“What’s the plan?” I asked Sunset as soon as we left the building.

  “Eggs with bacon and beans, a glass of gin, and a good, long sleep.”

  “Then skip the gin.”

  “That’s exactly what I need, trust me on this,” he replied with the confidence of someone who’d tested the theory many times.

  “If we stop by Kettle’s solicitor first, lunch is on me.”

  John shook his head. “Don’t bother trying. I’m ready to fall asleep right here on these steps.”

  The conversation with the judge had wrung out the last of the detective’s energy. He’d still been holding his ground back in the office, but now he looked like a seriously ill man.

  “Hand over the keys,” I said. “The last thing we need is you dozing off at the wheel. As Chapman said, we wouldn’t want a small mistake derailing the investigation. Where do you live?”

  “Near the railway station.”

  I gave John a surprised look. That was an odd choice, as if his salary didn’t allow him to rent something in a nicer part of town.

  “You like the constant rumble?”

  “The neighbors are decent,” he countered.

  The place he directed me to turned out to be a cheap hotel, not just near the station, but in a neighborhood just one block away. However, it wasn’t the polished, respectable front side with its fountain square, shiny taxis, clock tower, and heavy police presence. The buildings here barely maintained a veneer of decency thanks to a couple of pedestrian bridges over the maze of tracks and a cluster of railway workers’ housing. But the area lacked any outward gloss. It was just the kind of place for someone with a tight budget and no lack of wits.

  John actually fell asleep during the ride. At first, I thought about not waking him, maybe trying to carry him inside. But I quickly realized that would do him no favors – it would only undermine his authority in the eyes of the other guests and the staff. So, I had to wake him.

  He was very reluctant to come to. I doubted he’d be frying up those eggs anytime soon.

  “Already?” he asked, yawning so widely I thought he could swallow a football. “You’ll want to head that way, toward the bridge over the tracks. It leads straight to the station – you’ll figure it out from there.”

  “Not even going to invite me in?” I said with mock offense.

  “Get lost,” John muttered, yawning again. With a lazy wave of his hand, he shuffled into the building, whose very name cast a shadow over the whole neighborhood. The sign above the double doors read: ‘The Last Decent Place.’ Not the most confidence-inspiring slogan.

  Personally, I headed straight for the bridge.

  A few minutes later, I was back at the station. I called Harold Moody and arranged a meeting in an hour. Left with some time to kill, I started reminiscing about my first encounter with this city. Back then, a vulgar cabbie mistook me for a clueless country bumpkin with a fat wallet and handed me over to a gang of teenage thugs. Oh, what a mess that was…

  On a nostalgic whim, I hailed the same kind of cab, but this time I warned the cabman that I’d been to my destination before and that I was armed. He seemed thoroughly spooked by what he probably thought was a lunatic, and I felt a bit guilty for scaring him. I tipped him a couple of extra fivepences to make up for it.

  I arrived at the office well ahead of the appointed time, leaving me with a few free minutes. I spent them over a cup of strong tea with milk at the nearest café. How wonderful it was to just sit and not worry about vampires, ghosts, warlocks, assassins, or any other abominations. To simply enjoy the small pleasures of life… If only my family were here to share it. Aunt Mary not lecturing me, Uncle Gordon cracking jokes, Logan making that serious face of his, and the little brats – my nieces – causing chaos. Grandfather… Well, Grandfather wasn’t coming back.

  What’s wrong with me? I wiped at my damp eyes. The last thing I needed was to start sniffling now. Get it together, you fool. No weakness before battle!

  I rubbed my face, straightened up, and checked my watch. Still early. Well, so be it.

  This time, the entire Moody family was at the office. The junior partner, Harold’s son-in-law, was busy with a client in his office, while Harold’s daughter, who doubled as his secretary, was flipping through some papers in the reception area.

  The daughter bore all the family features but didn’t share her father’s drab appearance. She had a fashionable haircut, flawless makeup, and bright lipstick – everything a good secretary should have. And considering that the second lawyer in the firm was her husband, even the boss-secretary romance box was checked.

  "Lord Loxlin," she greeted me politely. "Please, come in. Mr. Moody is expecting you. Tea? Coffee?"

  A cup would’ve been a welcome excuse to stretch the time and mask my expression, but after the café, I didn’t feel like drinking anything. So, I declined, along with the offered biscuits.

