"Please," she whispered hoarsely, her voice raw as if from screaming. "Don't let them...they're coming. They're always coming."
Butcher slowed his approach, noting how she flinched when a cloud passed over the moon, casting moving shadows across the graves. Her whole body trembled, not just from the cold but from something deeper---a bone-deep terror that radiated from her in waves.
"Who's coming, miss? And who are you?" He kept his voice gentle, the way he might speak to a frightened animal.
The woman's legs gave way suddenly, as if the last of her strength had finally abandoned her. As Butcher moved to catch her, she recoiled, throwing her arms up to protect her face.
"No! Don't---don't---" She scrambled backward on her hands. "The blood moon rises, and they'll follow. They always follow."
That's when Butcher noticed the marks on her neck---deep scratches and bruising, some scarred over, others looking disturbingly fresh. Her wrists bore similar marks, along with what appeared to be rope burns, as if she'd been repeatedly bound.
"Easy now," Butcher said, maintaining his distance. "I'm not here to hurt you. I'm just the caretaker."
She stared at him, really seeing him for the first time. Her gaze traveled over his decaying features, and surprisingly, she seemed to relax slightly. "Dead," she murmured. "You're dead. They can't use the dead."
Before Butcher could respond, a small bat suddenly swooped down from a nearby tree and began circling them frantically.
"Mind your manners with her," the bat advised, his voice crisply British. "She's had a dreadfully long journey."
The woman's reaction to the bat was immediate and visceral. She pressed herself flat against the ground, covering her head with her arms. "No more bats, please, no more---"
"It's all right!" the bat said quickly, landing a respectful distance away. "I'm not one of them. I helped you escape, remember? Bartholomew? Bartie?"
Slowly, the woman lifted her head, recognition dawning in her exhausted eyes. "Bartie?" she whispered. "You're... you're not like the others."
Butcher wasn't surprised by the talking bat, as familiar creatures were common in Cauldron Falls. However, a bat familiar was unusual. Most witches preferred cats, ravens, or occasionally a toad. And a British bat was considerably more exotic, especially in these parts.
"A British bat," Butcher observed, carefully studying the terrified woman. "The perfect addition to my night."
When the woman struggled to stand, Butcher noticed more details---her fingernails were torn and bloody, as if she'd clawed her way through something. Her hair wasn't just tangled but matted with what might have been dried blood. When she moved, she winced, suggesting injuries hidden beneath her torn clothing.
"The blood moon rises, and they'll follow," she repeated, her voice growing fainter. Her hand clutched something at her neck---a silver chain that caught the moonlight. "Have to warn... have to find..."
Her eyes rolled back, and this time, when her legs gave out, she couldn’t resist Butcher's help. As he caught her, she mumbled one more thing before losing consciousness, "Blood moon… the water."
Butcher readjusted his grip on the woman, noting how light she felt---too light, as if she hadn't eaten properly in weeks. Her breathing was shallow but steady, and up close, he could see the full extent of her condition. Scars crisscrossed her arms in strange patterns, and her skin had an unhealthy pallor beneath the dirt and bruises.
"Looks like the pub is our next stop," he decided, heading for the cemetery gates. The bat familiar fluttered alongside, keeping a watchful eye on his charge.
"Careful with her," Bartie instructed. "She's been through more than you can imagine. Those monsters... what they did to her..." The bat's voice trailed off, unable to finish.
A creeping dread settled in Butcher's creaking bones. Something was coming to their town---something that understood patience and planning. And judging by this woman's warning---and her condition---they didn't have long to prepare.
As he carried her through the cemetery gates, the woman stirred slightly, caught in the grip of some nightmare. "Ronald," she whimpered. "Please, not again. Not the chains..."
Butcher quickened his pace toward The Boozy Cauldron, knowing that whatever horrors this woman had escaped, they were likely following close behind.
Bat Out of Hell (Into a Pub)
"Murphy!" yelled Butcher, entering The Boozy Cauldron just before midnight, the unconscious woman precariously held in his arms. "Got a situation!"
A hush fell over the usually lively pub. The stocky Irish warlock, Murphy O'Reilly, possessing the build of a boxer and intense black eyes, glanced up from the bar he was cleaning. Seeing Butcher carrying a limp stranger in his arms, his thick eyebrows shot up.
"Bloody hell, Butcher," Murphy scolded, hurrying around the bar. His slight Irish lilt became more pronounced with concern. "You can't just bring corpses in here. This isn't a morgue."
From the back room came Uma O'Reilly, Murphy's daughter, her dark eyes narrowing under her black hair. Allen, her tabby familiar, strolled nonchalantly behind her, exuding the confidence of a seasoned observer.
"What's all this commotion, then?" Allen asked, his voice carrying the unexpected accent of a 1940s film noir detective. "A damsel in death, I see."
