Vigil’s Justice

VIGIL BOUND

BOOK ONE

JAMES A. HUNTER

Contents

Summary

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1. Battle for Fallujah

2. Interlude of Gods

3. Memento Mori

4. Get Some

5. Murder Parrot

6. Wilderness

7. The Vigilant

8. Marked

9. A Bard’s Tale

10. Arbitrator Arturo

11. Soul Vault

12. Ward Points

13. Murder Parrot Strikes Back

14. Zero Dark Thirty

15. Arcane History

16. Practice Makes Perfect

17. Guts and Glory

18. The Alchemist

19. Bag of Holding

20. The Great Defiler

21. The Bathhouse

22. Skirmish

23. After Action

24. Soulsmith

25. Brews and Clues

26. Into the Dark

27. Stone Spiders

28. Mask-Shaped Clue

29. Royalty

30. The Bannermen

31. Re-Spec

32. Party Crashers

33. Breaking and Entering

34. Confessional

35. Waiting Game

36. Connecting the Dots

37. The Reveal

38. Rematch

39. Just Rewards

40. After-party

The Adventure Continues…

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About the Author

Summary

Magic weapons. Deadly monsters. Epic quests. All just another day in the life of a Vigil.

Boyd Knight found his calling when he joined the Marines and qualified for the elite Force Recon. He’d found a tribe and a family, so when a hand grenade landed near his team, he jumped on it without thought or regret.

But instead of winding up dead, he wakes up butt naked in a cave full of monsters with a knife in one hand and a pistol in the other. He’s been chosen by Raguel, Five-Faced God of Justice, and entrusted with the power of the Vigil Bound. Every kill makes him stronger, and thanks to the Ascendant System, Boyd can level up, unlock increasingly powerful spells, and even harness the abilities of the monsters he’s been dispatched to hunt.

If he can survive the deadly shapeshifter stalking him from the shadows, Boyd’s second life promises to be even more ass-kickingly epic than his first.

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1

Battle for Fallujah

“Hey, Cal,” I hollered down into the cab of the Humvee as our convoy crawled to a halt. “Pass me one of those Rip Its.” I swept my free hand toward the dust-covered red cooler below.

“Yeah,” he replied. “I got your Rip It right here, Boyd.” He lifted one ass cheek and cut the mother of all farts. An eye-watering stench drifted up, potent even over the smells of fires and smoke that always lingered in the air.

“Gas, gas, gas,” Private First Class Sanchez, Cal’s A-Driver, called out while visibly recoiling from the noxious fumes.

“Sweet baby Jesus,” I said, eyes watering, “you need to see a Corpsman about that, dude. I think something died inside of you.”

“Naw,” Cal replied with a grin, “I have it on good authority that the Veggie Omelet MRE is supposed to smell like that on the back end.” He laughed before cracking the cooler lid and fishing out a chrome can of the most potent off-brand energy drink the Marine Corps could afford. The ever-coveted Rip It. He tossed it up with practiced ease—we’d done this same maneuver a hundred times or more—and I caught it in a dusty hand. The can was slick with water from ice that had melted days ago, and it was just this side of hot. Didn’t matter to me, though.

I hadn’t slept in the better part of two days, and I needed something to keep me going.

The endless cigarettes and PX caffeine pills would only take me so far.

“You’re a lifesaver, bud,” I replied, cracking the top with a hiss and taking a long pull. It tasted like cherry flavored acid, and I couldn’t have been happier. “What’s the holdup anyway?”

“Eh, nothing exciting. Chatfield radioed in that there’s debris in the road…” He paused, drumming his fingers impatiently against the steering wheel. “Dixon probably just needed to drop a deuce, though. You ever share a tent with him? I think he might have IBS. He also screams in his sleep, which is not as much fun as you’d think it would be.”

I set the Rip It down beside me and directed my gaze back to the buildings all around us, searching the windows, doorways, and rooftops for any sign of movement. Of life. But the street was quiet.

Most of the buildings were plain brown stone and improvised mud—except for the one right in front of me. I’d seen plenty of mosques since coming to Iraq, and this wasn’t that, but it was definitely a temple of some sort. A ziggurat-like structure three stories tall, it was made from red-brown sandstone blocks. Gray stone pillars framed in a wooden door festooned with black rivets; above the door was a finely carved relief depicting complicated geometric patterns and a man with five faces, sitting crossed-legged—a sword balanced in one hand, a scale in the other.

The temple was old.

Older than the rest of the houses and shops that pressed in around it. Weird, but not weirder than some of the other stuff I’d seen since coming here. That was the thing about fighting in a place like Iraq. Every city was steeped in history. Stained red with it. Old and new lived side by side, snuggled up like lovers on a cold night, no distinction between where one ended and the other began. Honestly, I didn’t care whether it was a temple or a gas station, so long as there weren’t insurgents hiding inside, hell-bent on murdering me and my Marines.

I paused. Squinted. For a brief moment I thought I’d caught a glimpse of motion above.

“Hey, head on a swivel,” I called down. “Something about this feels—”

The world erupted with light and sound and heat and fury.

A plume of sand and smoke billowed up and washed over the Humvee, obscuring the world. The vehicle violently rocked and kicked me from the turret. I fell backward, head slamming into the side mirror before I spiraled onto the dirt-caked ground. A deafening ring howled in my ears, and white spots swam across my field of vision.

What the fuck just happened? I thought, trying to get my bearings.

Enemy contact. That’s what the fuck happened.

We’d been hit. The ringing slowly subsided, replaced by the sound of frantic voices and the clatter of gunfire. The lead Humvee was a smoldering wreck. From my angle I could see the engine block utterly mangled—probably a remotely detonated IED planted in the road. Chatfield and Dixon were scrambling toward me, though there was no sign of Aguilar, their turret gunner. The pair moved with speed and purpose, while maintaining good cover and returning fire whenever there was a break in the volley of rounds raining down from above.

Shit. They’d hit the last Humvee in our convoy as well. It was a smoldering wreck, but at least one Marine had survived. Lance Corporal McInnes was scrambling toward us. Unlike Chatfield and Dixon—both old hands who had seen some shit—he was hauling ass, his rifle forgotten, terror brimming in his eyes. A guy could train and train and train, but the first real firefight was a proving ground, and you never knew how someone was going to react until the pressure was on.

I shook my head, wiped some dust from my eyes, then checked the rifle strapped to my chest. Safety was on, but the mag was still in place and there was a round in the chamber.

I’d been in plenty of firefights. Game time, motherfuckers.

I moved onto a knee, keeping a low profile, and stole a quick peek into the Humvee—had to check on Cal and Sanchez. My stomach lurched and I couldn’t breathe for a second.

The Humvee burned with Cal still stuck inside, slumped over the wheel. We’d gone to high school together. Endured Recruit Training on Paris Island together. Deployed to the Fleet together. Now, my best friend in the world was dead and there wasn’t a single thing I could do for him. He was crisped and seared, front and back, his flight suit mostly melted at this point. At a glance, it was obvious what had happened. We’d suffered a direct hit on the driver side from a shoulder-mounted rocket-propelled grenade, or RPG.

The blast had thrown me clear, but Cal hadn’t been so lucky.

Sanchez was propped up in the seat beside my best friend, groaning. I didn’t know him well—he was a Boot, fresh out of 3/1, Company K. He’d been with our command for less than a week. What I did know was that he was hurt but alive and that I wasn’t going to leave him there. Damned if I was going to let some insurgent dickbag barbeque another one of my Marines. If his number was up, they could decide that back in the medical tent after they’d found him some nice clean sheets, pumped him full of morphine, and gotten the company chaplain to say a few words over him.

“Chatfield, Dixon,” I barked as the two men ducked behind the front end of my Humvee. “I need overlapping fields of suppressive fire. Strafe the building. Keep me clear for thirty seconds. McInnes,” I hollered as the kid slid to a halt, panting from his sprint. “Stand by for injured!”

“Get some!” Chatfield called as he poked his head out and laid down blanket of heavy fire. His M-16 rattled, rapt-tap-tap, the muzzle vomiting flame and hot lead. Bullets chewed up the mud and stone, sending debris raining down onto the narrow street below.

I jerked the Humvee door open and pulled the wounded Marine away from Cal.

Poor kid was slick with his own blood and still leaking fluid, but the wheezing hitch in his chest told me he was alive, at least for a little longer. With a hand under one arm and the other on the back of his jacket, I dragged him free of the vehicle and passed him off to Lance Corporal McInnes. What Sanchez really needed was a Corpsman, but what I had was a green around the gills lance who’d been in country for less than a month. It would have to be enough, because we didn’t have any other resources available.

Screw Semper Fidelis. Improvise, adapt, overcome was the real Marine Corps motto, as far as I was concerned.

McInnes pulled the IFAK from Sanchez’s flak jacket and set to work, spooling out gauze, applying pressure, treating wounds as best he was able. My own limited first-aid training ran through the back of my head. Start the breathing, stop the bleeding, protect the wound, treat for shock. I doubted any of that would be enough.

Sanchez rasped and wheezed, blood on his lips, eyes rolling wildly in his head.

Despite the chaos around us, McInnes managed to do a decent job. He was efficient, tamping down the bleeding, then applying the gauze. That gauze was specialty stuff, designed to soak up three hundred times its own weight in blood, but it wasn’t doing much for Sanchez. As soon as McInnes had one leak patched, another one made itself known. I didn’t like the kid’s chances.

But then, I didn’t like any of our chances.

I peeked up to get a better look at what we were dealing with.

We were hemmed in, and they’d taken out all three of our vehicles. Cal was dead and so was Aguilar. Since McInnes was all by his lonesome, that probably meant Willmarth and Goodrich were gone too. There were only four of us in fighting condition, and McInnes didn’t have a rifle. There were enemy combatants positioned on top of the buildings to my left and right and more hunkered down on the temple, using the stony crenellations jutting up for cover. It wasn’t going to take them long to gun us down if we didn’t change positions.

We had to move. It was that or die.

As though to emphasize the point, a bullet whizzed by, barely missing my helmet. That was all I needed. Lead bouncing off the vehicle and tearing a hole in my jaw.

If we were going to get clear of this position, we needed more power. More muscle.

I signaled to Chatfield. Two fingers pointed at me, then back at the Humvee. He got it. He’d been out here even longer than I had. The “more” we needed was sitting right in front of us, nestled in the gunner’s turret. All I had to do was get ahold of it without ending up like Sanchez.

“Reloading!” Chatfield called, dropping down and swapping out magazines while Dixon popped up, resuming suppressive fire.

I took a deep breath and slipped back up into the steel-ringed turret. There was a 240G, medium machine gun sitting in the cradle, loaded with .762 and ready to rock and roll. Only problem was, with the gun locked into the cradle, there was no way I could get the range of motion I needed to lay down fire at the roofline.

Improvise, adapt, and overcome. Harder, faster, more.

“You’ve got this, Boyd,” I reassured myself. Not great when you start talking to yourself, but who was going to rat me out? Cal?

On instinct, I grabbed his tags and shoved them into my pocket. Then, working as fast as I could, I popped the cradle pin and pulled the bulky weapon free. I jammed the big ol’ buttstock into my shoulder pocket and angled the barrel toward the last place I’d seen muzzle flashes.

There was a brief break in fire.

“Get ready! We’re going to stack on the temple door,” I yelled, heart thumping like a jackhammer as I nodded toward the ancient building across from us.

Chatfield answered but whatever he said was whipped away on a blistering breeze and lost to the wind. I had to hope we were on the same page.

“Move on my mark!” I hollered.

Chatfield let loose with a round of sporadic fire.

“Mark!” I yelled. Then I pulled the trigger and the machine gun chewed through the muddy walls of the temple, sending more dust swirling and dancing through the air.

I was shooting low. Too low. I wasn’t here to remodel Fallujah or try my hand at interior decorating. I crouched in the belly of the Humvee, angled my weapon as high as I could, and let it rip again. The 240 wasn’t meant to be fired like a shoulder-mounted weapon, not unless you were Rambo. It kicked like an angry horse and my aim was shit as a result. I had volume but lacked precision. But that’s the thing about machine guns. Accuracy isn’t as important when you can lay down two hundred rounds per minute.

That kind of quantity has its own quality.

I don’t know how, but I heard the man die. It was fast.

He pirouetted from the roof of the temple and thwacked onto the hood of a rusted-out car across the street. His arm cracked and split, bending over the side of the vehicle like a disarticulated marionette. His eyes were open and vacant. He was dead and gone, which was fine by me. He’d been willing to take me and my buddies down. For all I knew, he was the asshole who’d killed Cal. Far as I was concerned, he got what was coming to him.

I aimed the 240 back at the position where he’d died and made a calculated guess. If I was camped out on top of a building and hoping to take out some United States Marines, I wouldn’t organize my men in clumps. I’d spread them out over as wide an area as possible and come at ’em from all angles. I adjusted my field of fire and squeezed the trigger again. I heard another gurgling squeal from above. Bingo.

Two down, no telling how many more to go.

Chatfield was still at it, screaming at the top of his lungs, yelling obscenities whenever one of their guys snuffed it. I joined in and riddled the top of that building until I couldn’t hear a single round of return fire. Then I waited.

Silence. Nothing.

Just the goddammed wind and a cat mewling in the distance.

Poor little guy, I could practically hear Cal whisper, his voice a distant echo of the past.

Cal would have gone looking for that cat. That was the kind of guy he was. A stupid son of a bitch with his head on backwards, but his heart in the right place. Something hurt deep down inside my chest as I thought about my idiot friend, but I pushed those intrusive memories away. I couldn’t help him, and now wasn’t the time for grief. Now was the time for survival, and my duty was to the living.

“We did good, Cal.” I touched the back of his jacket by way of farewell, ditched the 240—out of rounds—scooted out of the Humvee, and rushed across the street with my head ducked low, offering a silent prayer that I didn’t catch a bullet to the back. I slammed into the wall beside Chatfield, breathing hard from the effort, hands shaky from the adrenaline.

There was no sign of McInnes. I scooted right and spotted the lance corporal by the ruined Humvee. His body was hunched over Sanchez. Half his face was missing, even though his hands were still pressed up against Sanchez’s wounds. The only thing I knew about McInnes was that he smoked Camels, but I’d remember his name. I always did. He would go on the list with all the other friends I’d lost to this war. I’d also remember that he died trying to help one of his own.

Chatfield and Dixon were in position, their backs pressed up against the sandstone blocks of the temple, weapons locked and loaded. The place was silent at the moment, but that didn’t mean those sneaky bastards weren’t in there waiting for us to let our guard down. We couldn’t leave anything to chance.

Chatfield, on point, slammed his heel into the sturdy door barring our way into the temple interior. The wood cracked and swung inward as though in invitation. Dixon reached around and lobbed a grenade in. “Frag out!” Both men ducked back, waiting for the five count and the rattling boom that followed.

Choking smoke billowed out from the entryway as they moved.

Chatfield turkey-peeked the corner and hooked hard right, pieing his section of the room, while Dixon pivoted left, clearing his section. I came in hard on their heels, sweeping the top and back, searching for any combatants. All clear.

All clear of enemies, at least. The room was a shitshow.

There was debris everywhere—tables and chairs in splinters, pictures smashed in their frames, bedrolls shredded. A quick scan revealed AKs lined up against a wall covered with runes and pictographs in a language older than Arabic. More of the markings were carved into the stones underfoot—deep channels zigzagging and swirling their way across the floor. Stacked in the corner were wooden crates that held Russian made rocket-propelled grenades. The same type of RPGs that had killed Cal.

No bodies, though.

Didn’t mean there weren’t bad guys in the building somewhere. This was a weapons cache—the mujahideen wouldn’t just leave all this equipment sitting around, unprotected. They were probably tucked away upstairs, rigged with booby traps for the uninitiated and sentimental.

We’d have to take this place room by room.

There was a staircase toward the back that doglegged sharply left after the first two steps, making it the perfect spot for someone to lie in wait.

“Moving,” I called, assuming point as I glided for the stone steps.

Everything slowed to a crawl, time doubling back on itself as a barely audible plink drifted to my ears. That was a sound I knew well. It was death. I screamed at Chatfield and Dixon to take cover. I knew what was coming. I felt it in my bones even before I could see it with my eyes. The sound was followed by the appearance of a green sphere, no bigger than a tennis ball, rolling down the stairs like it was nothing at all.

An M-67 frag grenade.

“Back,” I screamed, eyes wide, face beet red. My legs moved like pistons, driven by adrenaline and the need to protect my friends better than I’d protected Cal.

That little green ball, packed full of hell and vengeance, thudded down the last two steps and came rolling to a stop.

I knew what I needed to do. It was stupid. Moronic. And the only way to save Dixon and Chatfield.

I leapt, smothering the grenade with my body, curling into a ball and muttering a silent prayer under my breath. I positioned my flak jacket over the top, hoping it would offer me some scant protection from the imminent blast. A part of me knew that was a pipe dream. There was no coming back from this. But I was dead anyway. This way, my friends might have a chance to live. I tensed a second before the explosion ripped into me, hot and crazed and metallic, turning my world upside down. I cartwheeled through the air and landed on my back with a resounding snap.

Resounding snaps were never good.

My legs weren’t my legs, and my arms weren’t following my orders, but worst of all, my guts were outside when they were supposed to be inside.

There should’ve been stabbing pains, the smell of burned flesh, and a shit ton of screaming, shouting, and swearing while my buddies dragged me out, patched me up, and lied about my chances. None of that was happening.

The pain was amped up to an eleven out of ten, but that score was intellectual, rather than physical. I floated outside my body, detached and distant, waiting for reality to sink in. But it seemed reality didn’t have time for me or my bullshit. Reality had left me to my fate, and I had the weirdest sense this was all happening to someone else. Start the breathing, stop the bleeding, protect the wound, treat for shock, I repeated inside my head.

Except, it was going to be damned tough to stop the bleeding, because my blood was actively crawling up the goddamned walls. The strange grooves gouged into the floor were rivers of crimson. I could feel my body growing cold as the room siphoned out the life force flowing through my veins—funneling it away from my body and directing it into the runes and shapes decorating the walls. What I was seeing was impossible since, as far as I knew, gravity only worked in one direction.

I chalked it up to shock. Some people saw tunnels made of light when dying, others saw friends and family members welcoming them with open arms. I saw my blood crawling up the walls. What does that say about me? I wondered idly.

“They get you when your guard’s down,” Cal said. I could hear his voice even over the ringing in my ears, courtesy of the frag grenade. “Come on, Boyd, if you don’t get your shit together, you’re gonna die here. We both can’t die here, man. I don’t want First Sergeant Cortez breaking the news to my mom—that guy was such a colossal douche. You gotta be the one to do it. I’m counting on you. So move your ass and get into a better fighting position.”

“That’s easier said than done,” I muttered under my breath, frothy blood coating my lips.

Hallucinatory Cal was right—obviously it would be better if I could sit up and find some cover—but with a stomach full of shrapnel, it was going to take more than sheer willpower to get me off my back. With a grimace, I groped at my midriff with a trembling hand. Soft to the touch, meaty yet pliable, my intestines were kind enough to slide back inside without too much hassle. I held my hand over the gaping wound, still waiting for the sensations to kick in, but damned if I wasn’t immune to the whole experience.

God bless adrenaline. It had spared me the worst.

Better yet, I was alive. Maybe not for long, but alive was still alive. My heart and lungs hadn’t been shredded or nicked. My ticker was ticking and my wheezybags were filling and emptying the way they were supposed to. Turned out, I’d been saved in part by the ceramic SAPI plates in my vest, but there was something wet soaking through my cammie bottoms. Likely another injury I couldn’t feel.

“You got this,” I told myself. “Just get up. Get up, you miserable son of a bitch. I am not going to join Cal in Hell. Not today. I am not gonna give these insurgent assholes the satisfaction of killing me.”

As soon as I turned my attention to my legs, the nerves fired up, sending jolts of energy surging down my thighs and into my feet, which twitched and flapped, ready to move. With a groan, I slowly stood. I wobbled on numb, unsteady legs. But I didn’t fall right back onto my ass. So far, so good. Next, I drew my service pistol—a matte black Colt 1911 that fired .45 ACP rounds—from its holster with one hand and my service issued K-Bar with the other. Chances are I wasn’t walking out of here, but at least I would die on my feet with a weapon in my hand.

Couldn’t ask for much more than that.

2

Interlude of Gods

The walls were shimmering, dancing with my blood, and there were shadowy figures flickering and crawling out from the cracks between the stones. They were hunched things, bent and twisted. I ignored them. None of it was real. Probably just hallucinations conjured by a mind flooded with a chemical cocktail of endorphins. Instead, I focused on the stairs. Grenades didn’t toss themselves. Some mujahideen dickhead had thrown it, and I intended to see they got a face full of lead for their trouble.

There was no sign of Chatfield or Dixon—no bark of rifle fire or the shots of the dying—but it was impossible to miss the steady thud of footsteps that emanated from the staircase. I braced myself, weapon at the ready.

But what rounded the corner wasn’t human. Humanoid, sure. But not human.

It was a creature of shadow and smoke, ten feet tall, with writhing tentacles protruding from its back. It had no face. No eyes. No defining features at all. Its body was a void space filled with the twinkling lights of distant galaxies.

I blinked, trying to banish the hallucination, but it didn’t disappear. It drew closer with every second, marching inevitably toward me like death made manifest.

“Ritualas kaipic atliktaes,” the creature intoned, pointing a finger straight at me. Its voice was like the crooning of a thousand locust and set my teeth on edge. “Aukaum bryuvo preimtia. Kompaktias pragamintas. Dubar ateinek ruosprendium.”

Maybe I hadn’t survived the grenade after all.

I’d spent more than a few Sundays cooling my heels in church, and if this ugly sumbitch wasn’t a demon getting ready to drag my unruly ass straight to hell, then I didn’t know what was. But I didn’t lower my pistol. Even if this thing was the Devil himself, I wasn’t going down without a fight.

“Come and get some,” I growled, squeezing the trigger three times in quick succession, two shots to the body, one to the head just like I’d drilled a thousand times. The Colt barked but the rounds disappeared harmlessly into the empty void that comprised the creature’s shadowy form. It didn’t slow. Didn’t hesitate. More of the shadowy creatures—these smaller than the behemoth in front of me—were closing in on every side, their motions disjointed and strangely out of synch with time. Shadowy hands reached toward me.

I lashed out with the K-Bar, but the blade passed harmlessly through their limbs.

“Yes, this one will do nicely,” the creature said, this time in English.

A shadowy hand the size of a hubcap closed around my throat, squeezing until my eyes bulged and my lungs burned. More of the otherworldly shades wrapped themselves around my arms and legs, dragging me down into the floor. I felt myself sinking into the ground while the walls of the temple pulsated with crimson light, strobing in time with the thunderous hammering of my heart. I screamed as the world spun apart around me, flinging me not into a burning lake of fire, but into the vastness of the Milky Way.

In the span of an eyeblink the inhuman shades were gone, replaced by an endless sea of twinkling stars and spiraling galaxies, spinning away in the distance.

Far down below I watched my body slowly die. Watched as Chatfield and Dixon surged up the stairwell, guns blazing as they dropped the man responsible for my untimely demise. I should have been happier about that—my friends had survived and avenged me, hell yeah!—but honestly, I was pretty fixated on my soon-to-be corpse.

All the duct tape and morphine in the world wasn’t gonna fix what ailed me.

“He isn’t the worst candidate we’ve ever had,” someone whispered.

The words drew me from my thoughts and dispelled the gruesome scene below like the rising sun burning away a layer of morning mist. The voice—soothing, and sweet, and oddly feminine—reverberated through the cosmos, bouncing off distant planets. Above me the faraway stars began to swirl and morph, taking on the rough visage of a face. I squinted, confused by what I was seeing. Not one face, but five. Five faces built out of constellations and galaxies, all of them inexplicably intertwined.

“Far from the best either,” came a retort from one of the other faces. She was gruff and matronly. “He’s physically and mentally fit, I’ll give you that, but the transition will be jarring. His is a world devoid of magic. They’ve long ago given up the old ways in favor of their science.”

“Oh, give over, Gadriel. I like him,” growled a man positioned just to her left in the swirling star cluster. “His death was glorious. I could watch it a thousand times and never grow bored. Saving his comrades. Jumping on that grenade. Scooping his guts back up. He even tried to fight off the heralds. That’s what killer instinct looks like. That’s the warrior spirit. I can mold that. By the gods above and below, I can mold that!”

“We all know you’d approve, Thuriel,” sniffed a fourth voice, regal and somehow more levelheaded than the rest. “But Gadriel’s point is valid. Our ways will be strange and foreign to him. Mastering our magicks is the work of a lifetime, and most of the Vigils start training from infancy.”

“We always have this problem with Inkarnates, though,” said the first voice. “By their very nature they are outsiders. We’ve always found a way before.”

“You’re not wrong, Lero,” chimed in the naysayer, Gadriel, “but usually they’re from shadows that are far closer to our own realm.” The voice paused, clearly worried. “This one is so far off the central finite arc…”

“You’re saying that like we have a choice,” interjected the final member of the odd celestial group. “Why are we even discussing it? It’s not like we have another option, do we? We wouldn’t be fishing so far from Cantorii Prime if we had better candidates. He died valiantly, defending his brothers in battle, and fell with weapons in hand. And the sanctum sanctorum accepted his blood offering, or else he would not be here. Those are the criteria, are they not? Akora, surely there must be a way? You’ve done more with less.”

“Once or twice,” the levelheaded voice in the center replied. “It will all be moot unless he decides to take on the mantle. But assuming he is agreeable, I can adjust the system so that it will work with his… natural aptitudes.”

The cosmos whirled and I abruptly found myself sitting on a velvet chair across from what might have been a man, if a man had a rotating head with five different faces protruding out from each side like cancerous growths. There were two female faces—one steely eyed and matronly, another young with a dazzling smile—and two male, one stately with a black beard peppered with silver, the other gaunt and slightly crazed looking. I’d seen battle-hardened Marines with that same thousand-yard stare. The final face was androgynous, the skin waxy and pale, its eyes a milky white.

Naturally, weirdo face was the one that settled on me.

“Welcome, Boyd Knight, to the Inbetween. I am Akora, Ward of Truth, and we collectively are Raguel.” It dipped its head in a small bow. “This is a space that dwells in the crevices of existence, tucked away between time and matter and space.”

“Am I dead?” I asked, my voice a hoarse whisper.

“Oh, most certainly,” the pale face replied.

“And in a most glorious manner,” the gaunt, crazed face added.

“Does that mean you’re God?” I asked. “I always pictured God… well, with less faces I guess.”

“Some call us a god,” Akora replied with a shrug, “though we are not the god you are thinking of. We like to think of ourselves as a protector. As for our likeness, that is not our doing but your own. Whatever you are seeing is not really us as we are in truth, but rather a rough facsimile that your mind is capable of comprehending. None of that matters, though, Boyd Knight. What matters are these things three. First”—a pale finger went into the air—“would you like to live?”

I squinted at the five-faced space freak like it had just grown even more faces. What kind of question was that? Did I want to live? Of course I wanted to live. Who didn’t want to live, given the option?

“Honest question. Does anyone say no to that?” I asked.

The gaunt face chortled. “What’d I tell you? I knew he had it in him. Takes a special kind of crazy to lose all of your intestines and want to go back for seconds.”

“A simple yes or no will suffice,” Akora replied, ignoring the other face’s remarks.

“Yes,” I grunted, not entirely sure where this was going.

“Very good,” Akora said. “Wouldn’t want there to be any loopholes or misunderstandings. There are powers that be, other than ourselves, you understand, that might take umbrage should the process not be followed to the letter. Now, if you were to continue to live, would you willingly pursue justice, valor, balance, wrath, and truth?”

Now that question took me a moment longer to parse.

I definitely wanted to keep on kicking, but that sounded like a lot of commitment to me. Sure, I was dedicated to Corps and country, but outside of that I was mostly dedicated to the pursuit of drinking good beer, eating good barbeque, finding the perfect fishing hole, or grinding out levels in Deadwatch Crusade. I couldn’t say any of that, though. I might’ve grown up in the backwoods of Kentucky, but I wasn’t stupid, and the way Akora was looking at me practically screamed that if I said no, I was going to get my ass booted straight into the sun.

Since I was interested in not being a charbroiled soul I said yes.

“Excellent,” Akora replied with a nod and a slight smile. “And three.” A final finger joined the other two. “Do you like to play games?”

“Games? What’re we talkin’ about here? Risk? ’Cause if it’s Risk, I’m gonna whoop all your asses, gods or not. I’ll just hole up in Australia and wait it out.”

“There is Risk indeed, but you won’t be a general. You will be a piece placed carefully on the board, but a potentially powerful one, given time. The game we are playing is Risk on a cosmic scale, Boyd Knight, and the rules we use are called the Ascendant System. The world we are sending you to, Alkran, is but one of many we oversee. Yet it is of great interest to us. It is a world out of balance, and we are unsure why. Something dwells there that even we cannot see. You will ferret it out in due time. Assuming you survive.”

“And if I don’t survive?”

“We will find another and try again,” Akora replied evenly, folding its hands passively in its lap. “Now, there will be many dangers presented to you,” it continued after a moment. “Alkran is not a particularly kind or coddling world, especially to an outsider. Which is why we shall give you what advantages we may. First, I will assign you a spirit guide to act as your intermediary while on Alkran—we have a host of accomplished warriors who may guide you along the path.”

I froze. Spirit guide?

“I want Cal,” I blurted out. “As my spirit guide, I mean.” Despite being dead, I was still wearing my full battle rattle. I reached into my pocket and pulled out his dog tags. “You want me to play your game, I want you to do me a solid and bring my friend back.”

“That’s quite an unusual request,” Akora said slowly. “It is possible, especially since he died in such close proximity to you. But I have to warn you, he will be a specter, not a creature of flesh and blood and bone as you shall be.”

“Yeah, I don’t give a shit,” I said, shrugging one shoulder. “Bring my pal back and I’m in.”

“It will be a very difficult transition for him,” Akora said after a second, “and he will make a terrible spirit guide. He’ll know little more of the world than you do. Are you sure this is a wise move, Boyd Knight?”

“Listen,” I replied, leaning forward, “I didn’t get to be where I am by making wise life choices, okay? Bring my friend back. I’ll deal with the fallout.”

Akora frowned, their lips little more than a slit. “Unorthodox, but very well. I shall also allow my brothers and sisters to each grant you one boon to aid you on your journey. Gadriel, I supposed we’ll start with you? I assume you’ll give the same boon you always do?”

“What other boon would I give?” the stern-faced woman replied, a deadly fire burning in her eyes. “What kind of warrior can seek justice without weapons to enforce his will? Only a fool. To you,” she said, pinning me in place with a steely gaze, “I grant the boon of the Soul Bound Weapon. I’ve given the same gift to every Vigil who has ever served the Five.”

“And if his weapons fail him?” asked the maiden face.

“Then I suspect he shall die,” she replied, largely indifferent.

“Dear me, but I certainly hope not,” the maiden replied. “Which is the very reason I always grant the Language of the Heavens. There will come a time, Boyd Knight, when the weapons of war will be inadequate to the task, but the balance must still be maintained. In my experience, balance is more often served through revelation and conversation than through violence. How shall you search out the truth without a proper means to communicate? Accept my boon. Know and be known. Speak, listen, and be understood.”

“Right,” Akora said with a sigh of resignation. “So we’re just going to play this by the numbers then? Same as it ever was? Voch, I suppose you will grant him the boon of Diamond Body? And you, Thuriel, will bequeath him Arcane Insight?”

“If I don’t gift him Diamond Body,” the bearded man retorted, “he’ll never survive his first encounter. Soul Bound weapons won’t do him much good if he can’t regenerate fast enough to use them.”

“And how will he accomplish his goals without Arcane Insight, hmm?” asked the crazed, gaunt-faced man. “His mind must be prepared if he is to have access to the Ascendant System Interface.”

“Of course,” Akora conceded. “I am merely suggesting that if we want different results, perhaps it is not best to play the game the same way.”

“Isn’t that why we’re bringing in an Inkarnate in the first place?” asked the matronly face.

“Perhaps,” Akora conceded once again. “But this one… He intrigues me. Already, he is playing the game in a way we have not seen before. This could be to our benefit. A true wild card, as your people say, Boyd.”

“It could also be to our detriment,” the matronly face growled.

“Perhaps. But that is a risk I am willing to take. I think I will do things just a tad different this time. I’m going to let him decide what boon I shall grant him.”

“Decide?” said the man with the stately beard. “Decide how? Decide what?”

“Decide everything,” Akora said cryptically. “For my boon, Boyd Knight, I give you the gift of choice.” In front of me, golden words flashed by in a whirlwind.

Essence Coalescence… Incanto Recall… Magnus Arcana… Differential Channeling… Terrain Dominion… Planes Totem… Heresy Pact… Oblivion Conversion… Valor Eater… Bladebound… Quni Attunement…

On and on they went like a Star Wars opening crawl.

“Cool. Cool. Now what exactly am I looking at here?” I asked, squinting at the passing words.

“Everything,” Akora replied softly. “When you enter your new life, you will be granted access to many powerful spells and abilities, which you will be able to unlock over time. But these boons we grant are the foundation upon which all else is built. Arcane Insight gives you the ability to interface with the Ascendant System, and all that it entails, while Diamond Body will allow you to survive the many horrendous physical challenges that will surely face you in the coming days and months.

“We five are bound by pacts older than time to grant only a single boon apiece, yet there are so many to choose from. For the first time in living memory, I am going to let you select which boon you would like to receive from me. Heresy Pact would allow you to forge additional alliances with other deities, for example, while Oblivion Conversion would grant you the ability to channel and work with the wildly unstable Oblivion Essence that permeates the darker regions of the universe. Some of these boons are never granted because they are too dangerous, others because they are useless. Choose as you will, knowing that whatever decision you make will have eternal consequences…”

So, no pressure, I thought as I searched through the list.

There were a hundred different abilities. How the hell was I supposed to know what a good choice would be? If they really were whisking me away to some new world, I couldn’t even begin to comprehend what might be useful and what would be totally worthless. Sure, Oblivion Conversion sounded cool, but what if I ended up on a world where there was no Oblivion magic to harness? Forming a pact with some other deity could also be useful, or I could wind up running for my life from some alternate reality version of the Spanish Inquisition.

Bladebound had a nice ring to it and some solid utility. With it I could telekinetically manipulate and control bladed weapons. I could envision myself with a cloud of knives circling around me like planets orbiting the sun, lashing out at anything that got within striking distance. Badass, but not particularly useful if I ended up on a world with high-powered sniper rifles. I read through ability after ability, feeling more unsure by the passing second. Quick Draw… Empty Body… Bloodline Essence… Maker’s Mark… Hex Meld…

Any one of them could be amazing or useless, and it all depended on the circumstances.

Then I spotted an ability that stopped me dead in my tracks.

Threads of Fate. It didn’t sound nearly as cool as Hex Meld or Valor Eater but damn did it have some serious potential.

Threads of Fate (Active)

Who can know what the future holds? Only the wise of heart and those with the vision that comes from experience. The threats a Vigil faces are as numerous as the sands on the shore, and the solutions are just as varied. Unwilling to leave his fate in the hands of others, the Vigil with the Threads of Fate Boon becomes the master of their own destiny. By visiting an altar dedicated to Raguel, a chosen Vigil may reweave the tapestry of their fate once every 12 hours, reclaiming spent Ward Points.

All of these foundation skills were vague and somewhat unhelpful, and this one was no different, but I could read between the lines. Unless I was way off base, it sounded like Threads of Fate would allow me to respec my skills later on. Since I had no idea what I would be facing, having an ability like that in my back pocket could be invaluable. How many times had I started a DnD campaign only to realize I’d picked the worst possible build? More times than I could count. My life was on the line here, and I was playing a game I didn’t even remotely understand.

Improvise, adapt, and overcome.

“Threads of Fate,” I finally said.

“Hmm, an interesting choice indeed,” Akora said, sounding more than a little pleased. “A bold choice. We shall see if it pays out. Welcome to our game, Boyd Knight. We will watch your progress with keen interest. Now… Sleep. Forget. Prepare. A new world awaits…”

3

Memento Mori

I gasped and coughed, clawing at my throat, desperate for oxygen. But with my first full breath came fire, coursing through my veins like molten lead. I rolled to one side, willing the flames to die down. Instead, they blazed through me, cauterizing rips and tears and scrapes as they went.

All that hollering and screaming I hadn’t done when the grenade went off came rushing out of me now. I cursed the war, the desert, the back alleys, the bomb that took Cal, and the snipers who picked off Sanchez and McInnes. Then I yelled at my company first sergeant, the battalion CO, Drill Instructor Screw Y’all, and every other lousy son of a bitch I could think of. I’d done what everyone had asked, and it still hadn’t been enough. The fire ate away at my insides until there was nothing left to consume.

Then, as fast as the pain had come, the raging wildfire guttered and died, leaving me in blessed peace.

I heard the gentle burble of water nearby. My tongue felt like it was made of low-grade sandpaper, and my throat was an inverted cactus. I’d need to drink, but first I needed to get my bearings.

The questions piled up on top of one another.

Where am I?

How did I get here?

How long have I been out?

Why does my mouth taste like cat ass?

Water dripped down onto my face from overhead in a steady plink that reminded me of the sound a grenade pin made when it was pulled.

Begrudgingly, I blinked my eyes open. My vision adjusted slowly to the gloom all around me. I was in a cave lit by the smallest pinprick of light in the distance.

Beneath my hands was a mossy carpet interspersed with smooth round stones. I slid my palms toward the wall. Damp, wet, chilly, still running with water. I licked my hand. Calcium deposits. I looked up. The ceiling was strung with stalactites, dripping right onto me. Seriously, what the hell was going on around here? A cold chill raced across my body, and goosebumps sprinted along my arms and legs. I groaned and sat up, which was a damned good sign. That meant my guts were inside where they belonged.

I ran a hand over my belly and felt unbroken skin beneath my palm.

Fuck me. Someone had pulled me out of that hellhole, patched me up, and managed to stitch me back together.

I paused, uncertainty burbling up inside my chest.

But if that was the case, how in the hell had I ended up in a damp hole in the ground?

An even better question: why was I butt-ass naked?

I was underground, practically licking water off the walls, just as bright and shiny and bare-assed as the day I was born. That didn’t seem right. My head felt fuzzy, but I vaguely recalled floating through the cosmos and talking to God. Except God was a cryptic asshole with five faces and a personality disorder. After that, I remembered plummeting to the earth like a friggin’ meteor. The details were blurry, like a bad dream half remembered on waking.

I shook my head, trying to clear the cobwebs. Now I was talking crazier than Cal. I’d probably hallucinated all that universe bullshit when they’d given me whatever they’d given me before surgery. Morphine is a helluva drug.

Yeah. That made total sense. I was naked because I’d had surgery.

I was in a cave because my brain was as crispy fried as KFC chicken and still processing the shock and trauma of nearly dying.

Soon there’d be a nurse—curves in all the right places, a smile just for me—with a hot meal and a cool explanation. There was going to be a reason for all this, there had to be.

The warm and fuzzies in my chest lasted all of three seconds.

Then I realized I was armed, and warning bells clanged inside my head.

Why did I have a Colt 1911 in one hand and a K-Bar in the other?

Those? Yeah, those were not standard issue in hospital settings.

I clambered to my feet and did a quick rundown of my body. Head, shoulders, knees, and toes. Check, check, check, and check. Everything seemed to be more or less where it was supposed to be, which was good news, though I’d added a metric shit ton of new scars. Pockmarks covered my thighs, there was a violent slash mark across my abdomen, and an enormous glossy scar damn near as big as my fist adorned one hip. That had to be from the frag grenade.

But how had my wounds healed so fast?

My mind was galloping backwards and forwards, trying to piece together what had happened and in which order, but I kept bumping into one big, looming question. How was I alive at all?

I mean, I was fairly certain I was alive. My weapons were reassuringly solid and heavy in my hands.

I checked out my Colt and squinted in bewilderment. Huh, now that’s different, I thought. Instead of its usual plain, matte black finish, it was now cool blue steel with strange jagged lines etched into the metal. As I stared, the lines took on meaning, glowing and pulsing. Golden light coalesced in front of my eyes, forming what looked for all the world like a video game text box:

<<<>>>

Peacemaker

Type: Planar Colt 1911; Soul Bound

Class: Fatemarked

Ability: Soul Summon

Primary Effects:

Upgradeable; See Soul Vault

Arcana Foci: This item acts as a metaphysical focal point allowing you to channel raw Arcana into deadly force projectiles.

Affinity Consumption: Consume Affinity Scales and channel their primary affinity into force projectiles of the same type.

Temporary Effects:

None

<<<>>>

Screw me sideways. Seeing magical game pop-ups was a bad, bad sign. I was either high as a goddamned kite or losing my mind—neither option was reassuring. I blinked and willed the screen away, then stole a look at my K-Bar. The blade was covered in glimmering golden sigils just like my pistol.

<<<>>>

Bloodguard

Type: Planar Dirk; Soul Bound

Class: Fatemarked

Ability: Soul Summon

Primary Effects:

Upgradeable; See Soul Vault

Affinity Consumption: Consume Affinity Scales and channel their primary affinity into the Planar Dirk, granting the weapon additional damage of the same type.

Temporary Effects:

None

<<<>>>

“Dude, that is so badass,” Cal said beside me.

I jumped at the sound. His voice seemed to bleed from the air all around me.

“This is just like that RPG Deadwatch Crusade,” he said. “You have video game powers and shit. Man, I would’ve given my left arm for video game powers.”

“Not badass,” I whispered under my breath as I dismissed the magical text written on the air. “I mean, I guess it’s badass if it’s real, but there’s a ninety-nine percent chance it’s not real and that I’m actually running around Balboa Park naked, talking to myself like one of those weird hobos that live under a bridge. You know my number one goal after getting out of the Marine Corps was to not be a hobo under a bridge, Cal. That’s my biggest fear!”

“I thought your biggest fear was your own crippling sense of self-doubt, brought on by the fact that your father abandoned you as a child? That or spiders.”

“Not helping. At all,” I mumbled. “The fact that I’m chatting with a dead man also isn’t helping and strongly points to the insane hobo angle.”

“Yeah, I’ll admit, the evidence isn’t looking so good, bud,” Cal replied. “I’m pretty sure I’m real, but I guess that’s what a figment of your imagination would say. Chances are you’re naked in a park, turning tricks for beer money—”

“Wait, what? I never said anything about turning tricks for beer money,” I shot back.

“Hey man, I just calls ’em like I sees ’em. But—and just bear with me for a second—what if it’s not the hobo, beery money thing? What if this is real?”

“How can it be real?” I asked.

“Does it matter?” he answered. “You can always figure out the logistics later. But assuming there’s even a remote possibility that this is real, and you screw around, then you’re gonna end up a dead man for the second time today. It’s like Drill Instructor Screw Y’all used to scream at us, ‘hope for the best, prepare for the worst.’ We should treat this like it’s real until we’re one hundred percent certain it isn’t.”

I had to admit, ghost Cal made a pretty compelling case. I pulled back the slide and checked the chamber on my 1911. The gun looked different. Strange. But by god almighty, there was a round in the chamber, even if those were a little funky, too. The rounds didn’t look like they had shell casings at all; instead, they appeared to be crafted from golden light like the runes covering my weapons. I had no idea how a bullet would fire without gunpowder or a primer, but at this point I didn’t give a shit. They could be sacred bullets gifted to me from hippy tree Druids so long as they slayed some bodies.

And it looked like I was gonna need to slay some bodies.

My eyes had finally adjusted to my surroundings. My new home away from home wasn’t so dim after all. A gloomy cave, instead of a black pit. And what I saw wasn’t exactly welcoming. There was a crude campsite ten feet to my left. It was composed of a banked fire ringed in stones. Outside the stones were hide mats—deer maybe, or cow—that covered the floor like ye olde carpet.

The wall behind me was slick with moisture, but the stalactites overhead weren’t calcium deposits. At least, not in the traditional sense. They were calcium of another kind. Bones. The cave was littered with bones. They were absolutely everywhere. The walls, the arched ceiling, the crude chandelier that hung over the firepit. All bones. Femurs, fibulas, carpals, metacarpals. It was an emo kid’s wet dream. The worst of it was the array of skulls studded around the doorway that led to the only light source in the place.

In the gloomy half-light I picked out the rotting remains of a deer carcass, strung up near the rear of the cavern. Beside it was what might’ve been a birdcage, several rabbits, and a brace of pheasant. Well, almost pheasant. Pheasant-like, but with longer necks, sharper beaks, and talons that could rip the head off a weasel. They were big ol’ sons of bitches.

I tore my gaze away from the food supply and tried to add up what I’d observed so far.

Fire meant these people had a basic grasp of utility. Whoever lived here knew how to hunt, prepare meals, and stay warm. As for the bones, they were either a show of strength or a warning. That or whoever lived here had some wonky ideas about interior decorating.

“It’s the interior decorating thing,” Cal said, seemingly able to read my thoughts. “I mean, this place is a little over the top, but like, I get it. Remember when we went to Portugal? Same energy.”

I did remember. We’d visited a place in Evora just like this, called the Capela dos Ossos. The Chapel of Bones. It had been created by monks when they ran out of consecrated ground to bury the local dead. Rather than doing what anyone sane would do, those monks decided to dig up the corpses and turn all those old bones into a living testament to death. It was an invitation to contemplate your mortality. How short is life, they chanted. How close death. There was an old Latin saying I’d heard once, Memento mori. Remember you too must die.

The cave around me had an inscription of its own, carved over the door in some language I’d never seen before. I shouldn’t have been able to read those words, but I did without missing a beat. “We bones are here, waiting for yours.”

Okay, so one, the bones and skulls were definitely a threat, and two, whoever lived here didn’t believe in subtlety. But subtle or not, the message came across loud and clear: Fuck around and find out. Whatever lived here was human, not animal—the mats and camp gear told me as much—but based on their living conditions, they were completely, utterly, totally batshit crazy. Suffice it to say, I did not want to meet them. I wasn’t prepared to die in a cave in my birthday suit with nothing but my Colt and K-Bar for company.

The runes on my Colt flared fast and bright, shimmering golds laced through with electric blue. I heard movement up ahead. It was soft, the clinks of rocks and the silky whisper of bare feet over stone. I’d been living on edge for months, and I knew the sound of feet when I heard it. I dropped into a crouch, my nakedness temporarily forgotten.

I couldn’t square how the mujahideen could be in this cave, or how they’d kept me alive for so long without me being conscious of time, but there was no other explanation. I’d been kidnapped by the enemy, stripped down, and fed hallucinogens as preparation for a full-on interrogation.

Three shapes resolved out of the murky darkness ahead. They paused, still hidden in a pool of inky shadow. Golden words flashed across my vision.

<<<>>>

Bounty

Dark Lair: A pack of vile Crave Ghouls have nested in this location. Kill them, harvest their Essence, and avenge those who have been slain by these monstrous beasts.

Reward: +150 Essence; 5 Ward Points

<<<>>>

I skimmed the prompt then waved it away with a flick of my hand. I had more important things to focus on right now. Like the insurgents up ahead. And not dying.

I raised my weapons and squinted, studying the three men. As I did, I realized that I’d made a vital error because these creatures were most definitely not human. Humanoid, sure, but not human. They were squat things with bulbous bellies, gangly arms and legs, and sunburnt red skin. They had misshapen heads with beady, bloodshot eyes, overlarge ears that reminded me of bats, and wide mouths filled with jagged black teeth. Leather wrappings covered their shins, and crude loincloths thankfully covered their junk.

They padded toward me, slowly and deliberately, toes feeling their way through the scattered bones and piles of cast-off debris. The closer they got, the worse I ranked my odds. They weren’t just clawed and fanged and muscled, they were in tactical formation. They might be monsters, but they were monsters on a mission. The trick was to keep ’em in front of me. If they split up and circled behind me, I’d need to have Bruce Lee’s speed and skill paired with Chuck Norris’ brawn, grit, and expert choreography to make it out of this alive.

Things were not looking good.

The stench of flesh marinated in sulfur wafted over me.

Maybe I hadn’t survived the grenade attack after all. Maybe I’d landed in an outer ring of hell and had only one choice. I had to hack my way through these freaks to freedom. Even if the pinprick of light at the far end of the cave was a raging pit filled with brimstone and demons, it had to be more welcoming than these chuckleheads.

The three of them paused again, hunched and huddled, claws tapping frantically, then huffed and wheezed and blew their fetid breath in my direction. If a smell could kill, this one was a truck-mounted .50 cal. My eyes watered and my nose ran, so deep and penetrating was the odor. I cleared my throat and spat to one side, but the taste didn’t budge. Seriously, these guys were worse than the inside of a Porta-John baking in the Iraqi sun. That only fortified my will to fight. Anything to get away from the godforsaken stink.

“I made it through boot camp with a hundred reeking teenagers, you no-good, fat-bellied, lizard-eyed skidmark. No way a bad case of BO is gonna put me down.”

They grunted and clicked their tongues, heads swiveling on their stalk-like necks. The one in the rear chittered and cawed like a kookaburra who’d swallowed a bag of cicadas. He was smaller than the other two.

One of the larger creatures backhanded him, sending him sprawling across the cave floor. He cackled, rubbed his belly with his misshaped claw-hands, and sprang to his feet. It was one of those hyper-gymnast moves that only the very young, the very fit, and the utterly alien can pull off.

“Better if you turn around now and leave me alone before I carve a nice big smile across your throats.” I raised my K-Bar over my head and let the rune light glimmer like angry embers. I might’ve been naked, but I wanted them to know I was packing heat and ready to fight.

Only one of the creatures was armed. He had a pitted machete-like sword and held the thing like he knew how to use it. I opened my mouth for one more taunt, but they came fast and they came all at once, scratching and screeching and kicking up sand and dust as they ran.

I swiveled at the hips, planted my feet, and brought the pistol up. I settled the iron sights and gently squeezed the trigger three times, aiming at the most prominent threat—the freak with the machete. As I pulled the trigger, power surged out from my chest, leaving me feeling hollow and oddly numb.

A glowing blue bar appeared in the corner of my eye.

I was so surprised that my first shot went wide. The second shot drained more of the blue bar—and my energy—but my aim was true, and it caught the creature in the chest, punching a hole through his body. The third round grazed his neck, sending out an arc of blood as the creature spiraled down to the ground. Dead even if he didn’t know it yet.

One of his fellow monstrosities stopped and hovered over him, crooning and swaying, which gave me time to reposition myself. The baby of the pack—the one with the kookaburra laugh—narrowed his eyes and dragged his claws down the wall closest to him. He eyed me like he wanted to throw down, but then he glanced to the pistol in my hand, suddenly unsure. Apparently wherever the hell I was didn’t have a lot of firearms. These wrinkly red nutsacks were about to learn a lesson or two in modern warfare, assuming I could muster the strength to fire off another few rounds.

Under normal circumstances I would’ve emptied the mag into them without a second thought. After just three shots, though, my blue bar was empty and I was feeling winded and shaky, like I’d just sprinted three miles while wearing a combat pack. Since I wasn’t a moron, and could do basic math, it was safe to assume the Colt, the blue bar, and my sudden exhaustion were all somehow related. The weapon description had said the gun acted as a metaphysical focal point that allowed me to channel raw Arcana into deadly force projectiles.

I wasn’t one hundred percent sure what raw Arcana was. If Cal was right, however, and this was Deadwatch Crusade, then it was probably this world’s version of mana, and I would bet every dollar to my name that the blue bar was my mana gauge.

It was refilling, but at a sluggish pace. I needed to buy myself some time, so I waggled the gun and bluffed.

“Wanna see how it works again?” I taunted. “Take one step closer and I’ll be happy to demonstrate.”

The little one threw back his head and clacked his tongue, beating his chest in impotent rage. But he stayed put, waiting for his buddy, who was tending to the one I’d just shot. The beast on the ground coughed. Had they not been trying to kill me just seconds earlier, I might’ve sympathized more.

The creature let out a last final hitching breath, and golden light wafted up from its mouth, slipping across the ground and filling me in an instant. It felt like pure life flowing into my veins. A can of Red Bull, a gallon of coffee, and a snort of coke all rolled into one. The blue bar lurched back to full at the exact same moment that flowing golden sigils swam across my vision. Once again, the words were in a language I’d never seen before, but their meaning was crystal clear inside my head:

[You have killed a Crave Ghoul! The world has been cleansed! You have been blessed with 293 Essence!]

