Cold air slithered under the heavy oak doors of St. Jude, carrying the scent of coal smoke, wet cobblestones, and the rotten tang of the nearby Thames. Caleb stood by the baptismal font, his lean frame slightly bent under the weight of the brass cylinder strapped to his back, his faded red hair damp from the fog and sticking to his forehead in messy clumps. "Check the pressure gauge again," I muttered, my fingers tracing the cold, checkered steel cylinder of my revolver, Genesis. A small brass needle on the side of Caleb's harness flickered under the weak gaslight, pointing just shy of the red danger line. "It is holding, Father," Caleb whispered, his voice thin but steady enough to keep from cracking in the damp silence of the nave. "Good," I replied, pulling my flask from my inner pocket with a slow, deliberate motion that I hoped looked calmer than I felt. Gin burned my throat, a brief flare of warmth that did nothing to soothe the persistent, dull throb behind my temples. "Remember the notes in the bestiary about the immature ones," I added, wiping my mouth with the back of my hand. "They don't have the hardened skin of the old pack-leaders, but they make up for it in grease." Nodding, Caleb adjusted his heavy leather harness, his grey eyes wide with a mixture of fear and determination. "Birth-slime," he said, swallowing hard as he gripped the long copper nozzle of the Purifier. "Exactly," I muttered, slipping the flask back into my cassock. "It's a thick, alkaline membrane that covers them when they first come out into the open, while their hide is still soft. Lead bullets will just slide right off it, or flatten against the grease without doing any real damage. That's why we have Baptisms, Caleb." He looked down at the copper nozzle in his hand, his thick leather gloves flexing around the iron grip. "Sacramental acid," he whispered, his eyes scanning the dark corners of the wooden rafters. "Call it what you like, but make sure you don't miss," I warned, checking the cylinder of my revolver. "One clean spray on the shoulder or the chest will strip that grease away in seconds. Once the flesh is raw, Genesis will do the rest of the work." Dust motes danced in the pale beams of the gas lamps, undisturbed by the freezing draft that crept along the floor. Shadows lengthened between the wooden pews, twisting into grotesque shapes that seemed to mimic the monsters we hunted. We had been waiting for three hours, the silence of the church growing heavier with every tick of the vestry clock. My throat felt like sandpaper, and the urge to take another long pull from the flask was a physical itch in my chest. "Do you think it knows we are here?" Caleb asked, his voice barely a breath. "I think it doesn't care," I said, my voice flat. "Hounds are hungry, Caleb. They don't think about traps; they think about meat." Every nerve in my body was wired, taut as the copper bell-wires we had stretched across the side doors. Somewhere out in the fog-choked streets of London, a carriage rattled over the cobblestones, the sound faint and distant. Then, the silence returned, deeper and more absolute than before. Iron hinges groaned in the distance, but the bell-wires remained perfectly still. High above, near the south aisle window, a sharp scraping sound cut through the quiet. Glass didn't just break; it exploded. Shards of stained glass rained down on the oak pews, clattering against the old timber like a handful of thrown teeth. Colored fragments of Saint Jude himself scattered across the stone floor, glittering in the dim gaslight. Cold wind rushed through the ruined frame of the window, carrying the thick, greasy smell of the London fog and something much worse. "Get behind the pillar!" I shouted, my voice echoing off the high stone vaults. Both of us scrambled for cover as the wind howled through the newly made opening. Behind a thick limestone pillar near the chancel steps, I pressed my back against the cold masonry, my revolver raised. Caleb lunged toward the shadow of the pulpit, the brass pipes of the Purifier clinking softly against his dark servant's coat. Pressurized air hissed from the safety valve of his harness, a tiny, high-pitched scream in the dark. Up in the darkness of the ruined window frame, something heavy shifted with a wet, dragging sound. Wet hide scraped against the stone sill, accompanied by a heavy, rattling wheeze. A massive shape detached itself from the wall and fell. Splintering wood cried out as the beast landed squarely in the