The third thing that happened was the appearance of the witcher. He showed up three days after the discovery of the Covier deaths. By that time, people had chatted their fill about the tragedy. That was the disturbing thing. They talked, and then they just moved on. Like they were okay with it. Nobody really knew the Coviers, true, so nobody mourned them. But they had been murdered. Everyone blamed it on a monster, shrugged their shoulders, and carried on. It was an excuse to dismiss and forget. People talked, but now they didn't want to talk about what happened in that manor anymore.

The Coviers had died and it was a tragedy. That was it. The end. Everyone assumed the danger was over. Not me. Whatever had been in the manor the day after I talked to Alani was still in there. I was sure of it.

So when the witcher came to town, nobody told him about the murders. Nobody mentioned the possible monster they had so adamantly discussed in the days prior. He must have become used to telling when a place had no work for him, because he was already leaving by the time I found him.

He was swinging his leg over the saddle. The fleeting urge to grab his leg and pull him down from the saddle entered my mind, but I quickly pushed it away. That idea was all kinds of dumb. Instead, I cried out.

"Hey!"

It wasn't the most eloquent of things to say, but it did the job. The witcher looked back. My breath literally caught in my throat and I almost choked on it. It was the eyes. I knew what they were like but I still couldn't have braced myself for what it was like being in their focus. They were exactly like cat eyes. Or reptilian eyes. They didn't belong on a human face.

The witcher probably realized this and quickly lowered them.

But it wasn't just that. This witcher, even if he wasn't supposed to really be completely human, was the most striking man I'd ever seen. His jaw was covered in a handsome beard, and his long hair was tied back. The corners of his eyes were just starting to crinkle with age. And, well, it was hard not to admire a man decked in armor.

Then I realized he was still waiting for a follow up to my outburst. I snapped out of my stupor to think, gather my thoughts. In the Imperial Academy, I took a course on effective communication, but I can't really remember much from that class except that it had been hell.

But there was something I needed to tell him.

"Can you find out what happened to the Coviers?" I asked.

Those eyes blinked and were brought back up to me. This time I was used to them, and I think he knew that. A hand slowly rose and tucked a lock of loose hair behind his ear. Behind his arm, I caught sight of a dagger sheath.

"Who were the Coviers?"

I noticed his use of past tense. I also noticed his accent. It was weird. It sounded local at first, but something didn't fit right.

I realized again that he was waiting for an answer. This time, I lowered my eyes as I tried to construct my explanation. Where to start? The murders? But perhaps I ought to provide a little background on the Coviers…

The witcher seemed to read into my silence. "Who should I talk to?" he asked.

"Who?" I repeated, looking back up. "Did you not think it was strange that you're only hearing from me now? No one else is going to talk about it. Everyone just stopped talking about it!" Sadly, my frustration was coming through my words, which might have made me sound a bit child-like.

Leather creaked as the witcher dismounted. Even down from his horse, the witcher was much, much taller than me. If I'd put a hand on the top of my head, it would only be level with his chest.

Still, he seemed much more daunting on foot. As he turned back to me, I took an involuntary step back. He didn't try to get closer to me. Standing there, holding the reins of his horse, he asked me if perhaps there was a place we could sit down to talk. I blurted out that we could go to my house. He nodded.

Oh dear. What had I done? I wasn't even sure that was a good idea. In fact, it probably wasn't. But I'd already offered it, and the witcher had already nodded. In my mind, that was binding.

Most of the worry came from how my parents would react. To be completely honest, I was a little excited at the prospect of inviting a witcher over. They were mysterious and interesting, and this one was nice to look at. Now, that wasn't the reason I'd invited him over. I wasn't the kind for flings. There had been one time at the academy when… Well, never mind.

When we arrived at the house, my parents looked at the witcher. And then they looked at me. And then they saw the look in my eyes pleading just to go with it. I didn't think the conclusions they came to in their heads matched with the truth, especially not with the way my mother was glaring at me.

I told them the truth. The witcher was here to investigate what happened to the Coviers. And that made their eyes turn really dark. But thankfully, in the presence of the giant, looming man, they didn't speak up.

They left us alone, and I led to the witcher to the living room. Of course, I did notice that my mother whispered something to Marci, and the old housekeeper stayed in the room with us afterwards. Really?

The witcher was looking at the decorative baskets hung on the wall. I never liked them, and they always seemed ironic to me. Baskets were the symbol of labor and the humble life, but here they were livening up the wall space. I scratched the side of my neck, and the witcher looked back at me.

