I woke to find Dr. Foss at her workbench, her back to me, hands moving with surgical precision. The dim cellar was quiet save for the soft clink of glass and the measured pour of liquid; clinical sounds that carried weight in the stillness.

  She was preparing something, a dark, viscous fluid that caught the lamplight. Even from across the room, I caught the smell: sharp, medicinal, with an undertone that made my Instinct recoil. Silver. Poisoner.

  She worked with practiced expertise, measuring the concoction into a small vial with the care of someone mixing poison or medicine, perhaps both. Her movements had the quality of ritual, the focus of someone who’d performed this task countless times, each motion deliberate and exact. She held the vial up to examine it against the light, then uncorked it and drank the contents in one deliberate swallow.

  Her hand trembled as she set the empty vial down. Just for a moment, a hairline crack in her composure. She gripped the workbench edge, breathing carefully, as if steadying herself against some internal tide that threatened to pull her under.

  Through the tiny barred window set high in the cellar wall, pale pre-dawn light filtered down faintly. The sky was darkening, evening claiming the day with slow inevitability.

  She caught my reflection in a glass beaker and went very still, the way prey freezes when it senses a predator. When she turned, her expression was neutral, the mask already back in place. “Awake already?” she said, her tone neutral. “Your recovery rate continues to exceed my projections.”

  “What was that?” I asked, nodding toward the workbench.

  “A prophylactic draught,” she replied, her tone clipped and final. “A family recipe, nothing more.” She tucked the empty vial into her pocket with a finality that said the subject was closed, locked, and buried.

  “Now then,” she continued, all business, her voice carrying the briskness of a field surgeon dismissing sentiment. “We have much to discuss.”

  Dr. Foss watched me draw myself up, attempting to salvage my dignity. My mind was strong, a fortress still standing, but my body could barely support itself, trembling with the effort of holding upright. I still needed my weapons, but I was hardly fit for the field. She saw the determination in my eye.

  “Very well,” she said, sizing me up with those quick, analytical eyes. Appraising me, she came to a conclusion. Was I a threat? No. Fit for a mission? Also no.

  I barely knew her, but I could intuit her intentions, reading the subtle shifts in her stance. I met her gaze and waited, keeping my expression neutral. She was a woman of reason with the habit of being tight-lipped and miserly with her words. “Your objective is logical, but your odds of success are minimal. A stray dog could lay you low, let alone Vane’s riders. You’re wrung out.” She turned, hefted the clay jug up to the metal table I had just been strapped to with surprising strength, then stepped away. I stared hard at that jug, fixated, my focus narrowing. “Take it.”

  I didn't leap at it, but I didn't display manners either. I uncorked the jug. The smell hit me; thick, coppery, rancid. Beneath the rot, the faintest trace of life. I gagged. The smell dragged me back to that charnel house in Georgia, memories assaulting me before I could wall them off.

  Beneath my disgust, the Instinct screamed. Drink it. Now.

  The Thirst thrummed, a drumbeat in my skull, reminding me I couldn’t hold out forever. The agonizing ache demanded that I take what was offered. I was caught between my body's needs and the repellent memories, suspended between two hells.

  The monstrous cravings won out, overriding disgust through sheer desperation. I pulled the gallon jug to my mouth and drank deeply, forcing myself past revulsion. My burned hand screamed in protest, nerves firing with every flex, but it was nothing compared to the combined screams of my dark companions.

  I closed my eyes and drew it in, trying not to think, trying not to taste. It was thick, cold, vile, coating my throat. It tasted of rust, salt, and decay; the dirty floor of a slaughterhouse. I consumed half of the congealing sludge before pausing, lowering the jug. I held it in my good hand and wiped my mouth on my sleeve, feeling the residue stick to the fabric.

  “I knew it would be unpleasant,” she said, reading my disgusted expression with cool detachment. “Animal blood, or ‘Cold Blood,’ as the ancient texts call it, lacks the Anima, or vitality of a fresh kill. All sources agree that it will suffice to sustain you and prevent your feral Instinct from overcoming you. Finish it, Captain.”

