West Coast
Devonshire, Dartmoor
St George, St George's churchyard
5 November 1898, 01:56 hrs.

"I thought you were in the army? Can't this go a bit faster?" asked Kyle impatiently as if unrepentant, "At this rate, it'll take us till sunrise."

"I hate you." retorted Dr Archer sourly.

Unlike Crowford, who was strolling around the edge of the grave with nothing to contribute but needless comments, he was standing in dirt up to his waist. Sweat caked the strands of his hair, which kept falling in his face, reminding him that a lord's hairdo was not meant for digging holes in the middle of the night. His clothes bristled with mud and damp earth.

"I can't believe we're doing this." he kept muttering, more to himself than to his colleague, "How did I let you talk me into this..." he added, shaking his head. A drop of sweat flowed down his temple and caught him in the shadow of his beard. With an audible gasp, he pressed the spade again into the soft earth, which looked night-black in the low light. It gave way under his pressure and a new cartload landed on a growing pile. Small, lighter stones flashed out from between the dark accumulations like stars in the sky above them. That night was clear, only a few clouds drifted away in thin streaks across the firmament, blotting the silky blue night band. Bright, silvery-white light from the full moon gave them enough brightness, fortunately, for a lantern might have given them away.

"You should complain less and dig faster Benjamin," said Kyle nonchalantly, glancing at the hole that had grown considerably in depth by now. Calling Dr Archer by his first name still felt strange, even though they were pretending to be friends for the second day now. It wiped away a boundary he wanted to maintain strictly. But if it was necessary for the job, so be it. When they were back, he would call him by his last name again with relish.

"If you would help me, it would go faster." Dr Archer meanwhile returned unusually pointedly and glanced over his shoulder at Kyle.

His attention, however, was already back on the darkness of the night. Kyle was on the lookout for stirrings, shadows or perhaps a prancing flame from a lamp that should have caused them to flee quickly. "I'll keep watch. We don't want to get caught, do we?" he, therefore, said back and then raised his arm to indicate his upper arm. "Besides, I would be of little help. My talents lie... elsewhere." he pointed out, revealing a half-moon of bright teeth as he grinned, before shifting his gaze away from Archer again and onto the surroundings.

Billowing wisps of mist groped out of the forest below the hill, creeping around like ghosts and spreading their shawls over the meadows and peat fields. They veiled the view into the distance, yet precisely by doing so also offered them a cloak for the ungodly deed they perpetrated between forever closed eyes of long-silenced witnesses. Only the empty gazes of two angelic statuettes of nearby tombs stared reproachfully in their direction.

It seemed that at least the slender mage would not be irritated by this. But his calm was deceptive. Kyle's limbs were tense and that he paced around the ever-deepening grave was not so much due to boredom or lack of respect for Dr Archer's work. It was his valve, that overflowing pressure had to be discharged elsewhere. Cool breezes brushed his skin, settling like damp breath on the back of his neck, making the gentle gusts of wind tickle more frostily. Kyle felt his heart beating. A restless rhythm that joined the sounds of recurring shovel blasts that rang out from the pit.

Dr Archer was making good progress, even if Kyle was grumbling at him. If he had been honest, he would have bet they were taking far longer. What worried them both more was the fact that the earth was not slumped down and compacted as they had expected.

After entering the cemetery, they looked at the graves of all the presumed victims. The pastor's grave was well-kept, but it was not overflowing with candles and flowers.

"He doesn't seem to have been that popular." Dr Archer then observed and Kyle had to agree with that conclusion. With such a small congregation and a priest who would have been loved by all, the grave would certainly have looked different. After all, if the padres didn't have a family of their own, the parish was their substitute. Nevertheless, the grave was comparatively sparsely mourned.

The grave of the young Mosten looked more devoutly cared for. It had hardly any weathered flowers, but instead several grave goods. They were less surprised since the girl had been the mayor's daughter and they had noticed how heavy the black veil of mourning still weighed. The mother probably came to her daughter's grave every day and shed salty tears for her dearest and only child.

The idea of such tightly woven family affection pricked a sharp thorn in Kyle's chest. If he died here, would his brother bring flowers to his grave? Surely not. Families. Blood is thicker than water. It was all nothing more than hypocrisy. In the end, it was the family that put heavy burdens on the shoulders of children and were the harshest judges when things did not go their way.

