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—

Silas

—

_Thunder crashed as Silas glanced up from his book, watching Londoners scurry about in the evening storm. No umbrellas, he noted with amusement. Mortals had such a flair for suffering. _

There were times I wished I could revel in those minor inconveniences. They meant you were alive. Of course, I had not been for quite some time, having passed during the peak of the French Renaissance several hundred years ago. Along with my younger sister, Bridget, we had both eagerly accepted the opportunity of being given a chance at eternity on Earth in exchange for our services to the realm of the living we had so recently departed.

Mortals love their myths. They cling to fanciful tales, spun like lace from the salons of my youth. Death is a simple, if horrifying, thing to them. A lone figure cloaked in the shadow of night, scythe in hand, coming to steal their souls away.

Some days, I wished it really was that simple. That death could come so easily, so cleanly, to his charges.

I am one of thousands of Collectors, the beings who harvest souls after death and usher them to the afterlife. Each Collector specializes in a certain manner of death, of course. This means that we can use whatever tools work best for our unique, individual talents. Unfortunately for me, my skill at soul binding and magical combat means that I am the local collector in charge of the violent deaths of innocents. Not only do I get as much, if not more, work than Bridget (locally in charge of death by disease), but the souls in my care never stick around to share their time with me. Rather, they usually attack me, wanting vengeance, which isn't in my purview.

The dead will tell their stories, if you care to listen. A good deal of them wanted vengeance, but many more wanted comfort. And against all reason, I still wanted to give it. But centuries of handling the traumatized wailings and raging ranting of mortal souls had cemented a rather brusque manner of speech and a frosty demeanor. Hah, that put it too lightly. Even before the wound I'd sustained damaged my throat, I never enjoyed talking overmuch. The memory of that night fifty-odd years ago flooded back to me, and my fingers habitually traced the scar beneath my cravat, feeling the valleys and ridges carved into my flesh. It was as if somewhere, deep down, my body still believed that I could massage the sins of the past away, like if I could just grasp it in the right way I could rip the ugly scar from my neck and my soul together, and make myself whole again.

A Collector had snapped, which wasn't new. Immortality wears down the mind and body in much the same way a tiny stream eventually carves a great canyon across the land. This one decided to stitch souls back into corpses and call it power. A soul bound to a reaper's service gained preternatural vigor, able to punch through solid brick walls, bend steel, and move so fast the eyes blurred. Such a perversion of nature alone warranted his death, but Victor was building an army fit to conquer the mortal realm. Naturally, the Silent Order had demanded the local Collectors take him down.

A violent storm raged outside, even worse than tonight's. Rain pelted me so hard that the drops felt more like stones than water, soaking my clothes to the fur in an icy torrent as I finally found Victor. I had him cornered in an alleyway, catching him binding yet another soul to his will. I stalked him as I raised my silver-tipped cane, grasping it as I called my full power to me. The silver cap on my cane stretched out into a scythe, gleaming with silvery eldritch fire that matched the glow I knew mirrored itself in my silver-grey eyes. Delicate chains of shimmering silver light burst forth from my back like wings, seeking a soul to bind as I rushed forward on padded feline footpaws.

I was a ghost, my steps not even splashing in the dark black water that pooled in the alley's gutters. Moving silent and unseen, I raised my scythe to bring it down, ending this once and for all. He'd never see it coming.

Or so I thought.

Victor turned, eyes wild. He saw me. How...? Daggers flashing, he caught my scythe mid-strike, his blue fire hissing between us, thick oily smoke pouring down to the ground.

My younger sister and I were unusually powerful, given our relatively young age as reapers. Our creator had told us we'd been blessed with a rare gift. But Collectors grew in power as they aged, and Victor had been around for almost a millennium, perfecting his control of the preternatural forces that allowed us to pierce the veil between the living and dead. With a snarl, he threw me back with a blast of oily blue fire, my chains disappearing as I thudded against a wall before he closed the distance between us in the blink of an eye.

He had been our mentor, once. Victor taught me how to wield my fire, shape it with a thought, praising my skill at soul-binding. He had been like the father I'd never known. For pity's sake, I loved him.

And now I had to end him.

Victor's dagger pressed against my throat while the other paw rammed against my chest, pinning me. “Silas," he hissed, his face so close to mine that I could smell his rancid breath. “Your strength would be a welcome addition to my army, you know. I've never seen anyone as naturally gifted as you and your sister before. Join me, and I won't kill you two."

I spat in his face, of course. And that's when the dagger slashed into me, and I felt the burn of his blue fire holding the wound open. Very few things could harm a Collector, but we were always vulnerable to the weapons and magic of our own kind. I felt a hot gush of blood down my front, and I choked, gasping for air that just wouldn't come. Victor dropped me, and I crumpled, my scythe clattering to the ground as I desperately pressed against the wound. He laughed, like some perverted chevalier, and turned back to the mortal corpse he'd been busy defiling.

When I coughed, Victor spared me one glancing look back, saw me bleeding out in the gutter, and snorted derisively before looking away. I couldn't tell whether I should be insulted or relieved. He'd judged me and decided I wasn't worth the effort.

His first mistake in centuries. One I wouldn't let him live long enough to regret.

Fixing his slowly retreating back with a glare, I called my power to me, feeling the crest of it swell against the confines of my body. I'd never tried this on a reaper, of course. Only on deceased mortals. But even as I slumped back against the wall, my legs splayed out in the sopping muck beneath me, I knew I had to try.

My body had betrayed me, but my mind brimmed with a white-hot focus. Concentrating my fire into my eyes, Victor's living soul popped into view, its sickly blue glow overlaid on top of his physical shell. I raised one trembling paw—the one that didn't press to my bleeding throat—and with a flick of my wrist, dozens of fine chains of silver fire burst from my outstretched palm, each tipped with a gleaming spike.

Victor screeched when they sank into him, his back arching in pain. The pain was the reason we never did this to a living being. We only did this to force a dead soul out of its body when it refused to move on or bind one if it became dangerous to the mortal realm. But I was past caring about my one-time mentor's suffering. Closing my hand, I wrapped it around the chains, and pulled with all my scant remaining strength.

The rat howled in agony, his usually smooth voice echoing roughly in the alleyway. He was resisting, pulsing his power to push my spikes out. I gritted my teeth and flicked my wrist a second time as I poured out more silver fire to thicken the chains and lengthen their spikes. More magic, more energy. More, more, more. I felt myself scraping the very bottom of my reserves as I tugged again, yanking against his immortal soul, and a cold, hollow sensation grew in my gut as I tapped my last desperate dregs of power.

Merde. This may not suffice. He's so much older than I. He'd taught me everything I know. And on some level, I didn't want to hurt him. For all his atrocities, all those vile murders in the name of growing his power, I just wanted him back. For him to repent. To be the man—the father—I needed him to be.

