cordelia reached out and touched Henry¡¯s shoulder.

    He jolted upright with a hoarse gasp, eyes wide and searching in the darkness, fists already clenched. The dim light from the corridor hardly touched the cell¡¯s interior, but it was enough to catch the glint of fear¡ªand something harder¡ªin his gaze.

    ¡°Get off me,¡± he growled, voice rough with sleep and days of disuse. His eyes darted past Cordelia to the shadowed figure behind her. ¡°What now? Another beating? You won¡¯t get a penny from me, and I¡¯m not groveling for kitchen scraps if that¡¯s what this is. Go on, then¡ªget it over with.¡±

    ¡°It¡¯s Cordelia Greaves, Mr. Wright,¡± Cordelia said, her voice low but firm. ¡°We met this afternoon. Do you remember?¡±

    His eyes narrowed, and for a heartbeat, his breath caught in his throat. Then, a flicker of uncertain but actual recognition broke through the suspicion. He leaned forward, squinting into her face as if confirming a memory too distant to trust.

    ¡°Greaves¡­ yes. You questioned me. Asked about Hetty. About¡­ what happened.¡±

    His gaze shifted to Elsbeth, guarded now, his body tense once more.

    ¡°And her? Another solicitor? Or something else?¡±

    ¡°She¡¯s with me,¡± Cordelia said, stepping to the side but not away. ¡°You¡¯re safe. We¡¯re not here to harm you¡ªwe need to talk. And this is the only way.¡±

    Henry blinked hard, expecting the vision before him to dissolve into smoke. His eyes darted between Cordelia and Elsbeth, lingering on the former with incredulous intensity.

    ¡°You¡­¡±

    He shook his head, a humorless huff escaping him.

    ¡°You can¡¯t be here. Not in this place¡ªnot at this hour.¡±

    He glanced back toward the cell door, half expecting guards to be waiting there with keys in hand and smug expressions.

    ¡°What did you do? Pay someone off? Pull favors with one of those powdered judges?¡± His voice dropped, laced with disbelief.

    ¡°They don¡¯t let well-dressed women waltz into Newgate at midnight.¡±

    He rose to his feet, slow and unsteady, one hand braced against the wall. His expression was dark with suspicion and a glint of something close to awe.

    ¡°God above¡­ you broke in.¡±

    He let out a short, rasping laugh, shaking his head again.

    ¡°Broke into Newgate Gaol¡ªfor me. You¡¯re either mad, Miss Greaves¡­ or desperate. And I¡¯ve no idea which frightens me more.¡±

    ¡°Given the choices,¡± Cordelia whispered, ¡°I prefer desperate.¡±

    Henry stared at them both for a long, uneasy moment, the weight of his sleepless nights etched into every line of his face. Finally, his shoulders sagged, suspicion not gone but dulled by exhaustion and the faint thread of hope.

    He nodded once, slow and wary. ¡°Fine. But talk fast. That door can''t stay open forever.¡±

 The Woe of Henry Wright

    Elsbeth watched Henry Wright struggle to the edge of his cot. Each movement cost him¡ªthe beatings had taken their toll. She pressed close to the cell gate, alert for approaching footsteps. The prison''s eerie gloom did nothing to calm her nerves.

    Cordelia crouched to maintain eye contact, a fierce look in her eyes. Elsbeth knew the questions would soon pour out faster than Henry Wright could answer.

    Cordelia leaned in closer, her voice dropping to a whisper. "We need answers, Mr. Wright. The truth¡ªsomething you want even more than we do."

    He met Cordelia''s gaze and nodded firmly.

    "Start with Henrietta Hampstead."

    Henry let out a harsh laugh. "She murdered my family."

    Cordelia kept her voice steady. "Our belief as well. But we need to understand why. Tell us from the beginning¡ªkeep it brief."

    A long breath escaped him. "She arrived two months before Anne fell ill. Claimed to be a widow¡ªsaid her husband died in a brawl outside Manchester. She brought her daughter Beth. My wife took to them both immediately. We needed a housekeeper, and they seemed harmless enough. I didn''t question it. I should have."

    He rubbed his hands together, trying to warm them. The cell was freezing.

    "Anne was fond of her. I thought it providential that Beth and Oliver were the same age. I was too absorbed in my work to notice what was happening at home. That was my first mistake."