  This time, Harold remained at his desk, gesturing for me to take the chair opposite him – he must’ve realized this conversation was going to be business-oriented. Nevertheless, he started with a thanks, offering me what felt like a hefty credit of trust.

  "Thank you for Simon. I heard you saved his life."

  Interesting. I wondered where he’d heard that.

  "I spent this morning at the precinct," Moody said, answering my unspoken question. I nodded, accepting his explanation.

  Perfect. Now I could ask... but only for what was necessary. Simon’s case was one thing; dealing with his lawyer was another. I hadn’t saved Harold’s life, which meant this so-called credit was fake, and his gratitude was likely a ploy to mislead me. After I’d overplayed my hand, he’d surely present a hefty bill.

  I caught myself smiling at the thought – It probably looked odd. Replacing my expression with a more serious one, I decided not to expect too much and tried to set the boundaries of our discussion immediately.

  "Mr. Moody, you said I could turn to you if I needed help."

  Harold nodded. "I stand by my word."

  "Excellent," I said. But my case wasn’t why I’d come. I could handle that on my own; even the judge had called the accusations nonsense. The real issue was getting him to take Harry’s case. "Are you familiar with my teacher?" I began, testing the waters.

  "Sir Harry? Only by the reputation."

  "Recently, he took on two apprentices: myself and…" I paused. "Is this conversation confidential?"

  "Of course!" Harold assured me. "Not a word will leave this office."

  "Myself and another – an orphan, who suddenly found himself with a relative from the Dominion. And now I find out this relative has filed a lawsuit against my teacher, accusing him of magical compulsion and slavery. Will you take the case?"

  "Lord Loxlin, I told you I’d help you..." Harold began, predictably hesitating before countering with his own terms.

  "A shame," I said, rising from my seat. "I’ll have to ask my uncle to send a lawyer from Avoc."

  "I’m not refusing," Harold said quickly.

  "I see. You’re trying to up your price and force me into helping you with the baronet’s case."

  "I’m doing everything for the client. You could at least appreciate that."

  "I’m not your client."

  "You could be..." Moody tried his fishing line again.

  "Do you know where I was an hour ago?" I asked, sinking back into the chair. "In Chapman’s office. He was very interested in Simon’s role in this case."

  Moody feigned interest but refrained from asking questions.

  "As I warned you, he doesn’t like Simon," Moody remarked.

  "That’s true," I confirmed. "He wasn’t satisfied with the answer ‘nothing’s clear’ and started demanding personal impressions and hypotheses."

  "As expected," Harold replied. I didn’t engage further, and silence filled the room. He was waiting for me to continue, and I was waiting for him to make an offer. I finally gave in. We could play this game forever, but I didn’t have that kind of time.

  Stolen from its rightful author, this tale is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  "You either take the case on my terms, without conditions or side deals, or we’re done here."

  "What did you tell Clive?"

  "Not me – Sunset said Simon isn’t the Archmaker, but he might have been used unwittingly."

  The silence returned. Harold lowered his gaze, furrowed his brow, and seemed deep in thought about the implications. At first, I decided to wait, but after a few minutes, it felt like we were slipping back into the same old game. Disappointed, I sighed and stood up...

  "I’ll take your case," Moody said unexpectedly.

  "A few minutes ago, you didn’t even consider it mine."

  “Let’s leave it at that. I’ll take the case. No ‘additional’ arrangements, as you put it. But it won’t be free.”

  “Understood. Any work deserves payment,” I agreed.

  “I’m not cheap,” Harold warned. “Plus, there may be expenses for non-legal services.”

  I raised an eyebrow, feigning interest.

  “Bribes, detective services, search rituals, protective wards, concealment spells,” Moody explained, immediately adding, “And don’t ask unnecessary questions if you want me to use this arsenal for your case.”

  I nodded hastily in agreement.

  “Very well. Let’s head to Sir Harry. I’ve got a few hours before I need to return to the precinct.”

  We took a taxi back to Harry’s place. Moody pulled out a simple silence amulet and, wasting no time, began asking me about the situation, taking notes in a thick notebook. I gave him a condensed version of my encounter with the Sparrow brothers. Harold grumbled irritably about how I should have disclosed the number of children upfront. That wouldn’t be the last time he grumbled, though.