His buddy, the one who’d been hovering over him while he died, reared back and howled, the sound part wolf, part monkey, all rage. He crouched on his haunches and leapt, so fast I could barely track his movements. The gangly creature slammed into me like a linebacker, and my pistol clattered across the rocky ground. Lanky arms wrapped around me, pinning my hands to my sides. The beast pressed himself against me, drilling me to the ground, assailing me with his putrid stench as much as with his body.

The Cackling Clicker—the one who’d tagged along for shits and giggles—waited, waving his preternaturally long arms in the air while he pounded the ground beneath his feet. He kept his distance, though. Whether because he was worried about me or because he was offering the kill to his grieving buddy, I wasn’t sure. Didn’t matter in the long run.

The beast who straddled my chest tightened his grip, and for the third time in hours uncountable and time unknown, I felt my life slipping through my fingers. What an utter bunch of bullshit.

4

Get Some

This shithead might’ve eaten a hundred times his weight in human meat, but I was not going to end up on a spit over his fire with my jawbone slapped up on the wall in a display of cannibal feng shui. I kicked my legs out and bucked my hips, forcing the creature off-balance, then broke its grip with a jerk. Arms suddenly free, I drove my elbow straight up into his chin, knocking the creature off me. I scrambled to my feet and darted in while it was dazed from my strike.

With a scream, I brought my elbow down again, this time smashing into the back of his lumpy, mishappen skull. My arm connected with a crack, and the creature let out a startled squawk.

The youngster with the clicker laugh retreated a few paces and watched in morbid fascination as I wrapped my right arm around his buddy’s head in a guillotine choke and pulled his neck back so it was nicely extended. Then, with a snarl, I drove the K-Bar hard and deep into the creature’s upper chest, just below the throat. Had to be something vital in there, I figured. The creature let out a wet gurgle and toppled straight down, legs refusing to support his weight any longer.

Two down. One to go.

I turned to face the last remaining member of the pack. He grabbed a femur and ran in circles, all the while screeching and clicking and breathing that godawful stink in my direction. But he didn’t come at me like a cracked-out murder hobo, which was encouraging. Of the three, he seemed the most cautious, which meant he was probably also the smartest of the lot. He had just seen his two buddies die, so I was half-heartedly hoping he would scamper off and leave me in peace.

“Think it through,” I said, alien words rolling off my tongue. “I didn’t come here to kill you—all I really want is a pair of pants. You and me? We can go our own separate way, no harm no foul. Or…” I raised my bloodied knife so he knew I wouldn’t hesitate to do to him what I’d done to the others. “Or you can dick around and learn the hard way.” I stepped closer to his dying friend and placed my foot on his chest. The mortally wounded creature made a feeble attempt to lift his arm and push me off, but he was on the down escalator and not coming back.

Unfortunately, my bluff had the opposite effect.

The creature lost his goddamned mind and slammed himself into the wall so hard he tore through the calloused skin covering his forearms. Then the wily knucklehead spun and charged straight at me, his arms and legs high and wide, ready to grab me and pin me just like the other one had done. My Colt was just out of reach—knocked away during my tussle with Crave Ghoul number two—and man oh man was I regretting it.

Jagged claws whistled through the air and raked across my chest, slashing through skin like it was made out of tissue paper and digging down into my muscle.

“Son of a mother-loving donkey.” I brought my leg up and kicked the son of a bitch in the loincloth. No clue if there was anything down there to damage, but they were wearing junk covers, so one had to assume there was something worth concealing.

He squealed and leapt out of reach, hands clutched over the family jewels. Pretty much what you’d expect after a blow to the balls. I might be tripping, but at least there was some internal consistency to my hellish dreamscape. Monsters hunted in packs, ate humans, and screamed bloody murder if you caught them in the crotch. It all tracked.

I danced back, circling the creature, my feet faster than his, and used the momentary lull to scoop up my Colt from the floor. With the pistol back in my hand, the Ghoul hesitated, which was a huge mistake, because I didn’t. Not for a heartbeat. I raised the gun and squeezed the trigger, eating through a third of my blue bar. Well worth the cost, since the round blasted a hole in his head at six feet out.

The monster dropped like a sack of bricks and didn’t even twitch.

I looked down at the second Crave Ghoul—the unlucky son of a bitch who’d caught my knife with his chest. He twitched his claws and whimpered up at me. I aimed my Colt at the spot above his quivering nose and between those bloodred eyes and put him out of his misery, too. It was a mercy as far as I was concerned. And it was always best to make sure with these kinds of things. Couldn’t afford to have a bloodthirsty enemy at my six.

[You have killed an Immature Crave Ghoul! The world has been cleansed! You have been blessed with 192 Essence!]

[You have killed a Crave Ghoul! The world has been cleansed! You have been blessed with 293 Essence!]

<<<>>>

Bounty Fulfilled

Dark Lair: You have slain the pack of Crave Ghouls who have defiled this nexus with their unclean presence. As a reward for a job well done, you have been granted an additional 150 Essence and 5 Ward Points.

<<<>>>

Twin streams of gold mist leaked up from each of the newly minted corpses and rushed toward me while more of the golden light coalesced from the air itself, soaking into my body.

The surge hit again, even more powerful and exhilarating than the last time. Chimes rang out around me, a heavenly orchestra that filled my head while golden light leaked from my body like steam. Stranger still, I stared down at my chest and noticed the skin knitting itself together in the span of seconds. No pain. Not even a slight tickle. One minute I had a jagged gash running across one pec and the next I didn’t. Only faint pink scars remained, and even those were rapidly vanishing, until they were mere ghosts of the wounds they’d been before.

I thought my eyebrows might climb right off my face. That… Now that wasn’t normal. I mean, nothing about this was normal. Not the fact that I was alive. Not the space travel or the weird, half-remembered five-faced deity. Not the cave and the golden pop-up boxes. Not me being bare-assed and definitely not the creepy little Tolkien rejects. But the golden mist and the whole regeneration thing? Yeah, that was even more not normal than everything else.

This was Hell, it had to be. Sure wasn’t Heaven.

I waited for Cal to show up and tell me something I already knew and didn’t need reminding of, but he seemed to prefer the high-octane moments, not these quiet interludes when I was alone with three dead cave monsters, a newly healed wound, and my own somewhat jumbled thoughts. That was just like him. It became quickly apparent that standing around wasn’t going to provide me with any answers, so I figured it was time to try and find some locals. Hopefully locals that didn’t want to eat me and use my bones like macrame art.

But first, I needed to equip myself and see if I could turn up any clues as to where I was.

The creatures wouldn’t be doing any talking, but maybe their corpses could tell me a thing or two—though the idea of poking around the reeking bodies wasn’t exactly appetizing. I scrunched up my nose and eyeballed the freshly minted corpses. Instead of blood, they leaked pools of fetid green goo that smelled like an open sewer. They weren’t the first rotting bodies I’d dealt with, though, and they wouldn’t be the last. Time to embrace the suck and do what needed doing.

I crouched down beside the first Crave Ghoul and was surprised when another golden prompt appeared in front of me.

Harvest Soul Vault? Yes/No

I wasn’t sure what a Soul Vault was or how exactly I was supposed to go about harvesting it, but I hit Yes anyway. A wispy golden ball of energy rose from the creature’s chest, attached to the corpse by a thin tether of blue light. I canted my head, watching in fascination as the ball unfurled like a flower in bloom. Nestled inside the golden orb was a cubbyhole—or a pocket dimension maybe—not much larger than a hotel safe, and inside was a small pile of loot.

“Dude,” Cal said, startling the absolute crap out of me once again, “it’s like a bag of holding.”

“Damnit, Cal,” I yelped, “you gotta stop sneaking up on me like that. If you’re gonna haunt me, you might as well just stick around. Even if you can’t physically help me, a little emotional support would be nice. Or, at the very least, stop trying to make me piss myself.”

“But scaring the pants off of you is funny. It’s even funnier since you don’t actually have pants to begin with. And, for your information, I can’t just stick around even if I wanted to. It takes energy to manifest or even to say things, and I don’t have a ton of energy to go around. Every time I talk, it feels like the words are sucking a little bit of my soul out through a straw.”

That sounded suspiciously similar to what I’d experienced when using my pistol.

“Fine, just try not to be a total dick about it,” I grunted. “If you jump scare me at the wrong time, there’s a good chance I’m going to accidentally put a trio of rounds through your skull. I don’t know if you can die again or not, but it’s on you if you do—not me.”

“Fair enough,” he said, raising his hands in acknowledgment.

“So what do you think this is?” I nodded toward the void space in the center of the floating energy ball.

“Already told you, bag of holding,” Cal replied. “If you really want to know, I could duck out and ask around a little bit.”

“Ask around a little bit?” I repeated. “What the hell is that supposed to mean? You’re a ghost, Cal, and the only other person in this cave is me. Who are you gonna ask?”

Cal rolled his eyes. “No, dingus. When I’m not here, I don’t just stop existing. I feel like you should’ve already mastered object permanence at this stage of the game. When I’m not actively in this realm, I’m in this sort of weird void space. Glimmering stars. Lots of swirly white mist. Pretty boring, actually. There are other things there, though. Spirits, I think, but they seem grumpy and not super talkative. I’m betting they know some shit.”

I frowned and shook my head. “Naw, no point wasting time. Especially since you’re probably right—it does look like a bag of holding.”

Before I could second-guess myself further, I reached into the void space and dragged out the contents, forming a small pile of loot on the floor in front of me. There wasn’t much. Just a few pieces of pitted metal and some triangular stones that almost looked like large fish scales. Brief tags appeared above the bits of metal [2 x Raw Silver Ore, Fabrication Ingredient], [5 x Rawhide Strip, Fabrication Ingredient], [1 x Mortka Horn (Disciple), Fabrication Ingredient], [3 x Raw Iron Ore, Fabrication Ingredient], [2 x Crave Ghoul Leather, Fabrication Ingredient].

Other than the item names, they didn’t offer any useful information. The odd fish scales were a different story entirely. They glimmered with crimson light and radiated a gentle power I didn’t fully understand. When I examined one more closely, a description box appeared just as it had with my pistol.

<<<>>>

Hunger Affinity Scale

Type: Refined Hunger Affinity

Class: Novice

Ability: Consume

Primary Effects:

When consumed directly, Refined Hunger Affinity temporarily enhances the user’s strength and speed and unlocks the passive ability Ravenous Feeding.

When Feeding, the user experiences an elevated Health Regeneration Rate and has a 15% chance of temporarily gaining a skill or ability from whatever creature has been consumed.

Channel Refined Hunger Affinity into a metaphysical focal point, imbuing the item with unique benefits for a limited duration.

Note: The strength and duration of the effect is directly proportional to the quality of the Scale consumed.

<<<>>

The Crave Ghoul had half a dozen of the strange scales. I didn’t have anywhere to put my newfound goodies, so I left them on the floor and went over to examine the next body. This one had three more of the Hunger Affinity Scales, two pieces of Raw Iron Ore, and a leather pouch filled with crudely cast circular coins. Most of them appeared to be copper, though there were a few heavy silver coins as well. I turned one of the coins over in my hands, examining the front and back.

A humanoid image was stamped onto one side, though I was reluctant to dub anything “human” before I’d had a chance to check it out personally. I’d been wrong once today, and I didn’t want to repeat that mistake.

The face on the reverse of the coin was of a dignified-looking man with a serious set of jowls that spoke of plentiful harvests and hearty meals. Good. Very good. Chances were high I was tripping balls, but I needed to treat it as real until I knew for certain, one way or another. And if I was going to be stuck in a strange new land, I wanted it to be one of plenty, not one of want. The fact that the coins had people-like images on the front was also good news because it meant there was civilization to be found.

I added the coin pouch to the pile of growing loot, then moved on to the final body.

Jackpot. Ding, ding, ding.

The last creature was the one with the pitted machete. The blade wasn’t in the Soul Vault, but lying beside his body, but it was a fantastic find, even if it had no shimmering runes or messages from beyond engraved on its hilt. The weapon didn’t hold a candle to my K-Bar, but it would serve as an excellent survival tool if I couldn’t find a town or village nearby. Even better than the machete, though, was what the creature had in its Soul Vault.

No coins this time around, but there was a large variety of other interesting finds. He had five more of the Hunger Affinity Scales—bringing the count up to fourteen total—including one that was Disciple Class, whatever that meant. The creature also had a perfectly round gemstone, about the size of a small marble, with a red rune carved into its face. A Transformation Token.

<<<>>>

Transformation Token

Type: Crave Ghoul

Class: Disciple

Ability: Consume

Primary Effects:

Consume Crave Ghoul Transformation Token to temporarily polymorph-self into the form of a Crave Ghoul; duration, 7 minutes.

Restrictions:

Must have the Totem Transformation Ability to activate this Transformation Token.

<<<>>

“You seeing this shit?” I asked Cal, over one shoulder.

He nodded, a grin stretching across his face. “Dude, this is totally just Wild Shape. I’m thinking you might be like some kind of Druid.”

“With a magic Colt,” I said.

“With a magic Colt,” he agreed. “So Artificer Druid? But also with Wolverine regen abilities and game powers. Fine, I have no clue what you are, but who cares! It’s awesome.”

“Why aren’t you more concerned about what’s happening?” I asked.

“I’m dead, so it’s hard to be too concerned about anything, which also means I need to live vicariously through your experiences. The real question is, why aren’t you more excited?”

“Because I’m not dead and would like to keep it that way,” I replied flatly.

I tucked the marble into the leather satchel along with the coins and Affinity Scales, then retrieved the last of the items tucked away in the Soul Vault. This was the best of them all. Leather chest armor—worn, dusty, and beat to hell, but serviceable. I pulled up the item description and quickly peered at its rudimentary stats.

<<<>>>

Crude Leather Armor

Type: Light, Crude Leather

Class: Novice

Shoddy in both design and craftsmanship, this crude armor offers only the most basic protection against the cutting edge of a blade. What it lacks in elegance it makes up for in smell, but it is perfect for those wishing to specialize in Stealth or other unsavory abilities.

<<<>>>

It wasn’t the kind of legendary loot I would’ve expected in a real-world RPG, but anything was better than nothing. I slipped the armor into place, surprised that it even fit me.

“Really, dude?” Call asked as I stood.

“What?” I asked.

“What do you mean, what? You’re porky pigging it. I think this is worse than you just being naked.” He folded his arms and looked away in disgust. “Yeah. Definitely worse. It’s more obscene somehow. You need pants. You could always snag one of their loincloths…”

I tried not to vomit in my mouth at the thought. Even though I was still naked from the waist down, I decided that looting the Ghoul’s gross loincloths was going to be a hard pass for me. I didn’t want my junk anywhere near their junk, because that, my friends, is how you get goblin crabs.

“Fine,” Cal said. “If you don’t want cave troll diapers, you might check over by the firepit.” He hooked a thumb toward the far side of the chamber. “Looks like there might be some more stuff in a chest.”

Following Cal’s suggestion, I hoofed it over to their little campsite, where I found a weather-beaten trunk. There was no lock in sight, and it was filled with what looked like a haul of stolen items. Ah, no. Not stolen. These were dead men’s clothes. I pulled pieces out, one by one.

Trousers. Tunics. A dress. Shit, a miniature pair of leather shoes. Barely worn.

Holy hell. These animals took no prisoners and made no distinctions. Men, women, children, all were on the menu for these monsters. Suddenly I felt far less bad about busting up their shit. Seemed like they had it coming in spades.

Most of the items were junk—moth-eaten blankets, scraps of fabric, a couple of old leather boots—but tucked in the side of the trunk was a pair of scratchy linen trousers. I turned them around, looking for lice and ticks. I didn’t want to dodge goblin crabs only to be taken down by bubonic-plague-bearing fleas. They looked clean enough for a ratty old pair of dead men’s pants. They mostly fit, too. Sure, they hung down to my calves and were too loose around the waist, but a length of rope served well enough for a belt, and they were better than nothing.

Using some twine—sinew maybe? I didn’t look too closely—and with one of the leather hides on the floor, I fashioned a rough satchel, then filled it with what I could. The rest of the twine went in, along with some clean looking strips of fabric and a glass bottle. Then I headed to the firepit, searching for flint. I didn’t find anything as useful as a fire starter, but the bottom of the pit was filled with the remains of smudged black coals, which weren’t as useless as they seemed.

I wrapped some of them in a piece of fabric and added them to my makeshift pack—

Something rattled, not far off. I froze like a deer in the headlights, my senses screaming at me. Fuck. There was something else in here with me.

5

Murder Parrot

Was it possible I’d missed another one of the reeking creatures?

No, couldn’t be.

I’d cleared the bounty, which meant the gangly cannibal freaks were all dead and gone. There was something else in here with me, though, I was sure of it. I did a quick scan of the room and saw nothing that immediately set off warning bells. Then the rattle came again. This time I pinpointed its source. In the rear of the cave, near the rotting deer carcass and the odd pheasant, was what looked like a little birdcage perched on a rocky shelf protruding from the wall. There was a leather bag covering the cage, but I was sure that was where the sound was coming from.

I shot a look toward Cal. What’s the play?

“You gotta check it out,” Cal said, folding his arms. “What if it’s a cat? You know I have a soft spot for furballs. What if they captured it and planned on slow roasting it?”

“You’re dead, I’m probably losing my mind, more of those things could come back at any second, and you want me to go poke around looking for a cat?”

“Priorities, man,” he said. “You know it’s the right thing to do.”

I sighed. “Fine, I’ll take a look. But it’s probably some kind of murder parrot,” I grumbled as I slipped over to the cage.

Another rattle followed, this one more violent than the last. Whatever was in there was tiny, but it was real feisty and it did not want to be in the cage anymore. I braced myself, fully expecting to get acid thrown in my eyes, and yanked the leather covering off. It was indeed a rusty metal birdcage, but inside was no cat. There was a tiny humanish man, about six inches tall with flittering butterfly wings protruding from his back.

I’d played enough DnD to know a pixie when I saw one, though this was the dirtiest, grumpiest, most malnourished pixie I could ever imagine. The pixie wore patchwork leathers in a variety of colorful hues that stood out like a sore thumb even in the gloom.

“Yep. That is definitely not a cat,” Cal said, “but it’s still kinda cute. Maybe they keep pixies for pets here?”

“I’m no pet!” a tiny, high-pitched voice squawked at me. “And who do you bloody well think you are, entering my cave, killing my enemies, and stealing my loot? An outrage, is what it is!”

“I’m sorry, this is your cave?” I asked, cocking an eyebrow at the little being. “I got the distinct impression that the gangly blister-skin shitheads I killed had first dibs.”

“Phft. That’s what they want you to think,” the pixie retorted, “but it’s all a pack of lies perpetrated by Big Ghoul and the Corporeal Mortka Trade Union! True, they were technically here before me, but I laid claim to the territory in accordance with the laws of the Fae Folk. As far as I’m concerned, those filthy reprobates were essentially illegal squatters. I was about to break out of this laughable prison and enact the Court’s justice for their open defiance.”

“Really?” I replied, deeply suspicious. “Because it definitely looks like you’re trapped in there and I saved your ass.”

“Maybe that’s the way it looks to you, but I can assure you I was mere moments away from a glorious escape.”

“Is that right?” I pressed, folding my arms in amusement. “Then I guess you don’t need me to open the door for you? I’ll just leave you to it.” I turned, as though to go.

The pixie buzzed in agitation, wings flickering as it paced the floor of his cage.

“Wait! Fine. I concede that I may have still been in my planning phase but rest assured that I would’ve gotten out in due time. Nothing can hold an emissary of the Throne.”

“Except a birdcage,” I noted stoically.

“It’s the iron,” the pixie said with a sigh. “Fae Folk cannot abide its touch. It’s one of the few things that neutralize our powers. That and a binding ring.” He grimaced and pointed toward the ground. There was a white, powdery ring encircling the cage. “A simple salt circle.”

“Seems like a lot of things can hold an emissary of the Throne,” Cal said.

“That’ll be quite enough lip out of you, spirit.” The pixie glowered at Cal.

“Wait, you can see him?” I asked, suddenly intrigued by what other secrets the pixie might know.

“Obviously,” he squeaked. “He’s a creature of the Etheric Realm, as am I. The fact that you can see us is the real oddity. You look human enough, but obviously there is something queer about you.”

“I don’t think you can use that word anymore,” I said.

“What? Queer? Odd, strange, unusual, bizarre, peculiar? Why would you take offense to this? Is it not true?”

“Eh, you know what,” I said, “let’s chalk it up to cultural differences. Probably shouldn’t have said anything in the first place. I really want to keep talking, but this place smells like the inside of an old jockstrap, and I’d really like to not be here in case more of those Ghouls show up. So, if I let you out are you going to try and hurt me or murder me?”

“Naturally,” came his immediate reply. “You have all the loot and I want all the loot. You reek of Hunger Affinity, which is what I came for in the first place. Since this is my territory by right, they belong to me. Obviously, I’ll murder you to get it.”

“Hey, how about that,” Cal said. “Murder parrot was actually pretty close to the truth.”

“At least he’s honest,” I said with a shrug.

“We Fae Folk are known for our scrupulous honesty. Honesty is the best policy we say among my kith and kin.”

“Good to know, little guy—”

“Not little guy. Renholm of Greenburrow,” the pixie corrected.

“Sure. Whatever. Renholm of Greenburrow. Point is, I really appreciate you shooting straight with me, but now I’m in a bit of a pickle.”

“I don’t see a pickle at all,” the pixie buzzed.

“Not what I meant. What I meant is that you put me in a bad spot. See, if you’re going to murder me, then I’m just not going to let you out. I don’t want to leave you here to die—I think we could be useful to each other—but again, you’re going to try and kill me, so… Not leaving me with a lot of options.”

“Yes, I suppose it could come off that way in a certain light,” Renholm said after a beat.

“Not in a certain light,” I replied. “You literally told me you were going to kill me.”

“Very well, you drive a hard bargain, friend,” Renholm continued, ignoring me. “In light of the circumstances, I will graciously spare your life should you release me. All I ask for in exchange is the rights to this dominion and all of the loot you acquired from my captors.”

I squinted, lips pressed into a thin line. “I’m not sure you understand how bargaining works.”

“Nope, he definitely doesn’t,” Cal replied, nodding in agreement.

“Let me break this down shotgun style for you, bud,” I said. “You’re trapped and can’t get out. I can let you out, but not if you’re going to murder me or try to rob me. I guess you can have the cave if you really want it, but since I killed the monsters in here, all their shit is mine. Period. End of deal.”

“Hmm. You really have me over a blacksmith’s barrel, no doubt. You’re astute. Sharp as Orken’s tack,” Renholm said. “In fact, you remind me of myself as a young sprite. You know your worth, and clearly know when you have the upper hand. I can respect that.” He rubbed at his pointed chin thoughtfully. “How about this by way of bargain? I will very generously not kill you, allow you to keep the spoils of war, and will even take you under my wing as a protégé. There is potential to be tapped—a partnership to be formed, I think. All you need to do is set me free of this wretched, impenetrable prison of the damned.”

“That’s an interesting way to spell birdcage,” Cal said. “Boyd, mind if we chat for a second?” He leaned in close. “Away from the crazy pixie?” he whispered into my ear.

I nodded.

“Look,” Cal said as soon as we were out of earshot, “I’m all for rescuing strays, but I think maybe we should leave this guy here. He seems a little too murdery for me. Ten to one he tries to shank you in the kidney or steal your molars. Am I sure he’s a violent tooth fairy? No. Am I not sure he’s a violent tooth fairy? Also no. It’s not worth the risk in my book. I mean, I’ll feel bad about abandoning him here, but some strays just aren’t worth it.”

“He’s not a stray, Cal. He’s a person. Or person-adjacent, anyway. Also, let me just point out that if a cat could talk this is exactly what it would sound like. Besides, we can’t just leave him. We need a guide.”

“Yes, you do,” the pixie agreed. It seemed we weren’t quite as out of earshot as I’d first thought. “Pixies have incredible hearing,” he said by way of explanation, “and also a voracious appetite for gossip and eavesdropping. Don’t listen to the incompetent specter. He’s jealous, and rightfully so. I won’t murder you. You have me at a disadvantage, so I will swear to do no direct or immediate harm to you should you release me.”

“That is both oddly specific and extremely suspicious,” Cal said.

“I am a valuable asset,” Renholm interjected. “Not only can I help guide you from this place, but I can teach you many things. Hidden things unknown to men.”

I frowned and absently drummed my fingers along the outside of my thigh. “Prove it,” I finally said. I opened the leather pouch at my waist and fished out an Affinity Scale. “You said you were after these, right? Tell me what they are. What they do. It says to consume them. How? Am I supposed to chuck ’em into a campfire or slow cook ’em over a grill?”

The pixie audibly snorted.

“Of course not, you ignorant slut.”

“Ignorant slut?” I muttered.

“Affinity Scales are power,” Renholm continued. “How in the world did you manage to dispatch three Crave Ghouls and not know that?”

“Let’s pretend I’m not from around here and explain it like I’m five.”

The pixie sniffed. “Affinity Scales are currency and power amongst the Mortka.”

“What are the Mortka?” I asked.

He rubbed at the bridge of a finely pointed nose. “You’re like a grub larva that hasn’t had its first molt.” He sighed and tossed up his hands. “Mortka is a broad term for the monstrous races. There are as many different types of Mortka as there are stars in the night sky, but they are generally grouped into family and kin groups. Amongst the Mortka, Affinity Scales can be consumed for a variety of purposes, but mostly to advance.

“I don’t know what you are—terribly queer indeed—but you are not Mortka. For Warlocks, Sorcerers, Magi, and the like, Affinity Scales can be used to replenish Arcana magic, heal the body, and temporarily grant themselves powers that align with the Affinity type consumed. Merely place it in your hand and focus on drawing its energy down and into your flesh. Doing so will consume the energy stored within.”

I took one of the lesser scales and set it in my palm. The crimson colors danced across the scale, oddly hypnotic. I felt the gentle thrum of power emanating from it—I reached for that power with my mind. The scale shimmered and strobed for a second longer, then vanished as a wash of energy flooded my system. Not just energy, though, anger and hunger in equal measure. I’d never been hungrier in my life, and all I could think about was ripping into warm flesh to fill my belly.

I needed food more than I’d needed anything else before in my life. I would kill to get it and rip anyone apart who tried to stop me.

The sensation was empowering and viscerally revolting and I wanted it gone from my system. I could sense my Colt calling to me from the small of my back where I’d tucked it away. It was a conduit and was only too happy to accept the influx of ravenous power. I channeled the Hunger Affinity from my body, feeding it into the pistol. Once there wasn’t any trace of the power lingering in my system, I drew the Colt and pulled back the slide. There were fresh rounds in the chamber, even though I hadn’t reloaded the weapon after battling the Crave Ghouls.

Stranger still, the chambered round was no longer the golden hue it had been before, but a seedy crimson, the same shade as the Affinity Scale. As far as I could tell, I’d just reloaded my weapon with energy bullets. I examined the pistol, pulling up its stat screen:

<<<>>>

Peacemaker

Type: Planar Colt 1911; Soul Bound

Class: Fatemarked

Ability: Soul Summon

Primary Effects:

Upgradeable; See Soul Vault

Arcana Foci: This item acts as a metaphysical focal point allowing you to channel raw Arcana into deadly force projectiles.

Affinity Consumption: Consume Affinity Scales and channel their primary affinity into force projectiles of the same type.

Temporary Effects:

Hunger Affinity Rounds (13): Upon impact, force projectiles eat through an additional portion of the target’s passive life force, healing your wounds in the process.

<<<>>>

I whistled through my teeth.

Now that was badass. Cal was right, Renholm the pixie was obviously dangerous and probably would try to harvest my organs at some point, but he knew things. Things I needed to know if I wanted to survive. Worst-case scenario, I would let the insane pixie out and he would try to eat or maim me—not necessarily in that order—and I’d have to kill him, too. But based on my life-and-death encounters over the past two days, I had at least a fifty-fifty chance of coming out on top.

I’d worked with worse odds in the Corps.

“I really hope I don’t regret this, Renholm.” I smudged the line of salt with my toe, breaking the binding ring. A gentle wave of energy dissipated into the air. Then, I flipped open the little iron door to the birdcage and shuffled back as the pixie took off like a bat out of hell. I stowed my pistol, attached the leather coin pouch to my impromptu rope belt, and followed the flitting pixie to the cave’s exit.

6

Wilderness

I ducked through the archway of grinning, gap-toothed skulls, careful not to touch anything.

It was early morning, the sun barely peeking up over the horizon. The cave was cut into a mountain face, the entrance partially obscured by towering pines and scraggly firs. Tactically excellent. The Crave Ghouls would be able to see anyone headed their way long before they arrived, but no one would be able to spot them lying in wait. Well, they would have been able to see anyone coming. Past tense. Their reign of terror was over. Not a bad night’s work for a man who’d wrapped himself around a grenade and woken up inside the world’s most vivid brain trip.

Cal was gone, vanished back to wherever he went when he wasn’t with me, and Renholm fluttered along like a manic hummingbird. I half expected the shifty, murderous pixie to leave me high and dry the second he got clear of the cave, so I was pleasantly surprised when he waited for me.

I slung my makeshift satchel over one shoulder, then jogged a few hundred feet down the dirt path before I came to a natural ridge and a clearing in the trees. Machete boy and his crew of Ghouls had hacked off enough branches to create a massive window onto the valley below. I crouched and scanned the terrain.

“What are you looking for?” Renholm buzzed, touching down on one of my shoulders.

“Water,” I said.

Water was the single most important resource in a wilderness survival situation, and securing some early on could be the difference between life and death.

I could go weeks without food if need be, but I wouldn’t make it long without something to drink. There’d been a brook in the cave but the stacks of human remains, the greasy firepit, and the goo-leaking monsters made drinking from that another hard pass. Besides, maybe getting a bellyful of cool water would knock me out of this fever-induced delirium. If that was the key to unlocking and ending this hallucination, I would willingly stick my head under a raging waterfall, open my mouth, and drown in sanity.

“An apt decision,” Renholm agreed. “You smell atrocious. Not as bad as the Crave Ghouls, but it’s a race to the bottom. Doesn’t help that you’re carrying all those Hunger Affinity Scales. But, because I am a gentle-fae, I’d be happy to take them off your hands.” A greedy light burned in his mischievous eyes.

“Yeah, fat chance of that happening,” I said, shrugging him off my shoulder, “and the water isn’t for bathing, it’s for drinking.”

Renholm’s face broke into a shocked “O,” and he recoiled in obvious distaste. “Why in the heavens above would you want to drink water?” the pixie asked, sounding genuinely baffled. “Since I’ve taken you under my wing, I feel compelled to ask—have you actually tasted water? It’s both terribly pointless and terribly bland. The most boring of all liquids by far.”

“I’m not sure if you’re joking or not,” I replied. “What else would I drink?”

“Affinity, naturally. That’s what all true creatures of the Etheric Realm imbibe. Well, that and a good spiced wine. The wine is mostly for getting drunk, the Affinity is for sustenance. Those scales you carry will give you the ravenous hunger of a Mortka, but they will fill me up, not just in body but in spirit. If I consume enough Affinity stones, it will even allow me to advance and evolve.”

“That true for ghosts too?” I asked.

“I assume you’re asking about that vexing spirit friend of yours?”

I nodded.

“Yes. The scales will help him maintain his corporeal form. Many Mortka such as the Crave Ghouls require food for survival as well as Affinity, but ghosts, fae, angelics, and other creatures of the Ether only need sustenance of the soul to tide us over.”

“That’s good to know,” I said, pulling a Hunger Scale from the pouch at my side. “I don’t think I can survive off of these things, which means water. I’m thirsty and I bet you are, too. So I’m willing to make a deal with you. Help me find a clean source of water and I’ll give you one of these bad boys for the trouble.”

Renholm’s buggy, luminous eyes seemed to grow three sizes bigger. “For truth?”

“Scout’s honor,” I said solemnly, raising three fingers. I’d only made it through Cub Scouts, but he didn’t need to know that.

“I am unaware of these Sage Scouts, but if they are the gods of your people, I shall gladly abide by their pact if it means a chance at an Affinity Scale.” He took to the air in a whirl, flying up above the tree line. I cupped a hand over my eyes and tracked his movements.

After a handful of seconds, the pixie started blinking frantically, signaling me to follow. The mountaintop itself was dense with evergreens, but the pine forest ended at the foot of the mountain. The valley had been cleared and planted with crops. That meant there had to be a water source close by. With Renholm’s assistance, it didn’t take me long to find the visual break in the well-ordered fields below. I followed the meandering ribbon of green and blue across the valley until it disappeared into the trees to the north. I could make it that far, even if I was caked in monster goo and wearing a dead man’s trousers.

The pixie took off again, leaving a glittering trail of breadcrumbs hanging in the air for me to follow.

I broke into a run to keep up, sweat beading on my forehead and trickling down my chest, quickly wicked away by a gentle draft working its way through the trees. After a few minutes, I picked up the pace. Honestly, it felt damned good to stretch my muscles. Some part of me instinctively knew this place was impossible—a dream scenario cooked up by an addled brain and awesome drugs force-fed to me at a Naval hospital—another part of me didn’t care. I’d never felt this good before. This strong. Not even before deployment, when I was squeaking by under the eighteen-minute mark on my three-mile Physical Fitness Test, or PFT.

Thanks to that golden mist I’d absorbed back in the cave, I felt like I could run for a thousand miles. I only needed to go two or so, though, before I found myself kneeling by a hole in the rockface where the water flowed freely, gathering in small sandy pools before burbling over and down the mountainside.

“Your disgusting, bland water, just as promised,” Renholm said, gesturing grandly to the trickle.

“You’re weird as hell,” I said, “but I gotta admit, you’re pretty useful.” I fished free one of the lesser Hunger Affinity Scales and flicked it through the air to him with my thumb. He leapt from his rocky perch like a house cat and attacked the scale with gusto. In seconds it was gone, and his fat belly looked so distended I thought he might give birth. He touched down on the rock, swaying rather drunkenly.

“Oh… oh my. That was… perhaps too much.” He paused to let out a thunderous burp, then pirouetted and promptly toppled from the rocky ledge, landing facedown in a patch of grass. Well shit. I’d finally found a friendly face and I’d already managed to kill the little bastard. I dropped to a knee and poked him a few times with a finger. I let out a sigh of relief. Nope, not dead. Just in a food coma from the looks of it. Carefully, I picked him up by his glittering wings and set him back on the rock so I wouldn’t accidentally trample him, then went to work.

Drinking unfiltered water was always a danger, but I was prepared for that. Some of those survival training ops were finally starting to come in handy. I dug a pit next to the smallest pool, lined the bottom with crushed charcoal from my pack, then spread a fine layer of gravel over the top, leaving a shallow divot, lined with rock.

It took nearly twenty minutes, but eventually water from the brook seeped through into the hole. The gravel filtered out any of the bigger particles and the charcoal would absorb the majority of the harmful bacteria floating in the water. I drank until my guts were ready to bust then drank some more.

I needed to let the rock pool fill and filter a second time, so I had a bit of time to kill. Might as well make myself useful. A few minutes in the underbrush and I’d found the game trails and bunny runs. I dug in my satchel and found the twine. I made a simple snare, tested the wind, and built a blind not more than twenty paces away from my trap.

I must have dozed off at some point because when I woke there was a rabbit ready and waiting and I had enough clean water to fill my glass bottle. Cal was still missing in action, though, and Renholm the pixie was passed out cold on the rock—a good thing in my estimation, since he definitely would’ve robbed me blind given half a chance.

The rabbit that had stumbled into my trap didn’t look anything like the cottontails I’d hunted back in Kentucky. Everything about it was bigger than I was used to. Bigger ears, longer legs, wicked fangs. The thing practically looked like a small wolf, and since when did rabbits have canines? Sharp ones, too, made for ripping and tearing. That wasn’t the weirdest thing. The strangest feature was the gnarled horns tucked behind the ears. I’d heard tell of the Jackalope, but I’d always assumed it was a taxidermy trick.

This critter’s rack was real enough.

Food was food, though, and I was hungry going on hangry.

I wasn’t going to let a couple of bony nubs scare me away from a good meal. I skinned it, gutted it, built a fire, and set the bunny to cook. While it roasted, I pulled out another Hunger Affinity Scale and examined it more closely. I stole a look at Renholm, snoring softly on the rock. His belly still looked distended, but it wasn’t quite so pronounced as before. When I’d consumed the Hunger Affinity Scale, the power had been overwhelming—if I hadn’t had my weapons to channel the energy into, I could’ve easily ended up facedown on the floor.

These things were real, tangible power and I needed to understand them better if I was going to survive. I had water, food, and daylight left, so there was no better time to experiment than the present. I placed the scale flat in my hand and pulled the Affinity energy down into my skin once more. Another surge of wild, angry, voracious energy filled me to the brim. My gut instinct was to shed the force into either my Colt or K-Bar, but I resisted that temptation. Instead, I focused on the rabbit, still cooking over the fire.

I couldn’t wait. Not for a second longer.

I ripped the rabbit from the spit and wolfed down the meat, the hot grease burning my lips and face. I didn’t care. It was so good. The best thing I’d ever tasted. I ate the skin and the meat, but still couldn’t stop myself. I headed over to the entrails I’d cut out and shoved those into my face too, savoring the metallic taste. That took the edge off, but there was still more to eat. To consume. I snapped the rabbit bones and drank the marrow like a man dying of thirst.

Finally, the roaring inferno of hunger in my center faded to hot coals. In its place was an anxious, jittery energy. All I wanted to do was run and leap and fight. I could feel the life force of the rabbit I’d consumed pumping through my veins and racing through my muscles. I wasn’t sure how long the feeling would last, but I knew if I didn’t move right now, I’d explode. I couldn’t sit on my ass for another second, not while the sun raced across the sky and darkness drew nearer and nearer.

I stood and stretched, then used a branch to get in a couple dozen pull-ups. Shit, but I felt amazing. Not just hydrated and well-fed but nourished and rested. Almost bouncy. I couldn’t leave Renholm snoozing on the rock—something would likely wolf him down in the same way I’d wolfed down that rabbit—so I scooped him up, dropped him into my satchel, and hopped back onto the trail, bunny style. I couldn’t help but think of what my mom had said a hundred times growing up: you are what you eat.

Turned out she was right, at least in this world.

The larger game trail cut down the side of the mountain before emerging onto a dirt lane about as wide as a single-lane Kentucky back road. But a genuine road was a good sign, because a road meant people. The dirt was damp, probably from overnight rainfall, and there were wheel ruts gouged into the fresh mud, confirming that some sort of heavy cart had passed through here within the last day or so. A little searching revealed hoofprints in the mud. I was no animal expert but I grew up in horse country, so I knew a mule print when I saw one.

Which way to go was just a coin toss, so I decided to follow the cart, forcing my legs to move faster, to carry me farther. Burning through the rabbit’s restless energy.

* * *

It was half an hour before sunset when I finally saw a plume of smoke rising up in the distance. Another ten minutes brought me to the edge of the forest. The road dipped down, transforming from dirt into cobblestone as it entered a city encircled by a stone wall, twenty feet tall. Cautiously, I scoped out the settlement from the safety of the tree line, ensuring I stayed away from the prying eyes of any potential threats. I was getting damned tired of surprises, and I wanted to know what I was getting myself into before blundering headlong into a potential enemy stronghold.

Thanks to my vantage and my newly enhanced eyesight, it was easy to see the winding streets and wood-shingled roofs peeking into the air. More stone chimneys jutted up, spewing out wandering clouds of blue-gray smoke. A wide river snaked along the eastern edge of the settlement, its banks lined by small trading vessels moored along wooden docks. The streets looked busy with the hustle and bustle of steady foot traffic—people out shopping or selling, horses plodding along as they pulled loaded wagons. I’d spent enough time running forward reconnaissance missions to guess the city probably housed ten thousand or so residents.

I wasn’t sure where in the hell I was, but this wasn’t Fallujah or anywhere else in the Al-Anbar province. There wasn’t a thawb or keffiyeh in sight. As any good Marine would, I spent the next thirty minutes maneuvering around the perimeter, trying to find a way past the wall, but the residents had done an admirable job of protecting their forest getaway.

I could’ve headed farther north, then come downriver—hoping to slip in undetected by way of the ports—but it was almost dark and that would take hours at least, with no guarantee of success. I also could’ve tried to scale the walls, but there were ramparts, walkways, and towers, which meant armed guards and lookouts. Misunderstandings with weapons was never any fun and I didn’t want to get pincushioned with arrows while I was scampering up the wall, so I finally headed back to the road and opted to try the direct approach.

Weary traveler seeks rest and all that.

A shout immediately went up from the sentries manning the main gate.

There was a guard wearing creased leathers positioned in the tower to my right. He had a curved bow with an arrow trained on me. His comrade on the ground fumbled with his halberd. All the medieval weapons and armor gave me pause. First the monsters, now this. This world was screwier than a three-dollar bill, but I put all that aside for the moment. I had survival to consider. These guys were armed, but I had a gun, a machete, and a knife. There were two of them and only one of me, and they had a fortified location.

Decision time.

One had elevation and cover, the other was on foot with a pole weapon and a dented breastplate and helmet. At a quick glance, the guard on the ground appeared to be in his mid-forties and not in particularly good shape, which meant the archer went first if this came to a fight. I could send a hail of rounds downrange before he could draw tight and loose his arrow. The distance was iffy, but I was confident I could make the shot.

As for the ground guard, his shoddy breastplate—rusted in places and pitted from age and wear—wouldn’t stop a .45 ACP, but it would do a damn fine job of keeping the bullet bouncing around the inside of his torso, turning him into Swiss cheese. These weren’t monsters, though, not like the red-skinned Crave Ghouls from the cave. They were probably decent enough folk, so I didn’t want things to get bloody. I also wasn’t going to lie down and die, though. Not for anybody.

“Halt, stranger!” the guard at the gate hollered, his voice teetering on the edge of panic. He pointed the spear end of his halberd in my general direction, but that did little to lessen his overall aura of pants-shitting terror. His anxiety was justifiable since I looked like a nut job with tattered pants held up by a length of rope, leather armor covering my torso, and a pitted machete in one hand. That I was covered in green gore and red rabbit’s blood probably didn’t help either.

“No farther, now.” I couldn’t place his accent. The intonation wasn’t Middle Eastern, but it wasn’t American either. Vaguely European maybe? “State your business.” As he spoke, it dawned on me that he wasn’t speaking English at all. The cadence of the words was off, the syllables longer and harsher than I was used to. But somehow, I had no problem understanding him. Not a lick.

Shit was getting crazier and crazier by the second.

“Hey, fellas,” I said, waving a hand. Like a sucker punch to the teeth, I realized I wasn’t speaking English either. “Boy do I have a wild-ass story to tell you fellas,” I said, the foreign words falling flawlessly from my lips. “Thing is, I don’t know where I am or how I got here, but I had a little mishap about a day’s walk thataway.” I hooked a thumb back down the road. “Ended up in a cave with some freaky looking red guys. Potbellies. Gangly arms. Nasty-ass black teeth. Anywho, the bastards ambushed me, might’ve stolen my clothes. I murdered ’em all, but—”

A wooden door inside the wall flew open and a portly guard with a wisp of hair and a thick handlebar mustache hustled out of a concealed guard shack.

“Hindrik, Rory!” he bellowed, wobbling forward on bowed legged, his hands raised. “Lower your gods-be-damned weapons, you fools!”

“But Commander, he—”

“Look at his hair, you ijits! Look at his bloody face! He’s got the mark clear as the sun at noonday. Praise be, but it’s a Vigil Bound. He’s come to save us all!”

“Uh, what was that now?” I asked.

7

The Vigilant

There was a muttered gasp from the two watchmen and a hasty stir as they stowed their weapons. The guy in the breastplate still seemed skeptical—what with me looking like a murder hobo—but he kept his mouth firmly shut at the word of his commanding officer. Smart man.

“I’m Commander Arendu, and you have my deepest apologies, Vigil,” the commander said, bowing and scraping his way over, dusty brown mustache fluttering as he spoke. He regarded me as though I might be a feral bear that would maul him at any second, but still he kept coming closer, blinking and twitching and rubbing his hands together. He made a good show of not actively inspecting me, but what he was really doing was taking careful stock. I stood my ground and waited. My stance was clear: yes, I have weapons, and yes, I know how to use them.

The newcomer had a gut, a double chin, and a balding pate. Two of those traits spoke of a life well lived while the other just spoke of unlucky genes. His overcoat was patched, but expertly. Someone took care of him. A wife or daughter. Someone good with a needle. He had rings on all his fingers, which told me there were people in the town with money to burn. The fact that he was a guard, even a commander, with that kind of money could also mean he was on the take.

“We’ve had a problem with some highwaymen these past few months—travelers going missing and such,” he explained. “My men, they’ve been jumpy. Just didn’t recognize you from a distance.” He offered me an uneasy smile and dry washed his hands. “But that is no concern of yours. You’re here for the monster, I’m sure. The Custodians must’ve sent you from Hollaheim when they heard about our problem.” As he spoke, golden words swam across the air just like they’d done back at the cave.

<<<>>>

Bounty

Terror of Ironmoor: A deadly Mortka with powerful abilities at its disposal prowls the streets of Ironmoor, a provincial trading hub in the province of Oakenward. Old hate drives the beast to kill, and only a Vigil Bound has the power to end its bloody reign. This is no ordinary monster; its form and nature are cloaked by dark magics, its identity hidden behind false faces and guarded even from the eyes of Raguel, the Five Faced. Identify the nature of the beast, slay it before at least one witness, and restore justice and order to the city of Ironmoor.

Reward: +15,000 Essence, 1 x Seraphic Affinity Scale (Sage Class), 1 x Chaos Affinity Scale (Sage Class), 1 x True Form Transformation Token, 1 x Scalable Master-Rank Armor Item

<<<>>>

I scanned the prompt, my breath catching in my throat as I read.

Well crap. For better or worse, I’d just stumbled into an enormous shitshow. This wasn’t even remotely like the bounty I’d completed before. There was something bad roaming the streets of this little city, and if the reward for killing it was any indication, this mission wasn’t going to be a stroll in the park. Problem was, I didn’t know my asshole from my elbow, had no idea how these fancy new powers of mine worked, and wasn’t even sure where to start with an investigation into a string of brutal monster-related killings.

Hell, I still wasn’t even one hundred percent convinced that I wasn’t in a medically induced coma or strung out on morphine.

I couldn’t say any of that, though. So instead, I smiled and tried not to look completely lost in the sauce.

The commander was still jabbering away and didn’t seem to notice my hesitation.

“Praise be, indeed. Arbitrator Arturo has been praying for aid, but we were beginning to fear…” He trailed off. “Doesn’t matter. The important thing is that you’re here now. Praise be!” He reached his hand out, thought better of it, and stuffed it in a pocket. “You look the worse for the wear, Vigil. Red-skinned miscreants you say? Musta been the Crave Ghouls that live near the point. Nasty creatures, and good riddance to ’em.”

He turned his head and spit into the dirt.

“But listen to me blathering on while you’re standing there looking like a right mess. A terrible way to greet such an esteemed guest. Let’s get you to the inn, eh? We have several, of course, but only the best will do for you. We’d be damned poor hosts to leave you out here in this state. Please. Come. Please.” He waved me toward the gate.

The portly commander guided me through a warren of cobblestone streets. The city was enormous but looked medieval—almost like something out of a fairy tale, if not for the dirt and grime adorning every conceivable surface. In this quarter of the city, the buildings were one or two stories tall and built of stone or wood. They had boxy windows protected by wood-slatted shutters, and the roofs were covered with thatch or wooden shingles.

Through a window I spied a family sitting down to eat. When the mother caught me peering in, she made a gesture that looked like the sign of the evil eye and slammed the shutters tight.

The commotion on the street ebbed and flowed around us, but there was more ebbing than flowing. I couldn’t be sure, but it seemed like people were pulling away when they saw me, retreating into their homes, gathering their children behind their skirts and muttering as I passed.

“Not many strangers visit these parts?” I asked the commander, cocking an eyebrow.

Commander Arendu snorted with laughter. “Well, I wouldn’t say that. We’re one of the largest trading posts this side of the River Torne. Ten thousand men strong we be, not counting the women and wee folk, of course. People come here from all corners of the kingdom.” He stole a sidelong glance at me then pointed to a doorway hung with a boot. “We have the finest Galbanian leather, shipped here from the Azulean shores.”

The words made sense in my head, but the locations meant nothing to me. I wished Cal was here or even Renholm—anyone who could help me decipher what the guy was yammering on about. No such luck. The pixie was still hungover in my satchel and there was no sign of my dead friend.

I didn’t want to offend him, so I just offered him a thin smile and a noncommittal grunt.

We ducked under a low-hanging roof and hung a left, almost colliding with three young men who were idling by the corner and smoking from bulbous pipes. They quickly scurried out of our way, but did nothing to hide their astonishment. If this was how they greeted strangers it was a wonder they did any trade at all.

Arendu ignored their whispers and escorted me to a three-story place bordering the town square. It was by far the largest and most impressive structure I’d seen so far. There was a wooden sign dangling out front declaring it to be The Three Chimneys. The warm glow from the windows and sound of stamping feet promised a good time.

The interior was brightly lit, candelabras jutting from the walls at even intervals, and the floorboards were clean enough. There was a roaring fire on the far side of the room, complete with a pig on a spit and a carver in a leather apron. My mouth watered. The rabbit had been ages ago, or at least it felt like it, and I couldn’t even remember what my meal before that had been. I was ready to chow down. I also idly wondered what kind of perks I might get from feasting on the pig while strung out on Hunger Affinity Scales.

Super strength, maybe? Or the uncontrollable desire to wallow in the mud. That could go either way.

Serving women flowed among the tables and patrons, who were laughing and stuffing their faces and banging their tankards on the rough-hewn wooden tabletops.

A tall, slender woman with long red hair flowing down her back stood on a raised stage at the other end of the room, singing as she plucked and hammered away on an odd wooden board covered with strings. Her voice was spun honey mixed with strands of pure silver, and her fingers worked their way over the instrument like it was part of her. The song had a knee-slapper of a chorus that the patrons all knew and sang at great volume.

Me and the boys would’ve had a blast in a place like this. Good food, beer aplenty, and decent looking women. What more could a platoon of Marines ask for?

The merriment slowly faded as we wound through the room and the patrons caught a glimpse of me for the first time. I must’ve looked like absolute shit, since I killed pretty much every conversation in passing. After a few seconds, the common room was dead silent. Even the entertainer had quit playing.

“Well, don’t be rude now, eh?” the paunchy commander barked. “We all know what he is and why he’s here. Go about your business and let him go about his, eh?”

No one moved a muscle.

“Play.” I nodded at the musician and gave her a get-along-with-it gesture. “Let’s get the party rollin’ again.”

Her lips parted in a smile, but everything else about her posture screamed fear and uncertainty. Despite that, she strummed her instrument and drew at least half the eyes in the room away from me. Unfortunately, the other half stayed glued on my sorry ass. I placed my machete on the bar. Seemed like the polite thing to do. Perhaps if they saw I wasn’t about to take up arms against them they’d chill out a bit.

“Maggie!” The commander turned toward a busty brunette working the bar. “A room and fresh clothes for the Vigil Bound, and be quick about it now. He’s had a rough trip. Waylaid by Crave Ghouls, if you can believe it.”

“From the looks of him, I can most certainly believe it,” she said before flashing me a smile that would’ve melted my bones if I hadn’t been so damned tired.

“Maggie here will take care of you, lad,” the commander said. He went to clap me on the shoulder then reconsidered. Smart move. “I’ll be around to assist you however I can, Vigil. When you’ve washed and supped, we can talk about taking you to meet the Arbitrator.”

“Arbitrator?” That didn’t sound good. Very official. Like a lawyer maybe. In my experience, official usually meant complicated and complicated usually meant dangerous. Especially if lawyers were involved.

“Arbitrator Arturo, yes. The Custodians didn’t tell you?” He cocked his head to one side.

Obviously, the Custodians, whoever they were, would have told the Vigil, whoever he was, about meeting the local Arbitrator. Unfortunately, I was from out of town and hadn’t gotten the message, so I kept my trap shut tight. Remaining silent is a powerful conversational gambit. My rule in situations like this was to tell as few lies as possible and avoid making shit up. Lies are too hard to track, and the longer silence stretches, the more other people talk.

All I had to do was wait.

Not for long, either.

The commander was a twitchy type who couldn’t relax into an uncomfortable pause. “The Arbitrator has prayed for your arrival,” he prompted.

Cool. Praying lawyers.

“He will be most anxious to see you, I’m sure. The church doors are always open and he’ll make time for the Vigil, even if he has…” He paused and smirked at Maggie. “Other obligations.”

