Chapter 2 - Blood of the Innocent

This story begins with desperation, a mystery, and many secrets. An intense famine in Penumbra sweeps food from working people’s tables. Just as it begins to subside, an epidemic fever arrives to sweep many of the famine's survivors into the grave. A group of charitable aristocrats open a home for the hundreds of children who have been orphaned by these twin scourges. Very soon, however, many dozens of them die. It was not the fever nor the famine. What was it that was killing the children of St. Augustine's Home for Lost Children?

Dreamcatcher kneeled to examine the body. She was a young girl of about eleven or twelve, and like the others she was pale as snow, and as cold as ice. There were no cuts, bruises, or marks of any kind to be found on hers or any of the other bodies.

“So Hunter, what’s killing these children?” the caretaker asked. Many people were unwilling to speak to Hunters, refusing to believe that such things as monsters could truly exist. It was fortunate that the people living around the Rogue District were a superstitious sort—Dreamcatcher was able to investigate the situation with few worries. It was unfortunate that she had never seen anything like this before.

“Honestly, I’m not sure,” Dreamcatcher sighed. She had been a part of the Fraternity for nearly a decade now, so she was used to the sight of death. Still, she did not enjoy seeing the petrified corpses of children.

“Is it a dhampir? It’s a dhampir isn’t it?!” the caretaker asked nervously.

“No. There would be a bite mark if it were…”

“Oh gods! It must be a lycanthrope. I did hear howling the other night!”

“I really don’t think…”

“Or it was a Bogeyman! It was definitely a Bogeyman!” the caretaker shrieked.

“What the hell is a Bogeyman?” Dreamcatcher sighed again, “Look, never mind, just try to stay calm, ok? I’m calling for help right now…”

Fortunately for her, it was mid daylight, so most Hunters were sleeping right now. Dreamcatcher closed her eyes and faded into a deep trance. If there were any fellow Hunters in the area, she would find them.

—-

Eddie sat and stared down at his filthy toes, pale as maggots in the darkness. He had no idea why they took his shoes. He was hardly going to run, cuffed by his left ankle to one damp, mold-covered wall and his right wrist to another. He could scarcely reach the gate of his cell, let alone rip it from its hinges. Apart from picking the scabs under his broken nose til they bled, all he could do was sit there and think. His least favorite activity.

They called the prison Safety. Not because it kept its inmates safe, but because it kept everyone else safe away from them. From outside, the view of the structure was less than impressive; the top of its rooftop was shorter than the police precinct’s just beside it. In actuality, the prison burrowed several miles deep and housed hundreds if not thousands of the city’s nastiest criminals. A duskstone powered alarm system was set up throughout the entire prison. Anyone not wearing the gaoler’s insignia would be zapped by tens of thousands of volts of electrical energy if they attempted to pass any of the checkpoints. In the hundred years since it’s construction not one person had been able to escape its labyrinth of iron and stone.

Eddie heaved in a ragged breath. Gods, the place stank. The rotten wood stool and the rat droppings stank, and the bucket they never bothered to empty stank, and the mold and rusting iron stank, and after two nights in there he stank worst of all. He had passed by the place every day on his way in and out from work, but had never actually gone inside.

“You’ve a visitor,” said the key-keeper. She was a weighty lump of a woman with a dozen rattling chains about her neck and a face like a bag of potatoes. “But you’ll have to make it quick.” And she hauled the heavy door squealing open.

A visitor? All of Eddie’s friends were fellow policemen, which was to say he had none left after being suspected of Thomas’s murder.

He was a strange one. His clothes were unassuming, if a bit tattered, with a muddy brown cloak covering up most of it. What caught Eddie’s attention was the expression on this man’s face. The stranger must’ve been several years younger than him, but he had an old eye. An eye that had seen things.

“Hello, Edward Blake I presume?” the man greeted him cheerfully, as if visiting Eddie in that rotting jail cell was the most natural thing in the world.

“Who’re you?” Eddie grunted.

“Hm…I’ve gone through quite a few names, but my colleagues call me Blade Dancer. That should suffice for you.”

“That ain’t no fuckin name!” Eddie retorted

“Mmmm, perhaps not,” the man considered, “But it is mine nonetheless.”

“You ain’t got no blade.”

The man frowned at that, “Well, they wouldn’t let me in here if I was carrying any weapons.”

