You can’t! You can’t leave that much power in the hands of a wizard, even if he’s a bloody dropout like me!

  "See the bronze plates in the seals on the walls?" I asked Vixley. The shifter nodded. "They must open somehow—there are reservoirs behind them. Go and collect everything you can."

  I ran upstairs, calmed the kids, and called everyone down. They say giving weapons to children is a terrible idea, but I’d been learning to shoot since I was eight, so I handed out revolvers to the boys and girls. Not to everyone, of course—just the ones whose faces weren’t swollen from crying. I didn’t have time for a lecture or mental prep, but at least I was fifty percent sure they wouldn’t panic too much and would aim the barrels in the right direction before pulling the trigger. Strictly forbade cocking the hammers until enemies were in sight.

  Kettle, Olivia, Terence, and I got rods with fire spells—the best choice for fighting bloodsuckers.

  Next, I studied the protective symbols on the walls, recharged the Archmaker’s rod, and went back upstairs to the torture chamber. Climbing onto the table, I etched the exact opposite of the protective seal on the ceiling. Then I surrounded it with a simple but heavily repeated explosive chain—the kind I sometimes engraved on bullets. At the center of the seal, I embedded four reservoirs, but I didn’t activate it yet and turned my attention to the arch.

  Damn me if I leave the vampires even a hint of this ritual. I had no doubt there were notes on it elsewhere, but here and now, I was going to destroy it. I didn’t care if it was the only evidence of Nina’s conspiracy with the Archmaker. I had a basement full of kidnapped children, which was evidence enough. Besides, the Archmaker was dead. Destroying the arch doubled as an opportunity to craft some fire grenades like the ones already in the satchel. Only this time, the reservoirs were filled to the brim. I softened the stone with its carved symbols, scraped the mush off the walls, and molded it around the reservoirs.

  Once the grenades were ready, it was time to think about defense. A sturdy sheet of metal would’ve been perfect, but I didn’t have the tools for it. So, I recharged the stone rod again and kept hammering at the arch, shaping a small stone plate with two thick handles.

  This time, I allowed myself to move away from the trusty three-rune formula, as the sheer number of reservoirs I mercilessly slapped onto the back of the plate wouldn’t last if the vampires greeted us with a hail of enchanted bullets. I also remembered a simple protective spell for a steel shield and tweaked it a bit, adding a misty veil to counter magical attacks. Surprisingly, the construction worked, and there were even a couple of earth reservoirs left over, which I used to craft stone-skin and water-healing bracelets.

  When Kettle saw a familiar rune chain on the stone, he seemed offended for some reason, but he still took the bracelet.

  I quickly outlined the plan and made everyone repeat it. Unfortunately, I had to borrow Olivia from the kids. She was a shifter, after all, which made her physically stronger than Kettle and me. I’d somehow overlooked strength-enhancing spells, and the satchel with potions was nowhere to be found, so she fit into the plan perfectly.

  We pushed the table aside. Kettle, young Vixley, and Olivia—whose last name I hadn’t bothered to ask—stood frozen on the landing, ready to charge downstairs. I stood by the entrance to the torture chamber and activated one of the stone grenades. Tossing it toward the sigil on the ceiling, I quickly shut the door and managed to get a couple of steps away before the door was blown off its hinges, and I was thrown to the floor.

  An unpleasant ringing filled my ears, though it subsided by the time someone’s strong hands hauled me to my feet.

  I was the last to reenter the room. A gaping hole now marred the ceiling, the torture instruments were smashed to bits and scattered by the explosion, and the table—though we’d moved it—had lost a leg and was no longer usable. I’d anticipated this, which is why I’d brought Olivia along.

  The girl shifted into her semi-bestial form, her long rodent-like incisors gleaming as she stood under the hole and clasped her hands into a sturdy grip. Terence, sporting terrier-like whiskers, adjusted his shield plate, placed one foot into Olivia’s hands, and was launched up through the hole. Kettle followed next, though far less gracefully—he slammed his stomach against the edge of the hole but was pulled up by Vixley.

