Gael’s veins roared as he jabbed the second dose of his waking drug into his neck. There was a slow, crawling burn up his arm, then a snap like his nerves had just been slapped awake.

  His heartbeat stuttered, quickened, and then just as quickly, stabilized. He exhaled hard through his nose. His body may have been screaming for sleep, but he’d just shoved it off a cliff with a boulder tied around its ankles.

  Cara whacked the back of his head.

  “Stop doing that. Your body’s gonna be fried by the time you’re thirty.”

  “I don’t need sleep. I need money.”

  Cara muttered something about him being an addict, but Gael ignored it. Across from them, Fergal still sat in his chair, but he was looking behind him and out through the surgical chamber door.

  “Oi! Stay the hell down! Stop squirming!” he barked.

  A few muffled groans of protest sounded from the injured Repossessors out in the prayer hall. Then, silence.

  Fergal exhaled sharply and turned back. “Do any of you have a wooden board?”

  Gael blinked. “What?”

  “A board.” The man gestured vaguely. “To draw on.”

  Before Gael could even start thinking about where the hell they’d get a wooden board, Cara was already moving. She bent over, grabbed something under Gael’s surgical table, and chucked it at Fergal in one smooth motion.

  Fergal caught it and set it on his lap. Then, without a word, his four extra arms—the glossy black spider limbs sprouting from his back—flexed.

  He started carving with his extra arms.

  Gael leaned forward, fascinated. A Spider Class, then. No real surprise there. Most Repossessors he’d seen or heard about seemed to have a Spider Symbiotic System one way or the other—and unlike the shackle-type systems the Symbiote Exorcists gave their Hunters and Hosts, their systems were simple spinal implant-types that didn't require a partner to function—but now it made Gael wonder: what kind, exactly? Was the man in front of him still in Standard Class, like him and Maeve with the Standard Wasp Class, or were the Repossessors rich enough in points that they could afford to evolve a few of their men into Advanced Classes?

  As Maeve sat stiff beside him, and Cara tilted her head, sipping her tea, Gael tried to pull up that thing again. The ‘identification interface’. He’d accidentally done it once against the Myrmur in Old Banks’ manor, allowing him to see his opponent’s estimated aura and attribute levels, but between the pounding headache, the drunkenness he’d yet to sleep off, and the slight drowsiness even waking drugs can’t put in the ground completely, he wasn’t able to pull up that interface for Fergal.

  At least, not before Fergal finished carving his drawing and slammed the board into the ground before them.

  I’ll just ask Maeve later.

  For the time being, all three of them leaned forward and frowned at the board.

  The carving was rough, but clear: a crude depiction of a winged figure with two legs and four arms, looming over a set of rickety buildings. There was a poorly drawn moon above the figure, and below, a series of small symbols—likely coins—were drawn being sucked out of windows and into the figure’s grubby little hands.

  Fergal tapped the board with one of his spider arms. “That’s our target.”

  Gael squinted at the carving. “We’re hunting… a badly drawn bat?”

  “A bird?” Maeve offered.

  “A creep?” Cara said.

  Fergal ignored all of them. “It’s a legend that’s been growing these past few months. The ‘Flighty’, they call it. A blood-hungry Nightspawn that flies around Blightmarch stealing people’s riches.”

  “Right,” Gael said slowly, “and why’s it called ‘blood-hungry’ if all it does is steal money?”

  “No idea. That’s just what people say.”

  “The Flighty ain’t the most intimidating name, either.”

  “Not my choice.”

  Gael waved a hand. “Whatever. So it’s just a thief with wings?”

  “Maybe.” Fergal’s voice darkened. “Normally, it only targets individuals. It breaks into houses and stores in the dead of night and robs a bit from the registers, never anything bigger than a handful of Marks, but this time—” He tapped the carving again. “—it burned down a whole damn warehouse. My warehouse.”

  Cara raised a brow. “And stole what?”

  “Nothing at all.”

  The air in the room shifted.

  Gael leaned back, crossing his arms behind his head. “Huh.”

  “That doesn’t make sense,” Cara said. “You Repossessors are rich. Shouldn’t there be lots of Marks for it to steal from your warehouse without you noticing anything disappearing?”

  “Correct,” Fergal agreed. “Which is why I need to catch this thing before my boss rips my head off. We’re fine with it stealing from other people, but nobody steals from the Repossessors and lives to tell the tale.”