Maggie threw her head back and roared with laughter. Check. Whatever obligations the lawyer engaged in had turned him into a laughingstock. Good to know.

“If the priest can stand up this late in the day and string a sentence together, I’m a pig’s uncle,” Maggie replied.

“Aye, aye,” said Arendu. “That’s as may be, but the holy man may see things others cannot comprehend. Dealing with such burdens is no easy task, so we must forgive him his cups.”

Ah. Not a lawyer. A priest. One who liked a drink. Better than a lawman any day.

After another brisk nod, Arendu trotted around the bar and disappeared, leaving me with the brunette bartender. She was in her early thirties maybe, though there were fine crow’s feet at the corner of her eyes and laugh lines etched into her cheeks. Her curly hair framed her face like a halo and she wore a leather corset, cinched so tight her breasts were bobbing over the top of her blouse. I didn’t mind the view and she didn’t seem to mind me looking.

“I’m Maggie Yount,” she said, “and you’ll be needing a room.”

She produced a brass key from a pouch at her belt and held it out, but just far enough from me that I would have to reach for it. I waited, matching her smile for smile but not leaning over the bar to take what she offered. She’d come to me if I wanted her to. She was a tease, but unlike the commander she seemed more interested than scared.

“So, you’re really one of the Vigilant?” she asked.

That was what the commander had called me too. A Vigil. I wasn’t sure if that was true or not, but the fact that these people thought I was a Vigil seemed to be the only thing keeping me from the inside of a jail cell or out on my ass, so I played along.

“That’s what the commander said, isn’t it?” I replied, not really answering her question, but not outright lying either. The less I said, the better off I’d be.

“I suppose it is,” she replied with another one of her wicked grins, before hiking herself up and leaning forward, resting her very pleasant cleavage on the bar and handing me the key. “I’ll bring over some fresh clothes while you clean up. You’ll find your bedroom upstairs, three doors down and on the right. You can’t miss it. It has a fancifully carved door and the best bed you’ll find in Ironmoor. If you need the jakes, there’s a room at the far end of the hall.”

God, but this place was mystifying. Arbitrators? Vigils? Now jakes? There was so much that didn’t make any sense, but once again I didn’t want to let on, so I nodded politely and accepted the key. Holy hell, but I needed to sort some of this shit out—I couldn’t bluff forever.

8

Marked

I headed up the stairs and found my room, which was small even by Marine Corps’ standards. There was a twin bed with a pitifully thin goose down mattress, a worn set of drawers, and a chest. On top of the drawers was a vase filled with dried pussy willows, and over by the window on a low table was a porcelain washbasin with a pitcher of water, a stained rag, and a chipped silver mirror.

Jeez, if this was the top of the line, I didn’t want to know what everyone else was sleeping on. Hay? Straw? The floor?

I carefully laid my weapons and leather pouch on the bed, then pulled Renholm from my satchel and placed him gently on the nightstand. The pixie was still asleep, and alive based on his soft snores. His belly was almost back to normal, but he looked bigger than the last time I’d seen him. Could be my mind playing tricks on me, but I would’ve sworn he’d grown an inch at least since consuming the scale.

“He has grown,” came a voice from behind. I spun, pulling my Colt from the bed and leveling it at the intruder.

“Shit, Cal, I thought we’d talked about this?” I lowered the muzzle and tossed the pistol back onto the bed.

“Hey, don’t get butthurt about it,” he said with a shrug. “I wasn’t even trying to scare you that time. Do you have any idea how hard it is to not scare someone when you’re a ghost? Trust me, if I just materialized out of the air in front of you it wouldn’t make it any better. Maybe you’re just jumpy.”

“Yeah, I’m jumpy,” I snapped. “I’m starting to think this isn’t just some crazy morphine trip, which means that I died and I’m in another world, and oh, did I mention that there’s a serial killer monster I’m supposed to hunt down? Then add on the fact that I have a drunk pixie on my nightstand and a dead friend who bails on me whenever I actually need help.”

“Yeah, sorry about that,” he said, rubbing at the back of his neck. “Turns out, the daylight is a real son of a bitch on ghosts. I tried to follow you out of the cave, but my body just unraveled around me.” He snapped his fingers. “Gone like that. My ass got booted back to the Etheric Realm until I could manifest enough mojo to pop back into existence. Took some doing, believe you me.”

“I guess that isn’t entirely your fault then.” I dropped onto the edge of the mattress with a groan. “That also squares with what Renholm said. He told me about these things called Mortka, which basically encompasses all of the crazy-ass monsters that apparently call this world home sweet home. But he also said there are different families of monsters, and purely spirit-based ones survive entirely off of Raw Affinity. Here, give this a try and see if it doesn’t help.” I reached into the leather coin purse and plucked out one of the lesser Hunger Scales. “Eat it slowly, though,” I said. “I gave one to Renholm and he’s been passed out since.”

I dropped the Scale into Cal’s extended hand and was momentarily surprised when it didn’t just phase through his ghostly palm. He looked at it for the briefest moment, then popped it into his mouth like it was a potato chip and bit down. A flare of crimson light washed through the room, so bright it was blinding. When the flash dimmed and vanished a second later, Cal looked more solid than he had a few moments before, and the majority of the burns and scars covering his face and hands were gone. He reeled uncertainly, stumbling around for a beat before taking a seat on the edge of the bed beside me.

“Balls. What was in that?” he asked, sounding dazed.

“Ghost food, I guess?” I replied with a shrug. “You okay?”

“Yeah, but what a rush. Remember when you went home on leave right after we hit the Fleet?”

“Sure. Carlie was getting married.”

“Well, while you were gone, me and Castro hit up Tijuana on a long weekend. Someone slipped me something in a drink and even that didn’t hit as hard as whatever you just gave me. I’m lightheaded and I have the worst case of munchies.” There was a dark glint in his eye as he looked at me, here then gone in a blink.

I stood and gave him some distance. I vividly recalled how hungry I’d felt after consuming one of the scales, and I damn sure didn’t want to be on the receiving end of that hunger.

“You learn anything useful while you were cooling your heels in ye olde spirit realm?” I asked.

“Bunch of stuff, actually,” he said. “Apparently, I’m here because you asked for me to be your spirit guide. Practically begged for me to tag along is the way I heard it.”

“What?” I said while pulling off the clunky armor. It reeked just like everything else, and the leather didn’t breathe for shit. “That doesn’t sound like me. Also, you’d make a terrible spirit guide. Why would I pick you?”

“Wow, I’m standing right here, dude. And, though it should be obvious, the reason you picked me is because of the power of friendship. But you’re definitely not wrong about me being a terrible spirit guide. Don’t tell anyone,” he whispered conspiratorially, “but I have no clue what I’m doing.”

“Yeah, I gathered as much.”

“Hey, you can’t be pissed about this, Boyd. I’m telling you, dude, you brought this upon yourself. Do you vaguely recall a weird cosmic being of unimaginable power with five faces?”

“Barely,” I said, screwing up my face as I thought. Fact was, I did sort of remember having a brief run-in with something… vast was the only word my mind could conjure up. But the details were all hazy and jumbled in my head, like a dream half remembered from the night before.

“Yeah, they told me you probably wouldn’t remember much,” he said, “which I thought was weird, because it seems like coming face-to-face with a weird cosmic being of unimaginable power would be a tough thing to forget. Turns out the human brain isn’t really equipped to handle the complexities of ultimate reality, which is why you have weird amnesia. But spirits like me are transcendent, so we don’t have the same physical limitations as someone still attached to a meat suit.”

“Not sure how I feel about the phrase ‘meat suit,’” I replied. “That aside, are you telling me that you’re some kind of liaison between me and the cosmic space gods?”

“Pretty much! And like I said, you requested me by name. Apparently, they wanted you to have a more experienced ghost to show you the ropes, but you were like ‘suck my balls, interdimensional space gods. Either Cal comes or I’m walking.’ Super cool move, dude. Really appreciate you going out on a limb like that for me.”

“What the hell was I thinking?” I said, rubbing at my temple. “I mean, I’m glad you’re here, but you don’t know anything more than I do, and you failed Land Nav three times in Infantry School. You couldn’t guide your way out of a goddamned barracks room with one door.”

“That hurts, Boyd. I mean, you’re not wrong, but it still hurts. I may not have a body anymore, but my feelings are still completely intact. And for the record, it’s not my fault that I’m a terrible spirit guide. It’s not like they gave me a user manual.”

I sighed. “Well, is there anything useful you can tell me?”

“Uh yeah. They told me to tell you that you’re supposed to find a priest.”

“Wait. That’s it?” I asked. “They didn’t tell you why I’m here or what I’m supposed to do, or why I woke up naked in a monster cave with a magic gun?”

“Hey, man, they don’t tell me shit. It’s worse than being a lance corporal. They kept going on about cosmic games and rules and how they can’t interfere directly and free will and a bunch of other stuff that sounded way above my pay grade. What it boiled down to was, we aren’t going to tell you shit, and the shit we do tell you is going to be super vague and pretty much useless. So go find a priest to explain everything.”

“Great, so it’s just like dealing with officers,” I mumbled. “The bartender downstairs did mention there was a priest hanging around these parts. Some guy named Arbitrator Arturo. Based on your very unhelpful information, I’m guessing that’s the priest I’m supposed to find. I’m just going to get cleaned up and then you and I can go pay him a visit. Give me ten?”

“Hey, you don’t have to ask me twice,” Cal said. “After today, I’ve seen enough of your pasty ass to last me a lifetime. I’ll be down in the common room—that bard chick is hotter than a car fire.”

I gasped.

“What, too soon?” Cal said with a smirk. “It’s my face that melted off, I can joke about it if I want to. See you in ten.” He shot me a wave and winked out of existence.

Finally by myself, I untied my rope belt and peeled off my stinking trousers. I had to laugh. I was ankle deep in rabbit’s blood and dirt from the road and I smelled like the inside of a sweaty gym shoe. It was no wonder everyone and their mother had been looking at me as if I were a psycho killer recently escaped from the psych ward. If I saw someone wandering through a grocery store covered in blood and carrying a machete, I would’ve had concerns as well.

I poured a couple of handfuls of water from the pitcher into the basin and splashed some across my face and neck. I’d only been on the road for a day, but the grime was a quarter of an inch thick. The water was dirt-gray in seconds. There was nowhere for it to go but out the window. When in Rome and all that. I checked before I slopped my water over the sill, but there was someone down there grumbling and swearing and shaking their fist at me. Whoopsie.

I poured a second round of water and hunted for a toothbrush. Soap, I could do without, at least for now. Toothpaste wasn’t an absolute necessity. But a toothbrush is a thing of great beauty and my only weakness. Naturally, there wasn’t anything close to a toothbrush to be found. I gingerly snapped off a small branch from the decorative pussy willows, frayed the stick, and made a feeble attempt to brush my pearly whites.

I checked myself in the battered mirror. Oh shit. What the hell? I dropped the stick but held onto the mirror.

My irises were red and smoldering like burning coals. That wasn’t natural. Then there was my hair. It was gold. Not yellow or blond. Gold. Like shimmering gold, spun by Rumpelstiltskin himself, which caught the feeble candlelight and reflected it back. And splashed across my forehead like a neon sign was a golden tattoo. Some weird symbol I’d never seen before. I ran my finger over the image, waiting for its meaning to come to me. Honestly, I was hoping for a pop-up or maybe some sort of character screen, but none were forthcoming.

Perfect. I’d just add that to the ever-growing list of bizarre questions I needed to have answered. I was marked. But by whom and to what end?

I rubbed at the golden mark, but it didn’t budge. I hunted for a cloth or a towel, anything I could scrub with, but the drawers were filled with scrap papers and bits of leftover crap from someone else’s life. I grabbed my dirty trousers and dipped the waistband into the bowl of water, held the mirror up to my face, and scoured the gold mark as hard as I could. The harder I scrubbed, the brighter it got. This was totally not going my way.

Just what I needed. How was I supposed to keep a low profile with a golden mark like the beacon of Gondor burning right on my forehead? A sharp rap at the door drew me away from my thoughts and from the mirror in my hand.

“Yeah, just a second,” I called.

The knock came again, sharper and more insistent this time.

“Hold your horses.” I headed for the door and pulled it open—Maggie was waiting for me with a parcel of clothes in her hands. She gave me a long appraising eye, head to toe. It was only then that I realized I was buck naked. Again.

She smirked before turning and swaying away. She was cute in that medieval cosplayer kind of way, and the look she gave me said she was interested in what I was offering. That interest went both ways, but at the moment I had bigger concerns than chasing tail, even if it was a cute tail. I needed a priest, and then I needed to figure out how to deal with the monster hunting the streets of Ironmoor. After that, maybe she and I could revisit the subject.

The clothes she’d brought me didn’t fit particularly well, too baggy in the legs, the shirt too tight in the chest, and the boots felt about half a size too small. They were leaps and bounds better than the dirty linen pants I’d pilfered from the Crave Ghouls, though. My armor was still stained and gross, but I used the ratty trousers to wipe down the leather as best I could. By the time I was done, the washbowl was filled with muddy red water and bits of gristle.

Gross, but nothing I could do about it. Out the window that went too.

I checked my K-Bar, still in good shape—the edge actually seemed sharper than before if that was possible—and slipped it through a rough belt that went outside my armor. Next, I inspected the Colt. I pulled the clip and popped the slide, ejecting the round in the chamber and clearing the gun. I’d spent ample time on firing ranges, and I knew a lot about guns and a lot about bullets. As a result, I knew that the Colt wasn’t a gun and the round wasn’t a bullet, at least not in any way I was familiar with.

When I tried to disassemble the pistol, I got stuck almost immediately. I didn’t even know where to begin with everything that was wrong with the Colt. No guide rod, no recoil spring. There was an extractor, but no firing pin. A lot of the external properties of the weapon looked legit, and even seemed to function identically to a regular service Colt, but the interior was a nonsensical mess. Aside from the missing pieces, there were runes, crystals, and a series of odd glass lenses. Even at a casual glance, I knew there was no way this weapon should work or fire.

I also knew from experience that it did both.

The rounds were just as bizarre.

No cartridge case, gunpowder, primer, or even bullet. It looked like a round, but it was all one solid piece and as far as I could tell it was made entirely out of energy. I could sense the arcane thrum of Hunger Affinity radiating from the round in my hand. Slowly, I popped rounds out of the mag. A max load should’ve been seven rounds—eight including one in the chamber—but this mag held thirteen. Which was as impossible as the gun itself. The weapon looked like a Colt, fired like a Colt, and acted like a Colt, but it was something completely different.

With a thought, I pulled up the weapon’s stats.

<<<>>>

Peacemaker

Type: Planar Colt 1911; Soul Bound

Class: Fatemarked

Ability: Soul Summon

Primary Effects:

Upgradeable; See Soul Vault

Arcana Foci: This item acts as a metaphysical focal point allowing you to channel raw Arcana into deadly force projectiles.

Affinity Consumption: Consume Affinity Scales and channel their primary affinity into force projectiles of the same type.

Temporary Effects:

Hunger Affinity Rounds (13): Upon impact, force projectiles eat through an additional portion of the target’s passive life force, healing your wounds in the process.

<<<>>>

Arcana Foci, I read. This item acts as a metaphysical focal point allowing you to channel raw Arcana into deadly force projectiles. I hated to admit it to myself, but it sounded like my gun wasn’t a gun, but rather a magical wand in the shape of a gun. This is that Harry Potter thug life, I thought. Dollars to donuts Voldemort wouldn’t have lived so long if Harry Potter had come at him with a magical gat instead of the power of friendship.

Honestly, as long as it killed things, I didn’t really care about the how.

I reassembled the pistol, reloaded the mag, and slipped it into the small of my back. At some point I’d need to find a holster, but that was way down on the list of priorities. For now, I had clothes, boots, basic body armor, a place to rest, and I wasn’t covered in the fetid blood of a cave monster anymore. A thousand percent improvement compared to the situation I’d woken up to. Now it was time to collect Cal and find myself a priest.

9

A Bard’s Tale

Back in the common room, the patrons were now less interested in me and more interested in their cards and flagons of ale. Thank God.

The entertainer struck a chord on her odd instrument, arched her back, and belted out a crystal-clear note. The room rioted, hands smacking on the tables and feet stomping out a rhythm. A crowd favorite it seemed.

“The road is long,” she sang, fingers dancing over the strings.

“The path is winding.

The forest deep.

The water green.”

She added some fiddly bits on her instrument, all in a minor key. I had no idea what I was listening to, but it was a foot stomper for sure. Mesmerizing even. It reminded me a little bit of the callback cadences we would sing on marches, though performed by someone with actual musical talent instead of a platoon sergeant with the voice of a cement mixer.

“When he arrives

The bond is broken

And we are shown

The way back home.”

The bar erupted in song. “Home, home, home.” Each note rose to the rafters until I thought they might take the roof off. “Where we long to be.”

I felt a lump form in my throat. They weren’t wrong. Home would be a fine place to be. Home as in Kentucky, not some naval base or stink hole in the ass-end of the world. Home was a sea of rolling green hills, of looming trees and cicadas crooning in the summer evenings. Of fireflies flitting along the creek as the sun dropped below the horizon. Home was sitting around the big wooden picnic table behind my parents’ house, eating pulled pork and ribs while sipping on suds or downing good Kentucky bourbon. Home was shooting the shit with Cal while we drank shine and smoked ninety-nine cent Black and Milds from the gas station down in Winchester.

“Oh, he is come

And we are woken.

The beast will roam

The land no more…”

There were several more verses. Blood flowed like wine. There was a bit about a challenge. A couple of rounds of hand-to-hand combat. And finally, a beast stripped of all power and buried deep beneath the deepest depths, all broken up by this mournful chorus which everyone sang.

When the song was over the musician laid down her instrument and took a turn about the room, accepting coins and kisses to the hem of her gown. One poor soul, drunker than a raccoon in a dumpster, literally crawled after her on his hands and knees. You would never catch me doing that sort of thing, no matter how good looking a woman was. A man had to have at least a little dignity.

When she reached me she hesitated then stopped. The room stopped with her.

She stared at me for a long beat, this time more curious than scared. I was guessing that had something to do with the fact that I wasn’t covered in gore anymore.

“Despite all the songs I’ve sung, I’ve never seen one of you in real life.” She reached up and ran a hand down the side of my cheek, her gaze searching mine and not flinching away. “Your eyes are fascinating.” Something passed between us—something primal and sexual. “I hope to see you around, Vigil. Forgive me for being so forward, but should you like a private performance, I can be found with the Merchant Caravan train.”

Her hand dropped away. She offered me a sultry grin and moved on, taking the room with her. There were guards, still in their uniforms but weapons stashed under the table, in the corner. Low ranking. Rowdy. Making lewd gestures. One of them grabbed his crotch and thrust it at her. She tsked and moved on, leaving him with his hand on his johnson and his friends rolling about laughing.

“Are you seriously just going to let her walk away?” Cal said in my ear. “I don’t know a lot about medieval times, but I’m pretty sure that was the equivalent of her giving you a room key.”

“Not the time or place,” I whispered under my breath.

Still, I couldn’t take my eyes off her as she made her way toward the exit. She was a smoke show and had all the right curves in all the right places. She stopped beside a table of card players. They tipped heavily and went right back to their game. The game looked suspiciously close to poker; coins rattled on the table as they slapped down cards. I loved a good round of poker, spades, or anything else involving gambling and the free exchange of money, but as with the singer, now wasn’t the time or place.

Priorities. Being a Marine meant being able to focus and execute a mission objective. Period. Right now, my mission was to find the priest who could make sense of everything.

“Hey, Vigil,” Maggie called from behind the bar. She had a bowl of stew and a flagon of what I hoped was beer sitting on the bar top near an open stool. “You look like you could use a good meal before departing for the evening.”

My stomach let out a low grumble. She wasn’t wrong. After a day of hard running, I could use a meal. New mission objective: food, then a priest.

“I’ll take some of the hog over the fire if you’re offering,” I replied.

She smiled and set the stew down. “And how are you going to pay me, hmm?”

I reached into the leather pouch at my belt, pulled out a handful of coins I’d looted off the Crave Ghouls, and slapped them down on the table like some sort of big spender.

She eyed them dubiously and carefully picked through the pile with one finger. “Looks like you have enough for a stale end of bread. Rjuhella coin isn’t trusted around these parts,” she said, tapping at the side of her nose. “It’s always diluted. Likely more pewter than silver in those coins.”

I flushed. I wasn’t going to beg for my supper. I paid my way or went without. “The stew looks good to me.”

“It’s not roasted hog, but since you’re not flush with coin.” She shrugged and pushed the bowl toward me. “This is a substandard meal at best, but it’s what I have to offer and”—she laughed, but without cruelty—“it’s what you can afford.”

“Lady, I bet this is the best meal I’ve had in months. What do I owe you for the food, and for these?” I gestured toward the clothes.

Laughter came to her easily and often. She shook her head. “Don’t trouble yourself overmuch. I’ll start a tab. You’re a Vigil—I know you’re good for it. And if you’re not, I’ll take it up with the Church.”

I thanked her and promptly wolfed down the stew, which was excellent, then took a long pull of the beer, which was sour enough to make my eyes water. It technically qualified as beer, but not good beer. Still, even bad beer was better than no beer. Maggie excused herself, giving me a chance to eat in peace, which I appreciated. Cal wasn’t so thoughtful.

“She’s hitting on you too,” the ghost said in wonder as he plopped down on a stool beside me. “You’re not even that good looking. Six out of ten at best. Also, your eyes are creepy and your stupid golden hair makes you look like a boy band reject.”

“Yeah, when were you gonna tell me I looked like a vampire from a teen romance novel?” I asked quietly. As far as I knew, no one else could see Cal aside from Renholm, and I didn’t want people thinking I was crazy on top of everything else.

“Eh, you had bigger fish to fry, my friend. Besides, you know how you get. One bad cold and you’d be on Web MD googling whether you had cancer or not. I figured if I told you about the glowing red demon eyes and the golden tramp stamp on your forehead, you’d think it was a tumor or something. I lied for you, pal.”

“You’re a saint, Cal.”

Maggie headed back over as I mopped up the last of the stew, and this time she had two platters, one piled high with bread and meat, the other with a single slice of pork and the runt end of a bread stick. It was pathetic, but my mouth watered. She sat on the other side of the bar on a high stool, pushed the plate in my direction, and busied herself with slathering mustard on her crust of bread.

“I appreciate it…” I pushed the steaming pile of meat, so tender I could see it would fall apart without the need of a knife, toward her. “But I can’t take that...”

She snorted and rolled her eyes. “I was just giving you grief earlier, Vigil. You’re here to save us all. This is the least I could do. Take the food. You’re going to need your strength I’d wager,” she said. “Didn’t you hear the song?”

My hand stopped. I had. Blood, duels, monsters, the works. I’d assumed that song was supposed to be their version of Lord of the Rings, but it turned out it was Beowulf, and I was the sword-wielding hero of the story. All of a sudden, the attention made a bit more sense. These people were scared, and I was the guy that was supposed to swoop in like an avenging angel and fix all their woes.

“Not that you need more meat on your bones,” she offered with a small smirk. She looked up from under her lashes in a way that told me she knew exactly what she was doing and what effect it might have on a man’s “bone.”

I couldn’t let her think I was ashamed that she’d seen me naked. I wasn’t. In fact, the opposite. “Eh, you’ve seen the goods.” I dipped the bread in the gravy and tore a piece off with my teeth. My god, that was the best thing I’d ever tasted. Better than that famous Texas BBQ in Vegas where Cal and I had planted ourselves and chowed down until we were as fat as the pigs we were eating. Succulent, tangy but not sharp, a little crackling on the edge of the cut. Absolute perfection.

For a minute, perhaps two, neither of us said a word.

I slid my plate her way and she helped herself to a slice of pork. Then another. Together we polished off everything she’d brought, mopping up the juices and sliding our fingers over the platter like kids.

“It was good for me,” she said. “Was it good for you?”

“Oh my god, just get a room already,” Cal grumbled from beside me. “I can’t with this. Watching you blow a sure thing is just too painful,” he said. “If you need me, I’ll be over at the card table.” He vanished with a whirl, leaving me alone with Maggie.

“So, the watch commander,” I said, letting her know that I wasn’t going to engage with her, no matter how much I wanted to. I’d seen enough horror movies to know that screwing around with a pretty woman when you were supposed to be hunting a monster was how you ended up dead. “He mentioned something about some sort of priest. Arbitrator Arturo. Seems like I should probably pay him a visit. Mind pointing me in the right direction?”

Maggie leaned back on her stool, pouting playfully. “No fun.”

“That’s me,” I said. “No fun.”

She grabbed a dish towel from under the bar and draped it over her arm. “Which way did you come in?”

I shrugged.

“The front gate with the dopey guards,” she asked, “or the back entrance that’s barely visible from the road?”

“Dopey guards,” I replied.

“Right. You want to go in the opposite direction. Out the doors, take a sharp right, walk past the row of merchant shops, and take a left at the smithy.”

“Smithy, got it.”

She glanced at the window. “The moon’s not up, so you won’t be able to see the chapel, but keep going and if you hit the outer wall, you’ve gone too far.”

I stood, stacked my plate on top of hers, and rearranged my belt.

“Need a torch?” she said. “Only three of your pewter coins and a peck on the cheek.”

I smiled. “I’m good. Don’t want to run up too much of a tab before I know what I’m worth in these parts.”

I could feel her eyes on me as I left the inn. Try as I might, I couldn’t help smiling. It’s good to be wanted, even when you’re flirting with a bartender who probably flirted with all her customers.

It was pitch-black by the time I hit the street. Like Maggie’d said, there was no moon. Almost instantly, though, I knew I wouldn’t need the torch. Not ever. I could see plenty good enough without it. There were candles flickering through fogged windows, but that wasn’t what lit my way. I had some version of night sight. Like a possum or a fox. There was a purple tint lying over everything, just the way things get at sunset when the sun drops low but not completely below the horizon. Not as good as seeing in the noontime sunshine, but better than the blotchy green filter of night vision goggles.

Cal appeared beside me, silent as a phantom, and this time I saw him coming. He didn’t say anything while we walked. Cal was a jokester, but when it was time to handle business, he played to win. Right now, we were deep behind enemy lines, and there could be something nasty waiting for us down every alley.

I snuck along the streets, careful not to draw attention to myself. I wanted to see rather than be seen. This was a time for reconnaissance. I hadn’t noticed on the journey in with the commander, but the square was paved with massive slabs. Around the edge of the square was a channel for rain runoff. These looked like simple people but their architecture and infrastructure was on par with the Romans. All I had to do was introduce running water and I’d be set.

Speaking of, I decided to jog in the center of the street, anxious not to be caught by someone else’s dirty bathwater.

There were rats—not unexpected in a place like this—and a small legion of cats on the prowl for the scampering vermin. Street dogs weren’t as plentiful but there were at least three wiry mutts hanging around the foundry, glancing out at me with hunger in their eyes. They followed me for a couple of streets, but eventually loped back to their warm hearth when they understood I had nothing I could share with them.

The chapel rose up before me, all flying buttresses, pointed arches, and stained-glass windows. It was an architect’s wet dream in thick, impressive hand-cut stone and dazzling artistry. A set of wooden doors, festooned with brass rivets and huge circular handles, barred my path. Seemed like the padre and his little chapel were closed for the night. Assuming Cal was right, though, I figured he’d probably make an exception for me.

I pounded on the door, careful not to catch my fist on the studs. “Arbitrator!” I yelled. “How’s about you open up.”

No reply came. There was every chance the padre was in the nave or sleeping it off in the back—especially if he was a heavy drinker.

I pounded on the door again and dogs howled in the distance, but still no answer from inside the church.

“Want me to see if I can find another way in?” Cal asked. “I’m pretty new to my ghost powers, but walls don’t seem like much of an obstacle. Even if I can’t find a back door, I should be able to tell whether the priest is inside or not.”

“Yeah, that’s not a bad idea,” I said.

Cal took a step back, then darted for the door. I’d seen him phase through walls and floors and teleport seemingly at ease from room to room. I wasn’t ready when his shoulder slammed into the wood and a blazing blue dome exploded around the church, crackling with barely contained electrical energy. The shield unleashed a beam of blue-white light that mule-kicked Cal in the chest and sent him flipping backward through the air. He landed on the cobblestones ten feet away, writhing in pain, his outline wavering and dancing like a candle flame in a stiff breeze.

I ran over and dropped to a knee beside him. There was a black scorch mark on his chest where the beam of power had landed.

“You okay?” I asked, instinctively trying to render first aid. Except my hands phased right through his body—just as his body should’ve phased right through the doors.

“I think that thing just turned all my organs into a slushy.” He winced and propped himself up onto his hands.

The church doors banged open with a clatter, and the shadowy form of a man appeared in the entryway. He wore a brown cassock and raised a gnarled staff topped by an intricate carving of a head with five faces.

“Unclean specter,” he bellowed, his voice slurring on the edges, “begone from this place! This is hallowed ground and you are unwelcome here. No invitation granted, no succor given. Depart now and find your eternal rest in the void beyond!” He slammed the staff down against the cobblestones, and a wash of yellow light rippled out in a ring.

Cal howled as the light touched his foot. Cracks of white power zigzagged up his leg and spread like spiderwebbing across his body. He let out one more pained shriek then vanished in a swirl of glittering dust, blown away by a gentle breeze. Anger rushed through me, and all I could see was red. I’d lost my best friend once already and now I’d just lost him again. I leapt to my feet and pulled the Colt. It didn’t matter that the guy in the church was a priest or that he had answers I badly needed. All I knew was that he had a colossal ass whooping coming.

10

Arbitrator Arturo

“You just killed my best friend! Again,” I thundered, stalking toward the church with pistol drawn.

“If you’re friends with a foul, unclean spirit,” came the priest’s retort, “then I think you have bigger problems, including me!”

He raised his staff once more and brought it crashing down, unleashing a fresh wave of yellow light. The blast of power ruffled my hair and sent a shiver racing down my spine. The priest’s jaw dropped in shock, and he glanced at the staff as if he couldn’t believe his eyes. Clearly whatever spell he’d just cast didn’t have the stopping power he’d been expecting.

“Looks like you brought a pillow to a gunfight, padre,” I said leveling my weapon. “Now put the stick down before I show you what a Colt 1911 can do at close range.”

His eyes widened as I stepped forward and the watery firelight from the chapel spilled across me, fully illuminating me for the first time.

“Oh no, what have I done?” he groaned, letting the staff clatter to the ground. “I’ve raised a hand against one of the Holy Ones.” A look of pure horror flashed across his face. “You’re a… a…”

“A Vigil,” I finished for him. “Or a Vigil Bound. Or whatever it’s called. At least, that’s what everyone keeps telling me, except I have no clue what that means.”

“What do you mean, you don’t know what it means? It means you’re a Vigil! That’s what it means. The Ordo of the Vigilant.” He ran a shaky hand through his dark hair. “You’re the sword of justice. The bane of the unrighteous and hunter of the unholy. You’re one of the chosen weapons of Raguel. How can you not know?”

“Hey, dicknoodle,” I growled, “I’m the guy with the magical handgun, so I’m the one asking the questions—not you. Now shut your pie hole and tell me what you just did to my friend.”

“Do you want me to shut my mouth or tell you what I did to your friend?” he asked. “Because I can’t do both, and I wouldn’t want any misunderstandings.”

“Don’t be a smart-ass. You know what I meant. Tell me what you did to my friend.”

“Was he your spirit guide?” the priest asked with a wince.

I nodded.

“I swear I didn’t mean to harm him,” the gruff priest replied. “I just assumed it was some restless soul not properly interred. I never would’ve cast such a spell against one of the righteous few had I known. Your companion will recover, I swear it on my honor as a knight and priest. It was a lesser banishment ritual, nothing like what you are capable of. It temporarily disperses the Etheric energies that spirits use to maintain a semi-corporeal form. Not a pleasant experience, but not deadly either. He’ll reform in the Etheric Realm in a few hours with the worst hangover of his life but recover he shall.”

“Then what was all that ‘find your eternal rest in the void beyond’ crap you were spewing?”

“Dramatics,” the priest said matter-of-factly. “The people of Ironmoor need to believe in the power of the Church—such a display can help bolster even those weak in faith. It is my solemn duty to help guide those entrusted into my flock.”

I stared at him for a beat. This guy wasn’t trying to be a dick, and clearly he hadn’t meant to hurt Cal—he was just doing his job. I could respect that.

“You remind me of Chaplain Lenard,” I said. “I always liked Chaps. Raging buzzkill, but he had a good heart.” I lowered my gun and shoved it back into my belt. “Now are we going to stand here all night twiddling our thumbs or are you going to invite me in?”

“Right, of course. Where are my manners. Please, esteemed Vigil. Enter and be welcome.” He stood and quickly stepped aside. “Do you mind if I ask how many of your exalted brothers or sisters I should be expecting? Wondering whether to put on the kettle or not,” he said by way of explanation.

I looked at him curiously. “Sorry, padre, all you got is me and my spirit friend, who you just sent packing. And I’ve always been more of a coffee man. That or bourbon.”

I shouldered my way past him and into the church’s interior, although maybe church was the wrong word. I’d grown up Southern Baptist and had spent every Sunday in the Grace Covenant down on Old Todds Road whether I wanted to or not. This didn’t look like any church I’d ever seen. There were pillars, reaching up into the ceiling, robed figures carved in stone, and an altar under the massive circular window. I spotted several shrines, but no pews. This wasn’t a place people came to worship, not unless it was standing room only.

The padre hustled in behind me, took one last furtive look into the night, then pulled the doors shut and barred them with a heavy wooden beam engraved with glimmering blue runes. The priest moved the thing around like it was a pool noodle, which was an impressive feat considering the thing had to weigh a hundred pounds.

Beam in place, he turned toward me and bobbed his head while he nervously dry washed his hands. Before he’d been backlit by the light from the chapel, so I hadn’t been able to make out his features. This was my first solid look at the guy.

When I thought priest or pastor, I envisioned someone thin and wispy, built for giving sermons, not for preaching the gospel of bareknuckle boxing. This guy was a beast. He was easily a foot taller than me, and half again as wide. Looked like he should’ve been a professional NFL linebacker. That or a barroom bouncer, based off the litany of scars covering his knuckles and face. His eyes were wild and glassy, his black hair was tousled from sleep, and his priestly cassock was rumpled and disheveled. He had a thick beard, peppered with gray, that trailed down to his chest.

He also reeked of alcohol.

Maggie had been right. Padre was a drunk and I was guessing he’d spent the night swimming at the bottom of a bottle. None of that mattered to me, so long as he had the answers I was looking for. Some of the best Marines I’d ever served with were compulsive drunks—and not the funny kind of drunks. The sad-clown kind of drunks. The funny drunks tended to be the fresh-faced kids just out of boot camp, while the sad drunks tended to be the older, career Marines who’d seen some shit.

As I eyed those scars and his enormous frame, I couldn’t help but wonder what kind of horrors the priest had witnessed in his years.

“Why were you expecting more people?” I asked without preamble.

“Because Vigils always travel in fives,” he said, as though stating an obvious fact like the sky was blue or water was wet. “The Fist of Justice. It is academy protocol, unless things have changed. One Vigil for each of the Five Faces of Raguel. Each of the members specializes in one of the Five Wards. That way they are capable of taking down any threat, regardless of the circumstances. I have heard of the Custodians’ dispatching a single Vigil under extraordinary circumstances, but it is the exception not the rule—and the Custodians aren’t known for bending the rules.”

I listened to the explanation like a preschooler trying to understand advanced physics. His words were complete gibberish.

“Alright. You’re gonna need to slow way down and start from the beginning, because only about fifty percent of those words made any sense to me. Let me just clear the air so you and I are on the same page. My name is Boyd Knight, I don’t know where I am, I don’t know how I got here, and it’s distinctly possible that I’m in a hospital somewhere and you’re a figment of my imagination.”

A look of puzzlement stretched across the priest’s face as I spoke.

“Is it possible…” He ran a hand through the tangle of his beard. “Let me ask you, Boyd Knight, do you know what language we are speaking right now?”

“Not a clue,” I replied with a shrug, “but it sure ain’t Kentucky English, which is my native tongue. It’s a helluva head-scratcher because I can understand every single word you’re saying, which is funny since I flunked Spanish twice, and only ever learned how to swear in Arabic. Point is, language has never been my strong suit.”

“Right. Of course. That must be your Language of the Heavens boon,” he muttered to himself. “If I may, what is the last thing you remember? Before you wound up here, I mean?”

“I remember yesterday,” I said. “I was with my squad in Fallujah, kicking doors and popping mujahideen dickheads with the rest of the boys from 3/1. Then a grenade turned my insides into my outsides. Next thing I know, I’m in a cave with a bunch of red-skinned freaks, which I guess are called Crave Ghouls. Oh yeah, and I was bare-assed except for these.” I pulled the K-Bar and the 1911 and slammed them down on the nearby altar.

The priest reached out a trembling hand, his fingers reverentially brushing along the K-Bar’s grip. “Soul Bound Weapons,” he said with awe. “Gods above, I can hardly believe it. You’re not just a Vigil, you’re an Inkarnate.”

I ground my teeth in frustration.

“Look, Father—”

“Please call me Arturo. I don’t normally approve of such informality, but given the circumstances I believe it’s warranted.”

“Fine. Arturo,” I said, trying to keep my voice level, “I get that this is a big moment for you and that you’re having some sort of spiritual revelation, but I’m going to need you to bring it down about ten notches and start spelling some things out for me. You keep saying stuff that means absolutely nothing to me. Fist of Justice. Language of the Heavens. Inkarnate. Hell, Padre, I’m more confused now than when I first showed up. I need you to stop talking in cursive and break it down shotgun style for me. Let’s start with some of the basics, like where am I, what am I, and how I got here.”

He licked his lips and shifted nervously on his enormous feet. “I fear I am not the one who should be telling you this, honored sir. It seems like something that ought to come from the Exarchs at the Citadel of Custodians, but since you’re here, in my parish, I’ll do my best to explain what I can.” He paused, hands shaking a little. “But I’m going to need a stiff drink first, and I suspect you might as well. Please, please follow me to the rectory.”

* * *

We sat in Arturo’s private quarters, a tiny fire dancing in a stone hearth, banishing some of the cold of the night. I sniffed and glanced around the room, trying to glean what I could about the priest from his stuff. I’d spent enough time cleaning and inspecting rooms in the Corps to know that you could tell a lot about a man by what he surrounded himself with. The actual furniture was modest—a narrow bed, a worn nightstand, a small table for taking meals with a single chair, which I was currently occupying.

This was a guy who was used to being alone.

But there were a couple of oddities that stood out in sharp contrast to the simple furnishings. There was a heavy bookcase, each shelf loaded down with books and tomes and scrolls. More manuscripts littered the bed and teetered on the nightstand in haphazard stacks. A simple shelf under the window held a small army of half-drunk bottles, partially concealed by a heavy curtain. A few more bottles, all empty, were piled in the corners. Between the books and the bottles, I wasn’t sure which the padre loved more: getting lost in a good book or getting shitfaced with a good bottle of hooch.

Most interesting of all, however, were the swords, pikes, daggers, and staves hanging on the far wall. I was half tempted to inspect them with my Item ability. They didn’t look like display weapons. They had the marks of use and were all meticulously well-maintained—not a pitted blade or spot of rust in sight. What in the world was an alcoholic, book-reading priest doing with weapons like those? Maybe he was former military? His size, demeanor, and bearing all hinted at someone who’d served in the armed forces, and hadn’t he mentioned something about knighthood?

I had a tin mug filled with something that could’ve passed for bourbon if you weren’t Kentucky born and raised. Strong enough to peel paint, sure, but still better than the sour beer over at Maggie’s place. After everything I’d gone through, I deserved a drink and was willing to lower my standards to 180-proof throat stripper. Seriously, McCallan’s Cask Strength was smooth compared to this stuff.

“There’s no easy way to say what I need to say,” Arturo said, “and tact has never been my strong suit, so allow me break the bad news to you. You’re dead.” There was no smile on his face or joke in his words. “Or at least you died,” he amended.

“Dead?” I asked, the word like sandpaper in my throat.

“Dead. Deceased, expired, slain, perished, killed. Pick whichever term you’d like and apply it to yourself. I don’t know where you hail from, but you died, and now find yourself in the Kingdom of Kelkadia, in the Oakenward Province. City of Ironmoor to be exact.” He adjusted the sleeves of his cassock and gazed longingly at the liquor shelf. “The fact that you’re here and not singing battle hymns in the Halls of Highfell also tells me you died doing something heroic enough to attract the eye of Raguel. You have my condolences and also my deepest respect, sir.”

“Don’t call me sir,” I said absently, parroting the line I’d heard a thousand times from a thousand NCOs. “I work for a living.”

“No disrespect meant,” he said, dipping his head in apology. “Just the opposite. You aren’t accustomed to our ways, but here in Kelkadia the Vigilant are regarded even above lords and ladies of the land. Below monarchs, but only by this much.” He spread his fingers an inch apart. “And between you and me, the Vigils are venerated far more than the Crown. I’ve never seen a prince of the land swoop in and slay a Mortka or save a farmer and his crop from a famine imp.”

“You make it sound like Vigils are some sort of monster hunters,” I said, trying to wrap my mind around it all.

“At times,” Arturo replied, “but they’re also more than that. They are instruments of divine justice. Mortka, warlocks, sorcerers, politicians, solicitors, lords, even the Steelborn—all are subjected to the judgment of the Vigilant. Your kind are bounty hunters, bound through sacred vows to a higher order and tasked with hunting evil in whatever form it takes. Vigils hold no allegiance to any kingdom and call no country their home. Not even the Church has power over them—at most we offer aid, guidance, and support.”

I shifted uncomfortably in my seat. The idea of a small, elite group of powerful warriors that was answerable to literally no one didn’t sit well with me. Chain of command existed for a reason, and so did accountability. There was a reason why America had a constitution and not a king—because divine right to rule was a bunch of bullshit and was fertile ground for rampant abuse.

This isn’t my world, I reminded myself. This isn’t my culture.

Begrudgingly, I held my tongue.

“I will admit,” Arturo continued, “that the most common task for Vigils is to root out the vicious beasts that haunt the land, mostly because they are the only ones with the power to do so. Understand, the Mortka that burble up from the dark cracks of reality are incredibly powerful and many have a myriad of dark magics at their disposal. They are walking nightmares, all too eager to strip the flesh from your bones and use your meat to fill their stomachs.”

My mind jumped to the Crave Ghouls and their sanctuary of human bones. How many men, women, and children had those things murdered before I showed up? A few dozen? A hundred? More? At the same time, those things weren’t so tough that a well-armed patrol of soldiers couldn’t take them out with a little gumption and elbow grease. I’d done it single-handedly, with no preparation, and with my beans and frank flapping in the wind.

“Naw,” I said, shaking my head. “I’m not buying that. I had a run-in with a trio of Crave Ghouls up in the hills, they were scary but not invincible.” I nodded toward the weapons decorating the wall. “Looks like you have quite a collection, and if those scars are any judge, you seem like you can use them. Not to mention the little banishment ritual you slammed into my buddy out front.”

“Ah, that was nothing,” he said, waving away my remarks. “I’ve picked up a few odd cantrips studying with the Magi, but it isn’t anything like what the Vigil Bound can do. Magic flows through your blood the same way alcohol flows through mine,” he said with a self-deprecating grin. “Every city has a temple dedicated to Raguel just like this one, and when some minor nuisance like a pack of Crave Ghouls comes along, we Arbitrators do what we are able. But we are ill-equipped to handle the truly horrific nightmares that dwell in the fringes. With such beasts, all we can do is pray to Raguel to send us a Vigil worthy to the task.

“For what it’s worth, I have been praying for a Vigil, Boyd Knight. Something terrible has been hunting our streets for the past four months. Something that’s already claimed seven lives. I spend a fair bit of time at the local taverns, but not only to fill my cup.” He tapped at his ear. “To listen to the rumors that swirl, and the rumors have been swirling. The people talk in whispers of an Elder Changeling. A type of humanoid, shapeshifting Fae that often imitates its victims—all the better to hide amongst their prey.”

I blew out my cheeks then drained the last of the knockoff paint thinner in my cup.

This was a lot to take in, but at least I could finally start to process things.

I’d been a warrior by trade. Sought it out, trained, done my duty, and paid the ultimate price as a result. I hadn’t become a Marine by accident. And I hadn’t jumped on that grenade by accident either. The second I’d smothered that frag grenade, I knew how things would shake out—that my life was over. But here I was. Alive. And as weird as this all was, it felt like I was being given a second chance. Yeah, there was no TV or video games, but the food was decent, the women were friendly, and the liquor was strong. Couldn’t hope for much more than that in life.

Besides, I’d be lying through my teeth if I said the idea of being a superpowered monster hunter didn’t sound like a good time. It was possible that dying might just have been the best thing that had ever happened to me.

“Let’s say for a moment that I believe you.” I set my cup down on the table. “Where would we even start? I’m a glorified trigger puller, not a private investigator. I also don’t know anything about monsters, other than the human variety.”

“We start with training,” the burly priest replied. “Surviving a pack of low-leveled Crave Ghouls is one thing—an Elder Changeling is something else entirely. You are already starting off at a severe disadvantage. A crippling disadvantage, even.”

That was a little harsh.

“Whoa, padre,” I said, “pump the breaks. Just because I don’t know anything about monsters doesn’t mean I’m some newb, fresh out of basic training. I started out as an 0311, Marine Corps Rifleman, and made it through Recon School. I’ve also got two tours of combat under my belt. Believe me when I say I know my fair share about ass kicking and taking names.”

“It wasn’t meant as offense, Boyd Knight. I have no doubt you are a great warrior and a brave one. If that weren’t the case, you never would’ve been chosen and ordained by Raguel as an Inkarnate. But you know nothing of our world or our magic, nor do you have a team of experienced Vigils to back you up. Consider, most of the Vigils are born here. They train in the Akademy of the Vigilant, where they learn their calling from the moment they can stand. They slave away from childhood, steeped in the way of their strange arts, perfecting their craft. They train until they Soul Bind with a weapon and receive the Mark of the Bound.”

I absently reached up and ran my fingers over the symbol I knew marred my forehead. The Mark of the Bound.

“As an Inkarnate,” he continued, “you know less of their ways than I do, and as a result, you will be terribly weak by comparison. The fact that you were able to escape a pack of Crave Ghouls is an impressive feat, considering the circumstances, but there is so much more you are capable of. You may not know it yet, but you have been blessed with extraordinary gifts that will grow greater and greater with each kill, every bounty collected, and every contract completed. Unlocking those skills will require vigorous training, and you will need to be far more powerful if you hope to square off against an Elder Changeling and survive the encounter.”

“And you’re going to train me?” I asked, trying to keep my skepticism from leaking into my voice as I eyed the mountain of empty liquor bottles.

“I admit I am not the best man for the job,” he said. “The Akademy exists for this very purpose. But you are not a whelp, you are an Inkarnate, and you are an Inkarnate that ended up on my stoop, so I can only take that to mean Raguel has entrusted your martial education into my care. I may not be what I once was”—he patted the substantial beer gut pressing out against his priestly robes—“but I know a thing or two about violence. I wasn’t always a priest.”

He strutted over to the wall of weapons and pulled free a stave with a skull-sized club on the end. He effortlessly set it twirling and dancing in wide arcs.

“I have a trick or two up my sleeve yet, but even more important I know about the Vigil Bound and you don’t. Come, your first lesson begins tonight.”

11

Soul Vault

Arturo ushered me back into the chapel and guided me to a dais where an altar stood. It was a slate-gray pedestal with five sides—each side depicted a different face: a matronly woman, a young maiden, a grizzled veteran, a bald fanatic, and an androgynous mannequin. Seeing them jarred something loose inside my head and I felt a powerful wave of déjà vu. I’d seen these people before, while I floated through the cosmos, suspended between death and new life.

I couldn’t remember anything else about them, though. They were a blank slate, a word right on the tip of the tongue. Cal’s words drifted back to me. Turns out the human brain isn’t really equipped to handle the complexities of ultimate reality, which is why you have weird amnesia.

Floating above the pedestal was a glassy black orb, about the size of a softball.

“This is the heart of our temple,” Arturo said, “the sacred altar dedicated to the Five-Faced God.” He placed a hand on the stone, and a subtle golden light enveloped him. “Myself, and Arbitrators like me, use such altars as conduits of prayer. I can feel Raguel’s energy here, and when I touch it, I can sense the ear of god turning toward me. Listening for my supplications. For Vigils, such an altar is said to be something else entirely. A doorway into the Soul Vault and a way to commune with the spirits above.”

My ears perked up the second he said Soul Vault. There was a lot I didn’t know about, but I’d seen several Soul Vaults firsthand after killing and looting the Crave Ghouls. The idea that I might have a Soul Vault of my own was an intriguing notion.

“The secrets of the Vigilant are closely guarded by the order, so I can’t tell you how to use the altar or access the Vault within, but all the lore says you need merely to touch the stone in order to be whisked away by the power of Raguel.” He pulled his hand away from the floating orb, and the cone of light surrounding him dimmed then faded completely. “Go on then. Try it.”  

Here goes nothing, I thought as I stepped up onto the dais. Immediately, I felt power thrumming around me. I licked my lips and tentatively pressed my hand up against the stone. The whole world trembled, energy surging along my limbs. The citadel fell away, and I abruptly found myself in a circular chamber of crystal, gold, and glass.

Whiskey. Tango. Foxtrot.

Fluted columns rose up and up and up, connecting to a golden domed ceiling overhead that appeared to be made out of the same fabric as the universe itself. Pinpricks of starlight dusted the velvety backdrop, and when I focused hard enough, I could see galaxies spinning away in the distance. Part of me wanted to just lie on my back and get lost in the endless constellations, but there was too much else to investigate. The floor was covered with an elaborate tiled mosaic depicting five different symbols: one gold, another blue, a third green, the fourth red, and the last a ghostly silver.

Screw me, I thought, spinning in a slow circle, this place is epic. Like Superman’s Fortress of Solitude or the Bat Cave. And there was stuff in it. Six alcoves connected to the main chamber where I found myself, each as impressive as the central hall.

In the center of the main chamber was a modestly sized reflection pool of white marble, and filling the basin was the bluest water I’d ever seen, along with a pair of koi, one gold and one silver, swimming in graceful, looping arcs. Even crazier was what was floating above the pool of water. Rotating in a slow and steady circle was a perfect replica of myself. Same scars, same golden hair and unnatural red eyes. Everything identical, right down to the birthmark marring the back of my right thigh. A stat screen popped up next to my floating avatar.  

<<<>>>

Boyd Knight

Race: Vigil Bound 

Level: Novice, Silver Rank

Current Essence: 879 

Next Ascended Rank (Novice, Gold): 1,500  

Attribute Points: +1 

Ward Points: +25

Characteristics 

Brawn: 17 

Verve: 18  

Finesse: 15  

Arcana: 12 

Insight: 14 

Vigil Wards 

Ward of Justice: Soul Bound Weapons (Boon) 

Ward of Valor: Diamond Body (Boon)

Ward of Wrath: Arcane Insight (Boon)

Ward of Balance: Language of the Heavens (Boon)

Ward of Truth: Threads of Fate (Boon)

Expand Ward List 

<<<>>> 

I read each line, trying to commit them to memory, before finally focusing on the last option, Expand Ward List. My stat screen vanished, replaced by a deluge of new info. When I wasn’t training for ops or drinking beer with the boys, I was often hunched behind a TV screen grinding my way through Deadwatch Crusade, so I knew a spell and special ability list when I saw one. I had spells and I had a lot of ’em. I didn’t know how to use ’em, but that definitely squared with all the monster hunting mumbo jumbo Arturo had told me about.

