The train carried Grace Foster into Saintstown at midmorning.
Many she’d met on her journey west had remarked how it was such a shame, for a woman to be widowed at just twenty years old. If her manner of dress was plain and perhaps a touch too masculine, her demeanor slightly too grim than good manners generally preferred, then … well, surely a young lady was allowed such things, when she was grieving.
The subject of her destination was best avoided. The reasons a pretty young thing might make for Saintstown were many, most of them unfit for polite conversation.
Grace was content to let people make their assumptions. It wouldn’t be any less awkward to tell people she was hunting her husband’s murderer.
Saintstown’s grand train station sat at the heart of an odd, ramshackle district where aging clapboard buildings sat cheek-by-jowl with newer brick and stone edifices. There were more people in any direction Grace cared to look than she had seen before in her entire life, and all of them were determined to get somewhere else as fast as possible. While there was no shortage of boarding houses within this bedlam, she could find only one that catered specifically to women.
The foyer of the boarding house was empty. When nobody turned up after a few minutes, Grace stepped forward to check the other rooms.
Something caught her foot, and she stumbled.
The foyer rug had rucked up, revealing the edge of something on the floor beneath it. Grace knelt and pulled the rug aside; there was a symbol carved into the floorboards beneath it, a looping design like six petals of a flower within a circle.
Above her, someone said, “Can I help you?”
Grace dropped the rug and leapt to her feet.
The woman who’d entered the foyer while Grace was distracted could have been anywhere from thirty to sixty; there was a poise and dignity about her that belied her ageless appearance. Elegantly dressed in dark velvet and silk, she regarded Grace with a steely, evaluating gaze.
“Hello.” Grace cleared her throat. “My name’s Grace Foster. I need a room for the next few days.”
In lieu of a reply, the woman reached over and rang a small bell on the sideboard.
A housekeeper appeared almost immediately. “Mrs. Hobbs,” she said to the woman, with a slight curtsy.
Mrs. Hobbs said, “Miss Foster would like a room.”
“Mrs. Foster,” Grace corrected, with more force than she’d intended.
“Ah.” Mrs. Hobbs’ expression turned wary. “Will your husband be joining you here? I’m afraid men aren’t—”
“He’s dead.”
That ended the conversation rather quickly. Mrs. Hobbs gestured for the housekeeper to take over and left without another word.
Grace was quickly shown to a second-floor room, so small the bed had been crammed directly beneath the window. It would suffice.
Churches were among the newest buildings in Saintstown; their construction hadn’t been a priority during the gold rush that founded the city. The church nearest to the boarding house was a surprisingly humble affair, built from fresh lumber and crammed into a narrow lot.
Grace’s footsteps echoed as she made her way across the cavernous sanctuary. The pews were of rough, unpolished wood, newly made, and a simple altar sat on a small dais at the front of the room.
A gentle voice carried clearly across the church: “Welcome.”
The priest approached with long, confident strides. He was younger than Grace’s priest back home, with only a touch of grey in his hair, and there was an easy charm about him that put her at ease.
“I’m Father Morgan,” he said, extending his hand.
Grace shook it. “Grace Foster.”
“I’m afraid our next service isn’t until this evening.” Morgan’s expression softened as he took in the weariness of Grace’s posture, the tension in her shoulders. “But if you need someone to talk to …?”
“I’m looking for someone,” Grace interrupted quickly. “Her name’s Lily.”
“And you were hoping to find her here?”
Grace bit her lip. “She’s … troubled.”
“As are many in this city.” Morgan sounded tired, wistful. “I’m afraid I don’t recognize the name, though.”
“She’s about my age,” Grace said. “Skinny little thing. She’s got a scar on her lip, from when she fell off the—” She clamped her jaw shut around the rest of the words; Morgan wouldn’t want to listen to her babble. “She might not have used her real name.”
“I’m sorry. If she was here, she didn’t speak with me.” With a rueful smile, Morgan added: “You might try the police.”
From his tone, it was clear any inquiries to the police would go precisely nowhere.
