Morningstar, you are needed. Please come directly. Let us meet at the north gate.

I cannot conceive of a reason Lord Grimes would ask me to meet him in secret, away from his home, unless it is on pressing coven business. Business that he does not wish to address in his home, or, it appears, with other witches present. I know at once that the north gate refers to a specific entry to the cemetery where my father’s empty grave lies.

By the time I have divested myself of my apron, donned my coat, and made my apologies for leaving early, darkness has already fallen. London is currently a place full of sorrows, and seems even more so at night with most streetlamps left unlit in an attempt to thwart the hateful zeppelins. Happily, I am comfortable in the dark and am able to employ the heightened senses of a witch to safely navigate my way through Holborn, threading nimbly between the people who find themselves compelled to be abroad, walking briskly east, beyond Fitzroy Square, skirting Regent’s Park, and on toward the graveyard. As I draw nearer to our rendezvous point, I begin to wonder if Lord Grimes has noticed the restlessness of the spirits and wishes to talk to me about it. Or could it be that he has news regarding the Sentinels? He is not a man given to panic, and I can be sure he would not have arranged such a meeting if he were not greatly concerned about something.

I am but a few paces from the tall iron gates when I sense that I am being followed. No, not followed, pursued. I cast about me, but there is no one else to be seen in the street. No one, that is, living. What I see looming out of the night shadows renders me unable to move. The darkness itself seems to take shape and to form into a towering figure, more than eight feet tall, its features human but blurred, its presence one of pure menace. The realization that the power of the Dark Spirit has enabled it to manifest itself in such a fearsome form astonishes me. It is as if Willoughby has been feeding upon evil energy in the years since he last stood before me. Now he is more terrifying, more powerful, and more determined upon his intended victim. And that victim is me.

The apparition bounds toward me, covering the ground with awesome speed. I have mere seconds to galvanize myself from my stupor. I fling myself through the gate and stumble onto the dusty ground of the churchyard, just as Willoughby swoops. The swiftness of my movement has saved me from his grasp. I am aware of gasps and moans all around me: a chattering of spirits disturbed from their slumbers. Spirits that are, nowadays, so easily brought forth, as if they no longer sleep deeply, but rather are waiting.