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Prologue

My fate is sealed with two letters.

The first contains the words that follow, the words I hope you’re reading now. In a few hours, I’ll hand the envelope to Lottie at the Goshawk Inn along with instructions I dare not commit to ink for fear of prying eyes. Today marks the first of many missives I plan to entrust to her care.

I pray it will not be the last.

The second letter, I will press into the palm of one of the delivery lads along with a penny, and bid he take it to the manor on the hill. In it are only two words that cannot be taken back.

I accept.

1

It begins, as many things do, with an invitation.

The letter I hold between my fingers is the most beautifully crafted missive I have ever seen. Or it might have been, had it not been written in blood.

I lean closer and run the tip of my nose over the writing, just to be certain. I have a sense for these things—a hunter’s sense. Sure enough, I’m greeted with notes of copper and salt. It’s a stale smell, one I regret breathing in as soon as I peel the letter away. The remnants ferment on my tongue, filling my mouth with a bouquet of death and decay, making my stomach churn.

The letter trembles in my hand, and I take a steadying breath before casting my attention to the scribbled words—words that seem more threatening now that I know the nature of the ink in which they were written.

Alderose, the letter begins.

There it is—my name, scratched in crimson, written in a hand so elegant I can almost hear the whispered curls of each letter. It’s familiar, somehow. Intimate in a way that makes my hair stand on end. Not Miss Mortimer, but Alderose, dripping with the sound of the vowels, the soft hiss at the tail.

I can’t help the way my hand drifts to my neck; my fingers are at my collarbone before I realise they’ve moved. I curl them around the delicate silver chain, following it down until I find the ring that hangs over my heart. It’s warm, branding me like a kiss, and it chases away the shiver as I return to the letter.

The message is crisp and concise. No drop of ink—of blood—is wasted. There are no compliments to be found, nor the desperation I usually encounter in those who wish to hire me. Instead, my exploits are referenced with a detached appraisal that borders on disinterest.

Then I reach the words that will change everything.

I find myself in need of the kind of assistance only someone like you can provide. If you are willing to discuss terms, you will find me at Wreymoor Hall, the manor on the hill. I shall await your presence, should you decide to grace me with it.

My fingers find the bottom of the parchment. All that remains is a name, signed in sharp strokes that glisten like they are wet. It stares at me in sanguine letters, a rasping breath at my ear.

Lord Iestyn.

Something inside me pulls tight and snaps, a cord frayed to its last thread. I fold the letter back on itself, burying the words behind each deliberate crease I make in the parchment. But that can’t undo what I’ve seen. The ink bleeds before my eyes, carrying with it the reek of rot and iron that pervades my dreams every night.

I find myself in need of the kind of assistance only someone like you can provide.

I clench my fingers around the letter, as if their grip might squeeze the words to silence. News travels fast. I’ve barely been in town a week, but already my reputation has spread.

Perhaps it shouldn’t come as a surprise. I have been busy—busier than I should be in a place this size. Caelfeld is much like all the other countryside villages I’ve ventured to these past few months—sleepy and insular, with twisting streets that remain shrouded half the day in the dewy mist that creeps in from the Shropshire moors. Its ramshackle cluster of inns and shops and surrounding farms lies some five miles north of Bishop’s Castle, perched on the bank of the River Onny in a way that seems lonely. I’m not being unkind when I say the town is unremarkable. There’s certainly nothing about it to explain the trouble it’s been having.

The old wooden board at the village entrance had three new notices pinned to its weary face when I passed by earlier this morning. Another sighting in the shadows, another plea for help with the offer of coin to match it. In the week since I arrived, my blade has been dulled by hide and sinew and bone, my purse grown fat and heavy.

But it’s not about the reward. It never has been. It’s about ridding this world of the monsters that prey on it.

A familiar sensation rises in my chest, threatening to burn the back of my throat if I don’t swallow it. Sometimes I want to let it out in a scream, but if I do, I’ll never stop. I’ll scream until my lungs wither and die, until the sound consumes all that’s left of me.

The corners of the letter dig into my palm as I hold my fists tight, squeezing until my knuckles are bone pale. Each breath I draw is a painful effort, but after a minute or two, the burning in my throat subsides and the embers settle in the hollow behind my sternum, lying dormant until the next time.

There is always a next time.

I return the letter to my pocket. It weighs down my coat like it doesn’t want me to forget it’s there. The tang of blood lingers in the air, but whether it’s from the letter’s crude ink or my own memories, I can’t be sure.

My breathing settles. My heart slows. In the corner of the room, the silver glint of a blade winks at me from its scabbard.