Then he grabbed my chains in his paw, a once pure blue fire hissing with an oil-fed rage, and pulled against me. He was trying to use my power against me, to rip out my soul first, and right then I knew this wasn't the same man who taught me all those centuries ago. He'd changed, his magic befouled by some means I couldn't comprehend.

True, I was young. But now, livid, righteous fury suffused my veins.

I was strong. Very, very strong.

I whipped the chains in my hand, breaking his grip. Victor turned, maw frothing, his eyes blazing with oily, deep blue fire. He rushed toward me, raising a dagger above his head with a yell. I roared back, the action burning like a hot coal in my throat. My other paw drifted away from my wound to wrap around those silver chains, and heaved with what little I had left.

He resisted for just a moment longer before his hold finally started slipping, inch by inch. I almost stopped when his face softened, and he gave me that amiable smile he always wore when he was proud of me. Victor dropped to his knees in front of me, and in a warm, fatherly tone, he patted my cheek and whispered, “You've always been my greatest pupil. Be good, now."

And just like that, it ended. His soul popped free of his body, which crumpled to the ground. My chains wound around his soul, binding it, until someone came along to seal it permanently.

My vision blurred. I vaguely heard my sister's voice, the splashing of her footsteps in the water, as my paws dropped to my sides, splashing in the gutter.

Everything was cold. So cold. I thought I couldn't get cold anymore… Could I be I dying? No, that's not possible. I had to be there for Bridget. Sweet Bridget. I was the only family she ever had…

Pardon, ma chère. I had hoped for more time.

“But I'm not ready," I mumbled, my voice choked with the coppery tang of blood. A chill seeped into my bones, something I hadn't felt since I became a Collector. Pain wracked my body, the sensation unfamiliar and debilitating, as I felt myself trembling violently.

What is this feeling? It almost feels like when the Collector turned me all those centuries ago. A half-forgotten memory, tremulous and vague. What was it…?

Oh, right… J'ai peur de la mort. I'm scared of dying. Just like back when Bridget and I lay dying in that choked sewer, riddled with plague, breathing our last breaths together before we shut our eyes on the world of the living.

Now I was a reaper. Death suffused my very existence. It was all my immortal life had focused on, even down to the violent end part.

I'd taken thousands of souls, but I'd never wondered what would happen when my time came.

Perhaps it would have been better not to know. Some truths are better left to the poets and the philosophers, rather than the damned.

What would that ultimate end be like? No thoughts, no feelings. Just… silence.

I supposed I'd find out soon enough.

In the end, Bridget had cauterized my wound with her own rose gold fire, and it took me over a year to fully recover. Another year to figure out how to talk again. My voice never fully recovered, and it hurt to talk now. Not that I cared to speak much to begin with; most people didn't interest me enough to do that. But I could admit things would be less inconvenient if I could talk normally.

Another night fast ending. Another day of drudgery in a century that had stretched on too long. Although, I suppose mortals are doing some rather interesting things with the theater; perhaps I'd take in a burlesque show. Bridget was a baroness, and although I never styled myself by my title, I could afford to do most anything I cared to.

But I didn't care to do anything tonight, so I didn't get up. Instead, casting my eyes about my office, I hummed to myself. I really ought to get some furniture in. Perhaps a rug, too? I had electric lights, but I found no appeal in those garish contraptions. They were too bright, eagerly revealing things that should be softened by shadows. Instead, I preferred my collection of old oil lamps as they flickered and stretched their glow over red-bricked walls and dust-covered floors. I supposed I should have hired a maid at some point, but that meant company, which meant talking, and the less of that I had to do, the better.

There might have been some merits to burning everything down just to avoid having to clean it all. I was listing them one by one in my head when the bell jingled, and a voice as bright as a lark called out into the house. “Excuse me? Delivery for Silas Ambrose?"

With a grunt, I collected my straight, silver-tipped cane, exited my downstairs study, and padded silently to the entryway. A young grey mouse stood there, dripping wet, barefoot, and in rags. She shifted uncomfortably on the dusty floor, the grit sticking to her wet paws. When I coughed at her, she jumped, then stuck her tiny paws on her hips. “You're too quiet," she muttered. “You Mr. Silas Ambrose? Collector, Second Class?"

“Yes," my voice rasped. Whether it was from my old injury, or several days of disuse… well, who could say?

She squinted at me, pushing a sopping curl of red hair off her face. “Damn. You always sound like you swallowed gravel, or is this just my lucky day?"

Hmm. This little pipsqueak had a mouth on her. I exhaled sharply, fixing her with a steady glare. “And you are…?"

“Charity Dunkirk, sir!" The mouse gave me a mocking salute, completely unperturbed by my scowl. “Newly recruited to the messenger division under Lady Ambrose." The way she went misty at the mention of my sister couldn't be missed. Bridget was as wholesome and personable as I was… well, as I wasn't. “She told me you'd be a real… wot'd she say? Oh, right, a 'pal-toe-nee'?"

Messengers were bound to collectors, serving as errand runners and servants. I despised the binding of the dead to compulsory service, but the Order was quite set in its ways.

This sassy waif couldn't be over twelve, and if she served my sister, some disease had taken her. Likely cholera, given her gaunt appearance.

“Not a paltonier, neither a rogue nor a liar," I muttered, rubbing the spot where a headache bloomed between my eyes with a groan. “Your pronunciation is shite. Why are you here?"

“Tough crowd," the little mouse muttered before perking right back up again. “Right! Got a message for you." She handed me an envelope with a flourish, sealed with peachy gold wax. “Straight from the order. Some nasty business, yeah? Lady Ambrose told me you never get the nice ones."

Ignoring her chatter, I turned the letter over, breaking the seal and skimming its contents. Damn. A collection order. The name stood out to me, for some odd reason. Harvey Fairfax. I rolled it over in my mind_. Hm. Labrador. Just one family member; a younger sister? Dead in approximately two hours._

Harvey Fairfax. The name itched at the back of my mind, bringing a vague memory of sharpness and pain. The scent of burning, rotten flesh mixed with the coppery tang of fresh blood hit my nose like a punch, making me sneeze.

I shook myself from head to toe as every hair on my body stood to attention, rubbing the scar on my neck again, and I swore my old wound bean burning with fresh fire. God, even my whiskers bristled, twitching like I'd been electrified.

What had affected me so? His name? No, not a chance. Harvey. The name was as tantalizing as a soggy scone—it was impossible that it might stir the ghosts of my memory.

With a scoff at my foolishness, I messily crammed the letter into the lining of my waistcoat instead of folding it neatly like I normally would. My mind was just playing tricks on me, a familiar memory brought on by a dint of reminiscence. Victor is gone, bound forever; I'd seen to it myself, even though it nearly killed me.

Still, my instincts were rarely wrong. I'd never had premonitions myself, but I knew they were never something to ignore. Most importantly, I couldn't shake the notion that Harvey was… important.

