England, West Coast
Devonshire, Dartmoor
St. George, Outer Fields
5 November 1898, 5:04 p.m.

The sinister front of black clouds had by now drawn so close as to darken the sky. Again and again, the sky rumbled as if hiding behind the grey-black masses a hungry beast just waiting to swoop down from above. The wind had picked up noticeably. Leaves danced through the air, swirled around and were snatched away by coarse fingers. Rustling dominated the scene, the storm was near and would not be long in coming. The harsh wind pushed down trees and pressed blades of grass towards the ground with its force.

This was another reason why they hurried on their way back to the village. Kyle had to take off his top hat to keep it from blowing away. Gusts of wind tugged at their coats, tore at them like the brash hands of a child. It was more or less the same with their conclusions and clues: Swept away like a leaf in a hurricane.

"Do you think she's hiding something from us?" asked Dr Archer, and Kyle took his time answering.

"I don't. But... I don't think so." he finally said, rubbing his tense neck as he tilted his head slightly from side to side. "It looked to me like she was really worried about the dangers."

"What options do we have now to find out more?"

Kyle sighed, really wishing he had an answer. "We could try another medium for foresight," he suggested. After the experience last time, though, he wasn't keen on that. The remains of the bird had destroyed them and so he had nothing to use as an anchor point for the spell. A sudden, stronger gust of wind knocked the tippet of his cloak to the back of his head and Kyle wiped at the fabric to slide it back over his shoulders.

"It's worth a try, at least," Dr Archer agreed thoughtfully. And yet it seemed to them both that all their tracks were getting lost. Today a little boy had almost lost his life! Not a young girl, not an old priest, and not an obviously quick-tempered host either. 

Kyle felt a drop jump into his face. Small but unmistakable, he nevertheless groped for it and wiped the moisture across his skin. "We'd better hurry or we'll be out in the rain in a minute."

England, West Coast
Devonshire, Dartmoor
St George, Skirrid Inn
5 November 1898, 5:18 pm

Leaves rustled under their shoes as they hastily made their way to the Skirrid Inn. The windows and doors were closed by the storm, which cast its black shadow over the village like a harbinger of sinister events. Most of the inhabitants had retreated to the shelter of their warmed parlours and avoided leaving them. The events of the previous evening lingered like the charred smell in a kitchen and lingered there even after the day had passed.

So they reached the Skirrid Inn after a few minutes. At the front of the Inn, a first-floor window stood open and curtains fluttered in the wind. Waving draperies, clamouring for attention like phantoms in an abandoned building. Kyle frowned and glanced up at the narrow ledge as Archer opened the door in front of him. Another drop hit his cheek, another his neck. Then he slipped into the safety of the parlour with Benjamin. A wooden sign hung on the rough rope above the handle on the door. The letters CLOSED immediately leapt to the eye.

The two searchers were not surprised that there was no bar today. The reason, Sandra Walsh, lay under a black cloth in the chapel or already in a fresh grave. The mood throughout the village was depressed and after the incident with little Viktor, few parents even let their children out on the streets. The parents were worried about the families. The interior was correspondingly empty.

Only a few lanterns were still lit and the crackling fire illuminated the parlour with dancing light that groped across the floorboards and cast long shadows behind the furniture. Elly was nowhere to be seen, nor was there a glow or crackling fire in the kitchen. On the counter was a tray with two bowls. A paper had been folded and Mr Crowford and Mr Archer written on it in careful script. The two ceramic or earthenware bowls were covered with cloths, accompanied by some bread in a basket and two bottles of ale.

In this quiet atmosphere, the two seekers sat down at one of the tables to eat dinner. The stew was excellent as always, although it was barely lukewarm. Kyle pushed the bottle of ale towards Dr Archer, who watched a drop trickle down the bottle.

"You don't even drink beer?"

Kyle pushed a spring onion aside, to the side of the bowl. "I don't drink."

"Nothing at all?"

"No."

"Never?"

"Never."

The silence between them. Then the mage sighed. Kyle pursed his lips a little, then tapped his fingers on the tabletop. "Something or someone is murdering here with Dark Arts. We can't afford it. I can never afford it." Bitterness resonated in Kyle's voice, hidden behind hardened seriousness. Normally he did not discuss this matter and saw no reason to justify it to anyone. But Dr Archer did not seem to mean it condescendingly. There was not the sneer and spiteful grin on his features that the men in the club always gave him when they drank their Scotch on the rocks, expensive whisky or the wine of which a glass cost as much as a whole carriage.

"Before fights, I sometimes take a sip. It calms the nerves, makes the hands more steady..." said Dr Archer, pulling the flask from the inside of his pocket. His fingers brushed over the initials - which were not his, Kyle quite noticed - and he regarded the flask with a melancholy look. "I can't imagine what it would be like not to drink at all..."

