The memory of the demon in the alley still burned behind my eyes.
What if that creature still roamed the night?
I rubbed my temples, trying to clear my mind.
Since my parents’ deaths, I have lived in a waking nightmare. Fear had become my constant companion—sharp, familiar, almost useful.
Whatever awaited me at Duskmere Manor, it had to be better than the slow death of St. Dismas. If I found something useful—something Vexley and the Renegade wanted—I’d win my freedom.
And I knew exactly what to do with it.
I would escape to Paris or Milan and chase my dream of becoming a singer, even if I had to sell hats or scrub floors first.
Hope stirred in my chest. I looked outside.
As if the fog had carried me to another world, the carriage rolled to a hesitant stop.
I pressed my face to the window.
A rusty iron gate loomed ahead, its crooked spikes reaching toward the misty sky. A raven perched atop the gate’s iron crest, watching with eerie curiosity.
My breath fogged the glass.
The ancient gates groaned open.
And then—my heart caught.
A handprint appeared on the window glass as if someone had touched my face from the outside.
But there was no one there.
Only mist swirling in endless circles.
I reined in my fear.
Probably just another of the restless spirits wandering around since the landlord and his family disappeared. Spirits didn’t scare me. Spirits would not drag you out of bed in the middle of the night and beat you until your pleas turned into whimpers. Spirits wouldn’t hold a heated fire poker to your eyeball while screaming at you. But hurt and unhinged men did this, men like Arthur and Vexley.
The door creaked open.
“Miss, we’ve arrived,” the hooded coachman said. “I cannot go farther. From here, you’re on foot. I suggest you run. The nights here are not safe.”
Oh, really. Who would have guessed?
I gathered my skirts and slid down from the carriage, the fog swallowing the ground beneath my feet.
“Good luck, Miss,” he added. The carriage vanished into the mist like a mirage.
The night air bit my skin.
I stepped toward the gate.
The sounds of the night—birds calling, branches rustling, hooves clicking away—suddenly paused. The world itself held its breath.
Invisible fingers brushed my cheek.
I shuddered.
The raven took off, disappearing into the mist as if inviting me to follow.