“Thank you, Father,” Grace said, because it seemed like the right thing to say.
“This is far from the only church in Saintstown.” Morgan laid a reassuring hand on her arm. “I’m sure your friend has found the help she was looking for.”
As Morgan’s hand fell back to his side, Grace muttered, “It’s not her I’m worried about.”
As she passed the newsstand on the street outside, a headline caught her eye: “Gruesome Murder in Sinner’s Acre!”
Below the headline was a lurid illustration of a body—unidentifiable but, in its mutilation, horribly familiar.
Saintstown’s newly-constructed morgue sat at the edge of the city, where cheap houses and shady businesses steadily dried up into dunes and empty dirt roads. The streetcar didn’t even come out this far; Grace had to ride to the end of the line and start walking.
The morgue itself was a squat, nondescript brick building. A cat sat next to the double front doors, as if waiting to be let in; it was bigger than any cat Grace had seen before, its long coat thick and glossy. Too healthy to be a street cat—the morgue’s mouser, perhaps.
It eyed Grace with keen interest as she passed.
The front doors opened into a small reception area, where a terminally bored assistant sat behind a narrow desk. He regarded Grace’s approach with frank disinterest.
A plea to see the body of her poor deceased cousin garnered no results. A few dollars passed across the desk met with much greater success. Bribe in hand, the assistant led her down into the chilly subterranean levels of the morgue, where the bodies were kept.
The body the assistant removed from storage was the victim in the newspaper: a young man, only a few years older than Grace. Deep furrows marred his torso in rows of five, as if someone had tried to gut him with their bare hands and, somehow, succeeded. His left forearm and right ankle were broken, his jaw dislocated as if someone had shoved their fingers in his mouth and pulled.
What was left of Grace’s husband had borne many of the same injuries.
The assistant was watching her, an avid expression on his previously blank face.
Life on the homestead hadn’t afforded Grace many illusions about death. She’d slaughtered livestock. She’d shot game and, once, a coyote that got too close to the chickens. Dead things didn’t frighten her. They were just … meat.
This was, apparently, not the reaction the assistant had been hoping for.
Then, in a rush of motion, a large furry body leapt up onto the table and landed with a thump.
“Fucking cat,” the assistant groused. “Can’t keep the damn thing out.” He attempted to shoo the cat away, but it sat unperturbed until he physically shoved it off the table instead.
The cat hit the floor with an indignant yowl and scurried away from the assistant’s kick.
Grace returned to the boarding house a scant few minutes before dinner.
The dining room was crowded with other guests; mostly affluent women, with a few that looked closer to Grace’s age and reduced means. Mrs. Hobbs, however, was nowhere to be seen.
Emerging from the kitchen with a dish in her hands, the housekeeper glanced at Grace’s feet and said, “We don’t feed pets. Your cat will have to fend for itself.”
Grace looked down.
The cat had followed her from the morgue, and greeted her with a friendly chirp.
For all the housekeeper’s insistence that the cat wouldn’t be fed, there was no doubt it would sleep with a full stomach tonight. Grace would’ve been hard-pressed to find any among the guests who weren’t sneaking scraps under the table.
After dinner, however, the cat attempted to follow Grace into her room.
“No.” Grace hooked her foot under the cat’s belly and dragged it back out into the hall. They’d had cats on the homestead to keep the mice under control, but only on bitterly cold nights were they allowed into the house. She’d certainly never let any of them sleep in the bedroom.
The cat huffed in annoyance and tried for the door again. Grace shut it before the cat could squeeze through, then quickly dressed for bed and slipped under the covers. Before long, she’d slipped into a light doze.
An insistent scratching broke the silence of the room. Grace stirred and turned toward the window.
There was something on the other side, blocking the dim light of the gaslamps below. The shape of a hand pressed against the glass—
A plaintive meow startled Grace awake.
She sat up. The scratching was coming from the door. As she watched, a small paw worked its way under the gap beneath and pawed blindly at the other side.
The thing in the window was gone, if it was ever there in the first place.