  He wasn’t thrilled to hear that the Fairburns were behind it all, but what upset him most was the news that I was also being sued. It wasn’t the fact of the lawsuit itself that got to him – it was that Simon had been the one to start the fight that caused it. The only thing that seemed to console Harold even slightly was my attempt to seek help from the clan.

  “You could have sent the children to Bremshire immediately. I’ve heard those forests can hide anyone.”

  “Trust me, the Bremor Forest is no place for a game of hide-and-seek,” I assured him. “We decided that the Fairburns were expecting us to do that and would’ve used it against us, claiming we knew which children they meant and were trying to hide them as far away as possible.”

  “Maybe,” the lawyer agreed. “Or maybe they just wanted to intercept the children en route and use them to blackmail you further.”

  “You don’t seem to think very highly of that family,” I remarked.

  “When you’ve spent your whole life in my line of work, you hear quite a lot of... unsavory rumors,” Moody said, refusing to elaborate further. Instead, he returned to the matter at hand. “You played dumb, pretending not to understand what they were after. That’s not enough. We need to prepare a counter-move. Wimbush is accusing Sir Harry of compulsion; the court will demand an evaluation, and they’ll send someone who will, without a doubt, confirm the accusations.”

  “You think the Fairburns have prepared for that too?”

  “Absolutely. Otherwise, none of this makes sense. We’ll need another specialist. Someone from outside the area, reputable, and unconnected to Wimbush, the Fairburns, or Smith.”

  “Do you have someone in mind?”

  “I do,” Moody said. “The Earl of Bremor.”

  “Bryce?” I asked in surprise. “My uncle doesn’t have compulsion magic.”

  “But he has the right connections to find someone who does. Or… we can circle back to those ‘additional’ measures.”

  I sighed. My obligations to the clan kept growing, but better that than the alternative Moody was proposing.

  “No, thank you. I’ll call my uncle.”

  “Better yet, give me the contact for one of your clan’s representatives. I don’t need the number of Bremor’s chief legal advisor, but two lawyers will understand each other better without intermediaries.”

  We had to pause the conversation as we arrived at “The Anvil.” I warned Moody about the invisible traps and asked him to follow my steps exactly; otherwise, he might find his feet incinerated – or, conversely, frozen to the bone. Harold took the precautions seriously, but the building itself failed to impress him.

  “Does Sir Harry have the funds for my services?”

  “Inside this battered building is a place of ether power,” I reminded him.

  “Fair enough. But I’d still prefer pounds over ether.”

  I’d expected Harry to meet us in the foyer. Our arrival certainly wouldn’t have gone unnoticed, but instead of the wizard, we were greeted by Cap. Tucked under the boy’s arm was a large jar inscribed with seals – the one Harry had used to trap the ghost of the rat.

  “What’s this?” I asked after the boy greeted the guest on behalf of his teacher.

  Nathan sighed and showed me the jar, inside which a tiny blue spark flitted about the bottom.

  “I still don’t get it... Wait. This isn’t the same seal that was on the rat jar. Yes, this one’s for containment, and that one’s for stabilization.”

  “Ahem!” Moody cleared his throat loudly and deliberately.

  “Apologies, got carried away,” I said, turning to the boy. “What is it?”

  “A ghost ant,” Cap muttered with the most miserable expression I’d ever seen on his face. Yet there wasn’t a trace of fear in him. How on earth had Harry come up with this? “Please, Mr. Moody, follow me. Sir Harry will be down shortly.”

  Nathan led us to the sitting room where I’d first spoken with Lucas Lindemann and offered tea. Moody declined, just as I had earlier. I pulled the kid aside and asked quietly:

  “What’s going on with Harry?”

  “About half an hour ago, he started shouting and swearing. I nearly dropped the jar. Knuckles came running with his submachine, but it turned out Harry was just… excited.”

  “The arch?” I asked hopefully.

  “Yeah, but I didn’t understand what exactly,” Cap replied.

  “Mr. Moody, excuse me for a moment,” I said.

  I left the room with a deliberate air of importance, but as soon as I hit the stairs, I flew up them without caring about appearances. If Harry had figured out the system behind the arch, this changed everything!

  I didn’t bother knocking.

