THE MILES ACCUMULATED in tense quiet.
Cypress trees gave way to steeper terrain, the Tuscan countryside growing more remote with each turn. The afternoon light had begun its slow descent toward evening, casting long shadows across hills that seed to watch their progress with ancient indifference.
Mailah snuck glances at Lucson periodically, trying to gauge whether he was still angry. His profile remained perfectly composed, hands steady on the wheel, no visible tension in his shoulders. As if their confrontation had been nothing more than a minor disagreent about lunch plans.
Which, she supposed, from his perspective it probably was.
The car began to slow.
Mailah sat up straighter, scanning the area. They’d left the main road several miles back, following increasingly narrow paths that looked more like suggestions than actual routes.
Now Lucson was pulling onto what might generously be called a shoulder—really just a wider spot where sparse vegetation had been worn down by occasional use.
"Have we arrived?" Mailah asked, breaking the long silence.
"Not quite." Lucson killed the engine, the sudden absence of sound making the isolation more pronounced. "Castelvetro is another two kiloters ahead. We’re walking from here."
"Why?"
"Because driving a luxury vehicle into a remote mountain village tends to attract attention we don’t need." He opened his door, afternoon light harsh after the car’s dimr interior.
Mailah climbed out, imdiately struck by how remote they were. No other cars. No sounds of traffic or distant civilization. Just mountains and sky and the kind of oppressive quiet that made her ears ring.
"Discretion," she asked, closing her door with more force than necessary. "Is that what you call abandoning with Matteo? Discretion?"
Lucson gave her a look over the car’s roof—one eyebrow raised infinitesimally. "Are we returning to that topic? I thought we’d established our respective positions."
"You established your position. I’m still processing mine."
"Process while walking." He started up the path without waiting to see if she’d follow. "We’re losing daylight."
Mailah hurried to catch up, her shoes decidedly wrong for mountain hiking. "You could at least pretend to care that I’m upset."
"I could." Lucson’s pace didn’t slow, his longer stride eating up ground effortlessly. "But pretending would be disingenuous, and you’ve already established you prefer honesty. So: I acknowledge you’re upset. I understand why you’re upset. I would likely make the sa tactical decision again given identical circumstances."
"That’s possibly the worst apology I’ve ever heard."
"It wasn’t an apology." He navigated around a boulder with practiced ease. "You want to feel guilty. I don’t feel guilt—I’m a demon. What I do feel is mild regret that my thods caused you discomfort, combined with satisfaction that those thods were effective."
"You’re impossible."
He stopped abruptly, turning to face her. "You want to be sothing I’m not. To operate according to human ethical fraworks that don’t apply to my nature. But I’m helping find Grayson despite having no obligation to do so. Doesn’t that count for sothing?"
Mailah opened her mouth to argue, then stopped. Because he was right, wasn’t he? Lucson was helping. On his own terms, using his own thods, but helping nonetheless.
"Fine," she said. "But next ti, at least warn before you strategically abandon ."
"I’ll take that under advisent." Sothing that might have been amusent flickered across his face. "Though I make no promises."
They walked in silence for several minutes, the path growing steeper. Mailah’s breathing beca labored—between the altitude, the stress, and barely any sleep, her body was staging a full protest.
Lucson, naturally, showed no signs of exertion. Didn’t even seem to be breathing harder.
"Must be nice," Mailah muttered between gasps, "being supernatural. No sweating. No exhaustion."
"The lack of physical limitations is convenient," Lucson agreed. "Though it cos with other drawbacks. Would you like to rest?"
"No." Pride kept her moving forward. "I’m fine."
"You’re clearly not fine. You’re exhausted and—"
"I said I’m fine."
"Stubbornness." His tone carried what might have been approval. "That will serve you well in our world. Assuming it doesn’t kill you first."
Buildings appeared ahead—old stone structures that looked like they’d been standing since dieval tis, weathered but still solid. A church spire rose above clustered rooftops.
"Castelvetro," Lucson said quietly, his entire deanor shifting to heightened alertness.
The village materialized around them like sothing from a faded postcard. Stone houses with shuttered windows. Narrow cobblestone streets. A small square with a fountain at its center. Everything worn smooth by ti and weather, picturesque in the slanting afternoon light.
It also looked completely deserted.
"Where is everyone?" Mailah asked, her voice automatically dropping to match Lucson’s.
"Excellent question." He moved forward cautiously, scanning the area with predatory awareness.
They passed houses with doors standing ajar, laundry hanging motionless on lines, a bicycle leaning against a wall as if its owner had just stepped inside.
But no people.
No dogs barking. No birds singing. No ambient sounds of human habitation.
Just silence.