Merde, I could practically taste the truth of it.

My throat bobbed as I swallowed against my suddenly dry mouth. I puffed out a single terse breath to refocus my thoughts. “Thank… you," I choked out. “You can leave now."

Charity huffed. “Wow, real warm welcome. You always this friendly?"

I gave her my sharpest look yet. “Bridget said to talk to me. Yes?"

“Maybe." She grinned up at me. “I always listen to her orders." She gave me a wink. “'Specially if they're fun."

I squeezed my eyes shut and pinched the bridge of my nose. Both my throat and my head throbbed in time to the beating of my heart. “I dislike talking. She knows this. It hurts. Please leave." I swallowed against the knot in my throat. “Tell my sister not to meddle."

Charity shrugged, shoulders slumping. “Yeh. Sure thing, boss." She turned and opened the door, revealing the torrential downpour that still left her dripping onto my floors, soaking her through before she arrived. “Damn. That's a whole mess, innit?"

I grumbled before reaching out to put a paw on her shoulder. “Wait." The mouse looked up at me, one eyebrow cocked. God, she was so small. “Stay. Fire's warm."

Charity smirked. “Aww, you do care." She shrugged my paw off her shoulder and walked toward the office. “Don't you get all sentimental on me now, ratbag."

I grunted, then tapped my cane on the floor. My silvery fire surfaced, burning in my eyes and causing them to glow. Loose chains of silver light swirled around my cane, waiting for my mental command to attack. When I spoke again, I kept my voice flat and soft, trying to avoid the pain and choking that always came with more impassioned speech. “When it stops raining, leave. Don't lock up."

She waved a paw in the air, dismissing me as she disappeared into my office. Despite my best efforts, one corner of my mouth twitched up into a smile, and I turned to head out into the deluge.

Company was, on the whole, something I could do without, but I had always held a secret soft spot for children.

My sister's teasing laugh played in my head. Damn her, I thought, letting the corner of my mouth just barely twitch up.

The woman knew my secrets too well.

—

Harvey

—

Rain poured down in great bleedin' sheets on my little sister and me as we hurried along London's dark cobblestone alleys, racing for the single room I'd been renting. Our bellies were full, for once—we'd just gotten dinner thanks to the charity of St. Bartholomew's. It almost made the droning sermon we'd had to sit through first worth it. Whatever lord or lady sent that night's stew had used a bit of lamb, and we'd attacked the meal. Meat was a rare treat for us indeed, and the warmth of it helped push off the cold damp of London.

Evelyn shivered, pulling me out of my rambling thoughts. I pulled her tighter beneath my cape, trying to cover her more fully. It had been hard to find employment, and the pittance I earned hauling freight at the docks really didn't afford us much in the way of, well, anything. It barely paid for that squat, dark hole I rented for us, so we were hard up for most anything else.

My sister stumbled, letting out a swear her manners teacher would have fainted at as she tripped over a cobble in the dark. Electric streetlamps lit the major roads, but the back alleys I was using as a shortcut held no such luxuries. The rapidly fading sunlight, already obscured by the dark clouds, barely lit up our steps, and the lengthening shadows seemed to loom over us.

Frankly, it would've been terrifying if I'd been afraid of the dark.

Evelyn shivered again, shouting up at me to be heard over the rain. “Bloody 'ell, I'm soaked! How much farther?"

“Almost there, Evie. Sorry, love, we'll get you a cape as soon as I gots a steady job. I—"

A sudden, loud cracking noise brought me up short, sounding for all the world like the jaw of a large beast snapping shut. I jumped and looked around, but couldn't see anything through the yawning stretch of evening. Nothing followed; had I imagined it? I waited, just to see if anything turned up, before Evie whined and tugged me forward again.

It was gettin' too dark to see proper what with the clouds blocking what light was left. We made it another three, maybe four feet, before it sounded again.

CLACK!

This time, it echoed off the walls, bouncing all around us. Evie froze with me this time. “Y'hear that, Harv?"

“Yer," I said briefly. It was well and truly black now, and labradors don't have the best night vision. But we had bang-up noses, and Evie and I raised them up in sync to test the air.

“Anything?" My sister's voice wobbled as she huddled closer to me. If I'd had two coppers to rub together, I'd have bet them both that it wasn't from the cold this time.

“No," I said flatly, shaking my head even though I knew she couldn't see it. “Rain's washing everything away. Just smells like shit and mold." Another quick sniff. “Ugh. And something rotten." My nose wrinkled as I took a step forward. “C'mon. Let's give this alley the slip and—"

CLACK!

My muscles flinched. It was louder this time, which meant it was getting closer. Whole body, tensing, I whirled around to look behind us. Nothing seemed obviously wrong, but out of the corner of my eye, I caught the hem of some fabric slipping into the shadows.

I felt it then, deep in the pit of my stomach. That twisting, pulsing dread that spoke of a simple truth.

We 'ent alone here.

I wasn't afraid of a fight, not really—I was a right bruiser, having hauled cargo at the docks for the better part of two years. So, I knew I could defend myself. But guarding Evie on top of that? That thought made my stomach clench so tight I thought I'd be sick.

CLACK!

Christ, it was all around us this time. I turned to shove Evie forward, and a hot, wet puff of air tickled the back of my neck. Hackles rising, a low growl issued unbidden from deep in my chest. “We don't got any money! Just trying to get home. Brush off!"

CLACK!

Is it in front of us now? Or behind us? Damn this echo!

CLACK!

My skin crawled as a whiff of rotten meat tickled my snout again, the rank odor so thick I tasted it on my tongue.

CLACK!

A peal of thunder sounded overhead, but I swear the cracking sound came from right beside me, not from the lightning above. The sudden rising of sour bile on my tongue caused me to gag.

Hell no.

I picked up Evie by her armpits and thrust her forward, screaming at her to run. But when I made to follow her… well, it was strange. A high, smooth voice called out three words—what were they? They reminded me of the hymns they sang in church. Each syllable slithered into my ears, curling long, icy fingers around my chest, arms, legs, and neck, squeezing unbearably tight. The blood froze in my veins with a cold so strong that it burned, and I shivered uncontrollably as my body went heavy. It was like someone replaced my blood with molten lead, and my legs wobbled with the effort of trying to hold me up.

CLACK CLACK!

God. It's on top of me.

Shite. Breathing was harder now, too. Every gulp of air I stole vanished only a moment later.

“Evie, you hafta run!" I slurred, my mouth not working quite right. She didn't run, though. No, Evie turned to look at me as a faint blue glow drizzled over us, the dim light almost heavy and liquid in the way it flowed around us and making the shadows swim and lengthen. The stink of rot was thick in my nose now, pervasive even through the rain. Evie took a few steps back, her mouth working soundlessly while my tongue felt cottony and thick. When I swallowed, my throat clicked, dry as a bone. “Evie… s-s-shumping's w-wrong, I—"

A sudden punch of pain. My breath vanished. I looked down to see a blade gleaming between my ribs, slick with my blood

I couldn't stop myself, and my hands moved jerkily to touch it. When I did, I pricked the pad of my finger on the point. Ouch. Sharp!

