Fuck.
I freeze, my jaw tight, ankle screaming with each heartbeat.
Shit. This just got harder.
I crouch low, deathly still and force my breathing to slow, measured and shallow. The dog doesn’t bark again, but still, I wait. No doors creak open, no heavy paws scrape the ground, and there’s no flash of sharp teeth coming to tear at me through the dark.
When the quiet stretches long enough, I finally exhale, slow and deep. My ankle throbs with the shift of weight but I press a hand against the grass, gathering myself, and moving on.
I circle the house until I find a tree close enough to the wall, its branches reaching across towards the second-floor balcony. Not ideal, but possible. I test my foot against the ground—pain bites, but I can bear it. Stepping back, I take a short run and push off the trunk. My boot slips once before I catch the bark, grabbing a low branch and hauling myself up. The strain sends an assault of pain through my ankle, but I grit my teeth and climb.
The branch above creaks softly as I shift, edging along it, moving slow and cautious, until I reach the balcony. I dropdown, landing light, but wincing as my ankle protests. The space is wide and empty, washed in the gloom of the night.
I cross to the door and listen. Nothing. Not even a snore.
I test the handle; unlocked.
Good.
Slipping inside, I close the door behind me and am engulfed by the dark. A bedroom, sparse and unused, the air smelling of old linen and dust. I pad across the floor silently and press my ear to the next door.
Still nothing.
I ease it open a fraction and listen again.
The house sleeps on.
I ease the door open enough to peer out. A window gives me enough light from the moon to see a long hallway, lined with opened doors, a stairwell leading both up and down. Shadows gather in the corners, soft and deep.
I move quietly, each step measured, the rugs beneath my boots swallowing the sound. I check each room as I pass with quick glances, no more. A study. A library. A sitting room. All empty. The bedroom I’d entered from still lies behind me, untouched, and there’s no sign of the dog.
Richard’s done well for himself. Even in the dark, I can see the glint of wealth; the faint sheen of gold inlay tracing the edges of dark wood furniture, thick rugs, and the deep polish of hardwood panelling over old stone walls.
I reach the stairwell and glance up, then down. The air shifts faintly, carrying the smell of wax and smoke from somewhere below. I start to move upward, slow and cautious…
A sound cuts through the stillness.
A door creaks open downstairs. The soft scrape of claws follows, rapid and sharp against the hardwood floors.
The dog is inside.
I freeze, my chest tightening, muscles gripping around the pain in my ankle. I listen; the rhythm of its nails on the floorboards, the low, uncertain growl rising as it tests the air.
I close my eyes and empty my lungs.
If it scents me, I’ll have to kill it before it makes a sound.
A flicker of doubt skates across my mind. I haven’t seen the crow. I don’tfeelGray. Wouldn’t he be here if death was to fall tonight?
I push the thought away, but it clings and I find myself hoping that it doesn’t mean my plan has already gone wrong.
Upstairs again, there’s only one door. One room. It must be Richard’s.
I draw my knife from my thigh with extreme care, as if it were made of glass. The steel catches a whisper of moonlight before I smother it beneath my hand. Every movement is deliberate, measured.
I push open the door and cross the room one step at a time.
The constable lies on his side, face slack in sleep. His chest rises and falls with the soft rhythm of a man who’s forgotten the world has teeth and his wife is curled beside him. I pause, the knife fitted in my grip, and glance toward the shadows.