“And why’s that?”

“Well I’d guess it was probably a matter of security —”

“Not that! Why’re you here? I ain’t never seen you before in my life,” Eddie scowled.

Blade Dancer tilted his head sideways as if not fully understanding the question, “Why to break you out of here of course. Can’t have an innocent man rotting away in prison.” And with the same effortlessness he would’ve used to break a loaf of bread or a toothpick he ripped away the iron bars of Eddie’s cell.

Within seconds the alarm went off and Safety was on lockdown.

“What the hell are you?” Eddie shouted disbelievingly, still in awe of that inhuman display of strength. “And do you know what you’ve just done?!”

Blade Dancer ignored the question as he slapped the the key-keeper on the cheek as she sprawled through doorway to investigate the situation. The force of the blow sent her several feet sideways, and upon hitting the wall she was knocked out cold. Blade Dancer then pulled out a silver coin with a mysterious symbol engraved onto it and began tapping the wall with it.

“W-what’re you doing now?!” Eddie exclaimed. Blade Dancer just gave him the same pitying look and said, “Well truth be told, I didn’t actually come here to rescue you. See, we’re actually going to go down, not up.” He continued tapping the coin onto the wall and added, “And right now, I’m calling for backup.”

—-

Lady Almaeda had never enjoyed riding. She found horses dull company and the hardness of the saddle left her with bruises. But she found her horse, Olivine, to be an infinitely better conversationalist than her present company - Lord Dorian Salforis, future director of the Tartarus Energy Corporation. He reined in alongside her and bowed slightly, “Are you enjoying yourself m’lady?”

I could die of boredom, she thought. “This trip has been lovely, Dorian, thank you for inviting me,” she said.

He bowed again, slight color filling his cheeks as he spurred on ahead to make sure the path was clear. The Central Park was generally well policed, but the police could not possibly rid such a wide area of every vagrant and vagabond. They scurried about in the shadows of trees begging for scraps. The moon was bright that evening, but one could never be too careful.

Almaeda let him lead the way, relieved that she didn’t have to stay by his side. Dorian tried his best to be charming, and there was certainly nothing wrong with his looks. When they had found out about her date with him, Almaeda’s friends were practically shaking with excitement. Rich, handsome, and well-educated—what was not to love? But something about him bothered her…it was almost as if he were hollow inside.

“Dorian, it has been a lovely evening, really, but it’s getting late and —“ she recited the words she practiced in her head “Dorian?”

But he was gone.

The park was an eerie silent. Even the wind stayed quiet. Then from the darkness echoed a voice.

“Liar.” it screeched

“Who said that?” Almaeda responded. “Dorian, if this is some sort of joke it isn’t funny!”

“Whore.” said the same voice.

“Do you know who you’re talking to, whoever it is out there? My family is —“

“Die.” said the voice. Almaeda scrabbled back as it seemed to get louder, closer. She screamed, and then the whole world grew dark.

"...Are you okay?" came another stranger's voice. Almaeda opened her eyes. She was okay. The man that stood before her was as unassuming as they came, short of stature with shaggy brown hair and sporting a pair of crooked spectacles and an enormous tome was tied to his back. He helped her up, "Can you stand?"

"Y-yes thank you, umm..."

"Lorekeeper," the man responded.

Though she had doubts that was his real name, Almaeda thought it best not to inquire further. After all, right there, in that dark park, he was her only friend. "Thank you...Lorekeeper. I don't know what came over me."

"Unfortunately, I do," he responded grimly as he pulled out his enormous book and began scribbling on the pages. "And we're going to need some help if we're going to get through the night alive."

Dustdevil sat himself at the end of a bar by the wall in a dimly lit pub, "The Pale Pig". Shadows danced across patrons' foamy mugs and onto the walls surrounding them to the rhythm of flickering candle lights. The air was stagnant, smelling of stale beer and a bit of mold. Dustdevil preferred these locations like this. Unconcerned and well off the beaten path, people who came here meant to be here; and people who mean to be here are for drink and quiet. No prying eyes, brown noses, or running mouths are to be found at The Pale Pig. Dustdevil leaned over the bar and signaled to the bartender for a mug. The bartender nodded his head in acknowledgement as he finished drying a mug with a damp table cloth, leaving it with a slight film that was not there before. The Bartender poured the beer fresh from the barrel into the mug, overfilling the head of the mug so that suds ran down the side of the glass in streams. He placed a napkin in front of Dustdevil, and placed the mug down onto it hard, practically slamming it. The beer with in splashed side to side within the mug as more suds rolled down the sides of the glass. Dustdevil could taste the aroma of it as he raised the glass to his mouth. Pungent, stale, and yet somehow flavorless. They were watering down the brew, again. Were it not for the atmosphere, location, and cheap prices at The Pale Pig Dustdevil would probably never have comeback after the first time.