<<<>>>

Expanded Ward List

Ward of Justice

Boon of Gadriel: Soul Bound Weapons (Unlocked)

Ranged Weapon Mastery

— Overcharge; Cost: 4

— Quick Hands; Cost: 6

— Maximum Penetration; Cost: 9

— Guided Shot; Cost: 15

— Automated Sentinel; Cost: 20

Melee Weapon Mastery

— Rend; Cost: 3

— Peerless Warrior; Cost: 5

— Crippling Strike; Cost: 8

— Festering Wound; Cost: 15

— Juggernaut; Cost: 25

Warforged Mastery

— Armor Evocation; Cost: 6

— Weapon Mastery: Unarmed; Cost 10

— Weapon Mastery: Blades; Cost: 10

— Weapon Mastery: Blunt; Cost: 10

— Weapon Mastery: Range; Cost: 10

Ward of Valor

Boon of Voch: Diamond Body (Unlocked)

Bastion of the Protector

— Combat Sense; Cost: 4 

— Matchless Endurance; Cost: 6  

— Purity of Form; Cost: 10

— Spiked Shell; Cost: 14

— Unmoving Bulwark; Cost: 18

Bastion of the Healer

— Empathetic Healer; Cost: 5

— Plague Doctor; Cost: 10

— Heal Wounds; Cost: 15 

— Circle of Restoration; Cost: 20

— True Resurrection; Cost: 27

Bastion of Presence

— Mantle of Strength; Cost: 5

— Mantle of Authority; Cost: 8

— Mantle of Sanctuary; Cost: 10

— Mantle of Scales; Cost: 14

— Mantle of Healing; Cost: 22

Ward of Balance

Boon of Lero: Language of the Heavens (Unlocked)

Bestial Magics

— Totem Transformation; Cost: 2

— Bestial Vigor; Cost: 5

— Ravenous Feeding; Cost: 12

— Rabid Infection; Cost: 18

— Totem Bound; Cost: 22

Fae Magics

— Fae Tether; Cost: 4 

— Sidhe Pact; Cost: 5

— Pierce Veil; Cost: 10

— Cunning Glamor; Cost: 12

— Fae Footed: Cost: 28

Elemental Magics

— Spectral Roots; Cost: 4

— Absorb Elements; Cost: 6

— Water Wright; Cost: 10

— Earth Sculptor; Cost: 10

— Metallurgy Manipulation; Cost: 10

Ward of Wrath

Boon of Thuriel: Arcane Insight (Unlocked)

Path of Violence

— Warded Shield; Cost: 5 

— Kinetic Blast; Cost: 5  

— Unbound Blaze; Cost: 12  

— Arctic Spike; Cost: 12

— Electro Arc; Cost: 12

Path of Retribution

— Upheaval; Cost: 12

— Rain of Fire; Cost: 15

— Storm Caller; Cost: 17

— Circle of Banishment; Cost: 20

— Raguel’s Divine Retribution; Cost: 30

Path of Death

— Life Siphon; Cost: 4

— Soul Jar; Cost: 6

— Mind Vault; Cost: 10

— Ritual Reanimate; Cost: 22

— Soul Storm; Cost: 28

Ward of Truth

Boon of Akora: Threads of Fate (Unlocked)

College of Rhetoric

— Master Mentalist; Cost: 4

— Calm Emotions; Cost: 8

— Honeyed Words; Cost: 10 

— Greater Suggestion; Cost: 16

— Grave Communion; Cost: 24

College of Deception

— Stealth Step; Cost: 5

— Deft Touch; Cost: 8

— Wyld Wisdom; Cost: 15

— Dream Thief; Cost: 15

— Crystalline Shell; Cost: 25

College of Reason

— Sage Smith; Cost: 10

— Mortka Forger; Cost: 10

— Affinity Retrofitter; Cost: 10

— Arcane Transmuter; Cost 10

— Alchemic Mastery; Cost: 10

<<<>>> 

After reading the names of each ability, I finally dismissed the list with a thought. Unfortunately, there was no more information immediately forthcoming, which was annoying, but I wasn’t about to give up so easily.

Improvise, adapt, and overcome.

I turned away and surveyed the alcoves more closely. The first room looked equal parts museum and storage room. A series of pedestals littered the floor, each topped with a glass display case, though all of them were currently empty. Ample shelving space ran along the left and right walls, just waiting to be filled with items. Since the room was barren, I had no idea what it was supposed to be used for, but I was sure I would find out in time.

The next room in line contained a quartet of marble mannequins—three lined the back wall while one stood in the center of the room like a platoon sergeant addressing his troops. That one was wearing the same ratty gear I’d picked up at the Three Chimneys and the armor I’d looted off the Ghouls. The other figures stood empty and barren, but I had the distinct feeling they weren’t meant to remain that way.

The room beyond that sported glossy onyx walls framing in what I assumed was a blacksmith’s workshop. There was a crystalline forge, what appeared to be a fabrication station, and a wall filled with odd-looking tools that I had no names for along with an elaborate workbench.

The fourth room was an armory, I had no doubts about that, though currently there were only two weapons inside: my K-Bar and my Colt. Both were prominently displayed like trophies along the back wall.  

The fifth alcove resembled a barracks room—slick floors, a simple metal cot, and a beat-up footlocker positioned at the end of the rack. The bed was covered with the familiar scratchy green wool blanket that any Marine would know on sight, and the corners were all at crisp 45s. A place to crash, apparently, and so spartan and orderly that even Drill Instructor Screw Y’all would’ve approved. Thanks to the weekly practice of Marine Corps field day—an ancient rite of passage that involved cleaning, drinking, and hysterically screaming—there was no higher compliment than to have a squared-away room.   

Still not what I was looking for.

I stopped at the entrance to the final room, a wide smile stretching across my face.

Pay dirt.

A library with gracefully carved bookcases, a small study desk, and a padded leather chair perfect for reading. The bookcases were mostly empty, but mostly empty wasn’t completely empty. And maybe those books could tell me some of the basics. I beelined toward the double fistful of volumes and trailed my fingers over the spines: Divine Bounty Log. The Handbook of the Vigilant. A Vigil’s Bestiary. Pellervo’s Guide to the Soul Forge. A Brief History of Raguel the Five Faced God. Grimoire of Virtues.

The titles were all odd and exotic sounding but the next few books that took up residency along the shelf were even more shocking. Weapons manuals. I’d done a stint attached to the Armory, and I knew the insides and outsides of damn near every weapon the Marine Corps employed—and a fair few it didn’t, at least not officially. It wasn’t like the Marine Corps issued AK-47s, but since insurgents all had hard-ons for the Russian-made assault rifles, it only made sense that we knew how to use them too.

And there, lined up in a neat little row like Marines on formation, were weapons manuals.  

Colt .45 Pistol M1911 & M1911A1.  

US MARINE CORPS TECHNICAL MANUAL RIFLE, 5.56 MM, M16A2 TM 05538C-23&P/2, M16A4, AND M4 CARBINE.  

US MARINE CORPS TECHNICAL MANUAL SEMI-AUTO COMBAT SHOTGUN, BENELLI M1014/M4 OPERATIONS 

M249 LIGHT MACHINEGUN B3M4138.  

AK-47 Assault Rifle Operator's Manual.   

FM 23-65 - Browning Machine gun Caliber .50 HB, M2.  

MAC Submachine Gun Operating Manual.  

M240 SERIES 7.62 MM MACHINE GUNS 

U.S. MARINE CORPS TECHNICAL MANUAL, SNIPER RIFLE, 7.62 MM, M40A3, SNIPER RIFLE, 7.62 MM, M40A5 

FIELD MANUAL NO. 3-23.25 (FM 23-25), LIGHT ANTIARMOR WEAPONS

TM 43-0001-27 TECHNICAL AMMUNITION MANUAL 

Their presence was one of the strangest things so far, and I couldn’t for the life of me understand what I was supposed to do with them. There would be a time and place to find that answer, but now wasn’t it. I already knew all about firearms, but Arturo was right—I knew approximately jack-all about being a Vigil. That was where I needed to start. The Divine Contract Log piqued my curiosity, so I slipped it from the shelves and cracked the pages. It was a big book with lots of blank paper.

Only the very first page had any writing on it. Two entries, one right after another.

Bounty Fulfilled

Dark Lair: You have slain the pack of Grave Ghouls who have defiled this nexus with their unclean presence. As a reward for a job well done, you have been granted an additional 150 Essence and 5 Ward Points.

Bounty

Terror of Ironmoor: A deadly Mortka with powerful abilities at its disposal prowls the streets of Ironmoor, a provincial trading hub in the province of Oakenward. Old hate drives the beast to kill, and only a Vigil Bound has the power to end its bloody reign. But this is no ordinary monster; its form and nature are cloaked by dark magics, its identity hidden behind false faces and guarded even from the eyes of Raguel, the Five Faced. Identify the nature of the beast, slay it before at least one witness, and restore justice and order to the city of Ironmoor.

Reward: +15,000 Essence, 1 x Seraphic Affinity Scale (Sage Class), 1 x Chaos Affinity Scale (Sage Class), 1 x True Form Transformation Token, 1 x Scalable Master-Rank Armor Item

Check. This was essentially a quest log that recorded past and current bounties.

I shoved the book back onto the shelf and swapped it out for A Vigil’s Bestiary. I always had been a sucker for a good monster manual, and I was interested to learn about the variety of threats this new world had to offer me. I sighed in disappointment as I quickly riffled through the pages. Like the Bounty Log, this one was mostly empty as well. Just a single entry for Crave Ghouls that offered a sketch of the creatures I’d fought and a quick description, listing out some basics. Physical description, where they could be encountered—caves and dens—any specific weakness—Ice-based magics—and their typical loot drops.

Looked like the Bestiary was less a book of monsters and more a medieval version of a Pokedex, but instead of trying to catch ’em all, I was trying to kill ’em all.

One of these damned books had to have something useful. I swapped the bestiary for the Grimoire of Virtues. I’d played enough DnD to know that grimoire was a fancy word for spell book. Inside was a table of contents, once more listing out the Five Wards and their accompanying abilities. Finally, I was making some progress. Book tucked beneath one arm, I trudged over to a padded reading chair nearby, plopped down, and propped the thick tome on the study desk. I flipped past the table of contents and paused on a brief explanation of what the “Wards” were and how they functioned.

A Note on Vigil Wards: There are Five Wards, each of which represent one of the Five Faces of Raguel: Justice (Gadriel), Valor (Voch), Wrath (Thuriel), Balance (Lero), and Truth (Akora). Each Ward contains spells that are in line with the given virtue or will help in the pursuit of said virtue, but since a Vigil is not a god—only a pale representative—no Vigil is capable of unlocking all of the magics offered by the gracious hand of Raguel. Vigils must choose carefully what type of warrior they will be and focus on those skills that will best suit them as they execute the assignments they are tasked with.

Ward Points can be used to unlock individual Vigil Wards abilities and skills—the more powerful the skill, the higher the cost. But a word of caution is in order here, along with a generous heaping of common sense. There are no restrictions or level caps on individual Vigil Wards. Should a Vigil have enough Ward Points, they can unlock any spell or ability of their choosing, but they should tread carefully. Using magics or abilities beyond one’s scope can have devastating effects.

If, for example, an overeager Vigil should unlock the Juggernaut Ability without having the appropriate reserve of both Brawn and Verve, they might use the ability only to break every bone in their body. Or, perhaps, an enterprising Vigil elects to unlock Soul Storm without first having Mind Vault and enough Insight—to do so is to risk madness from the eldritch power of the grave. In all things, let common sense prevail, lest you meet a most untimely and unfortunate end at your own hand.

Well now, that was ominous as hell. But instead of scaring me away it only made me more excited to learn my abilities. I launched onto the next pages and started eagerly reading about the Five Wards themselves.

Ward of Justice (Gadriel): The Ward of Justice focuses on skills of an active physical and martial nature. It is best for those Vigils who prefer to solve problems with the edge of a sword or at the end of a crossbow bolt. By investing in the Justice Ward, a Vigil can turn themselves into an unstoppable force of physical violence. Gain an unparalleled mastery over weapons and armor and use them to inflict crippling blows on those who would stand in the way of Justice. It requires 155 total Ward Points to unlock every skill within this Ward.

Ward of Valor (Voch): The Ward of Valor is cousin to the Ward of Justice. Whereas Justice is actively combat oriented, Valor imparts Vigils with impressive passive physical abilities. Comprised of three Bastions—The Protector, The Healer, The Presence—those who follow Valor’s path can fortify their own bodies, heal even the most grievous wounds, cast out disease in others, and amplify the powers of allied Vigils. It requires 188 total Ward Points to unlock every skill within this Ward.

Ward of Balance (Lero): Just as passive Valor is tied to active Justice, so too is gentle Balance the flip side of deadly Wrath. Whereas Wrath dishes out devastating damage and destruction on an unprecedented scale, Balance draws upon the power of nature to hold and bind and shape. Those who focus their eye upon the school of Bestial Magics specialize in assuming the shape of slain Mortka, using such ill-gotten power to right wrongs instead of causing them. Those aligned with the Fae Courts can draw upon the power of the Sidhe to aid them in their cause, while those who look to build and create often study Elemental Magics. It requires 158 total Ward Points to unlock every skill within this Ward.

Ward of Wrath (Thuriel): Those who follow the Ward of Wrath travel along the Path of Violence, the Path of Retribution, and the Path of Death to mete out Raguel’s Righteous Judgement. By cultivating Arcana and channeling the Essence of the divine, the Vigil can rend the earth, summon molten rocks from the heavens, and freeze their enemies where they stand. The Path of Violence specializes in dealing devastating damage to single targets.

The Path of Retribution, by contrast, deals substantial damage over an Area of Effect (AoE) and is ideal for large numbers of enemies or creatures with physical resistances. The Path of Death enslaves the wicked, forcing them to do penance for their ghastly crimes even into the afterlife. Damage is largely dealt at range, and this Ward is ideal for warriors that prefer to stay at a distance from their foes. It requires 210 total Ward Points to unlock every skill within this Ward.

Ward of Truth (Akora): The Vigilant are first and foremost Truth Seekers. Their calling is to ferret out evil in all its many guises and to pierce to the very heart of all things. The myriad of spells in the Ward of Truth aid in this pursuit, allowing the Vigil to extract information from the unwilling, speak to the inhuman, and reveal those secrets confined to the darkest shadows. Those who specialize in the College of Rhetoric have a certain way with words—charming, persuading, intimidating, and domineering those who oppose the Truth.

Distorting the Truth allows those in the College of Deception to twist perception, deceive the senses, pass unnoticed through a crowd, and even implant false memories. Those Vigils who pursue the College of Reason are dedicated to the exploration of both the Natural and Preternatural Sciences, crafting armor and weapons, employing arcane alchemy to brew powerful potions, and altering the fundamental properties of Essence to help right wrongs. Truth is the tool of the Investigator, and Akora helps you wield the Truth as the weapon it is. It requires 180 total Ward Points to unlock every skill within this Ward.

12

Ward Points

I felt like a kid on Christmas morning as I pored through the grimoire. Spells to hurl fireballs or ice spikes, spells to conjure lightning storms or rend the earth. Conjurations that would allow me to raise dead monsters, rituals to steal their life force or provide healing to my friends. That wasn’t even accounting for all the badass physical abilities, like Purity of Form, which would make me immune to poison and disease, or Crippling Strike, which had a chance to paralyze an opponent with a single blow.

There was a lot of information to wade through—almost an overwhelming amount, and I felt supremely out of my depth. I could use my limited supply of Ward Points to unlock any and all of the abilities, but each had an accompanying list of minimum recommended attributes, and I hadn’t found any information of those just yet. I’d seen my attributes listed out in my character sheet, but I had no idea whether they were good or bad or even what they corresponded to. I needed to get a handle on that, but before I moved on to the next book, I took a minute to examine the five abilities I already had listed on my character sheet: Language of the Heavens, Diamond Body, Arcane Insight, Soul Bound Weapons, and Threads of Fate.

Threads of Fate (Active, Boon of Akora)

Who can know what the future holds? Only the wise of heart and those with the vision that comes from experience. The threats a Vigil faces are as numerous as the sands on the shore and the solutions are just as varied. Unwilling to leave his fate in the hands of the others, the Vigil with the Threads of Fate Boon becomes the master of their own destiny. By visiting an altar dedicated to Raguel, a chosen Vigil may reweave the tapestry of their fate once every 12 hours, reclaiming spent Ward Points.

I read the Threads of Fate description, feeling a spark of excitement ignite in the pit of my stomach. Unless I was reading the description wrong, it sounded like this ability would allow me to respec my spell and ability set once every twelve hours, which was great since I had no idea what I was doing or what powers would be useful in the long run. Moreover, Arturo had said that Vigils typically worked in teams of five, or Fists, and now I knew why—no one could master all those Ward Abilities, which likely meant they needed a balanced party, just like in every RPG I’d ever played.

Catch was, I didn’t have a balanced party. I was all by my lonesome—I didn’t even know where to start looking for other Vigils—so I’d need to be able to fulfill every role on my own. Threads of Fate could potentially allow me to create the perfect build for any threat, assuming I knew what I was up against and had time to prepare in advance.

Diamond Body (Passive, Boon of Voch)

The Vigil Bound are called to do battle with creatures of terrible strength, equipped with deadly weapons and powerful magics. Their ability to sustain punishing damage is among the Vigil’s greatest strength. Thanks to the blessed Diamond Body of Raguel, they are capable of running faster, swimming farther, and jumping higher than normal men while also rapidly recovering from even the gravest of injuries and the deadliest of diseases. They can heal in minutes and hours what would take other men months or years to recover from. Absorbing Essence naturally aids in the recovery process as does spending time within the Soul Vault.

Huh. So that explained both my freaky Wolverine Healing Factor and why I could run and hike for what felt like forever without so much as getting winded. Man, what wouldn’t I have given to have this ability during my physical fitness evals.

Arcane Insight (Passive, Boon of Thuriel)

The Vigil Bound are renowned for their keen insight and their curious ability to pierce through the veil of the mundane. Arcane Insight allows Vigils to access the Ascendant System and receive preternatural guidance through signs, secret knowledge, and communion with the shades of fallen warriors who may act as spirit guides. Arcane Insight also allows Vigils to actively view Bounties, Contracts, Blessings, Curses, and Special Instructions from Raguel, even when not in the Soul Vault. The Ascendant System has the unique ability to tailor itself to the individual user, so no two Vigils interact with the system in quite the same way.

More and more things were clicking together now—the pop-ups, the glowing golden script that told me how much Essence I’d received, even Cal’s unnatural presence. I grunted and read over the last two items.

Soul Bound Weapons (Active, Boon of Gadriel)

All Vigils bind with a weapon—sometimes even more than one—investing that weapon with a piece of their soul, transforming it into something far more powerful than a mere instrument of wood or metal. Soul Bound weapons can never be damaged, never need sharpening, and cannot be destroyed. A Vigil may call forth his weapons at any time, willing them to appear no matter the distance, and can also dismiss their weapons to the Soul Vault when not in use. Even after death, a Vigil Bound’s weapons live on as Ghostsoul Relics, retaining a piece of the fallen Vigil’s Essence. Although the core of a Soul Bound Weapon will always remain the same, weapon “skins” can be created and applied within the Soul Forge.

Language of the Heavens (Passive, Boon of Lero)

Vigils are nomads by nature, servants of no ruler and citizen of no country. The work of Raguel often takes them to faraway lands with strange customs and even stranger tongues, yet such things cannot stand in the way of justice, order, and balance. Through the grace of Lero, Vigils are granted access to the Language of the Heavens, allowing them to communicate and read in any tongue known in heaven or on earth.

I whistled softly through my teeth.

Someone had been tinkering around inside my head, which finally explained why I could understand every word in a language I’d never heard of before. I’d save a bundle on my Rosetta Stone subscription. Even more badass than having a pocket translator built into my head was the Soul Bound Weapon description. The ability to summon and dismiss my weapons at will sounded amazing. True, I wasn’t actually sure how to do it, but there would be time for that later.

With a basic handle on my core abilities, I set aside the ancient spellbook and moved on to another hefty tome called The Handbook of the Vigilant.

The leather-bound volume opened with a tediously long introduction about the Divine calling of the Vigilant that I speed-read, skipping entire sections when they got too technical or too tedious. There were lots of interesting tidbits, but it was all dry as the Sahara, and I wasn’t looking for theoretical knowledge or a treatise on theological orthopraxis. I was a wanderer stranded in a different dimension, and if I understood my new priest pal correctly, these village folk had a monster they were expecting me to kill in the not-too-distant future.

I needed concrete, pragmatic answers. A poem on the acts of the Vigil Bound wouldn’t help with that.

After another twenty or so pages I got into the meat of things. 

The Vigilant are different than other men and women—a race unto themselves with the unique capacity to actively change their physical and metaphysical abilities through the collection and distribution of Essence. Modifications and changes can only be implemented while the Vigil is within the extraplanar dimension often referred to as a Soul Vault, which exists outside of space in the realm of Raguel the Five-Faced God.  

Now we were rocket fuel. I scanned the page until I found a reference guide on Character Attributes.

Base Attributes for Inkarnated Vigils are determined by the individual’s physical prowess and skills prior to death and reincarnation. A ten in any given category is equivalent to an average, healthy adult of the same gender, while a score of nineteen would be reserved only for the most elite athletes and warriors of great renown. Vigils, however, can progress far beyond these human measures, becoming extraordinarily more powerful than any mere mortal. Note that there are no values for Intelligence or other personality traits such as Wisdom or Charisma, as these values are fixed and based solely on the individual.

Brawn: This attribute determines how physically strong and powerful a Vigil is. It also factors into how much raw damage a Vigil can deal when engaging in close-quarters combat. 

Verve: This attribute determines how much damage can be taken, how much stamina the Vigil has at their disposal, and how resilient they are—that is, how quickly they recover from a blow. Stamina also powers many of the physical attacks and abilities found within the Ward of Justice.

Finesse: Fleet of finger and fleet of foot—the Finesse attribute deals with the art of precision, agility, and speed. It is an essential component for both ranged attacks and the more intricate crafting abilities located within the Ward of Truth.

Arcana: This attribute is the foundational bedrock for all things magic. Arcana determines how large a Vigil’s Arcana Pool is, and how fast those metaphysical energies regenerate. The size of a Vigil’s Arcana Pool severely impacts what spells a Vigil can cast and determines how frequently those spells can be employed.

Insight: Though Vigils may appear to be human, they are anything but. Thanks to their link to the Divine presence of Raguel, they have access to tools and abilities that allow them to sense evil, ferret out clues, make preternatural connections, and pick up on details others might miss. Insight heightens and hones both the physical and metaphysical senses.

Ascending: The Vigilant are ranked based on the purity and power of their soul. There are Seven Classes: 1. Novice, 2. Disciple, 3. Adept, 4. Master, 5. Sage, 6. Saint, 7. Fatemarked. Each Class is further subdivided into three ranks: Bronze, Silver, and Gold. Items of great power follow the same rarity and classification system. Vigils level through each of the three Ranks, starting at Bronze, then ascend to the next class by gaining Essence, through slaying Mortka and completing bounties sent by Raguel.

When ascending from one Rank to another, Vigils are blessed by the Five-Faced God with +1 Free Attribute Point and +10 Ward Points to assign at will. When advancing from one Class to another, Vigils are granted +3 Attribute Points and +20 Ward Points. For the especially ambitious Vigil, Attributes can additionally be increased by sacrificing accumulated Essence; as in all things, however, there is a cost. A balance between short-term gain versus long-term benefit. 

Vigils require accumulated Essence—also known as Experience—to Ascend from Rank to Rank and Class to Class. Leveling provides the necessary Attribute and Ward Points to fortify the body and spirit and unlock ever more powerful Vigil Wards. Use too much Essence and risk never advancing, use too little and risk death. Moreover, not all Attribute Points are created equal thanks to the universal law of diminishing returns. The higher a Vigil pushes an individual Attribute, the more costly it becomes to advance through the Sacrifice of Essence.

Attribute Advancement Point Costs in Essence

Note! You cannot spend Essence if doing so will drop you below a current Rank or Class threshold.  

That all seemed straightforward enough, though I was a little insulted that I only had a Brawn score of seventeen. Stupid Vault was calling me a basic bitch. Before taking a grenade to the gut, I ran a perfect PFT, which was pretty elite if you asked me. My Verve was a little higher, but I figured that had more to do with surviving drunken barracks parties than anything else. I stowed the handbook, grabbed the grimoire, and hoofed it back out to my slowly spinning avatar. It was finally time to decide on some shiny new abilities to take out for a test drive.

Sure, there was still so much I didn’t know, but I couldn’t let that paralyze me from making any choices. There were monsters out there, and my sudden appearance wouldn’t go unnoticed for long. Chances were good whatever was stalking the streets of Ironmoor probably already knew I was here. And if it didn’t yet, it would within a day or two. I needed to have at least a few rudimentary skills to defend myself with in case the shit hit the proverbial fan.

I popped open my stat sheet then pulled up my Expanded Ward List, glancing at the seemingly endless list of skills and spells to select from. The sheer number of options was daunting, but I had two advantages working in my favor. One, I only had twenty-five Ward Points to play with—ten that seemed to come from just being a Vigil, ten from ranking up to Silver, and five more from completing the Dark Lair Bounty—which immediately ruled out most of the big-ticket spells, and two, if I made a bad choice… Well, I could always take another stab at it tomorrow thanks to Threads of Fate.

I quickly paged through the Grimoire of Virtues, searching for two abilities that had jumped out at me on my first read through. Combat Sense, from the Valor Ward, and Kinetic Blast, from the Wrath Ward. Both seemed like obvious choices, though for different reasons.

Combat Sense

In the heat of battle, gut instinct can be the difference between life and death. The effects of Combat Sense are directly proportional to a Vigil’s Insight Levels. During active combat, this sixth sense allows you to dodge, evade, and anticipate your enemy’s moves with uncanny accuracy. Combat Sense has a 2% chance to trigger the Insight Ability Precognition for every thirty seconds the Vigil is engaged in battle. Precognition causes time to seemingly slow down, allowing you to momentarily foresee what your enemy is likely to do before they do it. Combat Sense is always active, and the likelihood of triggering the Precognition Ability increases with greater Insight.

Recommended Attribute Minimums: Brawn, 18; Insight, 15

Kinetic Blast

Draw from your Arcana Pool to unleash a blast of primal, concentrated force directly at a given target. Although this is among the most basic techniques in the Wrath Ward, it has innumerable uses and can be deadly effective against enemies of all levels. The maximum force you can exert is directly tied to your available Arcana Pool.

Recommended Attribute Minimums: Arcana, 14; Finesse, 15

Combat Sense would grant me supernatural reflexes during battle, while Kinetic Blast allowed me to wield raw kinetic force as a weapon. Basically, badass Jedi Force powers, which I just couldn’t pass up. Both abilities added up to nine points, leaving me with sixteen points, enough for two more low-level spells or one medium-level ability. I wanted to stock up on magic; who wouldn’t want to shoot lightning bolts out of their hands or call down a heavenly fire on their enemies? Problem was, I didn’t actually know how to use magic, and my Arcana score was virtually nonexistent and well below the minimums for every magic spell available.

I was already taking a gamble with Kinetic Blast. There were lots of physical options to choose from. Matchless Endurance would allow me to fight through even debilitating pain while temporarily boosting my Verve and Health Regeneration Rate. Practical. But ultimately, I wanted something a little more… aggressive. Maximum Penetration sounded about as aggressive as they came—so aggressive I was worried about someone filing a sexual harassment complaint against me. Exactly the right kind of skill for a US Marine who liked to make things go boom.

Maximum Penetration

For those Vigils specializing in ranged weaponry, the ability to make the most of every shot is crucial, especially when contending against creatures with powerful armor, supernatural barriers, or thick hides. Maximum Penetration allows the Vigil to actively imbue their ranged weapons with an additional portion of Stamina to penetrate heavily armored targets. Maximum Penetration also has a 25% chance to pierce supernaturally conjured barriers and a 10% chance for projectiles to pass cleanly through one target and hit another.

Recommended Attribute Minimums: Finesse, 15; Verve, 17

Every word of that description sounded like a Force Recon Marine’s wet dream. At nine points, it was the most expensive ability I was considering, but how could a guy who loved both guns and penetration as much as me pass up on an opportunity like that? And, even with the cost, it still left me seven more points to play with. There were a lot of other cool, practical choices that begged me to choose them—Overcharge, Spectral Roots, Life Siphon—but there was one oddball skill that I couldn’t quite shake from my mind.

Sidhe Pact

While most Mortka are monstrous creatures, bent by their dark and twisted nature, the Fae fall into a unique category: monsters, yet not wholly evil, they’re insatiable in their appetites but also intelligent enough to reason with. With their strange magics, irresistible charms, and powerful glamors, the Fae can make for deadly enemies… or powerful allies. But be warned, dealing with Fae is a treacherous business. They are cunning and deceitful, ravenous for power, and have no human sense of morality.

Of all the Mortka, however, Fae are the most likely to form a Pact of Power; such binding agreements can grant boons and additional abilities to the pact recipient. The Sidhe Pact ability allows you to strike a formal binding agreement with any Fae creature of the Faewylds; the Pact will force the creature to abide by the terms of the agreement through an Essence Bond until the holder dissolves the Pact. For Pact conditions to be legally binding on an entire Court, of which there are hundreds, the Fae must be of Baron Rank or higher.

Recommended Attribute Minimums: Arcana, 14; Insight, 14

I didn’t much care for lawyers, and everything about Sidhe Pact screamed magic lawyer to me at the top of its lungs, but the thing was, I had myself a bona fide fairy passed out on my nightstand back at the Three Chimneys. Ol’ Renholm hadn’t actively tried to kill me yet, but I had a feeling that was for lack of opportunity, not lack of desire. Also, it’s damned hard to kill someone when you’re napping. He would wake up eventually, however, and I had a feeling he might be useful—assuming I could get him to cooperate with me. The little murder parrot knew a lot about magic and ghosts, and I needed to know more about both of those things.

Plus, I had exactly seven Ward Points to spend, and Sidhe Pact only cost five. Seemed like a good way to hedge my bets, all things considered. Before I could overthink things, I spent twenty-three of my accumulated Ward Points—four to Combat Sense, five to Kinetic Blast, nine to Maximum Penetration, and five to Sidhe Pact. My character sheet shimmered to reflect the changes.

I wasn’t quite done yet. I had one Attribute Point calling my name and I wasn’t about to sit on something that could mean the difference between life and death. I was two Arcana points below the recommended attribute minimum for Kinetic Blast, and one Brawn point short for Combat Sense. I didn’t really know how to use magic just yet, and even if I spent my point, it wouldn’t bring me up to the minimum for Kinetic Blast, so I decided to roll the dice and invest it in Brawn instead.

Are you sure you would like to invest [1] Attribute Point in Brawn? Yes/No

Yes.

Crippling pain and a wave of nausea rolled through my belly. Fire exploded along every nerve ending; it felt like someone was detaching my muscles from the bone with an army of razor blades. The Soul Vault shattered around me, and I found myself back in the citadel, on my knees, unable to stand as my muscles wriggled, bulged, and rearranged themselves beneath my skin.  

The sensation only lasted thirty seconds, but it was among the worst thirty seconds of my life—and I’d died after taking a frag grenade to the guts. When the hellish agony finally receded, I slowly gained my feet and wiped the perspiration from my eyes. Curious, I lifted an arm and flexed. The muscle was noticeably larger beneath my tunic. My legs felt stronger, sturdier, and the fabric of my pants strained against the muscles beneath. I couldn’t believe it.  

“Oh, thank Raguel,” Arturo said in relief. He looked like he was on the verge of a nervous breakdown. “You’re back. You just vanished. Poof. Then you reappeared like a specter out of thin air. I can hardly believe my eyes.” 

“I need to know everything,” I said, feeling simultaneously keyed up and exhausted.   

Arturo shook his head. “Indeed, you do, but not tonight.” He gave me a long, weighing look. “You’re dead on your feet, I can see it from here.” He slipped an arm around my shoulder and gently nudged me into motion. “Come, let’s get you back to the inn. This isn’t something you can master in a day, you know. The process of becoming a Vigil is a journey of a thousand lifetimes. Tonight, you need rest—time for your body to adjust to the alterations you just made. We’ll start your training first thing in the morning.”

13

Murder Parrot Strikes Back

It was either extremely late or extremely early by the time Arturo and I got back to the Three Chimneys. I couldn’t quite tell which since they didn’t have the convenience of clocks around these parts, but the common room was dimly lit, and the massive fireplace was burning low. There was no sign of Maggie behind the bar, and most of the patrons had retired to their rooms or their homes for the evening—other than a fistful of drunks who were sleeping on the wooden benches or sprawled out and snoring beneath the tables.

After a brief goodbye, Arturo left, bound for the church, and I quietly head up to my temporary quarters, trying not to disturb the drunk and sleeping guests. I’d survived more than my fair share of barracks parties and I’d been the poor sucker passed out beneath a table more than once myself. Having a company gunny stomp through and kick you awake from a drunken stupor at three or four in the morning was never a fun thing, and I didn’t want to be that guy. So I crept, quiet as a cat, over the creaky floorboards.

I was ready to catch a bit of shut-eye myself, but when I unlocked the door to my room and stuck my head in, a prickle of unease raced down the nape of my neck and goosebumps exploded along my arms. My room was trashed, the blankets and sheets strewn across the floor, the basin turned over, the wooden drawers pulled free from the desk, and the contents scattered around the room. It looked like a miniature whirlwind had torn through the room, and my intuition told me whatever had made this mess was still here.

I slipped my Colt free and moved forward slowly, clearing the room first left to right, then sweeping high and low for any sign of danger. Nothing immediately popped out and tried to maul my face, but I couldn’t shake the feeling that someone or something was watching me. There was a shapeshifting monster running around this city, after all, and unless said monster was deaf and dumb there was a good chance it knew I’d moseyed into town and was staying at the Three Chimneys.

The room was so small, though. Where could an Elder Changeling even be hiding in this glorified broom closet? Unless shapeshifting also allowed it to turn invisible. That or whatever had made the mess was something very small.

I glanced to the nightstand and immediately saw that Renholm was gone. I growled. Idiot. This wasn’t the work of the Changeling, it was the work of that stupid pixie. I kicked the door shut with my heel, keeping my eyes peeled for movement.

“Die, fool!” came a furious screech as something flew across the room at me.

I pivoted without thinking, raised the Colt, and blasted off a single round at the incoming target. A goose down pillow exploded, sending a flurry of feathers swirling through the air. The little pixie, easily an inch larger than he’d been before, charged me, a sharpened quill in his tiny hand as though it were a rapier.

“Damnit, Renholm,” I growled, stowing my gun before I “accidentally” put a hole through his Barbie doll head. He darted at me like an aggressive hummingbird, but I was a lot faster as a Vigil than I’d been as a mere mortal, and I plucked his frail body from the air like a pop fly and squeezed just hard enough to let him know I could squish him like a rotting banana if he didn’t behave. Naturally, he stabbed me in the webbing by my thumb. The quill was surprisingly sharp and drew a bright bead of blood.

The quill plunged home over and over, pincushioning my hand with a flurry of tiny, painful jabs.

“Stop that, you little shit.” I flicked him in the face with my free hand, knocking him silly with the force of the blow. The quill fell from his tiny hands, drifting to the floor. “It’s me, Renholm. It’s Boyd.”

The pixie blinked and shook his head, disoriented from my attack.

“Boyd,” he croaked. “I don’t know what a Boyd is.”

“Are you kidding me?” I said. “Boyd Knight. From the cave. I saved your ass from the birdcage?”

“Birdcage,” the pixie replied, tapping his chin. “Still not ringing any bells.”

I reached into my coin pouch and pulled free a Hunger Affinity Scale. The pixie froze, eyes bulging. “I fed you one of these? That ring any bells?”

“Ah. Right,” he replied. “The stranger. I’m sorry for stabbing you, you humans all look identical to me. Big and ugly with far too much hair all over your bodies. Disgusting creatures.”

“Wow, tell me how you really feel.”

“If you insist. I also think your kind is moronically stupid. Except for you, of course,” he said, eyeing the Affinity Scale. “You are just regular stupid.”

“That was rhetorical,” I replied, stuffing the scale back into my coin pouch. “Are you responsible for this mess?”

“Who else would be responsible?” he said, glancing around. “Though it’s not my fault. Strictly speaking. Last thing I remember, I was feasting like royalty—which I am by the way, Fae royalty—and the next thing I know, I wake up in some giant’s lair. I was searching for dangers and potential traps.”

“It’s an inn,” I said, “not a dungeon.”

“How was I supposed to know that?” Renholm buzzed. “Besides, human cities are dangerous for the Fae Folk. Humans have priests. Binding magic.” He dropped his voice real low. “They also have Vigils.”

I snorted. “No shit, Renholm. Turns out I’m a Vigil. I just got the rundown from the local priest.”

The little pixie gasped and wilted in my hand. “Well that would certainly explain the queerness. Being able to see me and the spirit. Being able to consume the Affinity Scales and the like.”

“You’re just putting it together now?”

“I’ve never seen a Vigil before,” Renholm replied with a little shrug. “Our kind tends to stay as far away from your kind as possible on account of the fact that Vigils are best known for murdering Mortka, not helping them.”

“You can’t really be Mortka, though, right?” I said. “I mean, you’re smart. Evil. But smart.”

“Wrong again. I’m not smart, I’m a genius of epic proportions. You are not wrong, however, about the nature of the Fae. We are Mortka in the way that your dullard spirit friend is Mortka. But Vigils aren’t exactly known for their thoughtful discernment where monsters are concerned. When you didn’t immediately kill me and harvest my Essence, I just assumed you were some sort of half breed. Maybe a Mage in training or a lesser Steelborn. But a Vigil…”

He sighed. “Make it quick. I won’t beg for my life, if that’s what you’re hoping for.” He adjusted his glittering wings and squared his shoulders as though he were staring down an executioner. “I’m royalty and I’ll die like it—though know now that my people will exact terrible vengeance on my behalf.”

“What? No, I don’t want to—” A sharp rapt-tat-tat from the door stopped me short.

I glared at the pixie. “I’m not going to kill you. Just shut your mouth for a minute, okay?”

I held the pixie behind my back and stalked over to the door.

“There’s no point in hiding me,” Renholm said. “Those without some portion of the Gift can’t see True Fae. Can’t hear us either—not unless we want them to.”

“Noted,” I whispered. “Keep your little mouth shut anyway. Sorry, coming,” I said, this time loud enough for whoever was at the door. “Just a second.”

I pulled the door open and put on my best smile. It was the same smile I’d use on my mom when she’d catch me drinking with my buddies or smuggling cherry bombs in my backpack. It was the patented Boyd Knight I-ain’t-doing-anything-wrong charm.

Maggie was in the hall, arms folded across her ample chest. Her hair was frazzled, and she was wearing a thin nightgown that clung to every curve. She glared at me then caught sight of the room. Blankets everywhere. Pillows split. Paper scattered.

“That was the best bed in the inn,” she grumbled, eyeing the feathers scattered across the floor. “Just what in the world have you been up to here, Vigil?”

Before I could answer, a set of tiny teeth sank down into my finger—felt like having my finger caught in a mousetrap. I cursed as my hand reflexively popped open and Renholm darted out of my grasp. I could’ve sworn that Maggie’s eyes flickered in the direction the pixie had flown off in, but it was just a flash, here then gone. Could’ve been a trick of the light.

“Sorry about the commotion,” I said, rubbing at the back of my neck. “I’m a rough sleeper. Night terrors,” I lied, though there was some truth to the statement. I did have night terrors, though usually it was terrorists wielding AKs or roadside bombs that haunted my nights. And those night terrors didn’t usually end up with exploded pillows or thrashed beds; mostly they resulted in cold sweats and a case of the shakes. Her face softened a hair as though she understood.

“Well, other patrons are trying to sleep, including yours truly. Keep it down, yeah? And if you can’t get to sleep”—she reached up and trailed her fingers down my chest—“then stop by my chambers. Might be I can help wear you out.” It was impossible not to notice the way she was pushing her chest out so that her nipples strained against the thin fabric of her nightgown. “I hear a little vigorous exercise can do wonders for the restless mind.”

“Thank you,” I said quickly, knowing that Renholm was probably getting ready to stab me in the neck with the damned quill again. “But I think I’m good for tonight. Won’t hear any more from me. Good night.” Before she could reply, I stepped back and shut the door, throwing the simple bolt home. I felt bad. Slamming a door in someone’s face was super rude, but not as rude as letting a deranged pixie maul them like an angry hornet.

“Good night to you too, Vigil,” she called through the door, voice muffled and irritated. “For the record, I’ll be sending over a tally to Arbitrator Arturo in the morning.”

I listened for a beat as she stomped off back down the hall, then spun to find Renholm perched on the bedpost, quill in one hand.

“Don’t stab me again,” I said, raising my hands to show I didn’t mean him any harm, “because if you do, I swear to god I am going to punt your scrawny little ass through the window. I don’t want to kill you, just the opposite. I was thinking you and I could be business partners. I need you, but I think I could help you, too. Plus, you already know you can trust me. If I wanted to kill you, I could’ve done it a thousand times over while you were asleep.”

Renholm’s eyes narrowed and the quill lowered just a hair.

“That is a good point,” he said. “I mean, were our roles reversed, I certainly would’ve killed you, taken the Affinity Scales from your body, and then I likely would’ve tried to consume your corpse. As much as I could eat anyway.”

“What? Are you serious?” I asked. “But I saved you from the Crave Ghouls.”

“Fine. Because you saved me, I would’ve respectfully killed you, respectfully pilfered your rotting meat sack, and then I would’ve respectfully eaten as much of your bloated corpse as could fill my stomach.”

“That version was so much worse,” I replied. “What am I doing here?” I ran a hand through my golden hair. That damned hair clinched it. Sure, Renholm was the worst, but I needed friends and he could be a useful friend, assuming I could hoodwink him into signing on as something akin to a familiar. Admittedly, the pixie was a terrible option, but sometimes there were only bad options and worse options. Renholm was the bad option.

“My point remains,” I continued. “I didn’t do any of those things to you. No murder, no pilfering, no eating. I gave you the scale and took care of you until you were awake. You can trust me to uphold my end of the bargain, and I think I can offer you a competitive benefits package.” I drew a Hunger Scale from the pouch and held it up, letting it glitter with crimson light. “I have a bunch of these, and I have plans to get more.”

“Why would a Vigil need the likes of me?” Renholm asked, all the while eyeing the scale. “Yes, I am beautiful, sage, cunning, and part of a powerful noble house, but something doesn’t sit well with me, and I am renowned among my people for my intuition.”

I sighed. Time for a little honesty.

“Because I’m not from around here,” I said. “I’m technically a Vigil, but apparently I’m something called an Inkarnate.”

“Ah, yes.” He rubbed his hands together in greedy glee. “It all makes so much more sense. You’re a foreigner to these lands.”

“Got it in one. I don’t know the first thing about being a Vigil or about doing magic. I need a local to help show me around. My spirit guide Cal is an awesome wingman, but so far he’s as lost in the sauce as I am. I like Arbitrator Arturo, the local priest, but he’s part of the church. That means he has an agenda, and I don’t want to be anyone’s pawn. I need someone in my corner. You.” I waggled a finger at him. “You are a bloodthirsty, diabolical little monster, but I feel like I know exactly what I’m getting with you. So, how’s about it?”

“What would I have to do?” he asked suspiciously.

“Promise not to kill me, harm me, or rob me to start,” I said.

He frowned and snapped his fingers. “Your demands are already unreasonably high, but I’m still listening.”

“Past that? You tag along with me, I guess,” I said. “Answer any questions I have honestly and to the best of your ability. Teach me any magic you can, maybe run a few errands for me. Sort of act as my…” I was about to say familiar but hesitated. Renholm was full of himself and needed to feel like a special snowflake. “Act as my trusted lieutenant,” I said instead.

“A tempting offer,” he said, scratching at his chin. “I might be interested in such an arrangement for one Affinity Scale of Disciple Class or better per week.”

I wasn’t sure how rare or powerful scales were, but after seeing how eager he was, I knew he was trying to capitalize on my ignorance about this world. I wasn’t as ignorant as I’d been even a few hours before, though. Thanks to my time perusing the Soul Vault’s library, I knew that Disciple was Class two, just above the Novice Class. Renholm was trying to price gouge me for higher quality goods, hoping I didn’t know any better.

“No dice, champ,” I said, shaking my head. “Best I can guarantee is half of a Novice Class Scale per week.”

“An outrage!” he snapped. “You insult my honor with such a worthless offer. The very least I’m willing to sell my dignity for is an entire Novice Scale. Final offer, though I will sweeten the pot by throwing in the protection of the Greenbriar. I’ll file a petition with my liege to make you an honorary Lord of the Court with all of the illustrious privileges that entails. Safe travel through our lands, access to the royal library, perhaps even a genuine patent of nobility amongst the Fae Folk of the Wylds. It is a great honor and surely equal to the small upgrade. Are we agreed?”

I felt power well up inside my chest.

<<<>>>

Sidhe Pact

You are about to enter into an Official Sidhe Pact with Renholm of the Greenbriar Court. In exchange for (1) Novice Class Affinity Scale or better per week, he (1) formally agrees not to kill, harm, or rob you, (2) will honestly answer any of your questions, (3) will teach you magic in accordance with his abilities, and (4) will act as a lesser familiar. (5) Additionally, because of your alliance, you will have the potential to become an Honorary Fae Noble of the Greenbriar Court. Note: As the Pact Holder, you can terminate the contract at any time, but doing so will be seen as a slight against the Greenbriar Court and will likely result in a blood feud.

Would you like to initiate Sidhe Pact? Yes/No?

<<<>>>

I read over the terms of the agreement, checking for any loopholes. Renholm was a devious little SOB, but the contract seemed airtight and overwhelmingly in my favor. I’d get a Fae familiar and the backing of a powerful fairy court, all for giving up one Novice Affinity Scale. Hell, I already had enough Scales to pay him for a couple of months, and I’d only taken out one little cave full of Ghouls. I was sure I’d be able to score more Scales in no time—all it would take was a little monster hunting and elbow grease. It seemed like a win-win for me.

“Yes,” I said. The blue bar from earlier appeared in the corner of my eye—my Arcana gauge, I now knew. It drained in a flash as all the Arcana in my Pool vanished to supernaturally power the Pact I’d just signed. I dropped to my knees with a groan as magic rushed out of my body. A silver chain formed in my right palm and snaked out to connect to Renholm’s palm. A wave of potent energy passed between us, and I could feel the weight of the Pact settle into my bones.

This wasn’t just a gentlemen’s agreement, this was a binding contract reinforced with powerful magics.

Renholm immediately started cackling.

“Fool, Vigil,” he said as the wheezing laughter died off, “I would’ve settled for a quarter of a Novice Class Scale a month. Once again, I have demonstrated my superior bargaining prowess! Don’t worry, my young protégé.” He flitted over and touched down on my shoulder. He patted me on the head consolingly. “You are but a simple, stupid human, you shouldn’t feel too bad to fall before my wisdom and guile.”

I snorted and rolled my eyes. “Yeah, I figured I was probably overpaying,” I replied, “but one Bronze Novice Scale doesn’t seem so bad to bond a familiar and have access to a powerful Fae Court.”

“Yes, about that”—he drummed his tiny fingers together—“now that we are Pact Bonded, I feel obligated to tell you I may have oversold the size and influence of the Greenbriar Court just a hair.”

I had a sinking feeling in the pit of my stomach. These assholes really were devious.

“How big exactly is the Greenbriar Court?” I asked. The invisible bond between us pulsed and tightened like a noose. He was now magically obligated to speak the truth to me.

“Currently, it is a court of one. I am the monarch of the Greenbriar Court.”

“You little son of a bitch,” I growled, swatting him off my shoulder. “You lied to me. What the hell happened to honesty is the best policy?”

“Well, honesty is the best policy,” Renholm said, “until it’s not. Then lying is the best policy. And both policies work marvelously together—another lesson for you, my protégé. You see, the more honest you are in your day-to-day affairs, the more likely gullible rubes are to believe you when you lie. Although, to be clear, it wasn’t technically a lie. Not strictly speaking.”

“How was that not lying?”

“I am a highly ranked noble in the Greenbriar Court, am I not? The highest ranked noble, in fact.”

“You’re the only noble!”

“Still the truth,” he shot back. “And, for the record, I was the only noble in the Greenbriar Court. Now there are two. Since I am the monarch of the Court, I shall name you a Baron of Greenbriar—a true honor, especially among the Fae. The number of non-Fae nobles is extremely small.”

“You conniving twerp, I should break the Pact right now and see what kind of Scales you drop when I smash you against the floorboards like the mosquito you are.”

“Wait, no. Let’s not do anything rash,” he said. “The truth is, I recently parted ways with the Oblivion Court. We had irreconcilable creative differences. I wasn’t even knighted, if you can believe it. They were underutilizing my natural talents, and when I suggested they make me a baron, they laughed in my face. Which is why I determined to form my own court. A better court with gambling and hookers.”

“Wait. Let me get this straight.” I pinched the bridge of my nose. “Not only are you not part of a powerful court, but you’re also feuding with an actually powerful court?”

“Yes. But think about this as an opportunity to get in on the ground floor of a fantastic investment opportunity. The Greenbriar Court has unlimited upward potential, and you never would’ve been made a noble in a place like the Oblivion Court. They would’ve undervalued your talents, just like they undervalued mine. Together, however, we can build something new. Something amazing. And then I’ll show Jeffery!”

“There’s a fairy in the Oblivion Court named Jeffery?”

“Yes. He was my direct superior, and he’s a churlish, sheep-swagging slut. He’ll change his tune when he sees I’ve made a Pact with an Inkarnate Vigil Bound, though. Oh yes he will.” Renholm threw back his head and cackled like an evil villain.

“Okay, but why would I want a stupid fake noble title?” I pressed.

“It’s not fake. We may be a small court, but we are technically a court. You bequeathed me the Cave of the Crave Ghouls, which means I’m now officially a landed monarch. I’m the real deal, and where the Wyld Fae are concerned, technically correct is the best kind of correct. As a title-holding member of a legitimate Fae Court, you will be able to travel into the lands of any Wyld Fae with some degree of diplomatic immunity. Plus, now that I have you under the banner, other wild, unaffiliated Fae will flock to the court as well.”

Dammit. Renholm had played me like a fiddle, but that was exactly why I needed him on my team. The pixie knew the ins and outs of this world in a way I probably never would. Sure, he was a conniver, but as long as he was conniving on my behalf, I’d keep him around. Not to mention, I could appreciate his gumption and hustle.

“Alright, you little psycho,” I replied begrudgingly, “we’ll keep the band together, but I expect you to be completely honest with me moving forward.”

“Understood,” he said, “and on that note, you are incredibly homely. All humans are disgusting, but your terrible red eyes and golden hair are especially appalling.”

“Not the honesty I was looking for, but good effort.” I grabbed my thrashed pillow from the floor and tossed it onto the bed. “I’m beat and I have a training appointment with Arturo in a few hours, so I’m gonna hit the rack. In the meantime, I have an important job for you, Your Majesty.”

“Who do I need to kill? Whose organs should I steal? Do you want a human baby? I can probably find one of those lying around somewhere.”

“No organs,” I replied with a sigh. “And please don’t kill anyone in town. Or out of town for that matter. Let’s just avoid murder entirely for the time being. Also, all human abductions—child or otherwise—are a no-no.” I ran my tongue over my teeth, feeling all the grit and grime. My mouth still tasted like cat ass. “What I really need you to do is more important than any of that. I need you to find me a toothbrush.”

14

Zero Dark Thirty

The next day came early as balls, but every day in the Marine Corps started early as balls. Formations. PT. Gear inspections. Battalion runs. Operation prep. And, thanks to the steadfast rule of fifteen prior, everything started about two hours before it was actually supposed to start.  

If formation was at 0600, the battalion first sergeant would pass down 0545—fifteen minutes prior—and the company gunny would add his fifteen, 0530, and the company staff sergeant would shave off another fifteen, followed up the platoon sergeant, squad leaders, and all the way down to the fireteam, losing fifteen minutes each go. So a troop movement at 0600 always wound up being a troop movement at 0430—well before the sun had even thought of rising for the day. 

It was an infallible law of the Marine Corps, so I knew damned well how to get my tired grumpy ass out of the rack.

I’d slept like a baby—which always struck me as a weird saying, considering how finicky most babies are when it comes to sleep. My buddy, Donavan, had a little rug rat with his missus before our last deployment, and he said the kid woke up screaming every two hours like clockwork. Poor bastard swore Firewatch had nothing on a newborn.

There was a basket with a couple of bread rolls, four thick slices of ham, and an apple outside my door. Beside it was a small jug of eye-wateringly sour ale and another with only water. It seemed like Maggie was hell-bent on taking good care of me, despite the fact that I’d caused a major disturbance in the middle of the night then slammed the door in her face. Maybe the breakfast ale was her way of getting back at me. Hard pass on that one. I ate one roll and stashed the other in my pocket along with the apple then downed the water in one go.

Hydrate or die, as Drill Instructor Screw Y’all always used to say.