    Footsteps echoed faintly in the corridor beyond. The three froze. The footsteps faded. Then silence. Cordelia exhaled.

    "Anne grew suspicious. A tailor mistook Hetty for someone he knew¡ªa woman named Rebecca Miller. She laughed it off. But later, Anne mentioned the Miller farm near Widdershire, and something shifted. Hetty changed¡ªtense, cold. Two days later, Anne was dead. Quick and sudden. I didn¡¯t see it until it was too late."

    Elsbeth''s breath caught at the mention of the Miller farm. The pieces fell into place: Henrietta Hampstead and Rebecca Miller were the same person¡ªand the timing fit perfectly. The Millers had adopted a young girl thirty years ago, matching Hetty''s age exactly. But who was she before becoming Rebecca Miller, and why had she taken the name Henrietta?

    Cordelia leaned in. "What about after Anne¡¯s death?"

    His voice cracked. "After Anne died, I kept Hetty on to care for Oliver. She managed everything¡ªcooking, cleaning, the whole house. She kept to herself and never had visitors. Though she''d run an occasional errand, she kept to the house. Always quiet, always polite."

    "I abandoned my work and drowned myself in drink. Hetty tried to draw me out¡ªby talking about Oliver, God, and the importance of my research. Especially my research. Her questions grew numerous and probing. She took interest in matters that shouldn''t have concerned her. Then, one night, I discovered my desk had been disturbed¡ªsomeone had gone through my notes. I stopped everything immediately and hid the research."

    Elsbeth shifted, glancing toward the hall. Cordelia noticed, her voice growing tense.

    "What research, Mr. Wright?"

    Henry hesitated. "A blood-based serum designed to enhance healing and fight disease. I worked with Dr. Elias Hayward¡ªan old friend from school. He was the genius behind it. My role was to perfect it."

    "Was it complete?"

    Henry took a long pause.

    "Yes. No. Perhaps."

    "The serum worked at first¡ªpatients improved dramatically. But then they''d collapse. It drained their strength too quickly. I developed alternatives to fix this flaw but never had the chance to test them. Elias had been conducting the patient trials but was lost at sea six months ago."

    This story has been stolen from Royal Road. If you read it on Amazon, please report it

    "The curious thing is, Miss Greaves¡ªElias and I have exchanged many letters over these past six months. He''s expressed sorrow for Anne''s death, offered encouragement, and made passionate pleas for me to continue our work. He keeps stressing how important it is for the sick and poor who fill our streets."

    ¡°Hetty?¡±

    Henry considered this. "The penmanship was familiar, yet distinctly different from Hetty''s hand. No, someone else must have been crafting these forgeries."

    "After I hid my research, I did little but drink, and when I wasn''t completely drunk, I held Oliver in my lap. It was a dark time, Miss Greaves. I was not myself."

    ¡°What changed Mr. Wright? Leading up to Oliver¡¯s death. Something must have happened.¡±

    Henry''s shoulders sagged, and his eyes drifted shut. The mention of Oliver''s death had struck him like a physical blow.

    "Hetty seduced me¡ªplied me with drink. In my weakness, I revealed where I''d hidden my notes. Not everything, but enough. The next morning, I woke in her bed, sickened by what I''d done. The following night, Oliver was dead."

    The words hung heavy in the darkness. Cordelia swallowed, her throat dry.

    "I''m sorry, Mr. Wright. I wish I had words to offer comfort."

    Henry nodded solemnly. "There are no words, Miss Greaves. I trusted her with my boy, and she murdered him."

    His breath caught as a sob tore from his chest.

    "Was your work funded? Did Dr. Hayward pay you directly?"

    Henry shook his head. "No. Elias had an investor."

    Cordelia''s pulse quickened.

    "An investor?" she pressed.

    Henry nodded. "Development and testing were costly. Someone with deep pockets."

    Cordelia moistened her lips. "And you never met him?"

    "No."

    "But surely you know his name?" she persisted. "Dr. Hayward must have mentioned it at some point."

    Henry Wright leaned forward, his voice dropping to a hushed murmur.

