England, West Coast
Devonshire, Dartmoor
St George, Skirrid Inn
5 November 1898, 5:47 p.m.

Benjamin watched as the dull cone of light from the lantern bumped against Kyle's back. His figure disappeared into dim darkness, lit only briefly by a flash of lightning outside the house, followed by a loud roll of thunder. Then Ben pulled out the flask again. He looked at the polished silver. As always, when he took a sip from it, he thought of his lost friend. Not of his death among blood and suffering, but of the man with whom he had laughed and experienced so much. It always reminded him how quickly life could come to an end. He tasted the desert sand on his tongue at the thought and remembered the metallic hue of his blood. Ben raised a glass to his old friend, then took a deep swig and slid the bottle back into his breast pocket.

The rain increased and swelling drums beat excitedly against the windows. Crowford had climbed the narrow stairs that led up at a steep angle.

He, on the other hand, watched the glow of light at his feet. The flickering glow of a prancing flame. No shadow of feet to interrupt him. Perhaps the room was empty. Despite the background noise, Ben heard the sound from inside the room. Rain and the rumble of thunder quickly swallowed it up, however.

The doctor stared at the wood. Then he slowly pulled back the hammer of his gun. The cold metal pressed into his thumb, leaning against it, but he pulled relentlessly until it slid back. The ominous click was swallowed up by the rattling rain. The drumbeats of an orchestra rose toward a climax. Very slowly, he leaned closer to the door. He listened strained.

The wood swallowed up much of the sound, the rain blurred the timbres and they seeped away like waves in the sand. They left only a few inklings. A loud bang rent the air, outside a flash of lightning lit the area and a howl drove air through cracks and draughty places. Then he heard it again. A low, hoarse moan, as if someone was suffering severe pain. A groan or a creak.

His heart stumbled. Images and premonitions flashed before his inner eye. What if Kyle was right? What if Elly had cleaned and opened the window, but had been attacked? If something pushed the priest off a tower or sent a wolf to snatch a girl.... Ben thought of the pretty fawn eyes and how she might have been lying there in her blood. He thought of the girl, Sandra, and her condition. How she hung there, between roots and foliage. He thought of the boy lying in the grass beneath his fingers. So pale, with no heartbeat, no breath.... all the water and dirt from his lungs. Drowned because there was no one there to protect him. Just like he couldn't protect any of his comrades. How he had almost seen Crowford die because he had been too late there too. What if Elly was lying there, on the floor, needing help?

When he thought of all these things, of her pleading eyes and how she had begged him to protect her... it flipped a switch in him that he didn't even know he possessed. Benjamin stepped back and braced his foot against the opposite wall to secure more footing. Beneath his jacket, the former soldier's muscles tensed. Formed firm, hard strands. Pulling his shoulders sideways, he pushed off with a flourish, and with a loud bang, he crashed into the locked door.

Cracking, the lock broke from its hinge. The old wood was no match for a man of his stature. Wood splintered, and the door slammed open and crashed against the wall behind it with a loud bang. Benjamin staggered from the momentum two or three more steps into the room, only then did he manage to catch himself. With a roaring in his ears and a pounding heart, His eyes traveled around the room. They glided over every nook and cranny, every deeper shadow, and every spot illuminated by the light. Adrenaline made his senses buzz. And then he froze. A corpse hung from a thumb-thick rope. It turned slowly in the breeze pushing in through the window and the rope groaned dry.

Kyle let his eyes wander. The window in the attic was open just a few inches. Rain and wind from the thunderstorm came in, wetting the sill and wood of the floor and making the curtains billow. The room was small and shallow, so a taller person would have had to bend down. The beams above lay broken just below the roof's decking. There was no more decoration than in the downstairs rooms, though Elly had taken pains to make it more personal. The wardrobe was painted with colors, and a few green vines and flowers adorned its doors and sides, as did the wooden frame of the bed and the chest of drawers. It was the latter that had immediately caught Kyle's eye and had not released him since. He bridged the distance in quick steps.

Plants, pots, and bowls were piled up on the surface of the dresser. A small dagger lay next to a mortar and pestle. There was a strong smell of herbs. The air was so thick from it that Kyle had to hold his hand to his nose to push back nausea and headache. Here, the odor nuance that had plagued him all this time was almost unbearable. Immediately a ringing started behind his eyes, the back of his neck tingled uncomfortably and the sensation spread to his fingers. Kyle's gaze caught on a small, straw doll tied to the mirror. Brown hair that looked suspiciously like Elly's was braided into a small plait and fell over the fabric. An icy shiver ran down his spine.

The little dress was tied between the doll's legs, making her look strange and disturbing at the same time. Following an undirected feeling, he reached out to take a closer look at the little doll. Remnants of faded bluish paint drew almost completely faded tears to the small beady eyes. Once the little black mouth of the doll had been curved downwards, a grimace distorted by sadness... but with red paint, a joyful smile had now been painted on its features.