My pussy-willow toothbrush had curled at the edges, but I was happy to see there was a fancy newfangled replacement waiting for me next to the wash bin. It was thoroughly medieval and fit for a king. The handle was silver, edged with gold, and inlaid with gemstones, while the brush head was crafted from what felt like bristly horsehair. The fact that the brush itself was likely used wasn’t a comforting thought, but all things considered it was still a helluva lot better than scrubbing my teeth with a twig.

There was no sign of Renholm—he was probably out looting all of Ironmoor—and the rest of the inn was equally quiet, everyone still sleeping off their debauchery from the night before. A thin edge of light was just starting to peek over the horizon, casting the town in the grays and purples of predawn. I was guessing I’d only got three or four hours of sleep at most, but I felt great. Maybe that was my Wolverine Healing Factor at play or maybe I was just excited to get to blow some monsters up with magic today.

The hairs on the back of my neck stood rigid as I left the inn behind.

My gut screamed a warning at me, and I spun half a second before Cal could get the jump on me.

“Hey, you’re getting better,” my best friend said. “That or I’m getting sloppy.”

“Little bit of A, little bit of B is my guess,” I replied. “How’re you feeling this morning? That ward sucker punched you into another world.”

“You ain’t kidding,” he said, scrunching up his nose. “Kicked like a mule to the teeth. My head is still pounding, and I feel like I’m barely holding my shit together.” He glanced at the horizon. “A little worried about what’ll happen once the sun fully comes up. Don’t suppose you have any more of those Affinity Scales you could spare? That last one took the edge off.”

“Yeah.” I pulled another one from the coin pouch. He reached for it, but I paused and held it just out of reach. “Promise you won’t try to eat me if I give this to you? I don’t want to, but I’ll drop kick you in your ghost throat if you get handsy with me.”

“Bro, I would never try to eat you,” he said earnestly. “You’re my best friend, plus you also smell like a literal asshole. I can taste the stench wafting off you, and trust me, nothing about that is remotely appetizing. I’d rather eat a Veggie MRE.”

I snorted and flicked him the scale.

He snagged it from the air and popped it into his mouth. A flash of crimson light washed through his hazy body. This time he didn’t even stumble from the influx of Essence. I stole a sidelong glance at him. He already looked more substantial than he had a moment before. The remaining scars and burns that covered his face and hands had further receded and were now just faint pink memories tattooed against his skin.

“That’s good stuff,” he said, thumping a fist against his chest. “I’ll take a hit of that over a cup of joe any day of the week. How’d things go with the priest?” Cal asked as I navigated through the darkened cityscape with uncanny ease thanks to my new built-in Vigil NVGs. “Did you whoop his ass for bug zapping me?”

“Naw,” I replied, “just a genuine misunderstanding. He seems like an okay guy. A little weird—definitely a true believer type. His brain almost exploded when he realized he’d nuked the spirit guide of a Vigil Bound. Once we got that cleared up, it was smooth sailing.” I filled Cal in on everything else Arturo had shared with me, then told him about my experience inside the Soul Vault and my new deal with Renholm. By the time I was done, we’d made it to the church.

“Think I’m just gonna hang back here,” Cal said, giving the chapel a wide berth. “I don’t need to be deep-fried twice in one day.”

Hard to blame the guy.

I pounded on the chapel door half an hour before sunup.

I’d fully expected my new buddy Arturo to already be up and about, but nothing could’ve been further from the truth. After another round of thumping, the door finally squeaked open, revealing a blurry-eyed padre, his black hair sticking up at odd angles. The buttons on his cassock were wildly askew as though he’d gotten dressed in the dark while half drunk. Taking a good long look at him, I seriously suspected he had gotten dressed in the dark while half drunk.  

“Has there been another attack, Vigil?” he asked. “Another death?”

“Naw, nothing like that, padre,” I replied. “You said we would start training tomorrow. It’s tomorrow, and I wanted to get a jump on it.”

“Right. So just to be clear,” he said, sounding extremely disgruntled, “there’s been no attack, and no new murders? You’re just here for training?”

“Yep.”

He tried to shut the door on me, but I quickly wedged my foot in the door before he could close it all the way.

“What are you doing?” I asked.

“Going back to bed. Look at the sky, man. It’s still dark.” He reached up and rubbed his palms into his eye sockets, massaging away the sleep. “And I was being dramatic,” he said after a beat, dropping his hands. “I meant tomorrow as in tomorrow after a leisurely breakfast. Something a bit more reasonable. Not the crack of dawn. I’m a priest, not a solider. Not anymore, anyway. The spirit is willing, but the flesh is weak. I don’t operate on less than eight hours. Plus, I’m still recovering from communing with the spirits.”

“The only spirits you were communing with,” I said, “were Jim, Jack, and Captain Morgan.”

“I’m not familiar with any of these men,” he said, shaking his head. “Were they great warriors from your world?”

“Nope. They’re the names of alcohol. What I’m getting at is that you’re still drunk as a sailor on shore leave.”

H grimaced and dropped his gaze. “Forgiveness, Vigil. It’s one of my many failings. I have trouble sleeping otherwise.”

“You don’t need to explain anything to me,” I said, thinking back to the wall of weapons in his room. Yep, Arturo had definitely seen some shit. I knew the signs of PTSD, and this guy had it in spades. “But your drinking problem can’t interfere with my job. I’ve got monsters to kill and you’re the one who’s supposed to teach me how to do that. Which means I have zero shits to give about how you’re feeling right now. I can’t tell you how many times I ran PT blackout drunk. You might throw up a little, but you won’t die. Now let’s get moving.”  

He grunted and nodded. “You’re right, of course, honorable Vigil. I shouldn’t let my own personal failings impact your holy work. Please, come in.” He jerked his head toward the sanctuary. “Let me get proper and then we’ll see to your training.”

“Any chance you can lower the spells around the church so my spirit guide can come in too?”

“Glad to hear he’s back, and yes. I haven’t had a chance to reset the ward, so your guide may accompany you without fear. Please, both of you, be welcome in this place.”

* * *

Cal and I milled around the chapel hall, waiting for Arturo to get ready.

I stared at the stained-glass windows, which depicted various scenes of battles—sharp-fanged monsters dying here, weapon-wielding men dying there. Beautifully crafted, but not exactly settling artwork.

“I can’t believe you’re really a reincarnated monster hunter,” Cal said, studying the stained glass beside me. “That’s so badass. Hurling fireballs around and blowing shit up with your mind. Although being a spirit guide is pretty great, too. Different for sure, but it’s got its perks. Apparently, as you get more powerful, so will I. I was talking with this crusty old spirit named Elin the Blind—guy’s like a thousand years old—and he told me our fates are tethered by some higher power. Eventually, I might even be able to physically manifest for short bursts of time.”

“I think the Affinity Scales are helping with that,” I said. “You already look ten times better than you did back in the cave. Your scars are almost completely gone and you look… I don’t know, less ghostly I guess. More real.”

“Maybe we could speed things along?” he suggested, absently rubbing at one arm. “You have a ton of those Affinity Scales, right? Just hook me up with a few more and I bet I’ll be practically good as new in no time flat.”

I stared at him for a moment. The way he was standing, rubbing at his arms. Honestly, he looked like an addict jonesing for his next hit. I’d experienced the high from consuming a scale, and I had to imagine it was even more potent on a creature that lived entirely off of Affinity.

“Let’s take it slow,” I said after a moment. “We don’t know when we’re gonna get more, and we’re still not sure what they’ll do to you in the long run. Slow is smooth—”

“Smooth is fast,” he finished. “Fine. I’ll wait, but I don’t like it.”

Eventually, Arturo shambled out of the back and this time he came bearing gifts—a pile of gear cradled against his belly. He spotted Cal and dropped the equipment onto the floor, falling over himself in a rush to apologize. According to Renholm, normal humans couldn’t see things that hailed from the Etheric Realm, which meant that the padre was definitely more than he seemed. He wasn’t a Vigil, that much was clear, but he had some sort of power set of his own, and I needed to find out what his abilities included.

“Honored Specter,” the priest said, bending almost double, “I apologize for lashing out at you last night. You and the Vigil came upon me unexpectedly—”

“That’s what she said,” Cal interrupted with a snort.

“I’m not sure I understand,” Arturo replied, faltering. “Who is this she you speak of? Is this some sort of wisdom from the higher gods?”

“Ignore him,” I replied. “My friend was just telling a shitty joke.”

“It wasn’t a shitty joke, it was a hilarious joke, but I can see how it might not translate well. Cultural differences and all. Anyway, don’t sweat the attempted murder thing,” Cal said. “Boyd already filled me in on what happened. Everyone’s entitled to make an honest mistake. I’m not dead, so no harm no foul.” He frowned. “Well, I mean, I am dead, but not like dead dead.”

“Most gracious of you,” Arturo said. “I’ll make sure it won’t happen again.”

“Cool, we can let our bygones be bygones,” I said. “Now what’s all this?” I gestured toward the pile of stuff splayed out on the floor.

“Right. The gear.” Arturo squatted down and spread out the items. Leather bracers and greaves, a thin arming doublet, and black brigandine armor—the interior covered in brass rivets, the exterior lined with oblong metal plates.

“It’s not much,” he said, standing. “Had it left over from a funeral a year back or so. A messy bit of a business with an amateur Mortka hunter who fancied playing Vigil against a Baneclaw. The armor didn’t save him, but hopefully it will serve you better. And, if I’m being honest, you’ll need at least a little protection for what I have in store for us today.” A dangerous, conniving light glinted in his eyes.

I didn’t like the mischievousness in his voice, but I was pumped to get moving, so I thanked him for the offering. There were holes in the doublet, presumably where the Baneclaw—whatever that was—had bitten or slashed at the moron who’d tried to kill it, but even with the damage it still added a nice extra layer of padding. The bracers and greaves weren’t anything fancy, but they were serviceable. The brigandine armor was in surprisingly good shape and was much better quality than the leather armor I’d taken off the Crave Ghouls.

<<<>>>

Basic Brigandine Armor

Type: Medium, Scaled Mail

Class: Disciple

This basic coat of plates is constructed of heavy canvas and leather, then layered with external metal disks, offering superior protection against slicing and piercing weapons such as swords or claws. Heavier than simple leather armor, but lighter than full plate mail, brigandine armor offers good movement with decent protection. It is often favored by archers or lower-class men-at-arms since it is cheap and easy to fix on the road without the aid of an armorer or blacksmith.

<<<>>>

“Before we go, perhaps take a quick trip to the Soul Vault?” Arturo said as I finished slipping the armor on.

“For?” I asked, hands fumbling with the straps and buckles. I had everything I needed, and now it was time to get our asses in gear. I had years of training to catch up on.

He plucked an odd silver coin about the size of a button from his cassock pocket. “Unless I was seriously duped, this is an Arcanum Token. They come in all kinds of shapes and sizes. Could be anything, really. Scissors. A bolt of cloth. A dagger. The vessel isn’t so important, but the power they contain is.” He flipped it to me, and I snagged it from the air. I instantly felt the slight buzz of power radiating out from the coin like a nine-volt pressed against my tongue.

“Those little trinkets are items of faith,” he continued, “invested with a small glimmer of the gods above or the devils below. Some are holy, others infernal, one and all contain the essence of something beyond this world. Some people keep them for good luck or divine fortune, but only warlocks, sorcerers, monsters, and Vigils have any real purpose for them. Legend says they can be used to enhance weapons or armor.”

I turned the coin over in my hand. There was a phoenix surrounded by flames on the back.

Arturo dipped his hand into the holy water in the font and used it to smooth his hair down. “Well, what are you waiting for? Go on then, give it a try.”  

I grunted, touched the altar, and returned to the Soul Vault in a blink. It was just as cool as the first time I’d popped in. To think that all this belonged to me. It was more than a little surreal, and there was so much for me to explore and discover yet.

Ratty old gear in hand, I head over to the mannequin room. The central statue was wearing the items Arturo had just given me, but this new version lacked all the dings and holes and tears. I held my hand up and searched for any story the new armor might have stitched into its seams, but instead of pulling up an item description box, I inadvertently activated a notice about the mannequins themselves.

<<<>>>

Armor Display Statuary

The monsters and horrors a Vigil must confront through the course of their duties varies wildly, and often the difference between victory and a painful death is the armor they wear. Some creatures hit hard—requiring the protection of heavy plate—while others are fast and nimble, requiring lighter gear to keep up. Custom Armor Sets can also be enchanted by applying Arcanum Tokens, which offer a legion of useful effects, ranging from powerful magical resistances to potent ability buffs. By unlocking the Armor Evocation Skill from the Justice Ward, a Vigil can instantly swap between up to four designated Armor Sets at will, even when away from the Soul Vault. This gives them unmatched versatility when in the field.

<<<>>>

Now that was a skill I wanted to have tucked away in my back pocket. Armor Evocation only cost five Ward Points, and with it I’d be able to build out some epic armor kits for just about any circumstance I might run up against. Need to be sneaky and light on your feet? Boom, dark leather armor that wouldn’t clank and clatter with every step I took. Squaring off against an overgrown ogre? Check. Wicked plate mail that could absorb a ton of punishment. Being able to enchant and customize my gear was also a potential game changer.

The coin Arturo had given me burned in my palm, willing me to spend it.

I glanced back at the mannequin wearing my new gear and noticed for the first time that a series of slots hovered over the figurine like ghostly circles. Five of them per mannequin. I eyeballed the coin then shrugged and jammed it into one of the free spaces. Immediately another new pop-up appeared.

<<<>>>

Illiud’s Faith

Token Type: Armor Inset, Blessed 

Rarity: Adept

Blessed Faith Token of Illiud the Framer. Carried with the old man for years, his faith in the gods has rubbed off on this small trinket. Because of his piousness in life, Rethar, Lesser Goddess of the Fields, blessed this item with resistance against disease and famine. Perfect for helping to ensure a good crop yield—or a valuable aid in a fight against those unholy creatures who wield disease as a weapon.  

Effect 1: Gain 6% additional resistance against disease and famine!

<<<>>> 

Would you like to add the Arcanum Token, Illiud’s Faith, to your current gear set? Arcanum Tokens can be swapped out at any time within the Soul Vault, but only five armor Tokens may be in effect at a given time. Note: An additional two Tokens can be used in conjunction with Soul Bound Weapons. 

<<<>>> 

Since there didn’t seem to be any downside, I accepted. A shiver of power raced along my spine as the Arcanum Token bonded with my gear. And, just like that, my new armor was now infused with Illiud’s Faith and I had six percent resistance against disease and famine.

Every time I came into this place, there was something new and awesome to discover. But as much as I wanted to cool my heels all day exploring the nooks, crannies, and features the Soul Vault had to offer, I had places to be and things to do. Mission first. Always. I added my old leather armor to one of the unused mannequins in the back row, then withdrew my mind from the Vault and found myself back in the church, wobbling on uncertain feet.

“I don’t think I’ll ever get used to you just vanishing like that,” Arturo said, shaking his head.

“You or me either,” I replied. “Now let’s do the damned thing.”

Arturo trotted to his chamber, retrieved provisions wrapped in a cloth and his club-headed staff, then headed for the door. “Rations,” he said, patting the bundle. “Food and clean water.”

Laced up and ready to rock and roll, we saw ourselves out of the chapel and left town through the main gate, nodding goodbye to the guards on the way out.

15

Arcane History

We wound our way down the main road for about twenty minutes before veering onto a thin game trail that snaked through some thick underbrush and into an old-growth forest that climbed up the side of rock-strewn foothills. While we hiked—Arturo at a leisurely pace including lots of breaks—we talked.

“Tell me about monsters,” I said while scanning the landscape for blinds, potential cover, and choke points that might make excellent ambush locations. It was force of habit and my mind did it without me even really thinking about it.

“What’s there to tell?” he asked, cocking an eyebrow and giving me a curious sidelong glance. “The Mortka roam the wild places, making lairs for themselves and killing to survive. Some are evil, others are more benign in nature, but they’re all dangerous. Even the most benevolent of the Fae has access to deadly magics.” He shrugged. “That is the nature of the world itself.”

“Not the world we come from,” Cal said.

“Surely you jest,” Arturo replied.

“Nope.” Cal shook his head. “I never joke. Ever. Under any circumstances.”

“He’s kidding,” I said, offering Cal a dirty look, “but not about the no monsters thing. We have myths and legends, but none of them are real.”

“Bigfoot is real,” Cal insisted. “You know I saw one back behind Wagner farm. It was right there. Like two hundred feet away in the tree line.”

“I was there too and that was a dog. I’ve said that a thousand times. The guy had a bunch of mastiffs on the property.”

“Okay,” Cal muttered. “Sure. A dog. Who walks upright. But I’m the crazy one.”

“Fine, maybe it was a bear, but it doesn’t matter. The point is”—I glowered at Cal—“monsters aren’t real.”

“Except Bigfoot,” Cal said. “And probably aliens. But let’s not go down that rabbit hole. We do have a bunch of other dangerous animals, like wolves and lions and gator crocs, but nothing even remotely like those Crave Ghouls we fought.”

“That I fought,” I corrected. “You stood there and watched.”

“Hey, I offered moral support,” Cal shot back. “Besides, we’re a team, your victories are mine. Let’s not just throw esprit de corps out the window here, Boyd.”

Arturo ran a hand through his lank, greasy hair. “Gods above. A world devoid of Mortka.” He blew out his cheeks. “I can hardly even imagine such a place. It must be a paradise. A utopia.”

I thought back to the abandoned rag doll lying in a dusty alley in Fallujah. Thought of McInnes with half his face blown off and Cal’s charbroiled body.

“Yeah. Paradise isn’t the word I’d use,” I said. “Turns out, humans make plenty good monsters when they set their minds to it.”

“I have no doubt about that,” the padre replied. “I have seen the wickedness that man can offer, but it is nothing compared to the ravages of monsters. I’ve witnessed firsthand the devastation left behind by the Empty Faced. Whole towns murdered overnight, the corpses piled in heaps, heads torn from their bodies, their faces gone—stolen by powerful magics. I’ve seen the ruins of Oblivion Lichs who eat the souls of children to fuel their never-ending lives of damnation. Humans, even at their worst, aren’t capable of such things.”

“That’s because you’ve never seen a chemical weapon,” Cal said, “or a nuke.”

“A nuke?” the priest asked, sounding curious.

“It’s a type of weapon,” I replied, waving a hand through the air. “A big-ass bomb capable of wiping out entire cities and turning anyone unlucky enough to be in the blast radius into ash. One nuke can kill tens of thousands or even hundreds of thousands in a matter of seconds.”

Arturo’s face paled as I spoke. “The magics of your people must be immense to both banish the Mortka and create such devastating weapons of war.” He shook his head, sadness in his eyes. “I am curious, though,” he said after a moment, “how did your magicians manage to rid the world of monsters without also ridding the world of magic?”

“What do you mean?” I asked.

“Well, the Mortka are the natural result of Essence leaking into the Material Realm from the Etheric Realm,” he said matter-of-factly, as though this were something even small children knew intuitively. “Essence fuels all life and all magic. Essence is life in many crucial ways. Raw Essence is wildly unstable on its own. It needs to be used. To be formed and channeled and shaped into something else. As it bleeds through the barrier between realms, it pools in Essence dense areas, and those areas eventually spawn Mortka.”

“What determines what kind of Mortka gets made?” I asked. “Why does some Essence form into pixies while other Essence forms into Crave Ghouls?”

“That’s a bad example,” Arturo replied. “The Fae Folk aren’t true Mortka. They often get lumped in with others, but they are actually creatures of Ether, like your friend there.” He nodded toward Cal. “The Fae inhabit the Wylds, which are nestled inside the Etheric Realm. They are born just as we are and can move between the realms at will. True Mortka, such as the Crave Ghouls you battled, are manifestations of wild Essence here in the Material Realm. As to what type of Mortka forms, that depends entirely on where the energy leaks through.

“The Material Realm also has energy Affinities—hundreds if not thousands of them—earth, wind, air, fire, steel, ground, wood, glass.” He paused and looked at me. “Even alcohol. Or more intangible things. Grief, in a graveyard. Hope around powerful sites of faith. When raw Essence bleeds through in a specific spot, it mixes with whatever combination of energy Affinities are present in an area and eventually that mixture has enough sheer strength to manifest physically in our world. Crave Ghouls are creatures of hunger. They are quite common, and their lairs often form in the dens of wild but natural predatory beasts. Places where death and hunger hang thick in the air.”

Arturo stopped by a birch, panting while he leaned against his staff. He might have prepared his mind for the appearance of the Vigil, but he hadn’t taken care of his body.

“You didn’t answer my question, though,” he said. “How did your magicians manage to rid the world of Mortka without ridding the world of magic?”

“Simple. We don’t have magic either,” I replied. “Who knows, maybe we did once. We have legends of wizards and witches that could cast spells, but those stories are all myth and legends just like the tales of monsters.”

I took the provisions bundle from him and undid the careful knots that held the square of fabric snug around our food. It meant we had a built-in picnic blanket. Arturo had packed some cured meat, olives, and hardtack. I’d had my share of molar breakers over the years, but none served with quite this much style. I was happy to see that he hadn’t packed any liquor. That was a good sign. I mean, I was all for having a good time when the occasion called for it, but the mission was the mission. When you were on, you needed to be on. Period.

Arturo sank to the foot of the tree, grateful for the break in our not-at-all-taxing hike. He popped an olive into his mouth, retrieved his buck knife, and sliced the meat into small rounds. “Your world sounds so vastly different from this one,” he said thoughtfully. “And what of the gods? Are they but a thing of myth and legend as well?”

“Some people think so,” I said. “But not me. I grew up Southern Baptist, went to church every Sunday, and I’d count myself as a believer. My momma would whoop my ass even from across the galaxy if she heard me saying otherwise.”

“Dude, you might be a believer,” Cal said, “but you’re a terrible one. You drink. You smoke. You’ve got a body count higher than Manson—and I’m not talking about actual KIAs—and your momma would also scrub your mouth out with soap if she ever heard the way you talk.”

I rolled my eyes. “I follow the important rules. Do unto others as you would have them do unto you. Love God, love people. Kick the holy living shit out of evil. Don’t be a colossal dick to your fellow man, basically. You know, the big ones. But let’s not get bogged down in religion. I want to get back to this monster stuff. Like where exactly do Vigils fit into the picture? We can absorb Essence…” I dropped my voice. “Does that make us some kind of Mortka? Or does everyone absorb Essence when they off some monster roaming the countryside?”

Arturo chuckled and shook his head.

“You’re no monster, but absorbing Essence is certainly not normal. When a Mortka is slain, its Essence is freed from its manifested corporeal form. Its body. The Pure Essence returns to the Etheric plane from whence it came while the various Affinities that shaped the Essence remain behind in the form of Affinity Scales.”

Huh. So that was where Affinity Scales came from.

“There are those, however, who can absorb such Essence as it leaves the body, harnessing it to strengthen their spirit—allowing them to ascend to ever-greater heights of power. Such are those with the True Gift. But not all with the Gift are created equal. There are rankings among those born and schooled in magic.” Arturo raised his hand over his head to demonstrate the ranks. “Vigils and Warlocks are at the top of the heap. Your kind derive your power not from the natural, but from the supernatural—granted the True Gift by the gods themselves. All Vigils serve at the behest of Raguel, Five-Faced God of Justice.

“Warlocks also draw their abilities from a deity. But most often they are dark, old gods. Gods of blood and pain and chaos. Warlocks sell themselves to these inhuman beings, forming compacts to serve in order for power. And, trust me, they are powerful, with untold magics. There are those who say Warlocks have a greater potential for magic than Vigils, because they are not constrained by the laws of morality or even the will of the gods. Budding Warlocks are vigorously hunted down by the Vigils before they can amass true power, because once they do, they are often unstoppable.”

“Man,” Cal said, “DnD got it right. Warlocks with Dark Patrons? Spot on. I wonder if Gary Gygax was tapped into all of this somehow.”

“What’s below Vigils and Warlocks?” I asked, ignoring Cal.

“Yes. Right. Well below them are those possessed of natural magics. Born with the True Gift in some iteration. Sorcerers and Steelborn come next. Magic tends to run in generational lines, so oftentimes these are the Scions of Vigils and Warlocks, though not always. Sorcerers are humans born with the ability to harness or shape Essence externally, casting powerful spells and cantrips. The Arcane is a part of them, in their blood. They can let it grow or wither on the branch, but it is always there. A Sorcerer can never not be a Sorcerer. Like you, their power grows as they defeat Mortka, but it grows unpredictably—which powers they will unlock as they advance, no one can say.

“Steelborn are of the same vein, in many ways, but their power is expressed internally instead of externally. They cannot cast visible spells—cannot hurl fireballs or call down lightning. Instead, their gift reinforces the body. They are stronger, faster, often immune to sickness and disease. Some are capable of mastering weapons forms in a month that might take a normal man a lifetime to learn. They need less sleep, are numb to pain, and often have an uncanny awareness in battle. Like Sorcerers, these inherent gifts are a part of their nature and can grow more potent as they use them.”

What he was describing sounded an awful lot like the various Wards that I had access to inside my Soul Vault. Stronger, faster, more physically resilient? Diamond Body, Matchless Endurance, Purity of Form. Uncanny awareness in battle—that had to be Combat Sense. Unconsciously unlocking some form of the Weapons Mastery ability might also explain how and why they learned combat skills so efficiently.

“Then there are the lowliest of the True Gift users,” Arturo continued. “The Magi. These are not born with the True Gift. The Arcane doesn’t flow through their veins, yet they have the capacity to learn. Generally speaking, their powers are significantly weaker than either Sorcerers or Steelborn, but in one way they have an advantage. Through study and great discipline, they can learn. Every spell or ability is a choice. In that, they are masters of their own destiny, not beholden to fate or genetics.”

“Following so far,” I said. “But that makes me wonder about you, padre.” I glanced at the scars covering his hands and those carved into the leathery panels of his face. “You can see Cal, which means you have access to the True Gift, and I saw you cast a pretty fancy banishment ritual. So what exactly are you?”

“I…” He faltered, a war of emotions playing out across his face. “I am ready to move on,” he finished, as though he hadn’t heard me. “We are losing daylight and there is still much road left to travel today. Come, let us continue our trek.”

I let the question go as we packed up our limited supplies, but that didn’t mean I would forget about it. Arturo was more than he seemed. He had secrets. He seemed like a good enough man—earnest, straightforward, driven—but I still didn’t trust him. Not completely. A dark thought lurked on the edge of my awareness.

“Circling back around to the Mortka,” I said as we hiked, “you told me last night that people are whispering that the thing haunting Ironmoor might be an Elder Changeling. What can you tell me about them?”

He shrugged. “I’ve never seen one myself, but I’ve heard stories. They are half-fae—beasts born from the unnatural union between humanity and the fair folk. Adolescent Changelings have a quicksilver nature and can evolve into any number of different creatures, depending on what type of Essence they feed off of during their early development. Elder Changelings, though, are fixed form—powerful, humanoid shapeshifters that intermingle and hunt among the cities of men, blending in by stealing the identity of their victims.”

“So, what you’re saying is this shapeshifter could look like anyone?”

He nodded.

“Even you?” I asked, eyes narrowing in suspicion. It seemed like a stretch that the drunk priest would be the killer I was after, but he was hiding things from me, and honestly what better way to throw suspicion off yourself than to pretend to be the man responsible for finding the monster in the first place? “Could he look like you if he wanted to?”

The priest laughed, though there was something uneasy to it. Fear maybe?

“That would be ironic, would it not?” he said, more statement than question. “If I said I was the Arbitrator but in fact was the monster itself?”

“Yeah, super funny,” I replied. “But just humor me. In theory this thing could look like you if it wanted to?”

“Aye, I suppose it could.” This time he spoke more seriously. “In theory it could temporarily borrow the face of anyone. The mayor. Maggie the innkeeper. An unassuming beggar sitting on the side of the road.”

“So, who do we trust?”

Arturo nodded slowly. “That is the best question you’ve asked so far and one you should constantly be asking yourself from this point forward. You must trust no one. Not until you are sure of both their intentions and their identity. Your Arcane Insight skill should offer some aid, though, in my admittedly limited experience, the clues that Raguel doles out and the wisdom of the spirit guides”—he glanced at Cal—“can be woefully general and frustratingly unspecific. Or sometimes too specific.”

I grunted. He wasn’t wrong about that. The Bounty prompts I’d received so far were helpful, but in the case of the shapeshifter, it told me a whole lot of nothing. I was on the lookout for a monster that was hunting the people of Ironwood, but there wasn’t anything useful past that. Hell, it didn’t even tell me outright that the creature I was looking for was an Elder Changeling. I could be looking in the wrong direction entirely. And Cal also wasn’t much use either, not yet anyway.

“Finding the creature isn’t important right now,” the padre said. “Even if it were to jump out at you from behind that bush up there”—he gestured toward a clump of greenery by the side of the road—“there is naught you could do about it. You may be a Vigil, but you have no idea how to access or utilize your abilities. An Elder Changeling would eat you for lunch and never even bat an eye. Before we start rooting around in town and calling attention to ourselves, it’s best that you are ready to handle the beast when it inevitably appears.”

“And you’re going to teach me to do that?”

“More or less,” he replied with a dubious smile.

“More or less?”

“In my experience, practice is the best medicine for these sorts of things. Nothing like a baptism by fire to sort you out and get those arcane juices flowing.”

We crested a hill, which overlooked a peaceful valley with a grassy clearing at the bottom, ringed in by looming oaks. Arturo sauntered over and took up a post on a jutting boulder, far away from the inner clearing.

“Alright, in you go, honorable Vigil.” He shooed me toward the clearing with one hand.

“What’s in there?” I asked, eyeing the circle, which was sending up as many red flags as my last three girlfriends combined.

“Practice,” the padre replied, before pulling out a small flask from his cassock. “Bottoms up and try not to die.”

16

Practice Makes Perfect

The sun beat down on my face as I stepped into the clearing. It felt invigorating after the cool shade of the trees. Still, I was on guard. The hairs along the back of my neck stood at attention as the feeling of being watched overtook me. It didn’t help that I received a bounty notice a heartbeat later.

<<<>>>

Bounty

Fairy Ring: You have uncovered a Fairy Ring—a thin point between the Material Realm and the Faewylds. Such places are fiercely protected and kept open by Fae magics. Eliminate the creatures that call the ring home and close the portal in so doing.

Reward: +250 Essence

<<<>>>

I closed the prompt and licked my lips, muscles tensing in anticipation as I surveyed the grassy clearing, searching for any sign of threat. I didn’t need the bounty notice to tell me there was something here.

I could feel it in my gut, and I’d come to trust that instinct thanks to my time in the Sandbox. There was a heaviness that often lingered in the air, as though the other shoe was about to drop at any second. I’d felt this same way right before I saw my first insurgent IED rip an Explosives Ordnance tech to pieces in a flash of light and fury and sound. I’d felt it again before an ambush just east of Ramadi that had cost us a fresh-faced lance corporal who’d been in-country all of three days. It was a primal instinct, tied to survival, and it had saved my ass more times than I could count on two hands.

“I don’t like this,” Cal said from beside me, turning in a slow circle as he scanned the area. “I can see shapes moving in the grass. Super faint, though. Almost like ghosts. Or shadows. Could be, they’re on the other side of the Etheric Divide.”

With rock-steady nerves, I pulled the Colt from my waistband and slipped the K-Bar into my off hand, reversing the grip so the blade ran down the outside of my forearm.

“Thanks for the heads-up. Keep your head on a swivel,” I said. “Watch my six.”

“Always,” he said.

The grass was high, up past my knees, and bursting with patches of vibrant wildflowers—a riot of blues and yellows and pinks and purples. Another brisk wind swept in from the east, sighing through the oak leaves, ruffling the grass, and bearing the sound of a faint giggle. Assuming giggles could be described as the malicious tinkle of bells. Or breaking glass. The noise set my teeth on edge and my paranoia ramped up from a ten to a twelve. I crouched, letting my eyes go slightly out of focus. A counterintuitive move, but by not focusing on anything in particular, it allowed me to be more aware of the movement all around me.

The grass was swaying more now, as though some unseen thing was moving through the knee-high blades of green. Arturo had said that as a Vigil I had access to more than the five senses I was accustomed to. That there was something more. Just as I’d let my eyes go slightly out of focus, I let my mind relax, my thoughts becoming hazy as I opened my senses further, pushing my awareness out and away from my body.

Seconds later, the flowers clamored and clanged like a thousand church bells from a thousand steeples, all of them pressing in on me at the same time. The daffodils rang out first, filling my mouth with copper and caramel and hope. Then came the bluebells, which tasted like pewter and lingonberries and faith. The cosmos, both pink and purple, danced in the wind and trilled in high voices, which were a mix of gold and trust and cotton candy. Beneath them all, the grasses struck chord after chord: danger, villainy, death. The sensations wove together into a tapestry of taste and sound and smell and meaning.

It made it hard to think, to see, to tell up from down and left from right.

Golden script, in the language of the divine, momentarily swam across my vision like a mirage.

[Cursed! You have been afflicted by the Glamor of the Grass. Potent magics work upon the mind, disorienting foes with sights, sounds, and scents not of this world. Suffer under the curse until the caster is slain or you leave the Area of Influence.]

The words barely registered, what with the barrage of sensory information relentlessly pummeling me like fists. I reeled under the onslaught, swaying drunkenly.

“What the hell have you gotten me into, asshole!” I yelled over one shoulder, hands tightening reflexively around my weapons.

Arturo took a swig from his flask. “If you took out a cave full of Crave Ghouls you should be fine. Probably.” He slipped a hand into his sleeve and pulled out a glossy apple. He took a huge bite as he reclined against a towering oak. “Grass Hounds aren’t much tougher than that lot—more plentiful, though. First time around, just try to survive. They’ll send a scout. To see if you’re edible. They like a tasty treat.”

He’d thrown so many names at me I had to race through my catalogue of new words to find the reference to Grass Hounds. I was a Vigil, aka superhero defender of the people type. He was an Arbitrator, which meant he was some kind of trainer priest, though he hadn’t done much actual training so far. I’d killed a bunch of Crave Ghouls in a cave, and there was an Elder Changeling on the loose, picking off the people of Ironmoor.

There had been no mention of Grass Hounds.

“And what exactly is a Grass Hound, huh? Seems like that might’ve been a good piece of info before you brought me in here to die. What should I be looking f—”

“On your right, Boyd,” Cal said, interrupting me.

The tinkling laughter came again, closer this time, like a hot breath brushing against my cheek. A trickle of energy rushed out of my chest and down my legs as my blue Arcana bar appeared in the corner of my eye. That energy spread into the ground and out in a ring with me at its center. In the blink of an eye, every one of my senses was immediately on high alert. Barely perceptible vibrations sprinted across the ground and back up into my body, carrying a whole slew of new information.

One enemy. Two o’clock position. Approximately eighty pounds and moving on all fours.

This had to be part of my newly unlocked Combat Sense Ability.

I wheeled around, Colt outstretched, searching the patch of grass. I knew there was something there, something waiting for me, but I couldn’t see a damned thing. Was it possible these Grass Hounds were invisible? I’d seen some weird shit since waking up in that Crave Ghoul Cave, so I couldn’t dismiss that as an option.

I paused, squinted.

Straight ahead was a patch of grass and flowers moving ever so subtly out of time with the rest of the swaying meadow. The grass parted a moment later, revealing a squat creature built like a bulldog straight from the pits of hell. Scaly green flesh ran over hulking muscles, and its ebony black talons were long enough to make me reconsider every life choice I’d ever made. Its face was squat and broad, like a toad, with beady black eyes and an impossibly wide mouth filled with rows and rows of jagged shark teeth. Jutting from its back was a veritable garden of grass and colorful flowers—the perfect camouflage for this terrain.

“Awwww, it’s kinda cute. It looks like a meth-head Bulbasaur,” Cal whispered, followed by a soft, “Gotta catch ’em all.”

“Not helping,” I growled.

The creature snarled and crouched, claws flexing, muscles bunching in preparation. It shot forward, but I was ready.

My newly activated Combat Sense alerted me the second it lurched forward, and I sidestepped just out of its path and raised the Colt, finger squeezing the trigger. Slow is smooth, smooth is fast, I repeated in my head. But the little horror show moved with uncanny speed and agility, bolting right, deftly avoiding my shots, which ploughed harmlessly into the ground, kicking up puffs of dirt.

“It was two feet away,” Cal said, throwing up his hands in exasperation. “How do you miss from two feet away? I thought you qualified as a pistol expert?”

“I did qualify as an expert,” I muttered, “but I’ve never seen a terrorist move like that.” I tried tracking the hell beast, but it was just so damned fast.

Four feet away, the creature stopped on a dime and abruptly leapt toward me, a ropy tongue exploding from its mouth and wrapping around my neck before I could dodge the lightning-fast attack. Its tongue was barbed and coated in something that burned to the touch. The Grass Hound also hit like a sack of bricks; I went down hard, the mutated Bulbasaur riding me to the ground like an NFL linebacker. My right hand slammed against a rock on impact, and my Colt slipped from my grasp, disappearing in the tall grasses around me.

Well crap.

Instantly, the skin along my throat broke out in hives, which blew up into blisters the size of marbles.

[Poisoned! You have been afflicted by Grass Hound Venom. Grass Hound Venom causes painful boils, slowly dealing health damage over time. With every boil that bursts, one additional round of Grass Hound Venom is applied to the victim. Duration, 1 hour or until healed of Affliction.]

One of the boils popped and the Grass Hound feasted on my pain as more blisters appeared along my tender flesh. I bucked my hips, trying to throw the creature off, but it was heavier than it looked and barely budged an inch. Black crept in on the edges of my vision as the tongue continued to constrict tighter and tighter, stealing the air from my lungs.

“Nope. I am not going to get eaten by a friggin’ Pokémon!” I grunted, red faced, fighting for consciousness.

With a roar, I twisted my body and brought my arm up, slashing through the tongue with the reverse edge of my K-Bar.

The steel was sharper than I remembered, severing the appendage with ease. The creature reared back, squealing like a piglet, spraying me with rancid blood that raised more welts when it touched bare skin. I focused my will, honing it to a razor’s edge, and drew from the Arcana Pool within me, shaping the energy into a lance of raw force. I slammed my palm against the creature’s momentarily exposed chest and unleashed a wave of power that exploded outward.

My Arcana bar appeared with a flash and drained just as fast, but I didn’t care.

The Kinetic Blast swatted away the Grass Hound like an annoying fly. It flipped through the air and landed in a heap five feet away, dazed but not dead. With a groan, I scrambled to my feet and dropped low as the creature flipped onto its belly and reoriented itself.

The little shithead was as tough as old boot leather.

It charged again, pouncing at the last moment, but my Combat Sense flared, alerting me before the Grass Hound sacked me for a second time. I pivoted, twisted, and slammed my elbow down onto its skull with a thunderous crunch, pile driving its gross, slimy ass into the ground, before shish-kabobbing it through the head with my K-Bar. It let out a final groaning croak then fell still, a golden mist wafting up, just like the Crave Ghouls from the cave.

[You have killed a Grass Hound! The world has been cleansed! You have been blessed with 63 Essence!]

I bent over and sucked in the mist, feeling the raw skin around my neck heal, knitting itself back together. I watched in mute fascination as new skin crawled across the blistered acid burns the Hound’s slime had driven into the back of my hands. In less time than it took me to wipe my blade in the tall grass, I was whole again.

Being a Vigil might not have been all fun and games, but it sure as hell had its perks.

“What the shit, douchebag?” I called over to Arturo. “That thing coulda killed me.”

He perked up and rolled his eyes. “Let me remind you, honored Vigil, that you were the one who was so excited to get training. Besides, you are a Vigil. If you died battling a mostly harmless Grass Hound, I’m doing you a mercy. The Elder Changeling will break you like a twig and savor every moment of it. Now, if I were in your boots, I’d focus less on the friendly Arbitrator who so helpfully brought you here and more on the other Grass Hounds that are no doubt inbound.” He cocked an eyebrow and shrugged. “Like I said, that was a scout and you just fought the first skirmish. You invaded their fairy ring”—he nodded to the circle of trees—“and they won’t be well pleased that you’re still here.”

“Don’t listen to him, Boyd,” Cal said. “You’re doing awesome. That Energy Blast thing? Badass squared. You got this, dude.” He gave me a thumbs-up like a doofus.

“Thanks for the encouraging words,” I said, turning slowly, “but what I really need is help. Don’t suppose you have any special skills you’ve been waiting to show off?”

“Sorry, broham. Still too weak to do anything really useful, other than offer moral support. Give me some more of those Hunger Scales, though, and it might be a different story.”

“Yeah, I don’t think now is the time or place for that,” I replied. “I already have enough monsters to deal with—I don’t want to risk feeding you a bunch of those things, only to have you try to eat me too. This is a baby steps sort of process, I’m thinking.”

“You asked,” Cal said. “Now get your head back in the game. We’ve got more targets incoming.”

I heard the tinkling laughter of breaking glass. Lots of it. I still had my knife in hand, and the burst of juice from the last kill had replenished my Arcana Pool, but at my current level Kinetic Blast was a one-shot ability and it didn’t pack enough punch to kill these things. What I needed was my pistol. Head shots. Lots of head shots.

Except my Colt was nowhere to be seen.

The second frog-faced monster launched itself at me out of nowhere.

I braced myself for impact. No way it was going to take me out at the knees like the last one had. The Grass Hound used its tongue like a kind of spring; it licked the ground in front of me then catapulted over my head.

It was trying to get behind me. Not gonna happen.

I raised my right hand and let loose with another Kinetic Blast, draining my Arcana Pool as the energy bitch-slapped the ever-living shit out of the monster. It yelped as it flipped and fell, slamming into the ground like a falling star. The hair on the back of my neck shot up, and I spun just in time to intercept a third Grass Hound. It charged from behind me, its spiked tongue wrapping around one of my legs, the poisoned barbs cutting through the fabric of my pants and applying a new instance of Grass Hound Venom.

I didn’t have a health bar to look at, but I could feel the toxin working through my veins, slowing down my reaction speeds and making me weak in the knees. The world swam in and out of focus and the taste of pewter assaulted me—another attack, this one meant to overwhelm my mind while the creature overwhelmed my body. Thankfully, all the Essence I’d siphoned off the first Grass Hound had given me the strength of an enraged drill instructor hopped up on Red Bull and a kilo of cocaine.

I gritted my teeth and drove my foot straight back in a brutal mule kick, bootheel catching the creature in its underbelly. It recoiled with a reptilian hiss, its flower petals shaking in agitation. While it was distracted, I slammed my K-bar into the tongue coiled around my waist, though I had to pull back before I shanked myself in the kidney by accident.

Thinking fast, I grabbed the first Grass Hound I’d killed and snapped off one of its spikes using my enhanced Brawn. It was shorter than my blade but no less sharp—a weapon of opportunity if I’d ever seen one. I hacked at the tongue around my waist until I’d sawn right through it, then, while the creature was still coughing and spluttering and choking on its own blood, I yanked it off me, hurled it to the ground, and beat it to a pulp with the spiked back of its dead comrade.

[You have killed a Grass Hound! The world has been cleansed! You have been blessed with 63 Essence!]

More golden mist filled my lungs with power and life, healing my wounds and restoring my Arcana, but the second Grass Hound was back on its clawed feet and Cal was waving his arms like an idiot—screaming at the top of his lungs about two more of the creatures entering the ring. If I was going to survive, I needed my Colt. Needed it more than I’d ever needed anything else in the world. Something wispy tugged at the back of my mind, driven by my bone-deep desire to survive. It felt like walking through a strand of spider silk—but this strand of spider silk led away from me.

Off to the right and into the grass.

I tugged at the strand like an intangible fishing line and an instant later the reliable 1911 appeared in my hand.

Interestingly, the action didn’t even cause my Arcana gauge to dip. Not so much as a hair. It seemed summoning my weapons was a free action—likely part of the boon granted to me by Raguel. The pistol grip felt reassuring in my palm. Not in the old way, which was some mix of familiarity and confidence, but more like I was utilizing a well-trained set of muscles. That Colt 1911 didn’t simply belong in my hand, it was part of my hand. I was the weapon. One with the mystic bullets waiting to be sent downrange.

Another attack came fast, but I was oil gliding over water. I leveled my Colt in a smooth motion as the grass parted and another one of the creatures hurled itself at me, shark teeth flashing. Time slowed minutely, giving me just enough time to breathe, to aim. I pulled the trigger and activated Maximum Penetration with an effort of will. A green gauge appeared in the corner of my eye this time. Power rolled out of me, not from the center of my chest where my Arcana Pool resided, but from every fiber in every muscle all at once.

My body constricted and the gun kicked in my hand, the recoil enough to knock me back a step. The green Stamina gauge dipped by a third as a trio of rounds tore into the lumpy shit’s face in quick succession. The creature’s head vanished, transformed by the passing rounds into a cloud of rancid mist. The Colt 1911 is a big ol’ handgun with some serious stopping power, but not that kind of stopping power. Maximum Penetration was my new best friend. Hell, who am I kidding? Maximum Penetration was always my best friend, though those words had never been quite so literal.

[You have killed a Grass Hound! The world has been cleansed! You have been blessed with 63 Essence!]

It wasn’t just the power of the kill filling me up, though; the Hunger Scales that powered my rounds also siphoned off a bit of life, funneling it through the Colt and into my hand, helping to heal my wounds. The raw edge of ravenous hunger invaded my stomach and the desire to kill intensified, though the impulse wasn’t as powerful as when I’d consumed the Affinity Scale directly. This was a pale shadow compared against the real thing, but it still felt mighty good.

“Alright,” I said, turning toward another patch of rustling grass. “I’ve got your number now. Let’s dance, you miserably, ugly sons of bitches…”

17

Guts and Glory

When I stepped out of that ring for the final time, I felt like I’d been beaten into the ground by a roving gang of baseball bat–wielding munchkins.

Which wasn’t far from the truth.

I’d tangled with six waves of Grass Hounds, each more vicious and numerous than the last. By the end, they’d come at me from all sides in a swarm of teeth and fangs and venom. Didn’t matter. I was Batman, the Terminator, and Iron Man all rolled into one. The deranged Pokémon rejects bounced off me like a bunch of malformed toddlers. Eventually, I was the only one left standing. Inside, outside, all around the fairy ring, the bodies of the slain Grass Hounds dotted the landscape.

And, as they died, I’d sucked up their Essence like a vacuum, healing my wounds in the process, which made it possible for me to continue to fight. To kill. To win.

When the bounty noticed finally appeared again, alerting me that I’d cleared the fairy ring, my Grass Hound body count ended at a grand total of twenty-eight monsters. At 63 Essence a pop, plus the 250 Essence Reward from the Bounty, that netted me 2,014 Raw Essence—enough to earn a new level and bump me up to Novice, Gold Rank. Not half bad. I knew those level increases would come slower and slower the more I advanced; that was the way all RPGs worked, and my real-life experiences had mimicked that reality as well.

When I’d joined the Marine Corps, I’d been in good shape, but none of it was from training. As a kid, the only “training” I ever got was running from the cops who crashed the keggers my dumb hillbilly friends would throw a couple times a month. That or dodging the flip-flops my mama hurled at my head when the cops inevitably tracked me down after the keggers.

Before the Marine Corps, I was a wiry kid, just on the other side of scrawny. By the time I got out of boot camp, I hardly even looked like the same person. Drill Instructor Screw Y’all had ground my dick into the dirt, and I’d packed on muscle and endurance in record time as a result. But those were early gains. Quick and easy. Going from five pull-ups to twenty—the PFT max—had taken me three months and a little sweat equity. Going from twenty pulls-up to twenty-five had taken me two years of consistent training. This was no different.

For now, I didn’t give a shit. I was just loving life and enjoying the easy victories anywhere I could get ’em.

Speaking of easy gains, I’d also made out like a bandit when I’d raided the fallen bodies strewn out across the ground. According to Arturo, these things were beasts of the Faewylds, and like all of their kin, they were greedy little treasure bandits. Which squared with my limited interactions with Renholm. That was also part of the reason we’d come here. Vigils depended on high-quality equipment to keep them alive just as much as their abilities, and some shoddy armor pilfered off a dead adventurer wasn’t going to cut it. Especially not against something as nasty as an Elder Changeling.

Raiding a fairy ring was a surefire way to get gear or, barring that, the coin to buy some—assuming you survived the process.

For my trouble, I picked up a bagful of silver and gold doubloons, these marked with the portrait of a woman on one side and a double-headed dragon on the other. Different from the Rjuhella coin I’d taken off the Crave Ghoul corpses. When I asked Arturo about it, he launched into a lengthy and mind-numbingly dull explanation about ancient history, coinage, and minting practices. The coins that had come from the Grass Hounds were Kelkadian crowns, the gold standard—no pun intended—across much of the continent, and the woman plastered across the front was the High Queen Palander, Guardian of the Passes.

She governed all of Kelkadia, including Ironmoor, and was the most powerful member of the Holy Triad Alliance, composed of the Virtaruns to the west and the Ordu Dynasty to the north.

One silver Kelkadian crown would get me three hots and a cot for a day, while a golden crown would set me up for a month or buy me a decent breastplate. Two golden crowns would get me a horse complete with tack—saddle, stirrups, bridle, the whole nine yards. By contrast, it was twenty Rjuhella silver marks to one silver Kelkadian crown, which explained why Maggie had all but laughed in my face when I’d slapped down a couple of Rjuhella silvers and a handful of worn coppers. I’d probably looked like a moron, trying to pay for room and board with the equivalent of a pocketful of pennies and Monopoly money.

According to the padre, the Rjuhella were traveling people who’d been scattered to the winds in a great diaspora after the Hundred Years’ War to bring down something called the Sapphire City. Essentially, they were refugees, and from the way Arturo talked about them, it seemed like everyone and their brother hated them, which didn’t surprise me in the least. I’d seen firsthand how people treated displaced refugees, and it was almost always with suspicion and contempt—rarely with empathy. They were easy scapegoats for just about every societal woe around.

Human nature was more or less the same, no matter the world or universe it seemed.

But those weren’t my problems. I’d learned that during my time overseas. You couldn’t fix everything, and dicking around with local politics was an easy way to wind up dead. My problem was surviving the monster sniffing around Ironmoor, and for that I needed money. The haul I’d taken off the Grass Hounds would leave me sitting pretty for a few months. And with a payday like that, I was also starting to see why some wayward adventurer might try their hand at monster slaying, even if they weren’t really equipped for the job. Hunger, desperation, and money could make people do crazy things and take some even crazier risks.

The fat coin purse wasn’t the only win, either. I also scored fifteen Glamor Affinity Scales of various quality.

<<<>>>

Glamor Affinity Scale

Type: Refined Glamor Affinity

Class: Novice

Ability: Consume

Primary Effects:

When consumed directly, Refined Glamor Affinity minutely enhances the user’s Arcana Regeneration Rate, sharpens the user’s innate senses, and unlocks the ability Pierce Veil.

When activated, Pierce Veil allows the user to see through low-level fae glamors and illusionary conjurations and gives the user a 15% resistance against psionic and mental magics used against them.

Channel Refined Glamor Affinity into a metaphysical focal point, imbuing the item with unique benefits for a limited duration.

Note: The strength and duration of the effect is directly proportional to the quality of the Scale consumed.

<<<>>>

The majority of the Scales were Novice Class—the lowest quality possible—but I’d also lucked out and scored three Disciple Class Scales and one Adept Scale. I was sorely regretting the fact that I hadn’t harvested the stupid Grass Hounds sooner because the ability to resist their Glamor of the Grass curse would’ve saved me a lot of headaches. Even though all the monsters were dead, and the curse had lifted, I would swear up and down that I could still taste the bottoms of Arturo’s boots, which was absolutely disgusting.

Though, I supposed, it was equally possible that I was experiencing two days without toothpaste or mouthwash. I’d have to do a little poking around my Soul Vault to see if there wasn’t a solution to that particular problem. I could endure some serious bullshit, but life without toothpaste was asking a lot even for me.

I didn’t earn any new armor, but I did pick up some more quality fabrication ingredients—[1 x Raw Silver Ore, Fabrication Ingredient], [4 x Raw Iron Ore, Fabrication Ingredient], [2 x Mortka Horn (Disciple), Fabrication Ingredient], [3 x Reinforced Mortka Bone (Disciple), Fabrication Ingredient], [12 x Grass Hound Leather, Fabrication Ingredient]—and three Grass Hound Transformation Tokens. And, to top it off, I picked up a shiny new flanged mace that had some real skull-crushing potential.

