I thought Harry would kill him. Right then and there, smash him into the ground. Peace with the Fairburns – who could even come up with such an idea? But Moody’s expression was unshakeable, and Harry displayed an unexpected restraint, limiting himself to a curt:

  “Bloody hell, no!”

  “Then we’re left with escalation. We’ll have to play dirty. I’ve already had to spend two hundred pounds on spies. And don’t look at me like that – it’s not cheap, but it gets results! I’ve identified someone who can confirm the use of compulsion on the children: Professor Madigan. A blood sorcerer, an inventor, and artificer. He teaches medicine at Farnell’s Royal College. He’s been collaborating with the Fairburn family for ages. They buy reservoirs from him and make healing amulets based on his designs. Of course, the Fairburns will have other specialists at their disposal, but Madigan is the most prominent, and he’ll be the easiest to target.”

  “How do you plan to do that?”

  “He’s a bribe-taker. We could start with a smear piece in the papers, but I’d go further and fund a full-fledged enrolment for a student applicant. Fortunately, entrance exams are coming up soon. I reckon it’ll cost another three or four hundred pounds altogether."

  “Do it,” said Harry without so much as a wince at the price, and I had to agree with him.

  Moody nodded and moved on to the next item.

  “Thanks to the Earl of Bremor, we’ve found someone who could replace the professor. Dr Oliver Sugar, a baronet. A well-known and rather scandalous figure.”

  “I know him,” Harry muttered. “And he’s quite an unpleasant character. A wizard who specialises in illusions. He got his baronetcy for them, by the way.”

  “For illusions?” I asked, surprised.

  “These illusions can quite literally rip your legs off. Something secret for the Crown.”

  “And the baronet is rather strapped for cash after yet another divorce. If he also keeps losing publicly at cards in Farnell, I’d bet the Fairburns wouldn’t hesitate to hire a man of his talents.”

  “Wait – will he be working for us or for them?”

  “Lord Bremor assures us it’ll be for us, but the Fairburns won’t know that.”

  “I like it!”

  A beam of light shimmered on the horizon through the clouds.

  “By the way, thank you for Simon,” Harold said. “Your investigation has cleared most of the suspicion from him.”

  “Don’t overdo it,” Harry waved him off. “If we’d found even the slightest clue, your client wouldn’t have left the cell.”

  “Still, thank you.”

  We saw Harold to the door, and as it closed behind him, I asked:

  “What do you think – do you reckon Moody’s weaving intrigues for Kettle as well? Against us?”

  Harry pondered for a moment, tugging at his beard.

  “I’m absolutely sure of it. And he’ll present the bill at the worst possible moment.”

  “He promised he wouldn’t.”

  “You can’t trust lawyers!” Harry declared and strode off to his study to tinker with the formulas from the arch.

  All in all, the evening turned out to be calm and even somewhat productive. I finally felt like I was making progress with studying the spells, and thanks to Harry’s advice, I even learned to hold them suspended in the air for more than two seconds. Eventually, I managed to lift a spell off the sheet, though I couldn’t move it. Removing the sheet from beneath the spell after I’d grabbed it was easy enough, but shifting the schematic a few millimetres left or right was beyond me. The clarity of the lines would disintegrate, the runes would distort, and the spell would dissolve into raw ethereal smoke.

  I became so fixated on simplifying the process that I ended up drawing a simple circle on a sheet and trying to manipulate that. Perhaps I could have made some real progress – I was fully immersed in training. My mood couldn’t have been better, but then Sunset called.

  He said the bloodsuckers and Boladji were being released. On direct orders from the Chief Constable himself.

  My mood sank. So much for training.

  In the morning, after breakfast, Harry presented me with a pair of narrow boxes.

  “What are these for?” I asked.

  “Every time Simon shows up, the first thing he does is try to grab more power before attacking you. I’ve solved that problem inside the house, but outside…” Harry gestured at the boxes. “You’re always lugging around loads of reservoirs. So I shielded the box.”

  “And how did you fix it inside the house?”

  “Created a sort of lightning rod. Tweaked the configuration of the hall’s wards a bit. I’d left the old intrusion protection out of habit, but it’s not really relevant anymore. Back in the day, the Fairburns could have tried to destabilise the magical flows to drown us in death energy. But after the stabilisation, that won’t work anymore. You said the ghost couldn’t get inside, right? Well, now the hall will suck him in and break him down into ectoplasm. The seal is autonomous, so no more rat-hunting required. It’ll do as a temporary measure.”

  “Why only temporary?”

  “Because it doesn’t care what it’s breaking down, and I’d rather not have spirits turned into ectoplasm. You lot out in the woods are barbaric enough, shooting down earth elementals for sport. Me, I’d put them to work.”

