“Go on,” I prompted after half a minute of listening to the static crackle on the line.

  “Go on with what?” Nina shot back. This vampire wasn’t nearly as cordial with me as Kate was. “I asked you what business you have with Patrick Wimbush. You didn’t answer.”

  “Because it’s none of your concern. I’m not prying into your family business, am I?”

  “Well, you know, Chapman doesn’t talk about me at all!”

  “Right,” I said, focusing. “Did Chapman mention Wimbush? Which one?”

  “There’s more than one?” Nina sounded genuinely puzzled. “This one’s name was Patrick.”

  “No, not Wimbush! Which Chapman mentioned Wimbush?”

  “The old one,” Nina replied, irritation seeping into her voice. “And he wasn’t talking about Wimbush—he was talking with Wimbush about Harry.”

  I felt a chill crawl between my shoulder blades, like a slug had slithered down my back. This wasn’t promising.

  “Wimbush works for the Fairburns. He’s causing us problems,” I said evasively.

  “I gathered as much,” Nina snorted. “I was hoping you’d shed a little more light on the situation.”

  “Are you sure you want to know?”

  “Are you sure you want to know what my boys overheard?”

  “Kate’s girls were probably listening too,” I said, tossing a feeler her way.

  “If they’d heard anything, they’d have already called. Unless…”

  “Unless what?”

  “That bitch might be playing for the other team.”

  “As could you. Funny how your boys heard something while Kate’s girls didn’t.”

  “Hey, the old man just has a dog!”

  “What’s that got to do with anything?”

  “One of my boys has a knack for blood connection.”

  “You mean the kind where a recipient is infused with a mage’s blood?” I clarified. Forbidden magic, but not exactly unheard of. The ritual wasn’t easy—ripping the donor apart in a way that poisoned the recipient. With vampires, the donor didn’t suffer as much, but they still lost a tremendous amount of strength, which wasn’t a big deal as long as they had fresh blood. “Animals usually die after that,” I pointed out, referring more to the fact that such magic leaves clear traces and carries heavy penalties.

  “Oh, how tragic! Information for information,” Nina offered sweetly.

  “I think I’ll just call Kate and tell her you’re withholding information you’re supposed to share.”

  A worst-case scenario for Nina. Now that the power balance between their nests was even, she wouldn’t risk an open conflict. It still amazed me how easily Gratch had swallowed her pride after the Special Squad incident. I didn’t fully understand the rules of these life-or-death games yet, but no matter what, I couldn’t believe she wasn’t plotting revenge. The question was: how?

  "So young, and already cynical and manipulative." Gratch replied with feigned sadness in her voice. “My boy didn’t hear much, but the old man promised Wimbush that the issue with Harry would be resolved by the end of the week.”

  Damn it! I really thought the inspection had gone well.

  "Still don’t want to share what this is about?" Nina asked. "Maybe I could help."

  "I doubt it. Is that all?"

  "I’ve put a tail on Wimbush, just in case."

  "Do you know where he is now?"

  "And what’s in it for me?" Nina’s voice turned playful again.

  "My dear lady..." I growled into the receiver.

  "This has nothing to do with the Archmaker," the vampire said seriously. "We’re not going to be friends, so I have to get something out of this."

  "Such as?"

  "Such as protection for my Martin, like the one you have on your car."

  "I can’t manage that on my own."

  "Ask Harry. I’ll wait."

  "If he’s gone back to the Fairburns, your information is worthless."

  "He’s still in the city, but the longer you drag this out..."

  "Damn it! Harry has a guest. Give me your number; I’ll call you back."

  Nina laughed smugly, rattled off her digits, and told me not to take too long. But before I went to bother Harry, I called Kate.

  "Do you know where Wimbush is?"

  "At St. John’s. Why?"

  "St. John’s is…?"

  "A restaurant in Shyne. He’s having lunch with August Fairburn and his bruiser."

  "The bruiser—you mean the warlock?"

  "Yes."

  Well, that just made things easier. Or harder. Bolaji was a problem, but... what if...

  "Duncan," Kate repeated, "is he involved in my sisters’ deaths?"

  "I don’t think so. Wimbush is just Chapman’s way of messing with Harry. Thanks for the info."

  I exhaled and quickly headed to Harry’s study. Bursting in without knocking, I found the two men standing by the inked archway on the wall. Our guest was enthusiastically explaining something to Harry, gesturing at the symbols with a fountain pen.