“Fine.” Grace threw the covers aside and went to open the door. The cat lazily sauntered through, as if it were doing her a favor.
By the time she returned to bed, the cat had already stolen her spot.
Grace slept poorly and woke in a mood.
The cat wouldn’t leave her alone. As she shuffled around the room to wash and dress, the cat weaved insistently between her feet. Finally, as she was combing her hair, the inevitable happened: Grace tripped over the cat. Her comb fell to the floor with a clatter and slid under the bed.
Grumbling, Grace got down on her hands and knees to peer after it.
The comb had fallen just beyond her reach; she had to crawl down onto her belly and stretch to grab it. As she did, something brushed against the back of her hand.
Grace frowned, placed the comb on the bed, and reached back in.
There was something hanging from the slats beneath the bed, which came loose with a firm tug.
Slowly, warily, she slid back and sat up.
Laying in the palm of her hand was the pale, fragile skull of a bird, wrapped tightly with a beaded leather thong. Some of the beads were wooden while others looked to be made of bone, but each was inscribed with a tiny sigil.
Her skin prickled where it touched the thing, like a limb that had gone to sleep. Grace’s stomach turned.
Grace set out from the boarding house with the cat at her heels. She attempted to shoo it away, to no avail; instead it followed at a distance and stubbornly pretended interest in something else whenever she turned around.
Now, as Grace stood in front of the church, the cat strolled up to the doors and waited patiently for her to open them.
“What a grand coincidence,” it seemed to say, “us running into each other here.”
Grace hauled the door open with more force than was strictly necessary and failed to catch the cat before it scurried through.
She found Father Morgan tending to the braziers, which were the only source of heat in the otherwise chilly sanctuary.
“Grace,” he said, eyebrows drawing together as he looked at her. “Is something wrong?”
She glanced around the room. They were alone. “I … found something.” She reached into her pocket and withdrew the bird skull, wrapped in a handkerchief.
Morgan unwrapped it carefully. His expression went cold, his jaw clenching tightly.
“Where did you find this?” he asked.
“Under my bed.” Grace could feel her pulse in her throat. She took a step back. “Is it—?”
Morgan clenched trembling fingers around the skull. “Witchcraft.”
There was a dark fire in his eyes.
Familiar scratching noises drew Grace’s attention. The cat had found a closed door, which it apparently considered a personal affront.
Morgan, meanwhile, tossed the skull into the brazier with vicious satisfaction, where it blackened and cracked in the heat.
“There’s a sickness in Saintstown,” he said. “A corruption at its very heart. This was a city born of greed and vice, and dark things walk its streets. Things people have tried to forget. But those things haven’t forgotten us.”
The silence of the church, broken only by the crackling of the braziers, weighed on Grace’s shoulders. Every word, every breath, felt too loud. Almost unbidden, the words spilled from her mouth: “Like demons?”
Morgan’s gaze turned from the brazier and settled on her instead. “Yes. Like demons.” He moved to sit in the nearest pew and motioned for Grace to join him.
Grace settled heavily next to him, suddenly too weary to remain standing.
“Me and Lily,” she said, “we grew up together. I knew her better than anyone. Then she … changed.” She hunched forward, arms wrapped around her middle. “I came home one night, and Lily was there. And my husband was in pieces on the floor.”
Softly, Morgan said, “And then?”
“She ran. I went after her.”
“Why?”
“I don’t know. It … it felt like the thing to do.” Grace shook her head. “We always looked out for each other. What she did … it feels like my responsibility to take care of it.” Bitterly, she added, “If I ever find her.”
Morgan bumped her shoulder with his own, a comforting warmth in the chill of the sanctuary. “There’s still hope for your friend, Grace. I promise you that.”
An annoyed meow resounded across the church: the cat, protesting that the door it wished to pass through remained stubbornly closed.
Morgan’s face settled into a firm, disapproving mask. “I’m afraid animals aren’t allowed in the sanctuary.”
“Of course, Father.” Grace hurried to the door and scooped the protesting cat up into her arms. “Sorry.”