    "Elias never gave me a straight answer about him¡ªonly that the money arrived like clockwork. After I hid my research, I conducted my own investigation. Every lead pointed to one man¡ªMr. John Ashcombe."

    Cordelia''s breath caught, and Elsbeth let out a gasp.

    John Ashcombe¡ªthe name on the letter and the man who had leased the Miller farm.

    Cordelia felt a surge of grim satisfaction alongside dread. Finally¡ªa tangible lead. The level of villainy was staggering. How many lives had Ashcombe ruined, playing puppet master from the shadows?

    Henry sank against the cot, eyes haunted and voice a whisper.

    ¡°Be careful, Miss Greaves. Ashcombe doesn¡¯t play games¡ªhe ends them.¡±

    Percy and Hex sat in the warmth of the carriage, awaiting the girls'' return from their latest risky venture. After almost dying at the hands of those wretched creatures at the farmhouse, Percy was content with his minor role tonight.

    Hex babbled on and on about cricket and football, subjects in which Percy held only mild interest. He let Hex dominate the conversation, preferring even sports talk to Hex''s other favorite subject¡ªgirls. Though Percy himself was quite interested in the fairer sex, he had no desire to discuss them with Hex. The man was, after all, a shameless playboy whose escalating behavior would cement his reputation as a proper cad.

    Percy''s eyes were fixed on a carriage parked near the prison''s service entrance. It bore a striking resemblance to a Black Maria¡ªthe type used by the Metropolitan Police to transfer prisoners. Though it lacked any official insignia, the similarity was unmistakable.

    He watched as three men exited the rear. The men were not policemen, but their behavior suggested that two were escorting the third into the building. It struck him as odd that the escorted man was unrestrained. The three walked together as if they were close acquaintances, yet there was a clear difference in their manner and dress.

    Finally, Hex noticed that he was no longer paying attention; Percy should have been riveted in his seat by his recounting of his winning goal against his school¡¯s arch-rival. Instead, he was staring at something out the window.

    ¡°Percy, pay attention. I was getting to the best part.¡±

    Percy gave him a blank look and returned his gaze to the window.

    ¡°What is it? What are you looking at this more interesting than me?¡±

    Percy rolled his eyes but did not turn his attention.

    He was looking at the driver of the Black Maria.

    Hex leaned forward to peer out the window, but Percy held up a hand and pushed him back.

    ¡°What are you doing?¡±

    ¡°There¡¯s a carriage parked near the entrance of the prison. Look¡¯s remarkably like a Black Maria, but it''s a private carriage.¡±

    Hex leaned in again, but Percy held up a finger, causing him to pause.

    ¡°I¡¯m watching the driver.¡±

    ¡°Why? What is he doing?¡±

    Percy¡¯s words hissed out slowly.

    ¡°He¡¯s watching me.¡±

    Hex sat back, eyes wide.

    Percy¡¯s heart froze in his chest. He leaned closer to the glass, dread pooling in his stomach. It couldn¡¯t be¡ªbut the man¡¯s face was burned into his memory. The chase through Acton was a nightmare he could never forget.

    ¡°Do you think he¡¯s made us?¡±

    ¡°No. I don¡¯t think he can see me. The problem is I¡¯ve made him.¡±

    Hex looked confused. ¡°What does that mean, you recognize him?¡±

    ¡°You remember the carriage that chased us through Acton?¡±

    Hex¡¯s eyes couldn¡¯t grow wider, but somehow he managed it.

    ¡°It¡¯s the same man.¡±

    Hex shook his head.

    ¡°Percy, that¡¯s impossible. You¡¯re seeing ghosts. It was pitch dark that night¡ªwe could barely see the road, let alone faces!¡±

    Yet the tremor in his voice betrayed his bravado.

    A thrill of grim satisfaction swept through Percy as Corvus dove from the darkness, talons flashing.

    ¡°I don¡¯t think so, Corvus agrees.¡±

    ¡°Now you¡¯re acting mad, Percy; how could you possibly know what Corvus thinks?¡±

    ¡°I know, because Corvus just attacked him.¡±

 Switch

    They heard the rattle of a gate and the sounds of footsteps, distant but unnerving.

    We have to go," Elsbeth whispered, her voice tight with fear. Her eyes darted toward the shadows beyond the gate. I think someone''s coming."

