I picked up my spellbook and started sizing up what I could throw into this mess of malignant magic and containment spells. At least a third of the spells the warlocks were throwing into the fray were ether-air-based, which meant my Destruction of Aetheric Entities could damage the containment ones, and any standard protection would be useless in the chaos that was pulling darkness into the heart of the barn.

  Ungifted, shifters, and warlocks who couldn’t contribute were clearing out fast.

  “I said OUT!” Uncle bellowed practically into my ear.

  But an idea had already taken shape in my head, and I moved to act on it. I threw a dagger, guiding it with will alone as it traced a crude circle across the floorboards around the spreading cloud. Then I sketched a triangle inside the ring and set runes at the corners, copying the trap Harry had used on the ghost rats. Bit larger in scale, granted, and the cost matched.

  “I need ether!” I shouted, diving to the nearest edge of the trap. I pressed my forefinger to the groove and poured my entire ether reserve into it in an instant. My magical sight cut out, and the wild storm in the thin layers dulled, leaving only the visible spectrum. The cloud, once dark, turned blood-red. The containment spells now appeared only as pale blue outlines, visible in how the red mist shifted when it struck invisible barriers.

  “Ether!” I yelled again.

  A ring with a large lazurite gem dropped beside me. I grabbed it and drained it in seconds, pushing the power into the containment circle.

  “More!” I called — the seal was big, and I hadn’t exactly drawn it neatly.

  A bracelet, a brooch, and two more rings hit the floor nearby. The bracelet and brooch held mismatched reservoirs, so I went for the rings, draining both at once. It was enough. The seal flared blue, the runes pulsed, the contours closed, and the etheric wall snapped shut, trapping most of the red mist inside.

  The fragments that had leaked out before activation were hit with more containment spells, sealed into weightless spheres and cubes, and swept together with air flows, held in place until the rest of the clan had evacuated the barn.

  I recharged the trap using magic from the bracelet and brooch, funnelled a portion into my third eye, and regained etheric vision. Then I gathered up the spent jewellery and moved back, not all the way out, but far enough. I glanced over the results of my work. The wooden floor inside the triangle was rotted through from the cloud’s toxicity. Alexandra’s body had decomposed and half-disintegrated, bones now exposed.

  “What the hell is this stuff?” I asked.

  Surprisingly, Sean answered.

  “Blood-curse from Eastern Asia. Hits the etheric body first, turns it into a sieve. Internal organs turn to jelly. Mortality’s nearly a hundred percent, and to be honest, dying is preferable to surviving it.”

  “How do you fight it?”

  “You don’t, not now. It weakens after a few days. Then you can use blood magic. The place I saw it, they sealed the entire house in a multi-elemental dome and purged it afterwards.”

  “Xianghe Embassy,” Uncle muttered.

  Sean nodded.

  “We were there with Alexandra on our honeymoon.”

  “Will the seal hold?” Uncle asked me.

  “Doubt it,” I replied. “It’s meant for etheric entities. No idea why it’s working on this thing.”

  “It’s rooted in emotion — hate and pain,” Sean explained.

  That made more sense. Ether’s tightly tied to emotion and will.

  “We’ll need to take down the gallery and redraw the seal, make it big enough to fit the rest.” I pointed to the black-red orbs rolling around the floor outside the seal. “They won’t last long out there. If we’re careful, it shouldn’t cost more ether than I’ve already used, but we’ll have to recharge it every few hours.”

  “Can you rig it with autorecharge?” Bryce asked.

  “It would double or triple the consumption.”

  “We’ve got reserves. Haven’t even cracked open the last crate from Smith. Think it’ll be enough?”

  Harry packed the crates full and never overcharged for reservoirs, so the Bremor folk were more than happy to stock up, likely in preparation for the reconstruction of the Anvil.

  “More than enough,” I said.

  “Get to work,” Uncle ordered.

  “I’ll need a top-up first.” I waved the dagger in the air. It was ether-dry.