  I didn’t fare much better on my jump, but by then the bloodsuckers had sensed trouble and stormed into the room where we’d made the hole. Terence raised a magical shield just in time, meeting the burst fire of three Tommy guns at point-blank range. The bullets flattened, ricocheted wildly, and careened back toward the vampires, only to bounce off their defenses as well.

  “Back to the kids!” I ordered Olivia glancing through the hole.

  Kettle hurled his poker at one of vampires, sending a thick lightning bolt along with it. The baronet’s range was usually abysmal, but this time, the flying poker acted as an extension, striking the vampire in the chest and extending the lightning an extra meter. The thick, sparking arc jumped to the barrel of the gun, jolting the bloodsucker and ripping his drum magazine to shreds.

  By then, I’d climbed through the hole and tossed my first grenade. The stone shrapnel didn’t do much damage to the vampires, but the fiery storm hurled Vixley and his shield across the room. He crashed into us, knocking us to the floor—though that tumble probably saved him. Even with my stone skin, I howled as the searing heat burned through my muscles.

  The fire tore through the furniture and parquet, consuming all the oxygen in the room before dying out, leaving behind embers and thick, foul-smelling smoke reeking of burnt hair. The vampires, like us, had ended up on the floor, though they were more singed. That didn’t stop them from getting up first.

  Terence was the only one on our side quick enough to match them. Still on his back, Kettle blasted the nearest bloodsucker with a stream of fire from his rod, turning the creature into a living torch. I took down another with my wand, spitting a fire apple that punched a neat hole through its head and reached its brain. The last vampire was held at bay by Vixley’s shield until Kettle and I flanked him.

  This one proved exceptionally resilient—or rather, his protective amulet did. Under the combined assault of two rods and a branching bolt of lightning, his chest eventually crumbled into chunks of charred flesh. The vampire was still twitching when Vixley shoved him back through the hole we’d climbed out of. With wounds like that, not even his regeneration could save him—his lungs and heart were gone, replaced by a gaping hole the size of a football.

  I pulled an air reservoir from the bag and pushed some power into my lungs. It wasn’t healthy, but it would keep me from suffocating. I repeated the procedure for the others before pulling out another grenade and nodding to Vixley, inviting him to take the lead.

  "These things will kill us faster than the vampires," Kettle grumbled, shaking ash from his scorched hair.

  "But look how well they break shields!" I retorted. "Let’s move!"

  Vixley peeked into the corridor and immediately ducked back. Gunfire erupted from both ends, along with a half-dozen mostly fire-based spells. Somehow, Vixley’s shield was still holding, despite deflecting three dozen bullets and the spells.

  "How are the reservoirs holding up?" I asked.

  "Not great," Terence admitted. "The earth one’s nearly drained, but the mist reservoir still has some left."

  "Perfect! Seal the door with the shield. Which side has more of them? Did you see?"

  Vixley shook his head, and I laid out a couple of grenades on the floor, checking which reservoirs were weaker or had lost some charge to ensure they wouldn’t explode too violently. I found a suitable one, scratched three runes of resilience onto it, stepped aside, and tossed it down the hallway, letting it ricochet off the walls.

  Vixley immediately raised his shield to block the passage. Three bangs followed, a startled scream, and… nothing.

  "Overdid it," I muttered, grabbing another stone and repeating the process. This time there were only two ricochets, but the resilience runes on the stone’s casing kept the reservoir intact.

  "Do you think you can scare us with pebbles?" Nina’s voice called mockingly from the hallway.

  "We’re going to run out of grenades at this rate," Kettle grumbled.

  "You didn’t like them anyway! Wait, that gives me an idea!" I exclaimed, quickly tossing a pair of grenades down the opposite end of the corridor. They didn’t explode either.