<<<>>>

Sturdy Flanged Mace

Type: Steel, Blunt Weapon

Class: Disciple

This mace is finely crafted from a high-quality steel coated in silver, perfect for an infantry line officer or a noble of lesser station. Unlike the regular mace, the flanged mace has two rows of spiked protrusions, perfectly designed to penetrate even the thickest plate armor or—failing that—dent the armor inward, dealing devastating damage to the body beneath. Though slower and more cumbersome than a sword, the flanged mace is a deadly weapon against the right foe.

<<<>>>

Looting the bodies was the fun part, but of course, Arturo found a way to make even that miserable.

“Don’t forget to take the gallbladders,” the padre said.

He was hunched over one of the dead Grass Hounds, a single edged skinning knife in one hand. He’d stripped away his cassock to prevent getting blood and guts all over the garment. Beneath, he wore a set of dark linen pants and a loose sleeveless shirt that might have been white in a former life—now it was an assortment of frayed edges and yellow stains, some old some new. Without the cassock in place, I could see that Arturo was built like a brick shithouse. True, he had some fat riding along his gut, but the guy had a gorilla chest and bowling balls for shoulders. His skin was also covered with more faded white scars, some thin, others long and nasty.

You didn’t earn battle trophies like those flipping through library books—those were the wounds of a seasoned solider who’d survived some hard-fought battles. And based on a couple of those wounds, Arturo had only barely survived.

The priest reached into a split open chest cavity and hauled out a pile of purple and gray guts, flopping them down onto the grass. He rifled through them and pulled free a gray-green sack the size of a small potato.

“The hearts, kidneys, and lungs are all valuable, but the gallbladders are nearly worth their weight in gold—at least to the right buyer.”

“I think I’m gonna barf,” Cal said, peering over my shoulder, hands resting on his knees. “They smell so bad.”

He wasn’t wrong. I had a piece of cloth wrapped around my nose and mouth, but it did all of jack shit to keep the smell from invading my nostrils.

“How can you even tell?” I asked. “You’re a ghost. Can you actually smell things?”

“I might not be able to touch anything,” he said, “but that doesn’t mean the rest of my senses are broken. Though I’m starting to wish I couldn’t smell things—and it’s not just the bodies, buddy. You smell like the inside of my burnt asshole. No offense.”

“That is incredibly offensive,” I replied before plunging my K-Bar into an upturned belly, then slashing down with a hard tug. The blade carved effortlessly through the soft tissue, but I was wholly unprepared when a pocket of gas ruptured, splattering my chest and face with green goop that reeked like an open sewage line.

“You’ve got to watch out for that,” Arturo said, carving out a reddish ball of meat, which I’d come to recognize as a Grass Hound heart. “The longer the body sits, the more putrid gas builds up as the Essence composing its body tries to dissipate back into the Etheric Realm.” He pointed his knife at the body sprawled out in front of me. “That one was probably from an early wave. Baking in the sun for a few hours will do that. Best to harvest them early—or, if that simply isn’t possible, lean back a bit when you open them up.”

“Duly noted.” I reached up and swiped some of the rancid goop from my face. “Though maybe tell me again why we’re doing this? I feel like I already got all the good stuff from their Soul Vaults. This just seems…”

“Gross and undignified?” Cal offered.

“Yeah, that pretty much sums it up.”

“What? Do they not have hunting in your world either?” Art asked, frowning at me.

“Obviously we have hunting,” I said. I didn’t mention how few people actually hunted or that the vast majority of our meat came from slaughterhouses and processing plants—Arturo seemed like he was in a judgmental mood and I didn’t want him shitting all over the people of Earth. “Don’t get me wrong, I’ve killed and skinned more than my fair share of deer, but the offal”—I waved at the glistening innards—“is the stuff you dump on the forest floor for the coyotes to pick over. I’ve never dug through it like I was on a scavenger hunt.”

“Well, these are no regular beasts, are they?” the padre said. “Reinforced Mortka meat is one of the few ways that those without the True Gift can enjoy the benefits of Essence. It’s best cooked into stews since the taste can be gamey and off-putting if you’re not used to it, but the benefits are legion to those who consume it. As for the organs, they have a hundred different alchemic uses. They can be brewed and combined with a multitude of different ingredients and reagents to create potions, tinctures, and essential medications. The most common elixirs are used to break fevers or cure infections, but there are others that reinforce the body or the mind.

“Fangfever extract mixed with powdered cronite and distilled Grass Hound gallbladder creates an invisibility drought. Creeping Angelica, Rock Siren Feathers, and Slag Wolf Blood, dissolved in a strong solution of Aqua Fortis, produces an elixir capable of curing Petrification. With the right skills and ingredients, a competent alchemist can brew everything from temporary invulnerability to a good night’s rest.” He hefted another gallbladder, tossing it up then letting it flop in his palm. “Best of all, such potions can be created without magic and can be used by any. Which is why high-powered lords and ladies without the True Gift employ the most talented alchemists and pay hefty premiums for the rarer items such as these.”

“So what I’m hearing is that with enough money, anyone can make themselves into a Vigil?” I said.

“Eh, that’s a little drastic,” the padre replied, “but such potions can level the playing field, at least for a short while, and all through the power of science. But the important part is the money, and you are going to need more if you want to survive what’s to come. So, stop complaining and start carving. We still have ten more corpses to process…”

18

The Alchemist

The sun lingered above the edge of the horizon as Arturo, Cal, and I finally made our way back to Ironmoor. The Grass Hound gashes littering my body had all stitched themselves closed. The acid pitting on the back of my neck and hands had healed for the hundredth time that day, and my eyes had managed to cleanse themselves of all irritants. But all that insta-healing didn’t do anything to dampen the weariness and exhaustion working its way through me. I’d used a lot of Arcana and I was feeling the effects in full force. It was like someone had hollowed me out with a melon baller, leaving a barren cavern inside my chest.

I needed food, rest, and a chance to recharge my metaphorical batteries.

Still, I had to admit, Arturo’s training regimen—if you could call it that—had worked wonders. I felt noticeably stronger than I had that morning, my Kinetic Blast abilities were on lock, and now I could dismiss, summon, and reload my 1911 like a pro. I’d leveled up to Novice Gold, and I’d made out like a bandit. The Affinity Scales and coinage I’d earned were in a new leather pouch riding my hip, while the mace rode with a pile of meat and guts in the cloth sack Arturo had packed our provisions in.

It was late enough that we took the main road back to town instead of weaving through the forest as we had on the way out to the fairy ring. But even with the wider road and the lack of foliage snagging our trousers and tripping us up, it was still slow going. Arturo was not in good shape, and the day seemed to have taken even more of a toll on him than it had on me, even though he’d mostly lounged on a rock and nibbled on snacks.

The road was abandoned for the most part, although we did pass one living soul on the way back. He was headed in the opposite direction, shoulders slumped, back bent under the weight of a pack, a sword on one hip and a small hand pick on the other.

“Greetings, Arbitrator,” the man offered with a guilty flinch. He was up to something and we’d caught him in the act.

“Marcus.” The padre had a tone I hadn’t heard before. Strict. High-handed. Formal. Judge-y. “You’re not going where I think you’re going, are you?”

“No, sir. Not me. Wouldn’t even think about it.” He bowed his head and didn’t look back up. His hands were cross-hatched with gray lines and his nails were tattered and stained black.

“You know what they’ll do to you if they catch you, yes?”

Marcus nodded, eyes fixed firmly on our boots.

The padre waved him away with a reluctant sigh, and the man shuffled off as fast as he could manage.

“Who was that?” I hiked the pack higher onto my shoulder, readjusting the weight.

“No one important,” he replied, waving away the question. “Just a line picker by the name of Marcus Pekkala.” Arturo’s lips pursed into a thin line. “Poor bastard hopes no one will catch him. I can’t say as I blame him.”

“Line picker?”

Arturo nodded sagely. I’d only known him for twenty-four hours and I already wanted to strangle him. It wasn’t that he was a man of few words. He’d chewed my ear off the night before… when he was drinking. That was the key, I was starting to think. He needed liquor to loosen those lips, and unfortunately, he’d run out of booze hours ago. He was sober as a priest. But like a good, non-drunk priest.

“What’s a damned line picker?” I prodded again.

“There are mines hereabouts,” he said slowly. “Abandoned. Said to be cursed by a Rjuhella sorceress a number of years ago. But there’s still remnants of ore to be found if you’re willing to walk the line. Dangerous for a thousand reasons—not least of which is because there are monsters that call those mines home—but there is money in it if you’re lucky.”

“And if you’re unlucky?” The sun was dipping behind the trees now and we needed to pick up the pace.

He shrugged. “You wind up as dinner for a pack of Stone Spiders. That or you earn a noose to dangle from once word reaches Her Majesty’s Royal Tax Collectors. The Crown doesn’t look kindly on theft—unless they are the ones committing the crime.” He glanced at me, the look telling. “But I understand. Marcus has a family to feed. His son died, taken by the Elder Changeling. He still has a wife and five other children to consider, and the youngest is still attached to his mother’s breast. Let’s just say he can’t afford to get caught.”

* * *

We reached the town gates just as the outer torches were being lit to fend off the darkness settling over the land like a blanket. Any thoughts of returning to the Soul Vault were banished along with the sun. Honestly, I wanted to go tinker around with the forge and learn how to use my fancy new fabrication ingredients, but I needed rest more. And food. And to offload the reeking bag of meat and offal riding my back.

Arturo was twitchy, bug-eyed, and picking up the pace. I knew where he needed to be. Inside a bottle. The man had given me a whole day, which was probably more work than he’d done in a month. His hand shook minutely as he raised it in greeting to the guards manning the gates. The guy was a certified drunk and he was in a bad way. There was no judgement from me. Arturo hadn’t shared much about his past yet, but he was running from something nasty, or trying to drown the memory in alcohol. I didn’t want to hold him up any longer than necessary.

“Where do I sell these?” I hooked a thumb toward the harvested body parts.

“Guard Commander Arendu will take the meat. Sigge Wikstrum will take the heart, lungs, gallbladders…” He was clenching his fists so tight I was worried for his knuckles.

I knew who Arendu was, but Sigge Wikstrum was new to me.

“Sigge Wikstrum?” I asked, cocking an eyebrow.

Arturo sniffed and nodded. “Town alchemist. Condescending know-it-all who looks like the living embodiment of a grease stain. But he has the money to pay and his coin will spend as good as any other.”

“Thanks,” I said, patting him reassuringly on the shoulder. “You look like hell, Art. Why don’t you go and get yourself a plate of roast hog and a tankard of Maggie’s finest ale?” I fished out a silver coin and flicked it to him with a thumb. He snagged it from the air like a pro. “It’s on me.”

“Truly, Vigil?” I could sense the relief coming off him in waves. Not in some weird glamor-sensory-overload way, but in the ol’ fashioned, shoulder-slumping, big-sigh, eyes-relaxing-at-the-corners way. I knew how to read people, and he was doing nothing to blunt his tells.

“Yeah. Get outta here.” I waved him on. “You’ve done more than enough for me today. I’ll get all this stuff sold. Plus, I want to explore a little.” I didn’t. I was gross and grimy and hadn’t felt this tired since Fallujah, but he needed a bottle a helluva lot more than I needed him. “Same time tomorrow?”

“Of course, honored Vigil,” he said, lumbering away from me at breakneck speed. “Or maybe a little later?” he called over one shoulder.

I just grinned and shook my head as he disappeared down the street, a heat seeker headed straight for a bottle of firewater.

“He’s gonna kill himself, drinking like that,” Cal said, arms folded across his ghostly chest. “Reminds me of Dougie.”

“He does, doesn’t he?” I said, watching Arturo’s retreating back.

Dougie had been our platoon leader once upon a time. Good guy. Great big ol’ cornfed son of a bitch from Ohio who would give you the shirt off his back if you needed it. Dougie could hike for miles and miles with a .50 cal slung over one shoulder and never even need to take a breather. The guy also hit like a sledgehammer and drank like a horse. He’d been part of the initial push into Iraq, back in ’03, and had lost most of his squad after a roadside bomb placed on a bridge dropped an armored seven-ton troop carrier into a river.

He’d been on the turret above the cab, which was the only reason he walked away. Every other person in the truck drowned, trapped by squishing mud, rushing waters, and the heavy armor meant to protect those within. You didn’t walk away from something like that without survivor’s guilt. Dougie had compensated by drinking himself into liver failure most nights.

“I hope he’s okay, wherever he is,” I said.

“Yeah, me too,” Cal replied.

The guards at the gate eyed me the way they had on that first day. Warily. But instead of appearing among them as a crazed hobo-killer, I was now a victorious, gore-spattered Grass Hound slayer who was talking to himself. I was actually talking to Cal, but of course they wouldn’t know that, so I probably just looked like a lunatic. They didn’t say anything to me as I approached, though their body language spoke for them: I was terrifying, a monster in my own right, but one that was blessedly on their side.

“Where’s the commander?” I asked curtly, breaking the uneasy silence.

“In his office, Vigil.” That was all I got. That and a halberd pointed in an easterly direction.

It didn’t take me long to find Arendu. He was chatting with some twenty-something kid puffing on a curled pipe inside the guard shack. He shooed the young man away as soon as he saw me and the dripping bounty, which was slung over my aching shoulder.

“Well now, and what have we here?” He clapped his hands together like a little kid getting ready to unwrap an early birthday present. “The spoils of war, no doubt?”

It wasn’t war so much as a skirmish, but I was too tired to quibble and, as it turned out, too exhausted to haggle. I spread the meat out on the rush-strewn floor of the shack and he wheezed with delight before covering his face with his handkerchief.

“Haven’t had Essence-infused meat like this in an age, that much I can tell you.” His smile was a mile wide; he appeared genuinely excited. “I can give you good rates. The going rates.” He grimaced as he caught a good look at my face. “Scratch that. More than the going rates. For you, Vigil, the best. Always the best.”

I wasn’t exactly sure what the going rates or the best rates were, but I trusted the man enough not to royally dick me over—especially since he seemed half terrified of me. I doubted most people would try to pull one over on someone with magic powers who hunted monsters for a living. After a little more talking, I swapped the grim loot for a fat little bag of coins, though I set aside one Grass Hound filet for myself. I wasn’t entirely sure what Essence-infused meat was, or why it was in such hot demand, but I aimed to find out.

“Now, as for the rest of your haul,” the commander continued, “you’ll be wanting to sell that lot to Sigge, I reckon.” He was excited by the prospect, and I had to wonder whether he got a kickback. A cut? Or maybe a potion for his aching back?

“Just point me in the right direction and I’ll be on my way,” I said, too tired to press him on it.

“Left at the shoemaker, right at the bakery, and if you hit the tannery you’ve gone too far,” he said. “Anyone can help you if you get turned about. Sigge is well known throughout the city.” He went to slap me on the back and once again thought better of it. He’d mastered the art of interacting with me: plenty of cash, no touching. “In fact, everyone will want to help you.” He gestured toward the kid he’d shooed away earlier. He was standing with a group of friends, talking excitedly as they cast quick glances in my direction. “News of your triumph has spread before you. The flesh of the Grass Hound will be a boon to many.” He was grinning so hard I was afraid his face might split in half.

I left him shouting well wishes and blessings on me and hiked through the town as fast as I could. The day was beginning to weigh heavily on me, and the lumpy mattress and scratchy blanket at the Three Chimneys were calling me by name.

“Does that guy seem suspicious to you?” Cal asked as we walked.

“Suspicious how?” I asked, hooking a left at the shoemaker, marked out with a wooden sign featuring a painted boot.

“Hard to put my finger on it exactly,” the specter replied. “I guess he just seems too helpful. It feels like he keeps trying to get rid of you. Like he might be hiding something.”

“You’re being paranoid,” I said as we headed past the bakery, which smelled of warm bread. My stomach grumbled in angry protest. Feed me now! “Besides, I’d be trying to get rid of the scary monster killer covered in gore as fast as possible too, if I were in his shoes.”

“Maybe,” Cal said, “just stay on your toes, man. We can’t forget what Arturo said—that Elder Changeling thing could be anyone.”

“Fair enough,” I replied as we headed over to a well-appointed stone shop with a sign that read Wikstrum Apothecary.

We found the man in question, Sigge Wikstrum, hovering in the doorway, sneering at the passersby with a look so haughty and full of self-importance that I wanted to the clock him in the jaw the minute I saw him. He had pale greasy skin and oily black hair, and he was decked out in a robe of fine silk trimmed with jewels. Ermine lined the cowl. I had to admit that Arturo’s description had been pretty apt. A human grease stain. Around his neck was a rope of gold, weighed down by gilded flies with topaz eyes and diamond thoraxes.

“The tradesman’s entrance is around the back,” he said with a dismissive sniff.

“I think you’ll want what I have,” I replied.

“That’s as may be, wanderer, but that doesn’t change the facts of the matter.” He was staring past me, waiting for someone more important, not looking at me at all. “Tradesmen enter around the back.”

“Not a tradesman, pal.” I stepped into his line of vision and waited.

It took him a couple of pupil-blowing seconds as he gathered his robes around him and stepped away from the stench I brought with my loot. He openly gawped when he saw the red eyes, the sigil-branded forehead, and the golden hair matted with gore. Then his gaze darted just behind me to where Cal lingered. That immediately got my attention. Unless Arturo was lying, only those who had access to the True Gift in some capacity could see creatures of the Etheric Realm like Cal. That meant this slimeball was a magic user in one capacity or another.

His gaze shifted again as he forced his razor-thin lips into a facsimile of a smile. “Ah, greetings, Vigil. Forgive me for not recognizing you. I was expecting someone a little less… bloody. Still…” He grimaced and offered me a brief bow. “We are honored to have you grace our door. I am afraid, however, that your guest”—he shot a look at Cal—“will have to remain outside. There are several complicated wards in place that aren’t easily disarmed, nor would I want to given the unfortunate events that have brought you to our city.” He paused and dry washed his hands. “I’m sure you understand.”

“You gonna be okay?” I asked Cal over one shoulder.

“Don’t sweet it, buddy. I’m feeling beat anyway—could use a little nappy poo over in the Etheric Realm.” He paused and leaned in close. “But keep an eye on this dickwad. Maybe I was being paranoid about Commander Arendu, but this guy has wannabe edgelord written all over him.” Then he disappeared with a blink as Sigge ushered me in.

The inside of his shop seemed like a perfect reflection of the man who ran it. The floors were immaculate gray stone and the walls were decorated with fine cloth tapestries that depicted a number of ancient symbols that meant nothing to me. Brass candelabras jutted from the walls, and a heavy wrought iron chandelier hung down from a thick chain, shedding warm orange light throughout the room. Bookcases lined several walls—the thick leather tomes on them all dusted and presented with great care—while wooden shelves, heavy laden with various ingredients, dominated the rest of the room. Along the back wall was a glass-fronted counter, crammed with vials brimming with colorful liquids.

Behind the counter was another set of shelves that housed heavy cauldrons, mortars and pestles, flasks and vials, burners and brass retorts.

I ignored all that stuff, marched straight up to his clean counter, and unceremoniously dumped the Grass Hound organs across the glass. Sort of a dick move, but this guy rubbed me in all the wrong ways, so I didn’t really care. I crossed my arms and waited.

Sigge glowered as he slipped behind the counter but didn’t mention the spectacular mess I’d just made. Instead, he hunched forward, hands perched on his knees as he regarded the items. He sniffed deeply, eyes closed, lips slightly parted.

“Fresh,” he marveled. “Slain today, if I am not mistaken?”

I nodded curtly. He already knew that. Then again, so did everyone else in this town. It was no secret who I was or what I was doing here.

“Truly a treasure trove,” he whispered. His hands fluttered over the organs while he drank them in with his eyes. “Ah…” He paused. It was the first moment of real emotion from him. The rest had been for show. “You even managed to extract the gallbladders without perforating them. Such talent. You are more gifted than you appear. With these we will save the lives of many. And make fortunes for those whose fortune has passed. Your name will be blessed many a time and again…”

“Yeah, don’t get carried away, Siggemeister. How much?”

“For you, Vigil, the highest price.”

I nodded. I’d heard the same from the commander and ended with a pouch of coins. I had a strong sense these were worth ten times what Arendu had shelled out.

“Tell me.” He leaned closer, but not too close. “What would these fetch in your land, hmm?”

“Like you said—they’re fresh and I didn’t perforate the gallbladder,” I replied, feeding him the info he’d already given me. This guy sent up all kinds of creepy red flags and I didn’t want him to know that I wasn’t just new in town, but new to this world. “Top dollar for sure.”

“Yes, of course,” he said. “And do they suspend the gallbladders in a syrup of pomegranate as we do?” He wiggled his eyebrows at me, though why I wasn’t sure. “And excrete the bile under a full moon…?”

“Do I look like an alchemist to you? Just tell me how much.” I was tired of all the dancing around and wanted to get gone.

“Your accent?” He smiled—that same fake smile he’d put on earlier. “It’s from Lyshaven, perhaps?”

I nodded. Sounded as good a place as any.

“I knew it!” He slapped his hand on his thighs. “And where do you stay, now that you are among us?”

“Three Chimneys.” It wouldn’t be hard for him to pry that out of anyone on the street. No point lying about something that obvious.

He rooted around in a drawer behind the counter. “And how long might you stay?”

I couldn’t answer that question, so I didn’t.

He held out two leather pouches, bursting at the seams. “My apologies, but it is not every day I have a chance to speak to a Vigil. I don’t suppose you have any news of the victims?” He licked his lips and there was a thin sheen of sweat dotting his forehead. “Have there been more? I have visited with our good Arbitrator, but all he will say is that it is in the hands of Raguel, God of the Vigilant…”

He waited for me to fill in conversational gaps I had no intention of filling. I reached for my payment, and he pulled both bags away. Only a little, but I knew a pissant power play when I saw one.

“Please, dear Vigil. Tell me, who kills the good people of Ironmoor? Is it man or beast?” His eyes flashed as though he knew a shit ton more than he was letting on.

“How about you tell me, Sigge?”

Cal was right to be suspicious. This guy was self-important, self-aggrandizing, nosey, and a grade A douchebag on top of everything else. He also had one hell of a shield up. Suspicious didn’t even begin to cover it. Sigge had moved right to the very top of my suspect list. Could be he was just a curious alchemist like he claimed, but the type of info he was pumping me for suggested he was more invested in whatever was going on than a mere citizen would be.

I leaned forward and snatched up the coin pouches, not bothering to count the contents. “We’re done here,” I growled.

I turned and left without a backward glance though I felt his eyes boring into me as I let the door swing shut behind me. We were done for now, but I’d be back. He knew more than he was letting on, and I intended to find out what.

19

Bag of Holding

Exhausted as I was, I decided to swing by the church and drop my stuff off in my Soul Vault. I’d sold off most of the Grass Hound meat and organs, but not all of it, and I still had a ton of fabrication ingredients and the mace I’d looted. It was weighing me down and I didn’t want to hoof around a bunch of gross body parts all over the city—especially since most of those parts smelled like bad Chinese food left out in the sun. Once inside the Vault, I deposited the fabrication ingredients in the smithy along with the mace, then headed over to my avatar, slowly rotating above the pool of electric blue water with the circling koi.

With a thought, I pulled up my stats, confirming that I had indeed leveled up to Novice Gold rank thanks to my training session in the fairy ring.

<<<>>>

Boyd Knight

Race: Vigil Bound

Level: Novice, Gold Rank

Current Essence: 1,876

Next Ascended Rank: 3,200

Attribute Points: +1

Ward Points: +12

Characteristics

Brawn: 18

Verve: 18

Finesse: 15

Arcana: 12

Insight: 14

Vigil Wards 

Ward of Justice: Soul Bound Weapons (Boon), Maximum Penetration 

Ward of Valor: Diamond Body (Boon), Combat Sense

Ward of Wrath: Arcane Insight (Boon), Kinetic Blast

Ward of Balance: Language of the Heavens (Boon), Sidhe Pact

Ward of Truth: Threads of Fate (Boon)

Expand Ward List 

<<<>>>

I had a ways to go before I hit level four, but I was making good progress. Still, each one of the Grass Hounds had earned me 63 Essence, which meant I needed to clear out at least twenty more of the murderous little bastards to ascend again. Hopefully Arturo had another fairy ring tucked away for me to raid, though I had a sinking suspicion that my next assignment wouldn’t be quite so easy. But that was a worry for tomorrow. Tonight was all about celebrating my victories, and among the victory spoils were new points to spend.

As much as I wanted a bath, a meal, and a good night’s sleep, I couldn’t resist the opportunity to tweak my stats. Especially since I was already here.

I decided to start with Attribute Points, since there were fewer options to wade through and I only had a single point to use. But I needed to be smart with my choice because unlike the Ward Points, there was no way to reclaim spent Attribute Points. Measure twice and cut once needed to be my motto here. The inner geek in me wanted to spend my gains on Arcana or Insight. Kinetic Blast was an amazing skill—and I was sure the other mystic abilities would be just as useful—but the biggest drawback was how infrequently I could cast thanks to my low Arcana Pool. Beefing up Arcana and Insight would help significantly with that.

But after a moment of consideration, I decided against it.

Thing was, I could buy additional Stat Points so long as I had the Essence to spend. It cost a metric butt ton of Essence to push a stat from 18 to 19—1,000 Essence total—whereas it cost almost nothing to increase a stat from 12 to 13. A measly 400 Essence. The Law of Diminishing Returns was at play here. The most logical course of action was to drop the earned Point into Brawn or Verve, since those traits were the most costly to advance, and use raw Essence to raise Arcana and Insight.

Between Brawn and Verve, Brawn was the obvious choice. I liked lifting heavy things and I liked hitting hard. Sure, Verve would keep me alive for longer, but I could always compensate with a good set of plate armor. As far as I knew, there was no armor that could make me physically stronger. I added the earned stat point into Brawn and endured the hellish torment as my muscles shifted and shivered beneath my skin. This time the sensation didn’t boot me from the Vault, which was a positive step in the right direction, though it still hurt worse than getting kicked in the junk by an angry Muay Thai fighter.

My Arcana and Insight were pitifully low and I would need to significantly raise both if I wanted any shot at being a hard-charging spell-slinger—and I definitively wanted that. My K-Bar was functional, and my magical Colt was hell on wheels against smaller foes, but a good Marine knew that you used every weapon in the arsenal and I had a feeling that magic was the closest equivalent to heavy artillery that I could get my hands on. I had currently had 1,876 Essence, and it would cost me 900 Essence to increase my Arcana score from 12 to 14 and another 600 Essence to bump Insight up to 15.

Fifteen hundred Essence was a big commitment that would set me back significantly on my quest to ascend to the Disciple ranks. That many points was more than all the Essence I’d siphoned off the Crave Ghouls combined. Without enough Essence I couldn’t advance, and if I didn’t advance, I wouldn’t unlock any more Ward Points, which would make me vulnerable in the long run. This whole thing was a precarious gambling act, but thanks to my Threads of Fate Boon, I could afford to gamble a little. Presumably other Vigils needed to level as fast as possible to gain as many Wards as possible in their specialization. I, on the other hand, could afford to take it a little slower because I could just swap Wards at need, assuming I could get back to an altar once a day.

This was the right choice. I knew it. As I made my choices, a new prompt appeared—one I hadn’t seen before:

You must Sacrifice [1,500] Essence to increase Arcana to 14 and Insight to 15. Proceed with Soul Sacrifice? Yes/No

It wasn’t gonna be fun, but good things rarely were. I gritted my teeth, ready to get metaphysically shanked in the kidney, and accepted.

This time, it wasn’t pain that washed over me so much as a wave of frigid ice that filled my stomach and spread through my limbs like frostbite. I dropped to the deck and just lay on the floor shivering, teeth chattering, thinking I was dying for a good ten minutes. But eventually the horrific feeling passed, leaving a hollow pit in the middle of my stomach as though I hadn’t had a meal in a week or two. There was no kitchen in the Vault, although Arturo had mentioned that the Vault would change with me over time—maybe that was something I’d be able to fix down the road.

For now, though, I’d just have to endure the gnawing pain in my center. Unless…

I pulled out one of the Glamor Affinity Scales I’d looted from the Grass Hounds and clutched it in my sweaty and shaking palm. Whereas the Hunger Affinity Scales shimmered with angry crimson light, this one danced with the iridescent colors of a dragonfly’s wing. I drew the power downward, into my body, and cycled it up into my chest. The room swam and the emptiness inside began to fade while my mind sharpened to the keen edge of a surgeon’s scalpel. The mental exhaustion vanished and the world around me was rendered in perfect, high-def clarity.

Colors were more vibrant. Sounds, crystal clear. I traced my fingertips along the rough fabric of my trousers—the sensation was overwhelming. The stink wafting off me was potent enough to make me physically gag. Oh yeah, I was in desperate need of a bath, but I wasn’t quite ready to call it quits yet. I still had ten Ward Points to spend. In theory, I could reset all my Ward Points and pick up a whole new set of skills, but I was too tired for that. Plus, I liked all the skills I currently had at my disposal—magical force powers and what amounted to Spidey Sense were pretty damned handy.

What I didn’t like was hauling around giant, reeking bags of meat all over the countryside. And, since it seemed like harvesting monster parts was going to play a big role in my future, I decided to do something to help. I already had just the ability in mind. I headed over to the library, pulled free my Grimoire of Virtues, and quickly thumbed through the pages until I found what I was looking for tucked away in the Balance Ward, listed under Fae Magics.

Fae Tether

The Vigil is a warrior of many lands and none. Traveling abroad can take a toll, and altars are not always so easy to come by. With Fae Tether, the Vigil reinforces their bond to their Soul Vault and can send items and relics into the Soul Vault even at great distance and without access to an altar through use of Fae spatial magics. All items so sent will manifest inside the Soul Vault’s Storage Chamber. Items may only be sent to the Vault, however, and may not be summoned forth.

Recommended Attributes: Arcana, 14; Insight, 15

I had both of the recommended Attributes and at only four Ward Points I couldn’t help myself. Goodbye hauling loads of gory bullshit, hello giant-ass bag of holding.

That left me with eight Ward Points left to dole out and though I probably should’ve picked up a new magical spell, like Unbound Blaze from the Path of Violence, or a new weapons skill, like Overcharge from the Justice Ward, I was more interested in convenience at the moment, which is why I stopped on the Armor Evocation Ability, listed in the Warforged Mastery subsection of the Justice Ward. Fae Tether was the closest thing I could get to a bag of holding, but it only worked one way, which was annoying as hell.

Armor Evocation seemed like a way to get around that. Kind of.

Armor Evocation

Hunting monsters is tireless, thankless, dangerous work, and having the right gear for the right situation is an essential ability for any Vigil. Some creatures hit hard—requiring the protection of heavy plate—while others are fast and nimble, requiring lighter gear to keep up. Similar to the Soul Bound Weapon Skill, Armor Evocation allows a Vigil to instantly swap between up to four designated Armor Sets at will, even when away from the Soul Vault.

Add any Armor Set—complete with rings, amulets, potions, or additional accessories—to one of the four Armor Display Statues located within the Soul Vault. Trigger Armor Evocation to call forth a Set, willing the selected items to appear upon the Vigil no matter the distance. Any gear currently in use by the Vigil will automatically return to the Vault, where mystic energies will refresh and restore the equipment for future use.

Recommended Attributes: Verve, 16; Brawn, 16; Arcana, 12

For six points I would be able to swap gear the same way I could call and dismiss my weapons, and if I was reading the description right, Armor Evocation would even scrub the nasty bloodstains out of my tighty-whities. How could I possibly pass on that? Now I just needed to try it out to see how it worked.

I unlocked the spell and dipped out of the Soul Vault, reappearing in the empty chapel.

I was still wearing the nasty gore-spattered gear Arturo had given me earlier in the morning, but I had the Crude Leather Armor I’d picked up from the Crave Ghouls on a second mannequin in the statuary room. An image of the black leather formed in my mind, and I sent my intention into the world accompanied by a surge of power. My blue Arcana gauge plunged by half as swirling silver mist enveloped me, wrapping around my arms and legs, slithering over my chest and back. As the magical mist dissipated, my grubby armor was gone, whisked away, and I found myself standing bare-assed in a church, with only leather armor to cover my torso.

Winding up with no pants was fast becoming a habit—one I was in no way comfortable with. A gentle breeze caressed my unmentionables and sent goosebumps sprinting along my arms and legs.

Check. When the prompt said Armor Set, it really meant everything on the mannequin—nothing more and nothing less. Honestly, I was just glad this had happened in a dark church, all by my lonesome, and not in the middle of a battle against some Lovecraftian horror show. I’d already fought a bunch of disgusting monsters with my rod and tackle dangling for all to see and I had no intention of going through that again. With my newly won coin, I’d need to pick up some extra pants, shirts, and boots to go beneath whatever other armor I scored.

As for the leather armor itself, it was still shoddy garbage, but it was spotless shoddy garbage. I activated Armor Evocation again, wrapping myself in mist once more, and the gear I’d been wearing all day reappeared on my body. It was clean enough to pass a Field Day room inspection from a grumpy company CO. Color me impressed. I lifted one arm and took a quick whiff of my armpit. I winced. The magical dry-cleaning properties of the spell extended to the armor only, it seemed. You win some, you lose some. Looked like I’d have to clean myself up the old-fashion way.

It was high time for that meal and bath.

20

The Great Defiler

I shouldered my way into the Three Chimneys, which was thick with patrons. People were chatting and laughing good-naturedly, the hog meat was almost gone, and the ale was flowing like water. There was a card game underway in one corner, a drinking game in another, and a line three men deep hovering around the bar, waiting for Maggie to pull ’em a pint. I ended up behind the young man who’d been chatting with Commander Arendu not half an hour earlier. I tapped him lightly on the shoulder. He turned, leapt a foot into the air, then fled as if I’d jabbed him in the junk with an electric cow prod.

The line parted in front of me like the Red Sea and the bar fell silent—all the joy sucked out of the room in an instant. I felt like a company XO crashing a lance corporal barracks party.

“Spreading good cheer wherever you go, I see.” Maggie winked at me and offered me a pint of her much-loved vinegar beer, which I accepted with a wide grin. The beer may have tasted like old dishwater, but liquor was liquor, and I needed a drink after the day I’d had. I chugged the swill, then slammed the mug down to half-hearted cheers from the onlookers. I fished out a pouch of coins Sigge had given to me for my bounty of magical organ meat and tossed it onto the counter with a heavy clink.

“Drinks are on me,” I said before stifling an eyewatering burp with my fist.

You’d think no one had ever bought a round before. The place went nuts. A deafening chorus of cheers, a lot of back-slapping and whooping, a couple of guys even linked elbows and danced in circles like a redneck hoedown. Not one of them laid a finger on me. Maggie leaned into the doorway that led out the back of the bar and hollered for help. Three kitchen maids raced to her sides and started pulling pints, including another for me.

Maggie banged on the bar with a soup ladle, clang-clang-clang. “Everyone to their tables. We’ll bring you your drinks. Come on now, boys, let’s not crowd the Vigil. Off you go.”

Like most barmaids she was two parts charm one part bully, all wrapped in a cloak of smiles and late-night magic. Keeping an orderly bar was an art form more than it was a job, and she was a master of her craft. The men cleared the bar on her command. Everyone except for me, of course.

I leaned in to be heard over the ruckus. “Any sign of Arturo?”

“He’s already down for the night,” she said, tilting her head toward a table tucked away in the corner. The priest was precariously perched on a stool, an empty flagon on the table. He was lying facedown, head resting on beef-slab arms while he snored softly.

“It appears you put him through the paces today,” she remarked, hiding a laugh. “Now, is there anything else you would like with your ale, Oh Stinky One?” If anyone else had said it I might have wondered at their motives, but it was quite clear she was flirting, even when she held her nose and reared her head back as though I smelled like a porta john after a hot day roasting in the sun.

“It’s what I can do for you, beautiful,” I said, offering her a lopsided smile. I removed a single filet of Grass Hound meat, carefully wrapped in a strip of fabric, and gingerly laid it on the table.

Her eyes flared and her breath caught.

“The guard captain seemed wild for this Essence-infused meat,” I said, “so I thought I’d bring you a chunk as a little thank you for your earlier hospitality. And as a way of saying sorry for being such a loud jackass last night.”

“It’s a grand gift,” she said. “Too grand. Are you sure?” she asked, her flirty tone suddenly serious. She reached up and tucked a loose strand of hair behind her ear. “This is worth far more than a room for a night.”

“Eh, what can I say, you’ve done right by me. I wanted to return the favor. Though maybe you could tell me why this stuff is so valuable?”

“I don’t understand the question,” she said, squinting at me as though I were stupid. “It’s meat infused with Essence. There are those who would murder for a cut of meat like that. When you Vigils make a kill, you absorb most of the Essence as your bounty, but some of that power lingers behind in the flesh and bone. Normal folk like me, we can’t absorb Essence directly the way those with the True Gift do, but we can absorb a portion through consumption. Essence-infused meat cures sickness, strengthens the body, even mends old wounds that refuse to heal. I know an old woman who was rid of thirty years’ worth of arthritis after she feasted on a butchered Razorback Kebo.” She hesitated. “Knowing that, are you sure you want to part with this prize?”

“Never been surer of anything in my life,” I replied.

She nodded and quickly swept the cloth-wrapped parcel beneath the bar. “Well, my deepest thanks. And since you’ve done me a grand kindness, let me do one in return.” She leaned in, breasts pressed against the wooden bar top. “In case you didn’t catch my earlier hint, you smell like the inside of a latrine.”

I snorted. “Thanks, I hadn’t noticed. Don’t suppose you all have baths here?” I asked, thinking back to the pitiful washbasin in my room. That sure as shit wasn’t going to cut it—not with how nasty I was—and I needed to get clean. Hated going to bed gross. Even when bedding in a ditch at some dusty forward operating base, I always made sure to take a baby wipe bath before turning down for the night. No one wanted ass and foot stank filling a two-man tent.

She laughed and frowned at my question at the same time. “Well of course we do. You think we’re like those greasy toe-rags from Halgem?”

One of the kitchen maids snickered. “They’re not that bad,” she whispered. “It’s just that they bathe in tallow is all.”

Her laughter set the next kitchen maid off and pretty soon they were all tittering and blushing and bumping each other with their hips. They never stopped filling pitchers, though. They were on top of that. Maggie broke up the snickerfest and sent the maids to the four corners of the room, each with five flagons of ale in each hand. Before long the room had settled into the gentle hum of contented drinkers, washing away a hard day’s work.

“So?” She leaned over the bar and whispered. “You’re wanting someone to scrub your nooks and crannies, are you?”

I smiled. It was all talk. She wasn’t a scrubber of any kind and we both knew it. “If you’re offering...”

“Sadly, I can’t leave, but I can point you in the right direction.” She fished around in my coin purse and counted out a handful of silver coins, letting me know that this one was for my shirt, this for my room, and these four for my bath.

“You’re telling me a bath costs more than a drink for every man in this room?” I asked in genuine shock.

She raised an eyebrow at me like I’d dragged the village idiot in and let him do the talking for me. “You’re a strange one, Vigil. You give out Essence-infused meat without a thought, but then marvel at the cost of the bathhouse? Just where do you come from?”

“Around and about,” I said, waving a hand through the air.

“Well, wherever you’re from, they must not have a proper bathhouse the way we do here, but I can assure you, it is worth the price of admission. This lot are lucky to bathe once a month, and most of them do it in the streams and icy riverways. Only those with real coin to spend get to indulge in a proper bath. I’ll send one of the girls running to let them know you’ll be coming along shortly. Just head past the jakes, down the stairs, then across the stable yard. You’ll see the bathhouse directly ahead of you.” She paused, tapping on her bottom lip. “I left some clean linens for you on the bed, but make sure to take any dirty laundry along—the attendant can clean them while you soak.”

I drank the rest of my sour beer then politely excused myself, heading up to my room to drop off a few things and grab the garments Maggie had set out for me. My current gear was clean, but bulky, heavy, and ten kinds of uncomfortable—the armor pinched in my armpits and rubbed at my hips after walking around in it all day. I was also carrying enough coin to tempt even the most content thief, and I really didn’t want to murder anything other than monsters if I could help it. Stashing my coins and swapping into something with a little breathability didn’t sound half bad.

The bronze key slid into the lock and the door swung open on squeaky hinges.

The clothes Maggie had promised were folded on the bed, just waiting for me, but lounging on top of them was an unwelcome guest. Renholm had returned and he hadn’t come alone. He was rolling around on my new garments with what looked like a barbie doll made out of blue light.

“Yes, just like that, my little minx,” he groaned in the most disgusting way possible.

“What the hell is going on in here!” I barked, slamming the door behind me. The pixie blinked bleary eyes at me and offered me a half-hearted wave while the blue sprite writhed on top of him.

“Since you’re not from this world,” he said, “you probably don’t know this, but in these lands it’s customary to knock before entering.”

“I don’t have to knock,” I growled. “It’s my room, you psycho.”

“Wrong,” he said, not even bothering to stop… whatever unspeakable thing it was he was doing. “As your king, I am entitled to the use of any lands you own.”

“That was not in the contract, you dickhead, and even if it’s true do you really have to do that”—I waved a hand at the blue sprite—“on top of my fresh clothes?”

He sprawled out, star fishing across the garments. “Obviously, I do. It’s the most comfortable spot in the room. Besides, it’s not like you were using them.”

“Fine. Doesn’t matter,” I said, pinching the bridge of my nose. There was no point arguing with the pixie. “Though, for the record, we are going to have a long conversation about boundaries at some point. The important part is I’m back and I want her, or him, or whatever the hell it is, gone. Now.”

“Very well.” He sat up and casually pushed the blue sprite off to the side. “Your king is done with you, be gone.” Then he leaned over and whispered into her ear. “Just wait outside for him to leave, then we can go for round three.”

“I can hear you scheming,” I said as the sprite took to the air on a pair of electric blue butterfly wings and darted out through the open window. I tromped over and pulled the window shut tight, rattling the glass in its wooden frame, then latched it closed with an iron bolt. The latch wouldn’t stop most people, but Renholm was a fairy—trying to open it would burn the ever-living shit out of his delicate Fae hands. I was sure he’d find a way around it eventually, but maybe it would buy me a little extra time.

I sincerely didn’t want to think about all of the terrible things I’d glimpsed him doing with the sprite when I’d first entered.

“Rude,” the fairy said, sitting up and swinging his bare legs over the edge of my clothes. “But prudent, I suppose.” His nostrils flared and his eyes narrowed, fixating on the coin pouch I stowed all my Scales in.

“Is that Essence I smell?” He breathed in deeply, savoring the air. “Reeks of blood and guts and Fae magic.” He canted his head to one side and his pointed ears quivered in excitement. “Glamor Scales?” He licked his lips.

“Yep,” I said, pulling one from the leather pouch and holding it up for him to see. “But you’re not due for any more for a couple of days, and right now I’m thinking of breaking our agreement outright. Sure, I got a toothbrush out of the deal, but I definitely feel like you’re getting the better end of this bargain.”

“You wouldn’t dare risk breaking a pact with the King of a Fae Court,” he replied with a haughty sniff.

I snorted and rolled my eyes. “Yeah, that ain’t gonna work twice on me, bub. So far it seems like you’ve been lounging around all day, defiling my stuff with weird pixie sex while I’ve been busting my ass to earn Affinity Scales. So now would be a real good time to tell me why I should keep you on the payroll.” I dropped the Scale back into the pouch, folded my arms, and gave him the same I’m unimpressed look Drill Instructor Screw Y’all had given me a thousand times. “’Cause if you don’t, you’re never getting another sliver outta me.”

“I am grievously offended,” Renholm said, leaping to his feet. “Yes, it’s true that I defiled your clothes, and your bed, and your nightstand, and your porcelain washbowl—”

“Stop. That’s enough,” I cut him off, raising a hand. “I get the point.”

“—but not before scouting out this entire city on your behalf,” he finished. “Digging for clues and information that may be of some use to you.” He flitted from the bed and landed on the dresser. “Behold the fruit of my tireless labors.” He flicked a hand and the top drawer slid out, revealing… the weirdest assortment of shit I’d seen since I cleaned out my footlocker before going on deployment.

A silver coin. Golden teeth. A wooden hairbrush. A dirt-stained doll with rag hair that reminded me too much of the doll I’d seen abandoned in the alleyway moments before taking that house back in Fallujah. There were also papers and bracelets and silverware, a tangle of hair, a bit of weathered rope, and a dozen other miscellaneous things.

“What the hell is all of this stuff?” I asked, sifting through the assembled junk.

“Clues,” Renholm replied proudly, puffing out his tiny chest.

“Clues to what?” I asked.

“How should I know?” he asked, sounding baffled. “I’m not the high and mighty Vigil—isn’t it your job to get to the bottom of whatever mystery you’re trying to solve? For that matter, what mystery are you trying to solve?”

“There’s a murderous creature killing people,” I said, trying to resist the growing urge to Kinetic Blast him through a wall. “And yeah, it’s my job to stop it, but how is any of this stuff gonna help with that, huh?”

“That is for you to determine,” Renholm said. “These items are important, perhaps not to this bounty of yours, but each item triggered my Fae Sense. Some items, they glimmer, you see. They are imbued with significance beyond simple appearances. Take you, for example. You are a dirty, smelly, hairless ape who doesn’t even know basic etiquette like how to knock—looking at you, one could only assume the worst, yet you glimmer as well. So it is with this bounty of treasure, which I have graciously acquired for you. Each burned with Purpose and Need. With Fate. All of life is a great tapestry of interweaving threads, and sometimes the most innocuous item may be the key you are looking for.”

I thought to the Arcanum Token Arturo had given me this morning—the coin, imbued and blessed by the faith of a farmer. He’d said any object could be such a token. Maybe that’s what Renholm had found for me.

I picked up the comb and pulled up an item description.

<<<>>>

Shoddy Wooden Comb

Type: Wood

Class: Novice

A shoddy wooden comb with several broken teeth. Sometimes there is more to things than meets the eye… Sometimes there is not.

<<<>>>

I grunted and moved on to the fabric dolly. Same deal. A Novice Class item with no secondary purpose. It was just a little kid’s toy.

All the stuff was like that—no tokens of faith or hidden magic. It was just the crap someone might store in the kitchen junk drawer. At least until I got to a creased letter on thick parchment. An invitation written in flowing calligraphy. The ink looked like molten gold and the paper itself was obviously expensive. The letter was addressed to none other than Sigge Wikstrum—douchebag alchemist and my current number one suspect—inviting him to attend a party the following evening at the manor house of Gustav Hultgren, High Magistrate of Ironmoor.

I wasn’t sure how Renholm’s Fae Sense worked—what the hell did he mean by they glimmer? I wondered idly—but I had to admit, the letter could’ve been a clue.

“Alright, maybe you’re not totally useless after all,” I said, tapping the letter against one palm. “But I have more work for you to do tonight. First, I want you to take this”—I grabbed the dolly—“and give it back to whatever poor kid you stole it from. Taking toys from little kids is A-Class asshole behavior and we’re the good guys here. Once you’re done with that, I want you to find the guy you took this from.” I held up the letter. “Sigge Wikstrum. He’s an alchemist and a grease ball and probably a murderer. At the very least he’s a dick to service people, so he’s a villain no matter what. Track him down and don’t let him out of your sight, but be careful. He saw my buddy Cal, which means he can see Etheric beings like you.”

“Of course,” Renholm said, “although I am feeling rather… famished.” His eyes darted toward my coin pouch.

“Don’t push your luck,” I said, glowering at him. “Pull your weight, don’t have sex on my stuff ever again—feel like I shouldn’t need to say that—and you might have a bonus coming your way.”

21

The Bathhouse

With Renholm gone and no sign of Cal, I stashed my gear in the Soul Vault, via Armor Evocation, and switched into the more modest, but comfortable, clothes Maggie had left on the bed for me: a pair of dark linen trousers, a cotton shirt with an accompanying woven belt, and a pair of soft leather shoes with no real soles, held shut with a thin leather string that wrapped around the ankle. I tried not to think about the fact that Renholm had shagged the blue energy sprite on top of my stuff, but it was a hard thing to forget.

I’d seen a lot of disturbing things that day, but that was right at the top of the list. But unless I wanted to risk leaving my armor, weapons, coins, and Affinity Scales lying around, I didn’t have another option. So, gear safely and securely stowed in the Vault and my room tidy enough to pass muster, I made my way from the inn.

God but I was ready for a good long soak.

What I wasn’t ready for was a wooden cathedral dedicated to the art of cleanliness.

I was met at the entry to the bathhouse by a young woman in a simple white shift who directed me to a changing area. Waiting for me in the secluded room were two towels folded on a wooden chair. I stepped out of my trousers, slung one towel around my waist, and held the other, only a little larger than a facecloth, in my hand. The changing room doors at the far end of the room let out into a lavish spread of soaking pools, natural waterfall-driven showers, several steam rooms, and a row of low stools lined up against a tiled wall accented with teal.

Another female attendant—her head down, her eyes averted—silently ushered me to the stools and followed behind me. Too close for comfort. I wasn’t in the habit of bathing with supervision, but it appeared I didn’t have a choice. She gestured to the three-legged stool and knelt on the floor beside me as I sat. There was a bucket and a wooden ladle, which she filled and refilled while she sudsed, rinsed, then scraped me clean. She expertly wielded a wooden stick, not unlike a backscratcher, which she used on my hands and feet and then, most luxuriously, my entire back from the base of my skull all the way down to my butt.

I wasn’t too manly to admit that it felt like a slice of heaven. This was some well-deserved pampering.

There wasn’t anything sexual about the process, which was surprising. If you’d told me a month earlier that I’d allow a pretty stranger to soap and rinse me without there being any kind of tomfoolery involved I’d have laughed in your face but there was something about the way she held herself—poised, aloof, contained in her work—that signaled that this was an act of great service. These people took bathing as seriously as a heart attack. She had the good grace to let me clean my own junk, and even had the courtesy to look away as I tended to the ol’ undercarriage.

Once I was done, she confiscated both my towels. I’d been using them incorrectly her gestures said. The larger one was now dirty and couldn’t be employed for its intended purpose. She handed me a new set.

“The small towel is for modesty,” she said, her voice quiet but firm. “The larger for later when you dry yourself, Vigil.” With that she left.

I found the hooks for the towels and let myself into the nearest steam room. I don’t know how I didn’t realize that the entire place was co-ed until I was sitting next to a woman who had beads of sweat rolling down her chest, but it had somehow slipped my notice. Probably because I was weary to the bone and had spent most of the day fighting for my life and gutting monsters. That kind of shit takes a toll on anyone.

There were four women and two men lounging contently in the steam room, none of whom seemed to be related by either blood or marriage. They surveyed each other with a mix of indifference and inspection that said this was their everyday normal.

Wild. Sort of reminded me of that scene out of Starship Troopers, where all the military cadets showered together. I’d loved the flick as a teenager, but I never—not in a million years—would’ve imagined that I’d get to live through my own version of it. Shit, in the Marine Corps, we’d be lucky to so much as see a female Marine in the mess hall. The idea of having one take a steam with me was a notion from a different planet.

I relaxed back, letting the tension ease out of my aching muscles as a mixture of steam and sweat sluiced over my skin and puddled beneath my feet. I caught more than a few interested looks from the women, though the interest always seemed to fade when their gaze brushed across my burning red eyes and the mark on my forehead. Once again, I was reminded that although Vigils were tolerated by most people—perhaps even celebrated—they were equally feared. I’d received looks like that before, back in Iraq before the push into Fallujah that had cost me my life.

Iraqi children, covered in dusty clothes, would often stare up at me in that same way—respect mingling with awe, all undercut by a strong current of fear. We were there to liberate, to help, but sometimes it was hard to know whether we were the good guys or the bad guys. This felt the same.

One of the men—a short, balding, portly man with a great handlebar mustache—leaned forward over his considerable girth and rested his forearms on his thighs as he openly regarded me. He had a thick golden chain slung around his neck; dangling from the end was a pendant marked with a scale. He also had fat gold rings on every single finger, some capped with diamonds, others with rubies or emeralds. The guy had money and he wasn’t afraid to flaunt it.

“You’re the Vigil Bound, aren’t you?” he said, voice rather gruff. Then before I could answer he extended a pudgy, glistening hand. Gross. “I’m Gustav Hultgren, the High Magistrate of Ironmoor.”

It was awkward shaking hands while naked and sweaty, but when in Rome. I took the slippery palm in my own and gave it a firm pump.

“Pleasure,” I said, though it really wasn’t. There was a time and place for networking, and the steam room wasn’t it.

“Must say, I’m surprised to find you here,” he said, before leaning back with a chuckle.

“Why’s that?” I asked, tilting my head to one side.

He froze, a deer caught in headlights. “Ah. Well, you know what they say about your kind…” He trailed off, looking rather uncomfortable. Like someone who’d just told an offensive joke that hadn’t landed well.

