Chapter Text
The forest was heavy with mist and the crunch of frost underfoot. Jack and Will had been walking for hours - boots damp, breath visible in the frosty air. The trees stretched like skeletal fingers overhead, and there was a silence to the woods that felt almost watched. As the last light of day began to fade, they came upon a small town nestled between frozen hills. It was oddly quiet but smoke curled from chimneys and lights glowed behind shuttered windows.
Then, a tavern. Soft chatter.
Jack pushed the door open. Heat wrapped around them, but it was the scent that hit first: sharp, pungent, unmistakable. Garlic. Everywhere. Thick braids hung from beams and window frames. Garlands framed every door like a ward.
A man stepped out from behind the counter, wiping his hands on his apron. His smile was warm, but his eyes flicked from one stranger to the other with the quick, assessing look of someone who didn’t entirely trust the night, or the men who had walked out of it.
“Evening,” he greeted. “The name’s Bloom. You must be freezing. Come sit, sit by the fire before you turn to ice.” Will’s gaze moved over the walls, lips parting.
“Jack,” he murmured, low enough not to carry. Jack’s eyes followed the line of garlic along the rafters, his pulse quickening in excitement beneath a calm facade.
“Yes,” he said smoothly. Then, louder,
“Folk charm?” Mr. Bloom startled a bit, as though caught off guard. His smile thinned, just slightly. “Oh, that. Just… old tradition. Harmless, really.” “Looks like you take it seriously,” Jack remarked, almost casually.
“Well, you know,” Mr. Bloom said, rubbing the back of his neck.
“Winters can be long. Forest’s not safe after dark. Superstitions help people sleep better at night.” He chuckled, but the smile didn’t reach his eyes. “Nothing more to it.” Will tilted his head.
“People decorate for winter. This looks more like preparation.” Mr. Bloom’s hands stilled for half a second before he forced a light laugh.
“Best not to read too much into small town quirks, Mr.-?”
“Graham,” Will supplies.
“Graham. Right.” Mr. Bloom’s voice softened, but there was a tremor beneath the surface now. “Come. Eat. Warm yourselves.” He ushered them toward a table by the hearth. A moment later, bowls of stew were set before them, steam curling upward. The smell was unmistakable: garlic, heavy and relentless, as though the entire kitchen had been steeped in it. Even the bread was brushed with it, glistening faintly in the firelight. Will stared down at his bowl.
“They didn’t season it,” he muttered to Jack.
“They fortified it.” Jack leaned closer, voice a low thread.
“Exactly.” Mr. Bloom lingered at their table with a tray of tankards.
Will glanced down at his stew again.
“I can’t taste anything but garlic,” he muttered. Jack didn’t respond right away. His eyes traced the lines of braided cloves along the rafters, the careful seals over each window. Every placement had a purpose. A pattern.
Then, with a practiced ease, Jack leaned back in his chair. His tone was casual, almost careless. “Tell me, Mr. Bloom,” he began, swirling the liquid in his mug as if they were discussing the weather. “Is there a castle nearby?” The effect was immediate. Mr. Bloom froze, the tray slipping in his grip just enough to make the mugs rattle against the wood. His smile returned a heartbeat too late, stretched a little too wide.
“Castle?” He let out a laugh - loud, forced, brittle. “No, no, heavens, no. No castles around here. That’s just fairy-tale nonsense, old stories for children. You won’t find anything like that in these parts.” Jack tilted his head slightly. He didn’t push, he didn’t need to. People who weren’t hiding anything didn’t try that hard to laugh.
“Fairy tales,” Jack repeated softly, as though savoring the word.
“Of course.” Mr. Bloom rushed to fill the silence. “The only thing you’ll find out there is snow and trees. That’s it. Nothing else. And best you don’t wander into the woods after nightfall, either. Wolves, you know. Dangerous things.”
Will raised a brow at Jack, his fingers tapping lightly against the table. Wolves. The excuse sounded rehearsed, like something said often enough to sound real, but never quite convincing.
“Wolves,” Jack echoed, playing along. “Right.”
Mr. Bloom forced another short laugh, but his knuckles whitened where he held the tray.
“You’re welcome to stay the night here. Safe and warm. Best place for travelers.” Will’s voice was quiet, almost gentle, but there was a thread of unease beneath it.
“You sound like someone who’s seen what happens to people who don’t.” Mr. Bloom’s smile faltered. Just for a second. Then it snapped back into place, too quick, too bright. “I’m just looking out for my guests.”
Jack set his spoon down with quiet finality, the clink of metal against the bowl neat and deliberate. The stew was strong, too strong. But he’d forced it down to the last mouthful. Will, meanwhile, had barely touched his. The steam rising from it was heavy with garlic, saturating the air like smoke. “Not hungry?” Jack asked mildly.
