The day passed in a blur of preparation and dread. Ella spent the morning in the morgue, completing the autopsy report on the second victim with meticulous precision, as though the act of documenting every wound could somehow protect her from the ones yet to come. She labeled the bronze fragments, photographed the ligature marks, and dictated a final summary that contradicted Vance's official narrative in every particular. She printed three copies: one for her files, one for Cole, and one sealed in an envelope addressed to the Ashton Gazette, with instructions to open if she didn't return by dawn.
At noon, she drove north out of the city, following the river road as it wound through the industrial outskirts and into the dense forest that bordered the Thornfield Estate. The trees here were ancient, their branches intertwined overhead like the vaulted ceiling of a cathedral, and the fog never fully lifted, lingering in the hollows and ravines like the breath of something vast and sleeping. She parked half a mile from the estate's outer wall and continued on foot, pushing through undergrowth until she found the service road Cole had mentioned.
It was exactly as he had described: a narrow track overgrown with brambles and dead ferns, barely visible beneath decades of fallen leaves. She followed it until she reached the wall itself, a towering structure of gray stone topped with iron spikes that had rusted to the color of dried blood. Through a gap in the masonry, she could see the estate grounds stretching away into the mist, a landscape of manicured lawns and artificial lakes and, in the distance, the dark smear of a forest that looked nothing like the cultivated woodlands of a country estate. It was wild, tangled, ancient. A hunting ground.
She retreated to the cover of the trees and spent the afternoon mapping the perimeter, noting the locations of gates, guard posts, and surveillance cameras. The estate was well-protected, but not impenetrable. The north wall, where the forest pressed closest, had a section that had crumbled slightly, leaving a gap just wide enough for a person to squeeze through. She marked it on her map and then returned to her car, driving back to the city as the first shadows of evening began to lengthen.
The morgue was quiet when she arrived. Niall had gone home, leaving a note on her desk that read simply, "Good luck." She wondered how much he had guessed, how much he had chosen not to ask. She changed out of her work clothes and into something darker, more practical: black trousers, a fitted sweater, a jacket with deep pockets. She sewed the tracker into the lining of her collar, as Cole had instructed, and slipped a small flashlight into her left pocket. Into her right, she placed a scalpel, its blade wrapped in sterile cloth. It wasn't a weapon, not really. But it was what she had.
At ten o'clock, she called Cole. "I'm leaving now. Are your people in position?"
"We're here," Cole said, his voice crackling through the encrypted line. "Three of us, north side, near the old service road. We've got eyes on the wall. No sign of activity yet, but the estate is lit up like a Christmas tree. Something's happening tonight."
"The gala is tomorrow. If Vane is planning to use Finn as the main event, he'll want to do it before the guests arrive. Tonight is his last chance."
"Then we're ready. Remember, if you're not out by one, we're coming in. Don't be a hero, Dr. Black. Find the boy and get out."
"Understood." She hung up and slipped the phone into her jacket, then paused, her hand on the door. On her desk, the specimen jar with the bronze fragments caught the light, glinting like a malevolent star. She picked it up and held it for a moment, feeling the weight of the evidence she had gathered, the weight of the dead who had entrusted their stories to her. Then she placed it back on the desk and walked out into the night.
The drive to the estate took forty minutes, the city lights fading in her rearview mirror until only the fog and the trees remained. She parked in the same spot as before and made her way through the forest on foot, following the beam of her flashlight as it cut through the darkness. The service road was harder to find at night, the undergrowth seeming to have shifted and closed in on itself, but eventually she found the gap in the wall and squeezed through, emerging on the other side with her heart hammering against her ribs.
The estate grounds were unnervingly silent. No birds, no insects, no wind stirring the leaves. The lawns stretched away like a black sea, dotted with the hulking shapes of topiary and statuary. In the distance, the main house blazed with light, its windows glowing warm and golden. She could see figures moving inside, silhouettes against the curtains, and the faint strains of classical music drifting across the grounds. A party, perhaps. A rehearsal for tomorrow's gala.