I still wasn't used to those eyes. Or just how good-looking he was. Maybe my mother was right to have Marci stand guard.

I asked the witcher to sit down. A few moments later, some housekeepers came in with a platter of nutty bread and cheeses and a handle of mulled wine. It seemed that even if they weren't going to entertain the witcher with their presence, my parents still had the sense to offer a bit of hospitality. I did notice with a little annoyance that one of the cheeses was Gruyere. My Gruyere.

The witcher looked down at the platter with interest that was quickly concealed. Nomadic lives, I remembered. I can't imagine what kind of food was available on the road. It was probably still better than what they served in the academy's second floor dining hall, anyhow.

He was still very reserved when he tucked in, and asked me to explain the situation to him. He told me to be precise and not leave anything out. I started with what I knew about the Coviers before they were killed. It was I realized that pretty much everything I knew came from gossip. I didn't know what was true and what were speculations. I disclosed this to the witcher, but he simply nodded and had me continue.

His behavior while I spoke was… odd, to say the least. I couldn't explain it, but I got the feeling that part of him was in deep thought, but he still seemed to be listening to every word. He would nod as though approving what I'd just said—like that part made sense to him. Other times he would lean back with his arms crossed, browed furrowed in a ponderous manner. Then he would ask questions.

"Why do you think they're strange?"

I blinked. I'd never said that. "What?"

"Just because you never see them? Because they don't surface as much as the rest of you do?" He didn't sound accusing. Rather, he had the air of a curious child asking how the world worked.

"I guess?"

The witcher nodded again, his arms still crossed. Then he reclined again into the armchair. I took that as my cue to go on. Next, I told him about the day their bodies were discovered. I skipped over the part with Alani. The witcher had told me not to leave any detail out, I knew. But I couldn't talk about that here, not with Marci standing in the room.

I'd told everyone that I saw Alani Covier standing outside her manor. I never told anyone that I'd spoken to her. I didn't know why I was scared to mention in now, but I was.

So I told the witcher about what Morris and the others told everyone. I recalled to him everything I'd heard, even the part about the face in the window. This time, the witcher didn't nod or lean back. He had a hand up to his face, gently running the back of his thumb over his bushy chin. It was then I noticed the medallion hanging below his neck. It was some kind of animal head, though I wasn't sure which. All I could tell was that it was some sort of fanged animal. I found myself staring at it.

Suddenly, his amber eyes flickered up to mine and I froze.

He looked away. Then he did something with his hand. I wasn't sure what. He bent a couple of fingers and gave his hand a curt little flick. He looked like someone imitating a mage. The witcher kept his hand low enough so that Marci didn't catch it.

A minute later, one of the younger housekeepers tiptoed in and whispered to Marci. I was close enough to hear. The fireplace in the main room had suddenly gone out. Marci harrumphed and left the room, shooing the young housekeeper out with her. I felt like that hadn't been an accident.

Once we were alone, the witcher was about to say something when I blurted out, "Did you do that?" His mouth was open in mid-word, but he quickly shut it and gave me a single nod. But he didn't pick up where he'd left off, maybe because he was expecting me to question him further. I did.

"Why?"

His eyebrows rose. I guess I'd hit him with an unexpected one.

"Because," he explained slowly, "children aren't entirely truthful when they know their parents are listening."

Son of a bitch just called me a child. But he was right in a way—I'd kept the encounter with Alani Covier from him. Now was my chance to redeem myself.

"Fine," I admitted. With another glance shot towards the door, I turned the face the witcher squarely and told him what I'd been keeping to myself. The witcher leaned forward, leaning his elbows on his knees. He was still avoiding my eyes.

"Your dog sensed it," he declared when I had finished. "What kind of growl was it?"

"… What kind? It was just a growl?"

"What did it sound like? Sharp and aggressive, or more guttural and deep?" Benji could never growl deeply even if he wanted to. But I'd remember how he had sounded a bit odd that day.

"It was kind of nervous-sounding," I answered, my chin tightening as I struggled to clear up the murky memory. "It came from deep within his throat—all rumbly like."

"Ah." The witcher clasped his gloved hands together. It was enough to make a soft clapping noise. It was also enough to make me jump. "There's a spirit in there."

Goosebumps ticked across my arms. I ran a hand over my forearm. "Spirit?"

"Spirit, ghost, wraith, something in that family." I didn't like how casually the witcher spoke. I thought about the face in the window, and the goosebumps came back in full force. I rubbed my arm more vigorously. "The boy in the wall," the witcher continued. "He was in Alani's room?"