  I looked at her and tried not to look so desperate. I pulled the jug back to my lips, the weight of need evident despite my efforts. My pride was stung, a small wound compared to the rest, but she was right. I was less ragged already, vitality returning to my limbs almost immediately, strength flowing back in a rush. The screaming, clawing, howling need of the Thirst receded; the tide pulling away from shore. The roaring flames of need guttered and became a manageable ache, embers instead of wildfire. The feeling was a pale imitation of the raw vigor that Julien’s blood had given me, watered wine instead of whiskey, but it was sustenance.

  The itching came almost immediately after I finished the jug, fast enough to startle me. A sparking, tingling sensation spread under my skin and muscles, crawling through my veins, manifesting intensely in my throat and burned hand. I reflexively scratched at my throat, fingernails digging at phantom insects, the pain ebbing.

  “Regeneration,” Dr. Foss noted, already writing notes in her book, her pencil moving swiftly. “Even this meager fuel amplified it significantly. I would be curious about other options…” She trailed off, realizing she was the only other option nearby, the implication hanging in the air between us. She didn’t like the implication, discomfort flickering across her features.

  I smiled at her, both of us seeing the humor in it; the grim, gallows humor of desperate circumstances. “Don’t worry, Doc, I’m not that curious.” Her half-hearted laugh sounded forced, tight in her throat. She looked down at my hand, and her expression changed to intense interest, the scholar overtaking the physician. I held it up to the light, examining the progress. The flesh knitted itself back together, muscle and skin weaving and regenerating. The nerves fired, coming back to life with pins and needles. The pain was something lively, no longer the ache of a maimed limb but the stinging reminder of healing.

  “How long?” I asked, my voice sounding less gravelly, the roughness smoothing.

  “For that?” She motioned toward my hand. “You’ll have full use in a few hours, but it will take a day to recover cosmetically. The process requires rest or more fuel. It would be best for you to let the process complete.”

  “I can’t wait that long.” I looked to the door, measuring the distance, calculating. My body was weak, but I no longer felt on the verge of death. “I’m going now.”

  She studied me and gave a curt nod, acceptance without approval. “I should have predicted this. Your mind is stronger than your body, a dangerous combination. Be careful you don’t overextend yourself.” She unbolted the heavy oak cellar door, metal sliding with a heavy thunk, and motioned up the stairs. “Night has just fallen. Return before dawn. You’re in no condition to be caught in poor cover. You are invited to return.”

  I mounted the stairs, then turned at the threshold. “Thank you.”

  “Captain,” she said when I got near the top, her voice carrying upward. “If you must seek sustenance, do not hunt in town. Our work must be clandestine for now. Do not be seen.”

  I stepped out of the clinic and into the night, crossing from one world into another. It was born into a new world, in the worst way possible, overwhelming and disorienting. Every sensation rushed in and smothered me in a crushing, deafening flood, too much information arriving at once. The storm had passed and left the air washed clean, scrubbed of dust and smoke. The scents that the rain had suppressed were out in full force, competing for dominance.

  My senses were overwhelming, a battering ram of input. I wasn’t sure if I could make it to the homestead and back, not with my perception assailed from every direction. The gentle night breeze was a cacophony of a thousand different currents, whispers, whistles, and hisses; each one distinct and demanding attention. A coyote whined somewhere outside of town, a shrieking spike in my ears that made me wince. Every smell hit at once, layers upon layers. Damp earth and wet pine needles hit first, thick enough to taste, their dominance clear and immediate. The chemical stink of the clinic and the undertaker’s mortuary next door cut into my sinuses, biting and metallic. The musky fear of a rabbit hiding deep in its burrow some distance away, its terror a pungent musk. The stale stink of booze and unwashed bodies drifted from the Gilded Lily, three blocks over, sour and unmistakable on the wind.

  Vertigo assailed me, the world tilting sideways. I gripped the doorjamb and braced myself, knuckles white with the effort. The world spun, reality becoming unmoored. The cold air on my skin prickled, every molecule distinct. The harsh glare of the moon threatened to blind me, too bright, too intense.

  Panic rose, agitating me, threatening my control, prompting the Instinct to surface, the beast sensing weakness. Rabbit. Man. Rat. Hunt. Blood. My human mind couldn’t bear the pressure of it all, buckling under the onslaught. I was breaking, fracturing under the assault.

  “No,” I said, centering myself in defiance, drawing on old reserves. I closed my eyes, closing off the visual lines of attack, cutting one vector. I stopped breathing, choosing not to smell or taste the air, exercising control. I no longer needed air. Those senses were voluntary now, tools instead of tyrants.

