November 15, 2024. Briarwood Estate. Plans and enemies. They mix about as well as oil and water.

I glanced at the stained, speckled ceiling when the manor house groaned, then gave the office walls a suspicious look for good measure. The wood paneling was still a dusty brown; ordinary and very unremarkable. It didn’t feel the least bit safe, but neither did our plan. I rearranged the wooden box and papers for the tenth time on the old, fake-wooden desk.

“This is such a bad idea,” Cassidy said, folding her arms as she stared at the desk. “Luring that nightjar here with fake fountain pens? Won’t it notice?”

“Hope not,” I grumbled. Putting my hands on my hips, I studied my handiwork, which looked like a place setting for Southern Homes and Monster Traps. This wasn’t exactly in my wheelhouse. “The sheriff wouldn’t hear of us using the two actual Waterman pens we have. He said they’re tomorrow’s problem. I… brought them anyway.”

Cassidy reached out to grab my arm, hesitated, then hugged herself. Shuddering, she gave the office and the murder library in the next room an uneasy look.

“Daniel…” she sighed. “This place is so horrible, I can’t wait until this is over.” She shook her head a little. “In any case, most of the jars in the basement are cracked now. Not sure how that helps, but it’s done.”

I nodded, turning the wooden box with the pens to the right. “This looks… terrible.” Running a hand over my face, I met Cassidy’s gaze. “The jars? Remember how it acted when we stole or smashed one? The nightjar panicked. Hopefully, that’ll rattle it enough that it won’t think clearly.”

Cassidy nodded, lips tight. “That makes sense. I still wish we had something better to work with, like fire, or killing a bloodleech with cold iron.”

Before I could reply, Dorian breezed through the door into the office. The bloodleech paused, face twisting as if he’d smelled something rancid.

“Cassidy, if you please, can we not bring up cold iron?” he asked in a wilted tone. “It’ll ruin my appetite for a good hunt.”

I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Dorian, we’re trying to catch the nightjar, not eat the nightjar…”

Dorian’s expression was as pure and innocent as the driven snow. “I can’t help it if I’m a foodie.”

Cassidy rolled her eyes as I fought back a smile. Not sure what it said about me that I nearly laughed out loud at that. My humor died when a cold needle of craving pierced my chest. Raw anxiety followed in an icy flood, making my hands tremble as a gasp squeezed out of me. Dorian’s jaw tensed. His perpetually amused expression slipped as Cassidy rushed over to me.

“Daniel?”

“Notebook,” I stammered.

She raced to the desk, grabbing the nearest notebook as I yanked one of the real Waterman pens from a pocket. Still trembling, I frantically wrote a passage about a messy chase scene. The moment I did, warmth flooded through me like new sunshine, driving the compulsion into the dark corners of my mind. I drew a long breath, leaning against the desk.

“It’s getting worse,” Cassidy muttered, drawing her lower lip between her teeth.

“Yeah. A little,” I whispered. They exchanged a concerned look as I coughed. “Still manageable. How are the mini-speakers? Think they’ll be able to broadcast our voices in here?”

“Should be fine for our little private performance,” Dorian drawled. “Tell me where they are and I’ll check. I’ve eaten a podcaster once or twice in my life.”

“This way. I’ll show you,” Cassidy said dryly.

Once alone, I stood up straight, taking deep breaths. The fog vanished from my head, taking the anxiety with it but leaving a quiet despair. I capped the pen, slipping it back into my shirt pocket, before studying my hands.

My fingertips were heavily stained as if the pen had leaked; only it hadn’t.

“Damn,” I muttered. Cassidy caught me looking at the stains when she returned.

“Oh, Daniel…” she sighed. “Where’s that inkwell?”

Giving her a weak smile that I wished was reassuring, I reshuffled the papers on the desk again. “Here in my jacket. I don’t know how, but it really does curb those crazy impulses after a second. Don’t worry, Cassie, I won’t lose it.”

“Good…”

It wasn’t the word, but how she said it. An ugly, scratching sound, dry as sandpaper. I froze, sliding my eyes toward Cassidy. That wasn’t her voice.