"Seems so."

"Did she say how old he was?"

I shook my head.

The witcher rubbed his beard with the back of his thumb again. "There's more than one," he concluded in a mumble. "I doubt the spirit of a boy, even a wrathful one, could kill an entire household. It'd have to be quick. No one escaped. Minutes, tops." Suddenly, he sat up. I'd been leaning forward without realizing it to catch his words, and I quickly flew back. I ducked my head sheepishly and glanced up to see him with a small smirk on his face. My heart fluttered and I cleared my throat quietly.

The witcher sat back and crossed one ankle over his other leg. "Multiple specters won't be fun to deal with," he began, his voice and face returning to a stony professionalism. "Very dangerous."

"I know," I said, when in truth I didn't know. I had no idea. "And, uh…" I figured we come to the part in the discussion where prices were discussed, but I had no clue how to price these kinds of things.

"What's your name?"

This time I was the one caught off guard by a question. That's right. I'd invited this witcher over into my home when neither of us even knew the other's name.

"Jemille," I answered.

"Jemille," he repeated. His face suddenly became gentle. I didn't know how he'd managed it, but suddenly he looked safe. "The more you keep from me, the more danger you put me in. I'll do what I can to help you, but I need you to return the favor."

I pressed my lips together, a feeling of guilt washing over me. It was not unlike the way a child feels when she's caught in a lie. Well, once again I was being compared to a child. But I did feel very small under this witcher's gaze.

"Sorry." My voice sounded pathetic.

"It's okay," he replied. "I know you didn't mean to keep it from me."

"How do you know?"

"Your face. You look scared."

I stopped pressing my lips together and tried to make my face neutral. This elicited a chuckle from the witcher, and I felt better. This time, I asked him how he knew there was more to the story. He did that annoying thing my professors sometimes did, and answered my question with another question.

"Why did you ask me for help? You and no one else? You've seen something they haven't." I nodded in response. And then I told him.

Curiosity and stupidity—I was born with no short supply of either. And because of that, I went to the manor the day after the bodies were discovered. The place was disturbingly deserted. I'd expected a few guards to be there investigating. But apparently people were happy with their lazy conclusions and had left it at that.

I didn't know what drew me to that place. Maybe a morbid curiosity. Maybe a desire to find out the truth. If I was to be completely honest, I felt a little guilty. I'd been talking to Alani the day before she died, so maybe I could have done something. It was a ridiculous notion. What could I have done, really? That didn't stop me from feeling that way.

It surprised me the way I walked up to that manor. I wasn't brave—far from it. For the longest time, I was afraid of the dark growing up. I couldn't stand uncovered windows at night. Anything to do with ghosts and dead people completely freaked me out. But I was embodied by some strange determination that day.

My eyes dashed from one window to another as I approached. I was absolutely certain that if I saw anything that looked like a face in any of them, I'd bolt. No one was supposed to be in the manor, after all.

And yet, I could have sworn, could have sworn, I heard something as I came up to the porch. At the time I told myself that it was the sound of my shoes scraping against the steps. I was lying to myself, of course, because I was too scared to admit the truth. It sounded like a voice.

I thought I heard someone crying.

I stopped. Everything was quiet. There was no crying. The wood underneath the door was still stained. I was shocked by how far the pool had spread. It was unavoidable if one was to reach the door. It was dry now, but my steps sounded different as I walked over it. How could there have been so much blood?

I reached for the doorknob. My fingers touched its cold surface and quickly retracted as though it had burned me. It was all in my head, though. My heart was racing. My palms grew clammy like that one time I had climbed up to the highest tower of the academy with a few friends and looked over the railing.

I took a deep breath, but I was shaking so much it sounded like three consecutive breaths. Then, I puffed it out through my mouth, grabbed the doorknob, and turned it.

It was heavier than I expected. The thick wooden door began to inch open without much creaking. I watched the crack open wider between the frame and the polished wood. My neck was craned as I tried to catch as much detail of the manor's interior as I could. The manor was dark. The light streaming through the crack let me see the dark blob of dried blood on the ground.

And then I saw movement. A thin, pale hand grabbed the handle on the other side. Startled, I looked up. I only saw it for a heartbeat—dark coal eyes on an ashy, waxen face. Someone was staring at me. And teeth, stained and stretched in a wide grin. Then my arm was yanked as the heavy door slammed shut.

