The village was not large. A dozen or so households, clustered by a bend in a merchant road like hens in a nest. Shadows collected along walls and under sagging roofs, spilling into cramped alleyways. Lanterns hung over the main road, bright and many, but their light did not touch the web of narrow pathways inside the village itself. There, night reigned undisturbed.

A dark forest rose on the other side of the road. Naked branches rattled like bones, bending toward the village with a sudden gust of wind. A shadow crossed the road, setting a few lanterns swinging violently.

Wind rushed into the village. It chased loose pebbles down a thin pathway, rustled under a line of laundry forgotten outside, scratched over dark doorways. Shadows rippled as the wind passed through them. The wind, and the creature it carried.

Deep inside the village, a window creaked open. A small face peeked over the ledge. The boy was no more than seven. He regarded the darkness with sleep-heavy eyes.

"Who's there?" the boy called.

The wind wailed again. The boy cocked his head, listening. His eyes fell shut, face growing slack and calm. He pushed himself up. One leg went over the ledge, then the other, dangling in the empty air. The ground gaped like a toothless mouth, cold and hard.

The wind moaned. The boy swayed forward –

"Wake."

The boy's eyes flew open. He gripped the ledge with a gasp, his heart in his throat. A woman stood below his window. The night was darker at her feet, the boy noticed, the shadows rippling.

"Go inside," the woman said.

The boy scrambled back. The window creaked shut.

Ira Hale exhaled. Her hands tightened over a thin throat. The creature clawing at her arms gurgled in pain. She shook it until it stilled.

"Silence," she said.

The gurgling stopped.

Ira set forward. Her steps melted into each other, falling quicker and quicker until she was running down dark streets. Houses pressed close. The creature Ira dragged in her wake slammed against stone walls as it twisted and writhed. The wind whined over the sound of its pained grunts.

They crossed the road. Light washed over them briefly, glinting off Ira's red eyes and the creatures' bared teeth.

The forest was quiet. There was no wind in the thicket, no bird song – the night was still, as if holding its beath. Trees grew closer the deeper they went. The light from the road and the smell of human things wore thin, until it disappeared altogether.

Ira slammed the creature against the thick trunk of an old oak. Its body creaked, bones grinding against each other under a thin layer of skin and fat.

"How many have you killed?" Ira asked.

The creature watched her with round, milky eyes. Its face was sunken and weathered. The smell of rot lay thick over its skin. When it smiled, its cracked lips stained its long, jagged teeth red.

"T-this week? T-this month?" it giggled.

Ira's fingers curled, digging deep into the creature's thin throat. The creature gurgled. Bloody spit spilled down its chin.

"You have broken the rules," Ira said.

"D-ddamn the rules," the creature hissed. "Need to eatttt. Eat. They pushhed us out and out and out and we went. There's nowhere left to go. My Lord will punish me for eatting? My Lord needs to eatt, too. Isn't that right? Isn't that right?"

The creature panted. Its shriveled chest rose and fell erratically, the skin tight over the drum of its ribcage. Ira held its eyes.

"You hunt, and you are hunted in return," she said. "This is your only right."

Clawed hands grabbed for Ira's face, quicker than a heartbeat. Ira let go of the creature's neck and dropped low. The creatures' arms were long and spindly, easily twice the length of Ira's own. They hugged thin air for a brief second. Then they curved down, the angle sharp and unnatural. Ira caught the creature's wrists in her hands, stilling them before the clawed fingers could burrow into her chest. She bore down hard. Bone crunched and gave way. The creature shrieked, half in pain, half in laughter. Its eyes glistened in the dark, bright with madness.

"Sssee? Hhow f-fun it iss. To break bbone. To tear skkin. To cheww on soft soft fleshh-"

Ira wrenched her hand back.

The creature fell mute. It stared at her, then at the stretch of its arm lying in the dirt. A gush of dark blood spilled from the stump of its shoulder. The creature did not seem to notice.

"I need t-that," it said. "I- I need-"

Ira plunged her hand in the creature's chest. Its heart was a dead, shriveled thing. It burst like an overripe plum between Ira's fingers.

The creature's eyes rolled back. It pitched forward, too fast for Ira to disengage without bearing some of its considerable weight. The creature was heavy with muscle despite its decimated state. A human would not be able to budge it. A child caught in its embrace could not hope to escape.

Ira studied the creature's broken body, the ugly sprawl of bone and hair and flesh. It had been human, once. This monster had made itself.

All the worst ones did.

The ground was hard and unyielding. Ira thought about returning to the small town on the other side of the road and finding a shovel in one of the dark yards. She would borrow it, dig a hole, cover the creature's pallid body with black dirt. The shovel will go back in its rightful place before it could be missed.