Will pushed the bowl away. “I can taste it on the air,” he murmured. “It’s enough.” Mr. Bloom reappeared, his smile as taut as the lines on his face. “I can show you to your room now,” he said. “You’ll want to rest before the night deepens.”
Jack rose without a word. Will followed, slower, every movement quiet, alert. The old floorboards creaked under their boots as Mr. Bloom led them down a narrow corridor. The inn seemed smaller away from the firelight, shadows clinging to the walls like damp.
And then, soft as breath, Will heard something. A delicate, feminine whisper of a voice. Sound threading through the old plaster and timber. It wasn’t words, not exactly. More like a sigh, low and close, as if it came from the next room.
He stopped. “Do you hear that?”
Mr. Bloom stiffened. “Hear what?”
“A voice,” Will said, tilting his head slightly toward the wall. “Someone’s… singing?”
Mr. Bloom’s smile faltered, but only for a second. “Old buildings make strange noises. Wind in the beams.” He turned briskly. “Come. This way.”
Jack glanced at Will, but didn’t comment. He could see the way Will’s fever-bright eyes fixed on the wall a moment longer before he followed.
They stopped at a door near the end of the hall. Mr. Bloom straightened his posture, forcing a brightness into his voice. “Here we are. I think you’ll appreciate this. A wonderful bathroom - proper one at that, if I do say so myself. We had the tub put in last year. Perfect for warming up after a day in the snow.”
He opened the door with a little flourish.
Inside, warm lamplight spilled across the tiles. The bathtub sat beneath a small frosted window, still glistening with the damp sheen of recent use. Steam lingered in the air, curling around the figure standing beside the tub, wrapped in a towel, hair dripping down her shoulders.
Alana Bloom froze. Her cheeks flushed pink, whether from the heat or the sudden audience, it was impossible to tell. She clutched the towel a little tighter.
“Alana.” Mr. Bloom’s voice snapped like a twig underfoot. “You’re supposed to be in your room.”
She blinked, startled. “I didn’t know anyone was-”
“Go,” he hissed under his breath. “Now.”
Will’s gaze caught hers. For a breath, the hallway and the cold and the garlic fell away. There was something steady in her eyes, something soft and knowing, like she had long grown used to living in a place where secrets whispered through the walls.
Mr. Bloom stepped between them, his smile gone now, replaced with tight irritation.
“My daughter,” he said shortly, as if the word itself were a mistake. “She should have been in her room.”
Jack inclined his head politely, but he was watching everything: the tension in Mr. Bloom’s jaw, the flicker of something else in Alana’s expression before she slipped out of the doorway and disappeared down the hall.
“Right this way,” Mr. Bloom said, voice clipped now. He moved faster, as though eager to put distance between them and the bathroom. “I’ll show you to your room.”
He opened another door at the end of the corridor. The guest room was small but clean, with two narrow beds, a window overlooking the black forest beyond, and more garlic strung above the frame. Mr. Bloom gestured stiffly. “You’ll be comfortable here.”
Will glanced toward the hallway, where the faint sound of footsteps - Alana’s - faded into silence.
“My apologies,” Mr. Bloom said abruptly. “She has a mind of her own. She doesn’t always follow the rules.”
Jack gave him a polite, tight smile. “No need to apologize.”
But Will didn’t look away from the door. He wasn’t sure what fascinated him more - the woman herself or the way she had looked at him, like she already knew they were here for something dangerous.
And behind them, as Mr. Bloom closed the door, the inn seemed to grow quieter.
As the door clicked shut behind Mr. Bloom, leaving Will and Jack Crawford alone in the dimly lit guest room. The air smelled faintly of smoke, snow, and, of course, garlic. Outside, the wind rattled against the windowpanes, a restless sound that made the forest seem alive.
Jack moved with the easy efficiency of someone used to sparse accommodations. He set his coat over the back of a chair, loosened his shirt cuffs, and checked the revolver tucked inside his bag before placing it on the small bedside table. His face was calm, but Will could see it—the quiet excitement under the surface. They were close. Jack could feel it.
Will sat on the edge of the other bed, hands loosely clasped, gaze unfocused. His mind wasn’t quiet, not since they’d entered the inn. He kept seeing Alana’s eyes, wide and steady, and the way Mr. Bloom’s voice had cracked like ice around her name.
“You should sleep,” Jack said, not looking up from his things. “Big day tomorrow.”
Will didn’t respond.
“Will.” Jack glanced over. “Rest. That’s an order.”
Will gave a small, distracted nod, but his thoughts were already far away. He stared at the wooden floorboards, at the way the shadows seemed to pool between the seams like ink.