A few more patrons entered the pub as Dustdevil placed his mug back onto the napkin. That's a thing here, not placing the mugs directly on the rotten, sticky bar top. One man was glassed by the bartender for it after he defiantly did so twice, before being thrown out onto the street. Dustdevil slyly peeked at them from over his shoulder, no one worth noting. Dustdevil took another sip of his mug and noticed writing on the wet napkin in front of him. It seemed to be being written by a phantom pen as he watched. Fortunately, Dustdevil could read the message just fine even though the makeshift parchment was soaked. Stuffing the soggy napkin into his vest pocket, Dustdevil used his mug to push the mug of nearby patron's off the man's napkin while he was talking to a another. Dustdevil dropped two coppers into the glass alerting the bartender as he left The Pale Pig. Dustdevil could here the Bartender scolding the poor man as he closed the pub's door behind him and walked out into the dark, dirty street. Checking the napkin a second time to affirm the location, Dustdevil set off for Central Park with haste, a light trail of twirling particulate pursuing him.

Despite years in the profession, the man they called Spiritbreaker steadfastly preferred his own functional terminology over such nonsense as temporal fact. His nights were his days, his evenings his mornings, and if he was being honest his mornings (which were really evenings) were some of his most satisfying hours. Though hardly an easy riser, that groggy span of bruised sunlight gave him time to rouse himself for the coming day (which was really night). It was a busy time, which was as he preferred it, rife with the many little rituals necessary to make man out of monster. There were teeth to brush and hair to comb, a cold shave to refresh and breakfast, God willing, which had a score of new tasks all its own. Eggs to crack, toast to blacken, piping hot Earl Grey to punish impatience. It would be a stretch to say that he enjoyed them--he wouldn't say he enjoyed much of anything, really--but they were a soothing prelude to a day (which was really a night) at work likely filled with an impressively varied number of unpleasantries.

So he wasn't exactly thrilled to have his timetable pushed forward by dear Dreamcatcher's sweet sending.

Taking a moment to accept that yes, it was going to be one of those days, Spiritbreaker sat up and got to work ruining a perfectly good morning for the sake of a woman. A grudging hour and an empty stomach later he was stepping off the tram outside of Saint Augustine's.

While many of the order were inconspicuous in their appearance, Spiritbreaker had never had that luxury. Though he towered above the men and woman around them, almost as broad as any two of them and taller by head and shoulders, it was really his presence that made him stand out in a crowd. There was just something about him that screamed danger and always had, a malaise of unease that set even the most steadfast quaking in their boots. He wondered occasionally what it would be like to blend in, to simply fade into anonymity in a crowd.

Boring, quite likely. He could have done with more boring in his life.

The streetcar was glad to be rid of him and his weight, which was substantial, and it groaned in relief as it set off on its way. Dense and muscular, a heavy man to begin with, he was not helped by the beast of an overcoat. With enough metal woven into it to crush a moderately sized child, it was ironic that he was headed to St. Augustine's where that was actually a source of reasonable concern. He'd considered dispensing with it but decided against it--having proven itself equally useful in protecting him from rain, chill and slavering horrors, the old rag had earned its keep. The Queen might be resting her head at home but a knight needed his armor. Looking the old orphanage over briefly, he fortified himself as best he could for the clamor of children and started forward.

It was going to be a long day.

Ligeia's austere stare crawled across the bits of brass scattered before her; baffles and screws, gears and bearings, the viscera of contrivance. She'd been sessile for the better half of an hour sussing out the specifics, a process she'd always found deeply ungratifying. It starts with something practical: a need to be filled, from there thought flows backwards--like solving a puzzle in reverse--pulling the picture apart piece by piece. Though loathe to such skull-shattering tedium even a minor miscalculation now meant an encore later, a prospect she wouldn't so much as entertain.

