The fog ahead of me shifts. Not its usual slide and billow. No, this movement appears to have a…shape? A shoulder. A flank. The suggestion of something big turning between the mausoleums. Leather creaks. Metal kisses metal, a tiny chime of tack rings on a buckle. A hoof finds ground. The scents of ozone and sulfur fill the air.
The hair on the back of my neck prickles.
“Okay,” I whisper on a shaky breath. “Horses exist. People ride them. Probably a late-night carriage thing for tourists. Ormaybe the caretakers make their rounds on horseback. This is fine. Totally normal. Everything’s fine.”
I swing the flashlight around wildly. The beam cuts throughnothing.
No horse.
Nothing.
Anotherthud, closer now. A faint rhythm travels through my soles. Not quite a stomp. More like a patient step. One. Then another. The slow patience of somethingaware it has me cornered.
I angle the mic toward the moving fog. It hisses, then spits a burst of static. My hand strays toward the pocket where I stashed the iron nail.No.That would be admitting the nail might have a purpose. Instead, I quickly gather my stuff, grip my bag tight, and step back.
“Widow,” I say to the statue, because talking gives me control of the situation. “If this is, uh, your idea of giving the tourists a thrill, you got me. Ten out of ten, will totally recommend—now pleaseshut it down.”
A shadow detaches from the fog two rows over. Taller than a man. Narrower. The outline seems wrong, like a cutout laid over the world that didn’t quite translate. Where a head should be, the top blurs into nothing.
A hand clamps around my wrist.
I yelp. The world whirls. My shoulder slams into heat and muscle, and then I’m spun, pinned tight to a chest that might as well be stone.
“What are you doing?” The voice is gravel and smoke against my ear.Declan. Of course it’s Declan. Even in the dark, even through the adrenaline screaming in my ears, I recognize his voice.
“Documenting,” I snap, shoving my shoulder against him, which does exactly nothing. He doesn’t move. He just breathes,fast and rough, chest lifting against my back. The heat of him bleeds through my hoodie, warming my chilled skin.
“Get away from her!” he shouts. Is he yelling at me or the statue? He yanks me two steps sideways, away from the Widow’s lap, arms locked around my ribs. My back molds to him whether I want it to or not. His heart hammers into my spine, steady and brutal.
My eyes bug as the fog seems to lean, reaching for us.
“Stop manhandling me.” My heartbeat gallops fast enough to crack my ribs open. I struggle to free myself from his iron grip. “I was talking to the Weeping Widow.”
“Emery.” His mouth is right at my ear, breath hot against my cheek. “You don’t know what you’re calling. What it wants from you.”
“It’s a statue!” The bravado in my voice sounds fake to my own ears. “And some silly tourist horse. Are you always so dramatic?”
He doesn’t take my verbal bait. Nope, he manhandles me even farther away from the Widow. His grip should hurt but it doesn’t. He’s angry, yes, but he’s careful with me, almost gentle. The combination weakens my knees.
Fog ripples around us, as if reluctant to let go. Invisible hooves strike the ground with impatient intent. Somewhere behind us, bronze rings with a dull, miserable clang, like a funeral bell.
Declan curses low. The rumble travels through me. He pivots, dragging me with him, putting himself squarely between me and the Widow. The fog slams against his shoulders and breaks like water against rock.
What the hell?
“Look at me,” he demands.
“But I want to see the invisible horse,” I argue. Therehasto be a horse. There’s a logical explanation for all of this.
He spins me to face him. My gaze jumps to his eyes without my permission. They’re darker in the low light, pupils blown wide. The whites shine, almost silver.
“Don’t look. Never run to the open ground,” he says. “Don’t sit in the Widow’s lap. Don’t whisper any names to her.”
“Now you’re talkative?” I barely hide my outrage. “The man who refused to speak to me earlier suddenly has a list of rules to share?” I press my hand against his chest, desperately trying to put some distance between us but he’s impossible to move.
His jaw ticks. Something ripples under the skin of his throat and vanishes. A twitch of ink? No. Can’t be. The heat under my palm flares with the bite of a brand and I snatch my hand back with a hiss.
“What is that?” I whisper.