  “I have,” Gael mumbled. “The old boss was much more lenient than Lorcawn. He let me off twice even after he caught me stealing corpses from the Mortuary Sanctum red-handed—”

  “Say what?”

  “It’s a great morning out there, ain’t it?”

  Fergal sighed. “Look. I’d normally bring in my boys from the other districts to help me out with this ‘Nightspawn’—and let’s be honest, this is most likely just a Fly Afflicted or a Moth Afflicted, not an actual Nightspawn—but they don’t know the area. And right now, most of my men are down.”

  He gestured vaguely out into the central ward, where over eighty percent of his gang was lying in bloody bandages.

  “So,” he continued, “I need locals. People who know Blightmarch like the back of their hand.” His gaze landed on Gael, then flicked to Maeve and Cara. “My proposal is simple: help me find the Flighty, and I’ll pay you. Help me capture them, and I’ll pay you well.”

  Gael sat up straighter.

  “Deal.” He stuck his hand out. “I also want protection for the clinic as long as your boys are stationed in this neighbourhood. Don’t fuck with us, we don’t fuck with you.”

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  Fergal reached for his hand. “Sure. Having another clinic in our back pockets won’t hur—”

  “Wait,” Maeve and Cara said at the same time, the latter slapping Gael’s hand away.

  It was easy enough telling what Cara was thinking. Of course, she was smart enough not to say it in front of the Repossessor, but he knew that look: that tight clench of her jaw and that slow, controlled breath through her nose. She didn’t like this arrangement. She didn’t trust Fergal, and in all honesty, neither did Gael.

  But Maeve, on the other hand, had no such filter.

  “I don’t want to work with a gang that takes people’s limbs from them,” she said plainly.

  Gael’s stomach dropped. He resisted the immediate urge to wrap extra bandages over Maeve’s mask and shake some damn self-preservation into her. Instead, he just kept his face neutral and turned very, very subtly to see how Fergal was reacting.

  Gotta murk someone if this goes bad.

  Now, who do I go for?

  The Exorcist or every single Repossessor in this building?

  Thankfully, he didn’t have to reach the natural conclusion to that question, because while Fergal said nothing—didn’t move, didn’t blink—Maeve whirled on him and glared at him instead.

  “And you?” she asked, tone sharp. “You don’t have any qualms about working with these people?”

  …

  Gael exhaled slowly.

  He weighed his words. He weighed the way Fergal’s presence loomed over them, silent but expectant. He weighed the way Cara wasn’t stepping in—which meant she trusted him not to let this go to hell in the next minute—and then he rubbed his chin.

  Carefully, he looked back at Fergal.

  “The Flighty is semi-infamous,” he said. “One even I’ve heard about from the sparrows these past few months. Capturing a wandering, unknown Nightspawn is probably good for the entire district, eh? And if it’s been stealing from the Repossessors—” he gestured vaguely at the wooden board, at the carved image of the winged figure, “—and it caused the fire last night that hurt so many people, then that’s a bigger issue in and of itself than just some lone thief.”

  He let a slow grin creep up his face.

  “And I am a doctor.” He spread his hands. “I value all human life, including gangsters, so if the Flighty’s turning violent, it’s in my interest to take it down as well.”

  Fergal’s brow twitched. It was probably the closest thing to amusement Gael had ever seen on him.

  He turned back to Maeve and Cara, smile widening.

  “And besides,” he continued, “capturing something that’s a bother to the district is gonna raise our reputation. That’s an undeniable fact.”

  Cara’s fingers drummed against her arm, the only outward sign of thought. He didn’t say ‘especially amongst the Repossessors’, but he was sure Cara heard it anyway.

  He was also sure Maeve, for all her naivety, heard it loud and clear.

  Silence stretched.

  Then Cara sighed. “Alright, then.”

  Convincing his older sister wasn’t that difficult, so that was to be expected. Maeve, on the other hand, still hesitated.

  Then, reluctantly, she jerked her ankle to remind Gael of the chain connecting them.

  “Fine,” she mumbled, looking away. “You’re the Doctor and I’m the Exorcist in this professional relationship, but we’re only helping you find the Flighty.” She looked back at Fergal sternly, eyes aglow behind her glasses. “Is that acceptable, Mister… Fergal?”

  For his part, Fergal simply shrugged. “Sure.”

  And just like that, Gael grinned.

  Fergal stood.

  “I have matters to attend to,” he said. “I need to make a report to my boss about what happened. In the meantime, keep tending to my men downstairs. You’ll be paid for the whole treatment once they’re all discharged.”