    Cordelia nodded, turning to Henry. "We have to go. Keep your faith. I promise we¡¯re doing everything we can."

    ¡°Go, go. I¡¯ll be fine.¡±

    She smiled, then slipping the stone beneath her tongue, they vanished into shadow, quietly closing the cell gate behind them.

    Footsteps echoed¡ªmore than one pair. Voices, low and deliberate, approaching.

    Cordelia''s mind raced. This wasn¡¯t a patrol. Too quiet. Purposeful.

    Elsbeth pressed against the wall beside her, breath held, every nerve taut.

    Three figures emerged from the gloom, moving confidently. Cordelia''s eyes locked onto the leader, confident the man was not a keeper. What was happening?

    They stopped at Henry''s cell, the man in question within arms reach. She grasped Elsbeth¡¯s arm, keeping her touch light to avoid frightening her. Holding her breath, she moved, taking one silent step to her left so they would be outside his peripheral vision.

    A second man lit a torch, casting flickering light across the corridor. Cordelia''s breath caught.

    The third man, standing between them, looked like Henry Wright. Similar build, hair, clothing¡ªnot identical, but close enough to fool casual inspection. Her heart lurched.

    They''re here for a switch.

    <hr>

    "Your job is to take his place," one man muttered. "When we have the answers we need, we''ll undo the switch, and you''ll be a wealthy man."

    Elsbeth''s hands cover her mouth, panic flaring in her eyes. Cordelia''s thoughts raced. John Ashcombe. He needed Henry¡ªalive. To finish the serum. This wasn¡¯t a rescue. It was a kidnapping.

    The cell door creaked open. The men paused, staring at Henry¡¯s bruised face.

    "This won¡¯t do," one man growled. "Sorry about this, guvna."

    They seized the lookalike. The first blow landed with a sickening thud, followed by a muffled groan. Another punch, and another, each more brutal than the last.

    This tale has been pilfered from Royal Road. If found on Amazon, kindly file a report.

    Cordelia could feel Elsbeth trembling, her body tensing with the urge to flee. That was the last thing they needed, but she could do nothing about it now.

    Henry Wright¡¯s stand-in tried to shield himself, but there was no mercy in their hands. Then came a sharp crack¡ªbone against stone. Silence.

    A low groan escaped from beneath Elsbeth''s hands. Cordelia cringed, expecting discovery, but neither man reacted.

    One of the men nudged the motionless body with his boot. No response. Another nudge. Nothing.

    ¡°Christ,¡± the second man breathed, his voice strained with panic. ¡°You¡¯ve killed him. You bloody idiot¡ªthis wasn¡¯t the plan.¡±

    The other shrugged. "Solves a lot of problems if you ask me. We get our man out of here, and those sleeping guards will end up holding the bag."

    ¡°Well then, we can¡¯t leave it looking like this,¡± the other man whispered sharply. ¡°Bring me one of those guard¡¯s truncheons. I¡¯ll him a few more bruises., and we¡¯ll leave it beside him¡ªthey¡¯ll think the bastards beat him to death.¡±

    Elsbeth had already slid to the floor, distraught. She shimmied away in fear when the man left the cell to hurry down the hall. The sound caught the remaining man¡¯s attention, but his glance filled Cordelia with relief as he turned back to Henry.

    ¡°You¡¯ll be coming with us. It seems you''re useful to someone, someone willing to pay,¡± he said to Henry.

    Then he grabbed Henry from the cot and dragged him into the hallway. Henry could not resist and struggled to keep his feet under the man¡¯s grip.

    ¡°When we take you out of here, you''ll go nice and quiet. Otherwise, I¡¯ll be breaking both your arms. You understand?¡±

    They heard Henry murmur that he understood.

    The man returned with the truncheon, expecting the other man to finish the job he had started.

    The man holding Henry growled. ¡°Go on then. Give him a few good whacks, and then drop it in the blood. We need to be on our way.¡°

    They heard soft thuds against flesh, the truncheon dropping to the floor soon after.

    Henry, now gagged, was dragged down the hall, and as the light of the torch faded, she took a large breath, adrenaline fading with each receding footstep.

    <hr>

    For a moment, they sat in silence. Stunned.