And then-
A sound.
A faint metallic jingle. Keys. Rustling just beyond their door, down the hall.
Will’s heartbeat rose in that strange way it always did when the fever rose, when the edge between reality and vision blurred. The inn’s dim corridor bled into something else, a half-formed image forcing its way through him like water through cracked stone.
Mr. Bloom stood at the end of the hall, his face half in shadow, a large iron keyring in his hands. One by one, he slid bolts and locks into place - six in total - on a heavy wooden door Will hadn’t noticed before. The sound was slow, deliberate.
Click. Clack. Click.
And under his breath, Mr. Bloom whispered, low and fervent:
“A beautiful daughter is a gift… but a gift that burdens the soul.”
The words wrapped themselves around Will’s mind like a cold hand. The vision flickered, half real, half fever. He felt the grain of the wood under Mr. Bloom’s fingertips, the weight of the locks, the quiet panic threaded through the older man’s breath.
And then, just as quickly, it was gone.
Will was back in the room, his hands gripping the edge of the mattress.
“Will?” Jack’s voice broke through. He was watching now, brow slightly furrowed. “You’re pale.”
Will blinked, forcing his expression to smooth. “I’m fine.”
Jack raised a brow, unconvinced, but didn’t push. He slid beneath the blanket, the practiced calm of a man saving his questions for when they’d be useful.
Will lay back slowly, but his pulse stayed taut beneath his skin. He could still hear the whisper, could still feel the echo of the locks sliding home. He stared at the ceiling, unmoving, listening to the house breathe.
The image of her kept pulling him in. But it wasn’t only how she looked. It was the way she’d met his eyes. Steady. Unafraid. In a town strung tight with superstition and fear, she had seemed like a quiet flame.
He had never seen a woman quite like her. There was a softness in her expression that cut through the cold. Something that felt… dangerous to want.
He exhaled slowly, trying to push the thought away. And then, like water slipping beneath a closed door, he heard her.
“It’s as if something inside me reaches for him… even when I know not to try and touch.”
The voice wasn’t outside the room. It wasn’t spoken aloud. It brushed against the inside of his mind, clear and warm. Alana’s voice, threaded with wonder and something that made his chest tighten.
Will’s fingers curled against the sheet. The inn was quiet, the world beyond the walls soundless. But that voice so soft, private, hers, lingered in his head like the aftertaste of something sweet and dangerous.
A sound in the hallway cut through it. Footsteps. Slow and heavy. The unmistakable weight of someone checking doors. Will sat up slightly, listening.
Through the thin wooden walls, he heard it: the metallic scrape of bolts. The gentle clink of keys.
Mr. Bloom.
Will’s heart beat faster, but not out of fear. It was the strange alertness of someone listening to something they already half expected.
Across the room, Jack’s voice rasped low, sudden, slicing through Will’s thoughts.
“You hear it too.”
Will turned. Jack wasn’t fully awake, but his eyes were open now, sharp even in the dark. He’d heard the steps as well.
Jack pushed himself up on one elbow, listening harder. The footsteps moved down the hallway, pausing at intervals - one door after another. Then silence.
Jack’s mouth curved into something that wasn’t quite a smile. “Whatever’s happening…” His voice lowered, steady as a promise. “I’m going to find out.”
Will met his gaze. For a moment, the room was utterly still. Their shared awareness coiled between them like a live wire. Then the sound of Mr. Bloom’s retreating steps faded into the night.
Slowly, fatigue began to pull him under. And with the first drift of sleep, the world shifted.
He found himself standing at the edge of a forest not unlike the one surrounding the village, but darker, heavier, the trees twisted, their branches knitting a canopy that swallowed the stars. The air smelled of earth and frost, and a path wound through the undergrowth, faint and inviting, leading him forward.
Then, rising above the blackened trees, he saw a castle. Its spires were sharp, reaching toward the clouds, stone walls dark but gleaming with something almost wet, almost alive in the dim moonlight. The place felt ancient, yet vibrant - as if it had been waiting for him, patient and watchful.
He couldn’t explain the pull. It was magnetic, like a current running through the marrow of his bones. Every instinct in him screamed caution, yet every pulse of his heart urged him closer. Something inside him whispered that he is meant to go there.
The path narrowed. The castle’s gates loomed larger with each step, dark and imposing, yet inviting. Will felt a shiver that wasn’t entirely fear - it was awe, fascination, and a strange, dangerous longing all at once.
And then the cold weight of sleep finally claimed him. His body relaxed, though his mind lingered on the vision, on the dark stone, on the sense of inevitability that the castle held.
Even in slumber, the pull remained, gentle but insistent, like a whisper promising discovery, danger, and revelation all at once.