VII.

«Jean,» the voice called, warm and steady. «Jean-Verne, pourquoi te caches-tu au-dessous de ton lit?»

A little voice answered, «Mais je ne me cache pas, Papa.»

«No?» his father replied.

Jean, then only eight, peered out from beneath the hem of his bed cover. A pair of old, hairy feet plodded into view. He blinked.

«Alors qu'est-ce que tu fais?»

"I am waiting," he replied, gripping his copy of The Incubus & You, by Benoit Ettner. His father sighed, going quiet for a moment, before pulling up the covers to look at his son. "You are waiting? For what?" His eyes caught the book, and a grin broke out across his face. "Ah. I see."

"Don't laugh," Jean said, scooting his flanneled-bottom back further into the crevice. "I know what I'm doing."

"Why read such things when you know they give you nightmares?"

Jean glared up at his father, who seemed so smug. "It's research."

"Oh, all right then." Mr. Imke nodded. "I suppose breaking the sink and taping the icebox shut was also part of this... 'research,' huh?"

"No," he answered, shaking his head. "The sink had an unidentifiable gargle, most likely an unhatched ith—um, ithsidian."

"And the ice box?"

"A portal."

Another sigh. Mr. Imke massaged his forehead. "Of course."

"It's real. All of it. Mom says—"

"Your mother says a lot of things, Jean." His father reached under the bed, pulled him out, and set him on his feet. "What you have to realize—"

"It's in her research, Dad. Go look for yourself."

"A lot of these things might used to exist, but most of them don't anymore."

"Why?"

"I dunno exactly," Mr. Imke gave a light shrug. "That's why your mother digs up the past. To try and figure those things out."

"But they do exist."

"Well, Jean," his father said. "Some still do."

Jean lifted his book up. "I want to catch the incubus that's giving me nightmares."

"Then," his father said, giving his temple a poke. "You're gonna have to do it in here," and then his chest, "and in here."

The dream—a memory, really—was interrupted by an abrupt smack to the face.

"Get up," Vivian said. "And step carefully. You've made a mess."

Jean groaned, then opened his eyes. The smell of puke crept upon him like a low, sour fog. "Viv," he sputtered, finding his feet with a generous sway. Unbuttoning the top of his shirt, Jean pressed a hand to his chest and cleared his throat, eyes scanning the room. Sand, vomit, water, and blood covered the floor. In a far off corner, he could see the head planted into the wall. The jaw, along with a few discarded teeth, laid at his feet.

"Quite a show, really," he said, finally, his eyes no longer bulging from his head. "But I fail to see why that was helpful." Jean began to brush at the sand on his person, and added lowly, "Or necessary at all, really."

Vivian was wiping what appeared to be a black sludge off her locket. She remained quiet, though. Quiet in a way that made Jean nervous.

"It was helpful though, wasn't it?" he asked. Jean nudged the jaw with his foot.

"What you are dealing with," She said, "I know little about." There was another long pause. She drew a breath, ran a hand through her hair, and looked to the ceiling. "It is a form of Dreadvael."

A dreadvael, she explained, was less a specific being than an abstract result of corruption. It was a formless amalgamation, raw and unnerved, created when a contract is made and then broken. It was the result of obstructed magic. Simply put, it was a creature shaped out of anger and a stubborn will, unique in all other ways save for this: a blind hunger for recompensation. A dreadvael seeks what it is owed.

And then much, much more.

"They are all different," Vivian said. "Unpredictable."

"So, the dreadvael. Is that like a demon?"

"No." Vivian smiled, as if amused. "Demons are keepers of death." She pointed to the ground. "They are part of order; complimentary brethren to the stewards of life. Necessary and neutral in our discernment of the world. This creature you've found is outside the boundaries of life and death."

"And what does it want?"

"What it was promised: to survive."

"So it's killing animals to survive—how does that make sense? Not like it's eating them, or anything." Just shredding them to pieces, Jean thought. It seemed rather wasteful, really. At least hafflocks returned to what they mangled, devouring the decayed remains as if it were bleu cheese.

"Each is said to be unique," Vivian said. "This one appears to envy the living. It feeds from the misery of affliction."

"Shalhope was afflicted with rivvold's," Jean said. It started to make sense to him. Sort of. A man spending years of his life, cursed—pain echoing from the very marrow of his bones—had ample motive to share his burdens after death. Perhaps, even, that was the very nature of the disease. These days, so little was known about such things. Loumpid's, for example, was a terror of a different age that, to this day, had no known cure: The symptoms were a few subtle idiosyncrasies, followed by suicide which invariably transformed the remains to a wailing corpse, seeking love.

Madame Fiore Loumpid, champion of the pyre and legendary physician, set herself ablaze with the words: "Pity is contagious." She dedicated her life to absolving the world of this loveless curse; no further incident had been recorded after the burnings. Her sacrifice and resolve has since been considered one of the world's eight miracles.

Vivian frowned at her vacant friend. "I have not heard of such a thing happening in our lifetime."

"Evidently, the professor was quite old." How old, exactly, Jean did not know. But the woman at the university suggested it worth investigating. Unfortunately, that piece of information had proven elusive.

"Jean," she said. "This creature is growing. It will outgrow animals. Move to people."

"When?"

"I don't know. Soon."

He massaged his face and let out a sigh. "Alright," he said, lifting his eyes to hers. "How do we beat it?"

She shook her head. "That is not known. This is not so simple. More information is needed. What contract was broken? how? by whom? how was it made to begin with? – these things, we may never know."

"I need a better answer than that, Viv."

"We are ill-equipped to deal with this," she said. "There are three choices."

"Which are?"

"Take stabs in the dark, or give up and get out of the way."

"What's the third one?"

Vivian scoffed. "Find an Unwritten."

The Unwritten were said to be a collection of divine tomes, vacant of text yet imbued with with the ability to grant their curator the knowledge of anything they so desired. Like a vision, what was sought was presented, and then—within that instant—the book would dissipate into the air, as burning ash. They were the ambition of kings and slaves alike, the dream of poets and philosophers.

Jean's mother, among them.

She had worked on a whole series of essays dedicated to the myths surrounding their origin and whereabouts. It fascinated her that such an idea found itself universally oriented. Even in cultures as isolated as the Seyapinos, the Unwritten were eluded to.

However, Jean never once read anything in her works suggesting that they were still in existence—or, much less, even real. Mrs. Imke had concluded that no known discovery had ever been validated. It was more likely to have merely been symbolism for private revelations, possibly even drug-induced. Parchment, after all, used to be treated in a solution known as jhalil, which allowed for it to be better preserved and withstand the tough scrawling of crude pens. The solution was also known as an erasure, which—in extended exposure—was later discovered to affect brain chemistry. No great leap there.

Jean's mind whirred with renewed intrigue. What if his mother's assumption was wrong? If something as strange and mind-blowing as a dreadvael existed, well, the door to possibility hung wide open.

He smiled at Vivian, who all at once looked defeated.