Kyle had been expecting something completely different. That Dr Archer would laugh, pat him on the back and say he could convince him all right, if only he was given the right thing. It was difficult to exist in a men's club and the company of men without smoking cigars and drinking. Yet he didn't. He simply could not afford it.

A black piece of obsidian was in his stomach. Not a coal that could be crushed and not a simple rock. Kyle knew what could happen if he made a mistake...

A shadow settled over the blue of his eyes, colouring them darker. They were more like a storm at sea, instead of crystal blue waters.

"My magical talent is very strong." He said then, curling his lips. It sounded less like the arrogance Dr Archer knew from the Order. "I have to concentrate when I'm acting. No matter if it's just a small spell or a big one. Magic can be very dangerous. The wrong emphasis, lack of concentration, one mumbled word and there can be terrible consequences." he explained and now the Doctor frowned and stroked his chin. He grumbled and seemed to think about the explanation.

Then he simply nodded. "I see."

He put the flask away again and reached for the bottle of ale. "I'm drink-strong. I can drink for both of us."

Kyle almost laughed. So that was how it was now? "Then I'll give it all to you from now on."

They sat together like that for a while. If they had had the choice, neither would have approached the other. In London, they wanted to have as little to do with each other as possible. Now they were forced to cooperate. And strangely enough, it worked.

Meanwhile, Dr Archer had suggested perhaps keeping watch at the cemetery at night to see if anyone was tampering with the graves. Kyle did not like the idea of loitering near a cemetery in this approaching crap weather. But Dr Archer was right, it was a sensible option and without further evidence, it was a chance. For this reason, they cleared the bowls and bottles into the kitchen and then headed upstairs to change.

Somewhere the wind howled through cracks in the house, pushing against timbers and the roof, making it groan. The house groaned and breathed in the storm. Outside, lightning repeatedly lit up the encroaching darkness of a black night for a split second. It cast distorted shadows of the searchers on the walls, while the rest of the house was in darkness. That meant - almost everything was in darkness.

As Kyle and Dr Archer came upstairs, the light fell on the corridor through the crack of a door. The eyes of both clung to the door frame and the wood of the wicket. The glow of light came from the rearmost room, on the right.

"Do you think Mrs Andrews is back?" asked Dr Archer, as the flickering light under the narrow crack cast itself against the wall on the far side. Outside, the rain began to draw its veil over the land. Thick drops fell pattering against the glass panes and down onto the roofs. Slowly, the two seekers moved towards the door and it was Kyle who grabbed the door handle.

"Hello?" asked Dr Archer. Silence.

Kyle remembered the open window.

"Maybe Elly's just airing out the room." he mused, knocking on the wood. The hollow sound spilt into the hallway, tightening her nerves.

"Hello, Miss Oldren?"

Again, nothing.

"She could have been airing out and just forgotten about the light," Dr Archer opined.

Kyle, however, felt the restlessness inside him again. A buzz accompanied one fly, then a second, and Kyle contemplated the buzzing pests. For a few moments, he paused at the head of the aisle, tracing the breadcrumbs in his memories.

"Didn't you mention soil in the corridor?" he then asked, his gaze continuing on the door. Now Dr Archer seemed to be able to follow his thoughts too.

"You're alluding to the flies and the missing body," he said now, his tone clearly lowered, and Kyle nodded slowly. Dr Archer and he exchanged a silent glance, then Kyle grabbed the handle of his walking stick and the doctor grabbed one of his revolvers.

A few mosquitoes startled, drawing jagged lines through the air and scurrying past them. They didn't know what to expect, but now Kyle glanced scrutinisingly at the ceiling and the door. Black dating spots left whirring, buzzing shadows on the walls. An oppressively sweet smell emanated from the room. Now, as Kyle closed his fingers around the doorknob, his heart pounded wildly inside. But when he turned it, the lock jammed. Kyle tried again, braced against the gate... Locked. He wanted to let out a curse, but just in time, he stopped himself. Dr Archer possessed the same tension. Judging by the look on his face as he sized up the door, he was seriously considering breaking it down.

"I'm sure Elly has a key," Kyle said, quickly restraining the overzealous soldier. They could only hope that nothing had happened to her. He pointed to the ladder at the other end of the hall.

"I'll go get it. You stay here," he murmured softly. Then he strode hurriedly to the ladder, whose narrow steps led up into the attic. Kyle expected the steps to creak as he climbed them. But they were silent. The stairway was relatively narrow, but someone like him or Elly could get up there easily.

The ladder steps ended in a small anteroom and there at a door in the roof beams. Kyle raised his hand to knock. His knuckles hit the wood... and it gave way under the pressure of his blows and swung open a little. Kyle's gaze fell through the gap, into the attic.... and his stomach churned.

"Holy shit."