I stared at the clock beside my motel bed—a twisted contraption of tarnished brass and iron, gears whirring behind a glass face etched with arcane symbols that pulsed faintly with a dark, hungry glow. In the center, thick red sand drifted downward, pooling at the base until it caught in a low, blue flame that flickered, dancing against the metal casing. As the sand burned away into wisps of smoke, it spiraled up through narrow brass tubes, cooling and reforming grain by grain at the top before beginning its descent again. Each cycle marked an hour, ticking off time in a slow, relentless rhythm, like the beating of some infernal heart.

They stopped selling these cheap artifacts years ago—something about the fumes leaking out and making people sick. But I wasn’t too worried. Perks of being dead, I figured. Not that I was eager to test just how immune I was to disease, but it’s not like anyone hands you a manual when you claw your way back from the other side.

When the clock ticked down to fifteen minutes before midnight, I got up. The witching hour was close—the perfect time to meddle with things better left untouched. Sleep hadn’t been calling much lately, anyway; something about the night felt more inviting than any dream ever could.

I slid the scry board out of its box, laying it carefully on the creaking bed. The board was carved from dark, polished wood that had long since dulled, edges worn smooth from years of use. Faint etchings spiraled across its surface—sigils, cryptic runes, and strange geometric patterns that caught the dim light just so, almost as if they moved. At each corner, tarnished brass inlays anchored the board, forming small, clawed feet that lifted it slightly above the bedspread. The center held a single, smoky quartz orb embedded in the wood, a cloudy eye that seemed to pulse faintly with an inner light, flickering like something alive. The whole thing carried a faint scent of old parchment and burnt incense, with an edge of something metallic, like blood or rust.

Names are funny things—both anchors and traps. A true name could bind someone to you, unravel them if you knew how to use it right. I had a piece of Catigan’s, enough to track him. Not enough to control him—though that was never my goal. It was just enough to find him, to get close. And that was all I needed.

Back when we were knee-deep in a turf war, some out-of-town thug tried muscling in on the West Side. Cat and I took care of him, but it got messy. Blood and betrayal always made things messy. Cat ended up bleeding out in an alley, and I wasn’t about to let him die—not without getting what I needed first. In desperation, he gave me part of his name. Only half, but enough to pull him back from the edge. In return, I gave him half of mine. That’s how it worked—you either trusted the other person or were ready to kill them.

He’d have been able to track me too if it weren’t for Frank cloaking our aetheric trail. Another of Frank’s many benefits—damn good friend to have when you needed to disappear.

I focused on that half-name then, letting it roll around in my mind. It wasn’t a sound or a word—it was a feeling, like cold metal scraping across my nerves. I let it settle, feeling the weight of it as I set the crystal swinging over the wooden map. It trembled, quivering on its string, before finally hovering over a spot in the warehouse district. Figures.

Frank’s voice drifted into my thoughts, a cold tickle at the base of my skull. Scrying, Jack? Really? What’s next, a séance? Maybe summon a few demons to spice up the evening. What would your parents think?

“Shut it, Frank,” I muttered, though I couldn’t stop the smirk tugging at my lips. Frank’s sarcasm was as reliable as the sun rising, and sometimes just as irritating.

I strapped on my gear—sword, gun, extra rounds. The weight of it settled across my body like a second skin, familiar, grounding. The city was quiet, unsettlingly so, as I stepped out into the night. The air clung to me with the promise of rain. Shadows stretched longer than they should, thick with secrets. It was the kind of quiet that made you feel like something was watching, just out of sight. Something waiting.

I moved toward the warehouse district, my steps light and almost soundless. Frank’s presence kept my movements sharp, a subtle push that guided me through the darker alleys and narrow streets. Catigan was a rat, but he’d always been a predictable one. Or so I thought. The way his men were moving that night, skittish like something bigger was lurking just out of sight, it was clear even Catigan had lost control.

The warehouse loomed ahead, an industrial relic on the edge of town, skeletal against the fog-heavy sky. Its corrugated metal walls were rusted and crumbling, as if the building itself had forgotten it still stood. The air tasted of metal and old rain, clinging to the back of my throat. I approached cautiously, my footsteps silent on the gravel path, eyes scanning for signs of movement.

I was good at this—staying unseen, blending into the forgotten corners of the world. The warehouse stretched wide, big enough to hide whatever shady dealings were about to go down. The perfect spot for a clandestine meeting. No lights on the outside, just a few cracks in the windows where faint streaks of moonlight spilled through. The hum of the city was distant, muffled. The pulse of danger grew in my gut, a slow, steady drumbeat that echoed louder with every step.

***

I reached the side of the building and started climbing, fingers clawing into the weathered brick, the jagged metal bars jutting out like the ribs of some long-forgotten beast. Each pull scraped against old scars, my body moving with a rhythm worn into muscle and bone. The wind sliced past, sharp and cold. The climb felt almost… manageable. My gut and knees still groaned like warped floorboards, but the wall seemed just a shade kinder than it had at McGuffey’s estate. Maybe the Nightstone was working—or maybe it was just a trick of the mind, pushing me to the top.

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Still, as I climbed higher, the edges of my vision fuzzed, vertigo clawing at me as the vast emptiness beneath threatened to swallow me whole. My grip faltered for a second, but I quickly regained control, finding solid footing beneath me.