But the creature would not. There was no right place for it - there had not been one for a long time.

Blood still trickled sluggishly from the creature's torn arm. Ira knelt at the creature's side, considering.

The monster had one thing right.

She had to eat, as well.

***

The ground lurched.

Sofia pitched forward with a startled gasp. Her arms waved wide, grabbing for anything within reach. The chair under her wobbled precariously.

A clawed hand gripped Sofia's elbow, halting her dive toward the cupboards. Sofia blinked at her own distorted reflection in a drinking glass. An inch more, and her nose would have smashed against the lowest shelf. The ground had stilled. It took Sofia a moment to convince her body it was safe to move.

"Sof?" a boy said.

Sofia shook her arm. Malik let go of her but hovered at her side as she climbed down, visibly twitching with the need to reach out and steady her. Sofia did not look at him. She did not want to see worry in his eyes.

"What happened?" Malik asked.

Sofia shook her head and waved at the cupboard. Malik took her place on the chair. He would not need the extra height soon enough, growing as fast as he did. The boy was already half a head taller than Sofia. She was surprised every time she had to look up to see his face. Malik has been the shorter one for as long as they had known each other.

Things change. Sofia smothered a bubble of laughter. The trapped sound burned her throat, bitter.

Malik set a short stack of dishes and cups on the kitchen table. Three of each. She had been setting the table for three for a long time, Sofia realized. For her parents. For Dimitri and Miss MacLean. And now, here as well. Back in her childhood home, back where she should have been all along. Only nothing was as it ought to be at all.

Sofia's fingers were numb, clenched too tight around a set of spoons. One clattered over the table and off the edge when she let go. Malik managed to grab it before it hit the ground. He placed the rogue spoon back in its place next to a plate and turned large, imploring eyes to Sofia.

"Was it the earth again?" the boy asked.

Sofia nodded. Malik watched her quietly. His expression crumbled a little more with each passing second. Sofia thought of opening her mouth, of trying to force words through again. In the end, she turned away and busied herself with preparing breakfast. It wouldn't work anyway. There was something hard lodged in her throat, staunching the flow of her voice. In her heart, Sofia didn't mind. Talk amounted to nothing of value in the end.

Sofia glanced over her shoulder. Malik had finished setting the table. The boy stood with his back to her, his head low, his shoulders hunched.

Sofia wrapped her arms around Malik, pressing her face against this shoulder. The boy stiffened. He turned in her arms and clutched her back, voice a low whine in his chest.

"Don't leave. Don't leave, don't," he pled.

Sofia nodded. Malik nuzzled her hair. He inhaled deeply, scenting her. Sofia did the same, knowing the gesture was of comfort to the wolf inside her friend. She carded a hand through Malik's hair. The boy tilted his head down, exposing his throat. Sofia paused briefly, then forced her hand to resume its gentle motion. She didn't know what to do with Malik's submission or the responsibility it carried.

Malik stiffened and pulled away, cheeks pink. The kitchen door opened a moment later. A large man paused at the threshold. Sofia noted the way his lips twitched at the corners and suppressed an embarrassed smile.

"Good morning," Victor Fair greeted.

"Morning," Malik echoed. Sofia nodded, and tried not to fidget.

Mr. Fair walked with slow, tired steps. The sickness that had overcome him some months ago lingered still, leaving the man pale and haggard most days. Sofia hooked the kettle over the crackling hearth without prompting. Mr. Fair brought a jar of strong-smelling medicinal tea down from the cupboard. Malik wrinkled his nose.

"I'll be going into town. Do you need anything?" Mr. Fair asked.

"Meat," Malik said quickly.

Mr. Fair's lips tugged up briefly. "Goes without saying. Sofia?"

Sofia shook her head. There was nothing she wanted from Elsendorf.

The kettle whistled. Sofia hurried to tend to it before the water could boil over and douse the fire.

"Very well. I must stop by Gordin's, but I should be back nightfall. Remember to –"

Mr. Fair's voice cut off with a low grunt. Sofia whirled around. The kettle swung from her hands, spilling boiling water over the floor. She didn't notice, eyes on Mr. Fair's hunched body. The man braced himself against the sink with one hand. The other clutches at his chest. Malik hovered at his side, whining in question, eyes wide and terrified.

Sofia opened her mouth. A scream built up in her, pushing, pushing at the thing in her throat. No. No no no-

"Dimitri," Mr. Fair said.

Sofia dropped the kettle.

***

Valeri Beufort blinked the ceiling into focus. Worn wooden beams crossed low above him. The sight was familiar and unwelcomed. He shifted. The bed creaked under him. The thin mattress sagged at the middle. Somewhere in the room, a rat scurried away with a squeal.

