The third gut punch hit when the encampment’s alarm bells began ringing. Mages looked about the hall—most of them military officers after all—wanting to rejoin their units, and Adarin rapidly considered the entire situation.

  “Anyone who is cleared, get back to your units. Marines—keep the remaining ones under guard. Set them free if you are attacked.” He looked at the scribe. “You have listed everyone someone vouched for?”

  “Yes, sir,” she answered meekly.

  Adarin grabbed her notebook and ran off, leading a horde of mages into the encampment. The bell that was beating was the one over the main entrance. Of course it was. He ran out, following hundreds of civilians and soldiers. He rolled his eyes. Despite everything, people still rushed toward the fire like idiots drawn to gawk.

  As he passed the main tunnel he saw what had happened: the ruins of a transport caravan—wagons swallowed by a howling inferno that scorched dozens of square meters. The caravan must have been carrying tar or oil and someone dropped an explosive onto it. Sabotage or an attack? He bit his avatar’s lip, then froze, letting the stream of people flow by him as he took cover behind the colonnades. People stalled out in the marketplace, gawking at the flames. Several dozen workers had already begun trying to put them out. In the distance where the flotilla was anchored, smoke rolled over the forest into the clear sky.

  Adarin frowned. This… this isn’t right. Something feels off. He dove into his inner world and ran a mental visualization protocol over his magical cores. He felt it around the illusion core—an ever-shifting geodesic dome of spider-silk strands, sliding uselessly across the core’s surface. He cut the few strings that had connected—and suddenly the world snapped into clearer focus. Thank you, beech tree magic.

  He looked around. This is a distraction. What are they really after? Don’t— He caught himself. Fuck, the mages. He began running back inside the temple and reached out. ‘Krislov. Are you alive?’

  The mage captain’s frown could almost be felt over the link. ‘Sir Adarin. Of course I am?’

  ‘Good. Stay that way,’ Adarin hissed. ‘And tell everyone. Every mage in there—tell them to check their illusion cores for a spell. It’s like a spiderweb formed into a geodesic dome around the core.’

  Silence. Then: ‘I… I just removed it from my mind. It… it no longer feels like I have to check out those explosions.’

  ‘Yes,’ Adarin hissed, feeling hot annoyance in his chest. Those fucking games. ‘Guard the door. Kill anyone who comes through it. Give no warning. Just shoot.’ He relayed the orders to cut the spell—and to kill anyone who rushed the door—to the marine captain as well.

  Okay, not the mages. Where then? He considered. There are powder depots, but they are tents in the middle of deep dugouts; Rüdiger already had safety protocols for storing explosives. Might still blow them, but it won’t hurt us enough.

  He checked by the pagoda, on whose roofs the streams of blood—subtle yet unmistakable if you looked—hadn’t yet been cleaned up. He looked over the unguarded warding array. A few civilian stragglers and soldiers were still stumbling toward the exit of the encampment, but Adarin shook his head. Of course everyone ran. Well, I fell into that spell as well, and I probably have the best resistances here.

  He nearly yelped when Devon appeared around the corner. The kobold looked around, deep confusion on his face. “Where is everyone going?” he hissed. “Where are my guards?”

  “Devon, we are under attack.” He snapped at the confused black scaled lizard. “Check your illusion core. There’s a spell—”

  “Yes, yes,” Devon replied. “A network of spiderwe—”

  Adarin bit his tongue, realizing his mistake in time. Hopefully in time. He reached out over the noospheric link. ‘Attention, attention. You are under an illusion spell. Examine your illusion magic core. You will find a three-dimensional spiderweb woven around it. Cut it and the compulsion to walk toward the explosion will go away. Return to the encampment.’

  Confused murmurs from officers erupted all over, and Adarin ground his teeth. That will free up the mages that got out—but the civilians, the soldiers—they need wrangling until the spell is removed.

  He started toward the back buildings. Statistically, that’s where most of our resources were stored. If this is an attack—a siege—they should be going after our supplies.

  “Liora—” He reached out, but only got back curses. After a few exchanges it became clear: she was wrangling patients in the hospital, trying to keep them in their beds. He described the spell to her as well, and for a second she froze. Then: ‘Oh, Holy Mother’s name—really? This is why they—’ He cut the connection.

  Adarin furiously paced around the pagoda, surveying the camp—the olive tents, the holy symbols, the dried traces of blood from the rain of flesh and viscera. “Think like the enemy,” he whispered to himself. “What has the enemy always done?” Follow the exponential progression of corpses.

  The narrative has been taken without permission. Report any sightings.

  He froze as he finished his third round about the pagoda. There in the mud was a new trace—almost like a wagon’s. But no, the wheels were far too broad and the draft animals tracks were human. He followed it up the stairs, where he could see it clearly: several pairs of muddy footprints, and several traces of people being dragged toward the inner sanctum.

  Of course they’re going up to the fucking temple again.

  He readied root-whips, dagger, grenades—and his special surprise. Maybe I’ll get to use any of this at some point if I catch them. He considered the side entrance, but dismissed it. I am about as stealthy as a small tank. Maximum speed, maximum force, then.

  Adarin dashed through the ghost-town encampment toward the half-open door of the inner sanctum. He scrambled into the room, illuminated by the daylight from the ceiling windows and several braziers.

