No matter how brightly he said it, their most recent example was Calanthe of Endshire—the foolish woman who had gotten past both their guards and spurred this hellish journey in the first place.

Henry sighed, took his clothes, and dressed silently.  Roderick did much the same.

“Where’s my maille?” he asked, fingering his shift.  The linen shirt and breeches were perfect for summer—light and airy and soft on the skin—but made for poor protection.  “Does she have all our armor?”

“It’s just outside.”  Roderick debated over a stocking with a frown.  “I gave it a quick rinse, but if you towel it off…?”

Henry nodded and stepped out—only to still at the sight of an enormous black hound.

“Rod—?”

“Have you met our escort?”

“…Is that who this is supposed to be?”

No cheerful affectations could hide his caution.  Dogs would be fine, usually.  He liked dogs.  Big dogs were a barrel of fun and made great hunting companions.  Black dogs were acceptable, too.  Henry’s sole objections were in the rigidity of the canine’s posture and the ghastly paleness of its eyes.

The dog allowed him a dour woof, but no tail-wags were in evidence.

“…Rod.  Roddy.  I do believe I’m looking at a ghost.”

“Well, you’re not wrong.”  Roderick joined him at the door with a friendly clap on the shoulder.  “Wouldn’t a grim be a sort of ghost?”

‘That answers that, then.  Best tread lightly.’ 

The barkeep in town did mention a church grim being trained in by their noxie, or whatever they termed the witchling.  Serious and rigid as it held itself, Henry determined it best to be wary of the creature’s temper, for it seemed to bear them neither welcome nor goodwill.

“This is Samhain.  Samhain, meet Henry.”  The grim gave a deadpan grumble.  Roderick took the dour response in stride and continued as if nothing were the matter.  “I suppose we’ll be staying for the time being.  Will the lady mind if we make a detour?”

Samhain cocked his head.  ‘And curious or not, he still looks like he’d rather us dead.’

“Our things,” Roderick pressed, unphased.  “I left our packs in the boat.”

Rather than respond directly, the black dog turned and grumbled a rather articulate statement in the direction of a haybarn.

A cheerful yip came back.

“Oh?  Maybe they’re ahead of us.”

Though sorely attempted to ask, Henry refrained.  His answer arrived promptly in the form of an unusual white dog with wings.

“This is Lennie.  I have a feeling I’m using his nickname, but the lady of the house didn’t introduce us properly.”

Lennie seemed not to mind one whit whether it was a nickname or not.  His curled tail wagged as he smiled obliviously.

Roderick strode over and made exclamations and praises, for it appeared their things had already been retrieved by some means.  Henry smiled along and played at jolly affability, talking to the dogs with familiarity as though they weren’t questionable spirits both.

‘A church grim with dead eyes and a temper.  A spirit that’s not from these parts.  Rod still isn’t cured…and I haven’t even heard our hostess’ name yet, but he says she’s all my weaknesses.’

Old memories oozed up from corners where he hoped to forget them—rainy nights, dark rooms, the snap of riding crops, the sniffles of his little sisters.

And still he smiled, as if nothing were the matter.

‘Alright, Miss Noxie.  Let’s see what manner of creature you are.’