A/N: I didn't get this chapter out quite as fast as I wanted, but it's still an improvement over the three months the last one took. I hope you like it! If you do or don't, I'd love to hear what you think!

In other news, I'm temporarily taking the rating down to T, because in all honesty the story isn't that dark yet and a lot of people are missing it. I'll put it back up to M once it actually earns the rating.

Another thing that I'd like to say is that I'd love for the opportunity to be able to interact with readers, so if you like the story and would like to see what else I get up to, consider following me on social media! I'm active on twitter and tumblr, and if you're interested in supporting me I also have a p atreon and a redbubble store where you can buy prints of my art. I'm Primal Arc on all of them!

"Guys, this isn't funny any more."

He stumbled blindly through the fog, clutching his thin flannel close to his chest. It offered no relief against the clinging damp that crept under his skin. Something in it left dread wherever it touched, a weight he couldn't place or shift, like lead in his veins. The weather changed too soon, too fast, faster than anything he'd seen before in his life, and he was caught out and unprepared. He should've listened. He should've packed a coat.

He should've stayed close to the others.

Every rise and ditch, every loose cobble, caught at his feet and sent him staggering, time and time again. It didn't seem to matter how high he lifted his feet, how carefully he set them back down. The mist pressed in so close and so thick that he couldn't see the ground beneath him, and its creeping fingers were treacherous.

"Guys?" His voice rose, thin and reedy, and echoed strangely back to him on the walls closing in. Where did everyone go? Was he even in the Shambles any more? Wide eyes darted here and there, high and low, but there was nothing. No buildings. No shopfronts with bright glass and glittering wares. Nothing but the grey.

Snap.

His sneakers crunched on the stones as he spun, heart pounding in his ears. Chapped lips parted, trembling. "H—hello?"

Of course there was no answer. It was just a twig from one of the willow trees, snapping underfoot. But under whose? He didn't like that thought.

Crunch.

"Show yourself!" He stumbled again when he tried to back away. But this time, his feet couldn't correct for the misstep. Tendrils of fog wound around his ankles and with a soft whump he landed on his backpack, shoulders raw where the straps cut into them. The sky was as grey as the walls around him.

Maybe it was just the wind. Maybe it was his imagination. Whatever the cause, he swore he saw someone, something, flicker in the corner of his vision.

He didn't stop to find out. Sobbing, now, he dimly registered that he had scrambled back onto his feet and away. It felt like running in place, trapped in a reel that rewound over and over and over—until a grinning cadaver of metal and springs lunged from the fog.

For a moment he screamed. Then all was silent.

CHAPTER TWELVE

HERE BE MONSTERS

No one was watching when Schmidt's fingers dug into his shoulders and steered him away from the commotion. Though Ash kicked and thrashed, though he scrabbled with his nails at his bindings, those hands were of iron and fear stole his voice away.

The vendors flitted here and there through the fog, too busy packing up to hear his whimpers for help. Or too callous—they made it more than clear where his welcome ended. He could do nothing as the last of the banners fluttered one after another into oblivion, as voices and turning engines joined them. The bark of Sergeant Avery ordering tardy stallholders left and right and left again drifted to his ears on the damp, until it, too, was smothered under the blanket cast over their heads. Silent. Stifling.

They passed by the windows of the boutique stores which bordered the square, glass lanterns lined up on a string, their golden light spilling forth onto the pavement to clutch with warm fingers at his ankles as it died. His heels scraped as they dug into the cobbles, but there was no one inside to see him. Empty seats. Empty counters. And empty light.

He was alone. If he pictured how that would feel but a few short weeks ago, he never would have imagined it to be so… heavy.

"Want me to carry ye?" The voice rumbled through the broad chest at his back and he flinched away from it, but strong hands kept him from falling. "'Cause I will and I bloody well can. Move it."

The black may have slunk down cracks and drains when the cavalry arrived, but it never truly left him. Never. Now, alone and desperate, he could see, feel, taste it creeping once more into his eyes, the corners of his vision. He cast a long shadow. Screwing his eyes shut, he bit it back, pushed it away, even as he stumbled to match his captor's pace. It was so heavy, and its whispers so soothing—and his light seemed so faint before it. Weak. Small. Tears ran freely down his face. His cheek still throbbed where it was struck, wringing out more with every lance of pain like needles into his flesh. But it was better to be weak than to be like him.

It was better to be hurt than to hurt others.

Deeper into the quarter he was taken, past more windows, more lanterns. It would take only a single glancing pair of eyes to save him. But there was no one. Some glowed from within with that hollow light, lifeless. More remained dark, more and more the further they strayed. Ash had never been to this part of the Shambles before. And he could see how it earned its name; winding streets with turns and corners in strange places, and dead ends that made no sense. All around him, those frilled, shuttered buildings of painted wood the settlers left behind, leaning this way and that in ways no building should with twinkling fairy lights lashed to every porch and balustrade. And staring black eyes where windows should be.