  “Fine, fine, don’t get all worked up. Thanks for this. Maybe you could make me a ring too?”

  “No! Where’s the spell list?”

  “Fine, fine, no ring,” I gave up instantly.

  “Where’s the list?”

  I was saved from having to answer by the sound of the phone ringing. It was Baronet Kettle inviting me over.

  “What do you think?” I asked Harry, immediately adding my own opinion. “I think I have to go.”

  Harry scowled, tugged at his beard in irritation, and pulled a ring from his pocket.

  “Here.”

  “This… this is definitely a combat amulet against ghosts! You’re a saint, Harry,” I said, brightening up.

  “Don’t get too excited. When you get home, you’ll hand it back.”

  “But you’ve set a trap,” I reminded him.

  “It’ll catch the small fry,” Harry agreed.

  “What do you mean by ‘small fry’? What about Simon?”

  “During the day, he’s no stronger than a small fry.”

  “And at night?”

  The wizard smirked into his beard and turned to leave.

  “Harry, what about at night?”

  “It’ll give you some motivation to learn the spells.”

  “Harry!”

  “Take Knuckles with you,” my mentor advised as he walked off.

  I approached the baronet’s house alone. Knuckles stayed in the car, where he’d left his tommy gun alongside a couple of spare cartridges on the seat next to him.

  Kettle himself opened the door, ignoring the disgruntled butler standing stiffly by his side. The baronet looked refreshed – his nose had been straightened, the bruises under his eyes were gone. And, oddly enough, he seemed genuinely glad to see me.

  “Duncan!” he exclaimed cheerfully. “Come in!”

  I was grabbed by the shoulder, pulled into the house, and given a nudge forward to direct me along. Kettle acted like an old friend with no concept of personal boundaries.

  “Excuse me, sir…” I began, objecting to such familiarity.

  “Oh, don’t be like that,” Kettle waved dismissively. “Carver, we’ll be in the barn,” he called out to the butler, continuing to steer me toward our destination. Irritated, I shrugged his hand off my shoulder.

  “Perhaps you’d care to explain what’s going on, sir?”

  “You don’t like me,” Kettle laughed, clapping me on the shoulder. “Come on, I’ll explain everything.”

  This time, he didn’t touch me, walking ahead instead. We exited onto the back courtyard, passed a short orchard of two rows of young apple trees, and entered what looked like a storage shed. Though, in truth, it only resembled a shed from the outside.

  This narrative has been purloined without the author's approval. Report any appearances on Amazon.

  Inside, it was a proper gymnasium. To the right of the entrance hung a punching bag; to the left were racks of kettlebells and barbells. In the far corners were gymnastic apparatuses, racks of melee weapons, and training dummies. At the centre of the room, between four thick wooden pillars, was something resembling a boxing ring.

  What’s more, the ‘barn’ had a second level – a balcony lining the interior walls. It held several couches, tables, and chairs, but the main feature was the rows of shelves and racks filled with ranged weaponry: bows, staves, rods, rifles, and everything in between.

  Opposite the balcony, mounted on the far wall, were targets. A clever system of belts and pulleys allowed them to be moved closer or further away.

  “How do you like it?” Kettle asked, gesturing broadly around the room. For the first time, I noticed that, despite his reputation as a layabout, he had a good build – no excess weight – and moved with surprising ease.

  I tilted my head as though taking in the room, unbuttoning my jacket to make it easier to reach my pistol, and reached mentally for the protective rings on my hand.

  “I didn’t expect this,” I admitted honestly.

  “No one ever does.”

  “Then why reveal your secrets?”

  Kettle waggled a finger at me ambiguously before rummaging through a cabinet containing firearms. I tensed, ready to activate stone skin the moment he made a sudden move. Instead, Kettle pulled out a polished black box and placed it on the small table beside us.

  “Open it,” he said, turning it towards me.

  I hesitated, extending my senses towards the object. Outwardly, the box looked ordinary, but inside, it brimmed with death, fire, ice, ether, water, sand, air, and steel.

  “Better you do it,” I said, not daring to touch it.

  Kettle sighed and quickly flipped the lid open. On the red velvet lining lay a blackened revolver, gleaming with a sinister matte finish. It was an exact replica of the one left behind by Simon Feron. I couldn’t hold back – stepping sharply back, I drew my pistol and aimed it directly at the baronet’s head.

  “What the bloody hell is this?” he shouted, raising his hands in surprise.

  “It’s a gift, you lunatic!”