Stupid, that. But everything felt… odd. It was like I'd come detached, my joints loosening as a bone-deep cold filled my fingers and toes before spreading rapidly up my limbs and toward my core. Strange—my shivering stopped even as the cold spread.

The pads of my fingers brushed down my front as my arms grew too heavy to hold up. Warm, sticky wetness stuck to them as they traveled. And when I choked again, the taste of hot, wet, salty copper flooded my maw.

Aw, fuck. An odd sort of calm washed over me, lapping at me like gentle waves at high tide.

Well, shite. I've gone and got meself stabbed.

Huh. Thought I'd be pissed, or at least a little sad. Or maybe I expected my life to flash before my eyes, like they said in the stories Evie read to me late at night. But it was just pain.

Pain, and cold, and a queer numbness deep inside me.

Evie screamed, a loud, long, guttural sound ripped deep from her throat. My eyes snapped to hers, moving with the sudden speed and urgency only a family member's cry could produce. Her face looked twisted and… gutted. No, Evie. You need to run. Then, my scrappy tomboy of a sister dropped into a crouch. “I'll fuckin' kill you, you pigeon-livered bastard!" she shrieked as she rushed toward me.

No, not me. Whoever was behind me. I felt that pressure from earlier ease slightly as the sharp, pointy blade slid out of me. Then I got booted in the back, careening forward. My arms wouldn't reach out to catch me, no matter how hard I tried, and my face hit the hard cobbles, right into a puddle rank with sludge. And I still had no air.

Ah, I thought. I'm gonna croak.

Evie… you gots to get away. Don't worry about me. I'm done. Go.

Go!

Run!

But she didn't run. My eyes, frozen open, watched as she stumbled backward, battling with my murderer. She'd been taking manners lessons, but right now Evie was every inch the street tough we'd been as kids. My little sister fought dirty, kicking, biting, her claws flashing as she scratched at the eyes of a hooded figure not much taller than she was.

A long dagger, still dripping with blood—my blood—flashed in one pink paw, the other gripping a thick, gnarled staff that dripped a dark tarry liquid onto the cobbles below. A lantern burning a deep blue hung from the end, with thick, oily black smoke drifting from that flowed down along the ground instead of up to the sky. That was all strange, hey? But I couldn't muster up the energy to care. Since I was on the ground too, the smoke burned into my eyes as it drifted over and filled my nose with that stink of rotten meat again.

It was so dim that I hardly noticed when my vision started going black around the edges. That hooded figure dropped the dagger to wrap their paw around Evie's throat, pinning her to the wall. I saw a pink, fleshy tail whip out from under their cloak as they lifted her off the ground with that single, unnaturally powerful arm.

No. Please, no. Please don't let this be happening.

God. Don't make me watch this.

I felt nothing now. Nothing but sadness as my chest stilled, giving up on its attempts at breathing. I couldn't even shut my eyes to block it out. The darkness that covered my vision closed in on Evie's face, her mouth twisted in a snarl, her legs kicking, clawed paws tearing at the flesh of our attacker's arm, but it did no good. It was like the rat—mouse? I couldn't be certain, but it had to be some kind of rodent—didn't even notice her struggles. They didn't even flinch as its fur and blood fluttered and dripped down onto the cobbles below.

My eyes couldn't move away from my sister's face. Her mouth moved, but if any sound came out, it was lost. Or maybe I was too far gone to hear it. But her eyes, bulging as she struggled, met mine, and I swear she nodded at me. Smiled—just the ghost of it—just for me. Her hair, plastered to her skull by the rain, quivered as her whole body jerked one last time, then went slack. Our killer dropped my sweet, sweet sister in a heap on the ground before tapping her with that gnarled staff. Turning to look back, I caught sight of the rat's face. Grey, tatty, definitely male. He hissed out, “Damn you, Silas! Why couldn't you have just died?!" before vanishing into the darkness.

Oh, God.

I'm sorry Evie. I'm so, so sorry.

But I guess… huh. Least I'll see you soon.

The last thing I should've seen was my beautiful, broken sister laying in a grimy London alleyway. But as my stinging eyes finally started drifting shut, something appeared between us. Someone? Hell, it's not like it mattered anymore. The figure, long and lean and black as the night, took one knee, and I saw something else. Something I don't think I was supposed to see.

A flicker of silver flame, just a single tongue, with fine chains of burning light slowly wrapping around the figure—no. He was a man too; a feline, fine-boned and sharp-featured. His face lit up underneath with that silvery glow, looking for all the world like a bare skull. He looked… sad? Definitely a little angry, too. I was sure of that. I knew angry faces well.

Why is he angry? Is it because of… me?

I sorta hoped so. Nobody but Evie ever cared about me while I was alive. It'd be nice to have someone care after I croaked.

I'd never get the chance to find out, though. My body gave up the struggle, and a pitch-black curtain dropped over everything as I abruptly… well…

I think I died.

—

Silas

—

I hurried down the labyrinthian streets and alleyways of old London. Travelling to the poorer quarters was always the most disgusting part of my job, with the muck and mud in the streets, trash, sewage, and that smell seeped into my fur for days. I'd have to burn my clothes when I got back. A shame. I liked this waistcoat.

It didn't take long to reach my destination. The streets may have been a maze, but I predated this part of the city, and so I knew the entire city like the back of my hand. Pulling out the letter as I stopped under an awning, I reviewed the mission directives.

“Harvey Fairfax. Twenty-one. Currently suffering from moderate malnutrition, otherwise healthy. One living family member—Evelyn Fairfax, seventeen, no health conditions."

“Harvey is attacked just after the seventh hour on his way home with his sister. Cause of death: fatal stab wound. Time of death: 7:13PM. Sister will have fled the scene unharmed. Do not pursue."

I pulled out my silver pocket watch, the one thing I owned besides clothing that was expertly cleaned and polished. Clicking it open, I checked the time. “A quarter past. Right on time."

Ducking into the dark alley, I held out a paw, palm up, and called up a ball of silver flame. Chains weaved in and out of it, ready to strike if Harvey proved to be one of the difficult ones. My ear flicked as the sound of scuffling feet hit me, but I paid it no mind. That must have been Evelyn fleeing.

All according to plan.

That plan lasted nearly a whole minute before my flames lit up the gruesome scene before me.

“What the hell happened here?" I muttered, glancing between not one, but two bodies laying in the alley. The bulky, bloodied male must be Harvey, but who was that by the wall? I paced over to the smaller, crumpled figure as a sick feeling of dread welled up in my stomach. My whiskers were twitching again, and I was on high alert despite being more or less alone. Something was wrong—I could feel it. But what?