Empty sockets in a leering metal skull. Pulling him in, down, down into—

He cried out when he was yanked back against a wall, stifled by an arm and a mouthful of leather. An elbow—the man learned his lesson the first time. He tasted sweat, that metallic tang that clung to him, and anger. Apprehension. Nerves pulled taut over tense muscles and worn thin.

Then he heard it. The clank of metal upon stone. Thud, scrape, thud, scrape. It was too regular a beat to be a door or sign clattering in the wind.

Footsteps

He froze against Schmidt's chest. There was only one sort of creature with footfalls like that.

Something lurched in the fog. Something misshapen, something hideous, a grinning, gap-toothed silhouette painted in grey upon grey. It was difficult to pick out from the shapes of cars and buildings. But it was there. He saw it, heard it, felt it. Loose parts rattled and its fingers creaked and clicked.

He thought back to that shadow in market square and shuddered. He didn't want to believe it—that it could be an animatronic. Not here, not so far from the pizzeria. That was impossible. It had to be.

But he knew. Mike knew. So together they stayed, exposed there on the wall like flies caught in a floodlight. One sound, one glance their way… their hearts beat as one as the clunk of its feet echoed away from them, from silent walls and watching windows.

His voice scratched at his ear, a soft growl from between clenched teeth. "W'ye stay close and stay quiet if I let go?"

He didn't know who he was supposed to be afraid of any more, who he should run from, who he should trust. None of this made any sense. But he bit his lip and nodded through the tears, and slowly, slowly, those arms unwound from his mouth and torso.

"This way."

Did he have a choice? Ash crept after him down a narrow alleyway between the butcher's and the ice cream parlour, a dark channel cut into the fog. A gateway. Like stepping from this world into the next, into the land of the fey. His lips twisted in revulsion—the land of the fey stank of drains clogged with blood and sour milk. He tried to ignore the damp wisps which clung to every sill and drainpipe, the way they felt like breath on the back of his neck. His throat was dry as he swallowed. Was that thing still out there?

That thought was on his mind, too. Schmidt's dark figure parted the fog where he swung round the corner into the next street over. He knelt behind the dumpster, hand straying once more inside his jacket—to his holster, Ash knew now. If there was a time to run, it was now, while he was distracted playing lookout.

He didn't. When a rough hand gestured him forwards, he stumbled across the cobbles in his wake, wincing at the treacherous crack of stones underfoot. Steely eyes flicked back at him. 'It's safe,' they said, and he wasn't sure how he knew. He couldn't read him before. But there was something… familiar about that gaze, as though it looked out at him from a faded old photograph. Little fingers reaching out to take it gently from the floor and set it back on the coffee table…

A firm hand wrapped around his arm and steered him away from the dumpster. Away from shelter and into the open, towards the dark shape waiting for them on the corner.

Darkness closing in, a cage, a tiny coffin. The car.

Heels dug in and limbs locked into place, panicked cries tumbling from his lips into the silence. No! He would not go back in the trunk! No, he would not be taken again! No, no, no—

"Yer goin' in t'front this time!" The man snapped—was there a desperate edge to his voice? "I swear. Just—stop."

But he was stone in his hands. Iron bands closed in around his lungs and squeezed. He couldn't fight as he kept to his word, as arms wrenched his feet free and hoisted him clear from the ground. He couldn't look as the door clicked open and he was forced into the seat with a hand on top of his head.

In the distance, he swore he heard someone screaming. Then the door slammed shut behind him.

He shrank away when Schmidt moved round to the driver's side, huddling away from him in his seat. Too small. His prison walls closed in around him, cold steel painted black. Too small with him there. His dark energy, his anger, it took every last inch of space, every breath, until there was nothing left for Ash. The clunk of the driver's door sounded so final—as if on that note, all else ceased to be. Keys turned in the ignition and his world was consumed in the belly of the beast.

"Seatbelt."

He flinched when those eyes turned on him and fumbled to do as he was told. Once the man seemed satisfied that he was safely belted in, he huffed and turned out onto the street without indicating. It wasn't until they passed the barriers with a bump that Ash realised that it was a pedestrian zone. No words came out when he opened his mouth, not at first, and when they finally struggled free they were small and weak against the growl of the engine. "Where are you taking me?"

"Back t' Anchor."

He was taking him… home? Less than twenty-four hours ago he pressed him into the gravel with the barrel of a gun. None of this made any sense. His lips moved once more in a whisper. "Why?"

"Because," the man said, scowling, and swung the wheel around to take a hard left back onto Rambley Quay. Ash yelped as he was thrown into the door. "When the fog comes in like this, s'not safe. They know that. They know t' stay inside. But you." The lines carved in around his eyes and the corners of his mouth deepened, bitter old wounds that could never fully heal. "Why the fuck didn't ye listen to me?"

Ash put as much space between them as possible and didn't respond—there was nothing to be said. Not to him. He didn't have to justify himself. He found no comfort in the rumble of pistons through the bones of his legs from the floor, the smell of leather and vinyl, the flash of the world passing him by. Details leapt out at him, some he recognised, but in the blink of an eye had dissolved once more into the mist. Somehow, he didn't think he wanted to know what was displayed on the speedometer right now.

