Ilys’s pulse fluttered in her throat. Whether born of her own body or conjured from the air around them, she felt the dangerous hum return, wrapping them both.
Death dismounted, leaving his steed untethered. Ilys glanced at Spire, whispering silently,Stay,before slipping to the ground and following Death to the door.
The floor groaned beneath their steps, old wood betraying her. Ilys moved as quietly as any mortal could, but no one was as quiet as Death. The cottage was modest, almost neat. A black cloak with gold trim lay draped across the square table in the front room.
But then came the flies. They swarmed the air in thick black ribbons, their hum deafening, curling around the room’s true horror.
The closet door had been left ajar.
Bodies. Four of them, piled upon one another, twisted at unnatural angles, their limbs overlapping, tossed carelessly into the small, dark space.
All women.
All disrobed.
Their skin was sallow and pale, their lips cracked open in silent, frozen gasps. Their eyes, hollow and glassed, caught no reflection at all.
Ilys’s breath hitched beneath her veil. The scent was overwhelming, thick with rot, sickness, and the unmistakable metallic tang of blood that had been left too long in stagnant air.
Death moved through the home, his presence settling over the room like a judge.
"Upstairs."
She heard it then, the muffled rustling. There was a soft scrape of movement above them, a low mutter, the unmistakable sounds of someone there.
Her stomach lurched, but quietly, Ilys crept behind Death, her steps light, breath shallow, her fingers flexing at her sides. From behind the first door, muffled grunts spilled into the air.
“Not this one,”Death directed.
Ilys faltered.Not this one?Had he not heard the noises, the muffled cries, the faint scraping? But Death pressed forward, and she followed, her eyes wide.
The next door stood cracked with a thin sliver of candlelight trembling through the gap. Death pushed it open, the hinges groaning in protest.
The space inside was cluttered and small enough to be suffocating. The air reeked of old parchment, spent wax, and coppery, foul smell beneath it. Symbols scarred the stone walls, jagged and desperate, carved as though the writer had been frantic.
At the center knelt a cloaked figure. His face was hidden, his body bowed over a corpse. A woman lay before him, her skin pale as wax; yet, her chest rose. Fell. A sluggish, unnatural rhythm. Her dull, milky eyes flickered as though some trapped thing tried to peer through.
The man stiffened at their intrusion. In an instant he was up, whirling, diving for the window.
Death moved fast. The figure crashed to the ground with a sickening thud but staggered up and fled around the front of the house. Death leapt after him, vanishing into the night.
“Now, Veilwalker,”his disembodied voice rang, sharp.
Ilys cursed, following. She hit the ground hard, pain jolting up her legs, leaving her limping as she pushed after him. But already the man had mounted Spire, cloak billowing as the horse carried him into the dark.
“Fuck,” shouted Ilys, watching as her mare disappeared. “Fuck!” she screamed.
Death landed on his own steed, extending a hand. “Hurry, Ilys.” His hiss curled like smoke.
Her leg screamed with each step. She glared at him, teeth bared.
“There are people inside,” she bit out.
“He is our priority.”
“If you are so eager to flee, perhapsaid me, you arse.” She gestured sharply at her gait. Death wheeled his horse closer, his hand still offered. But she ignored it, jaw set. “He is well and gone now. Pause our pursuit, and let us tend to those who remain.”
“Veilwalker.” The warning cut hard and silvery.