I nudged the waifish figure over with my boot, revealing the slender, feminine face of another labrador. All I could do was blink stupidly for a moment as my brain whirled, trying to put the pieces together. Frowning, I glanced at Harvey, then at the girl, then back at Harvey. “No. No, no, no…" Was the mission wrong? No. Impossible. They're never wrong. In my over three centuries, such an oversight had never even been theorized.

But here she was. This had to be Evelyn. Dead as a doornail when she was supposed to have lived. Impossible.

I closed my eyes, feeling my power rise, and when I opened them again, they burned with my cool, pure fire. The shadows retreated as I searched for Evelyn and Harvey's shades. They were dead, so there had to be one for each of them. But Evelyn's wasn't there, somehow. Not even the usual tether connecting her shade to her former body. To borrow a quote from my only friend's favorite new book, curiouser and curiouser.

I only had to wonder where her shade had gone for a moment, because when I turned around, I saw the blue-grey ghost of Evelyn kneeling over Harvey's body. She had her hands buried inside her brother's chest, struggling to keep something down. In? Harvey's shade was missing now, though, and I couldn't figure out what—

“You!" Evelyn's eyes snapped to mine, filled with wild desperation. “Save him!"

I blinked. “You seem… coherent?" If it sounded like a question, well, it certainly was. “How did you—"

She only rolled her spectral eyes and pressed down even harder as her willowy arms jumped. “There's no time! Save him! You've got the spooky eyes and the magic fire too. If that ratbag could pull me out, you can put him back in!" Another twitch of her arms. “Hurry! I don't know how I'm even doing this, let alone how much longer I can keep it up."

I squatted by her brother's cooling corpse. The dead could always touch the dead. My paw rested on her shoulder, solid, but cold as the grave. “Evelyn," I said, softer than I meant to. “I'm sorry. He's gone."

Evelyn snarled as she pressed down harder on whatever she was holding onto. I was about to comfort her again when I heard a hacking, wet cough from below.

“What the—ouch!" Startled, I fell back on my ass, crushing my tail as I landed. The seat and full back of my trousers got instantly soaked in cold water, alley muck, and probably quite a lot of Harvey's blood. That didn't even register, though. For a long moment, I sat frozen, until I the faintest, most fragile whisper I'd ever heard reached my ears.

“E-Evie?"

Right. That was definitely coming from Harvey. I scrambled over to him, pressing a finger to his thick, meaty neck. Holding my breath, I waited, and waited, until…

“Saints above! He's actually got a pulse!" I goggled at Evelyn, who looked exhausted, but still wore a devilish, satisfied smirk. My jaw was hanging open, and it took a conscious act of will to close it again. “He can't still be alive! He died—" I hastily checked my watch. “—twelve minutes ago!"

“Yep." The shade nodded grimly. “I barely got here in time. He was just starting to slip out, but I crammed the brute back inside." The next jump almost pushed her hands clear of Harvey's body. “C'mon, guv! I can't keep this up!"

“What do you—" my voice cracked again, and this time it was definitely the old scar. It flared and burned, and I choked. I'd been talking too much tonight, far more than I had in years. I swallowed, trying to dull the pain. It didn't help overmuch. “What am I supposed to do? He's not dead!"

“Don't care! You're the one in the fancy duds with the fancy magic!" Evelyn's spectral eyes met mine, and in that moment, I didn't see her as a shade anymore. Her eyes were pleading, desperate, pained. She didn't look like the young woman she'd been about to become. Hers were the eyes of a child, and she was begging someone, anyone, to save her big brother's life.

I wrinkled my nose, glancing away. “Shite…" I couldn't believe I was going to do this. I couldn't believe I was even thinking about doing this. Harvey was supposed to be dead. Deceased. No more. A corpse. And not only was he not dead, his sister definitely was, and if I saved him, I was going to make it two impossible things tonight.

The Order would have my head on a spike. Right outside headquarters. I'd be a cautionary tale to young Collectors.

And then I met Evelyn's eyes again. She was crying silently, and her trembling mouth formed one word.

“Please?"

Fuck.

I shoved more power into my eyes, enough to see living and departed shades alike, and rolled him onto his back. Harvey's was shaky, vague around the edges, but definitely still present in a living body. Well, it wouldn't be living for much longer if I didn't do this immediately.

I took a deep breath—in and out—and my chains burst from my back, each tipped with a tiny spike. “Let him go," I rumbled, voice hoarse. Evelyn hesitated, but slowly retracted her hands. Right as they left her brother's shade, I flexed my shoulders, and the spikes bit into his soul, pinning it inside.

Harvey's face twisted, back arching, and his mouth opened in a silent scream. I was certain that if he hadn't been on the cusp of death for so long, his scream would have echoed from here to Buckingham.

I winced. This definitely was causing him pain, but it was the only way I knew how to bind a soul to a body. I'd never done it myself, though.

God, I hoped this worked.

Something tugged on my chains. My eyes shot up to glare at Evelyn, but she was scooting away from her brother, face a mask of horror.

What? Then what's pulling on my…

I looked down, and saw my chains, dozens of them, being pulled into Harvey's shade as his body jerked and twitched unnaturally on the ground. Horrified, I lurched back and tried to stop them, but his soul sucked my power down like a starving babe. Even more chains exploded forth to join the others; I'd never wielded that much power at once before.

The pull was relentless. A thousand unseen hands clawed at my magic, ripping it free in gouts of silver flame. The pain burned white-hot—no, it was worse. It was absence, a void that gnawed away at my core and hollowed me out. I gasped, but I had no breath in me. No air. No power, no control. Just Harvey, pulling, and pulling, and pulling…

Victor had said something about this, I think. What was it?

Oh, right. “Never bind the living."

Well. Fuck.

I've never run out of magic before. Not completely. What happens then?

Will this finally be what kills me? Sure seems like dying…

That familiar clenching of my gut hit me like a punch, so powerful I tasted bile as it jumped onto my tongue.

Once more, I heaved on my chains. Once more, I gritted my teeth, imposing my will and forcing myself to take control.

Once more, it didn't work.

The power in my eyes that enhanced my vision flickered, then sputtered out, replaced by bright spots dancing and circling around like I'd stared into the sun. My reservoir of magic guttered and gasped, and then the last of the fire in me burned out.

It hit me all at once, the yawning emptiness stretching cavernously inside me. Pitching forward, I landed across Harvey's bloodied chest. I vaguely felt Evelyn's ghostly hands, cold as winter on the Thames, shaking me as she yelled something I was too weak to make out.

No use. I was too far gone.

As my senses faded to nothing, a voice called out to me. Just one word, cutting through the haze.

“Silas?"

The voice was honeyed, deep and… wrong. It thrummed with the pulse of something ancient, something other. Something hungry.

Something that shouldn't have known my name…

—

Harvey

—

Cold.

