I woke up early, jumped out of bed and instinctively braced for combat — scaring the life out of Norman Logg, who’d been dozing in a chair by the wall, standing guard. The shifter sprang up, instantly baring fangs and a pair of karambit knives, ears flattened cat-like against his head, pupils narrowed to vertical slits as he scanned the room for danger. There wasn’t any.

  “Sorry, Norm,” I said. “Dreamt about rats.”

  Norman made an offended face but didn’t say anything. He sheathed the knives and tucked the fangs away, then flopped back into the chair. I crawled under the blanket, groaning and hissing in pain. The bruises burned worse than yesterday — but at least my legs weren’t bothering me. Despite the soreness, I managed to get comfortable, but the sudden, monstrous hunger wouldn't let me drift off again.

  After watching the morning light creep through the window, I gave in and nudged Logg.

  “Norman, sorry again, but I’m starving. Could eat an elephant.”

  He took it in stride.

  “You’re lucky, actually — doctors gave you the proper potion at the hospital. I had to leg it through the jungle from three yaksha once, back in India. Twenty-four hours on the run, running on potions and pure willpower. Dropped ten kilos, couldn’t eat properly for a week.” Norman walked to the window and pulled the curtains shut. “Just in case. And don’t go anywhere. Shout if anything happens.”

  He disappeared for a couple of minutes and returned empty-handed. At my questioning look, he said:

  “You didn’t seriously think I was going to cook, did you?”

  “I thought you might at least find me a bun and a cup of tea.”

  “Wouldn’t help you. Give it ten minutes.”

  It turned out to be closer to twenty, but eventually, Norman’s twelve-year-old nephew burst into the room carrying a thermos and a rectangular stainless-steel tray that radiated the most mouthwatering smell — with a distinct hint of garlic. My stomach let out a thunderous roar.

  The boy handed me the tray and a fork wrapped in a handkerchief. I opened the lid and nearly drooled on the sheets.

  Fresh blood sausages — still hot from the pan. Just the thing for a battered body. Crisp and golden on the outside, soft and juicy within, spiced to perfection. I demolished the meal in seconds, washed it down with a cup of strong black tea, and collapsed back onto the pillow, pleasantly full. Even the bruises seemed to hurt less.

  “Well? Worth the wait?” the shifter asked.

  “No words, Norman. Those sausages were good.”

  “Oi! Don’t insult me! My sister makes the best blood sausages in the entire clan — she got the knack from our mum!”

  “I’ll agree with you — so long as those words never reach my aunties’ ears.”

  “Deal,” Logg laughed. “Say, what was that Alexandra said yesterday? About the Kinkaids’ dirty laundry? That it’s all your fault?”

  Clever bastard — lulled me into complacency with sausages. I probably didn’t manage to keep my face in check this time and took a bit too long to answer.

  “Hand on heart, Norman,” I said at last, “can you really say there aren’t any secrets in your family the clan doesn’t know about? And bear in mind — my grandfather was clan head...”

  Technically, the clan head is accountable, and now and then the council reviews his work. But Logg isn’t a child. He knows full well there are matters the inner circle’s never told, and decisions made that weigh like stone on the soul of the one who bears them — and the one who carries them out.

  We left it at that, but the post-breakfast drowsiness was gone. I waited for Eugene, downed another potion — this time for muscle regeneration — and was cleared to head home.

  Norman made another call and got himself relieved by a yawning, half-dead Chris McLilly.

  “Wife kept you up?” I teased.

  Chris wasn’t amused.

  “My wife spent all night scrubbing your sitting room and airing it out. The little one was fussy, and I couldn’t calm him half the time.”

  “Why was she cleaning in the middle of the night?”

  “So the smells wouldn’t stick.”

  The whole house smelled of pine. In fact, the entire block did — even the scorched patch on the lawn. After the rats, they’d cleaned the place top to bottom, must’ve gone through a barrel’s worth of potions. The downside was, the scent of pine wasn’t just in the air — it had seeped into everything. Even the clothes locked away in my wardrobes had picked up a piney tang.

  The baronet was snoring in my old room with his mouth open, blissfully unaware. I, on the other hand, nearly started choking within minutes and decided to make an escape.

  Something had to be done about what was left of my hair. I doubted those singed patches could be salvaged, but they at least deserved a proper shave. Chris and I didn’t wake Simon — we slipped out and headed to the barber’s, where a distant cousin, Martin Kinkaid, took up a straight razor and turned my head into a billiard ball.