  Bryce left a handful of lads with suppression spells to help, told them to take down the gallery benches, put Nicholas in charge of the lot, kicked the rest of them out, and left the building himself.

  The crate of reservoirs arrived five minutes later — just in time. The first seal was already starting to flicker. By then, we’d cleared most of the gallery benches, freeing up most of the floor. I recharged the dagger’s reservoir and drew a fresh circle, neater this time. Inside it, I placed a triangle, then inscribed the runes. Near each one, I added two nodes, placeholders for reservoir stones, but activated the seal with only three, draining each halfway before slotting in a full one beside it.

  That way, when the first three were depleted, the power wouldn’t cut off, the seal would keep running, and the stones could be swapped out calmly.

  By the time I finished, the inner seal was still holding, but the corpse inside was no longer a corpse, just a white skeleton and a pool of rot on the floor.

  Just to be sure, I asked Nicholas:

  “Did you get your bounty?”

  His blade had been one of the three that tore the spirit apart.

  “Hardly worth calling it that,” he scoffed. “Split three ways. But if you’re worried about the banshee, she’s not coming back.”

  That let me breathe easier, no angry Feron ghost this time.

  With a clear conscience, I left the barn and walked straight into the next act of the gathering. In the pale light of dawn, a crowd had gathered around Bryce. I couldn’t see much, but I could hear him clearly:

  “…to expel Sean from the clan. If anyone objects, speak now.”

  “What’s going on?” I asked Jake McLilly, who was nearest.

  “They’re kicking Sean out.”

  “From the council?”

  “From the clan.”

  “No objections,” Uncle declared, and I shouted.

  “I object!”

  The crowd turned toward me. A second later, they parted, letting me through to the centre, where Feron and Bryce stood.

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

  “You?” they said at once. Feron added, “Even I don’t object.”

  “Well, I do.”

  The rest of the clan fell silent, unsure what was happening. A Kinkaid defending Feron? That was new.

  “Seriously,” I said. “Why? Why throw out one of the clan’s strongest warlocks? He’s proven his loyalty, under circumstances most of us couldn’t have handled.”

  Among the Ferons and the Baileys, a ripple of agreement ran through the crowd.

  Enough with the exiles. Grandfather put the idea of leaving the clan into Simon’s head, and Simon found support among vampires. Do we really want to push his father down the same path?

  “What’s speaking in you?” Uncle asked. “Reason, or guilt for killing Simon? He was a bastard and deserved it.”

  Sean winced, raised his fist like he might strike, but held back. He pointed a finger instead, shaking it.

  “My son was guilty. But don’t speak ill of him,” Feron said through clenched teeth.

  “You see?” Uncle went on. “That’s what it’ll be like every time: every mention of his son, every time Sean sees you, sees me, sees the house where his boy grew up, the barn where his wife died... Eventually, he’ll start to rethink everything. Memories fade, feelings shift, and the Kinkaids will still be here, front and centre.”

  “Sure, Sean blames the bloodsuckers as much as he blames me,” Bryce continued, “but once he’s out in the wider world, with his…”

  “Lover,” Feron cut in. “Call her what she is.”

  “…and a newborn child, he’ll need someone to turn to. And if we’re lucky, it’ll be a third party with no ties to the clan,” I said honestly.

  “Which is why,” Bryce added, “Sharon stays in the clan.”

  The surprised murmur quickly turned sour. Several Ferons objected outright, and Elder Bailey called the decision disgraceful.

  “I’ve said my piece!” Uncle barked. “This is not up for debate. The girl stays, and that’s final. She’ll be granted Sean’s house and a generous allowance. The child will be raised and trained by Bremor.”

  With that said, voices opposing Sean’s exile began to rise. Not everyone liked the idea of using a baby as leverage, but most supported it anyway.

  Even I started to doubt myself. Under these terms, we had little to fear from Feron, I’d already seen what he was capable of for that child. But no one seemed to think about the child himself. What would it be like, growing up as the son of an exile? Children can be cruel, I knew that from experience. I had no parents, but I had a large, close-knit family. What would Sharon and her child have?