Why does it always have to be heights? I hate heights.

It would’ve been easier if Frank were inclined to lend a hand—not that I’d ask, even if he was. Having him twist through my skin as well as my mind was something I preferred to avoid, when possible. I didn’t mind as much in short bursts, heightening a sense here or there, but it always left something off—a creeping wrongness that lingered too long, unsettling in ways I couldn’t fully describe.

Every time I let him in, it felt like I was sliding into the backseat, a sliver of me folded back, nudged aside to make room. Frank was a friend—someone I could count on in a scrap, but not the kind of friend you’d trust with total control. There was a coldness in his presence, a quiet hunger that pressed in like winter air, sharp and unyielding. Which is why I tried to ask him for only the bare minimum—a sharpened sense, a hint of instinct, just enough to edge through the cracks and get out clean.

But a quiet dread coiled beneath it all, a sense that one day he might decide not to give the wheel back, leaving me clawing for a grip in my own skin while he settled comfortably into the driver’s seat—for good. I knew my fears were unfounded. Frank was loyal in his own way, tethered by threads of trust we’d woven over years of hard choices and close calls. It felt wrong to distrust him after all we’d been through. But still... every time he took control, there was that half-second pause, a flicker of hesitation before he handed it back—a reminder that maybe, just maybe, he’d grow too comfortable with the view to let go.

When I reached the window, my fingers aching from the climb, I paused, taking in the scene below. The dim light inside made the warehouse look more like a tomb than a storage space. A few jagged metal beams pierced through the shattered roof, but it wasn’t the fractured light slicing through the gloom that caught my attention—it was the car. Black as sin, it sat idling in the center of the warehouse, its engine purring low, driver waiting inside.

And beside it, a figure that swallowed the darkness around him—Catigan. A wall of muscle and malice. Cat’s face bristled with whiskers, the kind that belonged to a ghost of the Old West—a mustache thick and coiled, like barbed wire lying in wait. He stood there like stone, broad and unyielding, his bulk less a threat than an inevitability. Power rippled off him, thick and tangible, but it wasn’t his size that made your stomach knot—it was the stillness. The kind of quiet that only a predator with no need to snarl could muster, every breath measured, patient.

That mustache might’ve lent him an absurd softness, almost laughable, if not for his eyes—glacial and pitiless, the kind that weighed your worth and found you lacking. Eyes that already knew the dimensions of your casket.

There were no guards in sight. Something about that twisted my gut. Guys like Catigan didn’t run solo. Not here, not in this town.

He was talking to the driver, who sat motionless inside, the window barely cracked—just enough to keep their conversation private; or so they thought. With a thought, I asked Frank for an audio boost, and I felt his tendrils creep into my eardrums, a subtle pressure that tightened before my hearing sharpened, the distant murmurs below pulling into focus. I could catch Cat’s side of the conversation, but the driver’s voice was too muffled to decipher. I really needed to invest in an audio enhancer or a lip-reading mod. The problem was, the lower-grade models were way too easy to scramble, and knowing Cat, he’d definitely be packing a scrambler.

“...tightening around my neck,” Catigan muttered, voice like gravel caught in a garbage disposal. “They promised big, but all we’re getting is a noose.”

A low, chilling laugh slithered out of him, the kind that felt like it had been honed to a blade’s edge. “I’m no fool,” he said, the menace behind his words slicing through the night. The driver murmured something back, too soft to catch, but it made Catigan smile—a twisted, dark thing that didn’t bother reaching his eyes.

“You think I’d just let those bastards drag me into their freak show without a safety net? Please.” He paused, eyes flickering with a cold spark, something dangerous. “I always know when I’m being played. Makes me wonder if our friend does.”

He laughed again, deeper this time, with a jagged edge that left something hanging in the air. The driver said something, and Catigan’s expression shifted—eyes narrowing, jaw setting, the smile gone like it had never been there. “Exactly, old friend. Their type never sees it coming.”

He straightened, shrugging off whatever tension had been creeping up his spine. “Did he really think we’d just hand it over?” He scoffed, rolling his shoulders as if to shake off a weight. “Think we wouldn’t do our own digging before bringing back something like that?” His tone turned sharp, and he spat the words like a bitter taste he couldn’t swallow. “I’ve done things for them. Things that stick to me, you know? But I’m sick of living under someone’s thumb.”

Catigan leaned in closer to the driver, his voice dropping, eyes distant like he was already a few moves ahead on the board. “Cost us a lot of men. Too many dead just trying to wrench that damn box out of some poor fool’s hands. Idiot didn’t even know what he had, or how to use it. Now, we have the Council sniffing around our backside like a dog in heat.”

He paused, a dark gleam flickering in his gaze. He glanced around, eyes sweeping the darkened corners, making sure no shadows had grown ears before he continued—but he missed me. I stayed tucked away in the gloom, a breath in the dark, watching as his confidence smothered his caution. “All we need now is that damned key. Jack’s slippery, sure—but he’s predictable. He’ll come.”

Catigan’s voice lowered, savoring each word like it was the finest drink in the world, something worth rolling around on his tongue. “Once we get that box open…” His grin twisted, a wicker smile that spoke of things better left hidden. “Even our little taskmasters will be begging at my boot.”