Cold Yorkshire grease clung to the windowpane, blurring the grey morning into a smear of charcoal and bone. Rain drizzled in silent, vertical streaks down the glass, casting a dull, watery light over my small wooden table. I could hear the wind moaning through the eaves of the Shepherd's Rest, a sound that had not stopped since we arrived. I sat on the edge of the cot, my thumb tracing the cold brass handle of my pliers. The metal felt heavy and solid, a reassuring weight in a place that felt increasingly fragile. My fingers were stiff from the cold, and I rubbed them together to coax some warmth back into my joints. Across the room, Father Edmund Greaves snored in dry, rattling gasps, his black cassock still crumpled around his shoulders. He had not bothered to undress, sleeping instead in his boots with his silver flask clutched in his hand. The sharp smell of cheap gin hung over him like a cloud, mixing with the scent of damp wool and old mud. My notebook lay open on my knees, filled with scribbled accounts of broken-backed sheep and dry, smiling dead boys. Every line of my precise script seemed to scream of the wrongness of this place. The villagers spoke in hushed, terrified whispers, their eyes darting to the heights where the Blackwood estate loomed above them. Yesterday's train ride from London felt like a dream from another life, drowned out by the heavy shudder that had vibrated through the inn's floorboards last night. It had not been a tremor of the earth, not truly. It felt like something massive shifting its weight deep in the dark, waking from a long, suffocating sleep. Something deep beneath the village had moved, and the memory of that low, grinding rumble made my fingers twitch against the brass. I closed the notebook with a soft click, tucking it into my inner coat pocket next to my matches. We were far from the gaslit streets of London, and the cold here felt personal, like a hand pressing against my chest. "Up, boy," Edmund grunted, his voice like grinding gravel as he sat up and rubbed his bloodshot eyes. He looked terrible, his hair standing up in greasy tufts and his jaw covered in grey-flecked stubble. His sharp eyes, however, were already scanning the room, bright and dangerous despite his hangover. He didn't bother straightening his crooked clerical collar, reaching instead for the silver flask on the washstand. He took a long, burning swallow, his throat working in steady gulps before he wiped his mouth with the back of his sleeve. He did not offer me any, nor did I want it. A sharp swallow of gin was his only breakfast, followed by a dry, rasping cough that shook his heavy frame. He stood up, towering over the small room, and began buttoning his heavy wool coat over his cassock. Beneath the dark fabric, I caught the familiar outline of Genesis, his six-shot heavy revolver. "We have a dead-house to visit before the locals lose their minds entirely," he muttered, his eyes sharp despite the red veins mapping his whites. "The constable said they brought the boy in last night. Thomas, his name was." He paused, adjusting the heavy leather strap of his satchel. Breakfast in the common room was a silent, grim affair of cold mutton and stale bread that tasted of sawdust. The innkeeper avoided our eyes, serving us with trembling hands before retreating to the safety of his kitchen. Nobody wanted to speak of the dead boy, or the shaking of the earth, or the dark house on the hill. Drizzle greeted us at the door of the inn, a damp mist that smelled of wet wool and rotting heather. The village of High Moor was silent, its stone cottages huddled together like frightened sheep under a grey sky. Smoke rose from only a few chimneys, heavy and sluggish in the cold air. We walked toward the parish chapel, our boots sinking deep into the yellow Yorkshire mud that seemed to want to drag us down. Edmund walked with long, impatient strides, his hands shoved deep into his pockets and his chin tucked into his collar. I scrambled to keep pace, carrying our small leather bag of tools. --- Behind the small stone chapel sat the dead-house, a windowless shed built from damp gritstone that looked older than the village itself. Ivy climbed the walls like dark, skeletal fingers, and the heavy wooden door was swollen shut from the damp. A lone lantern flickered on a post nearby, its yellow light dying in the fog. Edmund pushed the heavy oak door open, the rusty hinges screaming in the quiet morning. He didn't hesitate, stepping into the darkness with the confidence of a man who had seen too many dead-houses to care. I followed him, my heart thumping against my ribs as the cold air of the room hit my face. Inside, the air was freezing, thick with the sharp tang of wet lime and something sickeningly sweet. It was a smell I had encountered once before in a London cellar, the odor of rot hidden beneath a mask of perfume. It made my stomach turn, but I forced myself to stand straight and set our bag on the floor. A single wooden table occupied the center of the dirt floor, holding a long shape covered by a rough grey sheet. The outline of the body was stark, the feet pointing straight up and the chest surprisingly flat. It looked too small to be a young man who had worked the fields only days ago. "Hold your breath if you must, Caleb," Edmund muttered, pulling back the coarse wool with his gloved hand. He did not hesitate, exposing the face and chest of the dead boy in one