A deep chthonic tone bombinates through the bleak atelier she'd annexed for herself to not so gently derail the woman's train of thought. "Blade Dancer" she groused, now painfully aware of her fellow hunter's slap-dash heroism by way of that invasively esoteric message. Ligeia had half a mind to either ignore it or escort that damned coin several arm lengths along his colon on arrival, with the better part of penumbra between herself and Safety there was plenty of time to mull it over.

She donned the guise of Belladonna proper and became a blur of leather and lace, hardly a step shy of outpacing her shadow rooftop to rooftop.

Arriving in short order any notion of her so-called peer's inferiority was cemented. Not only was the prison on high alert but he'd not so much as cleared a path--a soft touch and an amateur to boot far as the seasoned huntress was concerned. She spared neither a moment or ounce of compassion on making her entrance, careening into the detachment of patrolmen trickling out of the adjacent precinct with enough force to not only break the cordon but dozens of their bones. The way each man crashed into another they may as well have been billiard balls, even less of an obstacle than the menacing hum of the first checkpoint.

"H-Halt!" the unfortunate sentry stammered, leveling a pistol from behind the perceived safety of an electrified barrier. "Don't you come another step closer!" cautioned the guard as he steeled himself, his first shot flying wide. "Afraid I didn't catch that." Ligeia purred, gyring her hips as she eked out the sort of reply liable to hit a man in his front pocket. "Why don't you come a little closer and say it again?" she thrummed, reeling the hapless watchmen closer with her hypnotic motions, snaring his mind with her wicked wiles. He had of course complied, parroting himself with a glossy transfixed stare even as the softest of touches guided his back to the ground, her hold over him savored as a lightly lofted foot found its way to his chest. "Good boy." his captor cooed, toes curling around the Gaolor's emblem proudly displayed across his uniform and plucking it free with a rough twist of heel. His usefulness outlived Ligeia had but one more command for the man "Now play dead." she hushed and sent him sliding through the gate as a tendril of lightning arced free to smite him from the threshold.

An effortless stride carried her over his still smoldering remains and into the prison interior, the huntress had places to be.

Sid Magnus aka. Timekeeper

The clocks were ticking in concert, the ground was soothed, the night was coming, and Sid was asleep. All was right. At least, as far as could be seen from the waking world. But inside Sid's sleeping mind, things weren't quite right.

It had started with the usual dream. The standard beginning in which, due to his fresh loss of consciousness, the wild parts of Sid's psyche force themselves into control. The rage. The hunger. The fear. Every base instinct lashes out. The sleeping mind begins throwing obstacles at them in that strange way that only dreams can. Monsters, stray dogs, vanquished foes. All coming to fight, eventually to be torn apart like wet tissue paper and tossed around the idyllic field.

And then comes the second part of the dream. The noise. A rhythmic popping. Or clicking. Like a child who can't count to high numbers, it simply repeats what it knows. One... Two... One... Two... Click... Clack... Tick... Tock... Sid follows the noise. Slowly the animal inside settles. The ticking and the tocking get louder but Sid can't find the source. He walks in circles, pacing the battlefield of his minds creation, and only when he looks behind himself does he find what he was looking for.

He turns to find a Grandfather Clock. But not as you would imagine one. This is a brutal piece of crude machinery. A gnarled slab of wood filled with grimy cogs and gears sits amidst the carnage Sid had earnestly wrought in his fury. And Sid just stares at it. Transfixed. For a while he just stares. And then he reaches out and touches it. He feels the wood. He begins to carve at it.

As he carves and cleans and scrapes away at the wood and it's mechanicals the battlefield around him slowly fades. Slowly and quietly things just sort of... leave. The blood silently, secretly, seeps through the earth as though it was never there. Bodies gently turn to dust and drift away on a breeze. Nothing that would catch Sid's attention, nothing to ruin his focus. By the time Sid finishes carving the wooden monstrosity into a right and proper Grandfather Clock all signs of fighting and unpleasantness have gone. And now he sits in a beautiful field, paying the view no attention. He watches the clock. Listening for the tick, and the tock. Relishing each movement of the hand. Tick, tock... Tick, tock... Tick...

And then there it was. His problem.

The tock had gone. He'd lost a tock. But you couldn't lose a tock. The tock was late. But tocks aren't late. Perhaps something had taken the tock? A tock thief? If tocks couldn't be late, and tocks couldn't be lost, could tocks be stolen? He spun to find himself face to face with Dreamcatcher. She said something. Something faint and unheard. She'd stolen the tock. Sid screamed out in rage and dove at her to rip he face off and find the tock.