  "Down the hole!" I ordered the others, pulling out a grenade without resilience runes. "Seal it behind us."

  "You’re insane!" Kettle shouted gleefully before leaping into the hole. He cursed and called up a warning that he was dragging a bloodsucker’s corpse out of the way—complete with spilled guts.

  Vixley jumped in a few seconds later. I tossed him the satchel, then turned to face the corridor and took a step forward. Already falling, I lobbed the last grenade.

  The moment my feet hit the ground, Terence sealed the hole with his shield.

  The entire house shook. Kettle and I were knocked flat again, while the hole in the ceiling erupted with light as bright as the sun. The young shifter flinched, crouched slightly, but held firm on his feet, keeping the shield in place. Fire roared through the doorframe, consuming what little air was left in the room.

  The corridor ceiling couldn’t withstand the explosion and partially collapsed. We huddled together behind the shield as fire poured from both the door and the hole above. The heat punched through the shield, and even my stone skin offered no relief.

  As if that wasn’t bad enough, the shield’s reservoir ran dry, and flames surged over us. The water-healing bracelets offered some relief, but the reservoirs only lasted a few miserable moments.

  In that brief time, I managed to regret my last decision three times, wish Nina would burn alive twice, and even squeeze in a prayer. Just as I finished, the fire subsided, leaving us charred, red, and burning hot like Aunt Mary’s pies fresh out of the oven.

  "Are we still alive?" Kettle croaked.

  "Stupid question," I replied, coughing on the scorching air.

  "I’d already be dead," the baronet groaned. "I’m as tired as a dog. A beaten, burnt mutt."

  "And yet you still have energy to whine."

  "Shut up, Duncan. Whining is what keeps me going."

  "Gentlemen," Vixley interrupted their bickering. "How do we plan on getting out of here?"

  The fire in the corridor showed no signs of dying down—and why would it? The collapsing ceiling had brought down furniture, and there was plenty of wood to burn. The vampire corpses burned surprisingly well too, but the air was quickly running out.

  We should’ve dug our way out instead of setting the damn house on fire. Now we were in danger of baking ourselves to a crisp, like one of my cuz Sally’s failed cupcakes.

  "Let’s take a look around," I suggested.

  The explosion had triggered traps on the stairs, sending streams of molten stone cascading down, blocking the kids on the first floor and cutting off our escape upward. Not that it mattered—flames were raging up there too. Thank God the bloodsuckers had used enchanted stone rather than wood for the basement supports, so while parts of the ceiling in the corridor had collapsed, they hadn’t caught fire. There was hope the ceiling above us had collapsed too, though the fire pouring through the gaps made it impossible to tell.

  Stolen from its original source, this story is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

  We were out of fire, earth, steel, and water reservoirs, which severely limited our options. What remained were stones of death, sand, ice, swamp, and magma. The stonework rod still had some charge left. Overall, the arsenal was inconvenient but substantial. If I had the right knowledge, I could’ve easily gotten everyone out of this vampire nest. But the searing smoke stung my eyes and clouded my mind. The last air reservoir barely held a single breath, and even that might kill me. Breathing oxygen-depleted air was a dangerous game. For some time now, my veins had been carrying a hellish mix of caustic smoke and raw air magic, slowly poisoning me.

  The question of whether we were alive took on a new perspective: maybe we weren’t. The clock was ticking, and we had precious little time before total unconsciousness set in.

  "Listen up," I said to Vixley. "We’re taking a risk."

  I grabbed his bracelets and swapped their charges. The water charge was replaced with swamp, and the earth in his stone-skin bracelet was switched to ice. In that configuration, the spell might freeze him solid, so I added a ring and a pair of distancing runes to make sure the freezing happened around him rather than on his skin.

  "You’re going to run faster than you ever have. Your mission is to find help. Go!"

  "What about you?"

  "Just run!" I barked.

