A bad landing. A terrible one.

  Evelyn hit the roof like a sack of rotfruit, boots scraping, wings stuttering, knees buckling. Her stomach did a slow, sick churn as she clung to the shingles, nails scratching for purchase. She didn’t slide off the roof. Thank Saintess Severin. It was a ten meter drop from here to the grave-filled earth, and she wasn’t nearly tough enough to survive a fall like that.

  Her wings gave a weak, sputtering buzz before folding against her back.

  Damn things.

  They weren’t always this useless. They weren’t supposed to stutter like that. Her sickness was weighing her down again, clinging to her bones, turning her limbs to damp wool, and her head into a barrel of thick, spoiled honey. Even her Symbiotic System couldn’t help her with that.

  But… not now.

  Not tonight.

  She curled her fingers and pressed her forehead against the damp shingles, breathing hard.

  Focus.

  The rooftop smelled like rot and rain. From what she’d heard, this manor was long dead. Exiled baron, lost fortunes, rotting home. It was a hollow shell. The gutter rats called it a corpse house. Now, she’d noticed while gliding down here that a few of the windows were actually lit, so she made sure to land right next to the only window that wasn’t lit. It was also the only one that wasn’t steel-barred and kept on lock.

  It was the only window she could sneak through.

  She wiped her brow with her sleeve, then forced herself to crawl to the window just a few paces off. The glass was warped and thick, and when she pressed her fingers to the latch and pushed, the old wooden frame let out a low, miserable creak. She froze, heart hammering as she waited for a response. The house groaned, but nothing more. No footsteps. No sharp click of a rifle being cocked. No baying of hounds tearing through the dark.

  Swallowing hard, she kept pushing until the gap was just wide enough for her to slip through, and then—

  She was in.

  The moment her feet touched the wooden floor, she folded her wings in even tighter, arms curling around herself for warmth.

  Okay.

  Good.

  Now, just where… am… I…

  The third floor was dim, the air thick with ink and wax and something stale. Not the rot of a ruin, no, but not the scent of a lived-in home either. Through the small gaps between the floorboards, faint lantern light spilled up from below—flickering, uneven glows that hinted at a life still lingering here—and seeing the light below her close-up made her stomach knot. The baron was supposed to be exiled, but a ruined noble was still a noble, and that meant money. A vault, maybe. A safe. Something she could rob.

  Whatever it is, I gotta find it quick.

  She tiptoed through the halls, bruised fingers brushing against the banisters, the furniture, and the dust-laden surfaces where candlelight didn’t reach. Aged as it may be, there were the hints of the opulent sprawl of a proper baron’s estate. The furniture was old but untouched. The carpets were worn but well-kept. None of those mattered. What mattered was the coin. She wasn’t some fancy thief who could barter stolen goods in the black markets. She was a Fly Afflicted—a slum-girl who had no power or connections anywhere—so reselling stolen items was off the table.

  Then, suddenly—the world tilted.

  She stumbled, hand slamming against a wall before she could stop herself. A bloody cough rose in her chest, her vision flickering at the edges like candlelight fighting against a draft. A dull, awful ache throbbed behind her eyes, making her feel as though she were trapped in a dream that was slowly unraveling.

  Shit!

  Not… now!

  As she swallowed painful gulps and clutched her head, three shapes shimmered into existence at the end of the hall in front of her.

  She blinked through blurry eyes.

  They were… hounds.

  Her hounds.

  Sniffing, pointing with their stiff tails, their noses were raised towards a door she had yet to open on the left.

  Then she blinked, and they were gone.

  …Yer all still lookin’ out fer me, huh?

  Her breaths hitched, but the weight in her chest eased a little. Hallucination or not, she swallowed down the fever-shaken haze and moved towards the door they’d pointed at. The brass handle was cold in her palm, and the wood was heavy as she eased it open. She did so as quietly as she could.

  Inside, the air was still.

  It was a master bedroom. Had to be, judging by the size of it. Even with the curtains drawn and the candles burned low, she could tell this was the baron’s room. The ceiling arched higher than any slum-house she’d ever known, the walls lined with old wooden panels, dark with age but polished smooth. An armchair sat near the unlit fireplace, its leather cracked, but the cushions only slightly sunken as if someone had sat on it recently. A desk stood by the window, covered in scattered papers and a half-melted candle, its wax pooled over a brass holder.

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  Her gaze darted around the room, her breaths unsteady. If someone was here, she had to be quick. She needed coins—raw coins—and thank the saints she noticed the unmistakable gleam of Marks sitting in a glass jar right on the bed stand.

  She grinned tiredly.

  It was as if the world itself had decided she deserved a little break.

  She surged into the room, picked up the jar with both hands, and did a bit of counting. A hundred, two hundred, three hundred… Five thousand Marks, easily. Enough to sustain her and her hounds for another month—

  "One thief is already annoying enough, even if said thief turned out to be a rather brilliant doctor.”

  Evelyn whirled.

  An old man stood in the doorway.

  He was lean, golden-haired, and sharp-eyed. His mouth curled in something unreadable behind his glass mask with brass tubes—not quite anger, not quite amusement—but none of that mattered.

  What mattered was his greatsword. Heavy. Broad. Cross-shaped. He held it too easily, like a man who’d actually swung it before.