A little more erratic and mechanical than necessary, he had turned away from the sight and finally sought Walter Andrews' grave. Dr Archer had followed him and together they regarded the stricken deathbed with a sceptical look. Unlike the previous graves, the hosts had looked suspicious. The earth was rumpled and slightly piled up. When gravediggers piled up a grave, they carefully pounded the layers of earth tight so that animals could not easily dig and perhaps tamper with the remains. Some flowers had covered the grave, but if you looked closely you could see that some were hanging askew and that one or two were buried in the pile of piled dirt.

"What if we're dealing with something undead?" Dr Archer had voiced his thought, which was just then solidifying in Kyle's mind. As usual, the doctor had been quicker with his conclusions. Kyle rubbed his fingers over his tense neck. The wind blew loudly into his ears, howling like an annoying mutt. Claws scratched at a closed-door inside him, tugging at his nerves. The quicker they did what had to be done, the quicker he got away from that graveyard again. His gaze settled on the grave. Undead... he rummaged through his knowledge of deceivers. Unfortunately, it wasn't particularly comprehensive.

"Potentially a possibility." he had replied, this time uncommonly tersely. "But we'll only find out if you start digging." Afterwards, Kyle carefully removed the flowers and the wooden cross from the grave. Later, when they wanted to move Mr Andrews back to his grave, they should and would have to place everything back exactly as it had been. None of them felt comfortable with it. But in the end, they simply could not afford to possibly risk more casualties because they let a clue slip through their fingers. Being seekers also meant not always being able to abide by laws and morals. They had to be willing to do things that others shied away from.

Easier said than done. Digging up a dead body in a graveyard in the middle of the night made them both feel noticeably uncomfortable. Kyle seemed to have less trouble with it than the doctor. After all, it was the doctor who dug and removed the earth layer by layer. Kyle didn't want to be in his place. Digging a decomposing corpse out of its damp grave... you really had to give the body snatchers some credit for their strong stomachs. The seeker was aware of this before all at once a muffled sound was heard. The spade, which he had held out to the doctor with a broad grin when he woke him up at just after 1 a.m., abruptly struck wood with its tip through a layer of earth. Irritated, Kyle turned his head and glanced at the doctor, who also looked puzzled.

"Already?" asked Kyle as he took a step closer to the grave. In the rectangular hole of stately size stood the Doctor, his clothes bristling with wet earth.

"He's way too close to the surface." the Doctor stated and Kyle felt his stomach tighten. His chin thrust forward a little as he tried to peer past the doctor's figure to the bottom of the pit.

"Maybe they don't bury their dead so deep here?" he raised that consideration he might just want to believe himself.

"Yes. Maybe." replied the doctor, leaning on his spade. His fingers slipped into his inner pocket, and then he lifted the flask to his lips, took a sip and put it away again. With a scrape, he pushed the metal of the spade over the wood that was now coming to light beneath the layer. From what they could make out, it was a relatively plain coffin that had been cobbled together with nails. Kyle looked around again and paused briefly. His heart stumbled as he narrowed his eyes. For a moment he thought he saw another strange red flicker there in the mist. Like a red feather dancing in the wind.

The scratching and scraping inside him grew stronger. Pressure surged against his self-control and made the tension inside him grow to almost too unbearable levels. It felt like all the blood was flowing away from his toes and fingertips, leaving unpleasant tingles of cold needles in his forehead and fingers. Hot and cold. The feeling of dipping stiff frozen limbs too suddenly into warm water after winter. It was supposed to help and it did. But at first, it just felt disgusting. Kyle blinked. It was too far away and too foggy to see clearly. Like the last time. Just a brief flicker. Roaring in his ears. He opened his mouth just a tiny bit. 'Doctor,' he wanted to say. Get his attention. Instead, his tongue and mouth were dry. He blinked again into the darkness of the night.

"Yes, that's the coffin. Definitely." the doctor spoke beside him. Kyle winced, his gaze travelling to the doctor and back to the spot. And at that moment it was gone again.

Haze and nervousness. Nothing more. He told himself sternly, then took a few deep breaths. Blood rushed in his ears, blocking out the sounds of the night and his thoughts of the strange red light. Kyle squared his shoulders.

"Crowford!" all at once the doctor's voice sounded much more strained. Kyle heard a groan as the doctor disappeared into the hole because he bent down and leaned closer to the coffin. If he was addressing him by his last name, something had to be up. Kyle's fingers tightened around his walking stick and he glanced at his colleague. He felt the tingling, like little hot sparks in his fingers. As if liquid energy was flowing into his veins and dissipating there.

"What is it?" he asked, voice lowered as if someone might hear them if they were just too loud.

"The coffin has been opened." the doctor said, cool as gathering winter. His gaze lingered on the lid of the wooden box as Kyle's heart leapt.