“I’m afraid I don’t know what they say,” I replied flatly.

Boy were we off to a rough start, and it was only going downhill. Not that I really cared. I’d met plenty of people like Gustav before—smug, self-important, with a major superiority complex. He radiated bad vibes. Not to mention, his name had been on the invitation Renholm had lifted off Sigge Wikstrum, the alchemist. No way that was a coincidence.

“Why don’t you enlighten me,” I finished.

He shifted awkwardly then cleared his throat. “Well, they say you lot are savages. Sleeping in ditches and caves as often as cities. Just an old joke.”

“Haha,” I replied, face completely deadpan.

“You’re making quite the splash already,” Gustav said, forging on through the social blunder and doing his best to salvage this train wreck of a conversation. “Word is you’ve already cleared out a troubling Mortka infestation less than a day from our beloved city. Grass Hounds, I believe.”

“You’ve got good sources,” I said.

“Word travels fast,” he said, offering me a smile. He was back on better footing now, feeling more sure of himself. “In truth there’s very little that happens in this city that I don’t know about.” He thumbed his nose conspiratorially. “I’ve got my finger on the pulse of the whole city and make a point of staying connected with all the most well-respected and influential people of Ironmoor and beyond. Speaking of, I’m having a small soiree three evenings hence at my manor in the Inner City—Pithom Row. Having a Vigil attend would delight everyone, I’m sure. It’s not often we have someone such as you in our midst.”

“A filthy savage, you mean?” I suggested bluntly.

He didn’t respond but looked as nervous as a long-tailed cat in a room full of rocking chairs.

“The heat is quite getting to me,” he finally said, standing. “This Friday, six bells, though feel free to show up fashionably late. Now, if you’ll excuse me.” He mopped at his face with a towel and exited before I could ask any more questions or make any more embarrassing remarks. The other people in the room followed him out in short order, making me think they were all attachés or lackeys of some sort.

I stayed behind, stewing on the interaction.

Sigge Wikstrum was still on the top of my list, but Gustav Hultgren wasn’t far beneath him.

The magistrate didn’t seem like a shapeshifting monster in disguise—he struck me as a human monster who wasn’t trying to hide what he was at all. He was an aristocratic turd that had floated to the top of the toilet bowl. But even if he wasn’t the Changeling, my gut told me that he knew more than he was letting on. Looked like Renholm’s tip had paid off after all.

When I couldn’t stand the heat any longer, I left the steam room behind and plunged into the cooling pool outside the doors. That pool was also occupied, though this time the company was far more pleasant.

I found myself sitting across from the singer from the inn. Her hair was piled high on her head, and she had opted to forgo the use of the “modesty towel,” much to my enjoyment. She was, without question, one of the most beautiful women I’d ever laid eyes on. Her breasts bobbed high in the water. Her neck was long and slender, her skin pale and flawless. She opened her eyes and smiled, her teeth white and perfectly straight, then stood slowly, revealing a wisp-thin waist and legs that went on forever and a day.

I did my best not to stare, but I didn’t try too hard. Clearly, she wanted to be seen, and I wanted her to know that I’d noticed.

“Vigil,” she said, her voice barely above a whisper. “We meet again.”

She swished the water around her hips, trailing her fingertips along the surface, inviting me to move to one of the waterfall pools. I wasn’t about to turn down an offer like that, so I scooted over until I was beside her and the falling water pounded my shoulders and cascaded down my back. It was only when we moved to the mineral spa, bubbles rising and popping from the natural cleft in the rock below, that she spoke again.

“I’m Annelli Dalgaard, by the way. And you, of course, are the Vigil. Or the Vigilant. Or is it the Vigil Bound? I never have gotten a straight answer about that one.”

“Vigil is fine,” I said with a smile. For an instant I wondered if my red eyes were off-putting, but she didn’t seem to mind.

“We are so grateful for your coming,” she said.

If Maggie had said that, she would’ve put the emphasis on “coming,” but Annelli was a different kind of flirt. Far more subtle in some ways, more overt in others. She let the bubbles around her breasts do most of the talking.

“The town has been so very troubled,” she continued after a brief pause, “and I hate to see it so. Ironmoor has a special place in my heart, you know. I grew up here, played in these streets once upon a time, though I left when I was very young. Traveling with the merchant train as a musician is a dream, but it seems there’s not much joy these days, even for me. I hope you manage to put an end to these dreadful killings—it’s getting to be that I hardly feel safe enough to bathe.” She glanced up, a wicked smile on her lips. “Though, maybe with you around I might reconsider.”

“I’ll sure do my best. And, for what it’s worth, I enjoyed your playing. Your song had…” Shit. What was I going to say? That it was weird and haunting? That didn’t sound right. “Well, it was good,” I finished weakly.

“High praise from one such as yourself. Surely you must be a man of culture, what with all the places you must’ve seen. That’s one of the things I love best about being with the merchants—the freedom. The travel. Though my travels are far less exotic than yours, I’m sure.” She traced a finger through the waters again, drawing my eye. “Just Lyshaven to Halgem to Belmonk, then around the mountain and through the hamlets, and back to Ironmoor. Still, it suits me well enough. I find I like to come and go and go and come and come and go again.”

“You and me both,” I said, meeting her eyes and refusing to look away.

“I find a little absence keeps my fans begging for more,” she said. “And as an artist, I can hardly ask for anything other than that.” She smiled, leaned forward as if to kiss me, and stood. “Speaking of my fans,” she purred, “I’ll be performing in the Three Chimneys tonight, but if you would like to continue our chat when I’m done, you could always visit me in my wagon.”

She didn’t wait for an answer. Women that beautiful never did.

I watched her walk the length of the baths just like every other man in the place.

When I was finally done, the attendants returned my clothes. They were still mildly damp but at least I didn’t have to worry about them being defiled by my pixie familiar. Washed, wearing clean duds, and with a rumbling stomach, I threaded my way back to the common room, ready to chow down and enjoy some of Maggie’s awful beer. Well, maybe not enjoy. More like tolerate.

Somehow, Annelli had beaten me back. She was already strumming away, driving the other men mad with her low-cut top and the wink in her eye.

Maggie was busy rushing around the room, dispensing drinks and bowls, but she made sure I had a plate of the finest meat and softest bread. A huge part of me wanted to take Annelli up on her invitation for a little late-night rendezvous, but by the time I got done with the meal I could barely keep my eyes open. It seemed Annelli was just getting into the swing of things, and based on the fat tips she was accumulating in a hollowed-out gourd, I had no doubt she would keep right on playing for a while.

Taking a Vigil to bed might have been on her agenda, but money was money.

There would always be another night. With a sigh, I slipped from the stool and stumbled toward my bedroom, tucked away toward the back of the inn. Annelli offered me a reproachful look as I passed and a little pout, but like I thought, she kept right on singing. Which was fine by me, because I was asleep before my head hit what passed for a pillow, chased down into a dreamless sleep by her honeyed voice.

22

Skirmish

I’d barely closed my eyes when a searing pain erupted across my forehead. The fire burned through my skin, cauterizing the wound, then bored through my skull like a drill press gouging deep into my grey matter. Something was wrong. I sat up, body trembling, perspiration matting my hair and slicking my bare chest. The pain in my head grew more intense, not less. An urgent warning. Something was terribly wrong.

Bad dreams and night terrors were nothing new to me. Even before taking a grenade to the gut, I would wake up once or twice a week in a cold sweat, the faces of the dead haunting me from beyond the grave. Sometimes it was friends like Cal, blown to pieces, other times it was the faces of men I’d killed, streams of crimson running from empty eye sockets. PTSD was a son of a bitch, but this…

I kicked my legs out over the edge of the lumpy sack of potatoes that passed for a mattress and staggered over to the silvered mirror like a drunk elbow deep into a twenty-four pack of Natty Ice.

Through the midnight gloom I could see the mark on my forehead blazing with a soft golden light, and holy shit did it hurt. Once on the firing range, a piece of hot brass had popped into the collar of my flak jacket, searing my skin like a stove top burner. This sensation was similar. I pressed my hand against the tattoo and ground my palm into the skin. Didn’t help much at first, but eventually the pain faded into the familiar throb of a migraine: moderately debilitating but better than being stabbed in the face with a red-hot soldering iron.

I surveyed the room for any sign of Cal or Renholm, but I was alone and there was no obvious sign of danger. Maybe this had something to do with bumping up my Arcana and Insight stats. Or maybe I was delusional and all the killing from today was just getting under my skin. I splashed a little damp water across my face, courtesy of the pitcher, then headed back toward my bed. As I dropped down onto the edge of the mattress, a scream cut through the night.

At first I thought it was just the creaky wooden frame of the bed protesting under my weight—I wasn’t exactly a small-figured guy—but then another scream followed. This one louder and filled with bloodcurdling horror. The shriek sliced through the air, confirming that whatever had woken me from a dead sleep wasn’t some figment of my imagination.

No, some sort of tom fuckery was indeed afoot.

I leapt to my feet, called forth my armor from the Soul Vault in a swirl of black mist—running headlong into a firefight without PPE was a good way to get dead—summoned my weapons from the Soul Vault, and proceeded to haul ass out the door. I tore into the common room, which was silent other than the soft snores of drunks who’d bedded down on the floor for the night. I quickly scanned the room until I found one drunk in particular, passed out beneath the same secluded table he’d been at earlier. Arturo. I weaved my way through the bodies then nudged the slumbering priest in the ribs with the toe of my boot.

He let out a yelp and shot straight up, head slamming into the bottom of the table.

“What… Who… What is happening?” he stammered blearily, rubbing at his noggin.

“We got trouble, padre,” I said. “Get your shit together and catch up with me.”

“What?” he said, eyes wide. “You can’t just go blundering off. You’re not trained for this!”

“Neither is the person who’s getting attacked out there. Besides, lack of training never stopped me before,” I yelled over one shoulder, already headed for the exit. I burst through the front door of the Three Chimneys and paused, just long enough to scan the square. The scream had come from the east but if I took the wrong alley, I could be streets away from the action and no use to anyone. I waited, tasting the wind, scouring the stars, dividing and subdividing the sounds that came at me.

The cats and rats and humans were scrabbling in the dark—aware but hardly ready for the thing that was inside the walls of the town. A candle appeared in the window to my left. Then another. And another. The town was rousing itself and readying for the fight. Arturo had said the Elder Changeling could shapeshift into any human form it chose, so I needed to keep my head on a swivel. I could safely check the priest off my list of potential suspects, but any other person I passed could be the culprit.

Another scream, this one gurgling and popping, with gallons of blood at its back, lit up my senses. Yep, definitely to the east. I spun on a heel and took off without a second of hesitation. I’ve always been a helluva runner—even hit the perfect PFT with my 17:56 three-mile time—and now I had adrenaline pumping through my veins along with all the passive strength I’d gained from adding another point to Brawn.

My arms and legs pumped like mad as I bolted into the alleyway closest to the Three Chimneys, then hooked a hard right and another quick left, dashing out onto a street largely devoid of light. My fancy new eyeballs pierced the dark, making it easy to avoid any and all obstacles.

I’d covered half the town in a matter of minutes.

The screaming had faded, but a smell lingering on the wind spurred me on. It was unmistakable. The rusty aroma of fresh-spilled blood, sharp and metallic, mixed with the contents of a stomach and the bile that had been shed during the kill. I was close now. A final turn landed me smack-dab in the middle of a scene ripped straight out of a B Monster movie. If that B movie had an A-list budget and monsters that only the most talented CGI guys could conjure.

On the ground was a woman, or what was left of her. I took her in with a single glance, my mind analyzing the flood of raw information in the span of a heartbeat. It was worse than I’d feared. I knew that face.

That hair.

Those still and staring eyes.

Not some stranger…

It was the bathhouse attendant who’d been so kind to me just hours earlier. Her pristine, white uniform had been stained a deep ruby red and lay in tatters about the alley.

She’d been hacked in two, though the gashes were crude and jagged, the work of ripping and tearing rather than slicing and dicing. The top half of her body had been flayed, the skin peeled away to reveal ropy red muscle beneath. Thank god above she was dead. I’ve seen some grisly shit, but this was nightmare fuel of the highest order.

The creature hovering over her was the most horrifying thing I’d ever seen, and I’d once had the utterly unfortunate luck to catch Gunny Cortez in a Speedo. The monster barely looked up. It was feasting, its hands buried deep in her guts, gleaming talons jabbing at her silent heart. Its spike-covered back was partially turned toward me, but from where I was standing it looked like the creature was shoveling her innards directly into its mouth.

In the alley behind the monster, a beefy-orange tabby cat wove its way toward the kill, loping in and out of the gutter like a pro. They’d be here, the hunters, just as soon as the thing moved away. Hopefully this furball had enough common sense to keep its distance, because I had no doubt the monster would rip it to shreds given half a chance.

I pulled my gaze away from the furball and turned it back to the Elder Changeling. I pressed myself against the stone wall and watched the creature as it feasted. It groaned. The sound stretched out, melodic and sickening. Like your gut-busting uncle with his face buried in his third slice of pecan pie at Thanksgiving. There was no mistaking that sound. It was satisfied with its meal. Enjoying her liver, reveling in her spleen, saving the heart for last.

Eventually, the beast rose and turned to get a better angle on its meal, giving me my first good look at the thing.

It stood at least nine feet tall, crowding the alley and towering over its prey. It had enormous, gorilla-like arms, which were matted with blood and chunks of the attendant’s body. Its hands were the size of trashcan lids and had curved talons that looked like an army of hunting knives. Curiously, it had rather skinny, goat-like legs that ended in obsidian hooves. Most disturbing of all was the frail human body dangling down the front of the Changeling’s chest, the limbs limp and listless like a fleshy, oversized ventriloquist’s dummy.

Reality seemed to slip slightly out of focus as my mind desperately tried to piece together what I was seeing. It almost looked like there were two creatures—an enormous goat-hoofed ape and a desiccated corpse bound together at the head. And where the head should’ve been was a heavy wooden mask with dead lifeless eyes, curling ram’s horns, and an odd symbol emblazoned on the forehead.

Arturo said that Elder Changelings were humanoid in their true form, but this thing wasn’t even in the humanoid ballpark. Was it possible that we were dealing with something else entirely? Yeah, yeah it was. But that didn’t change my job—this thing was murdering people, and I needed to find a way to stop it, no matter what it was. Whether it was a Changeling or not, it had to have a weak spot I could exploit. Everything had a weak spot if you looked hard enough.

Eyes? Nope, covered by the wooden mask.

No real neck to speak of.

Where exactly did this thing keep its kidneys, I wondered. I needed to pepper Arturo with questions the next time I saw him. I wasn’t even remotely prepared for this at the most basic level. Did a shapeshifter remain human on the inside? Should I aim for the heart? Did it have a heart? Or more than one heart?

“Holy shit,” Cal said, materializing beside me. “We are so screwed. And by we, I mean you, since I’m already dead.”

“Any ideas how I should hurt this thing?” I hissed.

Cal shrugged. “The heart?” he suggested. “Most things need a heart to survive. Though this thing might have two hearts since it has two bodies.”

“Yeah, already thought of that option,” I muttered.

“You could always try setting it on fire,” he suggested. “As someone who has personally been set on fire, I can tell you it both sucks balls and also kills you.”

He had a good point and I was deeply regretting that I’d opted for Fae Tether instead of Unbound Blaze. That’s what laziness will get you.

The monster straightened then turned, its hooves clacking on the cobblestones, the frail corpse covering its chest swaying as it moved.

Oh shit. Did it see me?

It cocked its masked head.

Crap, it had definitely seen me.

No point trying for subtlety anymore. I’d been made, and if I was going to launch a preemptive attack, I wouldn’t get a better chance than this. I raised my Colt and fired off a tight five, aiming for center mass. The Hunger Affinity rounds pounded into the desiccated human meat bib with wet splats and bright bursts of blood. Every shot was on target, but the creature didn’t seem to mind in the least.

It raised its masked head to the skies, let out a primal bellow that rattled windows, then charged, rushing forward in a gorilla-like gait, using its massive arms to propel itself toward me. Pistol level and on target, I pulled the trigger again, activating Maximum Penetration. My body contracted and my Stamina bar dropped as a round rocketed out of the barrel and slammed into the creature’s masked face. Instead of cracking the wood like a coconut and painting the alley walls with gray matter, the round ricocheted harmlessly away, careening into a dusty stone wall.

Maximum Penetration had completely failed to… well, penetrate. That had never happened before, I swear.

I dismissed the Colt back to the Soul Vault and opted instead for a magical solution. Hand raised, palm outthrust, I triggered Kinetic Blast. Raw energy ripped its way through my body, draining my Arcana bar by half. The spell slammed into the monster’s right shoulder, slowing it more than the pistol had, but not stopping it. The creature kept barreling toward me, even angrier than before. Shit, shit, shit. I backpedaled, attempting to get clear of the alleyway—I didn’t want to be pinned down with that thing—but I wasn’t fast enough.

It closed the distance and lashed out with a lumbering backhanded swing. I narrowly dodged the blow, but a haymaker from the other hand caught me square in the chest and blasted me a good ten feet through the air. Something cracked inside my torso and a lancing pain needled one of my lungs. I landed in a heap, wheezing for air, white starbursts exploding in front of my eyes. Cal was right, I was so boned. I’d thought the Crave Ghouls and the Grass Hounds were tough shit, but this thing was in a league of its own. This was prime time, and I wasn’t ready.

Cal was suddenly beside me, hunched over, hands on his knees, a worried expression tattooed across his face.

“You okay, buddy?”

“Nope,” I rasped. “Hits… like… a 105 round.”

If I was going to survive, I needed help. Arturo was nowhere to be seen and there was no sign of the town guard—though it wasn’t like they could do anything against a threat like this. But Cal was right there. In desperation, I shoved a hand into the leather pouch where I kept the Affinity Scales and fished a bunch out at random. It was possible that I could give them to Cal and they would do nothing useful. It was equally possible that he could manifest in the Material Realm, half-crazed, and turn on me like the goddamned Hulk.

The creature was coming fast, and I didn’t have much to lose.

“Help me,” I groaned, shoving the Scales into his palm.

Cal slammed all the coins into his mouth at once without a flash of hesitation. There was a flare of angry red light as he shifted and changed. Cal as I knew him disappeared and a moment later a Crave Ghoul stood hunched over beside me—rubbery, sunburnt red flesh, bulbous belly, gangly limbs, bat-like ears. Except Crave Ghoul Cal was jacked. Easily half again as large as the Crave Ghouls I’d fought and far more muscular. How was the only word that ran through my mind.

Unfortunately, I had no idea what the answer was, and frankly I didn’t have two shits to give so long as he didn’t maul me.

The roided-out specter turned Crave Ghoul stared at me with hungry, bloodshot eyes, then spun and leapt at the encroaching monster instead of making a meal out of me. Though the monster we were fighting was bigger and, no doubt, stronger, Cal was faster. He ducked beneath a swipe and circled right in a crouch. The monster raked at Cal with its claws, but the Ghoul scrambled forward on all fours, moving like a spider. Cal wrapped lanky arms around an oddly bent goat leg and sank into the creature’s thigh with ravenous teeth.

With a violent jerk of his head, Cal ripped free a bloody hunk of meat, but that was all he managed to do before the monster retaliated. The monster brought an elbow careening down into the back of Cal’s neck, jarring him loose. Then with a flick of one oversized wrist the ground split beneath Cal’s inhuman feet and a writhing tangle of enchanted vines, covered in inch-long thorns, twisted around Cal, hoisting him into the air. The vines constricted, carving bloody channels in the Ghoul’s skin, threatening to choke the life from his body.

With a groan I lumbered to my feet and stuck my hand out again, unleashing another Kinetic Blast that careened into the monster’s mask-covered face. The desiccated body wobbled from the attack—not hurt but distracted—then turned its attention back on me, Cal momentarily forgotten. That last Kinetic Blast had drained the remainder of my Arcana Pool, but what had worked for Cal might also work for me. I grabbed a Grass Hound Affinity Scale from the pouch at my side and clutched it tightly in my palm, absorbing the power.

Flesh reknit itself, bones popped back into place, and my blue Arcana gauge zipped back to full. In a blink, an odd glimmering glow surrounded the creature like a halo. Intuitively I knew that it was wearing some sort of glamor, designed to conceal its host identity. The Glamor Scale allowed me to pierce through low-level Fae veils, but this thing’s magic was too powerful for me to dispel. That was unfortunate, but there wasn’t a damned thing I could do about it.

The important thing was that I was still in this fight.

“Come get some, dick noodle,” I baited.

I dismissed the Colt and summoned the K-Bar in its place, flipping the blade around so it ran along the outside of my forearm. My gun hadn’t done much damage and Kinetic Blast was about as effective as a Super Soaker—let’s see how it fared against supernaturally sharp steel.

I dashed inside the creature’s guard, ducked beneath a powerful but slow overhand strike, then threw myself into a roll, avoiding a cloven-footed front kick. I came up in a crouch and slashed the blade across the back of its leg, drawing a bright line of crimson. I danced back from swiping claws only to find a creeping vine twining around my ankle, miring me in place. The thorns bit through my leather boots and dug into my skin. I slashed at the summoned foliage, but I wasn’t fast enough to get loose.

The monster came in hot and fast, hitting me with a backhand that broke something new inside of me. Bright jags of angry pain spasmed through my body as I tumbled through the air. The corner of a building met my back and something else snapped—

Everything below my waist immediately went numb. I landed on the cobblestone street, my legs completely unresponsive, which was as good as a death sentence with a few extra steps. Frantically, I drew another Scale from my pouch and siphoned off the Affinity in a quick burst. My body tried to respond to the influx of energy—I could feel things attempting to shift back into proper place—but whatever damage had been done was too extensive even for the Scale’s power.

The creature stomped toward me, seeming to savor its victory. My gaze shot toward Cal, who was still suspended in the air, bound by the vines. The monster paused and followed my gaze, turning back toward the Crave Ghoul. It extended a comically oversized hand and curled its fingers into a tight fist. The vines wrapped around Cal’s arms and legs ripped outward in one violent spasm of bloody chaos. Cal’s limbs popped off like an action figure. The Ghoul’s corpse never hit the ground.

The Crave Ghoul’s body dissolved into a silver mist, quickly whisked away by a brisk evening breeze; he was either dead for real or banished back to the Etheric Realm. Which, I couldn’t say.

The creature resumed its slow clop toward me, the withered human body swaying as it moved, and I knew I was done. My legs were useless. There was something—probably several somethings—broken inside my chest, and every breath was more labored and painful than the one before it. Black was stealing in on the edges of my vision and the chilly numbness from my legs was spreading upward into my hands. The creature stopped several feet away, looming above me, triumphant. It raised a fist, preparing to crush my head like an overripe Halloween pumpkin.

An angry hiss echoed from the roof above me, catching the creature’s attention.

It was the sound of a cat.

The monster looked up just as the orange tabby from earlier leapt at its wooden face. Sitting on the back of the tomcat was Renholm the pixie.

“For the honor of the Greenbriar Court!” he shrieked, wielding the sharpened quill from my room. The cat scampered over the monster’s shoulder, latching onto its muscled back with razor-sharp claws. Renholm went to work, slashing and stabbing with the quill, drawing miniscule splashes of blood. The pixie wasn’t really doing much damage—or any damage for that matter—but by God was he hard to ignore. Best of all, because the cat was positioned directly between the behemoth’s shoulder blades, it couldn’t even reach Renholm, not even with its oversized gorilla arms.

This thing was a certified gym bro, and its weakness turned out to be all of its bulky muscles.

“This way!” I heard from a street over. Arturo’s voice.

With my enhanced hearing, it was easy to pick out the clack of boots over cobblestones and the clatter of pitchforks and halberds. Sweet baby Jesus, the drunk priest had come to my rescue, and it sounded like he’d roused the entire city guard to lend him a hand. There was no way they could kill the monster, but interestingly enough, it appeared that the creature wasn’t spoiling for a fight against everyone in Ironmoor. It offered me one last, emotionless glance through the tiny slit eyes of its wooden mask, then turned and fled.

The firelight of a dozen torches lit up the street, dispelling the gloom.

The last thing I saw was Arturo, clad in full plate mail, sprinting toward me with his heavy war staff clutched in one hand.

Then everything went dark as pain rampaged through me like an angry hippo. Looked like my shot at a second life just wasn’t meant to be after all…

23

After Action

I woke up to Arturo slapping me across the face. I reluctantly blinked my eyes open and squinted against the glare of orange candlelight from the chapel’s chandelier. I groaned and immediately wished Arturo had just let me die in peace. That monster had pulped my nose, and it honest to god felt like I’d taken another frag grenade to the gut. Even worse than the pain was the absolute lack of feeling in my legs.

“Thank the gods you’re not dead,” Arturo said, staring down into my face. “You look absolutely dreadful and from the way your lower body is twisted, I’d wager you broke your spine. Perhaps in more than one spot.” He raised his hands. “I can’t believe you just charged in there like that. It was noble. Brave. Your zeal for justice is admirable and it is no wonder Raguel chose you to serve his will. It was also incredibly stupid and irresponsible.

“A day ago you didn’t even know how to summon or dismiss your Soul Bound weapons, and now you think you’re ready to fight an Elder Changeling? But it’s fine.” He sounded like he was reassuring himself more than me. “As long as you’re alive, all can be fixed. Touch the altar. Minor injuries you can heal on your own, but something this”—he paused, lips pursing into a thin line as he surveyed the damage—“extensive will take time in the Soul Vault. Go now. While you are still able to do even that much.”

I grunted incoherently, propped myself up, then slapped a hand against the floating orb.

I landed on the floor of the Vault in a huff, my legs still twisted and lifeless beneath me. For better or worse, my legs were the only thing without feeling. Every other scratch, bruise, and break came through with crystal clarity, and great holy shit balls did it feel like I’d gone nine rounds with an angry gorilla. Much as I hated to admit it, Arturo was right—that thing was definitely out of my weight class. I’d brought a butter knife to a heavy artillery fight. That thing was packing serious heat and if it wasn’t for Cal and Renholm, a broken spine would’ve been the least of my worries.

If I had any chance of going toe to toe with that thing and coming out on top, I needed to git gud and I needed to do it fast. Since I couldn’t so much as stand, however, attempting to hunt down Mortka and grind out some easy Essence wasn’t an option, which meant it was time to hit the books instead. My Soul Vault was a wealth of invaluable knowledge and I’d barely scratched the surface on what this place had to offer me. It was time to rectify that. This place was a weapon, and like any weapon, I needed absolute familiarity with it if I was going to use it effectively.

I hadn’t leveled up since my encounter with the Grass Hounds and I didn’t have enough Essence to upgrade any of my Attribute Points, so I ignored my avatar. Instead, I low crawled across the marble floor, pulling myself along with my arms and elbows, and into the sparsely appointed library. I breathed a ragged sigh of relief when I saw that I’d left both the Handbook of the Vigilant and the Grimoire of Virtues on the study desk next to the padded leather chair—getting books down off the shelves would be a nightmare in my current condition.

Through sheer effort of will, I pulled my mangled body into the reading chair, broken ribs grating against my insides with every motion.

By the time I was finally seated, I was drenched in sweat and shaking from the exertion. Breathing hard and feeling on the edge of puking, I grabbed the pouch containing my Affinity tokens and unceremoniously upended the leather sack onto the desk beside me. Maybe being in my Soul Vault would help speed up my recovery but loading up on Affinity Scales probably couldn’t hurt. At the very least, it would help take some of the edge off. My supply was significantly lower than I remembered, but then I hadn’t exactly been paying attention when I shoved a handful of Scales into Cal’s outstretched hand.

Desperation forces people to make stupid, rash choices. Back in Iraq, I’d seen Marines blaze through two or three mags of .554—ninety rounds total—trying to take out one pinned insurgent. When you were in the thick of a firefight it was hard to think straight, and trying to do complicated tasks like keep track of how many rounds were left in a mag was next to impossible, unless you’d drilled that kind of discipline into your head a thousand times before the shit hit the fan. Although I had my fair share of combat experience, I’d never faced anything like the creature in the alleyway and I wasn’t too proud to admit I’d panicked.

I glanced down at my remaining supply of Scales, sifting through them to see what was left.

I had four Hunger Affinity Scales, all Novice Class. I had more of the Glamor Scales—one Disciple Class and seven Novice Class. I froze as I counted out the handful of transformation tokens I’d picked up—all three of the Grass Hound tokens were present and accounted for, but my sole Crave Ghoul token was missing. Which is when it clicked. I must’ve accidentally slipped Cal the token in my haste to not die horrifically. That had some damned interesting implications. I grabbed a Novice Glamor Scale and drained its power, banishing the fogginess in my head.

Shit was better than cocaine and coffee.

Already feeling moderately improved, I picked up the grimoire and quickly thumbed through the pages until I found the section on Totem Transformation, listed under Bestial Magics in the Ward of Balance.

Totem Transformation

In the simplest sense, Mortka are merely physical manifestations of Essence, shaped by the powerful Affinities of the Material Realm. By consuming the Transformation Tokens they drop, a Vigil with the Totem Transformation power is able to physically manifest into that creature for a short while, gaining access to all of the creature’s natural and supernatural abilities to undo the wrongs of the world. The duration of the transformation is dependent entirely upon the quality of the Transformation Token used.

A Note on True Form Transformation Tokens.

Just as Vigils bond with a weapon, they also bond with the spirit of a fearsome Totem Creature. Each form is unique to the Vigil, and when a True Form Transformation Token is consumed, the Vigil is able to assume the monstrous incarnation of their soul, delivering bloody retribution on behalf of Raguel. But the Vigil Bound must employ this skill with great care, for shifting into their True Totem Form takes a grueling toll on the body and leaves the Vigil weak and often powerless once the transformation wears off.

The ability sounded amazing, and for only two Ward Points, it would be a great ace in the hole for when things inevitably went shitty. But there was no mention or note about spirit familiars being able to consume the Transformation Tokens to physically manifest. Assuming that creature hadn’t killed Cal—and I wasn’t too worried this time around, Cal had a nasty habit of coming back from the grave—we’d have to do a little experimentation to see if he could replicate the process with the Grass Hound Tokens.

But even if he could transform using the Tokens, that wouldn’t be enough to stop the monster we’d tangled with.

Cal had been a nuisance at best and the Grass Hounds weren’t any tougher than the Crave Ghouls. I needed to be stronger. Tougher. I needed to be able to hit harder and bring some serious firepower down on that nasty sumabitch the next time we squared up. Problem was, I was still only level three. I could reclaim my Ward Points and unlock other skills, but even doing that would only net me thirty-five Ward Points. Some of the most powerful spells in my arsenal would eat up every point I had, and even if I could unlock them, I didn’t have the Recommended Attributes to use them without killing myself in the process.

The solution was simple, at least in my backward redneck mind.

If I couldn’t make myself better, then I needed to make my stuff better. My Colt could mow down any human enemy stupid enough to cross my line of fire, but that thing wasn’t human. I glanced at the weapons manuals lining the shelf beneath the other arcane tomes. But what if I could beef up my firepower? Or augment my armor? I had a forge and a lot of time on my hands, so I figured now was the perfect time to learn how to use it. There were a number of abilities and spells pertaining to crafting within the grimoire, so I started there, flipping to a section called College of Reason listed out beneath the Ward of Truth.

There were five skills, each of which cost ten Ward Points to unlock: Sage Smith, Mortka Forger, Affinity Retrofitter, Arcane Transmuter, and Alchemic Mastery.

They didn’t have any immediate combat applications, which is why I’d ignored them before, but damned if they weren’t exactly what I needed in the here and now.

The only problem was how expensive they were. At ten points a shot, I could only afford three of them with my current point allotment. Alchemic Mastery allowed me to use my item identification feature to catalog natural ingredients such as flowers, herbs, and monster parts to determine their basic uses within any alchemic solution. And, although in theory, anyone could create alchemic mixtures, this skill additionally increased the efficacy of potions and poisons I created by 25% and removed any natural impurities from the finished product.

Useful, but not what I was looking for.

In order to create items—be they weapons, armor, or modifications for my Soul Bound weapons—I needed very specific ingredients, some of which were incredibly hard to come by. Arcane Transmuter was a shortcut that would allow me to combine lower-quality fabrication elements and Affinity Scales of the same type into a higher fabrication element of the same variety. For example, I could take four Novice Class Glamor Affinity Scales and mash them together to forge one Disciple Class Glamor Affinity Scale. The same was true for Transformation Tokens, metal ores, Mortka horns, or any other fabrication component.

All of them had amazing utility, but since I only had so many Ward Points to work with, I focused on the other three options: Sage Smith, Mortka Forger, and Affinity Retrofitter. That trio was exactly the combo I needed. Sage Smith was the basic skill employed by those who wanted to master the Soul Forge. When unlocked, the ability would allow me to destroy items, which, in turn, would generate detailed blueprints that could be used to replicate the item or—in the case of weapons—create a “Soul Skin” that could be applied to my Soul Bound weapons.

Sage Smith by itself had potential; it let me build all the basics I’d need to get by, but it really shined when combined with Mortka Forger. Who wanted a dagger made of iron when they could have one crafted from Grass Hound Talons? That’s what Mortka Forger did—instead of fabricating basic-bitch items with only run-of-the-mill ores and ingredients, I could incorporate Mortka elements into my designs to craft items that were far stronger and more durable, with innate properties that could be further augmented by Arcanum Tokens.

And speaking of Arcanum Tokens, that’s where Affinity Retrofitter came into play. Getting my hands on powerful tokens of faith was pure luck, and according to Arturo they were exceedingly rare. Affinity Retrofitter allowed me to create Pure Affinity Scales, which were necessary to manufacture the lenses that were used in magical foci, like my Colt. But I could also use all of that stripped Affinity to create Arcanum Tokens of my own design. Tokens which could add additional effects to my various set items.

With those three spells under my belt, I’d be able to turn myself into a goddamned tank—assuming I could figure out how to work the Soul Forge.

I set the grimoire back on the desktop and braced myself as I flopped out of the chair like a fish out of water. I craned my neck upward, searching for the next book I needed, Pellervo’s Guide to the Soul Forge. Bingo. It took some finagling and some serious upper body strength to climb the shelves and pull down the manual, but I managed the damned thing. I also accidentally knocked some of the weapons manuals from the shelf below, dropping them onto the floor. I thumped back down, annoyed by the brokenness of my body, and busily set about picking up the fumbled books.

The first was a U.S. MARINE CORPS TECHNICAL MANUAL, SNIPER RIFLE, 7.62 MM, M40A3, SNIPER RIFLE, 7.62 MM, M40A5. The M40A3 was the standard issue sniper rifle for all the jarheads that made it through the Scout Sniper program. Recon and Snipers were different groups under the Marine Command Umbrella, and though I’d never completed the SOI-E training that Snipers endured, I was more than familiar with the weapons they employed.

The manual had fallen open and I paused while idly scanning the pages.

Screw me sideways.

These weren’t the same manuals I’d studied during my stint as an Armorer. There were similarities, of course, specs that detailed all the basics about the weapon—weight, ammunition type and caliber, barrel length, effective and max firing ranges, muzzle velocity, and a dozen other details besides. But there were also differences. Significant differences. There were dozens of detailed schematics for every single piece of the weapon, ranging from the bolt assembly and stock to the receiver, recoil pad, and barrel. But these were modified schematics, detailing the fabrication components necessary to build them.

This was an honest-to-god instruction manual that laid out everything I would need to augment my Colt—transforming the pistol into just about any weapon I could dream of. Assuming I had the parts and the skills to pull it off, of course. I felt like a kid on Christmas morning—one who’d just pulled a sawed-off shotgun out of their stocking. I scooped more weapons manuals onto the floor with me, cackling uncontrollably. That dickhead monster was going to pay for killing those people and mangling my spine.

Let’s see how it handled a .50 cal round to the face.

I fashioned a hobo sack with my shirt and loaded it down with all the books and weapons manuals I might need—not being able to walk was a colossal pain in the ass, and I didn’t want to be making frequent trips back and forth through the Vault. Sack clutched in one hand, I dragged my useless legs over to the fountain and propped myself up on the edge of the basin, staring down at the brilliant blue pool of water with its circling koi.

I grunted in dismay. The pool wasn’t so pristine at the moment. It looked like someone had dumped a jerry can full of diesel into the little pond. A greasy black film stained the surface, obscuring the koi within. The golden fish seemed to be handling it okay, but the silver koi wasn’t looking so hot. Its front flippers struggled feebly and its tail hung lifeless, refusing to so much as wiggle. I still wasn’t completely sure what the fish were—there was probably a chapter dedicated to it in the handbook—but, because I wasn’t a complete moron, it was obvious they represented me in some crucial way.

I reached down and trailed my fingers over the surface of the water—bright jags of power shot through my hand as though I’d just stuck my finger into a light socket. I quickly withdrew my digits and decided taking a swim with my fish pals probably wasn’t such a good idea.

“Hang in there, fishy-boys,” I said. “We’ll get this shit ironed out and make the asshole responsible pay.”

I turned my attention away from the pool, glanced up at my avatar, and called up my character sheet.

<<<>>>

Boyd Knight

Race: Vigil Bound

Level: Novice, Gold Rank

Current Essence: 376

Next Ascended Rank: 3,200

Attribute Points: 0

Ward Points: 0

Characteristics

Brawn: 18

Verve: 18

Finesse: 15

Arcana: 14

Insight: 15

Vigil Wards 

Ward of Justice: Soul Bound Weapons (Boon), Maximum Penetration, Armor Evocation

Ward of Valor: Diamond Body (Boon), Combat Sense

Ward of Wrath: Arcane Insight (Boon), Kinetic Blast

Ward of Balance: Language of the Heavens (Boon), Sidhe Pact, Fae Tether

Ward of Truth: Threads of Fate (Boon)

Expand Ward List 

<<<>>>

I focused on Threads of Fate and a new notification appeared.

Action: Activate the Boon Threads of Fate to Reclaim some or all of your spent Ward Points. This action can be performed once every twelve hours. Proceed? Yes/No

“Yes,” I said, voice scratchy.

Warning: You currently have an Official Pact with Renholm of the Greenbriar Court! If you reclaim the Ward Points invested in Sidhe Pact, this contract will be nullified. Would you like to proceed, or make this skill an exemption? Proceed/Exemption?

Shit, I forgot about my bargain with the insane pixie, but after he’d just pulled my bacon out of the fire, I couldn’t just go and cancel my Pact with him. For one, loyalty was ingrained in my bones, and for another, that little maniac would probably go out of his way to make my life a living hell. I didn’t want to be constantly looking over my shoulder for the murderous fae. Besides, even if I made an exemption and kept my Pact in place, I would still be able to afford the three abilities I needed to work the forge.

I selected Exemption. Threads of Fate went to work a second later.

I would love to say it was a pleasant experience, but like pretty much everything that happened in the Soul Vault, it was misery. Like backstroking through an Olympic swimming pool full of shattered glass. Except it was my soul, not my body that took the thrashing. And I was even lucky enough to get a glimpse of what was happening in real time. My spinning avatar flashed, my physical body disappearing, replaced by a human-shaped circulatory system comprised of threads of gold, silver, red, green, and yellow.

There were eleven blazing symbols, tattooed at various points of the tangle of circulatory threads—several in my head and torso, several more dotting my arms and legs. Three gold, two green, two red, three blue, one silver, all corresponding to the five wards, Justice, Valor, Wrath, Balance, and Truth. The tattoos themselves represented the skills, abilities, and spells I’d already unlocked. I knew, for example, that the crimson sigil overlaying my right wrist corresponded to Kinetic Blast—the hand being the primary focal point for that type of offensive magic—while the blue, circular ward positioned over my lips represented my Language of the Heavens Boon.

Those tattoos weren’t placed randomly but served to unlock specific internal Essence channels. Without those sigils in place, the channels snapped closed, cutting off my ability to access that specific source of magical energy. Without having the green Valor sigil carved into the channel at the base of my skull, my vision and hearing dulled considerably, cutting off the Combat Sense ability. Having those channels snap abruptly closed felt like having a limb amputated in a single cruel blow. And I wasn’t just losing one limb, I was losing five in one fell swoop.

I lay on the ground, groaning in pain, body convulsing from the sheer trauma of the experience. Threads of Fate was an awesome ability, but apparently a skill like that didn’t come without a cost of its own.

Once the pain finally subsided, I pushed myself up into a sitting position and leaned back on my palms. I wasn’t looking forward to going through that every couple of days, especially not as I leveled up and unlocked more and more Ward Points to spend. Closing five channels all at once was misery, but I couldn’t even fathom what closing ten or fifteen would be like. Probably skinny-dipping in a vat of acid. Whatever. If two minutes of agony was all I had to endure for the chance to unlock any skill in my arsenal on demand, then fuck it, that was a price worth paying.

Besides, that was Future Boyd’s problem. Present Boyd’s problem was figuring out how to get the Soul Forge fired up and running.

I accessed my avatar once more and doled out my thirty reclaimed Ward Points to Sage Smith, Mortka Forger, and Affinity Retrofitter. Now that I’d undergone the branding process, and its reverse, I was more attuned and could feel a divine presence opening up new channels, one in my sternum and one more on each shoulder. I was half expecting the Wards to upload divine knowledge straight into my brain like some fantasy version of the Matrix, but that didn’t happen. Looked like I’d have to figure out how to use the forge all by my lonesome.

Thankfully, I had a guidebook to help show me the way.

24

Soulsmith

I grabbed my hobo sack, slung it across my back once more, and crawled into the forge. I could practically hear Drill Instructor Screw Y’all thundering at me to keep my chin up and my ass down, “Don’t want to take a bullet to the spine, do ya, Recruit?” Turned out, taking the corner of a building to the spine wasn’t any better.

The forge itself had glossy onyx walls on every side and a host of benches, tables, and tools. A huge portion of the room was taken up by a crystalline forge with an enormous set of leather bellows jutting out from one side. Beside it was a blackened anvil and several barrels that, according to Pellervo—the dude who wrote Pellervo’s Guide to the Soul Forge—were used for quenching crafted materials. But although this place looked like a normal forge in many ways, nothing could be further from the truth.

To the right of the forge was a large fabrication table with a stool. Hanging on the wall above the workstation was an odd assortment of tools that I had no names for, though Pellervo sure did. These were not like a typical blacksmith’s tools. Nope. These were instruments of Arcana manipulation, meant to interact with the new Wards I’d opened up in my chest and shoulders. With them, I could take refined fabricated pieces and overlay them on a three-dimensional blueprint, manipulating them with mind and magic.

I left my sack on the floor near the workbench and struggled onto the stool, balancing myself precariously, using my legs to keep me propped up even though they were numb. With no small amount of effort, I peeled open the hobo sack and pulled the first item out that I wanted to practice with—the flanged mace I’d looted from the Grass Hounds. I placed it on the workbench and immediately got a message:

Activate Sage Smith Skill: Would you like to harvest this weapon and create a unique weapon schematic? Yes/No

I hit yes and the workbench immediately started to glow with a blue-white light; a silver handprint appeared on the face of the tabletop. I pressed my palm against it and felt a trickle of energy bleed into the table as my Arcana bar appeared. On the workbench, the mace rose into the air, enveloped by a nimbus of electric blue power just like the table. The weapon spun and rotated slowly as my Arcana bar continued to drop. The glow seemed to sink into the weapon after a few seconds, and as it did, metal and leather began to melt away.

It rained down from the weapon in a steady stream like snowflakes, evaporating into pure energy before it ever touched the table’s surface. The entire process lasted all of three minutes, and by the time it was done, my Arcana gauge was on “E” and I was shaking and covered in a thin layer of perspiration. As for the weapon, nothing remained except a ghostly blue 3D version of the mace. That and a leather-bound book that had appeared on the workstation, summoned from thin air as though by magic. It looked suspiciously close to the USMC weapons manuals that were lining the library shelves.

When I removed the book from the tabletop the ghostly blue version of the weapon winked off. Now that was interesting. I fished one of the rifle manuals from the sack and dropped it onto the workstation. When I cracked the pages open, the faint blue light resumed, this time coalescing into the shape of an M16. Experimentally, I flipped the page to a section detailing the bolt housing group. The gun vanished, replaced by the mechanism displayed on the page, along with a list of fabrication ingredients necessary to create the specific components.

Well how ’bout that? Looked like we were officially in the weapon-building business.

The rifle skin was far and away more complicated than the mace skin. Sometimes in life, it was better to walk before running, and that certainly applied here—especially since I had a limited selection of fabrication ingredients to work with. I couldn’t afford to waste any of them by messing something up. I swapped the M16 schematic out for the mace schematic and gazed over the necessary list of components needed to forge a “Basic Morning Star Skin.”  

Basic Morning Star Skin Ingredient List:

(2) x Iron Ingot

(1) x Rawhide Strip

100 Sacrificed Essence

OR (1) x Pure Essence Scales (Novice Class)

Because I’d chosen Mortka Forger, there was also a secondary option for “Mortka-Forged Morning Star Skin.”

Mortka-Forged Morning Star Skin Ingredient List:

(1) x Iron Ingot

(1) x Refined Mortka Forged Steel

(1) x Rawhide Strip

(1) x Powdered Mortka Horn

(1) x Reinforced Mortka Bone

250 Sacrificed Essence

OR (2) x Pure Essence Scales (Novice Class)

OR (1) x Pure Essence Scale (Disciple Class)

I’d left all my fabrication ingredients in here before heading over to the bathhouse. A quick search told me I had everything I needed to take a crack at making the upgraded Mortka-Forged Morning Star, though even that would take a little elbow grease. I had a lot of raw ingredients, like Raw Iron Ore, Grass Hound Leather, and Non-powdered Mortka Horn. But I couldn’t use any of it—not without refining it first. After briefly consulting Pellervo’s Guide to the Soul Forge, I learned that was where the crystal forge in the corner came into play.

The imaging bench was where the majority of the actual fabrication work took place, but refining and building the individual components was the business of the forge.

Thanks to my injuries, it took me four times longer than it should have, but eventually I got myself set up by the crystal forge with my sack full of ingredients in hand. With the sage words of Pellervo to guide me, I got busy. After putting on a leather work apron and a pair of heavy-duty gloves, I loaded the Raw Iron Ore into a specialty crucible—there were a variety of different types and molds, all crafted from different materials—then used a set of industrial-sized tongs to place the crucible into the flickering blue fires of the forge.

From there, I worked the bellows, pumping them steadily with my arms to get the flames to burn at exactly the right temperature. And how could I tell how hot the flames needed to be? Simple—they changed colors. Yellow to orange, orange to red, red to purple, purple to blue, and blue to green. Dummy-proof, even for a crayon eater like me. Especially for a crayon eater like me, since I knew my colors so good.

My Stamina bar appeared during the process, but so did my Arcana gauge, siphoning off a sliver of my power with every pump—feeding it into the forge to purify and refine the contents within the dancing flames. After ten minutes the iron was ready to come out and be poured into a rough mold that I placed on top of the nearby anvil. Before the metal could fully cool, I used another set of tongs to submerge the newly formed ingot into the first of three quenching barrels located to the left of the anvil.

The barrel I used contained a strong solution of Aqua Fortis—fortified water—while the second held Oleum Fortis, or fortified oil. Both were used for cooling the fabrication components as they left the cleansing fires of the crystal forge. It was a crucial step in the process and had to be performed while the metal was still hot. If the ingot cooled too slowly it would form a weaker metal; dunking it in this solution created a vapor layer around the ingot which, in turn, meant the material would be stronger, harder, and more durable.

The second barrel, filled with oil, was used for the same purpose. Quenching in water cooled the material the fastest but also put added strain on the metal. That was fine for something like iron or even silver, but for more fragile components, like Mortka steel, the oil was needed.

After twenty seconds, I fished the ingot from the Aqua Fortis and unceremoniously dunked it into the third barrel, this one filled with a powdery black sand as fine as flour. The guidebook said the dust was called Selitrium. That didn’t mean jack shit to me and there was no further explanation of what exactly Selitrium was or where it came from—the important thing was that the powder leeched away any final impurities while simultaneously priming the material to be infused with Arcana and shaped via the workstation fabricator.

Refining the materials was not a quick process and it was more exhausting than a ten-mile hike through the rolling hills of Camp Pendleton, but it was also rewarding and strangely calming. I lost myself to the work, focused on the task at hand, and I transformed Raw Iron and Silver Ore into usable ingots and Grass Hound leather into supple sheets of reinforced hide. I even stripped out the affinity typing from a handful of my Glamor Affinity Scales—all thanks to my Affinity Retrofitter ability.

Through a laborious and tedious process, I also imbued four Glamor Scales worth of Affinity into a single silver Rjuhella coin, transforming it into a low-level Arcanum Token.

<<<>>>

Fabricated Token of Deceptive Presence

Token Type: Armor Inset, Blessed 

Rarity: Disciple

Effect 1: Gain a 3% Bonus on all Ward Abilities from the College of Deception: Stealth Step, Deft Touch, Dream Thief, Crystalline Shell.

Effect 2: +5% resistance against psionic attacks, glamor spells, and mental magics.

<<<>>> 

It took me three hours to transmute and transform all of my ingredients into useable components, and by the time I was done, my legs were, miraculously, starting to function again. Instead of being completely numb from the waist down, it now felt like both legs were filled to bursting with pins and needles. Significantly more uncomfortable than feeling nothing at all, but I’d never been happier in my life. The injury I’d sustained was the type you didn’t bounce back from—not on my world, at least—but here, even debilitating damage could be shrugged off with a little time.

I plopped down on the stool and placed the mace schematic on the workbench, which instantly conjured the ghostly blue 3D model into the air. I carefully read over the materials list and added each of the requisite items to the workstation as well. One of the items hanging on the wall above the bench was a silver glove. It looked like metal but felt like silky cloth; engraved into each digit was a series of small runes, and another such symbol decorated the palm. I slipped the glove onto my right hand then picked up a thin metallic rod, not much larger than a pencil.

I felt like Harry Potter going wand shopping for the first time. Especially when I pointed the tip at an iron ingot and it rose into the air at a flick of my wrist. Wingardium leviosa, I thought with a grin. The metal rod allowed me to lift, rotate, and spatially manipulate any of the materials on the workbench, while the glove let me shape them—forming small, detailed pieces that could then be superimposed onto the ghostly image of the mace. Honestly, it felt more like working with soft, malleable clay than metal.

Using an infused mixture of regular iron and Mortka steel, I shaped the refined metal into a thin handle, slightly thicker on one end than the other. The mace head was more complicated, especially since I used reinforced Mortka Talons—shaped and sharpened using another tool that was equal parts sander and orbital bone saw—to create the spiked flanges that jutted out from the mace head. Affixing the head to the shaft was as simple as overlaying them on the ghostly mace, then using the wand to create a seamless weld. I used cured Grass Hound leather for the handle wrap—the process powered by two Pure Essence Scales, since I was running painfully low on Essence of my own.

There was a flash of brilliant golden light as the Essence Scales released their pent-up energy, fusing all of the elements together into a singular weapon. I reached forward with a tentative, shaky hand and grasped the mace’s handle, pulling it from the air. It was a thing of beauty. Brutal and deadly, it had wicked claw-like flanges and glowing runes and intricate swirls running along the handle and over the mace head. It seemed to weigh nothing at all.

Excitement buzzing through me, I tested my legs—they held my weight, though just barely—and hobbled over to the armory, where my Soul Forged Weapons waited. There were tons of racks positioned along the walls, perfect for storing weapons of all shapes and sizes, but instead of placing the Mace Skin on any of those, I carefully laid it over the top of the K-Bar, which was prominently displayed on a pedestal in the center of the room. There was a flash of golden light as the weapons seemed to melt together. A spectral image of the morning star overlaid my K-Bar.

Now, instead of summoning the Marine Corps issued knife, I would be able to summon my fancy, new upgraded mace—at least until I switched it out for another weapon skin. With this system, I would be able to manufacture the right weapon for the right job. Swords and daggers for creatures weak against piercing damage, warhammers and maces for heavily armored foes, billhooks, spears, and halberds for keeping an enemy at arm’s length. Sure, I’d need to enter the Soul Vault to swap between skins, but as long as I had a good idea of what I was up against, I could be prepared for damned near anything.

With the mace skin done and tucked away in my armory, I moved on to something a little more difficult—leather armor. I didn’t have the right kind of components to replace my Brigandine Armor, but I did have the shoddy leather armor I’d looted off the Crave Ghouls and I had more than enough materials to replace that with Mortka-Forged Leather Armor. It was more complicated than the mace, but significantly less complicated than even the most basic firearm I had access to, which made it a perfect item to improve my skill with.