And then he woke.

It was not an easy wake up. He woke in the same mood he had been in as his dream ended. Rage. Unreasonable rage. He roared and he shouted. He slammed his fist into the large tree he was sleeping under, burying his fist inside it and then ripping it out the side. He calmed slightly. Enough to at least form a thought. and that thought was Tock. He practically threw himself at his large Grandfather Clock that was standing nearby. His face inches from the clock's. And he watched. Tick, tock, tick, tock... a full minute of ticks and tocks. Gradually he was soothed. Each reassuring tick and tock calming him gently like a tiny wave in the sea.

When reality had finally sunken in and all was well, Sid attempted to regain some composure and have a look around. His eyes conveniently glided past the broken tree, so as to spare himself the embarrassment of facing what he'd done. He hoped nobody has seen. That was very ungentlemanly. Though he supposed sleeping in the dirt and bushes was probably unbecoming of a such a fine specimen of nobility too, but he still did that. He swiftly, and deliberately, lost track of that train of thought choosing instead to use his genius level intellect. He managed to gleam somethings from the environment. He that it was day time. He learned that he'd woken early. And as a Pocket Watch somehow found it's way into his palm and he judged the time to be middle-of-the-day-ish. Usually, he reassured himself, he'd have figured out more information. This day was just being deliberately mysterious. It was a rude day and Sid certainly didn't appreciate it.

A short while later, after donning his gentlemanly suit and checking his gentlemanly Pocket Watches were working correctly, Sid remembered why he'd had such a bad morning. He'd had a visitor in his dreams. Dreamcatcher had brought him out into the cold light of day. He couldn't really remember what she'd said to him. He hadn't heard her very well at the time. That plus the fact that he was now awake and any memories had the haze of a fading dream. But he managed to scrape together one word from the jumble of half-memories. Orphanage. He decided that it was good enough as a clue to get him where he needed to go. He needed to find orphanages. And, he thought with a sense of pride in himself, Dreamcatcher probably only called out to anyone nearby! So she was most likely going to be at a nearby orphanage. All he had to do was walk and look, or ask someone for directions. Maybe he could trade information with a passing human person. He'd supply then with the time, they'd point him in the right direction. Yes. He decided. This was a good plan. After all, who wouldn't like to know the time?

He picked up his Grandfather Clock, wearing it like a backpack, and strolled off in search of Dreamcatcher.

Tap, tap, tap, tap, tap, the sound reverberated and danced across the city being called to sources of darkness like a fly to a lamp. It floated across open streets and along dark alleyways, up through the gutters and down the windowsill. Soon it left the Central District and found itself heading towards the sounds of waves crashing against the dock, the sounds of heavy ships blowing their horns and the drunken curses of sailors. It passed through the Market bouncing and refracting off of pots, pans, clocks, jewelry and other consumable. Soon it found itself among the abandoned warehouses where not a soul dwells expect for those seeking refuge from the world in long forgotten memories. It soared and laughed giddily as it climbed up the tallest remaining warehouses where a young woman sat alone watching the ebb and flow of the sea.

She had been called several things over the years but in the current moment she was known as Specter. The name was befitting to her beside the obvious reason for her so called gift. A specter, ghost, wisp, fragment those were all easy comparisons one could make to the petite girl looking as a strong breeze from the bay could shatter her into a million pieces. The only thing that might of made you question for a moment was the gargantuan sword that sat next to her. For the weapon certainly could not have been her’s or else merely hefting it would tear her muscles to pieces would it not?

No one was around to ponder these questions though of course. No she was alone to her own thoughts and that was just the way she wanted it. She found that the closer she got to the sky above the less the voices would speak out whispering the foul deeds and requests. The spirits the still mingled around the area would sometimes join her and they could be alone together; she liked the spirits of the fisherman and the sailors they seemed to accept their fate at the cruel hands of the sea much easier than say those would died of disease or under the deviance of a knife. From up there she could look out onto the harbor and here crashing waves that reminded her of a long forgotten place that felt like home.