  Vixley darted to the hole, pulled himself up, and disappeared into the flames.

  "I always figured I’d die from drinking too much," Kettle muttered.

  "Still an option," I replied, pulling out another ice reservoir. I slapped some stone onto it, scratched a quick spell, and lobbed it into the room above us.

  The blast hit, and the temperature dropped sharply below freezing. Clouds of vapor puffed from our mouths, and the chill was oddly refreshing.

  "Get up, you drunk, and give me a boost."

  The baronet groaned like an old man but got up and locked his hands together. I planted my foot in his grip, and he launched me high enough to grab the edge of the hole. I was exhausted, my strength nearly gone, and every movement only sped the poison coursing through my veins. But I found the strength to pull myself up.

  Kettle threw me the satchel and collapsed to the floor, waving dismissively.

  "Get up, lazy arse," I growled. "You’ve still got your belt—throw me the end, and I’ll pull you up."

  The baronet complied, though he missed on the first try. Still, we managed in the end.

  "What now?"

  I pulled out one of the death grenades from earlier and tossed it into the corridor, past the burning doorway, not even bothering to step back. The white flash scraped across my skin like a grater, turning the pink layer into dead flakes. But the flaming wood crumbled to ash, and the fire within the blast radius went out completely.

  "Look!" I pointed at the ceiling, where a gaping hole was visible. The problem was that there was another hole in the floor right next to it, and the flames above were raging fiercely.

  "Toss a couple of your marvelous grenades up there," Kettle suggested.

  My head was spinning, and I nearly missed my aim. After that, Kettle and I performed a death-defying acrobatic stunt to climb up past the gap, and somehow, we managed it. Even though my hands were shaking, sweaty, and that damned belt nearly slipped out of my grip. Kettle came dangerously close to falling two floors down onto the burning vampire corpses.

  "Air!" he said. "Do you feel it?"

  "No," I replied honestly, but then I spotted a shattered window with the black night sky beyond it. Summoning the last of my strength, I dashed toward it, ignoring the flaming carpet along the way. I didn’t climb through the window—I just tumbled over the sill, cutting my hand and leg, and landed on the soft grass outside with a grunt.

  Kettle fell on top of me.

  Neither of us had the strength to curse. The baronet rolled off to the side, and we crawled forward until we bumped into polished boots that reflected the firelight.

  "Duncan?" the boots asked.

  I painfully lifted my head, trying to make out the figure whose face flickered with the glow of the fire.

  "McLilly?"

  "Who’s that?" Kettle asked.

  "A hallucination," I muttered.

  "Kinkaid, I’m real," McLilly said.

  "Halluc—agreed," the baronet mumbled.

  "Here?" I managed to croak.

  "What am I doing?" McLilly replied, pulling a potion from his bag and pouring it down my throat. The unpleasant, familiar taste from childhood filled my mouth. Relief followed soon after.

  "I was accompanying Gordon," McLilly explained. "He had some dealings around here. We stopped at Smith’s place, but your little thug said you’d left earlier today. We started searching—Gordon went to the police, I went to the vampires. And now, once again, I’m saving your sorry hide."

  "Too late," I rasped. "I already dealt with the vampires…"

  "All of them?"

  "There are kids. Basement. Stairs are sealed."

  "Got it," McLilly said. "We’ll handle it. Ladies," he called, and about a dozen women appeared behind him, led by Kate Lindemann. The vampire gave an order, and the girls rushed into the fire.

  "There’s no more of that stuff, is there?" Kettle asked, pointing at the empty potion vial, eyeing Kate nervously.

  McLilly quickly poured another dose down his throat and then charged into the flames himself, leaving us under the care of the vampire. Kate stared at the Gratch estate with a dreamy expression.

  "Burns beautifully," she remarked.

  I nodded and began coughing. Chunks of bloody soot tore out of my chest. A moment later, Kettle joined me. When the fit passed, we actually felt better.

