Lye Street by Alan Campbell, Dave McKean

of Morning Road had been killed in 612, exactly fifty years after Norman Bucklestrappe, one hundred years after Henry. Carnival had returned three times to the same street.
    Quickly, he turned to the records for 662.
    His heart sank. In all twelve Scar Night entries, there was no mention of a victim from Morning Road. But then he noticed a Jack Cripp of Silver Street in Callow. Could he be Nellie's son? Was Carnival persecuting a family rather than a place, returning every fifty years to kill another descendant? Had Nellie's surname changed from Bucklestrappe to Cripp when she married?
    But how did Carnival know that?
    Frantically, the presbyter searched forward another fifty years.
    John Cripp of Silver Street, died in 712. Anne Wrightman of Silver Street in 762. Another victim followed; then a third, and a fourth, each one killed fifty years after their ancestor. By matching either the victim's name or address, Scrimlock could trace the sequence of murders like the links in a chain. As he turned to the final page in the journal, a sudden fear gripped him.
    It was 1012 now.
    But most of the year had already gone. If Carnival had already killed her victim, they would have to wait another five decades for her to strike again.
    Fifty years ago, the victim had been Mack Greene of Lye Street, descended on his mother's side from the Wrightmans, and therefore an ancestor of Henry Bucklestrappe himself. Scrimlock scanned the records for 1012 and reached his own last entry with a sigh of relief. Neither the surname nor the address appeared on this year's listing. Did Mack Greene's family still live in Lye Street?
    He rang the bell chord to summon Merryweather back. They had only a few days until the next Scar Night, but that ought to be enough time to find the descendant of a madman and, quite possibly, save his life.

Chapter Eleven
    Ravencrag threw up his arms. "No way!"
    Cope and Greene had thumped their fists on the phantasmacist's door for a good ten minutes before he'd admitted them. In the end, it had been Cope who'd persuaded the crooked little scholar to let them inside. He'd done this with some not-so-subtle threats.
    The thaumaturge said, "I cannot retrieve Basilis without your help, Mr Ravencrag. A drop of your blood began the ritual, and so I require further drops from both of you gentlemen to proceed. We have escaped the Forest of Eyes, yet there are still the memories of another two hounds to explore."
    "And there's your bonus to consider," Greene added.
    "Sod the bonus," said Ravencrag. "I'm staying here."
    "You forget," said Cope, "that my lord Basilis has seen you. He knows you were instrumental in releasing his vision from the dream of the first hound, albeit in a limited sense. He may even be grateful. Yet two aspects of the demon remain trapped, in the Forest of Teeth and the Forest of War. Would you have me explain to my master how you refused to proceed, how you abandoned him in his hour of need?"
    "He has us there," said Greene.
    Ravencrag stabbed a finger at him. "No. He has you there. You want to go back! There's only two Scar Nights left in the year and that fucking angel is going to come for your blood on one of them. You've got nothing to lose." He shook his head. "Sorry, Sal, but you're on your own. I won't do it."
    "So be it," said Cope. "I wish you a long and happy life, Mr Ravencrag. Although, since you have chosen to make an enemy of my master, I doubt you'll have either."
    "Wait a minute," Ravencrag said quickly. "You said that without both Sal's blood and mine you can't finish the ritual. Right? We can't release Basilis?"
    "Correct."
    The phantasmacist looked relieved. "Then having him as an enemy doesn't particularly worry me. What's the mutt going to do? Glare at me?"
    "Mr Ravencrag, I don't think you understand. I intend to use your blood with or without your consent. My master would have looked more kindly upon you if the blood had been offered willingly." Cope unsheathed his