    Cordelia moved, heart still pounding. In their haste, the men had left the door ajar. She slipped into the cell where The man lay prone. He was dead, and there was nothing they could do for him.

    Cordelia felt her throat tighten as she stared at the dead man. He¡¯d been nothing more than a pawn, unaware that his greed would cost him everything. Another life was reduced to collateral damage.

    Elsbeth¡¯s heart sank. Everything had gone disastrously wrong. It had been a simple plan¡ªget in, get answers, get out¡ªand now a man lay dead at their feet.

    His eyes stared blankly, an accusation Elsbeth couldn¡¯t shake. If they were seen now, their lives would be over¡ªher future, her education, everything lost in a heartbeat.

    Elsbeth swallowed hard. She hadn¡¯t feared death until this moment, and perhaps she still didn¡¯t, but disgrace? Ruin? The thought chilled her far more deeply.

    She shot a quick, accusatory glance at Cordelia. Her friend¡¯s reckless confidence had brought them here, into the shadows with blood on their hands. Would Cordelia ever recognize the price of her impulsiveness?

    "What do we do?"

    Her pulse quickened¡ªnot from fear, but from clarity. "We follow them," Cordelia said, voice tight with resolve. "We can¡¯t let them vanish. Not now."

    Elsbeth held herself still, holding back tears. She couldn¡¯t fall apart now, not here.

    Cordelia was right. They were deep in it, and it was too late to back out.

    ¡°Agreed,¡± she said, trying to sound confident.

    Then, they darted down the dark hallway; the hunt was on.

 Other Foot

    Hex and Percy slunk into the carriage and peered out the window, watching the clash between man and bird. Corvus narrowly escaped the man''s grasp and soared toward the prison tower, circling for another approach.

    The man stepped down and began walking toward their carriage. Percy''s eye caught the man¡¯s cane¡ªit was thick, menacing, and clearly not intended for polite society. It spoke of violence, not gentility. His stomach tightened in dread. He lowered himself to the floor, his heart racing.

    "Hex, he''s coming, and I don''t think he''s up for a chat. We need to step out. Now."

    Percy reached for the far door, but Hex grabbed his arm.

    "It''s two against one, Percy¡ªwe can take him."

    ¡°Bloody hell, Hex!¡± Percy hissed, panic sharpening his voice. ¡°Last night you could barely walk, and you¡¯re still hobbling about. We¡¯re no match¡ªlet¡¯s get out of here while we still can!¡±

    "Wait¡ªCorvus is back."

    Percy lifted his head. Sure enough, Corvus had caught the man in the open, and bird and brute were locked in combat. The man had the upper hand, standing firm on both feet and using his cane to keep the bird at bay.

    Percy opened the door and dropped to the street. It was the perfect time to slip into the shadows¡ªCorvus had the man distracted, the streets were poorly lit, and the buildings along the row offered alcoves and entrances that would make perfect hiding spots.

    ¡°Abandon ship?¡±

    Percy glared at Hex, waving him forward.

    When Hex stood on the street, still favoring his injured leg, he eased the door closed with a soft click. Percy gestured toward the deep shadow of a doorway. They crept forward and hid in the darkness, watching the man straighten his coat, his hat still lying in the street. The bird was nowhere to be seen.

    A low growl emanated from the darkness as he stooped to pick up his hat. Percy searched in the direction of the sound and made out Harrow''s dark form crouched about twenty feet from the driver. Relief washed over him. Harrow would be difficult for anyone to contend with. Now, if it came to blows, they might have a fair fight.

    When the man pulled a gun from inside his jacket, Percy''s relief evaporated. They were sitting ducks. Gooses cooked. In the dark, empty streets with no witnesses, killing them would be the simple solution. He fought to suppress the panic rising in his gut. While he could run, Hex¡ªwith his injured leg¡ªcouldn''t outpace the man or his bullets.

    The man raised the gun in the direction of Harrow. His aim lacked confidence, and the gun moved back and forth, searching for whatever menace had made the threat. Then it stopped, locking in on the dog as it made careful steps forward, gaining momentum for an attack.

    Harrow getting shot would be as devastating as Hex taking a bullet. Though a dog, Harrow was Cordelia''s beloved companion. Hex was also a dog¡ªbut that was only Percy''s opinion of him, which carried little weight in the grand scheme of things. The math was simple, even for him. Cordelia loved the dog; he thought he might love Cordelia. Hex was annoying but not expendable.