  "Gentlemen," I said, glancing at the still unfinished bottle. My doubts stirred again. "I know where Patrick Wimbush is. There’s a chance to talk and settle things amicably. Sir Samuel, would you mind confirming the results of the assessment to someone claiming guardianship?"

  “Certainly,” the scholar agreed, his words slightly slurred.

  “Excellent. Though,” I gestured at the bottle, “I have a fantastic cleansing potion.”

  “Don’t trust the butcher, Sam,” Harry said. Wait, they were already on a first-name basis? “That potion will turn you inside out. Let me use ‘Clear Mind’ and ‘Antidote’ instead. At our current… load, the effect will be the same, and the recovery will be far gentler.”

  “Agreed, colleague. I’d add a ‘Minor Vitality Boost,’ too.”

  “Logical.”

  They synced up quickly—alcohol-colleagues, as it were.

  Getting ready took a few minutes longer than it should have because Elmore insisted we change into something more presentable. If I’d made that suggestion, Harry wouldn’t have listened. Honestly, it hadn’t even crossed my mind, nor had the idea that we should take Harry’s Royal instead of the Cooper for our trip to the City.

  Harry cast the cleansing spell in the car—its spacious interior allowed for it. The men quickly cleared the fog from their heads, though the unhealthy gleam in their eyes remained. I worried we’d be late, but we arrived just in time for dessert. Our enemies’ group was seated by one of the restaurant’s three panoramic windows.

  Knuckles found a spot for the car in the restaurant’s parking lot. Curious—what were the prices here? Few establishments in the City could afford private parking.

  I reached for the door handle when Elmore stopped me.

  “Young lord,” he said, “I believe it’s best if you stay in the car.”

  Unauthorized duplication: this narrative has been taken without consent. Report sightings.

  “Are you sure?” I asked. “My presence might restrain the Fairburns to some extent. Bremor is one of the strongest clans in Duthigh, after all.”

  “And that’s precisely why your opponents could easily accuse you of pressuring the claimant. This conversation is already teetering on the edge of propriety, and I’m the only guarantee it will remain fair. Sir Harry,” Elmore switched to a formal tone, “I take my responsibilities seriously. I like you, but if there’s any undue pressure on the claimant, I will report it to the court. So, I suggest you keep your composure.”

  Harry nodded slowly.

  “I’m glad we understand each other,” Sir Samuel said with a smile.

  The men exited the car and headed for the restaurant. August’s group noticed Harry immediately. The table stirred with activity; the diners rose and moved away from the window, leaving me unable to see what was happening inside. Judging by the luxurious clock on the Royal’s dashboard, Knuckles and I waited in tense uncertainty for about two minutes. Then, the restaurant window exploded in a fountain of glass shards under the impact of a large projectile—composed of a human body, ether and steel magic.

  The projectile flew so fast it seemed certain to crash into one of the cars in the parking lot. Instead, a protective veil unfurled behind the person, forming wings of sorts, and halted their flight. I recognized Harry and the furious glint of his balding head.

  The wings set the wizard gently on the ground before vanishing. With a sharp motion of his left hand, Harry pulled a book from the air, and with his right, a staff. The thick folio’s pages fluttered under his hand at the speed of a bird’s wings, spells firing out on their own, embedding their etherial essence into the walls of nearby buildings, enveloping cars and the street itself. Moving vehicles hurried to clear the road; a few even turned in the middle of the street and sped away, carrying their passengers far from the chaos.

  Knuckles grabbed his submachine gun and reached for the door handle, but I just managed to catch his arm.

  “Where do you think you’re going? This isn’t our league, lad. Remember what happened to the stables? Harry wasn’t even serious back then.”

  Knuckles reluctantly settled his arse into the driver’s seat.

  In the now-cleared window appeared Bolaji, sporting a stylish addition to his expensive suit and bow tie—a spear. The Maasai shoved a table out of his way with a kick, sending it flying out into the street, and stepped outside. Tossing a glance at Harry, who was clearly preparing for battle, Bolaji shook his mop of braids and laughed.

  “You think that’ll help you, wizard?” he mocked, adding a few phrases in his native tongue as he slammed the spear’s butt against the asphalt. Thunder rumbled across the cloudless sky, and a small white cloud materialized overhead. Within seconds, it grew twice as large and darkened. “See?” Bolaji said with a grin. “I can do that too.”

  Idiot! The first rule of fighting a wizard as a worlock is to never let him prepare. We—or rather, warlocks; I really should stop thinking of myself as a future one, since I already am a wizard—are faster, and that’s an advantage you have to use.