Valeri kept his eyes on the ceiling. A deep fissure ran at the center of the closest beam. Valeri imagined pressing his fingers into it, widening the gap. Perhaps he could pull the entire inn down - break the building's bones and let its body collapse as it willed. There were two stories above ground. Enough weight, Valeri thought, to crush through the basement's ceiling. The rubble would surely be difficult to move. Valeri might be trapped for days. He wouldn't die of it, of course.

Valeri closed his eyes. In the end, there was no point.

The door opened with a soft creak. Footsteps crossed the cramped space, purposefully loud. They stopped at the side of the bed. Valeri didn't open his eyes to look, didn't move a muscle.

"How was your hunt?" he asked. His voice came out as a croak. He swallowed. His stomach clenched with hunger. The pain felt strange, after so long feeling nothing but numb.

"Satisfactory."

"What was it?" Valeri asked.

"A lugat."

Valeri opened an eye. Ira was looking down at him, expression mildly reproving. Her hair was loose and wind-wild. Her eyes still burned with the thrill of the chase.

A shiver went through Valeri. His eyes slipped to the thrum of blood under Ira's chin. "Lugats do not enter towns," he murmured.

"This one did," Ira said.

"What did it look like?" Valeri asked, his dour mood brightened by a spark of curiosity.

"Blind. Deformed arms, about a meter long past the elbow," Ira said.

An image of the creature rose in Valeri's mind. Lugats shared some characteristics with his kind, in that they fed on blood and feared the sun. However, the similarities ended there. Foul magic and inhuman cruelty twisted mortal men and women into these rotting creatures. They preyed on the weak, lurking in dank, dark places.

"There is a network of caves along the seafront not far from here," Valeri said contemplatively. A lugat's physical appearance depended largely on its dwelling and hunting method. No two were exactly the same. "The trading route shifted south some years back, and the ports along this end of the channel are mostly deserted. The lugat was probably forced to venture out its usual hunting ground due to lack of prey."

Valeri became aware of Ira's eyes on him. He read surprise in her gaze, and some censure, and felt much like a bright child caught slacking by a shrewd instructor.

"I know this land," Valeri snapped. "I ruled it for a decade. Perhaps I did not scrounge its shadows, perhaps I did not keep order as strictly as was needed, but I – I..."

Valeri's anger was doused by cold self-loathing. His eyes fell from Ira to the ugly bedspread. He did not say anything more.

"Get up," Ira said.

Valeri ground his teeth over a burst of laughter. The mild-mannered Miss Hale. He must have been blind, to miss the steel in her for so long.

"Why did you bring me here?" Valeri heard himself ask. He had not wished to speak, but once these first few words were out he could not seem to stop more from coming. His voice scratched his throat. "Why did you take me with you? Why did you not simply –"

He closed his mouth with a snap of his teeth.

"What?" Ira asked. Valeri turned his face away.

Ira gripped his shoulder. Blood-clogged fingernails dug through the thin shirt and into Valeri's skin. "Why did I not simply, what?" the woman demanded.

Valeri exhaled, and let the last of it go.

"Let me burn."

Ira was silent. Valeri expected nothing from her, truly – the relief of voicing what had been weighing his thoughts for weeks left him weak and a little dazed. The world had turned on him, bucked him off it as it spun. Everything felt so difficult. So far away and impossible to reach. If Ira would only let him be now - set to her nightly routine, turn her back long enough for Valeri to pull whatever was left of him back together, it would be more than enough.

The bed dipped. Valeri turned his head, tried to raise to his elbows, but Ira had already swung a leg over him. She sat hard. Valeri grunted. His arms twitched, pinned under the woman's knees. He bent his legs and tried to buck her off, but the thin mattress made for poor leverage. Ira's face was still. Her body was as unmovable as a mountain. Only her eyes lived, the light in them cold and hard.

"You wish to die?" Ira asked.

Valeri tried to find his tongue. He was silent too long and Ira, displeased, bore down hard. Valeri's right shoulder slipped out of its socket. The pain was unexpected and sharp. His body had grown weak, the bones frail with poor nourishment. Valeri's eyes darted to Ira's neck again. Her skin was flushed. She must have eaten, and quite recently. Valeri's tongue flicked over his teeth.

"I have not time for your self-indulgent suffering," Ira snarled.

She rose. Valeri sucked in air he did not need, chest heaving. He reached up and set his arm with his own hands.

The brief pain cleared the mist in his eyes. He sat up and watched Ira pack their meager belongings.

"When did you learn of the Layfe siblings' true nature?" Valeri asked.

Ira did not pause her task. If she were surprised by the question, her face did not betray her. "The first night of their visit, Sir Layfe looked into my eyes and attempted to sway my mind in his favor. I knew then that he and his sister were not what they seemed."

