Something waits for him in the darkness. Since he woke up on a mortuary slab in Victorian London's East End, Leland has been on the run trying to stay ahead of the demon darkness, and trying to make sense of the jumble in his head. Who is he? Why is this happening to him? How are the gaslights in the street both a modern convenience and terribly antiquated to him at the same tome? Nothing seems right, nothing fits. Now he stands at the end of a pier in some Northwestern fishing village and there is nowhere left to run. The answers are catching up to him, but so is the darkness.