The cat struggled in her grip all the way out of the building.
In the dead of night, the window over Grace’s bed rattled. She could hear it, see it shudder in its frame, but she couldn’t move.
There was a squeaking rasp, and the sash lifted a few inches.
Then, a whisper in the dark: “Grace?”
Long, thin fingers reached through the gap, curling around the edge. The fingers’ grip tightened, and the sash slid upward.
A figure, a vague shape in the gloom, crawled through the open window. The weak light from outside shone through tangled hair, illuminating a scar on the figure’s lip.
“Grace,” Lily whispered again. “You promised, Grace.”
A weight settled over Grace’s chest. Thin, cold hands cupped her face as Lily leaned forward.
“You promised we’d be together forever. You promised nothing would ever come between us.”
Grace’s mouth opened, struggling to answer, but whatever held her in the bed had also strangled her voice. Lily’s eyes, shining in the dark above her, turned dark and angry.
“But the moment some boy came along, you left.”
Sharp, piercing pain flared where Lily’s fingers dug in. Something wet trickled down Grace’s temples, into her hair.
“You left me behind!”
Grace sucked in a breath to scream, but the sound wouldn’t leave her throat.
Then the cat leapt up onto the bed and yowled bloody murder.
The weight on Grace’s chest disappeared as Lily reeled back. The cat darted forward, covering Grace with its own considerable bulk, and yowled again: a haunting, echoing cry of rage and defiance.
Lily fled, and the window slammed shut behind her.
The bathroom cabinets clattered as Grace fumbled, half-blind, for something to staunch the wounds on her face. Blood dripped insistently into her eyes from the two thumb-marks on her forehead, and she kept tripping over the cat as it anxiously circled her feet.
Behind her, unnoticed, the door opened.
“You’re getting blood everywhere.”
Mrs. Hobbs stood in the doorway, in little more than a silk dressing gown.
Grace shrank under her glare. The cat, meanwhile, trilled and trotted forward to demand affection.
Mrs. Hobbs glanced down at the cat, then returned her attention to Grace. “Come with me.”
Her tone brooked no argument, and so Grace followed her to a large suite on the third floor. These could only be Mrs. Hobbs’ own rooms; the front room was set up to serve as a parlor, lavishly furnished and decorated. A large sofa dominated the room, while a stuffed chair sat in the corner with a knitting basket on the floor next to it.
Mrs. Hobbs passed Grace a handkerchief. “Wait here.”
Then Grace was alone—except for the cat.
The handkerchief was edged in lace, with the initials “M.H.” embroidered in the corner. Grace hesitated a moment—it was very nice, and a shame to ruin—before using it to wipe the blood from her face.
Meanwhile, the cat sniffed eagerly around the room. It took particular interest in the knitting basket, pawing insistently at the lid.
“No,” Grace snapped. “You stay out of that.”
The cat ignored her, and the basket’s lid slipped off.
Grace sighed and strode to the chair, nudging the cat away from the basket with her foot. She knelt to close it again and froze when she saw what was inside.
Instead of Mrs. Hobbs’ knitting, the basket contained a bird skull partially wrapped in a beaded leather thong.
“I had to replace the one you removed.”
Mrs. Hobbs was back, holding a bottle of disinfectant and a handful of clean linen.
“It was you.” Thoughts tumbled through Grace’s head; what came out of her mouth was, “You’re a witch.”
“That, my girl, is an understatement.” Mrs. Hobbs settled onto the sofa and patted the cushion next to her. “Sit down, please.”
Uncertain, Grace sat.
Mrs. Hobbs tipped some disinfectant onto a piece of linen and began to dab at the wounds over Grace’s eyes. “I worked very hard to secure this house against any and all outside powers,” she said idly, as she worked. “Then you had to go and rip a hole in my protections.”
“I didn’t know what it was.” The disinfectant burned, and Grace winced. “I thought it might be a curse.”