  Harry didn’t respond to the taunt. The pages of his book continued to flutter under trembling fingers, and the spells stopped flying toward the buildings. Instead, they surged into Harry himself, making him glow with every color of the rainbow.

  Bolaji made a show of yawning.

  “Enough stalling!” the Maasai said, slamming his spear against the asphalt again. Amidst the solitary cracks of thunder, the sound of a drumbeat joined in. Cocky as he was, he clearly wasn’t skimping on his own enhancements.

  The sky darkened as the growing storm clouds rolled in. A gust of wind swept through the street, snatching a newspaper from a passerby’s hands and sending it flying. A large raindrop splattered against the Royal’s windshield, and Bolaji attacked.

  In an instant, he closed the distance to Harry and struck with his spear, aiming for the wizard’s head. A sharp, crystalline ringing sound mixed with the thunder and drumbeats as the spear’s tip froze just centimeters from Harry’s face, stopped by an impenetrable barrier. Harry didn’t even flinch, his focus still on drawing spells from the book.

  Circles, squares, pentagrams, hexagrams, and octagrams hung in the air, glowing with every hue of magic. Harry wasn’t holding back.

  Bolaji roared, gripped his spear with both hands, and struck again, pouring more strength and magic into the blow. This time, Harry stepped back and parried with his staff. The book had vanished—he was fully ready.

  Bolaji laughed in satisfaction. On cue, the sky unleashed a torrential downpour. I noticed, to my surprise, that Harry had enhanced the Royal’s windows—rain slid off without obscuring our view of the fight.

  The spear and staff spun with a speed far beyond what any ordinary mortal could achieve. Even my eyes, sharpened by years of taking clan potions, struggled to keep up. I reached into my satchel and took a sip of an acceleration potion. This was something I couldn’t afford to miss—a duel between fighters of this caliber was an invaluable experience.

  “Give me some!” Knuckles asked, and without hesitation, I handed him a vial.

  Harry parried, while Bolaji laughed maniacally. Occasionally, the spear found a gap, stopping with a metallic ring just centimeters from the wizard’s body. But Harry’s staff never went on the offensive, and neither combatant used any other magic. The drums in the sky grew louder, and Bolaji became faster and stronger. He clearly intended to win cleanly, relying solely on his spear, but Harry wasn’t about to give him that satisfaction.

  A blinding flash erupted—Bolaji blinked, and Harry’s staff jabbed him squarely in the teeth, splitting his lips and drawing blood.

  Bolaji staggered back in shock, spitting blood into a growing puddle. He swung his spear, now encased in a layer of ice, in a wide arc. Every drop of water in the air clung to it, transforming the weapon into a massive, frozen club.

  Harry waited. For some reason, he didn’t want to end the fight quickly either.

  Bolaji roared, raised the icy club over his head, and brought it crashing down on the wizard. Harry countered with a sweep of his staff, which now shimmered with concentrated steel magic. The two weapons collided with a deafening clang, like two oncoming locomotives. Ice shattered and sprayed in every direction.

  Bolaji recoiled, while Harry twirled his staff, which morphed mid-spin into a massive sledgehammer with a colossal head. The wizard no longer waited. The hammer crashed toward Bolaji, who dodged to the side as the head embedded itself into the asphalt. Harry wrenched it free, leaving a square crater that quickly began to fill with rainwater.

  Bolaji dodged the next few swings with feline grace, but the hammer moved with the ease of a butterfly and the speed of lightning. He deflected the third blow with his spear, but the fourth struck him square in the chest. Sand magic flared across his torso, and he was sent hurtling into the wall of the second floor of a nearby building.

  The brickwork flared with the ether-steel protection Harry had cast earlier, absorbing the impact and remaining intact. Bolaji, glowing faintly with the same magical sand, dropped to the ground, seemingly unharmed.

  Harry was instantly beside him, bringing the hammer down in a crushing arc. A woven wicker shield materialized in Bolaji’s hands, meeting the hammer’s blow with a chime as loud as the clocktower on the main square. The wizard actually took a step back, and Bolaji retaliated with a spear strike that unleashed a stream of fire. The fiery blast turned raindrops into searing steam, but with a flick of Harry’s left hand, one of the octagrams absorbed the force completely.

  The Maasai slammed the butt of his spear into a puddle, and a narrow icy path raced toward the wizard. Harry responded by slamming another magical figure to the ground, transforming the entire street into a slick sheet of ice under the warm rain. Harry moved as though nothing had changed, while Bolaji cursed, struggling to keep his balance.