  Seeing that Kate wasn’t planning to attack, the baronet visibly relaxed.

  "They won’t shoot him, will they?" Kettle asked.

  "Who shoot whom?"

  "Your friend’s kids. You gave them guns, didn’t you?"

  "Oh! Uh… no. He’s got great regeneration. And shields too, probably."

  But Kate looked concerned.

  "Girls!" she called, taking a step toward the house but stopping when the sound of fire sirens cut through the night.

  After the firefighters came the police, the vampires’ neighbors, the PSS, Harry with Sunset, Moody, Sir Samuel, and Uncle Gordon. By then, the vampire women had begun leading children out of the house, and McLilly emerged carrying a bag with the Archmaker’s head.

  Few people noticed it, as McLilly’s illusions had grown even stronger, and everyone capable of seeing through them was busy hugging the children. I probably saw it only because the ghost and I shared a special connection.

  "I’ll make your life a living hell!" the head screeched.

  McLilly pulled me aside and held up the bag.

  "Duncan, look what I found…"

  "Simon?"

  "Is that him?" the astonished wizard asked. "Really him?!"

  "Yes, you idiot! And I’ll wipe out your entire bloodline!"

  "May I?" Harry asked politely. The head wasn’t much of a secret to him either. Ignoring the insults, he examined the skull and delivered his verdict. "Quite original! I can strengthen the seal—he won’t be able to escape even in a hundred years."

  "And what am I supposed to do with him? Spend the rest of my life listening to this endless stream of curses?"

  "We could use him as a doorbell," Harry joked.

  "I’ll break free and kill you all!" the head shrieked.

  Harry traced a small sigil in the air, and the head instantly fell silent.

  "Destroy it!" I declared. "And make sure it’s permanent. We’ll consult the vicar if necessary. I know you don’t like him, but he knows how to deal with spirits."

  "If you want something permanent…" McLilly interjected, pulling out a dagger. "Ferrish won’t pass up a prize like this."

  "Tell Ferrish I’ll handle it myself! If he wants a trophy, he can strip some seals!"

  "He’ll settle for one," Brian said, his eyes wide with surprise. "The spiritual heart."

  "Silence!" Harry ordered, pulling out a book to perform a quick diagnostic spell. "What a cunning spirit. I don’t know what you’ve been through, but the seal on your heart is barely holding as it is. We’ll settle for the elemental source."

  I was surprised but nodded to confirm Harry’s words.

  McLilly consulted the dagger, reversed his grip, and commanded, "Stand still and don’t flinch." Then the pommel pressed against my lower abdomen, and liquid fire spread through me. "It’ll hurt for a week, and the seal will be gone," McLilly explained.

  "He’s yours."

  Brian drove the blade into the empty eye socket, and the dagger, like a vacuum, sucked out the ethereal flame. The skull was left empty, and McLilly straightened his shoulders as if…

  "He gave you something in return!" I realized.

  "You know the rules," Brian said with a laugh, tossing the head to me.

  Fair enough—warlocks always keep some tricks to themselves.

  When the firefighters finally subdued the flames, the PSS turned the nest upside down, stripping it of anything useful. Vixley—Bertram, that is—returned my pistol and the potion satchel, miraculously untouched, and suggested handing over the Archmaker’s head and fingers as evidence. I gave them the head but refused to part with the fingers. He didn’t press the issue—I had saved his son, after all. Terence had been the one to call the police.

  Vixley listened carefully to my account and let me go home. I was so exhausted I could barely manage a proper conversation with my uncle. I passed out in the car, and by the time I woke up, he had taken McLilly with him to see Moody about some land disputes.

  I hoped for a peaceful day, but Harry ordered me to get dressed. Together with Vixley and Kate Lindemann, we paid a visit to the Chapmans at the old man’s house.

