There were mostly abandoned buildings on Hope Road. The windows had been shattered, and some of the walls were crumbling under the weight of the collapsed roofs. The gaslamp posts were unlit. How long had it been since someone bothered to use them?

As Trinket and Booker made their way down the street, she caught sight of a lone figure. He stood in the shadows at the corner where Hope Road met Vale End. As they drew closer, she found it was impossible to identify him with his oversized cap pulled down low and his collar turned up to keep the lower half of his face hidden. He kept his eyes trained on the ground, even as they approached. She couldn't imagine it would be anyone but the Resurrectionist standing in the middle of a dark road surrounded by abandoned buildings. A person would only meet here if they had specific business to attend to.

Booker gripped Trinket's arm, and she could almost feel the excitement radiating off of him. She sucked in a breath and gave his hand a squeeze.

Something moved by one of the abandoned buildings.

Her heart leapt into her throat.

Was it a person? Or a hallucination?

Without being too conspicuous, she glanced behind her. Nothing. Had it been in her head? She recalled the dancing shadows in her room and cursed her broken psyche for its ill-timing. Now was not the time to be seeing things. She needed to be on alert and aware of her surroundings.

You're going to fail.

You'll ruin everything.

The disembodied whispers did not give her much confidence.

She and Booker stopped before the lone figure. He gave a curt nod, and Booker returned the gesture.

"I see you took my advice and did not try to remove the beetle yourself?" Booker said, a mocking smile tugging at his lips.

The Resurrectionist shook his head slowly and turned his eyes back to the ground. Booker had clearly frightened the young man enough that he wasn't even willing to speak. This seemed to please Booker, as his smirk grew, though it was hidden in the darkness of the night.

The minutes ticked by, and they continued to stand in silence. Trinket's mind persisted in playing tricks on her, making her believe there were voices whispering in her ears or that there were shadows lurking behind the shattered windows of the abandoned buildings. She knew it would be foolish to brush the movement off as a figment of her imagination, but as she looked to Booker for some sign that he had seen them, too, he barely registered her attention. His fingers tapped restlessly against her arm, and he shifted his weight from foot to foot.

"You did get in touch with him, didn't you?" Booker asked the Resurrectionist, his patience wearing thin.

Another wordless nod.

The silence wore on, and Booker became increasingly restless. Trinket's heart pounded in her ears as the shadows distracted her and the voices grew louder. She closed her eyes and swallowed, hoping she could will it all away. Holding on tighter to Booker's arm, she focused on the Resurrectionist. She at least knew that he was real, and perhaps this fact would help to ground her in reality.

After another minute or so, someone came running down the street. However, it wasn't Booker's friend. It was a young urchin girl. Her bare feet padded soundlessly down the road, and it was only her hacking cough that alerted them to her presence. There was a note clutched in her hand, and she made a beeline for Booker.

As he took the note from her, something dark and leathery darted in front of Trinket's face. She flinched but assumed it was a hallucination. That is, until she saw the Resurrectionist swat at it, lifting his lip in a snarl and revealing his yellowing teeth.

Her heart stopped.

Yellow teeth.

Not white.

She turned back to Booker who was reading the note from the urchin. Before she could utter a word, he crumpled the paper in his hand. In one fluid movement, he pulled out his pistol and wrapped his arm around her shoulders, drawing her close as he shot at the man with the yellow teeth.

The man had clearly been expecting the attack, as he dodged it and reached for his own weapon. Booker ducked, pulling Trinket with him as the man returned fire. They hurried down the street and moved to seek shelter in one of the dilapidated buildings, but two men met them at the entrance. Backing up, they turned to flee to a different building, but a pair of men emerged from that one as well.

Gripping Trinket's shoulder tightly, Booker spun in a circle, searching for an escape.

But they were surrounded.

Shadows were taking shape, becoming men as they drew closer. Booker held his gun out, pointing it at each of them in turn, his eyes darting back and forth. Trinket searched for a way out as well, but the imagined shadows were blurring with the actual shadowy figures before her, making it impossible to tell them apart. She blinked rapidly and shook her head. If ever she needed her sharp eyes, it was now.

One of the shadowy figures stepped forward, and as she forced herself to focus on him, she was met by a wicked, oily smile.

Booker's grip was bordering on painful as he locked eyes with Scales. His glare did not dismay the thug, though. Rather, Scales' smile grew, and there was an added bounce to his step. He stopped several feet away from Booker and set his walking stick before him, leaning forward.

"Fancy meeting you here, Larkin," he sneered.

Swallowing hard, Booker kept his icy stare on him. "What do you want, Scales?"

"You know what I want."

"I don't know where he is."

"Bull."

"I'm telling you, I don't know. Your little stunt scared him away."

Feigning a yawn, Scales crossed one leg over the other and gazed at Booker with boredom. "You expect me to believe that someone you're so keen on finding would be afraid of a few thugs? Someone who creates wolves with metal teeth and combines man and beast? You really must think me a fool, Larkin." His expression darkened. "I don't like being taken for a fool."

Trinket glanced up at Booker. His jaw was clenched, and the fear and panic had returned to his eyes. If he didn't calm down and keep his senses, he'd have no chance of thinking up a way to escape.

It's your fault.

It's your fault.

Your fault!

She gritted her teeth. Fine. If it was her fault, she'd find a way to fix it.

"What do you want with him anyhow?" Booker asked.

"That's none of your business," Scales said.

The two men were fixated on each other, paying her no mind. She slowly inched her hand down her coat.

"I don't know where he is," Booker insisted.

"Then find out."

Her fingertips brushed against the metal vile of faux perfume tucked away in her pocket.

"What do you think I've been trying to do?"

She curled her fingers around it.

"Then perhaps we need to give you a bit more incentive to find him. Maybe your little strumpet should spend some time with us until you can manage to flush this fellow out."

Trinket's gaze passed over the other Mice who were blocking every means of escape. They were engrossed in the argument between Booker and Scales.

Booker's eyes widened, and Scales flashed a vicious grin. "If you touch her, I'll kill you," Booker snarled.

Scales laughed and shook his head. "Look at how emotional you are. What good would you be in a fight? You need to learn to sever those emotional connections, Larkin."

"What do you know of emotions?"

Clenching his jaw, Scales flared his nostrils. "I know they'll be your undoing. I can read your face like a book. Wearing your heart on your sleeve makes you predictable. It makes you weak. You lose the element of surp—"

Trinket pushed herself away from Booker and pulled her faux perfume bottle out, aiming it at Scales' eyes. He stumbled back but wasn't quick enough.

She pressed the sprayer.

Once.

Twice.

She kept going until he was out of reach, clutching at his eyes and hissing in pain. The rest of the Mice were stunned, and they hurried to his side.

"Nevermind me, get them, you flea-bitten scuts," Scales barked.

But Booker had already grabbed Trinket's wrist and dragged her away from the scene. He wrapped his arm around her as the Mice came after them with gunfire and angry shouts. Booker turned back once to open fire, but he seemed more intent on outrunning them. One of the Mice's bullets hit his arm, and he gasped in pain, stumbling for a moment. Trinket snaked her arm about his waist to support his weight and urged him on.

They rounded the corner, and the sounds of the Mice disappeared into the night, no more than a distant echo. But Booker didn't slow his speed. They continued to run through the slums, his hold on her never loosening, even as they turned down Gainsborough Avenue and were met with the familiar sight of their front door.