“You’re in Saintstown. Assumptions will get you killed.” Mrs. Hobbs moved to the marks along Grace’s temple and cheek. “One must see things as they are, not as one thinks they should be.” With a firm hand on Grace’s chin, she turned her head to get at the other side of her face. “Who is she?”
Grace’s hands clenched in her lap. “Her name’s Lily.”
“And why does she want to kill you?”
“She’s got a demon in her. Does she need a reason?”
Mrs. Hobbs’ nose wrinkled, and she glanced up from her work to regard Grace with an unimpressed glare. “Demons are attracted to powerful and base emotions: rage, fear, grief. If your friend drew the attention of a demon, it’s because she was already in pain.” She leaned forward, intent and focused. “What did you do?”
“I don’t know.” Grace resisted the urge to shuffle back along the sofa, away from Mrs. Hobbs. “She was my best friend, long as I can remember. Folks used to say we were attached at the hip. Then I got engaged, and … things changed.”
“Was that her fault?” Mrs. Hobbs’ eyes pierced Grace to the sofa. “Or yours?”
Grace bristled. “I was nineteen and in love.”
“Of course.”
“I loved her, too.”
“Yes, naturally. That’s why you didn’t hesitate to throw yourself at someone else: because you loved her, and you knew she’d always be there.” Mrs. Hobbs leaned back, and Grace could finally breathe again. “You’re lucky the cat was there to save you.”
Grace looked at the cat. It had crawled up onto the stuffed chair and was now washing one of its rear paws.
“It’s a cat,” she said carefully, worried that Mrs. Hobbs hadn’t noticed.
“That she is,” Mrs. Hobbs agreed. “According to ancient beliefs, cats guard the boundaries between worlds.”
“We had plenty of cats on the homestead,” Grace pointed out. “Didn’t stop the demon from calling.”
“Humans have no shortage of fading traditions. Perhaps it’s the same for cats.”
The cat went still, then sat up. It—she—growled at the window.
Grace turned just in time to see a dark shape dart away from the glass.
Mrs. Hobbs said, “Persistent little bitch, isn’t she?”
Grace bolted to the window and shoved it open. A woman stood in the street below: young, scrawny, dressed in ill-fitting, secondhand clothes.
Lily.
She met Grace’s eyes for a brief moment, then fled.
A furry weight pressed against Grace’s legs. The cat stared up at her, trilling softly.
“Can you find her?” Grace asked.
The cat chirped and dashed for the door.
Without a second thought, Grace followed.
The cat led Grace to the church, all the way back to that closed door.
“You already found her,” Grace realized. “What did you need me for?”
The cat replied with an annoyed meow and glared up at the doorknob.
“Oh.”
Grace opened the door, and the cat darted through.
A narrow wooden stairway led to the cellar. A low, insistent chanting echoed up from its cavernous depths, reciting words Grace didn’t quite recognize. Just barely audible beneath it were the low, rasping breaths of a wounded creature.
Blankets and mattresses lined the walls of the cellar, and the only light came from a small lantern. There was an oppressive pressure in the air, like a heat wave about to break, and the sour smell of fever sweat.
On the floor lay Lily, curled up on her side. Next to her, like a parent sitting vigil over their ailing child, was Father Morgan. He had a ritual book open in his hands.
The cat sprinted toward the pair, but Morgan saw her coming; the book closed with a snap, and he used it to swat the cat away. She hissed and scrambled back to the base of the stairs.
Then Morgan saw Grace, and his eyes widened in alarm.
“You have to go,” he whispered, frantic.
“This whole time.” Grace’s voice shook. “You lied to me.”
On the floor, Lily stirred.
“You can’t be here,” Morgan said, insistent. The cat moved forward again, and he swung the book to keep her at bay. “Don’t you understand? It’s you. You have to leave, before—”
“Grace?”
Lily lifted her head. Bloodshot eyes fixed on Grace.
“I’m sorry,” she breathed. “I’m sorry, I’m so sorry. She’s scared, Grace. She didn’t know how much it would all hurt.”
“Lily.” Morgan dropped the book and cupped her face in his hands. “It’s all right, Lily. You are forgiven.”
