"Well, just so you know, we're moving away from here. To a nice place, at the very least, so you don't need to worry about it."
Ethan studied him for a moment before asking,
"And where might that be, if I may ask?"
Alistair looked at him with a neutral expression.
"Let's just say we're going somewhere very nice."
He paused.
"Not so nice, if I'm being completely honest. But you might even like it."
He stood.
"Either way, get ready. We're leaving in five minutes. I'll fill you in on a few details along the way."
Five minutes later, they left.
A horse-drawn cart waited outside, with Alistair taking the reins.
Once they were on the road, Alistair began filling Ethan in on the basics—where they were heading, what he should expect, what he should do, and, more importantly, what he should not do.
"Remember the organization I told you about?"
"Yes. The Vigil, right?"
"Good."
Alistair kept his eyes on the road.
"That's where we're going. And don't expect everyone to be as kind as me once we get there."
"I'll keep that in mind."
"And don't do anything stupid. Stick with me, and everything will be fine."
"Okay."
Ethan was quiet for a while before asking another question.
"What exactly are we supposed to do there? Or rather, why exactly are you taking me there?"
He hesitated before adding,
"And one last thing. Why didn't you kill me when you had the chance? Why let me survive the possession? Don't you think I might be dangerous to you or society? What if I lose control?"
Alistair glanced at Ethan.
Those ordinary brown eyes somehow made Ethan feel more apprehensive than anything obviously inhuman could have.
Then Alistair smiled lightly and turned his attention back to the road.
"Ah. Curious, aren't you?"
He sounded almost amused.
"I understand. First, what we're supposed to do there and why I'm taking you there isn't your concern at the moment. Think of it as a trade secret."
He paused.
"Second, even now, I can kill you. So don't think for a second that you're safe."
His tone remained casual.
"If you prove too dangerous, then you die. Nothing more, nothing less."
He gave Ethan a brief glance.
"But I'd appreciate it if you didn't do anything stupid."
Ethan said nothing.
"Least I forget," Alistair continued, "when we get there, do well to ask fewer questions. They don't tolerate excessive or unnecessary questions from outsiders."
He leaned back slightly in his seat.
"For now, just think of yourself as my investment."
A beat.
"And a tool for the Vigil."
Ethan didn't say anything else.
The rest of the journey passed in silence.
---
About two hours later, they arrived at a town called Dusk Harrow.
Ethan had expected something larger.
Instead, the town seemed to have been built around the idea of being forgotten. Narrow streets. Old stone buildings. Dim lanterns hanging over roads that looked like they hadn't been repaired in decades.
Alistair guided the cart through several streets before stopping in front of what appeared to be an abandoned cathedral.
Two people approached almost immediately.
They greeted Alistair briefly before turning their attention to Ethan.
"Follow us."
They didn't explain anything.
Ethan did.
He followed.
The building wasn't a cathedral.
At least, not anymore.
They took him down three flights of stone stairs beneath what had looked from the street like an unremarkable chandlery.
Alistair led the way with a lamp that burned the same green-gold as the one in Ethan's room.
Somewhere around the second flight, Ethan understood that the color wasn't decorative.
It was a ward.
Or a leash.
Possibly both.
"The lamps," Ethan said.
"They're keeping something out."
He glanced at Alistair.
"Or in."
Alistair's mouth twitched.
"Both, as it happens."
He looked back at Ethan.
"You catch on."
The stairs finally ended.
The room below was far too large to belong beneath a simple chandlery.
Shelves lined the walls, filled with jars containing things Ethan made a point of not examining too closely.
Perhaps a dozen people occupied the chamber.
Every one of them turned to look at Ethan at once.
There was something in their expressions that Ethan recognized immediately.
The specific wariness of soldiers assessing an unexploded shell.
Alistair stepped forward.
"This," he announced to the room without preamble, "is Ethan."
He gestured toward him.
"Three days ago, he was a laundry hand with an unremarkable life."
A pause.
"This morning, he's carrying a bound, quenched-rank Cthu in his chest, and none of us know why he isn't dead, insane, or both."
He looked around the room.
"Play nicely."
A woman near the back pushed away from the wall she'd been leaning against.
She was dark-skinned, with close-cropped hair and a coat as severe as Alistair's, though hers was clearly cut for movement rather than intimidation.
"You brought a live Taken into the Vault."
"I brought a live Taken who ate his own possession, Marguerite."
Alistair shrugged.
"Forgive me for finding that more interesting than the seating arrangement."
Marguerite didn't look convinced.
Instead, she studied Ethan the way you'd study a bridge you weren't sure would hold your weight.
Ethan held her gaze rather than shrinking from it.
Not out of bravado.
He'd already decided, somewhere during the walk down those three flights, that flinching in front of a room full of strangers would cost him more than it saved him.
"Does it talk to you?" she asked.
"It says one word."
Ethan paused.
"Mine."
"Charming."
Marguerite crossed her arms.
"Mine as in I own you, or mine as in you stole something that belongs to me?"
Ethan hadn't considered the distinction.
He reached inward, carefully, and found the coal waiting beneath his ribs.
He asked.
The answer came differently this time.
Less rage.
More grief.
If grief could curdle into something closer to hunger.
Mine.
The word came again.
But underneath it, for just a moment, Ethan caught something else.
A shape.
A place.
A door that had once been open and was now, from the other side, being nailed shut.
"It's not talking about me," Ethan said slowly.
The room seemed to listen.
"I don't think it ever was."
He frowned.
"I think it's talking about wherever it came from. Like it's locked out."
The room went quiet.
Not ordinary quiet.
The wrong kind.
Alistair's expression changed first.
"That," he said, "is either the best possible thing you could have just told us..."
He looked toward Marguerite.
"...or the worst."
He sighed.
"I genuinely can't tell which yet."
Then he turned toward the stairs.
"Marguerite, get the Cartographer."