Page 141 of Venator Mortis

One year and six months later.

An invitation arrived at the workshop. Not a letter, not a ransom, not a demand but an invitation. Cream paper, with black ink, a red wax seal stamped with a symbol I had seen only in nightmares and bloodstained ledgers. Alcott found it first, he said nothing. That’s how I know. The paper trembles once in his hand before he passes it to me.

Edward Afton you are cordially invited to dinner with,

The Collector

Saturday, 7th of July

1900 hours

Feldkirch, Austria

For several seconds, I cannot breathe. Then Lazarus laughs, not because anything is funny, but because grief sometimes escapes the body wearing the wrong mask.

“Well,” he says, voice sharp enough to bleed, “how terribly polite of the bastard.”

Alcott looks at the invitation over my shoulder. His expression is calm, way too calm as Darkness watches through his eyes.

“She is alive,” I say.

No one argues, no one dares to.

Austria rises around us in black mountains, wet stone, and cold mist. The manor sits above Feldkirch like a parasite on the hillside, all narrow windows, iron balconies, and torchlight glowing through fog. It looks less built than summoned.

Lazarus stands beside me beneath the trees, holding three black masks in his hands.

“Right,” he says, voice low. “Baklavas on.”

I stare at him. Alcott slowly turns his head, for one precious, impossible second, the rescue mission pauses.

“What?” Lazarus asks. Alcott looks down at the black cloth masks, then back at Lazarus. Edward looks at the masks, then back at Lazarus and I do not have the strength for this.

Alcott’s mouth twitches. “Do you mean balaclavas?”

Lazarus frowns. “That is what I said.”

“No,” I say. “You said baklavas.”