  “Where did you…” I swallowed the end of my question, unsure myself what I even wanted to ask. My mind immediately linked the revolver to Feron, but it could just as easily have been a coincidence.

  “I bought it two years ago. Thought I’d take up shooting seriously, but it’s clearly not my thing. It’s a good weapon; it’s just sitting there going to waste.”

  This weapon wasn’t just “good.” Looking closer, I could see it bore far more enchantments than Simon’s revolver ever did. And the accompanying bullets? They must have cost nearly twenty pounds apiece — perhaps a little less, as the enchantments on them seemed somewhat drained.

  “And why the generous gift?”

  “You saved my life! I might not be the epitome of honour, but I do know what gratitude means.”

  I lowered the barrel and looked into Kettle’s startled eyes. Was he being sincere, or was this all an act? The baronet lowered his hands as well but didn’t move until I returned my pistol to its holster.

  “Last time,” I said coolly, “someone tried to kill me with a gun just like that one.”

  “Well, sorry! How was I supposed to know?”

  “Is that all? You called me here just for this?” I asked calmly.

  “No, of course not! I was also planning to confess my love,” Kettle snapped, his irritation boiling over.

  “That won’t be necessary, sir,” I said, simply to say something.

  “You know, you’re just a bloody snob! I thought you were an idealist, but no! You’re just like all the other sons of rich, titled fathers, except you flaunt your principles instead of your money or status, you self-righteous prig.”

  “An interesting way to thank someone who saved your life,” I replied, striving to keep my tone even. But I couldn’t help it—it struck a nerve.

  “Get… out,” Kettle hissed, sparks practically flying from his eyes.

  Damn. Word by word, he was working himself up into the same state he had in the club when he’d insulted Boladji.

  “Remind you of anything?” I asked, playing the role of the icy statue while something inside me was starting to burn.

  “What?” The baronet frowned.

  “The club. When you insulted the Maasai.”

  “You’re comparing yourself to him? You’re not just a snob—you’ve got an overinflated sense of self, boy!”

  His casual familiarity and unbearable idiocy were starting to grate on me.

  “I’m talking about how easily you create conflicts out of thin air.”

  “Oh, you want a conflict? Come on then—step into the ring.”

  Kettle vaulted over the balcony railing with a showy leap, landing effortlessly beside the ring. He climbed through the ropes, turned to face me, and spread his arms wide.

  “Come on. I barely ever use it. It’s rare to convince someone to spar with me.”

  If he honed his elemental skills on the mat, it would explain his limited techniques. Sure, in the ring, it’s enough to hit harder by channelling an element into your fist, but that’s no use in a real fight. And it already hadn’t helped him.

  “I’m not going to,” I said, descending the stairs.

  “Ooooh, the fearsome Lord Loxlin is scared?”

  “Sir, in the ring, you’d easily best me. But in a real fight, you wouldn’t get within a few metres.”

  Simon darted toward me suddenly, leaping over the ropes. I didn’t even bother drawing my pistol—just swung my hand and raised a shield from the ring on my finger. Kettle ran straight into it, full speed, smashing his face against it. His nose burst open as he recoiled, falling onto his backside.

  “All the best to you, sir,” I said, before the furious young man got any ideas about using the arsenal from the balcony on me. I turned and headed for the door.

  I really need a spell for watching my back—something to keep an eye on enemies without turning around. Judging by the sound, Kettle had gotten up again. Damn it. Quick footsteps echoed behind me. I veered to the side, spun sharply, and raised my shield just in time.

  But Kettle didn’t charge into me. Instead, he dropped to the floor, reached out, and fired a lightning bolt. A thick bundle of searing tendrils tore across the floor, leaving scorched trails in its wake. Most fizzled out with a loud crack in the air, but a couple reached my leg, slicing through my trouser fabric and embedding themselves in my calf like needles.

  None of my protective amulets activated—except the cufflinks, which began to heal the wound only after the damage was done.

  A spasm seized my leg as I jerked it back. I lost my balance. Kettle, like a snake, twisted himself upright and kicked me in the other leg. I managed to activate stone skin just in time, so it didn’t hurt, but it didn’t save me from falling.

  The baronet didn’t even bother to stand up. He grabbed my leg, and that’s when I realised—stone skin was a terrible defence against lightning.

  The world jolted as if it were Doomsday, and my body felt like it had been tossed straight into hell. Pain mixed with blinding flashes of light and sound. The world flared like a sunburst, and I screamed.

  Kettle said something angrily. The white-hot brightness dimmed just enough for me to make out a blurry figure above me.

  “... weakling…” Simon said. Something banged loudly, distracting him.