  Sometimes a decision can be necessary, justified, and still utterly shameless. I voted against, as did Logan. Not because he shared my view or felt sympathy for Feron — he just backed me. It wasn’t enough.

  “The vote wasn’t unanimous,” Bryce concluded.

  But...

  “I know,” Sean interrupted. “How long do I have? I want to see to Sharon’s house myself.”

  “We’ll comb through it,” Uncle assured him. “Two days should do it. She can move in after that.”

  “Then I’ll say goodbye in two days,” Feron said. “To those I won’t see — farewell, and no hard feelings.”

  Embarrassed farewells and quiet good wishes came from every side. For a moment, Sean and I locked eyes. The warlock chuckled to himself and looked away. The crowd parted to let him pass.

  He didn’t seem particularly burdened by it all, and that was strange. He was letting go far too easily of the woman he’d claimed had brought him back to life, and of the child he’d so longed for. Maybe he thought he’d failed, as a father, as a husband, and that they’d be better off without him.

  Life’s a strange, frightening thing. Sometimes we lose those we love. Sometimes they lose us. And sometimes we walk away ourselves, for reasons we barely understand. And all we’re left with is memory of those moments, happy or bitter, that we once shared. And with memory comes sorrow. Sorrow for the chances missed, for the things that won’t happen again.

  The Feron house was scoured from top to bottom over the next two days, practically taken apart brick by brick. On the third day, the old furniture was thrown out, the place restocked with brand-new things, including a modern telereceiver that cost more than three Cooper cars. But the generosity did little to cheer Sharon.

  The morning Sean left, the pregnant woman sobbed. That evening, we burned the barn, to build a new one in its place.

  Logan and Jenny resumed their wedding plans, setting the date for the following Saturday.

  It all got me thinking, and I made up my mind not to waste time. I’d make a move on Ellie. Only, all that resolve vanished the moment I tried to start the conversation. I stammered like a sheep and couldn’t string two words together. Honestly, fighting monsters was easier.

  Our guests had to ring home and beg their families for another week’s stay, not an easy task, considering the werewolf attacks had made it to the Farnell news cycle. Uncle had to personally guarantee the girls’ safety.

  I made a call too. Things were going well with Harry, they’d already started the interior work. The wizard was pleased, understood the situation, and didn’t overload me with extra tasks.

  Uncle, on the other hand, decided to make good on all his promises and put Ellie through a week-long boot camp, under the guidance of seasoned shifters. He himself worked with Simon and Finella, bringing in warlocks who could demonstrate spells from the relevant elements. Everyone came home only in the evenings: exhausted, filthy, but grinning from ear to ear.

  I got back to my studies and training too, finished the tasks Harry had set me, picked out a few new earth-based spells, and finally sorted out my elemental source.

  Or to be precise, the feeling of a “bottomless breach” returned the moment I dared revisit the Ancient Stones. Turned out, the answer was painfully simple: at a place of earth power, my source received a boost, and instead of a weak trickle connecting me to the element, I got a bottomless well. On Bald Hill, by contrast, the trickle dried up to a mere thread.

  Our first day off came right before the wedding, and even then, I didn’t manage to talk to Ellie properly. By tradition, the women took over the clan pub, and we men went off to look for trouble in Avoc.

  Next morning, Logan and I were the only ones with clear heads — I because I hadn’t drunk, and he because his stamina was the stuff of legend.

  As the groom, Logan wore a kilt, and so did Bryan McLilly and I, as his best men. The bride wore a more modern dress, crisp white, and her bridesmaids followed suit with fashionable eveningwear.

  The ceremony was held near the clan chapel, in the garden where the apple trees were just budding, tight white blossoms about to burst. Father Martin, the only priest Grandfather had ever tolerated, gave a speech and took the vows, and right after that, the aunties triggered a pre-prepared ritual. Every single apple tree bloomed at once.