So cold…

The rain beat down against my head and soaked through the cheap fabric that covered my arms and legs. The first thing I noticed was that the rain felt… well, it wasn't the same, somehow. I was incredibly aware of each individual icy drop as it prickled against my body.

I'd forgotten that I needed to breathe. Remembering hit me like a sack of bricks, and I greedily sucked in two great gasping lungfuls of air as my eyes snapped open, and two thoughts popped into my head at once.

First: I could smell everything in that alley without trying. The rot, yeah, and the muck, but it was more—I smelled movement. The rats scurrying about behind mouldy crates, the sweat of a man three alleys over, the faint tang of ink and paper from the press just across the way. It all mixed together to paint a picture in my head, layering over the pitch-dark alley in ways I didn't know how to explain.

And that was the other thing. The alley lit up clear as day, glowing with silvery light. Was it morning? Or had the coppers brought some lights with them?

I'd been lying in the gutter, which was stupid. I got my elbows underneath me and levered myself up. Something heavy slid off my chest and fell with a dull, wet splat next to me. Huh. What was—

My eyes landed on Evie's form. She looked fine. Well, a little terrified, sure. And a little sick. And she was kinda see-through.

Oh, and she was blue.

Like the light from the rat. Our killer…

Memories came flooding back to me in a sickening rush.

Walking down the pitch-black alley.

The hideous, incessant clacking.

Falling.

Pain.

Dying.

The black cat.

Black cat?

There'd been someone there, right before I…

Right before I died.

I turned my head, and there he was, sprawled limply in the alley. Rain and blood soaked his coat, his face half-buried in the gutter slime, ears slack, breaths shallow. Something deep inside told me he was dangerous, all over red despite being unconscious. One look at the buck sent shivers down my spine.

Like a dagger left in the rain—silent, patient, waiting.

I focused my eyes, trying to get a read on the man. Something about him, the way he just lay there—sinking into the muck, coat clinging to him in the rain—sent a queer, unfamiliar sort of thrill through me. His breathing stayed shallow. Slow. Too slow. My chest tightened, clenching with something I didn't know the word for.

Something else caught my eye then. A loose thread—no, a chain, fine and pulsing with silvery light, winding from me to the knocked-out cat. Almost missed the bleedin' thing, even with whatever-the-hell was going on with my eyes. I plucked at it, and it tugged deep between my ribs, making me shiver.

“Shite, what a state," I mumbled, then blinked. My voice sounded… off, though I couldn't place why. I swear it had a bare hint of an echo, like you might hear in an empty chapel. A second voice, lurking 'neath my own, old and powerful. It lasted a bare second, but it sounded clear as a bell.

And I'd bet my life that it heard me, too.

The cat—no, Silas, though I hadn't the foggiest how I knew his name—gasped and twitched in the slime, his muzzle rolling into a puddle and making little bubbles. Without a second thought, I reached out and pulled his head into my lap. Immediately, his breathing eased, though not by much. I stared at him for a minute, my newly sharpened eyes taking in his fine-boned features and thick inky fur. For a moment, I wondered if his fur was as soft as it looked, and my fingers twitched in their eagerness to find out. I raised a paw, letting it hover over his forehead. Should I do this? It'd be incredibly rude, but—

“Harv! Pay attention, ya daft bruiser! Move your arse and get him out of the rain!" I jolted at my sister's barking, jerking my paw to my side as I finally wrenched my gaze away from the curious feline, and my eyes met Evie's. She'd stood up now. Sorta. Her feet were odd, almost invisible, and she floated above the ground rather than standing on it.

And still blue.

Right-o.

“Evie?" I said slowly, rolling each syllable over my tongue as if it were new. “Am I dreamin'?"

She sighed. “No, you great knob. This is real. Believe me, I'd be asking the same thing if I weren't a ghost."

“Ghost?" My tongue, numb and thick, made me sound even stupider than I always was. “Yer dead?" The numb feeling spread from my mouth through my neck, down into the barrel of my chest, and tingled to the tips of my fingers and toes. Shaking my head, I let out a growl as my eyes stung. “Why?"

Evie floated over to me, sinking into a kneeling position without ever touching the ground. “Because I'm dead, big brother. You saw what happened. That rat bastard killed me."

Whipping my head up, I wrapped my arms around her and crushed her to my chest. She squawked and wriggled in my hold, but eventually settled down. My sister was still solid, somehow, but holding her felt… wrong. She was like ice to hold, and I had the distracting urge to wrap her in my sopping wet cloak. Tears spilled hot over my cheeks as I let out a sob. “Then why didn't I go with you?" I squeezed her tighter and whispered, “I want to go with you."

Evie went loose in my arms, her body going wispy and barely there, like a heavy London fog. When I finally opened my damp eyes, she was floating above me, smiling at me. “Harv, you're alive because I wanted to save you. We lucked out, him coming along when he did." She waved a wispy paw at Silas. “I couldn't save you on my own, you know. I needed help. He's got some strange magic shite going on, kind of like the ratbag who killed me—"

My muscles tensed all at once, and I glared down at Silas in a rage. “He's wot, now?" Letting my paws ball into fists, I shook with rage. Did he know something about why my sister died? “Was it his fault?!" I growled through a clenched jaw.

“No! Harvey, listen to me!" Evie took my face in her paws, forcing me to look at her. “He saved you. He didn't want to, but he did. I made him." She grabbed my wrist, bringing my paw to Silas' forehead, and I flinched at the burning heat I felt there. “But you gotsta save him now. For one, we owe him, but also—and I don't know how—I can see that he's dying. And I don't think he's supposed to die." My sister's voice trembled. “After he tried so hard to save you, I don't want him to die…"

My heart softened. “All right, fine. But where do we go? Can't show up at the boardinghouse covered in blood…" I looked back down at the unconscious feline in my lap.

Silas. The bastard who saved me instead of saving Evie. The bastard who was my only clue to why my sister died. The utter bastard who… who…

Who was too thin. Too drawn. Too still. Gritting my teeth, I blinked back hot tears and squared my shoulders. My emotions were clouded, jumbled, but one thing was clear—deep down, I wanted to save him, too. Without so much as the ghost (hah!) of a plan, I slid my arm under Silas' knees and the other under the back of his shoulders, then got my feet under me and stood. My boots squelched from the muck that seeped in while I was down, but I ignored it in favor of a sudden sense of purpose that pushed me down the other side alley. Mechanically, I stepped toward the pull, letting instinct guide me. “Hey, Ev?"

“Yeah?"

“I… I might know where I'm going?"

And—saints above protect me—I did, too. One step after the other took me out of the grimy back alleys into the, well, slightly less-grimy, but more moneyed neighborhoods. I somehow stayed in the shadows, too, avoiding the sight of anyone who might look on. A bloodied brute like me carrying a limp bloke in collars and cuffs would prolly give the wrong impression.