  And there she was—pale, naked, beautiful—her hair as red as the blood she was bathing in. She was kissing a middle-aged woman whose cheeks were bloating in a strange, alien way—because she was shoving her monstrous tongue into her. Adarin’s blood ran cold as he realized it. She was holding her like a lover, except she was only holding the head. Her claws had severed it, and the body pumped blood from its throat in gruesome spurts across the vampire’s naked skin.

  She turned as Adarin strambled to a halt, repulsed by the image before him. This… no human should… She shoved the woman’s head gently aside and held it up by the hair, looking at Adarin. Next, with deliberately slow sucking noises, she dragged her tongue out like a wet snake, and gave the woman one final kiss on the lips before throwing the head over her shoulder. It fell somewhere in the shadows between the statues with a too-loud, wet smacking noise.

  Francesco’s “girlfriend”—whose name Adarin realized he had never learned, whom he had thought surprisingly little about unless directly reminded of her—stretched languidly, hands over her head, presenting her bloody beauty to him. She tsked her tongue. “I haven’t yet killed sixteen,” she purred, gesturing wide with a seductive smile. “But I believe for today, the implication is going to have to do.” Her voice was a whisper, richly erotic—like silk playing against his skin.

  “You,” Adarin hissed. His thoughts stumbling over each other. She is working some kind of illusion on me. He took three long deliberate breaths and cleansed the surroundings of his illusion core.

  “Yes.” She smiled. “It was quite funny seeing you plucking my thralls like mushrooms after wet weather. Do you know how few soldier-whelps can resist a beautiful woman dragging them into a dark corner, rubbing them in all the right places?” Despite himself, a chill went down Adarin’s spine—and it wasn’t quite terror.

  She chuckled; the chuckle turned playful, powerful. “For that matter—how few of your women mind that, as well?”

  Adarin considered what he knew about the foe. She is no thrall, and no lesser vampire. But I don’t doubt she’s as powerful as that big fucking showman. I might be able to take her.

  She smiled and sauntered up to him, her hips swaying. Adarin readied the dagger and pointed it at her. “Not one step closer.”

  She pouted, then a smile bloomed. “Oh, I so love a dominant man. You know, that was the annoying thing about that little pompous wizard. He couldn’t even properly satisfy me. Not like my master…” she purred with a throaty resonance. “It’s a shame, really. I’ll never get to kill him now—never get to taste his last drop.” She turned and surveyed the statues and the bloody massacre she had committed. The corpses formed an incomplete circle. Bloody lines had already begun connecting their hands, as if to form a complex, multi-etched star—some grotesque ritual suicide.

  “But I can be satisfied that no other woman he finds will ever compare to me.”

  Adarin ground his teeth. Stall. First real chance to get information—but I don’t know how dangerous she is. Better not call reinforcements—throwing soldiers into this would only feed her.

  She chuckled. “I don’t hear alarm bells going off. I can’t blame you. Every man wants me for himself.” She ran her hands over her bloody breasts and giggled like a young girl. Now her long, snake-like teeth were showing. “My master has prohibited me from killing you—a direct order of the Patriarch. Do you understand how exciting that is for someone like me? I might transcend my current nature if this mission goes well. Get closer to my master—to the…” She whispered the last word with reverence. “Master.”

  “The Master… one of the Seven, you mean?” Adarin asked, keeping his tone casual. Let’s see if she bites.

  She flinched as if struck. “You dare—” She fell into a combat stance, ethereal beauty fading; her face became feline, starved, angular—murderously efficient. Claws grew; fingernails elongated until each was nearly the length of her fingers. “I am barred from killing you, but I will tear you limb from limb. And I think I’m going to burn the kindlings. Let’s see if you feel pain from those parts you’re missing, shall we?”

  Adarin nodded his core and settled himself into battle readiness. “An interesting experiment, for sure.” But all his attention shifted his internal structure—the two gifts Devon had prepared for him. He aligned the angles, the vectors, and set them closer to his skin.

  “But you know, I think I’m going to be the one asking the questions here, because we—”

  He didn’t finish the sentence. The simultaneous thunder of two double-barrel shotguns flashed brightly in the hall, and he was rocked back by the recoil of both pellet and slug rounds unleashed. A split-second later the vampire screamed as she collapsed. Her skin had already begun shifting to the chameleon-like structure he’d seen on one of the lesser vampires—but apparently their superior speed still required leg joints.

  He smiled viciously and walked toward her, studying her body shifting and shivering between different forms, twitching in unnatural ways as she desperately grasped for her severed calves. She gasped and began to cry. “What have you done? My body, my beautiful body, you just shot…”

  He allowed himself a grim chuckle as he advanced on her. “You know, I’ve always been told that people don’t watch their knees enough as they age. Seems like that’s still true for you Nosferati, isn’t it?”

  She screamed and began crawling toward him limb over limb like some grotesque parody of a grounded butterfly. Adarin calmly waited for her to approach and snapped out two root-whips. He dimly noticed her blood—translucent and silvery, with a pinkish note from the blood she had freshly fed on. The whips cracked—one snapping into her elbow, the other binding her wrist. Adarin swung the manipulators and ran, slinging her like a catapult stone, then with one sharp yank slammed her into the floor. A perfect arc of glittering blood decorated the temple walls.

  She yowled like a cat someone had stepped on, curling up after the crash—and Adarin was on her. He slammed one manipulator onto her abdomen, the other onto her solar plexus. Two swift slashes of the diamondoid dagger cut off her arms at the torso. He kicked them away. And observed how they kept twitching and grabbing at nothing long after he had detached them.

  “Now, girl,” he spat with disgust. “I have a few questions for you.”