Lily’s eyes focused on Morgan. Her posture straightened, her face settling into a sneer.
“Forgiven?” she hissed. “Who are you to forgive me, priest?”
Morgan fumbled for the book again. “Silence, unclean spirit—”
“Blundering around this den of sin with your good intentions, understanding nothing, spreading suffering as you go—”
“—you will release this girl—”
“—convinced you can fix it, fix this city, fix everything. How like a fucking man—”
“Shut up!”
The book fell from Morgan’s hands as he lunged to cover Lily’s mouth.
Her teeth sank into his wrist.
Morgan screamed. He clawed frantically at her hair, struggling for the leverage to pry her jaws from his flesh. Blood fountained from between Lily’s teeth, soaking into the dry earth of the floor below.
Grace stood, frozen, as Lily finally released Morgan’s wrist. Morgan fell back, still howling in pain, struggling to staunch the flow of blood with his uninjured hand.
Lily crept toward him on hands and knees, like a stalking animal. Her hands gripped him by the shoulders.
Grace had barely dared to imagine what her husband’s last moments had been like. She could never have envisioned this: the slow disassembly of a living, screaming being.
And then Lily’s teeth sank into Morgan’s throat with a lush, wet, tearing sound, and Morgan’s cries came to an abrupt halt.
His body—reduced to nothing but meat—hit the dirt floor.
Slowly, Lily turned toward Grace, blood smeared across her lips and chin. She bared teeth stained vivid crimson.
Then a shrieking yowl split the air. The cat scrambled up Lily’s back, hissing and clawing as she latched on.
Lily screeched and stumbled to her feet, grabbing frantically at her attacker. She managed to catch the cat’s back leg and, with a vicious heave, hurled her away.
The cat hit the wall with a horrible thud and slid to the floor, limp.
But in the time it took Lily to fight off the cat, Grace had grabbed the lantern.
She hurled it at Lily as hard as she could. The lamp hit with a clatter and a faint shattering noise as the glass broke. Flaming oil splattered across Lily’s skin.
Lily howled, and the room went dark as she fled up the stairs.
Blind, Grace fumbled for the wall. One hand found a small, furry body; she gathered the cat up into her arms and stumbled toward the stairs.
In the light of the sanctuary, Grace looked down. The cat raised her head and blinked—dazed, perhaps injured, but not dead. And now very eager to be let down. Grace set the cat carefully on the floor.
The cat huffed, shook her head, then sniffed the air and sprinted for the door.
Lily’s trail led down to the docks.
She stood at the end of a pier, staring out into the moonlit bay. The dead quiet of the early hours settled around Grace as she approached, broken only by her own breathing and the gentle lap of waves against the shore.
Grace stopped a few yards away. Lily stayed where she was, not even turning around.
“It was an accident.” Lily’s voice was barely more than a whisper. “We were arguing. There was so much screaming inside my head. And then I looked down and he was in pieces.”
The cat padded up next to Grace and leaned against her leg, a reassuring weight.
“I didn’t leave you,” Grace said. “Not on purpose. I didn’t think anything had to change. I didn’t think I would change.”
Lily’s posture collapsed a little, curling in on herself.
“I want to hate you.” Grace took a step closer. “Why don’t I hate you, Lily?”
“It would be easier if you hated me.” Lily turned; there were tears streaking down her face. “Maybe then I could let you go.”
“So.” Grace’s laugh was weary, resigned. “What do we do now?”
The cat padded forward and butted its head against Lily’s shins. Lily looked down, then knelt.
She and the cat gazed into each others’ eyes a long moment. Lily nodded.
The cat bent down to take Lily’s shadow between her small, sharp teeth.
Something in the shadow, a deeper darkness within it, writhed in the cat’s grip. The cat tossed her head, growling, and slowly backed away. Bit by bit, the alien blackness tore away from Lily’s shadow.
It came free with one last, firm snap. A breath of wind ruffled Grace’s hair as something she couldn’t see passed over her shoulder.
Lily fell, and Grace darted forward to catch her.
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