smooth movement. The yellow light of our lantern fell across the corpse, and I had to stifle a gasp. Thomas, the seventeen-year-old farmhand, looked back at us with a wide, manic grin. His eyes were wide open, staring blankly at the timber rafters above with a gaze of pure, glassy joy. There was no terror in his face, only an expression of ecstatic surrender that looked entirely wrong on a cold corpse. Split and bleeding, his lips were pulled back so tight they exposed white teeth against grey, bloodless gums. The skin of his face was stretched like leather over a drum, showing the sharp contours of his skull beneath. He looked like a wooden carving, a grotesque effigy of a smiling boy. I leaned closer, my fingers trembling slightly as I pulled my brass pliers from my coat pocket out of habit, though there was nothing mechanical to fix here. My mind searched for some logical explanation, some poison or lockjaw that could cause such a violent spasm. But my hands knew the truth; this was not a natural death. Yellowed skin crackled under my fingertips like old parchment left too long in an attic. When I reached out to touch his arm, my fingertips brushed against cold, brittle flesh that felt completely devoid of moisture. It was as if every drop of oil, water, and sweat had been baked out of him by an invisible fire. Touching his cheek felt like touching a dried leaf; there was no moisture, no fat, no blood beneath the surface. I pressed down slightly, expecting the skin to yield, but it remained stiff and rigid, crackling softly under my thumb. He was a hollow shell, preserved by some terrible, thirsty magic. "Look at the neck," Edmund said, pointing with the tip of his leather glove. He leaned over the table, his breath fogging in the cold air as he tilted the boy's head to the side. The movement was stiff, the neck muscles locked in their unnatural smile. No puncture marks marred the throat, nor were there any bruises or signs of struggle. His neck was as smooth and unblemished as the rest of his dry skin. Whatever had taken his life had not used fangs or claws to open his veins; it had drawn the life from him through some other, clean means. Only that terrible, frozen smile remained, and the odor of wilted roses that grew stronger as the body warmed in the small room. The sweetness was suffocating, filling my throat until I could taste it on the back of my tongue. It did not smell of death, but of a garden in late summer, heavy and overripe. "Drained," I whispered, my chest tightening. "Every drop of fluid gone, yet the skin is unbroken. How is that possible, Father?" My voice shook, and I quickly tucked my pliers back into my pocket, folding my arms to hide my trembling hands. Edmund drew his heavy revolver, Genesis, from beneath his dark coat, checking the cylinder with a sharp click before tucking it back. His movements were slow and deliberate, the actions of a man who found comfort in the mechanical reliability of steel and gunpowder. He stared down at the smiling boy with a cold, measuring gaze. "This isn't a simple beast, Caleb," he murmured, his face grim. "A werewolf tears the flesh; a vampire leaves its mark on the throat. This is a thief of the soul, a creature that takes everything and leaves the shell smiling so the living will follow." He pulled the grey sheet back over the boy's face. --- Our path led upward, winding away from the village toward the steep, jagged ridge where the Blackwood estate loomed. The drizzle turned into a steady, freezing mist that clung to our eyelashes and soaked through our coats. The village disappeared behind us, swallowed by the grey wall of the fog. Mud clung to our boots like wet cement, making every step a heavy chore. I struggled to carry the leather bag of tools, the straps cutting into my shoulder through my damp coat. Edmund did not slow down, his long legs eating up the steep slope with a grim, restless energy. Black stone walls lined the narrow lane, half-swallowed by the creeping gorse and dead ferns. The country was bleak and empty, showing no signs of life except for the occasional crow that rose from the heather with a harsh, mocking cry. It felt as if we were walking off the edge of the world. High above, the landslide was visible, a massive scar of raw orange clay and shattered slate. The earth had given way during the heavy rains of the previous week, sliding down the steep ridge to bury a section of the road below. It looked like a giant claw had torn a piece out of the hill. It had torn through the estate's boundary wall, leaving a jagged breach like a broken tooth against the grey sky. The gap was wide, filled with piles of loose gritstone and uprooted briars. Beyond it, the dark trees of the Blackwood estate stood in tight, silent rows, their branches dripping with mist. Edmund walked with his head down, his breath rising in white plumes that vanished into the drizzle. He did not speak, his thoughts buried deep behind his stern, pale forehead. I knew better than to interrupt him when he was in this mood; he was counting his bullets, or his sins, or both. I watched his broad back, wondering how many times he had walked toward a monster with nothing but a bottle and a gun. He was a broken man, a priest who had lost his altar but kept his weapons. Yet, as I looked at the dark woods ahead, I knew I would follow him into the mouth of hell itself. My heart hammered against my ribs, a frantic rhythm that