  I pictured the fortress in my mind, imagining each brick with crystal clarity. The redoubt that held when nothing else did, when artillery hammered and infantry charged. I pictured iron bars slamming down, walling me off, not from grief or fear, but from the chaotic world around me. Noise, filtered away into the background. I focused on my identity, that image of myself holding the banner against all odds. I could withstand anything. I could outlast any pain. I would be the master of my mind, not its prisoner. I would navigate this new battlefield with the same discipline that kept me alive through four years of war.

  Cold Iron.

  I focused on the here and now, anchoring myself in the present moment. I pushed back the hammer and roar of far-off sounds, and the chaotic swirl of smells, relegating them to background awareness, still there but no longer overwhelming. I stepped forward into the night, choosing what stimulus would reach me, and managing the sensations, sorting tactical reports.

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  I focused my new senses and bound them with my old discipline, creating order from chaos. I would use them to my advantage in time, but I had to hold them in check for now, master them before they mastered me.

  I moved in shadow, shunning the open illumination of the moon, keeping to the dark spaces between buildings. My time spent doing reconnaissance came back to me, muscle memory awakening, and my body was tireless; no fatigue, no burning lungs. My footfalls made little sound, despite my hurried pace, barely disturbing the mud. I covered the few miles to the homestead much faster than I thought possible, despite suppressing the urge to chase a deer I happened upon, its scent triggering hunting impulses. I had more important things to do.

  I reached the property line and skirted around, moving carefully through the tree line. I didn’t think Vane would have men posted, but I was unarmed and unprepared to face anyone in a fair fight, or any fight. The ruins of the cabin stood out, black and skeletal, against the starry sky. A monument to my failure, stark and accusatory.

  I approached, focusing my new vampire eyes on the area, scanning for threats with predatory precision. A crumpled pile lay on the path near the road, a dark shape against the mud. Micah’s body was still there? I looked closer, suppressing the fresh wave of grief that threatened to break through. No, it was his old overcoat, empty and abandoned. Wagon tracks in the mud led away, deep ruts carved by heavy wheels. The undertaker must have been there. He must have dropped the wrecked garment in his haste. I locked the grief away for later, sealing it behind iron. The mission first. I needed to arm myself.

  Crossing the open yard without being seen would be a challenge; tactical exposure at its worst. Moonlight flooded the open ground, turning it silver. I’d be vulnerable during the crossing, visible to anyone watching. My West Point tactical officer’s words came back to me, his voice clear after all these years, “Move with a purpose, don’t be a target, cover to cover rapid advance.”

  I crouched, coiling my muscles, then broke into a sprint like I’d run across battlefields a hundred times before. My stride lengthened, arms pumped, and my destination was in sight, locked in my focus.

  The world tore around me, in a ripping blur. I was hurling myself forward with every stride, violent explosions of speed propelling me toward my destination in defiance of physics. There was no sound, only the flapping of my duster as I blurred forward, the wind roaring past my ears.

  In less than a second, I was at the cellar door, forty yards in my wake, the distance collapsed. I slammed to a halt, momentum nearly carrying me down the muddy stairs in an uncontrolled tumble. I looked back at the yard, breathing hard from reflex rather than need. No footprints were evident; just a deep gouge in the earth where I launched, torn turf marking my starting point. The ghost of my heart hammered with excitement, adrenaline without biology. What had I just done? I thought about moving quickly and then launched forward in a lunging Surge, raw power without technique. What a terrifying new tool. I would need to practice that and learn to use it, master the timing. I needed every advantage in this war.

  Shaking off the high of discovery, grounding myself back in purpose, I descended into the familiar darkness of the root cellar. The damp smell of earth, rot, and old vegetables comforted me, bringing back memories of simpler times. To my surprise, my eyes, attuned to the night, saw everything plain as day, no shadows, no blur.

  My old army kit bag was in the far corner, just where Micah had stored it, untouched by the fire. The tar canvas haversack was just how I had left it before passing out, buckles still fastened. I scanned the cellar, noting a rubbing mark on timbers above the entrance, wood worn smooth. Foss had to have used a rope and pulley to get me out of here, the physics making sense now. I couldn’t fathom another way for such a small woman to move so much dead weight.

