The witching hour had passed when Elanthe walked Buttercup through Thornwell's sleeping streets. The mare chose its path, guided by whatever forces drove it to find dreams to move through. The elf wondered how much of this world the mare perceived and how much she moved through the dreamlands. They moved quietly, hooves and feet emitting little sound on the packed earth road. Elanthe already knew better than to question where Buttercup wanted to wander. This was the demon horse's time.

  Buttercup paused outside the cooper's house. Her ears swiveled forward, and darkness rippled across her golden coat as if a black wind blew over her. Elanthe waited, one hand resting on the mare's neck, feeling the subtle shift as Buttercup slipped into a dream.

  Inside, young Thomas thrashed in his bed, caught in dreams of skeletal hands reaching for him, of the warriors he believed would save him sprawled in broken heaps throughout the graveyard as even more skeletal hands reached up to grab at the sky. Buttercup pranced into the nightmare with no more difficulty than if she'd been moving through tall grass.

  The images shifted in response to her manipulation. Chuck regained his feet thanks to Thomas’s defiance of the impossible odds and took up a position to his side. Elanthe rode beside him on Buttercup, banner of the Light streaming in a wind that carried the smell of wildflowers. She was resplendent in her armor, hair streaming behind her in the breeze. Calista clung to Thomas's leg even as she begged him to protect her from the undead that tore at her clothing. The skeletons fell before their combined might, and Thomas rolled over, his breathing settling into a peaceful rhythm. He'd played a pivotal part in defeating evil this night.

  They moved to the next house. And the next. Sometimes Buttercup soothed dreams that haunted the dreamer's sleep, sometimes she made the colors of happy dreams brighter and more memorable. Each sleeper she visited received her gift—dreams reshaped into visions of peace and prosperity.

  Elanthe stroked Buttercup's mane and wondered if this sort of manipulation was right. If it helped keep these people safe, if it served Sir Chuck's mission, did the method matter? She didn't think so as their very lives were at stake, but the question still bothered her. The mission mattered, but did that justify the methods used to achieve it? She tried to convince herself that she was sure of it, but the thought sat uneasily on her shoulders.

  Vladimir's house loomed at the street's end, walled by stone and iron. Buttercup stopped before the gate, and Elanthe felt the mare's attention shift toward the house. The nightmare huffed and pawed the earth. "Yes, sweet thing. This is the important one. He may not deserve to sleep well, but see that he does tonight. Make sure that whatever haunts him troubles him not for a while. Make sure you're not noticed. He can’t remember you."

  Elanthe studied the wall. Clearly too tall to jump, and the surface was mortared smooth, denying her fingerholds. She pulled herself up onto Buttercup's back and then stood, only able to reach the top with a jump. Her fingers found purchase, and she pulled herself up, where she listened for dogs or guards. She could neither see nor hear any living thing, and briefly wondered whether Buttercup could be in multiple dreams at once, calming more than just the house's owner.

  The drop into Vladimir's courtyard was more difficult than she'd expected. He grew grapes against the wall, and the trellis prevented her from dropping in easily. She hung from her fingertips, lowering herself as far as possible before springing back and away from the wall. She landed in a crouch, knees absorbing the impact, and froze, ears straining to hear if anyone or anything had noticed.

  Still nothing.

  The main house stood dark before her, shuttered for the night. A separate building, servants' quarters perhaps, showed a single candle burning low. Elanthe ghosted toward the main entrance, away from the outbuilding, carefully placing her feet so they would neither make noise nor leave footprints. Vladimir’s door would certainly be locked, but houses had other ways in.

  She circled the building, searching for an entry point. A small window on the second floor stood slightly ajar. It was likely meant for ventilation, but her slender elven frame would fit if she could open it wider. Unlike the perimeter wall, the house's face had not been rusticated and offered plenty of finger- and toeholds for her climb. Challenged only by the pure verticality of it, she scaled carefully but quickly, not wanting any passerby to notice a dark shadow against the pale stone.

  She paused when she reached the window. After confirming that no sound emanated from within, she eased it wider and slipped into the darkness. It was dark and cramped, and the smell was all she needed to know exactly where she'd entered. Vladimir was rich enough to have an indoor privy. No wonder the window was left ajar.

  She cracked the door open a sliver and looked into the hallway, her sharp elven eyes picking out details as if a full moon lighted the hallway. How humans managed with their dull senses, she was not quite sure, but it made her realize that she'd see them before they saw her, as any light they'd carry would give them away. Now she just had to worry about making noise.

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  She slipped her boots off and took a few tentative steps into the hallway. The floor creaked under her feet, but she could control the volume by careful foot placement and moving slowly. The hallway opened onto the stair landing and she paused. Deciding that it was more likely that a study would be found on the ground floor, she made her way down the stairs, pleased that the ground floor sported tile and wouldn't betray her presence.