She smiled, but it never reached her eyes. They were her usual beautiful green, but now flinty and ice-cold. Her face softened; not with emotion, but like melting clay. I slowly backed away. The skin, even her nose, parted like icing under a knife. A pale beak pushed through from the inside. Ragged crow feathers replaced her hair as the sagging skin pulled taut and desiccated until I didn’t recognize her anymore.

“What’s wrong, Daniel?” it rasped, reaching for my arm with a pale hand.

I jerked away, stepping out of reach. My chest went tight, making it hard to breathe. Every sensation in the room felt too sharp. A bead of sweat trickled down my cheek as I cast a quick glance at the closed office window, then at the only open door out. My fingertips itched.

The nightjar was partially blocking the path to the door, its eyes melting into solid black orbs.

“Cassidy,” I snarled, trembling. “Where’s my wife?”

“What?” The nightjar looked genuinely surprised, but recovered quickly. “You can see me? That’s new…”

“Where?” I demanded, even as every instinct inside me screamed to run.

The nightjar stepped forward, graceful as a dancer. Withdrawing its hand, it curled its long, pale fingers back into a clawed fist. I kept pace, backing up to keep some distance between us. It followed my nervous gaze to the door and back. “I even clouded the mind of that irritating bloodleech, but you shook it off.”

“Sorry to disappoint you, Amanda… or is it Morgana?” I growled, slowly sidestepping toward the door to the library.

It casually stalked me as if there was all the time in the world. “Oh, very good.” It laughed, which sounded like a drowning victim’s last chuckle. “You’ve been doing your homework. Good boy. Your wife?” It tilted its head. “Basement. She’s marinating for later.”

“No!”

I saw red. There were two options. Attack the nightjar, or run for the door. I chose the door to get to Cassidy. To get help… get anyone.

It lunged, but I ducked under its grasp. Cold fingers trailed along my back, nearly snagging my jacket. I tripped over my own feet in the library, grabbing the couch to stay upright. Memories from two weeks ago swam in my head. Valeria. Her damn giggling while she tortured that college kid. The feel of her fingers on my neck as she choked me.

“Not. Now.” The words ripped out of me as I shoved off the couch, heading for the main hallway.

The nightjar was already standing there.

“You two were a challenge, being so annoyingly together. Checking on each other.” It chuckled dryly. “Lucky she went alone to the basement to break my jars. Rude, really. Those are expensive.”

It reached for me, but I jerked away, almost tripping over a footstool. Stumbling back, I scanned for a weapon. Something. My hand fell on an abandoned fireplace poker. “I know. You kept buying them from us.”

It giggled, scraping tremors along my nerves. “True. Now the preening bloodleech? Too easy. He wants so badly for you and your little wifey to accept him. I sent him off to kill a few deputies outside.” Its mouth stretched too wide, like a gash along its beak. I saw too many pointed teeth. It sauntered forward a step. “Your plan was darling… but I got here early. Only good manners to arrive early.” Its smile fled. “The inkwell. The pens. I can feel them on you… give them to me!”

“Get bent!” I snapped.

The nightjar snarled, grabbing at me with both hands. I panic-swung, getting lucky as I struck an arm. It howled, jerking back, and I bolted around the room. When I stumbled against the shelves where I remembered Valeria had kept her victims’ phones, a stray thought hit me. Pulling out my phone, I set up a conference call from my contacts list—Sheriff Branham, Deputy Keene, Cassidy, Dorian. I killed the volume but left the mic live, then tossed the phone out of sight.

I made it partway across the library to the kitchen before the nightjar cut me off.

“Why Valeria and the murders? Covering your tracks?” I demanded, taking two rough swings before I ran the other way, panting.

“Why not?” the nightjar replied, gliding around to cut off my escape. “I needed someone durable who wouldn’t be bothered by the pens right away. She would’ve been tasty once infected.”

My mind spun as I swatted at the creature again. It recoiled, shaking a hand.

Pens. Infected. I remembered writing to… something… that wrote back. Infections don’t talk. I held the fireplace poker like a baseball bat. Then I felt a twinge. A pull toward the nightjar. That’s when I remembered the ink stains I’d seen on its hand the other night.

