Henry could not recall when he lost consciousness, but, as he became aware, he began to recall the hooded man walking toward him. Beneath the hood, he saw a smile. One that held long, sharp teeth where incisors once sat. The hooded man had given a nod to someone behind Henry and then everything became nothing until this very moment. At the very least, Henry hoped his capture had given Annie a chance to escape.

Now, that very same man, bereft of the hood, sat across from him at a table laid splendid with food. The man did not look up as Henry struggled against bindings about his chest, leaving his arms and legs free. With a knife in one hand, the man used it to place a cut of some white meat into his mouth, while the other hand flipped a page upon something he read. Henry recognised it immediately. His notebook.

"You are a learned man, Mr Pierce, are you not." The man glanced at Henry, chewing as his hand waved across the notebook page. "You have maintained copious and detailed notes within this journal and, I must confess, some of your findings are beyond me. It is fascinating, nonetheless."

The man stabbed another piece of meat on to the tip of his knife, holding it as he swallowed the previous piece. He gave a chuckle, tapping one part of the page before nodding to himself. Henry took the moment to observe his surroundings and felt surprised at the normality of it all. A fire burned in a hearth. Along the wall at one side, a library, of sorts, sat, packed with books and sheafs of papers.

Beside the fire were two, high-backed, comfortable chairs, a low table between them where a pipe sat upon its rest. Henry could see no others within the lamp and candle lit room, but he had a sense of the presence of others. His hand reached to his neck, where a furious itching had bothered him since waking, and found a bandage wrapped about his throat.

"Am I to understand that I address one Arthur Shipton? Known rogue and murderer? Wanted in several territories?" His fingers edged down the bandage, only for the hand of another to pull his fingers away from the cloth and his throat. "I, too, must confess that I fail to understand why I yet live, considering your reputation."

The man, Shipton, laid down his knife, picking up a napkin and wiping his mouth before lifting a wine glass. The liquid within looked far too thick to be wine, or even brandy. It oozed along the inside surface of the glass as Shipton tipped it against his lips, savouring the taste with only a slight lick of his lips. He regarded Henry with an unblinking stare before putting the glass down, wiping his lips once more and pointing to Henry.

"You should eat, Mr Pierce. It will probably be the last meal to sustain you." That didn't sound like a threat. Shipton returned to his meal, stabbing a series of small carrots onto his knife. "Oh, you will find a different appreciation of such foods, but your sustenance will come from other sources. Eat. Cook has outdone himself this day."

Henry looked down at the plate before him, cutlery arrayed beside the porcelain, lightly decorated plate. In a glass, at the top, he saw wine. Real wine. A bowl held several rolls of bread. Platters, slices of various meats. White meats, red meats. Potatoes, mashed, roasted and baked sat in their own bowls beside others with a range of vegetables. All appearing fresh made, still steaming.

His hands free, Henry moved to pick up a fork and knife, only to pause as Shipton's words became clear to him. The cutlery clattered against the plate as he began to rip at the bandage around his throat. The hands from behind tried to hold him, stopped only by a slight shake of the head from Shipton, allowing Henry to uncover something he feared more than anything.

The bandage fell into his lap as shaking fingers moved up his throat, testing the skin as they trailed upward until he touched broken flesh. He hoped, prayed, that Shipton had only opened his vein to 'milk' his blood, as horrific as that may be. But Shipton had not intimated that. He had implied something far worse and, as the tips of his fingers traced the closing wound, he found his fears realised.

"You have bitten me." His hands fell to the surface of the table, fingers curling beneath his palms as his mind began to race. He glanced at the face of a Grandfather clock in the corner of the room. "I suspect some eight hours, or so, have passed. That leaves me with, in the region of, sixteen hours before I succumb to the disease. Sixteen hours before I become a monster."

"Mr Pierce, I was a monster long before I chose this life. Yes. Chose!" Leaning back in his chair, Shipton crossed his legs, the knife in his hand twirling, point first, upon the table surface. "I sought out one of these creatures, allowed her to bite me because I saw the strength of this form. The power. Now, no hangman's noose will end my life. No pistol. No rifle. I am immortal! And, now, so shall you be."