  Somewhere deep down I’d expected the skin to shine, but it came out matte and extremely pale. The clan barber recommended a hair-growth cream — said if I applied it regularly, I’d have a couple of centimetres on top and maybe a few millimetres of brow within a week.

  Well, he wasn’t Harry — and neither was I. No way I could pull off his beaver-hat special, so I’ll just grow some patience instead.

  The day passed more or less peacefully. I spent it at Sally’s, hiding from the commotion and everyone’s attention. Toward evening, Logan brought word that the clan had begun to stir. The rumour that Alexandra had dirt on the Kinkaids was starting to grow legs. After Sean Feron stormed into Bryce’s office and locked himself in there for half a day, speculation only picked up speed. The clan head decided not to test their trust and called a Grand Council that very evening. Naturally, we were invited.

  This time Logan and I deliberately arrived late — to avoid being cornered by curious relatives or cagey elders. I hid my bald head under a hat, but the lack of eyebrows still gave me a strange, unsettling look.

  We made it just in time and tried to slip into the gallery seats — but there weren’t any left. We were pushed down a few levels. Unlike the first council, this one was packed. The elders in the front rows of the wooden forum rarely missed a meeting anyway, but those who sat just behind them always seemed to have some “urgent matters” elsewhere — and many of the fighters were assigned to guard the clan borders. Their votes, of course, weren’t lost — they were passed to their family patriarchs, and in the case of a serious decision, a simple show of hands wouldn’t be enough.

  The leadership table by the far wall, with its four seats, remained empty — but it looked like Uncle Bryce, Secretary-Speaker Diana Bailey, Nicholas Boily, and Lisa Logg were about to take them. They stood nearby, deep in conversation under a protective spell — the kind that didn’t even let you read lips. Uncle Gordon had taken a seat among the spectators next to old man Kink. Which made sense — I wasn’t expecting budgetary issues to be on the agenda tonight.

  Behind the leadership chairs stood not just Bryan McLilly, but also Alexandra Feron, shackled in heavy iron cuffs. A gag in her mouth kept her from speaking prematurely, but her eyes were sharp with venom, especially when they landed on her husband — seated a few rows down from me, directly across the aisle. I would’ve been glad to be getting less attention if not for the curious glances thrown my way by the rest of the clan.

  The hall buzzed like a disturbed hive. Diana was still settling last-minute details with Bryce and Nicholas. Lisa didn’t seem to be contributing, but her furrowed brow and frequent glances at the documents in her hands suggested she had a role to play.

  Suddenly, the protective dome around the leadership collapsed. Diana didn’t even have to call for silence — it fell naturally.

  She remained standing. Neither Bryce, Nicholas, nor Lisa moved to take their seats either — Lisa had stepped back toward Bryan McLilly.

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  Then Diana began to speak. In the hush that had fallen, she didn’t even need to raise her voice.

  “I believe you already know why we’re here,” Diana said. “The clan accuses Alexandra Feron of colluding with vampires and werewolves, and aiding those creatures in their efforts to destroy the clan!”

  A murmur rolled through the hall. Diana let it die down before continuing.

  “The last time we judged a traitor within the clan was three or four hundred years ago. The last tribunal of any kind was ten years back, and most of you have forgotten how it’s done. But we won’t be handing this over to the royal courts — as always, we’ll settle things ourselves.

  “First, we must choose a judge — they’ll conduct the proceedings, determine who speaks and when, and initiate the formal vote, in which only members of the Inner Council may participate.”

  A fresh wave of muttering swept through the chamber — displeased, this time. Diana had to raise her voice.

  “Silence! The judge is chosen by all present.”

  Several names were called out from the crowd — some of the oldest and most respected in the clan. One family shouted over another, tensions rising fast, until old Lady Logg, true to form, outshouted everyone with a single suggestion: William McLal. A man who could’ve challenged Uncle Bryce for clan leadership — but chose instead to spend more time with his grandchildren.

  The name triggered another murmur, this time approving. No one but William objected, so no vote was held. He was forced to take the empty seat at the centre of the table.

  Diana turned to him and went on.

  “There are four principal speakers in this case: Bryce, Nicholas, Lisa, and Alexandra. We can begin with any of them — or someone else, if there’s a suggestion.”

  “May I?” Bryce asked. “I’ve something to say.”

  “Please,” William allowed.

  My uncle stepped into the centre of the forum.

  “I owe the clan an apology. Even before I took this post, I had suspicions about the Ferons — specifically Sean — having ties to vampires.”