“You’re affected, too.” I remembered what Valeria had written and what Kyle had said. “How many pages?”

The nightjar’s emaciated lips curled in unfiltered disgust. “Written? Too many. I’ve lost count. It only fades when I feed on someone else who’s infected… like you.”

I gave ground and looked for the nearest door as it stalked closer. The nightjar almost had me backed into a corner. I swallowed, praying Cassidy was alive. That Dorian would shake it off, or the sheriff would charge in with deputies. Someone. The nightjar’s sharp black eyes loomed larger with each step.

“How did you even…” I swallowed, realizing the answer to my question. “It was Amanda Price. She had a pen. So did Martin Altamont. That’s how the curse grabbed you, isn’t it? When you killed Amanda Price.”

Its wide smile returned. “She loved showing it off, up until I had her for dinner.”

I braced myself for all the good it did. The nightjar lunged, and I swung. It batted aside the fireplace poker, slamming me against the wall. Pinning me in place with one hand, it withdrew a jar with the other. I saw steam rise around my face.

It was cooking me alive.

In a panic, I shoved and punched. It didn’t do any good. The world was turning gray at the edges, fraying like old fabric. In my thrashing, something bumped my chest. My shirt pocket. One of the pens. I yanked it out, pulled off the cap, and stabbed the Waterman pen into the fleshy part of the nightjar’s hand. Ink crawled through its skin like black spiderwebs. The creature let out a soul-tearing shriek, releasing me as it staggered back. Tripping over the footstool, it careened off the couch.

I half-ran, half-stumbled a few steps away, gulping air. Stunned, I watched the ink melt away like mist. The same way Issac had faded from view.

“A… ghost?” I wheezed.

Then my jacket pocket turned warm, and I jerked out the inkwell. A hollow face materialized inside the shadowy ink, tinged with a green aura. It was the face of J. Stewart from the newspaper clipping.

“Mr. Stewart?”

He mouthed something I couldn’t hear, looking concerned.

Shuddering, I turned for the nearest doorway out. The nightjar pushed off the couch, eyes hot with rage. Hissing like a snake, it leaped at me. I snatched up the fireplace poker, but dropped it when the creature belted me across the mouth. Stars exploded in my vision.

“Give me the…”

The nightjar’s last words collapsed into a grunt as Dorian dove over the couch in full bloodleech form, slamming the thing aside. I staggered back, hauling myself to my feet. Dorian sank long black claws into the nightjar. It shrieked; he grinned, tearing into it again. I even thought he bit it at least once.

As I stood, running footsteps echoed down the hallway. I saw the nightjar grab Dorian by the neck while pulling out a Mason jar. The poker was nowhere nearby, so I brandished the pen, running forward to stab the thing again. People rushed in; I barely registered them. Voices. Yelling. It was all a muddy mess in my head.

Then I heard the sweetest sound in the world as a figure landed in my path with her back to me.

“Hey, Trouble. Miss me?” Cassidy said over her shoulder. She was in her full humanoid bat shape, and so wonderfully alive. My wife slashed at the nightjar’s arm, slicing the thing’s pale skin before yanking away the Mason jar.

“Tons,” I wheezed.

“Freeze!” Sheriff Branham yelled as he and Deputy Keene arrived, sidearms drawn. It was a bluff; we were too close for them to fire. Dorian doubly so. The nightjar screamed, and in a burst of manic strength, shoved Dorian away. He fell directly into Branham and Keene’s line of fire. Cassidy tried to run with the jar while keeping a hand on my arm, but we were too slow. It snatched the Mason jar out of her hands, then tackled me to the floor. The steam started again, cooking me.

This time I had a brilliant and terrible plan.

“Dorian! Cassidy!” I yelled between my own screams. “Hold… the nightjar… still!”

They did. I stabbed the first Waterman pen into the nightjar’s hand, then drove the second one in beside it. Uncorking the inkwell, I poured the entire contents onto the nightjar’s hand, coating it and the Mason jar.

Everything was pain and screaming; then there was only silence.