He takes the bottle from him and holds it up, letting the moon’s beams gleam through the dark red liquid it contains. “We must hurry. There is not much time,” he says. The grave has become a makeshift altar. Stricklend already has all the other ingredients for the Elixir assembled, right down to the diamond dust. He has long had in his possession the incantations, but now that the final essential part of the Elixir is his, nothing can stop him.

Stricklend has had a quantity of the incomplete concoction kept in readiness for this very moment. All it requires is the addition of the blood of the newborn, and the ritual can begin. With great care, he adds the required amount of the still-warm ruby liquid to the black, pre-prepared potion. At once, his heightened senses detect a stirring of spirits about him. As if they know something momentous has begun. He turns to face Perry.

“Are you still willing?” he asks.

Perry nods. “I am.”

“Your loyalty, your bravery, your sacrifice, will be rewarded.”

“My reward will be my immortality. I will be the first revenant raised by the Sentinels in centuries. Many will come after me, but I will be the one to take the first step and herald a new era where the Sentinels have dominion over death.” With an edgy eagerness he moves to the grave. The ceremonial objects have been arranged in such a way as to allow space for him to lie among them. He quickly settles himself on the cold, hard stone that covers the grave.

Stricklend moves closer. He swiftly conjures a Sleeping Spell, so that Perry is asleep in a matter of seconds. Then, more slowly, with more deliberation and care, he casts a Stopping Spell. He has chosen a kind, painless one, but one that he has used before and knows to be effective and reliable. Perry’s slumbering form seems to tense slightly, and then his hands jerk once, twice, three times. There follows silence. Stricklend feels for a pulse at the young man’s throat. Finding none, he is satisfied that Peregrine Smith is indeed dead.

The quiet is broken by an eerie wind that appears from nowhere. It makes a mournful sound but does not cause the leaves or branches of the nearby trees to move. It brings with it a coldness that settles upon Stricklend. He remains unperturbed. He knows enough to expect a disturbance among the deceased. His studies have taught him to proceed with caution, for in raising one dead soul, others may attempt to free themselves from the constraints of death. Some will be human, some will not.