    With a grimace, Percy darted from the shadows of the doorway, streaked from behind the carriage, and ran for his life towards the tree-lined path along the prison wall on the opposite side of the street.

    His heart pounded as he sprinted. He was the fox, hunted, doomed to feel the hot sting of a bullet. Was this what bravery felt like? If so, he wanted no part of it.

    Did you know this story is from Royal Road? Read the official version for free and support the author.

    When the shot rang out, he assumed he''d been hit. Though he felt nothing, he was sure this was his end. His lungs burned and his breath came heavy as he hugged the tree, too terrified to look back toward the street. The tinkle of glass told him what had happened. The bullet had smashed the carriage window, its trajectory nowhere near where he¡¯d been.

    He glanced around the tree. The man still stood in the street, the gun pointed in Percy''s direction. His cane extended in his left hand to ward off Harrow. When the gun fired again, Percy flinched as the bullet struck the tree. He had now been shot at twice, and he was doubly sure this wasn''t something he would ever get used to.

    His eyes searched for the closest cover. He needed to get further away¡ªtonight, the darkness was his friend.

    Then, from the direction of the prison, hurried footsteps followed by the man''s growl.

    "Hurry the hell up. We''re being watched."

    The man slid the gun back into his coat and, keeping a wary eye on Harrow, climbed into the seat with reins at ready. The back door of the Black Maria opened, and three men he''d seen enter the prison clambered into the wagon. The doors closed, and the carriage lurched forward.

    Percy slid to the ground, his back against the tree, breathing heavily. His only thought: he was happy to be alive.

    Cordelia and Elsbeth hurried through the halls, but their inability to see each other hampered their progress. They repeatedly collided, each bump stalling their momentum and drawing squeaks of annoyance. It was a flaw of the stones, which otherwise served their purpose well.

    When the first shot rang out, Cordelia froze on the stairs leading to the first floor. Elsbeth''s reaction was to lunge forward¡ªcolliding with her friend and sending them both tumbling down the remaining steps to land in a heap at the bottom.

    Between Elsbeth''s grunts and gasps, the stone beneath her tongue came loose and lodged near the back of her throat. She gagged and leaned over, spitting it onto the floor. The thought of swallowing it had been frightening enough, but she had nearly choked to death¡ªanother flaw of the stones, this one potentially fatal.

    Cordelia groaned. The distorted sound, more like a stomach growl than a person, came from somewhere nearby.

    ¡°Go,¡± Elsbeth said. I¡¯ll wait five seconds and then be right behind you.¡±

    She saw a flicker of shadow, then nothing.

    She counted to five, reluctant to put the stone back into her mouth. Not only had it almost asphyxiated her, but it lay on the dirty floor¡ªcovered in germs. When the second shot rang out, she grabbed the stone, wiped it on her dress, and placed it under her tongue.

    The stone was still a plague waiting to happen, but she couldn''t afford to be seen. A man lay dead, Henry Wright had been kidnapped, and now two gunshots had rung out.

    By cruel coincidence, two people waited for them at the carriage: Hex and Percy. A wave of regret washed over her. Why had she listened to Cordelia? It seemed her only luck was bad luck. Her plans always went wrong, and tonight was no exception. If Hex or Percy were hurt, she knew it would break her. It would ruin everything¡ªespecially her love for Cordelia. She would never be able to forgive her.

    She ran out the door into the yard and rushed up the path toward the wide-open gate. She sprinted into the street, fell to her knees, removed the stone, and panted for breath. A soft moan escaped her when she saw Hex emerge from the shadows¡ªstill favoring his injured leg but walking better than he had any right to. Thank you, God. She whispered it over and over as Hex helped her to her feet. She threw her arms around him and held him tight, feeling more relieved than she ever had before.

    "Into the carriage, Els¡ªthey''re getting away," Hex said.

    Out of the corner of her eye, she caught Percy approaching. She tilted her head toward the sky. Thank you, thank you, thank you.

    She heard the gate clink shut, and Cordelia appeared, barking orders.

    "Hex, take the reins¡ªI''ll ride up front with you. Percy, you''re in the carriage with Els. This could get bumpy."

