Scratch arrived at the chapter house an hour late and seventy years out of style. He was a Dragon, ranked and unsworn, with slim ties to the Order. His heart, it seemed, was in the baser aspects of his Requiem—blood and talk. He wore it on his sleeve. Scratch came in a ridiculously cut black, but almost green, suit and a camel hair overcoat. A fedora capped off his fashions and clashed with his sickly white, filthy flesh. His skin was caked and dry. A wet moth stuck to his neck near his ear.

“You Price?” he asked as he leaned into the Academy’s dark brown foyer. He seemed impatient.

“Edward Price, Dedicated Supplicant—”

“Yeah, all right. I’m Scratch. Scholar, Terror, et cetera.” He stepped in and shut the front door behind him. Outside, rain was splashing down the cellar stairs and pooling outside the door. “Philosopher says you want to see St. Anthony’s.”

— Prologue