  Turning back to the kit bag, I kneeled and unclasped the buckles, metal cold against my fingers. My burned hand was functional, fingers flexing properly, but looked ugly as sin. Tough, raw scar tissue covered the bones, stretched too tight, but it looked gruesome, red and angry. Still, it was on the mend, fast.

  The smell of the canvas and old leather brought me comfort, familiar and solid. It reminded me of who I was, or who I used to be; Captain Hatcher, not whatever I was becoming. Inside, each item wrapped with care was my old kit, arranged with military precision. I had previously overlooked the spare under clothes and uniform coat, but I was a mess and happy to have them.

  The tent-wrapped bundle containing my saber was next, heavy in my hands. I pulled it free and unwrapped it, canvas falling away. The brass hilt and steel scabbard shone, even in the dim cellar, catching what little light filtered down. As an example to my men, I had always taken pride in maintaining my gear, and it showed. I drew the blade, anticipation building. It slid from the oiled scabbard with a high, clean hiss; the sound of quality steel.

  When I received my commission, I was surprised when they handed it to me. It was the sword my mother had hanging on the wall back in West Virginia. After my father died in the Mexican-American War, it had been sent back to her with his other effects… And she had sent it to New York for me.

  After the ordeals of late, it felt good to have it back in my hand, the grip familiar and reassuring. I finally had agency and the ability to defend myself.

  I stood and extended the blade, testing the balance. It felt right, an extension of my arm, part of me again. A small piece of me returned, clicking back into place. I was myself again, just a bit, but more than I’d felt in a long time. I sheathed the blade and affixed the scabbard to my belt for easy access, adjusting the hang.

  Rummaging through the haversack, I took out the leather purse with my saved-up wages and put it in my inner pocket, the coins heavy and real. Even if I couldn’t easily spend it at night, Foss could get me the things I might need.

  I dug deeper and found the small wooden box, my fingers recognizing the shape. I breathed in unconsciously, despite no longer needing to, old habits dying hard. I opened it and looked down at my grandfather’s pocket watch, still ticking after all this time. Before, I had to hold it to my ear to hear it. It sounded crisp and clear now, even before I opened the box, each tick distinct, mechanical precision continuing. The brass housing gleamed, polished smooth from years of handling. The memory of my grandfather’s hand on my shoulder came to me, warm and solid. He was teaching me how to shoot a rifle, patience in his voice. “Steady, Silas, iron in the spine. Hold steady.” His wisdom and guidance meant everything to me, shaped who I became.

  After tucking the watch in my pocket, feeling it settle, I packed the rest in the bag. I’d need the gun cleaning kit after I found my Colt. When I shouldered the pack, familiar pull on my back, I stood a little taller. I had a piece of my past, an anchor. I wasn’t just a monster; I was also that boy learning to shoot back in Virginia, that cadet at West Point. I was still Silas Hatcher, and my journey was not over.

  I scanned the cellar for anything else of use, eyes sweeping methodically. My saber was a weapon, yes, but it was a weapon for men; designed for cavalry charges and duels. My new enemies were... different.

  My mind went back to the clinic, to Foss’s workbench. I recalled the syringe, glinting with quicksilver, the way she’d handled it. I remembered the instinctual revulsion, visceral and immediate. Danger. Poison.

  And that is when the pieces came together. If silver was a dangerous poison to me, then I could use it as a weapon against them. If I were going to avenge my brother’s murder and be Foss’s scalpel, then I would need new tools for a new kind of enemy. The old weapons wouldn’t suffice.

  And then I recalled the Mother’s silverware, crystal clear in my memory. There had been eight place settings of solid silver, inherited from her mother, meticulously cared for, and passed on to Micah with pride. It had been in the drawer upstairs, near the basin.

  I climbed the stairs and went to the blackened ruin that had been our kitchen counter, ash crunching underfoot. I set the pack down and sifted through the cold, wet mess with my bare hands, charcoal and water mixing. I hardly noticed the pain anymore, nerves healing too fast to care.

  Deep in the muck, I found a lump of melted metal, caked in soot and grime, a fist-sized mass. I scraped at it with my thumbnail, cleaning away debris, and recoiled instinctively when my flesh touched it, burning cold that went beyond temperature. I knew I’d need to get better at managing that reaction, but it would take time and practice. I cleaned it off the best I could, brushing away the filth with my hands and a little water from a nearby puddle, then tied the lump of slagged metal to the back of my kitbag with a leather cord.