My feet must have left for a good three seconds as I shot up into the air like a cat. I shouted things I would never dare repeat in front of my mother. And I ran for my life.

I didn't stop until I reached my house. The adrenaline kept me from losing my breath. I waited outside my door long enough for the shaking to stop. Then I had to pretend nothing was wrong as I marched wordlessly to my room and paced for what seemed like an eternity.

I never told anyone. Whenever something strange happened, something funny or scary or sad or just plain interesting, we talked. But I couldn't talk about it. And I had to admit that at some point, I curled up and cried because I was certain I had seen the face of evil through the crack in that door, and I was terrified that I had brought it with me.

So when the witcher came to town, I wanted him to do something about it. For Alani, and for me. I was scared.

It had seen me.

The witcher didn't move the entire time I spoke. He kept his legs crossed, his hands resting over his midsection, but he didn't take his gaze from me. I, on the other hand, was a ball of nervous energy. My hands fidgeted, my eyes darted all over the place, and I often stumbled over my words. I didn't like bringing back the events of that day. He knew that.

"Thank you," he told me after I was done, "for telling me."

"Did it help?"

He gave a single nod.

I wasn't satisfied. "How?"

"It's given me a reason to do everything I can."

I started chewing the inside of my mouth. It was a horrible habit, but my nerves were melting into a wreck and I needed this tiny indulgence.

"Do you think it was looters?" I blurted out. The witcher tilted his head. "Looters," I repeated, my voice carrying a desperate tone. "That's who I saw?"

I saw the doubt clear in his eyes, but he said, "Maybe." With a small shrug, he added, "That manor is likely to be full of good things, especially since no one's returned to secure the Coviers' personalty." He uncrossed his legs and sat up. The armchair creaked underneath him. "Jemille," he said, and an involuntary shiver ran through me. "May I speak to your parents?"

"Why?"

"They're the ones who will be paying me, I presume. Unless you…?" He gestured at me with a single hand. I knew what he was thinking. To him, I probably seemed like the typical upper class 'princess'—funded entirely from daddy's coin purse. Well, he wasn't wrong.

Marci had returned, and I asked her to go fetch my parents. While we waited for them, I offered a little warning to the witcher. My father was a control freak and my mother was a ditz. The witcher grinned and even laughed. Hearing him made me laugh to, though it was more like a heavy exhale through my nose.

It was strange. He almost seemed human.

Marci returned with my mother and father. The atmosphere in the room was drastically different from what it had been earlier when it'd been just the witcher and me. My parents were uncomfortable in his presence the entire time. And they were irritated. At me for dragging this mess to their doorstep, and at the witcher for daring to propose the prospect of payment.

He was explaining the basic gist of his contract to them. The manor had a possible wraith infestation, he told them. It was going to be 3,300 florens per, with a possible increase of 300 to 400 depending on the variation of specter he might encounter.

The numbers shocked me. I'd expected maybe a few hundred florens at most. His proposed rates were close to what my monthly rent at one of Imperial's finer residential complexes was, and I was still sour about how expensive it was.

My father voiced my thoughts in a much more rude and brash manner. The witcher explained in a voice that never lost its soft composure that most of the money would never see his pocket. A huge portion of it would be used up for the gear and supplies he'd need to complete the contract. Then my father countered that we shouldn't have to be paying for his expenses.

The witcher paused. It was only for a handful of seconds. He was deliberating. I realized he was assessing us as clients. It was something that auditors did—if the clients were deemed too risky and if the auditor could afford to pass them up, he would. We weren't peasants desperate to get rid of a monster because our crops or our lives depended on it. It'd just been me—a pampered girl—that had come up to the witcher and asked for help. My parents didn't even want him to take up the contract.

The witcher's eyes flickered up to me, and then quickly went away. I wished I could read his thoughts.

"2,200 florens," the witcher proposed. "Flat rate, no matter what I find in the manor."

I didn't think he would even breakeven from that. I began feeling guilty. My father refused him again. The witcher was silent. I became mad.

"Why not?" I sounded pouty, and not stern like I'd intended. Everyone, my parents and the witcher, looked at me. My mother shot me a disapproving glare but I ignored her. My father told me to be quiet in his authoritative voice. He'd used it when I was a child and it would shut me right up, but I had grown.

I argued back. I made a scene. The witcher watched with raised eyebrows. And finally, my father caved in and agreed to 2,900 florens because deep down, he still held onto that 'daddy's little girl' concept and didn't want to be on bad terms with his 'little princess.'

Sometimes I felt bad about using my parents' money. Not this time.