Night's Cold Embrace

[Repeat; sorry it's a glitch]

Dusk had painted the sky in strokes of soft orange light. The streaks of dying sunlight smothered by the clouds and the smog shone in muted colours, chased to the edges of the world by the dark ashen veil slowly creeping across the sky. The sun was setting, paving the way for monstrosities of all sorts.

In the darkness of the tower Garrett lay prone, trapped and unable to escape the thoughts plaguing his mind. Broken, incoherent visions flashed briefly but brutally, burning white hot in his head. He couldn't discern more than a few images, but they were images he'd rather not have been able to see. Some were of gears and steam and cold sterile metal, others of blood and gore. Most were of her, though. He could still see her face whenever he closed his eyes, boring her gaze into his brain. She looked angry, vengeful. But why shouldn't she be, he thought.

He ambled to the basin, wanting nothing more than to escape for just a few hours in solitude and perhaps make a few coins. Dipping his hands in the cool water, he peered into the grimy cracked mirror propped up against the wall. The blue in his eye glowed an ethereal blue, appearing brighter in the darkness of the room. His gaze drifted downwards to the scuffed wooden surface of the table, to the steel razor lying tantalizingly close. As he stared back up at his reflection, he felt his fingers twitch.

With a steady hand, he raised the metal instrument now gripped tightly in his hand to his face. The light emanating from his eye seemed to flicker, as if it could sense his thoughts. He drew the blade closer, and it wavered more violently.

A soft thud jolted him out of his stupor. He whipped around, razor still in hand, towards the source of the noise. He let out a sigh of relief and set the knife down when he saw the bird pecking lightly on the frame of the window. A small matchbox lay at her feet. Basso's hurried scrawl was messier than usual - Garrett suspected he was in a hurry when he wrote it. There were only a few lines of script on the back.

4: Not safe. Get out of there. Wmvir'w Viwx.

Garrett reached for a stick of charcoal and piece of parchment, recognizing the encrypted message immediately.

"Four... four letters back." He scribbled hastily on the parchment, quickly deciphering the message. "Siren's Rest."

For just a moment, he felt a slight pressure in his head, heard an unintelligible murmuring coming from nowhere and everywhere. Before he could make sense of what had happened, the moment passed. Silence. He shook his head clear, then turned on his heel and dropped the note in the burning brazier. He waited to ensure the paper had burned to ashes before he continued.

The sight of a figure curled up in the corner almost startled him. He had nearly forgotten about her, again.

For reasons unknown to him, the girl had insisted that she use an old mattress she had found in the cache of "antiquities" downstairs instead of his bed. He hadn't argued the point much - or at all, for that matter. He still wasn't accustomed to having her around, nor was he particularly pleased about it. If worst came to worst, he supposed in a few weeks he would be able to send her off on her own without sentencing her to her death. She was progressing, after all, albeit very slowly.

With a gentle nudge of his foot, he roused Isabella from her sleep. "Get up. We have to go."

She groaned and pushed herself up. "Wh-What? Go where?"

Garrett had already rounded up the more precious and rare collectibles he had acquired. He sifted through the pile, taking a few of the smaller trinkets and stowing the rest in a silver-plated strongbox. He closed the clasp firmly and placed it under a loose corner floorboard.

"Take only what you need. We leave now." He ignored the strange murmurs permeating his thoughts.

Isabella scrambled to get up, still in a groggy daze. "Alright," she huffed. "Will I at the very least have the privilege of knowing where it is we're -"