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The wind blows softly through the little shrubs that outline the garden, wrapping the scenery into an artificial idyllic picture. He recalls what his client has said: scratchings at night, strange noises from the attic, violet eyes that stare into your soul. A job for a hunter.
Wriothesley’s grip tightens around the silver gauntlet in his bag. He has a lot to prepare before nightfall.
Hunting monsters is what Wriothesley does best, yet the newest case has him on his wits' end.