She skirted the edge of the lawn, staying close to the treeline, moving toward the dark forest at the far end of the estate. According to Cole's grandfather's journals, the hunting ground was located in the oldest part of the woods, where the trees grew so thick that even daylight couldn't penetrate the canopy. It was a place of pits and traps and hidden blinds, designed for the pursuit of prey that could think and fear and beg.
The forest swallowed her whole. The temperature dropped immediately, the fog thickening until she could barely see ten feet ahead. She moved slowly, carefully, placing each foot with deliberation. The ground was uneven, riddled with roots and hidden depressions. Once, she stumbled into a shallow trench and had to catch herself on a tree trunk, the bark rough and cold beneath her palm.
She had been walking for perhaps fifteen minutes when she heard the first sound: a distant horn, low and mournful, echoing through the trees. It was followed by the baying of hounds, a chorus of deep, throaty barks that raised the hair on the back of her neck. They were hunting. The chase had begun.
She broke into a run, no longer caring about silence, crashing through the undergrowth with the desperation of someone who knew she was already too late. The horn sounded again, closer this time, and she could hear shouting now, human voices raised in excitement. She crested a low ridge and looked down into a clearing, and what she saw stopped her dead in her tracks.
The clearing was lit by torches mounted on iron poles, their flames flickering in the fog. At its center stood a group of men, perhaps a dozen, all dressed in dark green coats and leather boots, their faces hidden behind hunting masks. They were gathered around a figure on the ground, a figure that struggled weakly against the hands that held him down. Even from this distance, Ella recognized the too-large coat, the pale hair, the eyes wide with terror.
Finn.
Standing over him, a bow in one hand and an arrow in the other, was a man who did not wear a mask. His face was turned toward the clearing's edge, as though he were waiting for something, and in the torchlight his features were unmistakable. The silver hair, the chiseled jaw, the smile that had graced a thousand charity brochures. Sir Edmund Vane.
"Welcome, Dr. Black," Vane called out, his voice carrying across the clearing with the easy confidence of a man who had never been refused anything. "I was beginning to think you wouldn't come. But here you are, right on time. I do appreciate punctuality."
Ella stepped out of the trees, her hands raised to show she was unarmed. The scalpel was a cold weight in her pocket, but she didn't reach for it. Not yet. "Let the boy go, Vane. He's just a child."
"He's a witness," Vane said, his smile never wavering. "And witnesses are dangerous. Surely a woman of your intelligence understands that. But I'm not an unreasonable man. I'm willing to make a trade."
"What kind of trade?"
Vane gestured, and two of the masked men hauled Finn to his feet. The boy's face was bruised, his lip split, but his eyes still held a spark of defiance. He looked at Ella and shook his head slightly, a silent warning.
"You've been causing quite a bit of trouble, Doctor," Vane said. "Poking around in my affairs, turning the police against me, digging up old secrets that should have stayed buried. I can't allow that to continue. But I admire your persistence. So here is my offer. Take the boy's place. Join the hunt. If you can survive until dawn, you both go free."
"Don't do it," Finn croaked. "He's lying. He'll kill us both."
Vane's smile tightened. "The boy is cynical, but I suppose he's earned that. Still, my word is my bond, Dr. Black. I am, after all, a man of honor." He said the word as if it were a private joke, something only he and the darkness understood.
Ella looked at Finn, at the masked men, at the bow in Vane's hand. She thought of the bodies on her table, the bronze fragments, the stories of hunts that had stretched across generations. She thought of Cole and his team, waiting outside the walls, and the tracker sewn into her collar. She needed time. She needed to keep Vane talking until help arrived.
"All right," she said. "I accept."
Vane's smile widened. "Excellent. Then let the games begin." He raised his bow and fired, not at Ella, but at the ground near her feet. The arrow struck the earth with a thud, its bronze tip buried deep in the soil.
And then the horn sounded again, and the hunt was on.
No comments yet. Be the first to comment!