Boreal

Chapter Twenty

Ptarmigan's breathing came in short, ragged gasps. He doubled over, thankful that the arms pulling him along had finally vanished, drinking in greedy breaths. Shyam's feather were on end, picking her way up to his shoulder to press her cheek against his own. She chattered, warning crest at full mask, all four eyes wide.

The courtyard they found themselves in was all too familiar. The cracked stone was covered in a thick carpet of snow, disturbed only by impossibly large, talon-like footprints, and specks of crimson amongst the white. They led directly to the half-collapsed shack, propped up in the corner. Thick claw marks marred the splintered wood. Ptarmigan swallowed the bile crawling up the back of his throat.

Fulmar was already at the shack entrance, struggling to shift the shattered door. A couple of the dock children moved to help him, only for the older boy to spit something in their direction. They flinched, but seemed to do as they were told, taking off past Ptarmigan, back through the arched alleyway and into the burning night. He caught Ptarmigan's gaze, waving him and Shyam over as Almas came stumbling in behind them.

"Over 'ere, tabby," Fulmar said. Ptarmigan didn't need to be told; in an instant he was beside the older boy, palms scrabbling against the damp wood, shoving it aside. Fulmar stood back, allowing Ptarmigan to kick the last of the door away. "You still got that knife?" Ptarmigan paused to slip the knife a little ways out of its sheath, the bright metal catching the glow of the sky overhead. Fulmar nodded, then turned to Almas. "You got anything?"

"No," she replied between short breaths. Fulmar grunted, reaching down, and pulling a smaller dagger from his boot. He held it out to her. Almas stared blankly back at it. Fulmar gritted his teeth.

"Take it, we're going after it." His tone left no room for discussion. Almas licked her lips, and then with a trembling hand, accepted the blade. Satisfied, Fulmar hurried back over to Ptarmigan and Shyam. "Ready tabby?" He didn't trust himself to speak. Ptarmigan just nodded.

The feeling of entering that shed for a second time was indescribable. It was like a weight, a thousand stones pressing down on his throat and chest, and yet somehow heavier still. Like every nerve was on fire, screaming at him to turn and run. The drain cover was gone, an empty, gaping maw in its place. He was almost expecting to see the Show master's pallid face, floating in the gloom. Instead, he saw only a dark and narrow tunnel, a thin stream of murky water flowing deeper into the Undercity.

"You got a lantern?" Fulmar asked. Ptarmigan shook his head. The older boy's shoulders slumped. "I'll have to go back, ask one of the others-"

"Its okay," Almas said suddenly, dropping the knife. She fumbled with the violin case at her back, unlatching the buckles and throwing it open. Fulmar furrowed his brow. Ptarmigan's eyes widened.

"Are you certain?" He asked. Almas nodded.

"If Grebe's still alive, we should be able to follow it," she replied, tugging the instrument out from its prison. It was a beautiful thing, a dark maple in colour, with a black neck and golden strings. She fumbled with the tuning pegs, and then placed it beneath her chin, resting just on her shoulder. In her other hand, a bow. She brought it up to the strings.

Ptarmigan didn't hear the music. Rather, it was almost a vibration, working its way through his very core. His skin tingled. The hairs along the back of his neck rose. Fulmar shuddered. Shyam's crest twitched. And Almas only played faster.

They came as whispers first. Thin strands of silver, barely visible, trickling like rain down into the tunnel. Almas stepped past them, eyes squeezed shut. As the music rose, the silver light took shape; a woman, limp, dragged by some unseen force, down into the storm drain. Fulmar was unmoving, watching in awe as the vvitch played the same notes, and the scene repeated.