A blustering wind caught hold of his jacket as he approached the front door. Dull and yellow, a porch light glared down at him, glinting off his watch as he reached inside his coat pocket and withdrew a set of keys. Doctor Holden Radcliffe could not resist casting a wary glance over his shoulder—it was an old habit now. His suspicions proved unfounded, however, for he saw nothing but the dark, secluded street and its sparsely placed street lamps behind him. With a sigh, he turned back, twisted the key in the lock, and the door swung inward.

Radcliffe crossed the threshold, his eyes adjusting to the dimly lit room beyond. A single lamp had been left on in the far corner, and silver moonlight filtered through the sliding glass doors that led to the back patio. To his right was a living area with a round table encircled by chairs, a black leather couch facing a flat-screen television that was fixed to the wall, and a large chest of drawers. To his left was an open kitchen with white granite countertops, dark cabinets, and stainless steel appliances, all of which appeared to be brand new. Neither were there any signs of wear in the furniture, for they were little used. Guests were a rare occurrence, and he did not spend much of his time in this section of the house.

The door closed behind him, and then there was silence. Radcliffe stood in the entryway for a long moment, pondering the day's events. The crisis in Los Angeles had been averted, but not without cost. The Rider was gone. Stuffing his keys back inside his jacket, he shut his eyes and massaged his aching forehead. Still, Director Mace had decided not to dismantle Aida after her act of sacrificial heroism during the mission.

Lowering his hand, Radcliffe allowed himself a small smile. He moved eagerly through the living room and down a narrow hallway. As he entered the open door on his left and came into the lab, however, he stopped short. His smile faltered, and a painful jolt shot through his chest. Instead of finding his research on Life-Model Decoys confiscated, as he had expected, Radcliffe's gaze swept over the half-filled boxes lining the nearest countertop. He swallowed, his eyes shifting down to the spotless white floor, where the body of a S.H.I.E.L.D. agent was sprawled facedown on the tile.

Immediately, he went and knelt at the side of fallen man, taking up his wrist and checking for a pulse. There was none. Radcliffe respectfully lowered the cold hand to back to the floor and scanned the pristine tiles. There was not a drop of blood to be seen. With a forceful exhale, he rose and moved to a nearby translucent door. Despite not seeing a familiar silhouette standing behind it, he pulled it open and found himself staring into an empty alcove with cords dangling from the wall.

His stomach flipped, and he felt like he was going to be sick. He turned around and stormed out of the lab, calling her name as he searched every corner of the silent house.

"Aida! Aida!"

No answer.

Finally, he gave up and returned to the lab, running the fingers of both hands through his hair as his eyes darted wildly about. The book. Where was the book? Frantically, desperately, he rummaged through boxes and cabinets, tossing aside years of precious research to find that one thing—that single, priceless artifact that could destroy them all.

"No, no, no…" he muttered, his heart sinking until it could sink no lower.

The thought crossed Radcliffe's mind that someone had broken in, taken Aida and the book, but there was a strange twisting in his gut. His instincts told him otherwise. She had not been the same ever since she had read that blasted thing. The Darkhold—unfathomable to the human mind—capable, it seemed, of corrupting not only flesh, but also machine. She had left. Of this, he was certain. And she had taken the book with her.

"Oh, Aida," he murmured, "what have you done?"