  A pause.

  “I’ll return with more information about the Flighty. Hopefully, you’ll also have found some information of your own by then.”

  Gael exhaled, finally relaxing his shoulders as the Repossessor turned and left the chamber.

  Then he put his hands on his hips.

  If he was going to be actively hunting a Nightspawn now… well. No more delaying.

  He needed upgrades.

  Time to take a crack at bioarcanic engineering.

  Evelyn staggered through the crooked doorway, shoulders hunched against the morning chill.

  The first slivers of weak sunlight sliced through the boarded-up windows. Her breath hitched as she took another shaky step forward, her legs nearly folding beneath her. She barely made it past the foyer before she collapsed onto the dust-ridden floor, her entire body convulsing with exhaustion.

  Pain flared through her limbs. She was freezing, despite the sweat clinging to her like a second skin. Her arms, her legs, her ribs—everything burned. Her palms throbbed, cut open from scrambling over jagged brick walls, and her breath rattled in her chest, sickly and weak.

  She’d spent the entire night running.

  Hours of ducking through alleyways, squeezing into crawlspaces, slipping between the skeletal remains of old buildings, and all while the Repossessors prowled the streets like starving hounds. Her every step had been a gamble. Her every breath, a risk. She’d used everything—her speed, her knowledge of Blightmarch’s slums, her sheer desperation—to stay ahead of them.

  And in the end, she had nothing to show for it.

  Not a single coin in her pocket.

  She curled in on herself, pressing her forehead against the cold, grimy floor. A weak, miserable noise escaped her lips, and her vision blurred with frustrated tears.

  Shit.

  I fucked up.

  I can’t… I can’t—

  Then soft noses pressed against her cheeks. A chorus of whines filled the air. Rough tongues lapped at her wounds, warm fur brushing against her frozen skin.

  Her hounds.

  She cracked open her eyes, blinking blearily as three familiar figures hovered over her. Bram, her golden-brown eyes filled with worry, nudged at her cheek while Luce licked at her scraped knuckles. Rags whined, pressing his nose against her shoulder, his tail tucked between his legs.

  She swallowed hard, her throat raw and aching. With trembling fingers, she reached out and pulled Rags closer, burying her face in the hound’s thick fur.

  “Thanks, Rags," she whispered, her voice barely above a breath. Her body still ached, still shivered, but their warmth grounded her—kept her from slipping into the nothingness clawing at the edges of her mind—and she knew she couldn’t stay there on the ground forever.

  She forced herself to sit up, biting back a pained whimper. The moment she did, her hounds immediately pressed closer, circling her and helping her stay upright. Evelyn mustered a weak smile and patted Bram and Luce’s heads before pushing herself onto unsteady feet.

  The Mothlight Orphanage loomed around her, its silence as heavy as a tomb.

  She was used to the scent of rot, mildew, and old dust. Cracks ran along the walls like veins, and the wooden floor beneath her feet groaned with every unsteady step. The place had been abandoned for a while now, its caretakers long gone, but to her, it was still home.

  Hers alone.

  She trudged toward her room, her body screaming in protest. Each step felt heavier than the last, but when she reached the door and shoved it open, the sound of rustling fur and soft whimpers met her ears.

  A moment later, she was tackled to the ground.

  Dozens of warm bodies swarmed her at once, tails thudding against the floor, wet noses pressing into her skin. Barking, whining, licking, wriggling—her hounds were a chaotic blur of fur and limbs and love. She let out a weak, breathy giggle as she was smothered under her pack of dogs.

  For a moment, she just lay there, letting herself breathe and exist in their warmth and safety.

  But her relief didn’t last long.

  She couldn’t help but notice it almost immediately.

  Their furs were still patchy, their ribs still jutting out, their eyes still tired and sunken. Some of them had sores and bruises and cuts that hadn’t healed properly, and a few still limped when they moved.

  They were still sick, and she had nothing for them. No food. No medicine. No money. She’d risked everything last night targeting a wealthier-looking building and didn’t even manage to steal a single Mark.

  Her hands clenched. Her teeth ground together.

  She needed to rob another place quickly.

  She pushed herself upright, shaking off the lingering exhaustion as she wracked her brain. She needed a place with money. Somewhere worth the risk. Somewhere she could actually steal from without ending up a corpse in an alleyway.

  … Ah.

  That man.

  A place came to mind.

  A place she knew—and hated—very well.

  She knew exactly who to rob.