Pine needles crunched under my boots with each step. The wet earth gave way, soft and hungry, as if the wood itself wanted to pull me down. The fog hung between the black trunks, thickening until the path behind me became a grey wall. Somewhere ahead, beyond the dripping branches, the humming went on, too sweet, too patient. "Caleb!" My voice came out raw. I had been shouting since the lawn, and the damp air swallowed every echo before it could reach far. The only answer was that faraway hum, curling through the trees like smoke from a dead fire. I stopped and forced myself to breathe. Running blind would not find him. It would only leave two of us lost. The ground here was soft and uneven. I looked for signs. Broken fern stems. A smear of mud on moss. Anything. Then I saw his leather case lying on its side in the wet grass, one strap twisted, the brass clasp half-open. It had been dropped without thought. That was worse than any blood. I moved deeper. The pines grew close, their wet branches reaching down like fingers. Cold water slid from the needles and ran down the back of my collar. I kept Genesis in my hand, low against my side. The weight of the revolver was the only thing that felt certain. Then I saw the first figure. It stood between two trees, half-lost in the fog. A young man. His coat was torn across the chest, dark stains spreading from the lapels. He did not walk. He simply was there, waiting. His eyes were wide and still, and when his lips moved, the voice came not from him but from inside my own head. You left me. I tightened my grip on the revolver. I had heard those words before. I had buried them under years of cheap gin and church Latin, but they had never stopped whispering. Another figure appeared at the corner of my vision. A woman in a burned shawl. The cloth hung over her face, but I knew the shape of her. I always knew. Her head tilted, and the question arrived without sound. Why? I did not answer. I could not answer. They were not real. I understood that, but understanding did not make them weaker. The succubus was pulling at old wounds, turning memory into bait. If I stopped walking, if I let the guilt hold me, I would be no use to Caleb. The third shape came closer. A man with a collapsed face, the mouth a shallow pit. He pointed at me with fingers like twigs, and the word rippled through the fog. Failure. I bit the back of my hand. The pain came sharp and clean, cutting through the fog in my head. Blood filled my mouth, copper and salt. The figures flickered. The young man wavered. The woman in the burned shawl turned to mist. The man with the hollow face broke apart like smoke in wind. The humming grew louder, but my head was clear again. I spat blood onto the moss and kept moving. The ground sloped upward. The pines thinned. Ahead, the fog shifted, and I saw them. Caleb stood in the center of a small clearing, his back to me. He swayed as if listening to music only he could hear. His arms were raised, reaching toward the thing in front of him. His head was tilted, and I saw the side of his face. His eyes were soft and blank, the eyes of a sleeper walking. The thing facing him was not Iona. The illusion in his mind was not the same as the truth in mine. She was gaunt and pale. Wet skin stretched over bones that seemed too long. Her hair clung to her skull and shoulders in dark, damp ropes. Her eyes were milky, without depth, and her mouth hung open too wide, like a wound that had never closed. From that mouth came the humming, thick and low, vibrating through the ground. Then her jaw shifted. The humming stopped for one heartbeat. A long grey-pink tongue slid free, wet and ridged, lined with small circular teeth. It swayed in the air between her and Caleb, reaching. I pulled the Censer of Authority from my belt. My fingers found the igniter. I did not pray. I did not think. I sparked the fuel and swung the chain once. White smoke burst from the brass shell, bitter and clean, burning through the sweet air. I threw the censer toward Caleb's feet. It struck the moss and rolled. Smoke poured outward in a thick cloud. The fog itself seemed to recoil. The sweet smell curdled. Caleb stiffened. His arms dropped. A cough tore from his chest, and he stumbled back. The glassy look in his eyes shattered. He saw the real thing. The succubus shrieked. The sound was too high, like silk tearing under pressure. Her tongue snapped toward him. "Get back!" I shouted. Genesis was already up, but Caleb was between us. The shot was not clean. I could not fire without risking him. The creature lunged. Her hands closed on Caleb's shoulders, fingers sinking into the dark cloth. The tongue darted toward his mouth. Caleb twisted. I saw the change in him, the moment terror turned into fury. He threw his weight back, breaking her grip. His hand found a heavy branch on the ground, a knot of stone at the end. He swung. "You don't get to wear her face!" The stone hit the side of her skull with a wet crack. She reeled. He hit her again. "She is not yours!" Again. "She is real! She is good!" Again. "You made her into a lie!" I watched him come apart in that clearing. All the fear and humiliation and guilt he carried came out through his hands, blow after blow, until the screams turned into ragged breath. Then it was over. He stood over the body, chest heaving, stone still raised. The succubus lay face down in the dark moss, her head a ruin of bone and black fluid. I stepped closer. My hand throbbed where I had bitten it. The smell of smoke and wet earth mixed with the copper of blood. "Poor thing," I said, flat and dry. I put the barrel of Genesis against the back of her skull and fired once. The body twitched once and went still. Caleb dropped the stone. His hands were shaking. I looked down at the body, at the torn dress, at the pale spine beneath. A line of black stitches ran down the center of her back, neat and deliberate, shaped like a centipede. I had never seen such threadwork before. It was not a wound. It was a closure. Something moved inside the torn skin near the spine. A thick black-gold fluid, slow as quicksilver, shifted under the edge of the wound and then settled again. It did not look dead. Caleb whispered, "Father." I did not answer. I did not know what to say.

Chapter 11: Poor thing