  Jenny was glowing. And Logan beamed for her.

  The feast was held right there. The tables overflowed: roast lambs and pigs on spits, out-of-season vegetables, traditional fare and foreign delicacies. Whiskey, beer, and wine. Music and dancing nearly till dawn.

  The groom, of course, had spirited off the bride much earlier. And Ellie and I didn’t linger long either.

  I admit — it was that wretched whiskey I don’t even like that finally gave me the courage to pull her onto the dance floor. After that, my hands found their place, I whispered a few words in her ear, and the two of us slipped off from the party, arms around each other.

  We walked home, chatting about nothing in particular, and just as I was about to invite her in for tea, I saw the front door wide open.

  “That’s odd,” I said aloud.

  Ellie, with one quick motion, unfastened her skirt, revealing fitted trousers beneath and a cleaver strapped to her right thigh. She folded the fabric neatly and hung it over the garden fence, then tried to nudge me aside and take the lead.

  “What do you think you’re doing?” I protested, along with all my wounded pride. I liked to think of myself as a gentleman, but this wasn’t the time to let a lady go first. I held her back and stepped ahead.

  “I’m faster,” Ellie said, drawing her blade.

  “I’ve got a shield and bulletproof skin! I go first, and you...”

  A muffled cry rang out from inside the house, and we both took off.

  I didn’t let the Goat outrun me. Shield up, I burst through the front door and kicked in the one to my old bedroom, that’s where the sound had come from, I thought...

  I was ready for anything. Anything. Except for a naked Finella riding Simon.

  My shield dropped. So did my jaw.

  Spark yelped, yanked the blanket up over both of them, and buried herself under it, clinging to Simon like a drowning woman.

  The baronet lifted his head and slurred:

  “What’re you two doing up at this hour?”

  “We were after a cup of tea,” I replied.

  “Aahh…” said Simon. “So were we…”

  I’ve no idea what Finella did to him under that blanket, but his eyes nearly popped out and his teeth clenched from the pain.

  Ellie giggled, slipped past me and said:

  “Who was it that swore up and down she’d never, not in a million years, touch that git?”

  A hand emerged from under the covers, lit with a fireball. A mortified voice said:

  “Get out!”

  “And miss the chance to finally pay you back for all your snide little remarks? Not bloody likely!”

  The blanket gave a threatening shuffle, and Simon shot me a pleading look. I grabbed the thoroughly amused Ellie by the shoulders and steered her out of the room, but I couldn’t resist one last jab. Fair’s fair — Simon had tormented me plenty too.

  “Next time, try not to scream. Strangers might come running.”

  “We’ll use a silence amulet,” the baronet groaned, eyes bulging again from fresh pain. “Oi, stop pinching me already!”

  Ellie and I burst out laughing as we closed the door to my old room. We laughed until we couldn’t breathe, and then I kissed her.

  At first it was awkward, I was clearly out of practice. Our noses bumped, our lips felt stiff and uncertain. But with each breath it got better. Her lips softened, moulding into mine; our tongues twined.

  Her strong little hands gripped my back, her nails digging in like tiny claws. Mine, meanwhile, slid down to her lovely round bum, couldn’t help but give those perfect cheeks a proper squeeze. Still not enough. Driven by a wave of desire, I reached up under her blouse, and was promptly repelled.

  “Stop!” Ellie gasped, flushed and breathless, planting a hand firmly on my chest.

  “And where do you think your hands are, mister?”

  At that point, my left was fully under her blouse, hovering just shy of her breast, and my right had snuck under her belt, heading bum-wards.

  “They’re exactly where they belong,” I said.

  “Possibly, but not right now,” she declared, removing my hands and straightening her blouse. “I’m going home. Don’t see me out.”

  “But I...”

  “Nope! Don’t you dare.” She clapped her cheeks, which were glowing scarlet. “Just… don’t.” And with that, she bolted, leaving me in a rather tense state, one that promised a sleepless night and a kind of pain no woman would ever fully understand.

  Little devil!