  A low whicker came from outside—nervous, familiar. Flint. I’d know that sound in my grave.

  My still heart leaped, daring to hope. Flint had survived and come back, found his way home. I scrambled and rushed to the doorway, leaving the pack behind in my haste.

  “Flint!” I called, heedless of any danger that might be nearby, caution abandoned. “Flint, come here, boy.”

  He stood across the pasture, by the broken fence, a towering, steely-grey phantom among the trees, massive and familiar. He turned his head and saw me, ears swiveling forward.

  He screamed. Not a warhorse’s challenge, but a high-pitched shriek of abject terror. I froze. In years of artillery barrages and cavalry charges, Flint had never made a sound like that. He didn’t see Silas Hatcher. He sensed a predator.

  He reared back, kicking his forelegs, nostrils flared wide and showing white. His eyes were wide with confused panic, rolling in his skull. He smelled death and felt the hungry eyes of the Instinct upon him, recognizing threat.

  “No! Flint, it’s me! Silas!” I stepped toward him, reaching out.

  He screamed again, the sound cutting through me, spun, and bolted for the tree line. His powerful hooves tore at the mud in desperate flight, thundering away. He crashed through the brush and was gone, the sound of his panicked flight fading into the distance, leaving only silence.

  He was gone. My oldest friend, perhaps my only friend left in this world. He had carried me, bleeding and battered from the battlefield, and all the way west across the country, through rivers and mountains. He no longer saw the man I had been, only the monster I’d become.

  I stood there, still, not knowing what to do, paralyzed by loss. I had never dared to hope that he’d survived, but now that hope had turned to bitter ash in my mouth, knowing he lived but shunned me. It must have been a solid five minutes. I stood there and tried to rationalize it, searching for logic. He should live free. Better than joining me in damnation.

  I was lying to myself. The worst kind of lie, self-deception wrapped in nobility. The last remaining light of my old life had been extinguished, leaving me alone in darkness.

  With a resolute nod, steeling myself, I turned back to the cabin, but a glint of light caught my attention, metal reflecting moonlight. Looking closer, a steel tube protruded from the mud, half-buried. I’d know that front sight anywhere; my Colt 1860 army service revolver. I pulled it from the mud carefully and inspected it, turning it over. Rain had cleared the barrel, but the cylinder and trigger assembly would need to be disassembled; they were packed with grit. The whole thing required cleaning and oiling before it was fit to fire. I smacked it on my palm several times to knock the chunks loose, mud falling away, and holstered it. The weight countered the saber and balanced me, familiar pressure. It felt right.

  I entered the cabin, shouldered my pack, then looked around one last time, committing it to memory. This place was our home, my brother and I, our fresh start.

  I let out a heavy sigh, remembering how proud Micah had been to show me the place, gesturing to each corner. He had been especially proud of the stone hearth and chimney, which stood intact but scorched, blackened by smoke. One of the floorboards on the side had twisted up when it burned, warped by heat, while the others had held fast because of the nails. I stepped closer. No nail holes marred this board.

  It was built to slide aside before the fire warped it, deliberately loose. I pulled it loose, wood groaning, and looked beneath, finding a small dry hollow with a lockbox hidden within; Micah’s secret place. I tugged at the lock, but it held, resisting. Holding the box under my left arm to brace it, I pulled and twisted at the lock with my right hand, applying pressure. The steel clasp deformed and broke away almost immediately, metal tearing easily. I doubted I could have performed that feat before the curse.

  Inside, there was a small cache of Micah’s precious things, carefully arranged. A small pouch with his life savings, meager but earned honest. A bundle of letters in my own handwriting, edges worn from rereading, tied with a leather cord. I hadn't known he'd kept them. A tintype photograph, partially wrapped in cloth. Our mother, young and unravaged, before the consumption took hold of her; well before it started hollowing Micah. And a journal, leather-bound.

  I opened it, revealing Micah’s handwriting, familiar loops and slants, the margins filled with his little sketches of birds and trees.

  I clutched the book to my chest, and closed my eyes. Damn, I missed him.

  I had my weapons and my resolve, but my oldest friend was gone, fled into the night.

  But now, maybe… I had some answers. Maybe I could understand what happened, piece together the truth.

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  See you on the trail.

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