matched the dripping of the mist from the bare branches. I felt a sudden, sharp longing for London, for the crowded streets and the warm, smoky air of the taverns. I wanted the sound of laughter and the clink of glass, anything to drown out this heavy silence. We reached the broken boundary wall, where the landslide had exposed the deep, dark foundations of the manor. The earth had been washed away, revealing layers of old stone and rotting timber that had been buried for centuries. It looked like an open wound, showing the dark, decaying bones of the estate. Shattered stone lay scattered across the mud, looking like old bones dug up by some giant beast. I stepped carefully over the debris, my boots slipping on the wet clay. The air here was even colder, carrying a faint, musty smell of damp cellars and old earth that made my skin crawl. Beyond the gap lay the estate grounds, an overgrown wasteland of dead ivy and choked gravel paths. A broken fountain sat in the middle of what had once been a lawn, its stone basin filled with stagnant, black water. Overgrown hedges rose like dark walls on either side, trapping the fog in the narrow alleys. Blackwood Manor sat in the center, a gothic monstrosity of dark gritstone with cold chimneys and shuttered windows. It loomed over us like a silent giant, its grey walls stained with black streaks of damp and soot. No light shone from any of its windows, and no smoke rose from its towering chimneys. It seemed completely abandoned, yet the hairs on my arms stood on end as we stepped through the gap. I felt an intense, heavy weight in the air, a pressure that made my ears ring. It was the feeling of being watched by a hundred unseen eyes, all staring down from the dark, silent windows. "Stay close," Edmund warned, his hand resting near the breast of his cassock where Genesis slept. He stopped, his sharp eyes scanning the facade of the house before dropping to the muddy ground at his feet. "Look at these tracks, Caleb. Or rather, the lack of them." He bent down to examine the exposed foundation, running his fingers along the cracked mortar. The earth here was soft and wet, yet there were no footprints, no marks of boots or paws. It was as if whatever had come out of the landslide had not walked upon the earth at all. Cold wind swept across the moor, rattling the dead branches of a dense stand of black trees near the house. The sound was like dry bones clicking together, a hollow, rhythmic noise that made me shiver. I pulled my coat tighter around my neck, but the cold seemed to seep straight through the fabric. I looked up at the dark windows, certain I saw a pale shape shift behind the glass of the upper floor. It was only for a second, a fleeting glimpse of white behind the grime-streaked panes. My breath caught in my throat, and I took a step closer to Edmund, my hand reaching for my pliers. Nothing moved when I blinked, only the dull reflection of the weeping sky. The house remained silent and dead, its windows staring blankly back at me like the eyes of the dead boy in the dead-house. I tried to tell myself it was just a trick of the light, but my heart would not believe it. --- A soft, low sound drifted through the damp air, barely louder than the wind. I stopped, my breath catching in my throat as I strained my ears to listen. It did not sound like the wind, nor did it sound like the creaking of the old house. It was a human sound, soft and rhythmic. Pausing, I tilted my head to catch the strange melody. It seemed to come from everywhere and nowhere at once, drifting from the mist-choked trees at the edge of the grounds. It was a woman's voice, humming a sweet, slow tune that vibrated deep in my chest. The melody was incredibly beautiful, a soft, rising pattern of notes that felt warm and familiar. It had a suffocating sweetness to it, like the smell of the wilted roses on the dead boy, but it did not make me afraid. Warmth flooded my cold limbs, a sudden, heavy heat that made my head spin. The freezing drizzle no longer felt cold; it felt like a soft, warm rain on a summer afternoon. My mind grew heavy and slow, my thoughts blurring together like ink on wet paper. "Do you hear that, Father?" I asked, my voice sounding distant even to myself. I turned to look at Edmund, but his figure seemed strange and blurry, his black cassock losing its sharp edges in the grey light. He seemed so far away, even though he was standing only a few feet from me. Edmund didn't look up from the stones, his fingers tracing a deep fissure in the rock. He was muttering to himself, his voice a low, gravelly hum that was completely drowned out by the sweetness of the song in my ears. He was looking at the mud, looking at the stone, looking at things that did not matter. "Hear what? The wind is picking up. Keep your eyes on the treeline." His words were flat and dead, empty of the warmth that was currently filling my entire body. I wondered how he could be so blind, how he could not feel the sweet, heavy presence that was calling to us from the woods. A thick, honeyed humming grew louder, seeming to drown out the rustle of the leaves. It filled my head, wiping away the cold, the mud, the fear, and the memory of the dead boy. There was only the song, a gentle, pulsing rhythm that felt like a hand stroking my hair. It was a song I knew, or thought I knew, from a tavern in London where the hearth fire burned bright and the smell of roasted malt filled the