It had been three days since Petr’s death, and Thorn was ever so slowly coming back to life. His limbs were his own again, lacking the raging fire that had consumed them for so long, and he was sick with himself for being grateful. Still, even if he was free of the urge, for now, he saw it reflected in every jerky movement of May’s, even sudden gasp that betrayed a flare of pain or an unwilling nerve. Packed into his small attic, with nothing to do and so much to worry about, he was damn glad when Skygge called.

‘Hey,’ the bassist said, ‘Are you free today?’

‘Yeah, why?’ Thorn said. May, from his desk chair, raised her eyebrows.

‘I need some help,’ the bassist said, ‘I’ve bought two new amps, and eh, they’re too damn heavy to drag to Rós’s place alone. Give me a hand?’

‘Sure,’ he said, ‘Cool if I bring May?’

There was a long silence on the other side of the phone.

‘Of course,’ Skygge said, finally. ‘Extra pair of hands would be nice.’

‘See you where?’

‘I’m at my grandmother’s place.’

That surprised him. ‘Your grandma’s? You sure you want me over, then?’

‘We’ll be in and out in minutes,’ Skygge said, despite having claimed many times in the past that his grandma did not like having over ‘those long haired friends of his’, no matter how briefly.

‘If you’re sure,’ Thorn said.

‘See you in an hour?’

Thorn agreed, and Skygge hung up. May, turning bored, slow circles in his desk chair, raised her eyebrows again. She sat curled up, knees to her chest, still only ever wearing his clothes and he didn’t think he really minded.

‘What was that, then?’ May said, when Thorn didn’t answer.

‘Skygge needs help and we need to get out of this bloody room for a change.’

‘Fair.’ She stood and stretched. He could tell by the warping of her shadow that the itch was growing worse, but she hadn’t said a word about it since that night. He shook his hair out of his eyes.

Outside, the snow had stopped falling for a moment, instead caking onto the pavement and threatening to turn into black mush beside the roads. Still, the air was freezing as it should be in November - wordly things like global warming didn’t seem to affect Threoo.

‘I wish the sun would come back,’ May said. She’d wrapped half her face in a ratty scarf she’d dug up somewhere in his apartment. ‘I never used to take winter this bad, even up here.’

Thorn nodded. Despite the nightmares that seeped into his mind on summer nights when the sun didn’t go down, the light wasn’t as bad as the constant dark. He zipped his coat up a little higher, feet cold in his boots.

In one of the ancient streets of Slakshaven stood Skygge’s grandmother’s house, hardly newer than the city itself. Its stone façade had been repaired too often, showing the wear and tear of generations and multiple wars. Ivy clung, desperate, to the wall and framed the windows. Thorn had delivered Skygge here in various stages of drunk over the years; never before had the home seemed quite so ominous.

‘This is it,’ he said, ‘I’ve never actually met her, but Skygge’s grandma’s… difficult. Apparantly.’

May shrugged, then chuckled. ‘I think I’ve had worse.’

Thorn stepped forward, tried to ring the door bell, and knocked when he realised the home didn’t have one. The rough, wooden door was old and worn; almost something his family might have had when he grew up, so long ago. Shivering at the memories, Thorn stared up at the churning clouds instead, and ignored May’s questioning eyes.

Skygge opened up, quick as though he’d been waiting for them right behind the door.

‘Morning,’ Thorn said. ‘Where’re they at?’

‘They?’ Skygge said.

‘The amps…?’ he said. May, for the third time today, raised her eyebrows.

‘Oh! They’re uh, upstairs. Come in.’

The narrow hallway was as dark as the sky outside. A door, perhaps to a kitchen or a living room, was cracked open. Dust danced in the thin ray of light that came forth from it; even Skygge’s movements seemed more careful, more planned here. Somehow the air felt colder here than it had outside. It leaked through his clothes with insulting ease, teasing goose bumps up from his skin.

‘Thorn,’ May whispered from behind him, ‘There’s something off here.’

‘Be right back,’ Skygge said, and dissapeared up the creaking stairs. His footsteps dissapeared further into the building, until Thorn couldn’t hear them anymore. He turned around. The front door was closed.

‘There’s something wrong,’ May said again, ‘The dark’s too thick here, Thorn.’

It took him a moment. Now, right after a kill, he was less sensitive, and it was easier to ignore the gliding shadows between the floorboards. But May - still itching, still building up to murder - was right. The shadows were vidcous; just below the surface, something sentient lurked.

‘You trust him, right?’ she said. Her pupils were wide, in the dark.

‘I’ve known him for years,’ Thorn said.

‘He found Asrun,’ May whispered, ‘And that led us to the cloister, Thorn, he showed up afterwards too. Have you ever been to this house?’

Thorn shook his head. ‘He always said his grandma didn’t like visitors.’

May pointed her chin at something behind him. He turned, again, seeing nothing but the door - and the light falling through. Despite his better judgement, he took a step forward, hearing May follow.

The door was open wide enough to see into the living room, lit in soft, yellow light. It was oddly clean, too neat for a space inhabited by Skygge. The room was deserted, containing wooden furniture and rough rugs, of the type his parents might have had. He took another step.