"What was going on here..." murmured the Seeker. A dark foreboding wedged itself into Kyle's chest as he looked at the doll-like likeness... then his gaze fell back to the table and the image it presented. Candles had burned down, and wax covered the table like a thousand tears and flowed down from the frame of the mirror. Symbols and lines had been drawn on the table with chalk or wax pens, some even carved into it. Kyle knew occult work sites when he saw them. Could it be? The traces of earth, the missing yarn, and the poisoned knitting needle! Kyle's fist came down on the table, making the jars on it clink. Damn it! They had had the solution under their noses all along! "It was you all along..." he growled out between clenched teeth. He had had this feeling that something was wrong with her! But how? And why?

Kyle grabbed the handles of the top drawer and pulled it open in one powerful jerk. Clothes, nothing else. Then the next and the one after that. He rummaged through the things, but there was nothing. There HAD to be something! Anyone who practiced arcane arts had...

Kyle's gaze fell on the mirror. His foot was on the flat structure and there it caught his eye. The disguise sat at an angle. Kyle applied the small dagger and sure enough, the wood just folded down. It revealed a small, secret compartment, and inside, three books, a few carefully tied plants, and a flask.

With dark thoughts in his tight throat, Kyle reached for the first, smaller book. It was wrapped in a grey cover and on its spine were printed in faded silver the words "Das GRIMM-WEBSTER Wörterbuch Deutsch - Englisch / English - Deutsch". Some of the pages in the worn book were dog-eared, but Kyle could not see any particular reason for this. So he put it aside and reached for the next one.

It was also well-worn, seemingly older, and filled almost to the back pages. Only a few of them were still empty and blank. Kyle skimmed the pages, his eyes following the writing, which at first seemed formless, then increasingly sure.

What Kyle read made his stomach churn. He read about a sad little girl who had lost her parents. She was looking forward to a new life, new parents, and a new home. He read about a girl who was hardworking, trying hard to meet expectations, and being good and obedient.

His stomach churned and Kyle took a shaky breath. He felt the urge, the aching longing to want to be what someone expected of you. In his memory, a cane slammed down on his fingers, leaving searing pain in its wake. Kyle pushed aside the images and the sensations that tightened his throat.

Then his eyes flew on. A girl who wanted nothing more than the love of her new foster mother. But she was not granted that wish. She was not enough. Not what the mother wished for. No one paid attention to her, no one noticed her. Especially not her foster father, who had seen her as a burden for too long. Only useful to do housework like a maid. Until she grew older. Until she slowly blossomed from a girl into a woman. Her mother became nastier, jealous, and envious. And her father...

Then Kyle's breath caught and vomit crawled down his throat. There it was, written in black ink on blotchy white. The story of a young girl who had hoped only for affection and whose threshold was crossed by the man she trusted. By a man, she had come to think of as her father. Again. And again. And again. No one to listen to her. No one helped her. Helpless and alone. Until she started blaming herself. Until it started to break her little mind and she started to enjoy it. The writing became more jumbled, the words more incoherent.

Kyle leaned to the side. His father had been cruel, but even this sadist would not have done such a thing. He choked two or three times and pressed the leather glove to his lips. His fingers trembled as he braced himself against the dresser.

Then his gaze fell on the other things in the secret compartment. There was nothing in the diary about the murders... maybe there was something to be found there. His fingers were still trembling as he reached for the other book and pulled it out. The leather of this one was much older. It was stiff and singed with black soot in many places as if it had once been in a blazing fire. Many pages were pitted by the flames, the cover protruding over the tattered leaves.

Kyle pulled it out onto the top of the table and wiped a few of the plants aside with a jerky motion. Something clanged metallically and with an inquiring look, Kyle examined a small piece of metal. It was crudely made, probably bent into shape with a hammer and pliers, and reminded him of a horse's brand. "What have you done..." he murmured into the chamber as if someone or something could give him an answer. But no one whispered the secrets to him and so he opened the next book.

He could not let himself be overwhelmed by feelings, could not let himself be deceived. This was about gruesome murders and there in his hands lay the key! Kyle's eyes flew over signs, symbols... the writing. Handwriting is careful but different on the back pages than on the front. Drawings. Notes laid inside, some burnt almost beyond recognition. All unfortunately in a language he could neither speak nor read. A few words seemed to have been translated into English in ink. He had, however, seen a few of the drawings in the seekers' books.

Then, at last, he also recognized the smell that had been pricking his senses so much all the time. The ingredients were sticking out of the secret compartment. "Datura. Fire hat. Devil's claw." the mage murmured, his eyes sliding over the plants. Reagents for magic. That's why there were always so many fresh flowers - they masked the magic that had been in the air all along.

He reached for the book to slam it shut when his eyes fell on black letters written at the very front of the cover. A grimoire had to be bound. With his own hands, leaf by leaf, and to the wizard. But there was not Elly's name there.

All at once, a thud sounded. Loud rumbling from below. 

Panic swirled inside him as Kyle wheeled around and rushed out of the room.