  His words struck like thunder. Several Ferons jumped to their feet and began shouting all manner of abuse. Sean remained seated. He and Bryce locked eyes, and my uncle continued — telling the clan the story of Gregor’s burial.

  I hadn’t expected such honesty from him. Though, in his telling, the tale was rather trimmed down — even so, it was shocking. Many began cursing it as nonsense or lies — naturally, the Ferons again. But Sean’s stony silence made others pause.

  William noticed it.

  “Is Bryce telling the truth?” the judge asked.

  “No idea,” the warlock replied.

  “Then why aren’t you denying it?”

  “Because it might well be true,” Sean said — to everyone’s surprise.

  Alexandra lunged toward him, trying to scream insults through her gag. He didn’t even glance at her.

  “Judge, I have something to say as well. But it’s not my time yet. Better you ask someone who was directly involved.” His finger pointed at me. “Let him tell you everything — including how he killed my son.”

  So much for hoping it would all pass me by.

  No such luck.

  The statement set the hall ablaze. Opinions split immediately: had I punished a traitor, or just settled a score with a fellow clansman?

  William had no choice but to go along with the provocation — at least to cool the room down. So I had to tell them: how I laid Grandfather to rest, how I fought Simon in Farnell. I also had to mention I’d found the name “Farnell” in my grandfather’s journal.

  But I couldn’t bring myself to say that it was Grandfather who’d orchestrated Simon’s disappearance. Cowardice, maybe. But I didn’t want the great head’s reputation tarnished. Whoever had been involved in that story, whoever had monitored Simon — they kept quiet too.

  After me, William had Bryan and Chris McLilly speak, then gave Bryce the floor again to fill in the gaps. Only Evan was spared questioning — still in hospital, wrapped in plaster. The story was curious, yes — but it still didn’t explain how Alexandra had betrayed the clan. So William gave the order to remove her gag.

  She was brought to the centre of the forum and unbound. Despite her dishevelled appearance, the witch held her head high — and in her eyes, an ocean of hatred churned.

  “It’s time for your version of the story,” said the judge.

  “Farce! A bloody farce and a shameless lie!” Alexandra spat on the floor, pure contempt for the gathering in her gesture.

  “Where’s the proof? Who, besides the Kinkaids, saw my son the day before the funeral? Come on, I’m asking you — who?!”

  She struck the pose of righteous fury, barely holding back from full-blown madness. “One Kinkaid stole my son’s future. The rest forced him out of the clan. And when he took back his strength — tore it from fate — they killed him. That’s my story!

  But you don’t care. You’re ready to believe whatever rubbish your so-called great leader is spewing. Because none of you give a damn about my boy’s ruined life! It’s only your own who matter — just look at you, squirming now you feel the flames licking at your own backsides!”

  “He had dealings with vampires!” someone shouted from the hall.

  Alexandra snapped, spraying spit, screaming back:

  “It was the Kinkaids who pushed him to the vampires!”

  “And who pushed you?” came the follow-up.

  The hall exploded. Whatever she shouted next was lost in the rising roar.

  Diana called the room to order with a voice that could’ve shattered glass.

  “That was a good question,” said William. “According to you, the Kinkaids pushed Simon to the vampires. Did they do the same to you?”

  “What was I supposed to do when even his father betrayed his memory?” she snapped.

  All eyes turned to Sean. Alexandra looked triumphant — as if she’d just smeared her husband in filth and loved every second of it.

  “Is it time for your story, then?” William asked.

  Feron rose from his seat and stepped down toward his wife.

  “You have no idea how much I want to kill you,” he said. “The same way I wanted to kill Duncan, Bryce, and every other bloody Kinkaid when I learned my son was dead.”

  Alexandra lunged at him, grabbing his coat with manacled hands.

  “And yet you did nothing, you spineless coward!” She pulled back, filled her lungs, and spat full in his face.

  No one reacted in time. Sean raised a hand — shadows flared in shifting colours around it — and for a moment he was about to strike her. But he didn’t.

  Alexandra laughed.

  “Pathetic,” she hissed, letting him go.

  Sean closed his eyes, calmed himself, wiped the spit from his face, and told his story. How a master vampire had given him his son’s journal. How he buried it in a field — and then dug it up again with me.

  One detail he left out: the real reason for what he did — the child his young mistress now carried.

  But in truth, with his own words, he dug a grave for both himself and Alexandra. She tried to interrupt — shouting, spitting, clawing at the air like she meant to scratch his eyes out. William ordered the guards to restrain her and nearly had the gag put back on.

