The morning after came grey, and the breakfast table felt wrong and hollow. If everything went smoothly, Father, Uncle Fletcher, and Mr Pritchard should reach York by nightfall. The roads through rural Yorkshire were rough at best, and they were most likely passing through Tadcaster for a rest and something to eat.

  Lawrie’s and Lewis’s places stood empty—gone to the mill, most likely, to set the ledgers in order before the hands arrived. Lukey sat hunched, his eyes puffy and red, fixed hard upon a single sheet of paper. From the kitchen drifted the low voices of Mother, Auntie, and Lyddie, mingled with the clink of crockery and the stepping of servants.

  It was the perfect chance to ask Lukey about the black shuck.

  Lucian took the chair beside him. Leon followed close behind.

  ‘Lukey, you’re not poorly, are you?’

  Lukey blinked, snuffling. His nose was sore, the skin beneath it pink and rubbed raw.

  ‘A little,’ he said. ‘Summer wheeze again. Mother insists it’ll pass soon enough. I find that assurance… optimistic.’

  ‘What’s the letter for?’ Leon asked, squinting over his shoulder.

  ‘Father’s answer to Oxford,’ Lukey said, and there was pride in it even through the snuffle. ‘Father’s requesting remission of the fees, or a scholarship, on account of my…’ His eyes ran down the lines. ‘…“extraordinary wit and diligence”.’

  He looked up and beamed at them.

  ‘Can’t believe that in a couple of days we three’ll be gone from home—’ Lukey began, then sneezed—loud—right towards them.

  Leon jerked back and wiped at his face with his sleeve. ‘D’you know already when you’d leave?’

  ‘Nay,’ said Lukey. ‘Some time in September, I reckon. If Father can afford it.’

  ‘I’m sure he will,’ Leon said.

  ‘The Crown’s accepted us—Father’ll have some coin to spare now,’ said Lucian with a smile and before Lukey could say anything else, he slid Mr Birch’s drawing across the table. ‘Lukey, we need your help. Have you any books that speak of the black shuck?’

  Lukey’s eyes went wide the instant he marked the drawing.

  ‘Bad omen, that is. Keep it away from me.’ He nudged his spectacles higher upon his nose and frowned. ‘I’ve nothing.’

  ‘Alright, then.’ Lucian slipped the drawing back into his pouch. ‘I also wanted to show you what I learned out of a very old tome I found.’

  Lukey’s eyes narrowed. ‘What tome?’

  ‘Come and see, then.’ Lucian took a stub of green candle from his pouch, the one he purchased in Vicis Oris and set it upon the empty table. Leon let out a soft, ‘Oh…’

  ‘Look at what I can do.’ Lucian squinted at the wick and touched it lightly with his fingertip. It caught at his touch. The flame burnt with a faint greenish cast. A thin ribbon of smoke rose up, carrying a scent like wet earth after rain. Lucian’s shoulders drooped, the effort tugging slightly at him—but it had worked.

  Lukey looked more at ease—and so did Lucian.

  ‘Remarkable,’ Lukey murmured, leaning closer, eyes fixed on the burning flame. ‘I should like to learn that. Very much.’

  Leon tapped Lucian’s shoulder in approval, beaming at him.

  ‘So, tell us, Lukey. D’you know anything about the shuck?’

  ‘Why?’

  ‘We want to know more of it. More of what happened in York to Mr Birch. Be sure it doesn’t happen to us.’

  Lukey hesitated. ‘I may have something. But you lot must be quiet about it. Entirely quiet.’

  ‘We promise,’ Leon said, and Lucian nodded.

  ‘I promise too,’ said a voice behind them.

  They all turned. Tess stood there, a grin plastered on her face.

  ‘Nice candle, Luce—nice trick too…’

  ‘Tess, go away—’ Leon snapped, but she crossed her arms over her red shawl and pointed at the candle.

  ‘I wonder what Ma or Auntie will say about that green flame of yours.’

  Lukey glanced at Tess, then at Lucian.

  ‘Very well,’ he said, pushing back his chair. ‘Let her come. She won’t say anything.’