  A quick investigation of the ground floor revealed the location of Vladimir's study. It would be behind the one locked door. She knew it was possible to pick locks, but had no idea how or any tools to do so, so it was a moot point anyway. So where could the key be?

  She searched the downstairs and found a key ring hanging on a post in the kitchen, but none of the keys fit the door. That meant going back upstairs and searching the top floor. It was not a prospect she relished.

  She tied the laces of her boots together and threw them around her neck to free up her hands before returning to the top floor. Every creak from the stairs made her wince, even her light elven footfalls unable to move in complete silence across the dry wooden planks. The floor upstairs was even worse.

  She moved through the top floor room by room, already knowing where the key would be found but dreading the truth. It would be in Vladimir's bed chamber. She searched each room in turn just in case she was wrong, but knew she was wasting time, delaying the inevitable. She had to go into the sleeping man's room. She had to risk waking him up.

  Elanthe thanked her lucky star that the bedroom was not locked. It wouldn't have surprised her at all had it been. Men with secrets were always afraid, and Vladimir had secrets, she was sure of it. She wouldn't be here if she weren't.

  The hinges creaked slightly as the door opened, causing her to freeze and hold her breath. She debated trying to slip through the narrow gap that she'd already opened, but decided to risk some more noise to avoid the squeeze. The door swung open the rest of the way without any noise.

  Vladimir was breathing heavily as he slept. He didn't twitch in his sleep. He didn't snore. His chest rose and fell with the steady rhythm of someone in peaceful, deep sleep. Buttercup was doing her job well.

  Elanthe crept to the valet stand where his clothing hung. She carefully rifled the pockets but found nothing of interest. She turned and looked at the sleeping man. "You bastard." He wore the key on a chain around his neck. Her choice of words shocked her.

  She crept closer to him and looked at his face. He was utterly at her mercy. She could murder him in his sleep, and thanks to Buttercup, his first clue that something had happened would be when he awoke in Hell. Again, her own thoughts shocked her. He might deserve it, but she’d have never contemplated such a thing just a few short weeks ago. Had her time in Hell caused a change in her psyche? Had the violation damaged her spirit?

  She studied the chain that went around the man's neck and realized that the clasp lay not far around his neck. She could see it, but she couldn't get enough chain of it to open it. She looked around for inspiration and noticed a feather had worked free of his pillow—a small piece of down the size of her thumbnail. With great care, she carefully pulled on the chain and used the feather to tickle his nose.

  There was no reaction at first. After a few long moments, his lip twitched, and he threw a hand across his face, nearly smacking Elanthe's in the process. She adjusted her grip on the chain and then attacked his nose once more. This time, he rubbed his face with his arm and then rolled over. She pulled on the chain just as he did, and the clasp popped free. Moments later, the key was in her hand, and she was on her way back down the stairs.

  She inserted the key and turned it, and was rewarded with a soft click. The door swung open as if it were inviting her in.

  His workspace reeked of obsessiveness. Heavy curtains blocked the window, and not a sliver of light graced the room. His massive desk dominated the center, its surface clear except for an inkwell and a blotter. She carefully pulled the curtains open to let some moonlight into the room, not having a tinder box or firestick with which to light a candle. The bookshelves held ledgers arranged with obsessive precision, each spine labeled in cramped script she surmised was his.

  Elanthe started with the desk drawers. The first held ordinary supplies—quills, sealing wax, blank parchment. The second contained a single leather-bound ledger filled with columns of numbers. Income and expenses, but the sources were coded. Meaningless without context. One only coded one's books when there were secrets to be kept, so it didn’t surprise her that Vladimir coded his. She kept searching, knowing in her bones that she was close.

  The third drawer held correspondence. She pulled the stack free and moved to the window, making maximum use of the sliver of moonlight she had allowed in. It was more than enough for her to read what was written.

  Her breath caught.

  The script wasn't human. Demonic characters flowed across the parchment in blood-red ink. Her elven education had included basic infernal script—enough to recognize contracts and bindings for what they were. She was no expert, but from what she could make out, she was looking at a report that he was compiling. Vladimir was sending regular updates to someone in Hell about Thornwell's governance, defenses, and political divisions, and receiving instructions in return.

  She found a stack of responses to reports gone before. The theme was clear, even if the details were beyond her simple grasp of the script: they were instructions to oppose any formalization of authority, to keep Thornwell independent of anybody who could stake a claim. Keep it vulnerable. The latest response was clear, even to her stunted ability to read Demonic. 'Delay Sir Chuck for as long as possible, and kill him if necessary.'

  Vladimir wasn't just corrupt. He was a paid agent of someone opposed to her master's mission.