    Cordelia held out her hand, her stone resting in her palm.

    Elsbeth looked her in the eye and let her stone fall to the ground. She turned and climbed into the carriage without looking back.

    ¡°Fussy,¡± was Cordelia''s response.

    Hex extended a hand, helping Cordelia climb into her seat. ¡°What was that all about?¡±

    ¡°Oh, you know. Things didn¡¯t go exactly how I said they would, so now her knickers are riding her cracks.¡±

    Hex laughed. ¡°Her knickers are always wedged. But I wasn¡¯t asking about Els; cranky is her nature. Who the hell were those men, and what were they doing here?¡±

    Cordelia grabbed the reins and gave them a snap. ¡°We need to get going,¡± she said, handing the reins back, ¡°they¡¯ve got Henry Wright.¡±

    ¡°Hah! Who¡¯s chasing who now? It looks like the boot''s on the other foot, you blimey bastards.¡±

    Cordelia wasn¡¯t sure what he meant, but she liked his enthusiasm.

    The carriage jolted forward, and the chase began.

 Accident at Aldgate Pump

    The Black Maria sped from Newgate Gaol, its wheels slipping and clacking across the slick cobblestones of Old Bailey as the carriage swayed violently past shuttered shops and flickering gas lamps. Its visage faded into the night, leaving only the distant refrain of hooves against stone.

    Cordelia''s sudden urging of the horses startled Percy and Elsbeth, who were still clearing shards of broken glass from the seats and floor. The window remained partially intact, though a spider web of fractures spread from where the bullet had struck a gaping hole, its jagged edges trembling with each lurch of the carriage.

    Elsbeth lurched forward, and Percy caught her, guiding her to a seat. He settled across from her, disregarding the glass fragments scattered about.

    "What happened?" they blurted in unison.

    "You first," Percy offered.

    Elsbeth shook her head, the beaten man''s face still vivid in her thoughts.

    "No, Percy. You tell me what happened."

    Percy arched his brow, staring at the broken window as he exhaled a long breath.

    He recounted the tale¡ªthe carriage''s arrival, the men, and the driver. It was the same man who had pursued them from the farm in Acton to Uxbridge Road. His words matched the wild urgency of their current journey. Though they were heading toward East London, Percy couldn''t determine their exact location.

    Elsbeth grimaced as he described slipping from the carriage, Harrow''s arrival, and the drawn gun. He recounted his terror during the mad dash away¡ªthe first bullet striking glass, the second shot thunking into the tree that had given him cover.

    Elsbeth looked away, drawing a steadying breath, then grabbed the seat and braced herself as the carriage veered hard to the right. Through the window, she glimpsed late-night revelers lurking in corners and dark doorways as they passed.

    Though her feelings were heartfelt, she couldn''t meet Percy''s gaze.

    "Percy, I owe you an apology. I''ve underestimated you. You''ve proven yourself reliable at every turn. Your bravery has saved our lives, even as we''ve fallen one step behind. And despite Hex''s constant bullying, you''ve always put his well-being first¡ª"

    She hesitated, searching for the right words, though she knew they should be simple.

    ¡°Thank you, Percy. I am ever grateful.¡±

    Percy sighed, leaning back while keeping a steadying arm across the seat.

    "Why have I gotten myself into such a mess? I could be lying in bed right now, with nothing more pressing than tending chickens and scrubbing floors."

    He turned to Elsbeth, who returned his gaze with sympathetic eyes.

    "What madness drives her? And why is it so infectious?"

    Elsbeth had asked herself the same question countless times. Though she longed to defend Cordelia, the mounting series of harrowing events sent a flash of anger through her, bringing heat to her cheeks.

    If you spot this tale on Amazon, know that it has been stolen. Report the violation.

    Elsbeth vented her frustrations, holding nothing back, an emphatic swear with each jolt of the carriage. She expected Percy to shrink under the weight of her fury, to flinch at the stream of curses¡ªbut instead, a slow, almost infuriating smile crept across his face.