  Lucian blew out the candle, shot Tess a glare and went out of the room with his brother—Leon and Tess close behind. A moment later, Lukey opened the door to the narrow chamber he shared with Lewis on the third floor and crossed straight to his bed on the far left.

  Lucian gawped at the sharp divide between the two halves of the room. Lukey’s side was meticulously kept: a small shelf crammed tight with books and a narrow table laid out with a Latin primer, quills, and inkpots set in neat order.

  Lewis’s side looked as if it had been turned out in a hurry. Clothes and bed linen lay strewn across the floor. Tess threw her shawl over Lewis’s bed and sat on top of it—careful not to touch Lewis’s ragged quilts.

  Leon closed the door and hurried to them just as Lukey laid Father’s response letter upon the bed. Lukey pulled the mattress a little from the wall, then lifted a loose floorboard. From beneath it, he drew out a scrap of cloth and unwrapped it with care.

  Inside lay several small books, stacked tight together.

  He rummaged through them, then held one out to Lucian and Leon. Lucian took it. Rough calfskin. Uneven stitching. A fading title, the ink barely holding.

  Leon leaned in. ‘By heaven, Lukey—you bought a forbidden book. That’s bold.’

  ‘How d’you come by this?’ Lucian asked, impressed. ‘Must’ve taken some doing, didn’t it?’

  ‘Aye, it did,’ Lukey said, a glint in his eyes—the sort that always came when he was about to explain something. ‘Last Sunday, during the sermon. Tess helped. She always does.’

  This narrative has been unlawfully taken from Royal Road. If you see it on Amazon, please report it.

  ‘She does?’ Leon said, his voice turning impressed.

  Tess crossed her arms and lifted her chin. ‘You tiny tweensies don’t know half of what I can do—no, you don’t.’

  Leon rolled his eyes. ‘As if a girl could do much.’

  Tess got up so fast Lucian jolted. She grabbed Leon by the front of his coat and pulled up close.

  ‘Never say that again. I know more of what goes on round here than you think—things that’d leave you staring awake half the night. And I always get what I want.’ Her glare slid to Lucian. ‘Always.’

  ‘Alright, Tess—’ Lucian said. ‘Let Leon go—we don’t have much time. If you want to hear this, you’ll have to behave.’

  She let Leon go and smiled serenely. ‘Carry on, then.’

  Leon moved away from her and sat beside Lukey. His brows were arched so high they nearly hid under his fringe. Lucian turned his back to Tess.

  ‘So?’

  ‘Ah—right. Well,’ Lukey said. ‘Tess distracted Ma and I slipped out after the second hymn. Then headed round the back of the old mill, near the Aire—just past the weir. That’s where he waits. Mr Harbottle. You know him? The hawker from York. Lazy eye. Leather gloves.’

  ‘The one with the long cart?’ Leon said.

  ‘That’s him. Comes every month without fail. Only ever travels after a full moon. Told me so himself.’ Lukey paused, pleased. ‘Acquired several frowned-upon volumes from him. Keeps them hidden, he does. This one’s full of dark tales and northern folklore. Shuck, Shrieker, barguest, padfoot… and even a learned bit on war-wolves, taken out of King James’s Demonology.’

  ‘War-wolves?’

  ‘Aye, Not a thing folk in Leeds talk of much. More a scholar’s notion than a fireside tale. Some call it a werewolf, or wolf-man. Learned men name the fit ‘lycanthropy’, they do.’

  ‘You know a lot about them forbidden things,’ Tess said, from the bed. ‘I wonder what might happen if Father finds your book stash.’

  ‘Tess. Hush—’ said Lukey, going scarlet.

  Lucian gave them a long look. It seemed he wasn’t the only one Tess was pressing. She wanted something from Lukey too. Lucian wondered what that might be.

  Leon ignored Tess completely. ‘Bold, you are. Didn’t know you had that in you.’

  Lukey smiled, a tinge of uncertainty in his eyes.