"This feels wrong," Mailah said, skin prickling with instinctive unease.
"Very wrong." Lucson had gone very still, head tilted as if listening to sothing she couldn’t hear. "There should be sounds. Life. The normal noise of existence. Instead—"
"Nothing," Mailah finished, her voice barely above a whisper.
They moved deeper into the village, checking doorways and peering through windows. Every house showed signs of recent occupation—tables set for als, books left open, a pot still sitting on a cold stove.
As if everyone had simply vanished mid-activity.
"Lucson." Mailah’s hands were trembling now. "What happened here?"
"I’m beginning to develop theories I don’t particularly like." He stopped in the village square, turning slowly to take in the entire scene.
"You think the villagers were—"
"Taken. Erased. Consud." His jaw tightened.
Horror crawled up Mailah’s spine with cold fingers. "Three hundred people? Just gone?"
"Welco to the supernatural world." Lucson’s voice had gone flat, emotionless. "When powerful entities want sothing, collateral damage is expected. Three hundred humans? That barely registers as a footnote."
"That’s monstrous."
"Yes." He didn’t argue or soften it. "It is. And it’s the reality Grayson has been trying to shield you from."
Mailah looked around at the ghost village, trying to imagine what it had been like. Three hundred people living ordinary lives—cooking, arguing, loving, aging—and then sothing crossed over and erased them all.
For what? For secrecy? For convenience?
"If whoever took Grayson is willing to do this," she said slowly, "what might they be doing to him?"
"Nothing pleasant." Lucson’s expression had gone grim. "But at least we know he’s valuable to them. You don’t cross dinsional barriers and erase entire villages just to kill soone quickly. This level of effort suggests they need him for sothing. Which ans he’s likely alive."
"Likely isn’t certain."
"Nothing is certain." He moved toward the church. "Co. If there are clues about what happened, they’ll be there."
"Why the church?"
"Supernatural entities often leave stronger traces in places humans consider sacred. Concentrated belief creates... residue." He pushed the heavy wooden door open.
The interior was dim and cold.
Mailah shivered, wrapping her arms around herself. "I really don’t like this."
"Noted." Lucson moved through the space with thodical precision, checking surfaces, examining corners. "But discomfort is secondary to finding answers."
"You know what?" Mailah watched him work. "Grayson never ntioned how thoroughly pragmatic you are. He made you sound just manipulative."
"I am manipulative." Lucson crouched near the altar, running fingers along stone.
"That’s still horrifying."
"Would you prefer I lie about my nature? Claim noble motivations?" He straightened, holding sothing—old paper, yellowed and fragile. "I help Grayson because it serves my interests. Self-interest is remarkably reliable as a motivator."
"And yet here you are, helping when it’s inconvenient."
"Long-term self-interest sotis requires short-term inconvenience." He examined the paper carefully. "Besides, watching you navigate our world is unexpectedly entertaining."
"I’m so glad my suffering amuses you."
"Not your suffering. Your adaptation." Sothing that might have been respect flickered in his expression. "Most humans would have broken by now. You’re still fighting. Still standing. That’s... noteworthy."
"Is that another almost-complint?"
"Don’t let it go to your head." But there was the faintest hint of warmth in his voice. "You’re still human. Still fragile. Still fundantally outmatched by everything in our world."
Mailah moved closer, trying to see what he’d found. "What is that?"
"Journal entry. From the village priest." Lucson’s expression had shifted to sothing darker. "Dated three weeks ago. He describes lights in the sky. Voices that made his ears bleed."
"Does he say what happened to everyone?"
"He says they were ’called.’" Lucson’s voice dripped with distaste. "Summoned by sothing beautiful and terrible. Most went willingly. Those who resisted..." He trailed off, reading further. "Those who resisted were taken anyway."
"Called where?"
"He doesn’t specify. Or couldn’t. The writing becos increasingly erratic." Lucson folded the paper carefully. "Either he was losing his sanity or being influenced by sothing that fed on more than just physical sustenance."
Before Mailah could respond, Lucson’s phone buzzed.
He pulled it out, read the screen, and his entire posture changed—going from alert to sothing harder, more dangerous.
"What?" Mailah demanded, moving closer. "What is it?"
"Text from Ravenson." Lucson’s voice had gone carefully neutral in a way that made Mailah’s instincts scream danger. "He spoke with Kieran about The Hollow."
"And?"
"The Hollow isn’t involved. Kieran’s terrified, actually—says whoever took Grayson is far beyond his capabilities. Refused to even speculate on who it might be."
Mailah’s stomach dropped. "Then who—"
"There’s more." Lucson’s eyes t hers, and she saw sothing she’d never seen before in his expression.
Fear.
Actual, genuine fear.
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