air. I remembered the warmth of that place, the safety of the crowded room, and the face of the woman who had made me feel like I belonged. Memories of Iona Marsh washed over me, her warm laughter, the way the firelight caught the amber in her hair when she poured the ale. I had never spoken of it to anyone, keeping my quiet attraction to her locked deep in my heart. Now, her image filled my mind, so vivid and real I could almost smell the lavender on her skin. My boots felt lighter now, the cold mud no longer holding me down. The heavy leather bag in my hand felt weightless, and I let it slip from my fingers without even noticing. I took a step away from Edmund, my eyes locked on the edge of the dark woods where the fog hung thickest. "Caleb, look at this," Edmund said, his voice faint and muffled, as if he were speaking through a thick woolen blanket. He was holding up a piece of scorched stone, but his words meant nothing to me. They were just noise, a distraction from the beautiful melody that was calling my name. Looking away was impossible; my eyes remained drawn to the edge of the dark woods, where the fog hung thickest. The black trunks of the trees seemed to open up, revealing a path of warm, golden light that led deep into the forest. And there, standing at the edge of the trees, was the shape of a woman. Standing among the black trunks was a figure, her pale dress a stark contrast to the dark bark. She was beautiful, her long hair falling over her shoulders in waves of pure amber. It was Iona, her grey eyes looking at me with a warmth that I had only ever dreamed of seeing. Iona smiled at me, her hand reaching out from the grey mist, beckoning me to come closer. Her lips moved, and though she was far away, her voice sounded as if she were standing right next to my ear, whispering secrets that made my heart swell with joy. "Caleb," she whispered, her voice clear and sweet, cutting right through the hum of the wind. "Come inside. It's warm here. You've been out in the cold for so long, my sweet boy. Come back to London, back to the fire." "I'm coming," I murmured, taking a step toward the treeline, my heart swelling with a strange, desperate longing. I did not think of the dead-house, or the smiling boy, or the monster we had come to hunt. I thought only of her, of the warmth of her hand, of the promise of safety in her eyes. Edmund's voice called out again, but it was just a meaningless noise, a distant barking dog in a dream I was leaving behind. I did not look back at him. He belonged to the cold, to the mud, to the heavy iron gun and the bitter smell of gin. I was going to the warmth. Stepping into the tall, wet grass, my eyes locked on the amber glow of her hair as she turned and drifted deeper into the trees. The mist parted for her, wrapping around her pale dress like a soft, protective blanket. She looked back at me over her shoulder, her smile wider now, her eyes bright with promise. Cold mist brushed against my face, but I felt only the burning heat of her touch as I followed her into the dark. The trees closed in around me, their black branches reaching down like a canopy to shut out the grey sky. I took another step, and the world of High Moor vanished entirely. --- I was still crouched beside the broken wall, turning the scorched stone in my hand, when I realized the boy had gone quiet. Mud gave way under my boots as I stood up, rubbing the grit from my palms. The stone I had found was scorched, the mortar melted by an intense, unnatural heat that smelled of brimstone and old fat. "Caleb, the mortar here is freshly scorched," I said, turning back toward the path. Empty space met my gaze, the boy's heavy leather case lying abandoned in the wet grass. The sight of it made my breath hitch, the cold air hitting my throat like a blade. He had been standing right behind me only a moment ago, his quiet, watchful presence as constant as my own shadow. Panic, cold and sharp, cut through the dull ache of my hangover. I spun around, my eyes scanning the overgrown grounds, but there was no sign of his faded red hair or his dark servant's coat. The only sound was the wind, whistling through the empty stone fountain. Grey pines stood like silent sentinels in the fog. The mist was rolling in faster now, swallowing the lawn in thick, grey waves that smelled of damp earth and something else. It was a sweet, heavy scent that made my stomach turn. Traces of broken ferns led straight into the thickest part of the wood. The grass had been trampled, the wet blades pressed down by hasty, heavy steps. It was Caleb's track, leading directly into the dark heart of the forest where no sane man would go. "Caleb!" I roared, drawing Genesis from my coat, the cold iron heavy in my hand. The metallic click of the hammer cocking was the only sound in the sudden, suffocating silence. My voice echoed off the grey walls of the manor, hollow and desperate. Silence was my only answer, save for the dripping of the mist on the dead leaves. The trees seemed to lean closer, their wet branches blocking out what little light remained in the sky. I could feel the presence of something vast and hungry, watching me from the shadows. I ran toward the treeline, my boots slipping on the slick grass as the fog swallowed the path behind me. The mist closed over the treeline. "Caleb?" I shouted. Only the faraway humming answered, thin and sweet. I should have known.

Chapter 10: The Faraway Song