In a corner stood a wheelchair - and in it sat the smallest husk of a woman Thorn had seen in all his years. She looked dead or dying, but her eyes, too blue, were wide open and staring directly at him.

‘You!’ she coughed out, louder than he’d thought possible. ‘You! Are you the one who’s been coming into my house?’

‘No, I’m- we’re friends of Skygge’s,’ he said. May stepped into sight beside him. The woman’s eyes narrowed. Then she gasped, bared her teeth, and spat:

‘I will not have you in my house!’

Thorn looked over his shoulder, but there was no sign of Skygge yet. He looked back, and the frail woman sat trembling, her eyes still fixed on the pair of murderers in her hallway.

‘We’re just-’ May said, but the woman cut her off.

‘No! I know what you are!’ she said, ‘You’re closer to death than I am, and I will not have you in my house! Skugabor!’

May had gone pale beside him. Thorn looked over his shoulder for Skygge again.

‘Omhetr take you!’ she screeched, ‘I will not have you in my house! Not you! Not you! Not you!’

And Thorn was back in the cloister in the woods again, the words enough to trigger that memory and the hate he’d had hurled at him. He stepped back. The shriveled woman went on screaming, now for her grandson, with long intervals of desperate not you!

In three long strides, May was at the front door, but right as she began to open it Skygge appeared at the top of the stairs.

‘Skygge!’ Thorn said, barely able to drown out the bassist’s grandma’s harsh screeching. ‘What the fuck is going on?’

‘I’m sorry, mate,’ the other said, and for the first time Thorn realized how tired Skygge looked - hair untied and with a week’s stubble on his jaw. ‘I had to know for sure.’

Thorn took another, tentative step towards the door. ‘You could’ve just asked.’

Skygge laughed. ‘You’re more stubborn than half the people in Threoo combined. You’d never have told me.’

‘What do you want?’ May said, distrust in her eyes. She was fumbling with the dead bolt as she spoke; in the living room, grandma was still screaming insults into the void.

‘I want to know what the fuck’s been going on,’ Skygge said. ‘Shall we go to Dyst?’

They slid into a familiar booth. Outside, it had begun to snow again, and the thick flakes clung to the windowsills. May looked wary, and refused to sit between Thorn and the wall. She had her arms crossed, and was staring Skygge down with an intensity that impressed him. Thorn found it hard to imagine Skygge wanting to harm them; he’d known the man since he was a teenager, long before they’d played in the same band.

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Then again, this morning he’d not have believed that Skygge, of all people, knew what haunted these islands.

‘Well,’ Thorn said, leaning back against the hard wall. ‘Why the hell was that necessary, Skygge?’

The bassist apologized again. ‘I didn’t want to believe it was you.’

‘How do you know, anyway?’

‘You think Abigail’s the only one with family ties, here, Thorn? Half the bloody archipelago is related in some way. Gran’s got her secrets, and so does the rest of the family.’

He still heard Skygge’s grandmother’s screaming in his ears, and in it the echo of the woman in the cloister.

‘But gran won’t tell me anything,’ Skygge said, ‘Because my sister’s female and the firstborn child, so she’s waiting for Ann to come and ask. She won’t. No way in hell Ann’s raising my niece into, and I quote, ‘your deranged ideas about non-existing gods’.’

‘How’d you know?’ Thorn said. He hadn’t thought it was possible for anyone to remember him long enough to piece it together.

‘That you’re skugabor?’ Skygge paused, then counted on his fingers. ‘I realized I can’t remember how we met, despite having played in Scythe with you for years. You skip band practice when someone dies, and reappear with bloody knuckles. I heard that cop call you when I found that girl’s body, but you didn’t have to photograph the scene, so why’d you care? Except May had snapped back in September, so I doubted myself. Thought maybe it wasn’t you, ‘cause you didn’t die - and then I find May fucking Schroder is sleeping on your couch.’

‘Sounds pretty solid,’ May said, and Thorn looked over to find her smiling.

‘Still,’ he said, ‘It’s not really safe, knowing these things.’

Skygge shrugged. ‘You should’ve been dead by now. The rules don’t appear to apply anymore, and I’ve got old blood anyway. And I want to know what the fuck is going on.’

‘Tough luck,’ May said, ‘We haven’t got a clue either.’

‘So it isn’t you?’ Skygge said.

May frowned. ‘I thought we’d just established that it is, in fact, us.’

‘Not that,’ the bassist said, his shoulders sinking. ‘Someone’s been coming into gran’s house, and I’d hoped it was one of you.’

May looked at the long-haired skugabor beside her.

‘No,’ he said, ‘It’s most definitely not me breaking into your house.’

Skygge sunk back, defeated.

Thorn went and bought three large mugs of coffee, so dark May nearly believed she’d be able to bend it to her will like she did the shadows. She took a large sip to prevent herself from asking too many questions, saying things that’d get Skygge killed. She looked at the vocalist from the corner of her eyes; he seemed so eager.

‘What’s been happening?’ Thorn said, skinny fingers locked around his mug.