  Harry was standing by the wall, enthusiastically painting over runes on the arch model. He was using a large brush, dipping it occasionally into a jar of white wood paint. When he saw me, he simply hissed irritably and continued his work.

  I examined the arch and noticed that a good third of the formulas were already gone. At least one chain was now clear to me – restrictions on the magical field. And down there, there was a universal link-converter. A mirrored version of it should be on the other half of the floor diagram.

  He really was starting to make sense of it?!

  “Is this genius at work or madness?” I asked cautiously.

  “I remembered your little stunt in the library. You made a few mistakes there.”

  “And how did that help?”

  “Why didn’t the arch work? So many symbols... Maybe he made mistakes too? I started looking. Carefully, I eliminated one symbol here and another there. At first, I was convinced the error lay in another, missing part of the diagram. But the Archmaker always left a burned wall behind him, and here we have half the ritual scheme intact. What criminal would leave without covering their tracks? He must have sabotaged it, and he did!”

  “By adding extra symbols.”

  “Exactly. None of this made sense because it wasn’t supposed to work!”

  Harry feverishly painted over several more symbols and stepped back.

  “Roughly like this. Look, it’s starting to take shape. Now I need to check the chains themselves, compare them...”

  “Harry,” I interrupted. “There’s a solicitor sitting in the living room, ready to take our case.”

  “What case?”

  Harry’s thoughts were clearly elsewhere, and I hadn’t told him everything yet.

  “Guardianship,” I reminded him. “And you’re being accused of compulsion and slavery.”

  “What?” the wizard asked in disbelief.

  “Harry, focus,” I said, trying to reel him back in. “Get your head in the game.”

  “The Fairburns!” Harry exploded.

  “Let’s keep emotions out of this. Wash the paint off your hands and let’s head downstairs. He doesn’t have much time, and I need to call home to ask for help.”

  “We’ll handle it ourselves!” the angry wizard snapped.

  “As you say,” I agreed, though only outwardly.

  By the time we made it downstairs, I had warned Harry that Moody would likely try to rope him into helping Simon.

  “And why would we want him on our side?” the wizard asked.

  “Well, for one, he’s definitely not working for the Fairburns,” I replied.

  “But he might be working for the Archmaker.”

  “The Archmaker is a vampire,” I reminded him.

  “Not necessarily. Didn’t you notice anything from studying the arch?”

  “I don’t think so,” I admitted.

  My answer came as we approached the sitting room, but I wasn’t about to continue this conversation in front of Moody, and Harry blocked the doorway. Clearly, he didn’t think so either.

  “Sunset and I assured the judge that Simon isn’t the Archmaker.”

  “That was reckless,” Harry said flatly.

  “Not funny. Spill it – what did you mean?”

  “It’s a system for extracting energy. At least, that’s what I think.”

  “Like a sacrificial altar?”

  “Something like that. This device could function as one too. And do you know how sacrificial altars affect cultists?”

  “They change them – make them faster, stronger, less sane. And if the spirit they’re feeding reaches a higher tier, it can even grant them magic,” I said.

  “And the cult’s high priests become warlocks, even if they didn’t have a developed spiritual heart beforehand,” Harry added.

  I frowned at his statement. Cultists with powers didn’t automatically become warlocks.

  “Well, by then their hearts are usually developed enough,” I countered. I’d delved into this topic a bit when I was looking for ways to remove my seals. It was a deeply unpleasant subject. “Developed but warped by the energy of sacrifices. And that energy – it takes a lot. The Archmaker hasn’t killed even a hundred people, while cultists send hundreds to the grave in the name of their rituals.”

  “There are gaps in your education,” Harry remarked. “Cultists work in groups. He operates alone. And his energy-gathering formulas are far superior. But even so, he’d still need to remain within the ritual’s zone of influence.”

  “The energy could have changed him,” I realized. “Given him fangs, for instance. But you’re still wrong.”

  “Why?”

  “Kettle is a sorcerer. Strong, but limited in his techniques. I watched him fight at the club. Aside from one lightning attack, he had nothing else – not even when Bolaji nearly pinned him to the floor with a spear. No one could fake it in a situation like that. Instinct would make you use every ability you’ve got.”

  “Fair point,” Harry agreed. “But it wouldn’t hurt to check him for abnormalities.”

  “I’m all for it,” I replied.