Which is more or less when something sparks in the darkness from the flank, then comes hurtling out of toward the pair of them. The flaming bolt drives into the fetid, feathered thing. It's punctuated by a shriek, a brief stench of burning, and then the wet tarry substance of the transformed beast swallows the heat entirely. From somewhere in the dark, Fitcher says something distinctly unladylike as the mass of sinew and feather and bone and rot swings to face her.

There's something chilling about that shape in the darkness. For a moment, she's pinned by its stare-- How many shots will it take before it founders? If fire doesn't work, what comes next? A rapid, dreadful, alien and monstrous uncertainty grips her with the stare fixated on her.

The creature leaps toward her through the night. Fitcher scrambles hard up the fog slicked grass toward the church yard's crumbling wall and crooked iron gate.