The other man shrugged, dumped a packed of sugar into his coffee, and stirred. May studied his unshaved face, the tired eyes. Something had been keeping him up all night.

‘At first I thought it was just gran dreaming things up,’ Skygge said, ‘She’s not all there any more, and she knows things that’d fuck over the most stable of minds.’

He took a long sip from his coffee before pouring in another packet of sugar.

‘I’ve been sleeping over, you know, help take care of her,’ he said, ‘Ann’s got young kids, my mom’s in Sweden, so I do it. I swear I’ve been hearing footsteps - at night, middle of the day, doesn’t matter.’

‘All the time?’ Thorn said.

‘Nah, every few days or so, just when you think you’d made it all up.’ Skygge’s spoon clinked against the sides of his mug. ‘I’ve checked all the windows, doors, nothing. Figured maybe someone had a key, so I bought deadbolts, but whoever it is, they aren’t stopped by locks and chains.’

‘So you thought…’

‘Skugabor,’ Skygge said, ‘Looking for something gran might have? She’s ancient, she knows things, she might have things too.’

‘Well,’ Thorn said, untying his hair and raking his hands through, ‘It wasn’t us.’

They sat in silence for a moment.

‘Has your grandma ever told you anything about the house?’ May said. She could still feel the thick dark of it, as if it had left some sort of residue on her skin. Was that all it was? It felt so real, still.

‘What’s with the house?’ Skygge asked.

‘The shadows are too heavy there,’ May said, ‘It feels like it does in the tunnels. It’s wrong.’

She wrapped her hands around her mug, savouring the heat of it. It wasn’t hot enough. Thorn was staring at her.

‘You’ve been in the tunnels?’ he said, ‘When?’

‘The city archives are in there,’ she said. She shivered, remembering the sensation of near-solid dark forcing itself into her bloodstream. It hadn’t taken very long for the itch to start, after that. The urge began yanking at her the moment she remembered it was there, amplified by the memory of that narrow hallway. She realised Thorn was still staring at her. Was the itch showing, now? Did she look like she was in pain, or was her shadow morphing?

‘Do you know anything about those murdered sheep on the hill?’ she said, quick to change the subject.

It hadn’t been on the news, but neither had Petr’s death been - folk were quick to realise which things they shouldn’t think about too much.

‘What sheep?’ Skygge said, and Thorn explained what had happened, his voice low.

May shuddered. She could still see the horrid bodies in her mind’s eye - twisted in as much agony as the man in the church window.

Skygge leaned back and shook his head. Did he already regret confronting them? There were worried creases by his eyes, and May didn’t think he’d slept much. The bassist opened his mouth to say something, but closed it again.

‘Yeah, me too,’ she said, before she realized that didn’t make sense. She felt the itching travel up the veins in her legs, right up to her eyeballs, and May was clutching her mug to stop herself from scratcing.

They drank their coffee, but dark in her body drowned out the bitterness of it, and it might as well have been water. How bad would she become before she’d snap? Would she, like Thorn, be reduced to a crying, self-mutilating pile of non-human before they’d take her anyway?

‘May?’ she heard Thorn say, ‘Are you alright?’

She shook her head, then nodded, confusing even herself. ‘I’ll be fine, Thorn.’

Two sets of worried eyes glanced at her. She chewed on the inside of her cheek.

‘We should search your house, Skygge,’ May said, switching topics.

‘May-’ Thorn started, but Skygge was quicker.

‘We should,’ the man said, ‘Maybe you’ll find something I can’t.’

The men were talking, but she found she couldn’t listen. It was coming on too hard, too quick, not quite the pain Thorn had described - it was an oncoming toothache, a bruised rib. She stared at her hands. They were still her own, but she didn’t dare to imagine how long that would last. What was that dizziness in the back of her skull?

Skygge was saying something about getting his grandma out of the house, so Thorn could come in without her screeching at them - but May couldn’t focus on the words. The grain of the wooden table was moving in front of her eyes, and she stood up.

‘May?’ Thorn said. She didn’t look back at him.

‘Bathroom,’ she said, unsure if it came out right. She felt drunk, as though her coffee had been spiked with half a liter of throat-burning vodka.

She’d forgotten what a mess the toilet stalls at Dyst were - their walls filled up with years of vandalism. She remembered marking down her own name there, somewhere. She’d been sixteen, had just moved into Erika’s place, seen a mediocre band here. Had she been drunk?

Probably. She’d felt so mature for it, too, most likely.

How long had she been sitting here, now? Did Thorn miss her yet? She moved her fingers, shadows dancing between her tendons. She inhaled, the cold of the air seeping right into her lungs and her blood.

‘What the fuck,’ she said, or thought, she couldn’t really tell. And then there was that pull, right behind her midriff, almost like when they’d found that body.

Was that what it was? Again? She shook her head, and her vision swam. That hadn’t toyed with her mind like this, hadn’t hyped up that horrid itch she should be ignoring.

There, on the wall, was that Asrun’s name? Had she sneaked in here, despite her beloved pop music and radio songs?

She couldn’t be thinking about Asrun, not now, not again. She got up and stumbled past Thorn and Skygge, towards the outside world, where the sky had the same colour as her blackening veins.