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One miner casts me a discerning look, as if he’s deciding whether I’m worthy of conversation. My prickly demeanour doesn’t deter him; he leans forward, resting his chin on steepled fingers. “Not often we get a woman riding along with us. Where are you headed?”

The man beside him mumbles something under his breath, prompting a shared grunt of laughter between the two of them.

I cross my legs and force a placid smile. “Wreymoor Hall. Are either of you familiar with the place?”

Of course, I give them the truth—I have no reason not to. But I don’t expect my words to take such hold of them. The effect is immediate; both men stiffen as though phantom fingers have seized their spines. Their faces turn ashen, and they exchange a glance full of unease.

Eventually, the first miner mutters a reply. “Never laid eyes on the place. Have no desire to either, not if the rumours are true.”

I raise an eyebrow. “Rumours?”

He scowls. “Nothing fit for a woman’s ears. Even a strange one like you.”

“My delicate sensibilities can handle it, I’m sure,” I say dryly before turning to the other man. “What say you? Does the manor on the hill frighten you as much as your friend?”

I fear I’ve prodded too sharply. I brace myself for his lip to curl, for a flash of anger to darken his gaze. But his response shakes me more than an ill temper ever could.

“I’ll pray for you, ma’am.”

A chill seeps through me. Part of me wants to laugh at the absurdity of his words, the solemnity of his expression. But no part of this is a jest. Whatever these miners know—or suspect—about Wreymoor Hall, it’s enough for them to shrink back into themselves, avoiding my gaze as though I’m as terrifying as the place itself merely by association.

What do they know of it, I wonder? What have they heard out here on the lonely moors?

I don’t bother voicing my questions. I’ll get no answers. Instead, the carriage rumbles along the road in silence until we reach the mines. I jump out with the men, but while they trudge off to the tunnels with their picks and shovels, I head towards the Stiperstones.

The ridge dominates the landscape. Green hills climb to the summit, surrendering to heathery moorland as they rise to meet the jagged quartzite rocks. Under the bright blue sky, the ruggedness holds a sense of beauty, but fair weather can be deceiving.

The summer breeze ruffling my hair. The warmth of the sun through the veil. The screams coming from inside the church.

I shake my head to dislodge the memory and follow the muddy dirt road away from the mines. Each footstep drags me closer to my fate, and for the first time in all these years, I begin to fear what that might mean. I picture the mutilated ewes, stomachs gored, twin wounds piercing their necks. I think of Henry’s pale cheeks, the blood pooling around his grey, lifeless body.

A vampire isn’t like any other monster I’ve hunted before. I have to be ready.

Or you could stop. Henry’s voice is in my ear again, gently pleading. He’s haunted me ever since I left him in that church. No matter how many vile creatures I slay, no matter how much wine I drink, he’s always there. He won’t let me go. I suppose I’ve never let him go either.

I’m sorry, I want to tell him, but even unspoken, it’s a lie. I can’t be sorry for the one thing keeping me going, the one thing giving me purpose. If I fail, at least I’ll be with Henry again. And if I succeed…perhaps this nightmare will finally end, and I will learn anew what it means to be at peace.

It’s another hour before I reach the manor’s sprawling grounds. Wreymoor Hall is nestled at the foot of the Stiperstones, shadowed by the imposing ridge on one side and a grove of trees on the other. Spindly trunks of silver birch stretch high above my head, covering me in a canopy of green as the leaves twitch on their branches. A rustling wind stirs the silence, and a handful of leaves float to the ground and come to rest at the bottom of the wrought-iron gate in front of me.

I wrap my hands around the bars and shove, not expecting them to yield. But the gate shudders open with a low, metallic groan.

The harsh sound claws at my ears and I stop abruptly, feeling as though I have disturbed something I shouldn’t have. It’s foolish, I know. Lord Iestyn is expecting me. He invited me, for heaven’s sake. But that knowledge isn’t enough to shake the sense that I’m treading somewhere I shouldn’t, that I’m venturing into a place I am not welcome.

Behind me, the gate creaks. Then comes the unmistakable clang of iron biting against iron. I don’t look back, even as the clicking of the lock sends a cold spasm down my spine. The only thing I can do now is face whatever is waiting for me at the manor.

My footsteps are dull and heavy as I follow the dirt track underfoot. The grounds are wild and rambling, with clusters of bilberry and blackthorn springing up from the earth. A solitary yew tree stands like a sentinel in the middle of an open patch of knee-high grass, its blood-red berries stark against the green leaves. The more I walk, the more I feel like it’s watching me. The whole place is oppressive, like the gnarled roots and creeping ivy are closing in around me. Like I could slowly drown just by breathing the damp air.

A rabbit darts out from the undergrowth and races across my path, making me startle. My hand is on the hilt of my rapier before I realise I’ve moved, and though I swiftly relinquish my grip, it doesn’t slow the frantic thrumming of my heart.

Get a hold of yourself, Alderose, I tell myself. I’m better than this. I’ve seen too much of the horror of this world to be alarmed by something as harmless as the local wildlife.

So why are my hands trembling? Why are beads of perspiration trickling down my temples?

I don’t have time to come up with an explanation. When I next lift my chin, I’m staring at the towering façade of Wreymoor Hall.

All of a sudden, I feel the weight of the letter in my breast pocket once again, like an ache tugging me towards the muddy ground at my feet. I glance down, half expecting the dirt to open up and swallow me. It’s not as though anyone would come looking for me. If I end up buried here, only the worms will know.

I wrench myself upright again, breathing heavily. Something isn’t right. The melancholy seeping into my bones isn’t just fear and grief, it’s this place. This is where the shadow is darkest. It wants to smother me, to leave me with no hope. I have to fight it.