The dark closed in fast. John Fletcher turned up his jacket collar, shoved his hands deep into his pockets, and stepped out of the pub into the cold.

She stepped out of the fog three doors down. Heavy boots, black clothes, dark makeup—looked like a goth girl on a late-night wander. Except the pavement hadn’t made a sound under her heels.

John tried to walk around her. She blocked his path.

—You’re comin’ with me, mate.

—What?

—You heard me. I said you’re comin’ with me.

—No, I ain’t—

She blurred forward. A speed that wasn’t human. Under the amber hum of the streetlight, her face was all porcelain skin, deep blue eyes, and a wide, wicked grin.

—You are, mate. Wycham Bridge is right up there, innit? And that’s where we’re goin’.

—Look, love, I’m going home.

—Nah. You ain’t.

John felt the ground slip away beneath his boots. He wasn’t walking, but he was moving. She glided beside him, matching him stride for stride. An unnatural, freezing draft rolled off her wool coat, smelling faintly of stagnant river mud and old iron.

—What are we doing at the bridge? he choked out.

—Lettin’ me mates cross.

—It’s a public bridge, mate. Anyone can walk over—

—Not my mates. They need clearance, I’ll put it like that.

—Clearance from who?

—Me. After I’ve got a soul with me, it makes it alright.

—What the fuck are you on about?

—Name’s Nellie Vane. Been minding this stretch for hundreds of years now. I’m the Keeper, see? Lost souls get to cross. But the toll ain’t free.

—Right. And why’s that?

—Them’s the rules, John. Back in the day it happened to me. Witch work, they said. Bridge needed a keeper.

—I’m leaving—

She moved again. Faster than an eye-blink.

From beneath the drape of her heavy black coat, steel caught the streetlight. A short sword, broad and gleaming. He tried to stumble backwards, but his heels hit the stone parapet. They were already on the bridge.

—You’ll do proper, John. Bridge knows its own.

The cold hit his chest before he heard the strike. His flesh stiffened to ice. When Nellie drove the blade under his ribs, John didn’t even feel the steel bite. Only the violent rush of heat as his blood spilled down the wet stones.

She gave the hilt a single, practiced twist.

—Thanks, John. They can’t float over the water forever.

He heard the river below, rushing black and thick against the piers. And then he saw them.

Dozens of them. Translucent, grey silhouettes drifting up from the mist on the far bank. Walking slow, silent, faces hollowed out by centuries of waiting.

Nellie stepped back, waving them on with a bloodied hand.

John tried to speak, but the sound had no weight. He looked down at his chest. No gaping wound. No blood. Just two misty grey hands, and the stone road showing clear through the soles of his boots.

—I’m dead?

Nellie wiped her blade along the hem of her sleeve and grinned.

—Yeah, mate. Yer mine now.