middle of the south pews, crushing the old oak under its immense weight. Out of the dust and shattered wood, the creature rose. It was too tall, standing nearly seven feet if it were to stretch its crooked limbs. Reverse-jointed legs locked into place with a sickening, wet click. Thick, yellowish slime dripped from its pale belly, sizzling slightly where it touched the polished wood of the pews. Black-gold veins pulsed beneath its wet hide, writhing like grease-snakes under a thin sheet of paper. "Father," Caleb breathed, his face pale in the shadows. "Wait for the turn," I commanded, my grip tightening on the checkered walnut grip of Genesis. Genesis felt heavy, a comforting anchor of steel and silver-jacketed lead in my hand. Slime hissed as it began to eat through the old beeswax polish of the floorboards. Sniffing the air, the Hound raised its head, its split maw exposing rows of needle-thin teeth. "Now, Caleb! Strip the grease!" I roared. Red hair whipped around his face as the boy stepped out from behind the pulpit. Pressurized air shrieked through the Purifier's copper nozzle as Caleb squeezed the iron lever. A stream of pale, steaming acid erupted from the brass cylinder, arching across the nave with a vicious hiss. Vinegar and sulfur choked my nose instantly, burning the back of my throat and bringing tears to my eyes. Acid struck the beast's left shoulder with a violent, bubbling reaction. Screaming with a sound like tearing metal, the Hound thrashed as its protective birth-slime dissolved. Raw, pink flesh bubbled up beneath the melting protective layer, exposing the muscle beneath. My arm rose, steady and practiced despite the tremors in my hands. Genesis barked once. Thunder cracked inside the stone walls, the muzzle flash lighting up the beast's agonizing face for a fraction of a second. Silver-jacketed lead tore directly into the exposed shoulder muscle. Black-gold blood erupted from the wound, sizzling where it hit the stone floor. Another shot followed immediately, aiming higher. This one tore through the side of its neck, spraying more of that metallic, shimmering blood. It didn't drop. Instead, the beast turned its blind head toward the source of the fire. With a speed that defied its broken-looking joints, it lunged. A massive, clawed forelimb swung through the dark, catching the brass cylinder of the Purifier with a heavy clang. Caleb was thrown off his feet, crashing hard against the base of the pulpit. "Caleb!" I shouted, moving out from my cover. His left hand was covered in the creature's dripping, acidic slime where the beast's limb had swiped him. Smoke rose from his thick leather glove as the corrosive fluid began to eat through the hide. Crying out in pain, he tore the burning leather from his hand, tossing it onto the flagstones. Red skin showed underneath, raw but unbroken by the acid. "I'm fine!" he gasped, scrambling to get his boots under him. His right hand still held the nozzle of the Purifier, though his bare left hand was shaking violently. Snarls vibrated through the stone floor as the beast prepared to leap again, its split maw dripping black-gold saliva. I stepped into its line of sight, raising Genesis to draw its attention. "Over here, you bastard," I muttered. It lunged, its massive jaws snapping inches from my chest. I rolled to the side, my cassock catching on a splintered pew and tearing with a sharp rip. Cold air rushed past my face as the beast's claws tore through the space I had occupied a second before. From the floor, Caleb raised the nozzle with his bare, trembling hand. He squeezed the valve. Another spray of holy acid caught the creature's chest and right flank at point-blank range. It howled, a desperate, bubbling sound as the protective slime washed away. Its exposed chest heaved, showing the frantic, irregular pulse of its heart beneath thin ribs. I scrambled to my knees, leveling the heavy revolver. "Die," I whispered. Four rapid shots emptied the cylinder. Every bullet found its home in the raw, unprotected flesh of its chest and skull. Bone cracked, and the beast's head jerked back with the force of the impact. It stumbled, its wrong-bent hind legs giving way beneath its weight. With a final, desperate shudder, the creature's legs gave out. The hound collapsed on the chancel steps, black-gold blood pooling under its chest. I carved the heart open with a silver blade. Inside lay a small red stone, cracked through the center. Caleb stared. "Harvest," I said.

Chapter 6: The Hound's Hour