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Even within the confines of my head, I hear the disapproval ringing in every word. It burrows under my skin, knowing exactly which wounds to prod at to hurt the most. There’s no keeping secrets from the dead. No silencing them either, no matter how I try.

The same old justifications spring to my tongue, shrivelling up unspoken as they always do, dying before they escape my lips. It’s not my fault. I never wanted this to happen. I didn’t ask for any of it.

You could stop, the voice says.

But it’s wrong. I can’t stop. Worse than that, I don’t want to.

I leave the river behind, trudging over hills and navigating thickets of bright yellow gorse until I reach the ruins of Hyssington Castle. The crumbling remains of the old motte and bailey are tucked amongst a copse of yew and oak, barely visible beneath the ever-darkening sky. The place is dangerously secluded—or perhaps enticingly so, if the undertaker’s assessment of the village youth is correct.

As I draw closer, I notice signs of what happened here: the red splatter against the stone wall, the depressions in the disturbed soil, the flattened grass where a body must have recently lain. It all fits with the undertaker’s story. This is where the young lad was killed. As for what killed him… Well, I wager that’s something I’ll see with my own eyes soon enough.

I release a long, deliberate sigh and unhook my belt, placing the scabbard just within reach as I sink to the damp earth. To anything watching—and I’m certain it’s already watching—I’m the picture of a weary traveller taking shelter for the night. The toes of my leather boots are cracked and peeling, the weather-worn cloak around my shoulders too tattered to offer any real protection against the rain threatening to fall. If I were truly a vagabond, as my appearance carefully suggests, the ruins would be a wise choice of shelter.

It takes a while to get a fire going. Even under the shelter of the tower’s old stone walls, the air is thick with drizzle, turning my cheeks cold and damp as I work the flint over the kindling. Eventually, a brittle twig catches aflame, and I’m rewarded with a kiss of warmth from the crackling wood.

The exhaustion isn’t something I have to pretend at as I lie down, curling my legs to my chest and closing my eyes. A familiar weariness seeps into my limbs, turning my head heavy. It’s almost enough to make me drift off in earnest, but I guard myself against the pull of sleep and wait for the redcap to show itself.

It’s difficult to tell how much time passes. At some point, the rain finally falls, dancing off the walls with a rhythmical patter. Something stirs in the undergrowth, but the rustling is too skittish to be caused by anything but an animal. My eyes remain closed, my breathing remains purposefully slow. I am dead to the world, the perfect prey.

The attack happens so quickly I almost don’t survive it. I can’t explain how I know it’s coming. It’s just a sense, like a shadow falling across my closed lids though the sun has slipped away. Whatever it is, it makes my eyes spring open just in time to see the moss-covered rock hurtling towards my head.

There’s no time to think. I roll out of the way as the stone comes crashing down into the soil where my head lay only a heartbeat earlier. In the same movement, I snatch my blade from the scabbard and whip it in front of me, its needle-sharp tip pointed at the redcap’s chest.

The creature leers at me, a scowl contorting its grotesque features. It stands a good foot shorter than me, with knobbled arms and spindly fingers ending in claws. Four long, curved teeth protrude from its wrinkled mouth, blunt and yellow. Its skin is pale and shrivelled, its matted hair tucked under a shabby woollen hood pulled over its pointed ears.

The hood is red. Not from any kind of dye in the fabric, but from blood. The village boy’s blood.

I tighten my hand around the blade I hold between me and the redcap. The rapier is a little over a metre in length, steel ending in glistening silver at its pointed tip. It cannot sever a limb or cleave a man’s head from his neck, but it can slide between muscle and bone to find a monster’s heart. The silver will do the rest.

The redcap’s eyes narrow on the blade, and it spits out a hiss between its protruding teeth. “Silly wee hunter, out here all alone. What will she do when her skull meets the stone?”

Its voice is a harsh cackle, grating to my ears. I can tell it wants me to drop my gaze to the moss-covered rock wedged in the dirt, but I don’t take my eyes off the creature, not for a second. It’s quicker than I am. If I allow myself even the slightest of distractions, it will spring. And this time, it may not miss.

The blood soaking its crimson hood has almost dried up; I spot brittle flakes falling loose from the fibres. If the redcap doesn’t find another victim soon, it will die. That’s why it’s peering at me so eagerly, black tongue darting over its hooked teeth. It wants to split my skull open with that rock and dip its cap in the blood that pours out, like mopping up the yolk from a cracked egg. My death will ensure its survival for another few days, at least.

“You’re a long way from home,” I say, keeping my voice even. “What could compel a redcap to stray so far from the north, I wonder?”

The creature pauses, assessing me with gleaming red eyes. Something passes between us, a shared shudder down the spine of human and monster alike. The air grows warm with rot, the stench so strong I almost choke. Then it’s gone, and the redcap’s ugly maw stretches into a grin.

“See the blood drain from the wee hunter’s cheeks, like she already kens the answer she seeks.”

Even before the last of the sing-song words leaves its mouth, the creature is lunging towards me. I move too slowly, and before I can do anything, its iron-toed boots meet the centre of my chest. I stagger back and land on the grass with a pained breath. My sternum aches as I press my hand gingerly against my chest, wincing at what will be mottled bruising by the morning.

The redcap is on the move again, darting towards the stone it already aimed at my skull once. I scramble to my knees and cut across its path, thrusting my rapier into the sallow, wrinkled skin of its chest. It’s not deep enough to find the heart, but the hiss of silver meeting fiendblood is enough to tell me I’ve hurt the creature, at least.

It jerks its head, face contorting into something more spiteful than before. The grin disappears, replaced by a feral snarl that turns the pit of my stomach cold.

“Tomorrow her body is food for the flies,” it rasps. “The hunter is lost, the hunter dies.”

It abandons the stone and leaps at me again, clamping its curved teeth around my forearm. I can’t help the scream that bursts loose. If the redcap snaps my bones between its jaws, it will all be over. Even if I survive this encounter, there will be nothing left for me. My only defences against the monsters of this world are my fencing arm and my wits. The former, a product of the life I once took for granted; the latter, the result of too many years poring over tomes and texts after I lost it.

Fiends. Horrors. I’ve learned how to hunt them, how to kill them. It’s who I am. It’s all I am.

I stifle another scream as the redcap bites deeper. I can’t feel my fingers on my right hand; I don’t know whether the rapier is still in my grasp or whether I’ve let it tumble to the grass. Either way, it doesn’t matter. I don’t need its steel and silver to kill this creature.

A howl of desperation tears from my throat as I lunge forward and bury my other hand in the redcap’s hood. My fingers clench around the fabric, and I try not to wince at the still-damp blood seeping under my nails. This isn’t the time to think about the poor boy who gave the cap its most recent coating. There’s no undoing what’s already been done, but I can make sure it doesn’t happen again.

The moment I wrench the hood from the redcap’s head, the creature seizes, its jaws loosening around my arm. It stares at me, eyes glazed over. Blood—my blood—drips from its teeth. If I had taken a second longer, if it had squeezed any tighter…