  And then, before he could react, a large shadow struck his head. With a heavy thud, the baronet collapsed beside me. A red-clad figure leaned over me instead.

  “Hello, Duncan,” she said. “You’ve developed quite the bad habit, haven’t you?”

  “Kate,” I groaned, realising how far I’d sunk—I was actually glad to see a vampire.

  “Get up,” she said, extending a hand to me.

  “Thanks.”

  Gratefully, I took her hand, blinking away the haze and looking at the unconscious baronet, who was now being tied up by Kate’s girls. Alive, thankfully.

  “What did you use on him?”

  Kate nudged a small leather ball with the pointed toe of her red shoe, flipping it into the air and catching it with her hand.

  “Sand,” she said, tossing it to me. “Guaranteed knockout.”

  I weighed the soft core in my hand. Just a bit denser, and it would’ve crushed the baronet’s skull.

  “I’m glad you showed up, though Sunset won’t be pleased.”

  “He doesn’t need to know,” Kate pouted.

  “He does,” I corrected her. “Wait! What were you planning to do?”

  “Just get some answers,” the vampire batted her eyelashes innocently.

  I glanced at Kettle’s limp body. Sure, he was an unstable bastard, but Kate… Vampires, in their thirst for answers, would push all the way to the bitter end without hesitation. I didn’t want another stain on my conscience.

  If the Lindemanns kill him, I’ll be an accomplice—and, damn it, I’ll either have to keep silent or lie about what happened. Because I have no intention of ending up in a penal colony. And honestly, I wasn’t even sure Kettle was guilty. Feron? Him, I could’ve killed without trial or investigation.

  But this Simon? He was different.

  “No,” I said. “Let John handle him.” That way, I’ll do something nice for Sunset and keep Moody happy. Almost forgot about the latter—somehow I think the death of an old client wouldn’t improve our relationship.

  “Duncan, my darling boy,” Kate said, her lips black as night. A shadowy puff escaped her mouth, twisting through the air toward me.

  “Don’t even try,” I said, waving her off.

  “Do you think you’ve solved the problem?” she asked, her lips now tinged crimson.

  “I do.”

  Kate laughed, giving my shoulder a patronising pat. Then she jabbed her finger against my chest, tracing a path down to where my amulet was hidden under my shirt. I jerked back, but her nails—no, claws—shot out from beneath her manicured fingers. She was faster.

  The claws tore through the fabric, slicing the skin beneath. The amulet ended up in her hand, and with a merciless tug, she yanked it away. The fabric ripped, blood splattered, and the sturdy cord dug painfully into my neck before snapping.

  “Go home, Duncan!” Kate commanded.

  The world darkened in my mind. A heavy buzzing noise filled my ears, like the effect of too much whisky, and soon my thoughts condensed into one singular ‘drivehome.’

  I left the barn and walked through the house. The butler, stunned, asked me something, trying to stop me, but I silenced him with a punch to the teeth. He backed off. The car. A surprised Knuckles. The door. The back seat.

  “Home.”

  “What the hell…?”

  “Home!”

  “Duncan, what the… bloody hell is going on?”

  “I need to go home!” When I realised Knuckles wasn’t moving fast enough, I started climbing over into the front seat.

  “All right, all right—sit down!”

  Knuckles shoved me back by the forehead, and I collapsed onto the back seat. I immediately scrambled back up and tried to climb forward again, swatting at Knuckles’ hand as it tried to push me back.

  “All right, we’re going, we’re going, dammit!”

  The car finally started moving, and I allowed myself to be shoved back onto the seat again. The road blurred in my mind. Home. Home. Drivehome.

  The blood drained from my head, my vision began to clear, the drumming in my ears quieted, and my thoughts slowly sharpened.

  “Kate,” I muttered, pushing through the splitting headache that struck the moment I tried to focus on anything other than going home.

  “She did this to you?” Knuckles asked.

  “She did. Compul…shhhhh…” The pain in my head exploded.

  “Compulsion. Got it.”

  “She’ll kill Kettle!” I blurted out. “Phone. Sunset.”

  “You sure you can handle this?”

  “Phone,” I repeated, barely able to speak.

  Knuckles pulled over at the nearest phone booth and jumped out of the car. Meanwhile, I collapsed into another fit of convulsions.

  It was getting easier, though. The pain wasn’t as sharp, but it hadn’t stopped tormenting me. Drivehome still pounded in my ears like a relentless drumbeat. I couldn’t take it anymore. I climbed into the front seat and slammed my foot down on the accelerator.

  “Duncan!” Knuckles shouted.

  “Sunset!” I shouted back, the words escaping me in a surge of relief as the overwhelming compulsion started to lift.