It was in this time of meditation and recollection that the tapping reached her ears. Her eyes opened as her ears acting like acutely aware radar dishes listened to the rhythm. Blade Dancer. It seemed he had run into a problem of sorts as he always ended up. She looked up at the sky quizzically as she listened again trying to pick anything else up. Safety...., Blade Dancer had stormed into the most well guarded prison in all of Penumbra. She laughed a small quiet whisper of joy as she mused to herself I almost feel bad for the guards it is a little unfair isn’t it?

None the less she was not one to refuse another Hunter’s call to aid and so she rose to her feet. Specter rolled her head in a big circle releasing the tension in her neck before reaching down and grabbing Faux restrapping it to her back. She was certainly an odd sight, the pale light of the early evening silhouetting her body as her sword practically brushed against the ground. She looked like a child trying to play the role of the hero. Specter looked with one more parting gaze towards the bay before she turned away from the comforting smell of open water and towards the towering colossus that was Penumbra.

She reached Central in little time as she leaped across rooftops in bounds, a ghost among the shingles. As she pushed further and further into the city the darkness grew its chanting becoming louder in her ears. The Plague had changed the city and the closer you got to Penumbra’s center the greater who could feel its lasting dark scars. She found herself nearing the Prison and so she whispered to herself gently; the words that were spoken were old and forgotten by most men as she allowed the darkness to morph around her making her invisible to the naked eye.

She landed on a roof overlooking the prison and began to take in the area around here. An officer was on the roof with her, a large rifle in his hand as he oversaw the area looking for any movement. Beneath them the rest had begun to make a perimeter around Safety as infiltration teams had begun to set up to the storm the building. Specter had to give them credit they did act fast when time was needed. She remembered some tidbits of information she had heard about the cathedral of iron and stone, the arc stone defense system. She would need to acquire a gaoler’s insignia, looking upon the other officer on the roof and she knew what she had to do.

She approached the man quickly and in one swift motion wrapped her arm around his neck and pulled back. The two were now in a sitting position the man making horrible gurgling sounds as he fought against his assailant’s terrible strength. Specter hummed a soft lullaby to herself easily repealing the men's advances to break free as she waited. Eventually the man’s closed and his breathing slowed. There was no need to create more bodies than one needed to, she thought to herself as she pulled the man away from the edge of the roof. Looking down she ruffled her hands through the man’s pockets searching for something, soon cold metal pressed against her fingers and out she pulled a gaoler’s insignia.

Specter took a deep breath collecting herself once more her hands still shaking with a slight tremor. She breathed out feeling her diaphragm relax before letting the darkness take her once more. The voices hiding in the dark grew in strength as they called out to her but she remained focus not letting them drag her mind away. She jumped off the building landing on the street below. She danced through the crowd of officers, a gust of wind among their frames as even those that looked her way saw nothing at all. She passed through the first checkpoint outside of Safety, before slipping in casually through the front door. Looking around she listened for where the most sounds of struggle and protest came from.

“Well... into the breach.” Specter whispered to herself as she pushed deeper into Safety heading towards Blade Dancer’s last known location.

If there was one thing Bloodletter hated, it was waking early. He fought back against Dreamcatcher's insistent intrusion, but he lacked the strength to keep it up for long; eventually, he relented and opened his eyes. He lay staring at the ceiling vacantly. He considered for a moment the consequences of simply continuing to stare. Dreamcatcher had no power over him when he was awake, and he certainly didn't feel like working. He never did--the Hunter's profession was simply not fit for his character.

Unfortunately, as the weariness began to leave his eyes and as his legs became more and more restless, he remembered that he was, in fact, indebted to the Fraternity, and it would hurt him to do bad by his saviors. His feet hit the floor with a dull thud as he swung them off of the bed and he began to dress himself hurriedly. He left the safehouse without eating--something he would lament for hours to come--and with a rather large axe slung upon his shoulder. It was much too large for a small person like him, but he scarcely noticed the weight.

The glare of sunlight was nostalgic, but not entirely appreciated. Bloodletter had grown to hate having a diurnal schedule, preferring the solitude of night. He yawned, and his thoughts returned to that empty ceiling and how wonderful it would be to stare at it until this entire situation blew over, until he could fall asleep once more and not be disturbed by Dreamcatcher. Unfortunately, he had soon found St. Augustine's and Dreamcatcher, which forced his thoughts to the present moment. He sighed deeply, his shoulders drooping as if bearing some enormous weight, and stepped through the door.