Valeri's hands shook. He had loved Silva's eyes, and had taken every opportunity to gaze into them, mind heavy with sweetness.

"How did you know your feelings for Zared Layfe were false?" he croaked.

"I know myself," Ira said simply.

Valeri bowed his head. What of him, then? How lost, how pathetic had he been, that he never questioned his love for Silva at all? "Yet you said nothing," he said bitterly.

"Should I have?" Ira asked.

Valeri knew he was unreasonable. Ira's purpose in Beaufort Manor was unrelated to him and his happiness and yet, precisely because of that, he could not let go of his anger. "Perhaps if you had cared for more than maintaining your cover, little Molly Wilson would still be among the living," he spat.

"You are right," Ira said after a moment of silence.

Valeri felt her eyes, but did not dare to lift his head to meet her gaze, ashamed of himself. He turned his back to her and set to straightening his clothes. They were a mismatched set, bought a few towns ago to replace the blood- and soot-stained remains of Sir Beaufort's noble persona.

"Are we leaving?" he asked, gracelessly shifting the topic of conversation.

A hand grabbed his shoulder. Valeri grunted in surprise – he had not heard Ira move. The woman pulled him around to face her, her hold tight enough to bruise.

"I said that you are right," she said. "I knew that there was danger, and allowed Molly Wilson to face it in order to keep my own plans safe. I let her die."

"You," Valeri swallowed the rest, unsure himself whether he meant to offer comfort or scorn. He turned his face away.

"Look at me!" Ira snapped.

Valeri did. The woman's eyes were bright and angry.

"Is this how Beaufort taught you?" she said.

Valeri stiffened. Ira spoke before he could defend his dead Sire, contempt clear in her voice.

"When I am right, you bow down. When you are right, you bow down again. Did Iavor Beaufort raise you as a son, or as a servant?" the woman demanded.

"You know nothing of me!" Valeri snarled. He tried to break Ira's hold on him, but his body was too weak from hunger. The failure stoked his anger and he bared his teeth like a cornered beast.

"And what know you of me?" Ira asked. Her tone quieted, but did not grow any gentler.

Valeri shook his head. What, indeed? Miss Hale, the faithful housekeeper who kept him company for so many months, did not actually exist.

"You are Iavor's daughter," Valeri said weakly. It was all the reason he had – all the reason he needed to trust Ira Hale, whoever she truly was.

Ira let out a derisive huff of breath. Valeri threw her hand off and staggered back, anger rising anew.

"The Amith Capil raised you as one of their dogs. I should not expect you to understand," he said.

"Better raised a dog than a lamb, fattened for slaughter," Ira said calmly.

Valeri did not trust himself to speak. He could not explain to Ira what Iavor's care had meant, after years of scorn and disgust from his birth father. The woman would twist his words for her own purpose.

"What do you want?" Valeri asked at last. The woman must have a goal in mind other than antagonizing him to madness.

"I am not my father," Ira said. "I will not hold you in the palm of my hand, to cherish or crush as I please. The road I mean to walk is fraught with peril. If you wish to follow me, you must do so as my equal."

"Naturally!" Valeri snapped. "As if I would accept a lesser position!"

Ira appeared unmoved. "You have decided to come with me, then," she said.

Valeri opened his mouth to reply, then paused. Ira's expression was calm but her eyes glinted with derision. He struggled to find the reason for a moment, then almost flushed with anger and embarrassment.

"Where do you plan to go?" he bit out.

Ira smiled, satisfied. "Better. I would ask after my plans first, but it is a start."

"Are we not in hiding?" Valeri asked.

"There is no hiding from the Amith Capil," Ira dismissed carelessly, as if she were not confirming the death sentence hanging above both their heads.

"Then what have we been doing for the past month?" Valeri exclaimed, outraged.

"Biding our time," Ira said.

Valeri huffed out a laugh. All of this, and the woman meant to keep him in the dark after all.

"Thank you for your trust," Ira continued. "In return, I will make you the same promise I made my team when I became their captain: I will never leave you behind."

"You mean to find them," Valeri realized. He did not know it, but his jaw eased from its tight clench with Ira's promise.

"I do," Ira agreed.

Valeri snorted. "We do not live in a fairy tale, Miss Hale. Even if we find your men alive, it will be you and me against the whole of the Queen's Army. There will be no happy ending for us."

Ira watched him, expression unreadable. "You do mean to follow me," she said. It was not a question this time, but a confirmation.

"Might as well," Valeri said. "My story has already ended."

Ira laughed. Valeri startled at the sound, brief and soft as it was.

"Rest well, Sir Beaufort," the woman said, turning back to her packing.

"It will be a long road ahead."