  Evelyn felt her stomach drop straight to hell.

  Oh, saints.

  The old baron, too, didn’t look anything like the sick, pallid man she’d heard all about.

  Her grip on the jar tightened, fingers pressing against the cool glass. There had to be a way out. The window? The hallway?

  She darted a glance toward the door, sweat creeping down the back of her neck. Her sickness swelled, her vision flickered, the walls tilted ever so slightly. She needed to move.

  But before she could, the old man shifted.

  The greatsword’s hilt swung toward her in a brutal, practiced strike.

  She jerked away.

  Her body reacted before her mind, instinct overriding fear. She threw herself low, barely ducking under the blow, her wings fluttering wildly against her back. Rolling, she slipped past him, and she felt the floor nearly caved under her as she bolted for the door, her stolen treasure still clutched against her chest.

  Go!

  Don’t stop!

  Her breath burned in her throat as she fled even through her snout-shaped mask. The air in the manor turned thick, heavy, and even more choking than it already was. She couldn’t find the unbarred window she came in from. She forgot where it was. The halls twisted before her, warping at the edges of her vision—she couldn’t tell if the sickness was in her bones or in her mind, but whatever it was, she knew there was no way out on the third floor.

  She nearly lost her balance descending the stairs, barely catching herself before she pitched forward. Her wings twitched erratically, snapping open and closed as she staggered down the steps. Everything felt too bright. Too loud. Too wrong.

  But then, through hazy eyes, she saw the front door at the end of the hall on the ground floor.

  Her stomach clenched as she ran straight at it. If she could just make it outside, just get into the streets, her wings could unfurl and—

  The door slammed open.

  She had no time to stop.

  The impact hit her. Hard. It was a sudden, solid strike straight to her forehead, knocking her breath away in a sharp, gasping choke. The jar slipped from her grasp as she reeled backward, her arms flailing for balance.

  The sound of shattering glass rang through the hallway. Marks spilled across the floor, clinking, rolling, some disappearing into the cracks between the wooden floorboards.

  No!

  Her wings snapped open on instinct, throwing her back to the end of the hall without making her lose her footing, but she skidded to a halt at the base of the stairs with the pain in her skull spiking. Her thoughts split as her back slammed against the bannisters. A sharp, ragged gasp tore from her lips as she clutched her head, but through the haze of pain, she saw… him.

  Backlit by sickly moonlight, the man standing in the open doorway wore the smooth, black mask of a Raven, the long coat draped over his slender frame casting his shadow tall, looming. A metal cane rested easily in his right hand, and in his left, a simple silver blade gleamed with malice.

  A choking fear seized her throat.

  But then she saw the second figure standing beside him. A lady. Slender, bespectacled, dressed in a sleek, form-fitting black dress—the fabric smooth as silk, the high collar pristine—and even without that black briefcase she carried in her left hand, Evelyn would’ve realized who she represented in an instant.

  A Raven and a Caser together?

  Memories surged up, too fast, too strong, too much. The last time she’d seen that mask and that dress was—

  The fire.

  The flames licking up the walls, the heat swallowing the air, the screams ringing in her ears.

  Outside, shouting.

  Her breath hitched as she turned her gaze to the window, her vision still blurred, her limbs weak beneath her. Figures moved outside. Beyond the wrought-iron gates of the manor’s cemetery, about two dozen men surged forward, their coats damp with rain, their boots splashing through the mud.

  Repossessors.

  The ones she’d stolen from. The ones who’d hunted her through the streets.

  The ones whose warehouse she had burned to the ground.

  Her knees buckled. The world tilted. The hallway stretched long and infinite before her, the candlelight flickering like dying stars. She could feel herself shaking, her own pulse thrumming violently beneath her skin, but her body absolutely refused to move.

  She was trapped.

  Trapped between the man in the mask, the woman in the dress, and the past closing in like a vice.

  A whimper broke from her lips.

  "I didn’t—”

  Her head ached, pulsed, screamed.

  "I didn’t mean to—"

  She hadn’t meant to burn it down.

  She hadn’t meant to steal from them.

  She hadn’t meant for any of this.

  The Raven took a step forward.

  The Caser followed.

  She flinched, her lungs heaving, her body curling in on itself. The weight of it all crushed her, drowning her in its tide, forcing her to yank her mask down just so she could breathe better, and—

  Something inside her snapped.

  Pain lanced down her spine, sharp as a blade, electric as lightning. Her scream tore through the air—inhuman, raw, wretched—and then came a violent snarl, low and guttural.

  A second.

  A third.

  Hounds.

  Bram, Luce, and Rags materialized at her side, yellow eyes gleaming like lanterns in the dark. Their fur rippled. Their teeth bared. Their bodies coiled tight as if ready to lunge, and both the Raven and the Caser froze where they stood.

  Evelyn panted, trembling, her vision spinning in fevered spirals. Her hounds weren’t hallucinations. She could feel their heat, their rage, and she felt she could physically hear their single-minded desire in her head:

  Protect.

  Her hands curled into the floorboards.

  Outside, the shouting grew louder. The Repossessors were nearly at the door.

  And her hounds were waiting for a fight.

  … Ye want me, Bharncair?

  Come and fuckin’ get it!