  ‘Look—here.’ He cracked the chapbook open. ‘’

  ‘Shrieker?’ Leon said. ‘What’s that?’

  ‘An ungodly creature, by all accounts. Little written of it, and what there is doesn’t agree. Often described as dog-like, yet seldom clearly seen. More often heard. Set apart from the black dog legends, though many confuse them, they do.’

  ‘With the shuck?’ Lucian said.

  ‘Precisely. Plain enough distinction, though aye?’ Lukey said, rubbing beneath his nose. ‘Here. Shuck’s said to be a hound. Vast. Black as pitch. Marked by a single burning eye, and sometimes chained about the neck or limbs.’

  ‘Couldn’t it have two eyes?’

  ‘Not found any account that grants it two in here. The Shrieker, however, is something else altogether.’

  Lucian leaned closer. ‘How so?’

  ‘Cursed thing,’ Lukey said, voice gone sombre. ‘Shuck’s a death omen—a bad one at that, it is—aye, though it’s still a creature folk see. The Shrieker’s known by its shrill, piercing cry, sharp enough to unsettle the mind—like a woman’s in torment. Doesn’t howl or snarl, it doesn’t. Text claims it’s driven folk to madness.’

  The black shape by the river that Lucian and Leon had seen hadn’t made a sound. No scream. No cry. And Mr Birch’s sketch didn’t fit it either.

  ‘Then it weren’t the Shrieker,’ Lucian said. ‘Mr Birch saw it clear enough to draw it. How else could he’ve put it down on paper?’

  ‘Aye. Reckon you’re right,’ Lukey said. ‘Could’ve been another sort of apparition.’

  ‘I’ve seen the shuck once,’ said Tess in a lilt.

  All three of them turned to her, and her smile broadened. ‘Aye—it was looking for you, Luce. Looking for , it were.’

  ‘Jester,’ snapped Lucian, turning away. Her violets, that’s what she wanted from Lucian and she had only come to keep an eye on the lot of them—and she didn’t take any of it in earnest.

  Lukey brought another book from the wrapped bundle into the light and showed it to them. A darker cover than the chapbook, leather rubbed dull at the corners, the spine stitched with old thread. A line of strange letters pressed into the hide, faded as if handled too often by nervous hands.

  “Μ?θοι κα? Θηρ?α”

  Leon leaned in, squinting hard. ‘What’s that? It’s not Latin.’

  ‘Greek, it is,’ Lukey said, with a hint of pride. ‘Old. Acquired it a while back. Spooky enough, but a fine way to keep my Greek from going stale.’

  ‘What’s it about, then?’ Leon said, impatience creeping in.

  ‘Myths. Legends. Greek heroes and gods. Creatures.’ Lukey cracked it open at a marked place—yellow pages, edges furred and margins crowded with tiny notes in Lukey’s neat hand, tucked wherever there was space.

  ‘Here. See this word?’

  He pointed to the symbols: “Μελ?κο?”

  ‘Reads “Melykos” Clever coinage. From “melas”—meaning black or, dark—and “lykos”—meaning wolf. So, simple enough. A Black Wolf, out of them old Greek hills. Not flesh, either. More like made of shadow and bad dreams.’

  Leon’s brow pinched. ‘D’you know what it looks like? Does it have red eyes?’

  He glanced up, spectacles catching the light.

  ‘Don’t know yet. Still working through this passage. The Greek’s rougher than my primer, and can’t just go asking any master at grammar, can I? Book’s forbidden, this is.’

  ‘Can you tell us more when you’ve finished translating it?’

  ‘Aye. Can do. If not gone off to Oxford by then.’

  ‘But what about Birch’s drawing, then?’ Leon jabbed a finger toward the chapbook. ‘What if it were the shuck? What else does it do—kill folk?’

  Lukey set the little Greek tome back with care and opened the other book again—eyes running down the lines, lips moving faintly as he read.

  ‘Tale’s old. Yorkshire’s, but some years past.’ Lukey’s eyes skimmed the page as he spoke. ‘Witness believed it to be an old, malevolent fairy, capable of changing its shape, though none have laid eyes on it proper. Yet it favours the form of a hound, the book insists, it does. Perhaps it’s mistaken—books can do that.’

