The air outside the Hollow Note tasted metallic, thick with fog and coal smoke. Lila pulled her coat tighter around her body as she stepped out into the night, the ink still crawling under her skin like roots seeking soil. Theo's warning rang in her mind...He's close. The Collector was never far. That was how these stories always went: the devil kept company with the damned.
The gas lamps flickered strangely as she walked down the empty street, casting long shadows that didn't seem to match her pace. Some darted ahead, others lagged behind. Once, she thought one paused and turned to look at her.
She tried to ignore the chill climbing her spine.
The bakery façade had vanished behind her; the Hollow Note was hidden again. But the damage was done....she'd found Theo, and he was breaking. His music was dying. And worse, he seemed to know.
Lila stopped near a courtyard fountain, its water frozen in the bowl despite the mild night. She sat on a stone bench, trembling. What now? The more she pulled at the threads, the more the tapestry unraveled.
A voice drifted from the courtyard archway.
"Miss Hart?"
She looked up sharply.
A man stood beneath the stone arch, tall, immaculate, dressed in a tailored three-piece suit of deep maroon. His coat flared like wings behind him, and his shoes clicked softly as he stepped forward. He carried a silver-tipped cane, though he moved as if he didn't need it.....more accessory than aid.
His eyes were the first thing she noticed.
Gold. Not the dull hazel of ordinary eyes, but a vivid, unnatural gold that shimmered like molten metal, catching every trace of light. And when he smiled, it was with perfect, predatory politeness.
"You dropped this."
He held out a folded paper. Her hospital record.
Lila's breath caught. She hadn't even realized it was missing.
She reached to take it, but her fingers brushed his, and something jolted up her arm...a sensation like plunging her hand into a frozen pond laced with static.
She yanked her hand back instinctively.
He smiled wider.
"Forgive me," he said, voice smooth as aged brandy. "I frighten people sometimes. I can't help how I was made."
She swallowed. "Who are you?"
He tilted his head. "You don't recognize me? How disappointing. Though I suppose you wouldn't, not yet. Not like this."
The gold eyes narrowed ever so slightly.
"But I recognize you, Eleanor. Or should I say… Lila."
Her stomach dropped.
He circled the fountain slowly, never breaking eye contact.
"You've been busy. Escaping death. Unmaking contracts. Spilling ink where it doesn't belong. You should know, the universe doesn't take kindly to trespassers."
"You're him," she whispered. "You're the Collector."
His smile turned indulgent, as if she'd guessed a riddle that was too easy.
"In one form or another. You may call me Mr. Peregrine for now. It's easier for polite society. The other names are... unpronounceable in this century."
She took a step back, hand twitching toward the sketchbook in her satchel. He noticed.
"Ah, yes. Your little gift." He gestured vaguely. "That ink of yours.....it's rare. Liminal. Art that remembers futures not yet lived. Fascinating little artifact."
"Stay away from me."
"And yet here you are," he said softly, "already falling back into the cycle. You're making the same mistakes again, dear Eleanor. You should have let him go."
His voice chilled the air. The street behind him seemed to darken slightly, the shadows around his feet spreading like ink in water.
She gathered her courage. "You're the one who made him sign away his soul. You preyed on his pain. You broke him."
"Did I?" he asked. "Or did I offer him exactly what he wanted? Theo came to me. I simply… made a bargain. Greatness for memory. Immortality for love."
He leaned in, lowering his voice.
"Would you have done any different, if the roles were reversed?"
Lila didn't answer. Her hand was trembling.
"I can give it back, you know," he whispered. "His music. His soul. Even his love for you. All intact. All untouched. He wouldn't even remember making the deal."
She stared. "What do you want?"
He straightened again, brushing invisible dust from his sleeve. "Only a signature. Just one. From someone with enough soul left to matter. Someone who can feel what art is supposed to be."
He took a step closer. "Sign, and I'll fix him. Sign, and you'll both live happily ever after. No more deaths. No more contracts. No more unraveling time."
"At what cost?"
"Does it matter?" His smile sharpened. "Love always costs. The difference is whether you pay now or later."
The moment cracked.
She pulled the sketchbook from her satchel, tore a page, and flung it between them.
Ink splattered across his shoe and the cobblestones.
For a heartbeat, nothing happened.
Then the glamour twitched.
His face rippled...not like skin, but like a painted canvas that had been warped by heat. For an instant, the true face beneath the illusion bled through: eyes like open voids, teeth too long, skin shimmering like wet obsidian. A wrongness that vibrated on a frequency her bones could feel but not describe.
Then it was gone. Mr. Peregrine stood before her once more, adjusting his cuffs.
"Tsk," he said, voice brittle. "Temper, temper. You'll ruin the art."
"Stay away from Theo."
He gave a low, musical laugh. "My dear, he came to me. Again and again. Artists are so predictable. All hunger. No restraint. That's what makes them so… delectable."
"You lied to him."
"I did what I was made to do."
Lila's heart pounded. The wind picked up, flinging dry leaves into the air. The gaslight near the fountain blew out. When it returned, he was gone.
Not vanished. Not walked away.
Gone, like a shadow that had never been there to begin with.
Lila staggered back to her boarding house, shaking.
The mirror in her rented room had cracked during the day. From the center of the glass, a jagged vein stretched out like a spiderweb, and within its fractured depths, she didn't see herself.
She saw the Collector's reflection.
Smiling. Watching.
And beside him, Theo, playing a piano that bled ink with every keystroke.
The next morning, the sketchbook updated itself again.
She opened it to find a new page...one she hadn't drawn. It depicted a concert hall drenched in shadow. Theo at the center. A crowd with empty faces. And behind them all, a figure with golden eyes whispering into his ear.
She slammed it shut, breathing hard.
There was no denying it now: the Collector wasn't gone. He'd adapted, evolved. And this time, he wasn't hiding in dusty contracts or ghostly whispers.
He had a name. A face. A place in society.
And she was running out of time.
The next time she ventured into the city, her gloves on and coat wrapped tight, she saw the signs.
Posters on street corners:"Blackwood in Concert ..... Sponsored by Peregrine House of Arts."
A new foundation. A patron's guild for rising talents. And its founder?
Mr. Peregrine.
He wasn't merely influencing artists now. He was collecting them in plain sight. Making contracts in ballrooms and dinner parties, not blood and fire.
The ink under Lila's skin responded to his presence like a storm to static. She realized, with a sinking heart, that the ink was alive. It could sense him. React to him.
It was part of her now.
And that meant she was running out of choices.
She returned to her room that night and pressed the sketchbook flat against the mirror. The pages shimmered. Then, just for a second, the mirror answered.....showing both her room and another space behind it:
The ruined manor.
Time was cracking further. Realities were colliding.
Theo was in danger.
But more terrifying than that......so was she.
Because the Collector didn't want Theo's soul anymore.
He wanted hers.......