I never looked back, but I knew somehow that Evie followed along behind me. She didn't speak at all, but I caught her scent, seemingly unchanged by death. Her lilac perfume wafted around me, soothing my raw, jangling nerves. Just knowing she was there with me set my mind at ease as I walked this strange path for a man I'd saved, but didn't even know.

After walking for a hair more than a quarter of a bell, we made it to a fancy new set of row houses, all red brick with white windows and tall chimneys. Rows of electric streetlamps lit the well-kept cobblestone road, illuminating us, and I breathed a sigh of relief that there was nobody out at this hour. My footsteps stopped in front of one that had the name “Ambrose" printed beneath the knocker, and at last, I balked. Should I knock? Ring the bell? What if no-one was home? Worse, what if someone was home? What would I do if his housemaid was still here? How would I explain—

The latch clicked, and the door creaked open a bit all on its own. No lights on, but that was all right. Seemed I didn't need them now, anyway. My shoulder shoved into the door, and I hurried inside before kicking it closed with my foot.

Ew. A layer of dust and grit covered the floor, kicking up into the air and making me cough as my steps stirred the grime. Evelyn floated right through me, ghosting up the stairs as I toed off my boots and wriggled out of my wet socks. Did Silas not have a housemaid at all? Maybe he couldn't afford one with this big fancy house. Still, I didn't want to get water and alley muck all over this fancy wood floor. Evelyn's face popped out of the ceiling, giving me a fright so bad I almost dropped Silas. “There's a bedroom up here!" she called out.

“Yep. Definitely worth scaring the fur off me." I grumbled as I clomped up the stairs. She was right, though. A massive old wooden four-poster, made of plain mahogany with no scrollwork or carvings, sat in the middle of the room. To the side, a bureau and a wardrobe, similarly old and plain but made of that same rich mahogany, sat on one wall. A floor-length mirror sat in one corner, with a plain wooden armchair chair in the other. The entire set matched, but also looked like it belonged to one of the grandmothers I sometimes did heavy lifting for.

I gave the bed another once-over. Rich cream cotton sheets and a heavy coverlet with a deep red rose pattern on it. I thought to myself that if I were Silas, I'd be furious if someone ruined bedding as nice as that, so I poured the feline into the armchair and started peeling off his clothes.

First, the collar and cuffs. Those took a moment to get right, as I'd never needed to worry about things that posh. His cravat had to come off too, of course. Removing that revealed a frankly horrifying scar on his neck that made me flinch away and suck in a breath through my teeth. I just stared at it for a while, noticing how Silas' throat bobbed and flexed underneath it when he swallowed. Some bizarre instinct urged me to touch it, and my fingertips slowly reached out to run along the angry, lumpy flesh. I was about to make contact when Silas coughed, and I twitched away. Pull it together, Harvey! You're putting him to bed, not… whatever you were about to do!

I shook myself out of whatever state I'd slipped into, trying to remember if he'd been wearing a hat—it would've been strange if he wasn't, but I didn't see one. With a shrug, I untied his heavy wool cloak, letting it pool on the dusty floor. Next came the jacket, followed by the vest and finally the shirt. I tried to work quickly, fighting not to snag any of the fine fabric with my unclipped claws or thickly callused finger pads.

The simple part done, I moved on to the patent leather boots, then his heavy trousers. They were sopping wet, and covered in slime and blood. My blood. I nearly yanked Silas out of the chair, trying to get the tight-fitting britches off him, but I managed somehow. Yech. The pants were probably ruined, but I put them with the rest of his laundry, anyway. Sock garters, socks, long johns… whose idea was it to wear this many bleedin' layers?!

Silas tilted, mumbling to himself, and I reached out to catch him. His bare, lean chest pressed against me, surprisingly firm and toasty warm as his head buried itself in the crook of my neck, nuzzling against me. I froze at first before giving in to instinct and wrapping him in my arms, giving him a squeeze before shifting the cat to put him to bed.

It was harder than I thought it would be to let him go. I stood hunched over Silas after I pulled the thick blankets up to his chin, noticing his scent. Without the gunk and slime and blood, I finally caught a whiff. It was fresh, enticing, like country earth right after a hot summer rain. My eyes fluttered closed as I focused on it. After all the death and decay that night, it cut right through to my core, and something that was loose and shaking inside me settled as I breathed it in.

Reluctantly, I brought myself up to standing. I had things to do. The fire needed stoking, his laundry needed tending, and we both needed some hot tea. Hopefully, the rest of the house wouldn't be so bleak…

—

Silas

—

Consciousness slowly returned to me, bubbling up slow and thick, like oat porridge in a pot. My head felt much like that porridge, too, leaving my limbs weak and heavy and my mind groggy. I licked at my dry lips, the chill of damp fur sticking to my skin contrasting with the warmth of a toasty fire, and cracked open my eyes to look around.

Oh. My. Harvey was standing with his back to me, swishing something around on the floor and whistling a quiet jig.

My first coherent thought? “Why is he mopping?"

Some emotions started cutting through the mush of my brain. I was at home, safe and comfortable in my bed, at least for now. The fire had been lit and stoked to a roaring flame, making my room undeniably cozy. There was tea somewhere. I smelled it, though I couldn't see it. It made my mouth water, though, brewed better and stronger than anything I'd ever made on my own. I watched almost fondly as a shirtless Harvey plodded around my room, mopping as he went.

I wasn't used to being taken care of like this. It was… well, it was nice.

Which lead me nicely to the second thought. “Why is he shirtless?"

I'd never seen someone as brawny as Harvey, especially not in my bedroom. Corded muscle bunched and flexed under his broad, golden-furred shoulders as he shuffled around, slowly inching closer to my bedside. He was thick all over, come to think of it, from his trunk-like neck all the way to his massive calves that strained against his wet, but astonishingly clean, trouser legs.

The vague concern that he was something other now, something wrong, had no sooner crossed my mind than I succumbed to my parched throat. I let loose a coughing fit so sudden and loud that Harvey's bare feet jumped clear off the floor and he dropped his mop with a clatter. My body screamed in protest at the strain, aching in places I didn't know it was possible to hurt.

“Cor! You're awake!" He hurried over to my bureau, where I saw my teapot and one of the porcelain teacups Bridget insisted I keep around, and poured me a cup. A saucer joined the set and he brought it right to my bedside. “Here. I couldn't find any sweet to put with it, but it's hot."

I nodded slowly, trying to figure out his angle. Why was he being so… helpful? It was almost like he thought I needed taking care of.

Well. He couldn't know that I was already dead.

Silently reaching out, I took hold of the saucer. Our fingers brushed, just for a moment, and something deep inside me recoiled at the touch. The cup clattered to the floor as I jerked away from the labrador in horror, and my hoarse voice shook as I stammered out, “W-What are you?!"