Schmidt's knuckles turned white on the wheel. "Don't ye know any of the stories, what ye were gettin' yerself into? Yer goin' 'ome, then soon's this lot clears up yer getting on the bus out and not comin' back. Understand?"

Still Ash said nothing. Is that what this was all about? His safety? Schmidt hit him and forced him into the trunk of his car and held him at gunpoint so he would be safe? The dark came scratching at the windows, long fingers raking down glass, down the reflection of his own face. Black tears.

"I chose him for you."

Ash closed his eyes, breathed in, counted to ten, and let go. Let it out. When he opened them again, it was gone. When it came for him all those times before, it never spoke to him. But that voice… blades in the dark, singing on old stone. He knew it. Like a code embedded in his mind by an unknown author. The silence it left behind, the silence of a man who wanted to speak, but didn't know the right words, was the most suffocating of all.

"That sound," he murmured into the glass, to his reflected image. It felt easier than talking to the man himself, "was that—"

"There's nowt we can do fer 'im now." The words were hard and blunt, a bitter pill that was hard to swallow. The truth always was. "Seen it before, too many times. It's always when the fog comes in too fast. And always the tourists. Ye'd think they'd learn t' stay away."

"I thought those were just stories."

The reflection looked back at him with narrowed eyes. "An' where d'ye think the stories come from? Take a gander through't archives at the library sometime, try countin' how many missin' people ye see before ye lose track and they all start lookin' the same. Those aren't stories." He looked away again. "Those're people."

Ash's lips twisted. Dad… he was one of them. He wasn't sure he could stomach the thought of seeing his face, his eyes, looking out at him from under a bold-stamped headline. MISSING! SUSPECT DISAPPEARS BEFORE TRIAL! His fingers dug into the knees of his jeans.

That man at market square, he said Gael took them. He said he killed them. Carver did, too.

Hot tears pricked at his eyes. It wasn't true. He couldn't have. Dad… he would never…

"I know." He swallowed. God, he hated the way his voice cracked around his tears, like thawing ice in the springtime. "Do you?"

There was no warning before Schmidt slammed his foot down on the brakes. The force flung Ash from his seat, into the belt. He gagged as it cut into his windpipe. He hung there for a moment, frozen in place on the edge of the precipice—and then the rest of the world caught up with them and the car sank back onto its rear wheels. His back hit the seat again and his stomach heaved, but it had carried on without him. Panic clutched at his heart where he left it on the dashboard.

But Schmidt wasn't looking at him. Nor was he looking at the road. His eyes gazed into the fog at something only he could see. Ash knew that look, that... emptiness. The old film reel playing in front of his eyes of things he'd rather forget. Jaw clenched, knuckles pressed so tight and pale against the skin that they might tear out and into him like Wolverine claws at any moment. He knew that too.

"We're 'ere," he said stiffly.

Ash's fingers scrabbled for the belt clip. He threw himself from the car and didn't shut it behind him, numb to the tears burning at his cheeks. He heard Schmidt get out as he fled past the anchor to the front door. Felt his eyes on his back.

"Ash…"

He didn't look back when he slammed the door behind him.

He stayed there, back to the wood, and didn't move until he heard the deep-throated growl of the car rolling away up the road. Until the only remaining sound was the steady tick tock of the pendulum clock by the counter.

Mr. Cooper wasn't at the front desk. Ash almost tripped over the usual offering of toast on the third floor landing, and saw that he slathered it in Nutella instead of jam. Something twisted in his heart. He never really thought much of the unexpected room service—not until now. Not until he crossed that unseen, unspoken line and remembered how it felt to be hated.

Mr. Cooper didn't hate him.

The click of the lock in his door behind him was the most comforting sound he'd heard in his life. He never thought he'd miss the bald spots on the carpet, those mustard yellow curtains, his squeaky bed. His sparrows were once again lined up along the balcony railing. Eleven, he counted with a sigh of relief. Merida, Jamie, Felicity, Spark, Ratchet, Samwise... everyone accounted for, plus a new face.

His bag clunked when he dumped it from his shoulder to the floor. That... didn't sound right. Frowning now, he set his last slice of toast down on the bedside table and knelt to rifle through its contents. Tablet. Expected, but he knew its weight. A plastic bag that crunched under his fingers. Lavender, he recalled now. And those would be the candles that Straker gave him. With... bigger problems to worry about, angrier ones with a proven track record of violence, Straker's words were pushed to the back of his mind. Now they bubbled forth like sulphur from a volcanic pool.

'To rise, we must fall.'

His hand closed around a battered cardboard box. The warmth, the hope and solidarity Straker drew from it over the years and poured back in turn, it came to him now and he closed his eyes. Just breathe. He hadn't even realised his hands were shaking.

He settled down on the bed and pulled the deck carefully from its box. Soft, frayed edges played against his fingers as he went through the motions of shuffling them, familiar now from years of Pokemon. Next turn—draw a card. He thought of that man's dark, angry stare, exhaled, and turned it over.

Knight of swords.