  At that, Tess came closer and peered down at the chapbook, her bushy red curls falling over Lukey’s head. Leon frowned at her.

  ‘What does “malevolent” mean?’ she asked.

  ‘Ill-willed. Malicious. Bent towards harm,’ Lukey said at once, as if he’d learnt it by rote.

  ‘Why would a fairy be ill-willed? Ma always says her best friend was a fairy. She was good, she was.’

  ‘D’you mean Sylvaeryn? From Ma’s daft tales?’ Leon asked.

  Tess nodded at him. ‘Not tales. And not daft.’

  Leon glanced at Lucian, and his frown deepened. ‘What do you mean, Tess?’

  ‘Ma told me she did know Sylvaeryn—they were friends, and she was a forest fairy.’

  ‘A dryad,’ Lukey corrected.

  ‘What?’

  ‘Sylvaeryn weren’t a fairy—she was a dryad. A sort of forest fairy,’ Lukey said, patient as a tutor.

  ‘A fairy all the same,’ Tess said, not giving in. ‘Just like your invisible brute of a shrieking dog.’

  Lucian ignored the barb. ‘Then it can’t be the dog Mr Birch saw. If it’s invisible.’

  Leon leaned closer to the page again. ‘So this Shrieker-hound’s a sort of fairy, then?’

  ‘Of a particularly foul sort, it is,’ Lukey said.

  ‘And the shuck? What’s that, proper?’

  Lukey shut the book partway and went still. The moment dragged.

  ‘That’s all right, Lukey. We’ll—’ Lucian began.

  ‘Pah, pah, pah,’ Lukey cut in, waving him off with a finger. ‘Thinking here.’

  Tess smirked at Lucian and Leon pulled a face. Typical Lukey: thinking came before all else—if he weren’t sat with his brows furrowed in thought, he’d be at the table, eyes distant, lost in daydreams.

  ‘Don’t know what it is, proper. I don’t. Not yet,’ he said. ‘Haven’t finished the whole book though. But from what I’ve read, the black shuck’s told in more than one fashion. But some put the shuck on the moors, one-eyed and chained. Others speak of a great black dog, silent as the grave. A hound, for certain. But somewhere between spirit and flesh—all of them. The hounds of death—Shrieker, black shuck, melykos, war-wolf. Not proper solid, mind.’

  He glanced up.

  ‘In either telling, it’s treated as a thing sent to do another’s bidding. Bound, perhaps. It walks where death’s near—it’s only as an omen of death, most times at least. But in truth, it death, if you’ve the sense to mark what folk don’t say plain. Some claim it can be sent to kill.’

  Lucian and Leon shared an alarmed look. Tess’s eyes narrowed at them.

  ‘You’ve seen it, haven’t you?’ she said, her voice sharp with accusation. ‘When?’

  ‘Stop barking,’ Leon snapped.

  ‘If you have—’

  But Lucian wasn’t having any of it. He spoke over her. ‘D’you reckon the shuck was sent to Mr Birch’s warehouse?’

  Lukey shook his head. ‘Nay. No, it wasn’t.’

  ‘D’you know how to put an end to them hounds, both of ‘em?’

  ‘Kill ‘em? Well, to begin with—spiritual entities, they are.’

  ‘What?’ Leon said.

  ‘I just told you. No proper body they have, do they?. Only spirit. And spirits cannot be killed.’ Lukey began wrapping the book again as he spoke. ‘And spirits don’t lay hands on folk in the common way, do they?’

  Lukey put the little books back under the floorboard, then shoved his bed into place.

  ‘Second,’ Lukey added, ‘they aren’t real, are they? Only daft tales.’

  ‘If you’ve seen the shuck,’ Tess said, wrapping her shawl tight round her, ‘tell me now—so I can leave the estate forever.’

  Lukey turned his back on her.

  ‘Once she’s gone. Will you show me how you lit that candle-wick with your finger?’