Gravenhurst awoke under a sky the color of bruises — dark, swollen clouds rolling in from the east, the kind that promised rain but never delivered. Jack Carrigan lay on his cot, eyes fixed on the ceiling, a single line of cracked plaster splitting the room in half. He counted the seconds between each creak of the ceiling fan. One... two... three. The sound echoed like a metronome, ticking away the hours he hadn’t slept.

  A drop of water plinked into the metal bucket by the window. The leak had started last week, but Jack hadn’t bothered to fix it. Let the whole damn ceiling cave in for all he cared. At least it would be something different.

  His cheek pulsed — a hot, angry throb beneath the skin. Jack pressed a palm to it, feeling the sigil beneath the scar tissue. Still there. Still burning. Still a constant reminder that some things don’t heal.

  Jack pushed himself up, the springs groaning beneath him. The room spun for a moment, a swirling fog of whiskey fumes and stale smoke. He rubbed his temples, fighting the hangover that clung to his skull like a vice. On the nightstand, a glass half-filled with bourbon caught the light from the streetlamp outside, casting fractured shadows across the wall.

  Jack picked it up, swirled the amber liquid. The room fell silent. The answering machine blinked red. Five messages. Jack stared at the flashing light, eyes heavy, fingers tightening around the glass.

  Beep. "Jack, it’s Rocco. You still got that Marie case? She’s been asking for you. Kid’s still missing."

  Beep. "Jack, it’s Johnny. Rent was due three days ago. I ain’t running a charity."

  Beep. "You think you can ignore me, Jack? You think I’m not gonna find you? I know you’re listening."

  Jack’s hand trembled. The voice was low, guttural. Familiar in a way that made the hair on the back of his neck stand up. He hit the button again.

  "You think you can ignore me, Jack? You think I’m not gonna find you? I know you’re listening."

  Beep.

  Jack set the glass down, harder than he intended. The bourbon sloshed over the rim, pooling across the table. Outside, a car backfired, the sound sharp and hollow. Jack pushed away from the nightstand, dragging his hand down his face. The air in the room felt thick, heavy, as if the walls were closing in inch by inch.

  He needed air. Now.

  Jack grabbed his coat, the worn leather cool against his skin, and shoved his arms through the sleeves. The weight of the revolver pressed against his side, a cold, comforting presence. Four bullets left. One for Crowe. One for himself. The other two... well, that was up to the universe.

  The stairwell was dark, the lightbulb flickering weakly as Jack made his way down. The stench of stale piss and cigarette smoke clung to the walls, a scent that had seeped into the very bones of the building. The rain hit the pavement outside in fat, heavy drops, forming rivers of grime that snaked down the street.

  Gravenhurst was alive, but just barely. Neon signs buzzed like dying insects, casting sickly hues of red and green over the alleyways. A couple of drunks slouched against a dumpster, eyes hollow and glassy as Jack pushed past them. The street stretched out ahead, endless and empty, a corridor of fog and shadow.

  Rocco’s bar loomed at the end of the block, its sign flickering: BLOOD & WHISKEY. Jack pushed open the door, the smell of stale beer and old wood hitting him like a wave.

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  Inside, the usual crowd was there — a couple of washed-up has-beens nursing their drinks, a girl with raccoon eyes crying into her cocktail, and Rocco behind the bar, wiping the counter with a rag that had seen better days.

  Rocco’s eyes met Jack’s. "You look like shit."

  "Feel like it too," Jack muttered, sliding onto a stool. He shrugged off his coat and laid it over the back of the chair. "Marie still here?"

  Rocco nodded toward the back booth. "She’s been waiting. Got that look in her eye like she’s about to jump out of her skin."

  Jack followed Rocco’s gaze. Marie sat hunched over a glass of clear liquid, her hair pulled back in a loose bun, her eyes rimmed with dark circles. Her hands shook as she lifted the glass to her lips, the liquid sloshing slightly.