  The judge tried to bluster and give orders, but Bertram easily punched him in the face, knocking out his front teeth. Kate grabbed the old man by the head, pulled him close, and kissed him. Then she asked:

  "Do you know the Archmaker’s name?"

  "Yes."

  "Say it."

  "Gregor.”

  “Full name!”

  “Gregor Magnus Chapman."

  To say the judge was shocked would be an understatement. Especially since, immediately afterward, he was bombarded with details about the creation and use of the arch. He had designed it, but he was far too old to use it himself. A younger, more pliable "material" was needed.

  Vixley made Kate interrogate him about every record and scrap of paper that hinted at the ritual. Only after learning the location of each one did he ask Harry to release the old man from compulsion. By then, the judge was already sobbing with grief, but Vixley didn’t stop. He placed a revolver with a single bullet in front of the old man.

  "Either you do it yourself, or tomorrow every newspaper will publish the Archmaker’s true identity."

  "And how will you prove it?" the judge stammered. "Everyone knows people can be made to say anything under compulsion."

  "I have your grandson’s corpse," the cop replied coldly.

  "N-no!"

  "The Special Unit has stood for centuries to protect this city’s citizens. And the cost was small—our families were to remain untouched. Everyone knew that rule, but your degenerate grandson got involved with a bloodsucker and decided he could do whatever he pleased! You’ll blow your brains out, old man, and you—“ he pointed at the judge, “will resign as judge. The Archmaker will remain nameless. Otherwise, you both die, and the Chapman name dies with you!"

  We left the house. The gunshot rang out just as we climbed into the car.

  The next day, the newspapers reported the sudden suicide of one Chapman and the resignation of another. By the time August Fairburn and Bolaji Langai were brought to trial, the judge was no longer in office. Bolaji was deported, with the blame pinned squarely on his employer, while August received three months of community service.

  Every newspaper covered the sight of Lord Fairburn’s son cleaning the streets, while Special Squad operatives kept watch to ensure he wasn’t slacking.

  Fairburn might not have known Nina was conspiring with the Archmaker, but the brawl outside the restaurant had been the cornerstone of the plan to abduct Special Squad children. It was then that Harry—a serious threat—had been removed from the board.

  Speaking of Nina, her body was never found. The mansion was filled with vampire corpses—both male and female—and far more than there should’ve been. Some had turned entirely to ash, making identification impossible. It gave me a bad feeling. As did the message Finella and Ellie sent through Knuckles, promising to whip me as thoroughly as their kin had whipped them.

  Still, there wasn’t much time to dwell on it. Between my studies, I spent the next month cleaning and cooking for the household. Harry’s punishment for leaving the spell list unfinished.

  But there was some good news. One night, in a cell adjacent to Knuckles, Wimbush dropped all claims for guardianship. I suspect the idea first crossed his mind when the cops woke him up and explained that the chunks of flesh on his expensive suit were the brains of a vampire whose body lay nearby—and that his nephew had been the one to kill him.

  Meanwhile, my uncle spent a week touring the city with Moody’s daughter, visiting both humble homes and lofty offices. Somehow, he twisted the land deal in our favor, securing nearly a forth of the slums as shared property. Not scattered plots, but a wide wedge between land owned by the city and the duke.

  He’d already brought Peter, one of the clan’s architects, to Farnell to assess the scope of future construction. We’d still need to pay Harry for cleansing the land, but even there my uncle managed to find mutual benefit. The first building in the redeveloped Farnell would be a new Anvil. Harry’s only contribution? The materials. After all, it wouldn’t do for the freshly minted baronet to live in a crumbling ruin. Sir Samuel turned out to be not just a brilliant scholar, but also the parliamentary inspector tasked with deciding whether Harry was worthy of a hereditary title. The case of the children under compulsion provided the perfect opportunity, and he volunteered as an expert.

  So, in a couple of weeks, we’re heading to the capital for Harry’s ennoblement ceremony. He grumbles and frets, of course, but he’s already ordered a new suit.