Chapter 1: The Storm Inside

The plane bucked like a wounded animal as it carved through the storm, metal groaning against nature's fury. Leo Vance gripped the armrest, his knuckles white not from fear of falling—he'd lost that particular terror years ago—but from the sight outside his window that no one else could see.

The frog-demon clung to the wing with impossible persistence, its bulbous eyes fixed on him through the rain-streaked glass. Translucent flesh rippled over bones that bent in ways that violated every law of anatomy Leo remembered from his brief stint in medical school, back when he'd still believed in saving lives instead of taking them.

Void Sight. The curse that let him see what others couldn't. What others were blessed not to see.

"Sir, you need to put your seatbelt on." The flight attendant's voice cut through his concentration, professional concern masking obvious irritation. She couldn't see the creature outside, couldn't understand why this weathered man in tactical gear was staring at empty sky like it held the secrets of hell.

Leo clicked the belt without looking away from the demon. Its mouth opened in what might have been a smile, revealing rows of needle teeth that dripped something darker than rain. The creature had followed him from Los Angeles, through three connecting flights and two time zones. They always did, now. Ever since he'd clawed his way out of the Void with abilities that marked him as clearly as a neon sign to everything hungry and hunting in the spaces between worlds.

"Rough weather tonight," the businessman beside him commented, loosening his tie. "Pilot says we should be through it soon."

Leo nodded absently. If only it were that simple. If only the storm were just wind and water instead of the death throes of reality itself. Below them, the lights of his hometown flickered like dying stars, and somewhere in that constellation of memories waited Mister Fulcrum's Funhouse—the place where his real family had vanished thirteen years ago, leaving behind only screams and the taste of copper pennies.

The plane dropped suddenly, and several passengers gasped. The frog-demon's grip slipped, and for a moment Leo thought it might fall away into the churning darkness. Instead, it pressed its face against the window, leaving a smear of something that looked like ectoplasm mixed with crude oil. Its eyes were ancient, intelligent, and utterly without mercy.

They know I'm coming, Leo thought, touching the scar on his jaw—a souvenir from his last encounter with Fulcrum's creatures. Good. Let them be afraid for once.

The tattoo on his wrist burned suddenly, the small sun design flaring to life beneath his skin. His parents had matching ones, back when matching tattoos were the worst rebellion a middle-class family could manage. Now it was all he had left of them, except for the motorcycle waiting in his childhood garage and thirteen years of rage that had calcified into something harder than bone.

"Are you alright?" The businessman was staring at him now, concern replacing casual conversation. "You look—"

"Fine." Leo's voice came out rougher than intended, ground down by years of screaming matches with the dark. He forced his expression into something approaching human normalcy. "Just tired."

The lie came easily. He'd been practicing normal for so long that sometimes he almost believed it himself. Almost forgot that he was a man who'd spent subjective decades in a place where physics were suggestions and sanity was a luxury he couldn't afford. Almost forgot that he'd learned to kill things that shouldn't exist with weapons that defied classification.

Thunder crashed outside, so loud it seemed to originate from inside the cabin. Several passengers jumped, but Leo remained still. He knew the difference between natural storms and the kind that preceded an invasion. This was both—nature responding to the presence of something that didn't belong, reality itself developing a fever to fight off infection.

The frog-demon tapped the window with one elongated finger, the sound somehow audible over the engine noise. Three taps, pause, three taps. It was counting down to something, marking time until an event Leo could only guess at. Below them, the town grew larger, more distinct. He could make out individual streets now, the familiar grid pattern that had once meant safety and home.

Somewhere down there, Mister Fulcrum waited in his impossible funhouse, surrounded by mirrors that reflected things that had never been and machinery that ran on suffering. The man—if he still qualified as a man—who had orchestrated the disappearance of Leo's adopted parents, his sister Sarah, and God knew how many others over the years. The architect of Leo's personal apocalypse.

The plane began its descent, and the frog-demon finally released its grip on the wing. It didn't fall, though. Instead, it spread arms that became something like wings, membranes of shadow and spite that caught the storm winds. It paced the aircraft, matching their speed with supernatural grace, its eyes never leaving Leo's face.

Soon, those eyes seemed to say. Very soon now.

Leo's hand moved unconsciously to the concealed weapon at his side—not the pistol that airport security knew about and had carefully ignored thanks to his military credentials, but the other thing. The witch's finger, severed from some ancient practitioner and bound in copper wire. It pulsed against his ribs like a second heartbeat, chaotic and hungry. Beside it, wrapped in blessed silk, lay the Visitor's baton—a gift from something that claimed to be divine but felt more like controlled madness.

Two artifacts from two very different sources, both equally dangerous. Both necessary for what was coming.

The landing gear engaged with a mechanical whine that sounded almost like screaming. Leo closed his eyes and let himself remember, just for a moment, what it had felt like to be part of a family. Sunday morning pancakes and Sarah's laugh, his father teaching him to ride the motorcycle, his mother humming while she painted landscapes that somehow captured more light than seemed possible.

All of it gone. All of it taken by a man who collected suffering like other people collected stamps.

But Leo had learned things in the Void, terrible things that came with a price he was still paying. He'd learned how to hurt the things that lived between worlds, how to make them afraid. Most importantly, he'd learned how to die properly—and how to come back from it.

The plane touched down with a jolt that rattled every rivet. Outside, the storm continued its assault on the airport, but the frog-demon was gone, vanished into whatever pocket dimension it called home. Waiting for him on the ground, no doubt. They were always waiting.

Leo unbuckled his seatbelt and stood, ignoring the flight attendant's instruction to remain seated. Other passengers shot him annoyed looks, but he'd stopped caring about social niceties around the time he'd watched his first friend die in the Void's endless twilight.

His reflection caught in the airplane window—lean face weathered by experiences that had no names, grey eyes that had seen too much, dark hair shot through with premature silver. At thirty-eight, he looked older. At thirty-eight, he felt ancient.

The businessman beside him was struggling with his carry-on. "Need help with that?" Leo asked, his voice now carefully modulated to project helpful normalcy.

"Thanks, but I've got it." The man smiled, the kind of innocent expression Leo remembered wearing once upon a time. "You here on business?"

"Something like that." Leo moved toward the aisle, his tactical vest hidden beneath a worn leather jacket that had seen better decades. "I'm going home."

The word tasted like ashes in his mouth. Home. As if such a place still existed for someone like him. As if there were anywhere in this world or any other where he truly belonged.

But the town below held his past, his pain, and his purpose. Somewhere in its familiar streets, Mister Fulcrum waited in his funhouse of horrors, probably watching Leo's approach through methods that made security cameras look primitive. The man knew he was coming—had probably known the moment Leo bought the plane ticket. Good. Let him prepare. Let him marshal his defenses and sharpen his toys.

It wouldn't matter. Leo had brought gifts of his own, artifacts torn from the spaces between reality. And he had something else, something Fulcrum had given him inadvertently thirteen years ago: nothing left to lose.

The plane finally came to a complete stop, and passengers began the familiar ritual of deplaning. Leo waited, patient as a predator, until the aisle cleared. Then he stood, shouldered his single bag, and walked toward the exit. Toward the storm. Toward whatever waited for him in the terminal.

Behind him, unseen by anyone else, small wet footprints appeared on the airplane carpet, as if something with webbed feet had followed in his wake.

The hunt was beginning.