The night was wrong.
The Husk did not think this. It felt it.
This world... this Bright-Noise-Wet... it was an offense. It was a cacophony of scraping, useless sensations that clung to its essence. The cold-wet of the rain, a feeling it had never known in the Dry-Still-Dark of the Veil, was a particular torment. It hated this world.
But it had a purpose.
It glided. It did not walk. Its tattered, shadow-ragged form made no sound on the slick, black-shingled roof of the OaktownFirst National Bank. It was a seven-foot hole in the night, a piece of the Still-Dark given motion, its two pinprick, red-ember eyes the only, hungry light about it.
It had fed. The flicker-heart of the Old-Thing in the alley... it had been a pathetic, watery snack. Barely enough to anchor it here, to stop the Bright-Noise-Wet from dissolving it.
But it had tasted... something else.
At the School-Place.
The Residue.
The Husk tilted its cowled, faceless head back, as if in memory. It had tasted the event. It had been... glorious. The bright-fear-salt of the female. The dull-rage-iron of the male-pack.
And... the Detonation.
The Beacon. The Immortal-Fire.
The Husk had been forged for one reason. To find these. To hunt these. Its Lord, the Great-Shadow, wanted them.
This one... this was not a spark. This was not a flicker.
This... was a sun.
The power it had tasted in that parking lot... it was so raw, so pure, so untrained... it had made the Husk recoil. It was a jackal. It was a scout. It was not a warrior. That power, even in its uncontrolled burst, could unmake it.
But its orders were clear. Find.
It glided across the rooftops of Main Street. It tasted the air, a sense that was not-smell, not-hearing. It tasted the heart-fires of the sleeping town.
Flicker. Flicker. Weak-Dull-Boring.
Flicker. Fear-Salt. (A child, dreaming).
Flicker. Sickness-Ash.
Flicker. Flicker.
It was a river of bland, tasteless, human lights.
It moved, silent as a grave, over the residential streets. It passed over a house... flicker, flicker, flicker, flicker. Four humans. Nothing.
It passed over the next house.
The girl's house. Ruth's.
It stopped.
It tasted... something. Fear-Salt. Strong. And... Residue.
The Beacon... it had touched this place. It had marked this place.
The Husk's red-ember eyes brightened. It was close.
It glided, a shadow passing over a wet lawn, and rose up the side of the next house. The neighbor's house.
The Witch-House. Anah's.
The moment its shadow-form passed over the property line, it hissed. A sound like a thousand snakes.
PAIN!
It recoiled, its form shuddering, as if it had touched a live wire.
Shields. Wards.
The air... it was not just air. It was thick. It burned. It was woven with salt-iron-power... an old... weak... human... magic. It was an annoyance. A fence.
But... beneath... the fence...
Oh. Oh... yes...
It was not a flicker.
It was the SUN.
The Beacon. The Immortal-Fire. It was in this house. It was a roaring, blinding, delicious... terror. It was so strong... so bright... it hurt... to even perceive it.
The Husk shrank back, hiding in the shadow of the chimney. It could not attack. Not... this. The Wards... the Immortal-Fire... it was... too much.
It was a scout. It had found.
It... would... watch.
It... would... wait.
It settled onto the peak of the roof, its shadow-cloak melting into the shadow of the chimney stack, becoming one with the night. Its red-ember eyes, cold and patient, fixed on the house below.
It had found the feast. Now, it just had to wait for it to leave... the safety... of... its... Lair.