  Jack’s jaw clenched. The last time he saw her, she was clutching a photograph of her brother like it was the only thing holding her together. Now, she just looked... empty.

  Jack stood, boots heavy against the wooden floor, and crossed the room. Marie didn’t look up as he slid into the booth across from her. The table between them was sticky with spilled liquor, the varnish peeling in long, curling strips.

  "Marie," Jack said, voice low.

  She didn’t respond.

  Jack leaned forward, elbows on the table. "What happened?"

  Marie swallowed, her throat bobbing. When she spoke, her voice was barely above a whisper. "He’s not missing, Jack. He’s dead."

  The words hung in the air, heavy and suffocating. Outside, the rain hit the window like gunfire.

  Jack’s stomach twisted. "How do you know?"

  Marie set the glass down, her hand shaking. She reached into her coat pocket, pulling out a crumpled piece of paper and sliding it across the table. Jack unfolded it. A page. Covered in symbols. Sigils. Not Crowe’s, but close enough to send a chill up Jack’s spine.

  "He left that behind," Marie said, her eyes hollow. "They said it would protect him. They lied."

  Jack’s fingers trembled as he traced one of the sigils. It pulsed beneath his skin, a phantom pain that spread from his cheek to his jaw. He dropped the page as if it burned.

  Marie watched him, her eyes wide and haunted. "Who are they, Jack?" she asked, voice breaking. "Who are the ones that walk in shadows?"

  Jack swallowed, throat tight. Outside, the rain fell harder, each drop a hammer against the glass. The sigil on his cheek burned. And somewhere in the back of his mind, Jack could swear he heard Crowe’s voice, low and mocking, echoing through the storm.

  Jack sat back, the booth creaking beneath his weight. The bar felt colder now, as if the temperature had dropped with Marie’s words. The sigil on his cheek throbbed in time with his heartbeat, a dull, insistent ache that echoed through his skull.

  "Who are they?" Marie’s voice shook, the glass clinking against her teeth as she took another drink. The liquid trembled, sloshing over her knuckles. "He said they were going to help him. Said they promised him power. But when he came back..." Her eyes glazed over, staring somewhere past Jack, past the bar, into a memory she couldn’t shake. "He wasn’t my brother anymore."

  Jack’s jaw clenched. The sigil on the paper lay between them, its ink smeared and damp from the rain. Jack reached for it, hesitated. He couldn’t bring himself to touch it again. "Where did you find this?"

  "In his room," Marie said. "There was... there was more."

  "More?" Jack leaned forward, voice lowering. "Pages?"

  Marie swallowed. "Not pages. Drawings. Symbols. All over the walls. Painted in his blood."

  Jack’s skin crawled. He could almost see it — the sigils spreading like a sickness, crawling over the walls, seeping into the floorboards. "Take me there."

  "I can’t." Marie’s eyes welled with tears. "I can’t go back there, Jack. Not after what I saw."

  Jack took a deep breath, forcing himself to stay calm. The walls of the bar felt like they were closing in, the air thick and suffocating. "Alright. Give me the address."

  Marie fumbled in her coat pocket, pulling out a damp piece of paper. Her hands shook as she passed it to Jack. "Be careful," she whispered. "There’s something in that room. Something wrong."

  Jack nodded, slipping the paper into his coat. He stood, the weight of the revolver pressing against his ribs. "Go home, Marie. Lock your doors. Don’t open them for anyone."

  Marie said nothing, just kept staring at her empty glass, fingers tracing the rim over and over. Jack turned away, the sigil on his cheek flaring again, a pulse of heat that made his vision blur.

  Outside, the rain had intensified, turning the streets into rivers of black water. Jack stepped into the downpour, collar pulled up, hat low over his eyes. Gravenhurst loomed around him, a labyrinth of fog and shadow.

  The address on the paper was only a few blocks away. The sigil on his cheek continued to burn, as if something was calling to it, pulling him toward the room where Marie’s brother died.