Harvey's ears flattened, and a flash of hurt twisted his features for just a second before carefully smoothing out in a mask of forced nonchalance. His sister's voice echoed like a whisper in my mind, saying, “Please…"

Regret twisted in my gut. He'd been nothing but kind to me, and I'd been a proper bastard in return.

“Right, then. Cheers, mate. Good to see you too." Harvey voice was quiet, and a little raw. I wished I could take it back, but I didn't know how. Or if I even could.

The labrador picked up the cup (fortunately unbroken) and wiped it down with a towel before filling it again. Moving much more slowly this time, he silently placed it on my bedside table before taking a few steps back before finally meeting my eyes and giving me a single, wordless nod. Like he knew I'd hurt him, but he understood.

Expected it, even.

No. This was more than I could bear. I might be a world-famous ass, yes, and obviously severe. But though I usually had no qualms about driving people away, it hurt something in the pit of my stomach to see how badly I'd upset Harvey. I carefully picked up the tea, so as not to spill, and raised my cup to him in an awkward salute before taking a sip. My eyes widened. “S'good," I mumbled, then cleared my throat and took another sip. It was exactly what I needed, soothing my aching throat. A little louder this time, I nodded at him, and he finally met my eyes as his tail gave a cautious wag. “Thanks." I pointed at the chair in the corner. “Sit."

And so he sat, back ramrod straight, poised just on the edge of the seat. I chuckled, then winced at the sharp pain in my throat. Why does everything nice have to hurt me, damn it?! Setting the cup back down, I propped myself up on a pillow and gave him my best, most soothing smile. Well, I tried to, anyway. The expression was so rusty from disuse that it wouldn't have surprised me if my lips creaked. “Can…" I coughed again, but held up a hand when Harvey made to get up and help. “I'm fine. Tell me what happened?"

“Er, like, from the start?" I nodded patiently. “Right. So, Evelyn and I went to Saint Bart's for supper. They had a real nice soup, they did, and the sermon was boring but it weren't the worst. Father Donovan usually keeps it short—"

I cleared my throat loudly, and Harvey tilted his head as he looked at me, clearly puzzled. “In the alley," I clarified. “What happened there?"

The labrador flushed, his ears folding back. On a man that broad, it shouldn't have looked as adorable as it did. “Sorry, guv'". He took a deep breath and let it out, closing his eyes. “We was heading to our room. I got this weird feeling, like I was being watched, y'know? And then there was this clicking sound—click, click, click" He stopped and shuddered, pausing for a long moment before continuing. “Kept getting closer and closer, till it was right on top of me." Harvey grimaced. “Smelled like death, too. Rotten meat? The alley definitely didn't stink like that before, or I wouldn't have gone in there at all."

Rotten meat? Something sparked in the back of my mind, raising my hackles. No… it was one more impossible thing, something that never could be. Not again. I wandered through my thoughts for a minute before Harvey coughed, snapping me back to the present. Sheepishly, I nodded at him to continue his story.

“Right. So, there were some words—I think they were words, anyway. Didn't understand 'em—and suddenly my body went all heavy and cold." Harvey shivered again, rubbing his bare arms despite sitting right by the hearth. “And then I-I… I got…"

“You, ah, don't have to say it." The words tumbled free from my lips unbidden, the need to protect this man overwhelming my sense of reason. He jumped, looking startled at me. I tried another smile, and this time he gave me a half-smile back. “What happened next?"

Harvey took a shaky breath. “I fell over. No, I got kicked over. And I saw that… that thing attacking Evie. Watched him…" Now he'd started panting for air, breathing so fast I thought he might hyperventilate.

“Shh. We can skip that too." I was talking too much, again. I reached for the tea, having a few more sips. Harvey mechanically got up and refilled my cup, leaving the pot by my bed. Voice soothed, for the moment, I took a different tack. “Did you see who attacked you? Anything distinguishing about them?

Nodding, Harvey's eyes grew hard and sharp, almost glowing from within. No, literally glowing, silver fire circling his irises. “He was a rat. Grey fur, smelled like literal death. Real bracket-mug, uglier'n sin. And…" Now he glanced away, scratching behind one ear. “Uh. He had this staff, yeah? Had a lantern hanging from it, but it burned blue, and the smoke went down, not up." He looked up at me from a down-turned face. “Please tell me I'm not crazy," the man begged.

His words reached me as though from leagues away. Grey rat. Blue fire. Black smoke that flows down. “It shouldn't be possible," I whispered. “Victor is gone. Sealed. Saw to it myself."

My breath quickened, and one paw instinctively covered my scar. Ears flattening to my head, whiskers pulled back, every bit of fur standing on end, I gritted out, “It can't be Victor. Not again."

Damn near jumped out of my skin when I felt a gentle, if callused and rough, paw on my shoulder. Harvey had moved to my side in a flash, without me even realizing it. He grinned lopsidedly at me, though his eyes brimmed with apprehension. “This guy bad news?"

“If—if—this is Victor, and I'm not saying it is…" I tried in vain to smooth my fur. “Well. He's the worst news," I finished, my voice as small as I'd ever heard it. “I need to go. I have to—" When I'd moved to turn the covers back, Harvey quickly darted over and laid his massive paw over mine to stop me. There was a bit of a struggle against him before I stilled, realizing there was nothing between my fur and the fine cotton sheets. “Harvey?"

“Y-Yeh?"

“Why the hell am I naked?"

Harvey looked a little peeved, and more than a little amused. Shrugging, he said, “Yer clothes were soaked, and you were shiverin'. Did what I had to."

I nodded slowly. That made sense, but that didn't quite explain everything. “And what about here? How did you know where to bring me?"

Another shrug. “I dunno. Just knew, guv'."

There! There it was again! That other voice, layered on top of Harvey's. That unnatural echo. God… just those few words soured my stomach and made my skin prickle. Harvey shouldn't sound like that.

What the hell was going on? This whole situation, from start to finish, was entirely unprecedented. No-one I could call for help, no-one to teach me what was going on. The only person who'd ever even hinted at something like this was Victor. And I wasn't ready to even entertain the notion that he was back, much less that he'd be willing or able to help me if I'd cared to ask.

I gnawed at a claw as Harvey busied himself fussing with the fire. If the Order found out about Harvey, would we be decommissioned? Like Victor and his creations? Would they make my sister do it this time? If they did, would I even want to fight her? I didn't want to be sealed, not for some accident, but…

The gentlest tap on my shoulder pulled me out of my thoughts. “Brought ya some tea." Harvey gave a cautious smile as he handed me the cup.

Blowing out a shaky breath, I took it from him. “Cheers. Why don't you go get some rest, yeah?" He hesitated, but after a moment, he nodded and took the mop and bucket with him as he went. I watched him go, watched him shut the door behind him, and immediately noticed his absence from the room, like something important had just vanished.

I sipped the tea. It was deliciously hot.

But my hands were shaking, anyway.

—

_To be continued…

—_