  Sean’s testimony brought up the story of Jenny’s abduction. I had to speak again, as did Logan, Bryan, Uncle Bryce, the lads who’d guarded Sharon — and of course, Nicholas Boily. There were too many speakers, and they kept switching places, so William had a bench brought over to the side entrance, directly opposite the leadership table.

  Boily, speaking in cold, clinical terms, dug Alexandra’s grave even deeper. He linked the grandfather’s murder to recent events — reminded the clan of the werewolf’s tattoos. Few knew about them, but some did. He spoke of chimeras, of poison, of the vampirism virus.

  The scale of the plan to destroy the clan stunned everyone who hadn’t yet grasped it. But most damning of all — Alexandra didn’t even deny her part in it. By the time the sun began to filter through the tiny windows near the ceiling, she seemed utterly unhinged — laughing, cursing, raving.

  Lisa Logg was the last to speak.

  In a surprisingly short time, she had gathered an impressive number of reports about a group known as the Blood Moon Clan. This information wasn’t directly about Alexandra, but it offered a glimpse of the true scale of an underground organisation made up of creatures who, until now, had shown neither unity nor the capacity for secrecy.

  The most astonishing part? The Bremor clan had unknowingly hunted its members — more than once.

  After questioning everyone for the third time, the judge gave the clansfolk a chance to speak in Alexandra’s defence. No one rose.

  That, more than anything, sent her into another fit of laughter. She didn’t even try to say anything meaningful in her own defence.

  “How I hate you all,” she said, wearing an unnervingly gentle, weary smile, looking straight at us — the ones who had spoken against her. “I failed to get revenge, my boy… but I haven’t given up. My heart is breaking.”

  The witch turned toward us, taking a few slow steps. William gave a signal, and the guards moved to flank her, ready to intercept anything foolish.

  “I hate you!” she snarled, voice warped by pain. “I cur—”

  Her chest began to convulse, rising unnaturally, as if swelling from within. Her face turned ghostly pale. I realised, suddenly, the room was saturated with raw emotion and the magic of dozens of amulets — the conditions were nearly identical to those that birthed Simon’s ghost.

  Alexandra had been feeding herself on hate — storing up madness and violent intent, trying to break through the restraints and cast something. A ghost, maybe — or something worse. A ripple of danger rolled off her. The guards gripped her shoulders. The men on our bench raised shields. But this wasn’t that.

  I pulled out my spellbook and, barely glancing, snatched the spell for Destruction of Aetheric Entities, suspending it in midair.

  I still don’t know how I managed it — but I didn’t stop. I reached again and drew out Protection Against Aetheric Entities. To control both spells, I needed both hands, so I let the book fall.

  Her chest swelled like an overinflated balloon. Buttons burst from her blouse like bullets, revealing tight, drum-taut skin.

  “I curse—!” Alexandra screamed.

  There was so much will, so much hatred in her voice that I struck. Both spells flew from my hands a split second before the swelling on her chest burst — drenching us in a fountain of blood and shredded flesh.

  Her body slumped in the guards’ hands — the sternum blasted open — and above it hung a thick cloud of deep red magical vapour, shot through with blue sparks of ether. Inside it, something thrashed — a soul, screaming, torn by spells. A body black as hatred, ripped into pieces by jagged, glowing fissures.

  The guards dropped the corpse and backed away.

  “Don’t touch the cloud!” Bryce commanded.

  “Blades!” I shouted, remembering how Ferrish had captured Simon’s ghost.

  “The cloud is dangerous,” Bryce insisted.

  I activated my ether-steel shield and shoved it into the red mist, forcing it into the vengeful spirit. Only once the magical plane had made contact did I pull back.

  Three enchanted blades struck the soul’s aetheric form — and tore it apart.

  Unfortunately, that drained my spells, and the red cloud began to spread.

  The men backed away. From across the hall, a bolt of blue light shot into the vapour, followed by a glowing orb — then a spray of sparks.

  Spells of ether, water, ice — and God knows what else — rained down on the cloud. The crimson mass began to contract, collapsing onto the floor in toxic droplets. Wherever it touched, the wood rotted — and even Alexandra’s body began to decay. The mist evaporated upward, eating into the roof despite every layer of enchantment.

  But most of the spells struck true, catching pieces of the cloud and locking them away in temporary containers of pure magic.

  “Everyone out,” Bryce ordered. “One at a time. No panic.”