    ¡°What?¡±

    ¡°Feel better?¡±

    ¡°No. Should I?¡±

    Percy¡¯s smile faded. ¡°You think she dragged us into this mess with a map and a plan? That she meant for us to be chased through Acton, or to find ghouls in that farmhouse? You¡¯re angry at Cordelia, but this isn¡¯t her fault¡ªno one could¡¯ve predicted any of it. Not her. Not you. Not me.¡±

    Elsbeth clenched her jaw, but he didn¡¯t stop.

    ¡°She may be reckless. And maybe we are, too. We¡¯re still here, still in this carriage, which means we¡¯re not ready to walk away. And let¡¯s be honest¡ªyou¡¯ve all underestimated what we¡¯re facing. Cordelia especially¡±

    The carriage jolted, and Percy¡¯s eyes flicked toward the window.

    ¡°Blame her if you want. But walking away means turning our backs on the plight of an innocent man. That¡¯s the only other choice.¡±

    Elsbeth¡¯s reply stalled as the wagon began to slow, something shifting outside. The fight in her chest gave way to unease.

    <hr>

    Hex kept a loose grip on the reins as the Brougham swept down Old Bailey past the central criminal court. The building gave stark judgment to all who passed. Its iron gates and heavy stone walls symbolized justice (and execution) across England and Wales.

    ¡°I can reach Corvus. He¡¯ll show us the way.¡± Cordelia said, leaning in so she didn¡¯t need to shout.

    Hex laughed. ¡°There''s no need. They¡¯ll head east down Cheapside through Poultry and Cornhill, then Leadenhall. They''re headed towards Aldgate High Street, towards East London.

    He turned the carriage east onto Newgate Street, the horses¡¯ hooves striking sparks on the stones, earning taunts from a handful of late-night revelers and street vendors packing their wares. Gas lamps cast flickering pools of light across the narrow road, the dark shape of the Black Maria no where in sight.

    He veered east onto Cheapside, maintaining the pace and calling ahead to clear the streets. There was little need. The passage of the Black Maria had already scattered the crowd, though they were slowly returning to their revelry when the Brougham came into view. Their passage was unwelcome¡ªthey had to duck more than a few times as annoyed tavern-goers hurled insults and whatever else they could find.

    "Don''t follow them past Aldgate Pump. Corvus and Harrow will handle the pursuit. Elsbeth''s right¡ªI''m being too reckless. I''ll only lead us into more trouble."

    Hex balked. "We''re just going to let them go?"

    "No, not exactly. We''ll keep tabs on them. Corvus will see to that, and Harrow will track them as long as they stay in the city. We''ll fall back and devise a better plan."

    Though uncertain about her decision, Hex began easing the horses back as they passed St. Mary Axe, where the narrow streets allowed little room for error.

    The looming shape of Aldgate Pump emerged through the mist, cast in flickering lamplight. A small crowd had gathered, voices rising in confusion and alarm.

    There had been an accident.

    A delivery wagon lay crumpled against a lamppost, its horse collapsed and lifeless on the stones. A twisted tangle of splintered wood and scattered crates lay strewn across the road. The Black Maria loomed at the heart of the chaos. One wheel snapped clean off, and its heavy frame tilted at an unnatural angle.

    Hex brought the carriage to a stop, and stepped down to the street in a flash, eyes scanning the scene.

    "There''s no sign of the driver," Hex muttered to Cordelia. "Where in bloody hell did he go?"

    Elsbeth dropped from the carriage beside Percy, her boots crunching on glass from the Brougham¡¯s broken window.

    Her breath caught as she took in the scene¡ªthe twisted Black Maria, the toppled wagon, the scattered wreckage, and the stunned silence of the gathering crowd.

    A shout rang out, and men from the crowd rushed forward through the debris, searching for anyone who needed help.

    She watched as men rounded the back of the prison carriage.

    Elsbeth froze, her breath shallow. A sick certainty crept over her like a chill: Henry Wright was dead.

    When the rear doors opened, the Black Maria gaped empty.

    Her hands clenched into fists.

    The darkness inside offered nothing¡ªnot even the courtesy of a clue. She looked at Cordelia, who returned her gaze. Henry Wright was gone, but they had a name¡ªJohn Ashcombe. He was the mind behind it all.

    This wasn¡¯t the end.

    It was the beginning.

    As the crowd clamored for the police, they faded back to the carriage.

    It was time to go¡ªbut now the real hunt would begin.