She armed herself not a moment too soon. A man appeared at the mouth of the alley, his trousers spattered with congealed blood. His hair was closely shorn, and scabs covered his gaunt cheeks. Revulsion twisted Elisabeth’s gut at the look in his eyes.

He grinned. “There you are, little miss. How about that smile?”

“Stay back,” she warned. “I’ll hurt you.”

He didn’t listen. With a yellow-toothed grin still fixed on his face, he took a step forward. Elisabeth braced herself and swung. The board struck his shoulder and lodged there, stuck fast. He howled, falling to his knees, reaching for the makeshift weapon. When she tore it back out, the nails made a horrible squelch. An arc of blood spattered the brick wall.

Shocked, she stumbled backward until her shoulder blades struck the door. She had slain a Malefict and battled demons, but this was different. He was a person. No matter how evil he was, he wouldn’t disintegrate into ashes or return to the Otherworld if he died. His moans of pain throbbed sickeningly in her ears.

Officium adusque mortem. Was it her duty to fight him, even risk killing him, if escaping his clutches meant saving many more lives?

“Over here, you idiots!” the man snarled, clamping his hand over his wet, torn sleeve as he shoved himself upright, using the wall for support. Blood bubbled over his fingers as he glared at Elisabeth. “And be careful! She’s found herself a weapon.”

There came no reply from the butcher’s lot.

“Did you hear me?”

The alley was silent as a tomb.

“Stop fooling around!” he snapped.

There came a faint splashing sound from around the corner. And then a soft, courteous voice said, “Do not judge your friends too harshly. I fear they are indisposed.”

“Is this some sort of joke?” He limped back for a look. All the color drained from his slack face. “What—what are you?” he stammered.

“That is a difficult question to answer,” the whispering voice replied. “I am an ancient thing, you see. I have brought about the fall of empires and attended the deathbeds of kings. Nations now lost to time once fought wars over the secret of my true name.” He sighed. “But presently, I am inconvenienced. My day’s plans didn’t include traipsing down a squalid alleyway to dispatch a handful of second-rate criminals. Not in a clean suit, and certainly not in a new pair of shoes.”

The man’s eyes bulged from his head. He tried to run, but that was a mistake. Elisabeth didn’t see what happened after he fled past the corner, out of sight. She only heard a choked-off scream, followed by a silence so thick it made her ears ring.

She slid down the door, the stained board clattering to the ground. A cough seized her body and shook her like a rabbit in the jaws of a hound. She blinked back tears as Silas stepped into view. He looked just as he had on the street, except for a spatter of blood on his face. He flicked a handkerchief from his breast pocket and dabbed the blood away, then examined the soiled handkerchief, pursed his lips, and cast it aside.

“Miss Scrivener,” he said, giving her a minute bow.

“Silas,” she gasped. “I’m so glad to see you.”

“Curious. That is not what people usually say to me at a time like this.”

“What do they usually say?”

“Generally they cry, or wet themselves.” He studied her. “What are you doing here? Master Thorn and I assumed you would be back in Summershall by now.”

Elisabeth didn’t have the energy to explain Ashcroft and Leadgate. She was no longer certain that the tears in her eyes had to do with how hard she had been coughing. She knew she shouldn’t be this relieved to see Silas—that he was evil, a murderer, a warden’s worst enemy. But he didn’t pretend to be anything other than a monster. In that way, he was more honorable than most of the people she had met since leaving Summershall.

“Did you kill those men?” she asked.

“When one calls upon a demon, one must be prepared for death to follow.”

“I didn’t . . .”

“You spoke my name. You wished for me to save you.”

“You could have let him run,” she said. When he said nothing, only looked at her, she added, “I suppose you will tell me they were bad men, like last time.”

“Would that make you feel better, miss?”

She felt a dull twinge of horror upon realizing that it would. And once a person began to think that way, she wasn’t certain how they ever managed to stop. A shiver ran through her. “Don’t say it,” she whispered. “Silas—I’ve seen such terrible things. I’ve . . .”

He knelt in front of her. He reached for her, and she flinched, but he only placed a bare hand on her forehead, his touch so cold that it burned. “You aren’t well,” he said softly. “How long have you had this fever?”

When she didn’t reply, unsure, he began to unbutton his jacket. She shook her head as he moved to tuck it around her. “I’ll get your clothes dirty,” she protested.

“It matters not, miss. Up you come.”

He lifted her from the ground as easily as he had the last time. Elisabeth wondered if this meant she was finished starving, running, sleeping in the rain; perhaps she could stop fighting, just for a little while. She turned her face against his chest as he carried her away. “You’re a proper monster, Silas,” she murmured, caught halfway in a dream. “I’m glad of it.”

If he replied, she didn’t hear him. She floated through the world as if set adrift in a lifeboat on a gently rocking sea. The next thing she knew, Silas was saying, “Stay awake, Miss Scrivener. Just a little while longer. We’re almost there.”

She realized, foggily, that Silas had loaded her into a carriage, perhaps some time ago. Her head lolled. She blinked and the street came into focus beyond the windows, the grand houses of Hemlock Park rolling past.

Her eyelids sagged, and her gaze fell upon Silas’s hands, resting folded on his lap. The claws that tipped his long, white fingers were exquisitely clean and manicured—and sharp enough to slit a person’s throat. When he saw her looking, his lips thinned. He slipped his gloves back on, whereupon all evidence of the claws disappeared.

Soon Nathaniel’s manor loomed into view. It had been constructed at the intersection of two angled streets, giving it a curious wedge shape. With its profusion of gargoyles, carvings, and pointed stone finials, it resembled a castle squashed down into a brooding, five-story triangle. When the carriage came to a stop, Silas lifted her out. She watched him pay the driver in befuddled fascination. How curious it was to watch someone treat him like a gentleman, not a demon or even a servant, the driver tipping his hat in respect.

The manor’s front door had six knockers, each in a different size, shape, and metal. As Silas opened the door, he struck the plate second from the top. Though it was made of solid verdigris-flecked copper, it made no sound; instead, a bell rang deep within the house. Elisabeth guessed that each knocker corresponded to a floor, with the sixth and lowest belonging to the cellar. Silas caught her up in his arms again, and brought her inside.

Footfalls pounded upstairs. Nathaniel appeared on the landing, taking the steps two at a time. Elisabeth stared. He wore only a pair of comfortable trousers and a loose white shirt, which billowed out around him as he tore barefoot down the stairs. His black hair was such a mess that the silver streak almost wasn’t visible. She had never imagined him like this, unguarded, normal, but of course he couldn’t spend his entire life wearing a magister’s cloak and a cynical smile. Underneath it all, he was still a boy of eighteen.