  Then, with an explosive burst of rain, Bolaji dissolved entirely into the downpour.

  Harry instantly spun his hammer around himself, completing just over a full rotation before the weapon struck an unseen figure. The blow ripped Bolaji out of his watery shroud, sending him skidding across the ice. He lost his spear but managed to hold onto his shield.

  Harry didn’t relent. Using telekinesis, he dragged the Maasai back into the air and swung the hammer like a cricket bat. The blow sent Bolaji hurtling into a wall, but before he could fall, Harry adjusted his trajectory with telekinesis and struck again. The shield went flying this time, leaving Bolaji defenseless. Another blow followed, and another, as if Harry were playing tennis against the wall.

  The drums in the sky began to fade, growing softer and softer until they ceased altogether. Only the sound of the rain remained. Harry finally stopped, allowing Bolaji’s broken body to fall at his feet like a discarded puppet.

  The rain eased abruptly, and rays of sunlight began to pierce through the clouds.

  “Are you sure you want this?” Harry shouted, still caught in the heat of the battle. “Are you sure, Vixley?” he added, staring at the empty street as he slung the hammer over his shoulder.

  One of the puddles in front of him began to swirl, evaporating into mist. From it emerged Bertram Vixley, clad in a black PSS tactical vest. His orange-glowing eyes and distorted features betrayed his partial transformation. In one hand, he held a rod; in the other, a revolver. His posture radiated readiness for battle, and even his mustache bristled threateningly.

  “Been a while since you caused this much chaos, Harry,” the officer said quietly—so quietly I could barely make it out. I quickly pulled a hearing potion from my bag, took a small sip, and handed the vial to Knuckles. So far, no one had noticed us, and I wasn’t planning on changing that.

  The wizard raised his left hand and snapped his fingers. A glowing sigil behind him flipped parallel to the ground and shattered, sending waves of mist rippling across the puddles. As the mist spread, Harry found himself surrounded by PSS officers armed mostly with close-combat weapons. The Kilworth brothers weren’t among them, I noticed.

  “Where’s the healer?” Harry asked. “This body’s still alive.”

  Vixley relaxed, his face shifting back to its human form.

  “Retired. Six months ago.”

  “I’m not patching him up!” Harry declared firmly, spinning the hammer in his hands. The officers tensed momentarily, but after the first rotation, the hammer’s head vanished, and the staff itself soon followed, disappearing into dimensional pocket.

  "Liza," Bertram called.

  A young woman emerged from the nearest corner and hurried over to the warlock, pouring some potion into him. Harry stepped back to give her space, pulling out his book and starting to absorb the unused spells still floating behind him. What control! I couldn’t even remove one from a page, yet he had dozens hanging in the air, and they hadn’t scattered in the heat of battle.

  “Wrap it up,” Vixley ordered. “We’re leaving.”

  “Where to?”

  “You’re under arrest for this mess.”

  “I didn’t start it!” Harry protested, flinging a tiny lightning bolt at the warlock. The man’s body jerked, and the girl who was tending to him recoiled, landing on her backside in a puddle.

  “Hey!” she yelped.

  “My apologies, young lady.” Harry sent another spell her way, instantly drying her clothes and the puddle beneath her.

  “It was him who started it,” Harry repeated, nodding toward the restaurant. “Ask the witnesses.”

  From the shattered window emerged a smiling August Fairburn.

  “The witnesses saw Mr. Wimbush subjected to unprovoked aggression from Sir Harry. My bodyguard had to intervene to prevent bloodshed. Ask anyone.”

  “Perfect,” Harry said. “Let’s ask Sir Simon.”

  “Your accomplice, Smith?” August sneered. “We had to subdue him too.”

  Harry snapped his book shut with a sharp motion and took a step forward. August flinched, stumbled over the windowsill, and landed on his rear amid the broken glass. His enchanted clothing saved him from pain and embarrassment.

  “Idiot!” Harry said, laughing heartily. “You’ve got no idea who you just knocked out. Miss Liza,” he addressed the girl still fussing over Bolaji with potions, “leave that trash. There’s a real person over there who needs help.”

  “Vixley, arrest them all,” Harry added with a wicked grin. “This is going to be fun, I promise.”

  “All of them?” Vixley raised an eyebrow but shrugged. “All of them it is.”

  “Pardon me, but I…” August sputtered indignantly.

  “We’ll sort it out,” Bertram assured him.