He sprinted so fast through the mist that droplets ran down his skin, and his feet slipped on the wet cobblestones.

With the weeping tide surrounding Trowe in all directions, Barclay knew it was dangerous to summon Root. But the algae bloom was hundreds of feet below him, and if Orla had Murph at her side, then surely Barclay could have his Beast too.

“Root! Come out, I need you,” he said, and Root appeared next to him. His ears immediately perked up in alarm, sensing the danger that approached.

“We need to run fast,” Barclay told him while he climbed onto Root’s back. He grabbed a fistful of Root’s shaggy black fur in each hand and braced himself as Root shot off down the street.

The edges of Barclay’s skin and Root’s fur blurred, and the bright blue and green doors of the houses around them smeared in the corners of Barclay’s vision. What was up and what was down seemed to spin as they raced across the outskirts of Trowe. They were running faster than the wind, so fast that they had become part of the wind themselves.

Even though Barclay and Root had done this night after night, it felt different this time. His breaths sucked in more mist than air. And with no one on the streets but them, Trowe felt as haunted as a ghost town.

Within seconds they reached the edge of Trowe on the opposite cliffside, then skidded to a halt. The mist hung so thick that Barclay couldn’t even glimpse the ocean, and chills prickled across his neck. It was dreadfully, dreadfully silent.

Until a low growl rumbled behind them.

Barclay and Root spun around. “Can you see anything?” Barclay rasped.

Root didn’t respond, but he lifted his head into the air, sniffing. His claws were out, and his fangs bared.

Glowing red eyes appeared through the mist, staring straight at them.

Barclay opened his mouth. Run. RUN! he wanted to tell Root. But not a sound came out.

The eyes advanced toward them—slowly, each step so heavy that the ground quaked beneath Barclay’s feet. The closer they neared, the more Barclay made out a tall—no, a giant—figure, with brown fur and large, pointed tusks.

It was the same Beast he’d seen before. Only, this time, it saw Barclay, too.

Crash!

A crimson tentacle—wide as an alleyway—slammed down to Barclay’s right, crushing a nearby cottage. The tentacle was covered in suction cups, and each of them stretched open and closed, open and closed, as though they were breathing. Red, frothy water dripped from them—the weeping tide mixed with blood.

Lochmordra.

Barclay found his voice. “Go! Go!” he shouted at Root. Root turned, and they fled away from the monster and Lochmordra. As they raced back through the misty streets, several more crashes thundered behind them.