"Why?" Henry strained to see who stood behind him, but could only see another table, his belongings spread across it, including his pistol and scythe. "What could I possibly have that could make you wish to turn me?"

"Knowledge, Mr Pierce! Knowledge. I said you are a learned man and I have need of such as you. Someone of intelligence by my side as I expand my considerable holdings. You will put that formidable mind to use in my service." Shipton rose to his feet, dropping the knife and picking up Henry's notebook. He moved around the table to sit upon the surface beside Henry. "And you know this woman that escaped. She has irked me, Mr Pierce. Followed me for long years and I would know why."

The man's eyes bored into Henry's and Henry saw no humanity within them. No life. This man that sat before him was as dead as those rotting infestations that cursed the land with their animation. Only this dead thing had the entirety of his faculties and reasoning. He did not live as most would consider it. He existed, still, but he was a man no more and, soon, Henry would follow him down that dark path. Cursed to feed upon the blood of the living. Spurred on only by the hunger for those that Henry would no longer apply the term 'kin'.

Shipton expected an answer, but he would not find a willing accomplice in Henry. He turned his head aside, setting his jaw. Automatically, his hand raised to adjust his spectacles, but found they no longer sat upon his nose, though his vision seemed unimpaired. The transformation had already begun. Still, as long as he lived, he would never give this creature the knowledge he demanded.

"I am uncertain whether she is Annabelle Potter, or some relative. For certain, she has suffered as Annabelle Potter suffered and she seeks retribution for the Potter family, husband, son, Annabelle, that you and your gang cruelly struck from this life for no other reason than they were there." Henry's hands flew to his mouth, clamping tight to stop further words escaping. Something compelled him to speak, however. "She is a hunter of monsters. Killer of all unnatural creatures that sully this world. Why, sir, she is nothing more than your death made manifest and she will not stop until you are burned and ash."

Shipton turned his eyes from Henry and the compulsion to speak faded. Henry gasped for breath as Shipton lifted himself from the table, patting him on the shoulder as he moved out of sight to Henry's rear. After a few seconds, Shipton returned, carrying the Colt pistol given to Henry by Annie. He opened the chamber and span the cylinder, a slight buzz penetrating the air until the cylinder came to a stop, Shipton closing it once more.

With a nonchalance born of confidence, Shipton turned the pistol in his hand until he held the barrel, offering the handle to Henry. It felt redundant, Henry knew, as did Shipton, that a bullet would not kill a Murcie. It may incapacitate them, should the bullet strike the brain, but only until such time as the body repaired itself. Murcies were resilient. But Shipton had given Henry the pistol for a reason.

Henry balked at taking the Colt from the man's hand, cocked the hammer back and aimed at Shipton's head. If nothing else, Henry could inconvenience the man with a bullet hole to his forehead. For a short while, at least. His finger wrapped around the trigger and Shipton made no move to stop him. He had, once again, rested himself on the edge of the table, leaning forward a slight, nearer the pistol. A pistol that Henry could not fire. He tried. Oh, how he tried, but his finger would not, could not, squeeze to fire the weapon.

"See, I found, quite by accident, that anyone I sired as a Murcie, fell under my thrall. They did as I commanded without reservation. Answered questions with brutal honesty. You didn't know that, did you, Mr Pierce? Something for your notebook, perhaps." Shipton took the pistol from Henry's shaking hand, uncocked it and tossed it to someone behind Henry's chair. "This woman, this death that stalks me, she will not kill me, Mr Pierce. No, she will not, for you, her erstwhile companion, will kill her, instead. You are mine, now, Mr Pierce, and I shall make good use of you. Big things, Mr Pierce. Big things are a'comin'!"

Someone grabbed Henry's shoulders as they untied him from the chair, lifting him bodily to drop him to the waxed and polished wooden floor. They tied his hands, lifted him to his feet and began to drag him from the room and Henry could only think of Shipton's words. That he would do anything for that man from this moment forth. Including killing a woman that had saved his life on more than one occasion.

He had no choice. Soon, Shipton would charge him with killing Annie and Henry had no way to resist.