Ansell opened his eyes with a groan. He swung his legs around and sat on the edge of his cot bed, squeezing the bridge of his nose as his eyes squinted to life. The narrow window at ground level allowed the sun’s low glow to seep through. The light reflected off the frosty flats between the cottage and the stream, shimmying in the morning haze.

He stared at the noose hanging in the centre of the room. He thought about going closer to it, just to see how he felt, but with a shake of his head, he turned his mind to Jude.

Three days had passed since he had retreated into his basement, into his safe space where the cursed boy couldn’t meddle with his feelings. Close to seven years he had been alone, his victims his only company. Their desperate pleas and hateful curses were the only meaningful words uttered to him. He didn’t need anyone or want anyone. No, he had no time for feelings and no need for passengers.

Yet still, he was enjoying the boy's company. Through it, he had rediscovered a part of himself long since lost. A terrifying pang of feeling rumbled around deep inside of him, penetrating the darkness, threatening to pierce through to the light.

Is this what it would have been like? Is this even close to what I’d feel if I'd met you?

He picked a shiny card from the bedside table and held it to the twinkling sun beams, examining the black and white shape in the morning light – the tiny feet, the muddle in the middle, and the unmistakable head. He placed the scan back on the bedside table and patted it lightly with a smile.

His stomach growled at him. He felt sick. Too much wine over the past few nights left him feeling anxious. Pushing himself off his bed with a groan, he crossed the room to the kitchen, muttering curses as he went. He popped four eggs into a saucepan and filled it with water before placing it carefully on the stove. He scanned his stores. Metal shelving brimming with tins and dried foods comprised a whole wall of the basement. Selecting a tin of baked beans, he trod to the stove and slopped them into a second pan, allowing his mind to wander whilst his breakfast cooked.

If the boy wanted in, why should he stop him? After all, he’d lost enough to Croc to deserve his own vengeance. His own vengeance. This was his vendetta. His thirst for blood was being satiated, not someone else's. Though the boy was useful and there was no doubt he was deadly with that bow of his, there had been plenty of times Jude could have used eyes in the back of his head or cursed that he couldn't take someone out quietly from a distance.

“You know why you won’t take him.”

“Didn’t know you were awake,” replied Ansell, without looking away from his bubbling beans.

“If I know my husband like I think I do, you won’t help him because you're scared. It’s nothing to do with him slowing you down. He’s adept, you said it yourself. I think you’re scared you’ll like him. Dare I say, even grow fond of him? You're scared of losing someone else, aren’t you, sweetheart?”

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Ansell poured his beans and soft-boiled eggs into a bowl and plonked himself down on a stool behind the countertop. He peered through his brow at his wife as he ate his first bite. He had plenty to say, but through a mouthful of beans, he could only muster one word. “Maybe.”

“This life you’ve chosen, there’s no honour in it. It’s selfish.”

“Avenging my unborn child is selfish, is it, woman?”

“Not letting another human being touch your soul for seven years is selfish, sweetheart. Look at you since you met the boy. Do you not feel more alive? There’s a glint in your eye I’ve not seen since, well, since you know…”

“Fine.”

“So you’ll let him join you?”

“I’ll give the pissy little bastard a chance. If he slows me down or fucks me up, I’ll cut him loose. Fair enough?”

“I think it’ll be good for you. You know, to let someone in again.”

Ansell grunted back and waved her off. He rifled through his breakfast, and with his final mouthful, he rose from the kitchen counter and meticulously cleaned his bowl of bean juice. He pulled his large double wardrobe open with a creak and dressed for the cold, donning a pair of thick black jeans with a sherpa fleece jacket and a thick parka over the top. Then, with a weary sigh, he dropped to the floor and tugged on his walking boots.

“I’m closer than ever to the source.”

Rising, he moved to his workbench and selected his hatchet. He dropped it into the loop at his belt after quickly blasting the blade across a whetstone. He counted the rail stakes mounted on a large wooden board above his bench, cursing as he realised he’d need to collect more.

“One more to go and I’ll have the Conduit.”

“Oh yeah? What then, when you’ve killed the Conduit? Will you stop killing, or have you gotten a taste for it?”

“What do you mean, 'what then?' I’ll be one step closer to whoever is behind all this. A step closer to whoever killed my son.”

“Oh, sweetheart. I killed our son. You know that.”

“Yeah...well, you had help, didn’t you?” Ansell slipped his hands into a pair of leather gloves and replaced his knife into its sheath at his lower back. “I’m going.”

“You’ll speak to the boy, then, like we said?”

“I’ll speak to the boy.”

Ansell made his way to the wooden stairs. He ascended them wearily as he selected a large key from a jangling set hanging from a carabiner at his belt. He arrived at the hatch and began unlocking a series of padlocks.

“I love you, sweetheart.”

He unlocked the final padlock and heaved the hatch open. “You too,” he replied, as he stepped through and resecured the locks on the outside.