For the next three hours I went through the laborious and time-consuming process of harvesting and deconstructing the Crude Leather Armor to generate a blueprint, then fabricating the small and intricate components I needed to assemble the new item. The trickiest part, hands down, was putting it all together. There were about a thousand rivets, overlapping leather plate segments, and untold straps and buckles that needed to be shaped and molded. Then, to top it all off, there were special procedures to affix the Grass Hound spikes to the pauldrons that would protect my shoulders.

In the end, it was worth every monotonous and mind-numbing minute.

The armor was sleek and a green so dark it was nearly black. A series of interlocking leather plates covered my chest, stomach and back, and because of the way they were assembled, it gave me a far greater range of motion than what my metal, scale-covered Brigandine Armor provided. It also weighed next to nothing—less even than my flak jacket—and the spikes, crafted from Grass Hound quills, jutting up from the shoulder plates were brutal looking. Best of all, it retained a small portion of the natural power of the Grass Hounds I’d carved the leather from.

<<<>>>

Mortka-Forged Grass Hound Armor

Type: Light, Reinforced Mortka Leather

Class: Adept

Masterfully crafted from the hides of several Grass Hounds, this leather armor offers excellent protection against the cutting edge of a blade and some limited protection against piercing damage. The overall design grants the wearer exceptional mobility and makes this suit of armor ideal for those who rely on agility or seek to specialize in Stealth or other unsavory abilities.

Primary Effects:

Charmed Armor: Stealth Step, Crystalline Shell, Wyld Wisdom, and the Fae spell Cunning Glamor are 8% more effective.

Charmed Insight: +1 Insight Bonus while equipped.

<<<>>>

I’d been in the Soul Vault for the better part of nine hours by the time I finished with the armor, and though my legs felt like I’d just got done doing a thousand max-squat reps at the gym, I could feel them again. It still hurt to stand, and I wobbled like a geriatric penguin when I walked, but that was a certified miracle as far as I was concerned. I wanted to keep going—to learn more, do more, push myself more—but there was nothing left to do. After checking over the Pistol Skin upgrades, I quickly realized that I needed better quality fabrication components, and a lot more of them, for even the simplest builds.

Fact was, I couldn’t progress any further on that front and I still had a good three hours before I could reset my Ward Points via Threads of Fate. So, I did the only sensible thing I could think of. I shuffled over to the cot with the starchy wool blanket, stripped down to my skivvies, and flopped onto my side, letting my eyes slide shut.

* * *

I had no idea how long I’d been down for the count, but when I woke up, I felt like a million bucks. And not just any million bucks, a million bucks that comes tax-free from overseas combat pay. I sat up and stretched out my arms and legs, twisting my back this way and that to check potential mobility issues or signs of tenderness. I sure as shit didn’t feel like a guy who had mangled his spine the night before. This Vault of mine was magic in more ways than one.

I rolled out of bed and pumped out a quick fifty, followed by a round of crunches and burpees. I wasn’t just healed, I was better than ever. I felt like I could run a marathon with a fifty-pound rucksack and not even break a sweat. My extra points into Brawn were already paying dividends. The only downside? I was hungrier than a polecat and ready to take someone’s head off if I didn’t get some chow into my belly.

Unfortunately, food was one thing the Vault couldn’t provide, at least not yet.

But I couldn’t leave. Sage Smith, Mortka Forger, and Affinity Retrofitter were all amazing skills, but for fighting monsters they were about as useless as tits on a bull. I headed over to my avatar, pausing long enough to glance down and watch the silver koi flip its tail and take a lap through blue water, purged of the black taint that had been there before. A small smile crept across my lips. After poring over nearly a hundred pages of the handbook, I knew that the silver koi represented my physical body, while the golden koi represented my soul.

Both were looking damned healthy.

I called up my character screen with a thought and once again activated Threads of Fate. I thought that knowing about the pain would make it better, but if anything it made things worse. But once the agony of having my soul flayed passed, I climbed back to my feet and got busy picking my next round of abilities. I had thirty points to work with, since I’d left my Sidhe Pact in place, and I knew exactly what skills I wanted to unlock this time around.

<<<>>>

Expanded Ward List

Ward of Justice

Boon of Gadriel: Soul Bound Weapons (Unlocked)

Ranged Weapon Mastery

— Overcharge; Cost: 4

— Quick Hands; Cost: 6

— Maximum Penetration; Cost: 9

— Guided Shot; Cost: 15

— Automated Sentinel; Cost: 20

Melee Weapon Mastery

— Rend; Cost: 3

— Peerless Warrior; Cost: 5

— Crippling Strike; Cost: 8

— Festering Wound; Cost: 15

— Juggernaut; Cost: 25

Warforged Mastery

— Armor Evocation; Cost: 6

— Weapon Mastery: Unarmed; Cost 10

— Weapon Mastery: Blades; Cost: 10

— Weapon Mastery: Blunt; Cost: 10

— Weapon Mastery: Range; Cost: 10

Ward of Valor

Boon of Voch: Diamond Body (Unlocked)

Bastion of the Protector

— Combat Sense; Cost: 4 

— Matchless Endurance; Cost: 6  

— Purity of Form; Cost: 10

— Spiked Shell; Cost: 14

— Unmoving Bulwark; Cost: 18

Bastion of the Healer

— Empathetic Healer; Cost: 5

— Plague Doctor; Cost: 10

— Heal Wounds; Cost: 15 

— Circle of Restoration; Cost: 20

— True Resurrection; Cost: 27

Bastion of Presence

— Mantle of Strength; Cost: 5

— Mantle of Authority; Cost: 8

— Mantle of Sanctuary; Cost: 10

— Mantle of Scales; Cost: 14

— Mantle of Healing; Cost: 22

Ward of Balance

Boon of Lero: Language of the Heavens (Unlocked)

Bestial Magics

— Totem Transformation; Cost: 2

— Bestial Vigor; Cost: 5

— Ravenous Feeding; Cost: 12

— Rabid Infection; Cost: 18

— Totem Bound; Cost: 22

Fae Magics

— Fae Tether; Cost: 4 

— Sidhe Pact; Cost: 5

— Pierce Veil; Cost: 10

— Cunning Glamor; Cost: 12

— Fae Footed: Cost: 28

Elemental Magics

— Spectral Roots; Cost: 4

— Absorb Elements; Cost: 6

— Water Wright; Cost: 10

— Earth Sculptor; Cost: 10

— Metallurgy Manipulation; Cost: 10

Ward of Wrath

Boon of Thuriel: Arcane Insight (Unlocked)

Path of Violence

— Warded Shield; Cost: 5 

— Kinetic Blast; Cost: 5  

— Unbound Blaze; Cost: 12  

— Arctic Spike; Cost: 12

— Electro Arc; Cost: 12

Path of Retribution

— Upheaval; Cost: 12

— Rain of Fire; Cost: 15

— Storm Caller; Cost: 17

— Circle of Banishment; Cost: 20

— Raguel’s Divine Retribution; Cost: 30

Path of Death:

— Life Siphon; Cost: 4

— Soul Jar; Cost: 6

— Mind Vault; Cost: 10

— Ritual Reanimate; Cost: 22

— Soul Storm; Cost: 28

Ward of Truth

Boon of Akora: Threads of Fate (Unlocked)

College of Rhetoric

— Master Mentalist; Cost: 4

— Calm Emotions; Cost: 8

— Honeyed Words; Cost: 10 

— Greater Suggestion; Cost: 16

— Grave Communion; Cost: 24

College of Deception

— Stealth Step; Cost: 5

— Deft Touch; Cost: 8

— Wyld Wisdom; Cost: 15

— Dream Thief; Cost: 15

— Crystalline Shell; Cost: 25

College of Reason

— Sage Smith; Cost: 10

— Mortka Forger; Cost: 10

— Affinity Retrofitter; Cost: 10

— Arcane Transmuter; Cost 10

— Alchemic Mastery; Cost: 10

<<<>>>

Combat Sense had saved my ass more times than I could count since waking up in this world hell-bent on killing me, and at only four Ward Points I couldn’t afford to pass it up. Maximum Penetration was good because it relied on Stamina instead of pulling from my Arcana Pool, but with my bare-bones Colt, it hadn’t done dick to stop the Elder Changeling, and it was damn pricey at nine points. Too pricey. I replaced that with a melee-oriented skill called Peerless Warrior, which only cost me five points.

Peerless Warrior

For a brief time, channel the strength of Gadriel, the Face of Justice, and become a warrior without equal. While possessed of such power, the Vigil is able to move faster, hit harder, and fight with a ferocity to rival even the vilest of Mortka. When activated, Peerless Warrior will consume Stamina, making the Vigil immune to Hold and Movement-Reducing Spells, increasing overall movement speed by 10%, and temporarily increasing the Vigil’s Brawn Score by 10%. When Stamina lapses, the Vigil suffers extreme exhaustion.

Recommended Attribute Minimums: Brawn, 18; Verve, 18

I wanted to keep Kinetic Blast in my arsenal, but I also wanted to try something with a little more stopping power. I only had so many points to play with and because of my relatively low Arcana stat score, I couldn’t afford to be overly reliant on offensive spells. As much as I hated to do it, I swapped in Unbound Blaze instead for a painful twelve Ward Points. That left me nine points left to spend. After getting my ass tossed around like a rag doll, I decided I needed something in the defense department, so Warded Shield went onto the list.

Unbound Blaze

Fire is the great equalizer of nature, for all things burn. Call upon the cleansing retribution of Thuriel and hurl a javelin of primal flame at a given target. The longevity of Unbound Blaze is directly tied to your available Arcana Pool. Feed more Arcana into the spell to increase its overall intensity.

Recommended Attribute Minimums: Arcana, 16; Finesse, 15

Warded Shield

Channel your potent Arcana into a shimmering shield of golden light capable of deflecting or stopping most types of physical and mystic attacks. Through force of will and self-discipline the shield can be extended to entirely encompass the Vigil or be used to protect others—though the larger the shield the quicker it will diminish a Vigil’s Arcana Pool. Warded Shield is one of the most effective and versatile defensive skills in any Vigil’s arsenal.    

Recommended Attribute Minimums: Arcana, 15; Insight, 15

I was below the Recommended Arcana Threshold for both skills, but that had also been true of Kinetic Blast. Chances were that meant casting each spell even once would drain my Arcana Pool. I would just have to keep that fact situated squarely in the back of my head. Finally, with my last four points I opted for Fae Tether. Sure, it didn’t have any specific combat benefit, but having access to an interspatial bag of holding was too good to pass up. Satisfied with my choices, I distributed the points, slipped my Brigandine Armor into place, and exited the Vault.

25

Brews and Clues

I blinked against the glaringly bright light streaming in through the stained-glass windows of the chapel.

Arturo was waiting for me, looking haggard and worn out. He wasn’t the only one hanging around for my arrival. The orange tabby from the night before was sitting in a pool of sunlight, flicking his tail and purring contentedly. Lounging on the cat’s side, hands laced behind his tiny head, was Renholm. Cal was nowhere to be seen, but that wasn’t entirely surprising since Arturo had probably reestablished the chapel’s wards to keep the Elder Changeling from busting in.

“Thank the gods above you’re alive,” Arturo said, sounding deeply relieved.

“I told you he was fine,” Renholm trilled, not bothering to even sit up. “I would’ve felt it had our Pact been dissolved by his untimely demise.” He sniffed dismissively. “And then I would’ve hunted his spirit down as it crossed between the veil and tortured it mercilessly for welshing on our deal.”

“Good to see you too, Renholm,” I said.

“So, this monstrous little devil really is with you, then?” Arturo said, glowering at Renholm and me in turn. “I didn’t want to believe it. In all my years upon this earth, I have never wanted to smite a creature more, but after I accidentally banished your spirit guide, I didn’t want to make another mistake. Still, I find it hard to believe that you, a noble Vigil and divine warrior called from across the stars, would debase yourself by partnering with this… this vile miscreant.”

I shrugged. “Eh, what can I say? Turns out monster hunting makes strange bedfellows. He’s the worst, but he’s also useful.” I paused. “When directed.”

Renholm, glowing with smug satisfaction, stuck out his tongue at the priest.

“What’s the deal with the cat?” I asked, crouching down and pss-pss-pssing at the feline. The big cat blinked at me with knowing eyes and ignored my summons completely. An utter asshole just like all cats.

“A king ought to have a fierce steed,” the pixie replied, sitting up and running a tiny hand through the cat’s dirty fur, “and this noble beast proved himself in battle. I have dubbed him Sir Jacob-Francis. We made a valiant team. Truly, we are the heroes of the day. We drove that monstrous creature off single-handedly and with absolutely no assistance from anyone else.”

“You definitely contributed,” I said, “but drive it off single-handedly and with absolutely no assistance from anyone else? I’m gonna be generous and say you’re misremembering things.”

“Why are we prattling on about the cat?” Arturo growled, running a hand through frazzled hair. “We have more important things to discuss. Like what in the name of all the slithering beasts of the pit were you thinking last night? Charging off like that.”

“I was doing what I’ve been called here to do,” I replied. I’d been dressed down by tougher men than Arturo. A few harsh words from the priest weren’t gonna make me squirm. “Or is hunting shithead monsters and helping people not what Vigils are supposed to do? Maybe I missed the part in the Handbook of the Vigilant where it told me to tuck my tail between my legs and hide in a church while helpless townsfolk get slaughtered.”

“You weren’t ready,” Arturo snapped. “You had no business going toe to toe with something as powerful as an Elder Changeling, and if not for sheer dumb luck, you would be dead now. Justice is your calling and you can’t perform that calling if you blunder off like a headstrong young knight and get yourself killed. Much as you might not like to think so, your life is far more valuable than the life of any one man, woman, or child in Ironmoor—even mine.”

“Not mine,” Renholm chirped. “I’m his liege. He’s duty sworn to die for me.”

“Not true and also unhelpful,” I said, shooting the pixie a look. Then, to the padre, “I disagree. A life is a life and they all matter. I’m here because I jumped on a grenade and saved my buddies from getting blown into the next world. I did that because their lives were as important as my own. Maybe what I did last night was rash, but we have a saying where I come from. ‘The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing.’ I’d rather do something rash, Padre, than twiddle my thumbs and do nothing at all. Now, instead of bitching at me, how about we figure out how to stop that thing from killing again?”

Arturo grunted and had the good grace to look away. He cleared his throat and straightened his rumpled cassock. “You’re right, of course, honored Vigil,” he replied with a sigh. “Please forgive me. I fear this is a moral failing of my own, not yours. Before I became an Arbitrator I was… something else. A knight, I suppose you could say.” He looked like he was on the verge of saying more, but instead he waved a hand through the air. It isn’t important.

I suspected it was very important.

Arturo wasn’t a compulsive drunk for no reason. He was running from something traumatic, and as a gambling man I’d bet double or nothing that some mission had gone sideways and it had probably happened under his command. But I could also see the pain and hesitation etched into the lines of his face. This was a festering wound, and I knew from ample experience that he wouldn’t appreciate me poking at it. When he was ready to share, he would. That was how these sorta things went.

“Apology accepted,” I said. “Now we need to get our asses moving. My stomach is about to eat itself, so I think we should hit up the inn first, then go take a look at the crime scene. See if we can’t sniff out any clues. Then we make a plan. In my experience, there ain’t nothing that can’t be killed with enough foresight and firepower.”

Arturo took a few minutes to compose himself, forgoing his usual cassock for a shirt of heavy silver scale mail that flowed down over his thighs, covered by a black tabard with the golden sword-shaped symbol for Justice emblazoned on the chest. It was the same symbol branded onto my forehead. He’d donned heavy leather boots, the shins cover in plate steel, and wore a matching set of bracers accompanied by thick leather gloves. A black cloak with a deep cowl, edged in fur, trailed down his back. A short, practical dagger rode one hip while he carried his heavy war staff.

Arturo looked less like a priest and more like a soldier riding to war. I was glad he was on my side.

“You look fat, but fierce,” Renholm noted in approval. “Just remember to keep your cold iron well away from me, I cannot abide its touch.”

“Then try holding your tongue so I’m not tempted to cut it out, you wretched little fiend,” the padre replied, glowering at the pixie, who was now perched on the cat’s back.

“So glad to see we’re all getting along,” I muttered, pulling open the chapel doors. “Try to play nice, huh?”

I headed onto the street but froze when I saw a milling crowd of dirty and unwashed faces waiting for something. Their eyes locked on me, and I could see fervent zeal ignite in their faces. They weren’t waiting for something, they were waiting for someone. For me. More than a few doffed their caps, while the women dropped in deep curtsies, grinning at me like I was a fairy-tale knight instead of just some dude who’d gotten his ass handed to him on a silver platter.

The requests started flowing in, first in a sputter then in a rush.

“Please, Vigil, pray for my crops!” someone shouted from the back.

“A blessing on my household,” came another.

“My wife is grievously ill.”

“Vigil! Vigil!” a woman cried, shouldering her way through the crowd, pushing a little boy in front of her. “Please bless my child.” She pushed her towheaded son toward me. The kid couldn’t have been more than four or five, but he stumbled forward and bowed his head.

“Should’ve expected them to come out of the woodwork after last night’s spectacle,” Arturo mumbled, sidling up next to me. “Never fear. I’ll get this taken care of.” He stepped between me and the boy and grabbed my hand. “In blessing this child”—he laid my hand on the kid’s head—“the Vigil blesses us all. The divine faces of Raguel shine down on us from the heavens.” From between pursed lips he hissed under his breath, “Say you bless the child already.”

Running off to fight a monster was one thing, but offering some kind of priestly benediction was about as outside of my wheelhouse as things got. But everyone was looking at me expectantly. Hopefully. Including Arturo.

I cleared my throat and channeled Pastor Jeffers, from Grace Covenant. “Lord, bless this child,” I said. “May he grow to be a man of valor and honor his family with his courage.” I’d heard more than a few battalion COs spout that kind of bullshit before deployments and it always seemed to get the troops fired up. “Eh, amen,” I finished awkwardly, pulling my hand away.

The kid raced back to his mother and buried his face in her skirts.

“We are double blessed in the Vigil’s presence and his power.” Arturo was shouting so the people in the back didn’t miss anything.

There were murmurs of agreement. Had to hand it to the padre, he knew how to work a crowd.

“Last night, the Elder Changeling that has been stalking our streets struck once more, and though we suffered the loss of one of our own, the creature did not feast without reprisal. Without fear of his own safety, the Vigil met the monster and matched it blow for blow, making the creature pay in blood for the deaths it has caused. The Changeling, knowing its doom was imminent, fled before the might of the Vigil and the divine wrath of Raguel—knowing that to stay was to die. Though the creature yet lives, it won’t do so for long.” He glanced at me, fierce pride radiating off him in waves. “The Vigil has the beast’s scent and it is only a matter of time before justice is served for the fallen.”

Hot damn. Now that was a speech. It wasn’t even remotely true, but it was a helluva good spin. I’d gotten my ass kicked and my spine broken and even I was feeling more optimistic about squaring up for round two.

“But now,” Arturo continued, “I must ask you to leave the Vigil in peace. We are on a mission and in order to find and vanquish the diabolical creature lingering in the shadows of our fair Ironmoor, he will need to weave magics which are not for mortal eyes.” He waved a hand through the air, wisps of yellow magic trailing from his fingertips. The guy also had a flair for the dramatic. “Know that your well-wishes accompany us on the task. If you feel truly compelled to help, you may always make offerings to the church from the goodness of your hearts—the funds will be used to aid the families of those unfortunate few who have died at the creature’s claws.”

It was a crock, but it worked. In thirty seconds the crowd dissipated, melting into homes, shops, and alleyways, leaving the street to us. Had to admit, Arturo may have been a drunk with a checkered background, but it was convenient having him around.

Though a few more people eyed us as we headed over to the Three Chimneys, no one else tried to stop us; it seemed word had spread that we were on the job and not to be disturbed, which was more than fine by me. There was no sign of Maggie behind the bar, which was odd, since she was always behind the bar, but last night had been a chaotic one—maybe she was just sleeping off all the craziness. Arturo and I picked up a simple meal that consisted of a delicious flatbread loaded with grilled meat, gooey cheese, and a spicy curry paste.

We shuffled out of the inn and ate quickly as we headed over to the crime scene.

“I kept it as you left it,” Arturo said as we rounded a corner and came onto the grisly mess, splayed out across the cobblestones. “But we must work fast. It is a requirement that we bury our dead within the day. Minna was beloved of all.” He paused, pain in his eyes. “She will be missed.”

Someone had erected a tent over the victim’s body and encased it in a mosquito net to keep the flies at bay. She was, as Arturo had promised, right where I’d last seen her, flayed and in pieces, chunks of flesh strewn about the alley and her chest cavity emptied of its contents.

I’d never asked her name. Minna, I now knew. I’d add her to the list along with my fallen brothers. I muttered a prayer over her remains. Though I didn’t really know her, she’d seemed like a sweet girl, certainly not someone who deserved a fate like this. Prayers said, I set to work. I didn’t need her body to remain any longer. The images were already etched into my brain and I’d probably be seeing them in nightmares for years to come.

I let Arturo know that they could remove her.

As a gaggle of grim-faced young men lifted her torso and hauled it to a wooden cart, I spotted a tuft of hair on the ground—it had fallen from her hand. Not hers. Not mine. Who else had been in the alley? Had someone tried to stop the attack but then fled after they’d been mauled by the Elder Changeling? I sniffed the hair, just in case it could give me a clue. Cloves. Oranges. An oil I didn’t recognize. I’d smelled it more than once—most recently at the bathhouse, which made sense considering Minna’s occupation. I put the hair into my pouch and continued with my examination.

“This place reeks of Fae magic,” Renholm remarked, holding his nose, his face twisted in a grimace of distaste. His furry mount lazily prowled through the alley, stopping to sniff at a small splatter of blood.

“Aren’t you fae?” I asked, cocking an eyebrow.

“Don’t be gross, you ignorant child,” the pixie replied, dismounting from the creature’s back and touching down on the cobblestones, near the droplets of crimson. “This foul beast and I share as much in common as you and a banana do. It comes from our world, but it is not a creature of the courts.” He crouched and dipped his fingers in the blood, lifting it to his nose. His grimace intensified. “Fae and human.”

“So this confirms it’s an Elder Changeling?” Arturo asked. “They are the unholy progeny of fae and men, after all. Half breeds.”

“I did not say that, no, no, no, I did not,” Renholm tsked, shaking his head. “Changelings may not be of the elevated blood such as myself, but they are still infinitely better than your kind and they are extremely useful to the Courts of Fairy. This blood. Well, it is as queer as that ugly sack of meat there.” He waved dismissively in my direction. “It is human blood but suffused by Fae magic. Not mixed. Almost as though the bloods are cohabitating in one vessel like oil and water. Very odd.”

As the pixie remounted his feline steed, I turned my attention toward the alley. After the creature had flipped me into the wall and broken my spine, I had a hazy memory of Arturo showing up at the head of a pitchfork-wielding mob and the monster taking off, sprinting down the alley and toward the outer walls. I pushed my way out of the tent and followed its bloody hand- and hoofprints for a quarter mile before they faded to nothing.

Arturo stopped, his shoulders slumped and his eyes downcast. He looked defeated.

For a priest, the man needed to have a little more faith. The blood wasn’t visible to the eye, but it was landing on all my other senses: copper, bile, sweat. The creature had lingered here for a few minutes, why I could not say. The handprints on the wall were bloody on the way up, but then the creature had cleaned itself off on the grass beyond and snuck back inside the city leaving a trail visible only to me. Well, me and Renholm. The pixie wasn’t using his physical senses to follow the trail like I was, but instead insisted that he was employing his Fae Sense to track the beast.

When I asked him what the hell that even meant, he just cackled like I was a moron. “It glimmers, you fool, you clown, you illiterate swine. It is right there, as easy to read as any book. The creature leaves behind a trail of Purpose as wide as a stream.”

Renholm continued to be a small, tyrannical asshole, but having someone confirm my hunches was nice. It let me know that I wasn’t completely crazy.

“It went that way,” I said, gesturing at the barely perceptible hoofprints that sang up at me from the stones. Their music was death and decay, foul pestilence and degradation. He ran like a gorilla, leaning most of his weight on his meaty forepaws, and their song was no less ominous.

We threaded our way through the town, past houses and businesses until the streets grew narrow and decrepit. We were officially entering the run-down, crackhead end of Ironmoor. There were hovels and lean-tos, rather than houses, all occupied by the blind and the lame and the beggars, so common to every city I’d ever visited. Beyond the tunnel of outcasts, the cobbled road gave way to a dirt track that led to a jagged hole in the ground. It was covered with a metal grate, but scratch marks on the rusted steel told me the creature had come this way, slipping into the dark, dank hole before dragging the grate back into place from below.

“Is this a sewer?” I asked, scratching my chin.

Arturo shook his head. “Mine shaft.”

Interesting. “I’m all ears, Padre,” I said, eyeing the grate.

“Ironmoor used to be a mining town.” He’d mentioned mining in passing when we’d seen the line picker on the road. Marcus, I thought his name was. I hadn’t paid it much mind, but suddenly I was starting to think I needed to.

“Used to be?” I asked. “What changed?”

“What always happens to mining towns, eventually,” the priest replied. “The vein ran dry. Twenty years ago, this was, well before my time in Ironmoor, though the locals still talk about it in hushed whispers. The Dark Year, they call it. An ugly story from what I’ve been able to gather—resulted in the death of an immigrant Rjuhella family. The husband hung in the town square. His wife burned at the stake. Accused of being a warlock. Nasty bit of business.

“But even after the mining operation folded, the tunnels remained. No getting rid of those. There’s a whole labyrinth of passages down there, some natural, others not. Whole sections of tunnel carved into the rock below our feet—they wind all through the town and run up into the hills past the curtain wall. Eventually the council closed the shaft entrances to keep desperate men from venturing down there and winding up dead.”

“That’s probably how it’s gaining access,” I said, some of the pieces clicking together in my head like a finely calibrated machine. “You said the mines are abandoned so it’s even possible that thing is hiding out down there, biding its time between attacks.”

“Unlikely,” Arturo said. “That’s not how Elder Changelings operate.”

“Could be I’m wrong, but I’m starting to think maybe this thing isn’t an Elder Changeling after all.” I reached down and pulled the grate out of its housing. It came away like a toy frisbee though I knew it had to weigh a hundred pounds, easy. Those Attribute Points were no joke and definitely did far more than simply alter my appearance. I didn’t just feel stronger, I was stronger. A lot stronger. “In we go,” I said, nodding toward the dark abyss.

“Absolutely not,” Arturo replied, frowning at the hole. “The creature could be down there, and even if it isn’t, there are other Mortka that call those tunnels home. Stone Spiders. Nasty creatures. There’s a reason that grate is in place, and it’s not just to keep the town populace out—it’s to keep those things in.”

“Sorry to break it to you, pal, but my bounty went down there, so that’s where we’re going. You gotta go where the evidence points you.”

26

Into the Dark

Arturo was about as happy as a wet hen about my decision to head into the mines, but I was the holy Vigil, summoned by the god he revered, which made me the de facto shot caller. Renholm, on the other hand, was a prissy little dickhead and refused to venture into the tunnels without his furball friend, Sir Jacob-Francis, which is how I wound up with a grumpy cat the size of a small dog clinging to my shoulder, his tail swishing all up in my grill while I clambered hand over foot down a set of iron rungs set into the stone walls.

The shaft descended for a dozen feet before dumping me and the cat into a dark, stony corridor, lit only by a sunbeam streaming in from the opening above. Thanks to my supernaturally enhanced senses, that shaft of light was more than enough to let me get a gander at what we were working with. Rough brown walls—limestone from the looks of ’em—formed a narrow hallway that dropped away at a steady decline for fifty feet or so, before doglegging right.

I scooted away as Arturo thudded onto the dusty ground in a clatter of metal that sounded like someone had dropped a bagful of soup cans.

“I’m guessing the stealthy approach isn’t your strong suit?” I asked.

“I’m built like a bear,” the man said earnestly. “Someone my size wasn’t made for hiding or sneaking.” He fell silent, glancing around. “I don’t like this. It feels…” He trailed off.

“It feels like we’re onto something,” I said, taking a knee. “More blood.” I pointed at a trail of small brown droplets leading further into the cave. “It definitely came this way.”

“I don’t doubt you, Vigil,” he said seriously. “Just the opposite. I fear you’re correct. I’ll follow your lead, even if it is foolhardy in my estimation, but I won’t lie. My sincere hope is that the creature has gone to ground and is back in hiding. I would love for another few weeks to train you properly before we run afoul of the beast again.”

“Come again, Padre?” I asked, genuinely confused. “I don’t understand. Why would the creature hide for another few weeks?”

He shrugged. “I can’t tell you the why of it, Vigil. Why does any Mortka do the things they do? But I can tell you that’s the pattern. It comes. It feasts. We find a dead body. Then the creature disappears for a fortnight and the cycle begins anew.”

“A fortnight?”

“Two weeks.”

“Yeah, I know what a fortnight is. I’m asking you if that’s the same interval each time.”

Arturo nodded. “It’s as regular as Incanto clockwork. We’ve had eight victims so far, including young Minna, and each attack has followed the same pattern.”

Something about that didn’t sit right with me. Why would this thing only attack once every two weeks? That was such a random, but oddly specific amount of time. I was sure it was a piece of the puzzle, even if I had no idea how it fit into the rest of the picture. I tucked the odd detail into the back of my mind and guided us deeper into the cave system. Renholm prowled along beside me on his cat, and Arturo brought up the rear. The light faded damned quick, casting us into near darkness by the time we rounded the first bend.

Even with the miniscule amount of light trickling in, I didn’t have much problem navigating, and neither did Renholm or the cat. I was prepared to take Arturo by the hand and guide him through the twisting warren of passageways, but surprisingly he didn’t seem to need the help. That should’ve been impossible for someone who was strictly swimming on the human side of the gene pool. First the fancy banishment spell, now this.

The priest had some kind of magic at his disposal, I was sure of it, though what flavor of magic he was, I still couldn’t say.

There were several passages that branched off, but Renholm was more than happy to scout the way for us, flitting off at damned near the speed of light. Each time, he would return after a few minutes. Dead ends, one and all, no sign of the creature. We’d been slowly trekking through the tunnels for fifteen minutes or so when I spotted the first telltale sign that something else was seriously off. We rounded a sharp bend and I found torches on the walls. And these weren’t dry rotted relics from another age. The wood was fresh and so were the iron mounts securing them to the walls at thirty-foot intervals.

I pulled one down and examined the linen wrapped snugly around the tip. Fresh, and still damp. I lifted it to my nose—the sharp scent of lime, the pungent aroma of sulfur, and something else I couldn’t quite place. Crude oil, maybe. Just like when using Kinetic Blast, I pulled on the ball of energy residing in the center of my chest, but instead of summoning a typhoon of force, I held back, calling forth only a trickle of Arcana. I shaped it with my mind, willing a small ball of orange flame to appear in the palm of my hand.

Sweat broke out across my forehead and my Arcana gauge dipped as the fire flickered to life. The torch caught with a flare and I quickly released my spell. Garish yellow light, painfully bright after the dark of the cavern, splashed over the walls and floor.

“Any idea why there would be fresh torches down here?” I asked, cocking an eyebrow at the priest.

“I haven’t the faintest,” he said, blinking against the sudden burst of illumination. “Occasionally line pickers like Marcus will venture down here, but they never come this deep into the cave system. They would risk running into the Stone Spiders.” He frowned in thought. “They aren’t this organized, either. Mostly they pan along the underground creeks, looking for any small fragments of Selitrium.”

“These mines produce Selitrium,” I said, freezing. Finally, something I knew something about. I had a whole barrel full of powdered Selitrium back in my Soul Vault.

“As I said, they produced Selitrium,” the priest corrected. “One of the few places that did. It’s far rarer than gold, though its use is clouded in mystery. Alchemists covet it, as do the Magi, but the Citadel of Custodians are the largest buyer of the substance by far. It’s used by…” He paused, his frown deepening. “Well, Vigils mostly. But these mines have been dry for twenty years. The superstitious folk of Ironmoor believe the land was cursed.”

“Sounds like a load of bullshit,” I said as we continued deeper into the warren of winding limestone passages, “because this mine is active. Someone sure thinks the curse is gone.”

Not long after finding the first torches we headed through a reinforced archway and into a large central cavern loaded to the gills with mining equipment. Wheelbarrows and pickaxes. Hammers, stakes, rope. Oil lamps and more torches. I found a barrel sitting against the wall and piled inside were lumps of something that looked like coal but wasn’t. Kentucky was coal country, and I could spot a lump at a thousand yards. But I’d recently come across some of this stuff as well.

When I held up a piece and turned it in my hand, a small notice appeared: [1 x Selitrium Ore, Fabrication Ingredient]. Not only was there ore in these here mines, but someone had set up a considerable operation to get it out. Several more passageways snaked off from this one, but one large central pathway, lined with more torches, shot due west.

“That looks like the main way in and outta this place,” I said. “And unless I’m all kinds of turned around, I’m thinking that tunnel passes below the outer walls. It probably lets out not too damned far from that Grass Hound ring we cleared.”

“You’re not wrong,” Arturo said slowly. “Chances are that’s the tunnel Marcus was heading for.”

“So maybe our boy Marcus is more than just a line picker?” I suggested. “What are the chances that he’s running a whole illegal mining operation?”

“Not even remotely feasible,” the padre replied, shaking his head. “Marcus isn’t smart enough to pull something like this off, nor is he wealthy enough to finance an operation on this scale. This isn’t a small-time outfit. The equipment, the logistics, finding a way to smuggle raw Selitrium out of Ironmoor without anyone being the wiser? There are guards involved. Politicians. Bribes. If I had to guess, I’d say Marcus is likely one of the poor men mining the vein or hauling the ore for a handful of silvers.”

“Fair enough,” I conceded. “But someone is behind this operation—these tools didn’t just manifest themselves down here. So who would be smart enough, connected enough, and rich enough to run something like this?”

“There are a number of men of means who could do so.”

“I don’t suppose Gustav Hultgren or Sigge Wikstrum are on that list?” I asked.

Arturo’s eyes flashed wide. “Sigge Wikstrum couldn’t pull it off by himself, no. He has the necessary experience to refine the Selitrium and make it stable for transport, but not the means to export it, nor the connections to recruit workers on this magnitude. Gustav Hultgren, on the other hand, could do both, and it’s no secret that the high magistrate is notoriously close with Sigge. He’s Sigge’s single largest patron and benefactor. My question is, why do you think they would be involved in the first place?”

I thought back to the invitation Renholm had pilfered and my run-in with Gustav at the bathhouse. He and I hadn’t exactly gotten off on the right foot, and that was only a few hours before the Changeling took a swipe at me—and by take a swipe, I mean shattered my spine like a porcelain plate. The creature had come this way, so assuming this operation and the creature were somehow connected, was it too far a stretch to say Gustav could’ve been the culprit?

“Let’s just call it a hunch,” I said.

“Vigil, and his frumpy, disheveled companion!” Renholm’s voice echoed from down a nearby passage. “I’ve found something of note. It glimmers!”

Arturo and I shared a conspiratorial glance then headed toward the sound of the pixie.

A snaking passageway opened up into a large chamber that looked more like an armory than a mining camp. Several racks filled with halberds, spears, and a motley assortment of swords and axes lined one wall. There was also a small cot with a medical supply chest containing clean linens, bandaging, a bone saw, catgut sutures for stitching wounds, and a variety of small vials that probably served as health remedies. Off to my right was a deep fissure covered by a heavy iron gate, secured with an iron lock.

There was a sign tacked into the rocky face next to the gate.

Warning: Stone Spider Nest. Proceed with Caution. Keep Gate Secured at all Times!

“What the hell is all of this?” I asked. “This doesn’t look like a mining operation.”

Arturo didn’t speak. Instead, he headed over to the fissure, inspecting the crack in the surface.

“This is new,” he said with absolute certainty. “Maybe half a year ago, the ground beneath all of Ironmoor rumbled and shook as though a great beast were waking up. It didn’t last long,” he continued. “I’ll confess that I was too drunk to even feel it, but it was the talk of the town for several weeks after the fact. It’s possible that quake opened a new chamber. But why anyone would be mad enough to venture into such a space is beyond me.”

“Money can do crazy things to people, Padre. Renholm,” I said, turning toward the pixie. “You said it glimmers. What do you mean?”

He zipped from the back of the cat and hovered in the air for a moment, regarding the door, his tiny arms folded across his narrow chest. “The scent of the creature I battled last night lingers here. But it is old. Faint. So faint it almost eluded even my superior Fae Senses.”

“I don’t think we should go in there,” came a voice from directly behind me.

I jumped and spun, heart hammering in my chest, as I reached through the void and called my newly fashioned Mortka Mace to my hand. The weapon appeared in my hand, ready to swing.

“Jesus, Mary, and Joseph,” I swore as I spotted Cal leaning casually against the far wall. “Damnit, you’re gonna give me a heart attack, you son of a bitch. You gotta stop doing that.”

“Or maybe you just need to be more observant,” he offered, kicking off the wall. “You were all so absorbed with the door, none of you even noticed I was standing there for like thirty seconds. I wasn’t even trying to be sneaky, dude. If I’d been that goat-footed gorilla freak, I totally could’ve broken your spine for a second time. That’s why you need me, broham. To watch your six.”

“I’m glad you have my back,” I said, rolling my eyes, “and I’m glad that thing didn’t kill you.”

“Yeah, I’m real tough to kill,” he said, nodding. “Turns out, as your spirit guide, I’m tethered to your soul. Kind of like a leech.” He paused, squinted. “But the good kind of leech,” he finished.

“There’s a good kind of leech?” I asked.

“You know what, scratch the leech thing,” Cal said. “Let’s go with symbiote. Sort of a Spiderman and Venom deal, but with healthier boundaries. Point is, so long as you don’t kick the bucket, neither will I. We’re in it to the end, partner. Though, dying still hurts a whole lot, especially when I’m in corporeal form. Getting drawn and quartered by a bunch of handsy vines felt like having my wisdom teeth pulled out through my asshole.”

“Yeah, definitely had some Evil Dead vibes going for it,” I agreed. “You said you wouldn’t go in there.” I hooked a thumb toward the gated-off section of caves. “Why?”

“Because I can read.” He walked over and slapped a ghostly hand against the sign. “There are monsters and shit down there, dumbass. A whole bunch of ’em. And now that I know if you die, I die, I’m slightly more invested in keeping you alive.”

“I happen to agree with your friend,” Arturo said. “Stone Spiders are nasty creatures. I’m not sure you’re ready to contend against them.”

A bounty appeared a second later in direct contradiction to his words.

<<<>>>

Bounty

Stone Spider Nest: You have uncovered a Stone Spider Nest buried deep beneath the earth of Ironmoor. The creatures within are highly territorial and though they rarely venture from their burrows, they are extremely dangerous to anything unlucky enough to venture into the warren of tunnels they call home. Eliminate the nest by killing the Stone Spider Brood Matriarch.

Reward: +1,000 Essence

<<<>>>

I snorted and rolled my eyes. “Raguel seems to disagree with you,” I said, “because I just got a bounty to clear this place. Plus”—I waved my hand toward the weapons leaning in the racks—“those aren’t down here for show. Dollars to doughnuts the new ore vein is in there somewhere, which means regular, run-of-the-mill townsfolk have been down here hooking and jabbing with the Stone Spiders. If they can do it, then I think we’ll survive.”

27

Stone Spiders

The heavy iron gate was clearly designed to keep the Stone Spiders in, not the miners out, and though the lock was beefy, it wasn’t made to stand up against a Soul Bound mace. One hard swing smashed the clasp and granted us access to the restricted area. The tunnel twisted and turned this way then that. At first, it was shrouded in a deep gloom, dispelled only by the flickering light of the torch Arturo carried. But after a minute, the ground sloped down and the gloom gave way to a ghostly bioluminescence, which emanated from an odd blue-green moss clinging to the stone walls and ceiling.

We quickly spotted signs of the mining operations.

Scuff marks and ruts on the dusty floor spoke of wheelbarrows, while loose piles of shale lined the walls—evidence that someone had been working the stone. We found the first concrete signs of Selitrium deposits within a few minutes. Clumps of black, quartz-like crystal jutted from the walls, and striped veins of deep inky black crisscrossed the limestone that composed the rest of the cavern. The sign had warned of Stone Spiders but so far we’d seen no sign of the monstrous creatures, whatever they happened to be.

We headed down a connecting tunnel that corkscrewed deeper into the earth and uncovered another wrought iron gate, even thicker than the first. A second posted sign warned us to go no further.

Warning: Stone Spider Nest. This section has not been cleared. Do not proceed on pain of death!

“Huh,” Cal said, reading the sign out loud. “If I didn’t know any better, I’d say they want to keep us out of here.”

“Yes,” Arturo agreed stoically, “because there are monsters inside. Dangerous ones. Stone Spiders are insectoid-like creatures, big as the hounds which guard the ironmongers near the docks. I’ve had the displeasure of dealing with them a time or two. They scuttle around on spidery, segmented legs and they have these massive claws”—he formed one hand into a C-shape—“like giant, crustacean pincers. They possess powerful mandibles capable of crushing armor, and they spit acid.”

“Aw, the poor baby sounds scared,” Cal said.

“I’m not scared,” the priest growled. “I just have enough common sense not to go looking for a fight we could easily avoid. Especially since Stone Spiders tend to leave well enough alone, so long as you don’t invade their territory. Whoever is running this operation probably cleared out the first chamber, then built the gate while the Brood Matriarch repopulated.”

“Which is why we should wipe them all out now, while they’re weak,” Renholm cackled. “Imagine all the Affinity Scales to be looted,” he said, nearly salivating. “Plus, these are fertile lands. If we kill the creature who currently lays claim to this territory, we could add it to our own holdings. Why,” he said, neurotically tapping his fingers together, “I could even bequeath it to you, my loyal Baron of Greenbriar.”

“Wait,” I said, holding up a hand. “Let me just get this straight. I’m gonna do all the work and kill the Stone Spider Matriarch and then you’re gonna give me what is already mine?” I asked.

“Don’t get bogged down in the semantics of it all, my young, gullible protégé,” the pixie said, dismissing my question without even attempting to answer. “The point is, only territory conquered in battle or given through friendship may be claimed. We take it, you get it, which, by Fae Law, would make you a landholding Count of Green, no longer a worthless baron—a noble in name only.”

“You’re the one who made me a baron,” I pointed out.

“And you’re lucky that I did. A lowly creature such as you elevated to such an exalted station? A true honor. But do you know how many landholding, non-Fae nobles there are, hmm? None, that’s how many,” he said before I could answer. “We’d be breaking new ground, you and I. Just think of the possibilities. Jeffery will be incensed with jealousy.”

“Who’s Jeffery?” Cal whispered in my ear, looking genuinely confused.

“His nemesis, I think,” I replied. “He wasn’t super clear about it. Definitely some weird relationship dynamics going on there.”

“And,” Renholm continued, undeterred, “the answers you seek are still further ahead. The trail, it leads into there.” He jabbed a finger at the passage beyond the bars. “The path, it glimmers like stardust. If you want to unravel this thread, we must proceed.”

Although Arturo had his reservations, I sure as hell didn’t. I wanted to get to the heart of the matter, and any little piece of intelligence might be the thing that would give me an edge when I squared off against the Changeling—or whatever it was—again. Plus, I needed to get a shit ton stronger, and the only way I was going to accomplish that was by some good ol’ fashioned monster killing. There were answers and monsters dead ahead. Also, maybe a shot at being a landholding Fae noble—which probably was good.

As far as I was concerned, it was a win-win.

I busted open the lock with a single well-placed blow from my mace, and in we went.

We didn’t have to go far before the atmosphere palpably changed. The temperature cooled noticeably and uneasy goosebumps sprinted along my arms. My Combat Sense sent out a stern warning that there was something in here and that it was watching us. Waiting in the shadows. I pressed my eyes closed and listened, straining my supernatural senses. The hairs on the back of my neck stood rigid as the soft rustle of chitinous legs moving over stone drifted through the air.

“Thirty paces, at your ten o’ clock,” Cal whispered from beside me. 

The tap of pincers on the wall told me seven of the nasty little shits were headed in our direction and moving fast. It wasn’t but a second until I caught a glimpse of motion, creeping along beneath the bio-light of the cave moss. 

“Cal, you’re with me.” I pulled out one of the Grass Hound Transformation Tokens and flicked it to the specter. “Padre, hang back. Renholm, make sure he stays safe.”

Without waiting for a response, I swapped my mace for my Colt and darted forward.

My Combat Sense rang like a bell.

There was a high-pitched squeal as an arachnoid-like creature with enormous claws charged into view. Arturo was right, these things were horrific looking. Large as a hound, they were covered with rocky armor and razor-sharp spikes of quartz. Slicing mandibles jutted forward, scissoring back and forth as great ropes of gray goo dribbled out. The ugly sumbitch was working with one major tactical disadvantage, however. It had two dozen or more milky eyes scattered across its body.

Three or four hung above its mandibles, but there were more, clustered along its back, tucked away between jutting quartz spikes. All those eyes probably helped it navigate even in severely light-restricted environments, but eyes were a vulnerability. And, as a result, this thing had a lot of vulnerabilities.

I leveled the pistol and breathed out, targeting a cluster of eyes on its side, all blinking in the glare of the torchlight. The creature lunged, propelling itself from the wall, its multi-jointed legs splayed out, its pincers spread wide. I squeezed the trigger in quick succession; the Colt kicked in my hand and a blaze of magical light filled the chamber as the rounds found their mark. Eyeballs exploded and the creature squealed as I stepped to the left and let it sail harmlessly past me. It hit the dusty ground already dead.

That first kill was so damned easy I almost had to laugh.

[You have killed an Adolescent Stone Spider! The world has been cleansed! You have been blessed with 110 Essence!]

More of the Stone Spiders were quickly eating up the distance, scuttling along on their arachnoid limbs. Some raced across on the floor, others clung to the walls, a few even traversed the ceiling. They were easy to kill, but there was strength in numbers.

I raised my pistol again, locking in on a Stone Spider crawling along the right-hand wall.

Something short and bulky streaked past me on the left, followed by the lumbering armor-clad figure on my right.

A Grass Hound, twice the size of even the largest Grass Hounds I’d tangled with in the fairy ring, threw itself against an incoming Stone Spider, bowling it onto its back, wicked claws slashing at its suddenly exposed stomach while a long, barbed tongue tore out milky eyes, sending the creature into a quivering death spasm. Guess that answered the question of whether Cal was able to use the Transformation Tokens. I, for one, couldn’t have been happier. Who didn’t want a pet monster tucked away in their back pocket for a rainy day?

Less pleasing was the armor-clad figure barreling into the fray.

“Goddammit, Art!” I yelled. “I said to stay back.”

“Unlike you,” he shouted over one shoulder, “I know my limits and my capabilities. Stone Spiders are firmly within my wheelhouse.” A fierce, almost manic grin stretched across his bearded face. His war staff danced in his hands, spinning like a helicopter blade, before coming down with a bone-crunching thud that split one of the insectoid creatures damn near in two. “If you’re going to insist we fight, then let us fight. Let’s see if you can keep up, honored Vigil.”

The fuck? The priest had just called me out. Well, challenge accepted.

I sensed more than saw the Stone Spider dropping down on me from above. I sidestepped a snapping pincer looking to give me a haircut that started at the throat and planted a pair of rounds right into the creature’s malformed head. Crimson energy leeched away from the creature, feeding me its life force thanks to the Hunger Affinity rounds still in the chamber. In the same instant, thin trails of golden steam wafted up while a runic notice flashed in the corner of my eye.

[You have killed an Adolescent Stone Spider! The world has been cleansed! You have been blessed with 110 Essence!]

I ignored the heaven-sent message and spun, narrowly avoiding another pincer. In a blink I dismissed the pistol and called my mace to hand. I brought the blunt weapon screaming through the outstretched limb, shattering the chitinous appendage just above the joint. A crab-like claw lined with gleaming obsidian spikes clattered to the floor. More energy poured out of me, heightening every sense, my Combat Sense working in overdrive. Vibrations sprinted along the floor and up into my feet, carrying a whole array of useful information.

Incoming, fast, and at my two. I twirled and dropped low—

A long arachnoid leg carved through the space I’d been occupying. Left hand outthrust, I drew on my Arcana, siphoning off more power than I’d ever used before. My palm slammed into the creature’s side and a lance of molten flame, brighter than an arc welder, exploded outward, swatting the incoming critter from the air and charbroiling it to a smear of ash and black soot. Its smoking corpse collided into the wall with bone-breaking force and crumpled, a streak of glowing green blood staining the stone.  

[You have killed an Adolescent Stone Spider! The world has been cleansed! You have been blessed with 110 Essence!]

My Arcana gauge strobed once and emptied faster than a lance corporal’s bank account while on shore leave. A spike of pain stabbed into my chest and radiated down along my Arcana channels as I doubled over, wheezing and shaking, right on the verge of puking everywhere. Holy shit. I’d thought Kinetic Blast kicked hard, but this was a whole different level. I’d been two points below the recommended Arcana Attribute threshold listed for the skill, and I was starting to get an idea of what exactly that meant.

Thankfully, golden mist swept across the floor like an early morning ground fog, filling my body with power and my core with a fresh supply of Arcana.

I shook off the lingering pain sizzling along my nerve endings. Next time I used Unbound Blaze, I’d need to tone down the intensity just a hair.

Ahead, a trio of the nasty bastards had broken away from the pack and were advancing on me in a united front. But as the next one attacked, time seemed to lurch. Suddenly, I was seeing in what I could only describe as “four-D vision.” Combat Sense let me anticipate the movement of enemy combatants, but this was some Super Saiyan next-level shit. This had to be the Precognition ability, which had a two percent chance of activating for every thirty seconds I was engaged in battle.

Although the three juvenile Stone Spiders were frozen in time and space, I watched as shadowy versions of their Essence traveled outward from their massive thoraxes and into the space they planned to inhabit. It was a tunnel of intention, alerting me to where they would be a second from now. Having flamethrower hands was badass to the max, but this was the coolest thing I’d experienced since waking up in this world.

I pressed forward with a renewed surge of confidence and leaned into the fight with a flurry of mace swings, breaking at least twelve legs in one move before dancing away to regroup. I dismissed the mace with a wave and replaced it with my pistol just as easily, then quickly backpedaled and used the clinging moss to scale the wall and climb onto a small earthen ledge. In seconds I had the high ground and I proceeded to rain conjured bullets down from above, targeting the army of milky eyes covering their bodies. Honestly, it was evolutionary insanity to have so many weak points, so prominently displayed, and in such large numbers.

It was great for me, though. Like shooting disgusting eyeball-covered fish in a barrel.

They screeched and fell, but they were only the forward guard. There was easily a dozen more where they’d come from. 

I tapped into Unbound Blaze once more, summoning a rush of primal Arcana from my core, and smoked an entire formation of those shitheads with one wrecking ball of concentrated flame. The spell left me reeling drunkenly, but it was worth the sudden wave of exhaustion. Bodies scattered like bowling pins. Burning, buggy monsters mewled and screeched, spewing goopy green fluid all over the floors and walls along with a copious amount of golden mist. The life force swirled through the room and filled my nose and mouth, granting me a renewed flood of power.

Behind me I heard a hiss and then a howl and turned just in time to see Arturo slamming his war staff into the head of one of the Stone Spiders that had its pincers wrapped around the padre’s thigh. No sooner had he laid that one to rest than he was spinning on his heels, staff a blur. He crushed an overextended pincer and bashed through a chitinous skull with ease. The guy sure knew his way around a war staff. No way this was his first rodeo. He might’ve been a lazy drunk, but he was a lazy drunk that knew how to handle himself in a dustup. 

Further up the corridor, Cal was going apeshit in his Grass Hound form—ripping off spidery limbs with his teeth, eviscerating exposed bellies with his claws, using that freaky long tongue as a murder-whip. I stole a quick look back and spotted Renholm. He was sitting leisurely on his furry friend, who’d lain down and was busy licking his junk. Cats were such bullshit, and pixies didn’t seem much better.

He didn’t seem to be in any immediate danger, though, and my friends were handling themselves like utter badasses, so I snapped back into reality, eager to suck up as much Essence as I could get my greedy little blood-soaked mitts on. I swapped out my pistol and slaughtered the next phalanx that came at me with my mace, smashing skulls and legs with equal ease. Another three fell in a hail of magical bullets and a battering ram of magically conjured flame. 

I dropped from the rocky ledge and landed in a crouch as Arturo finished off the last of the monsters—a small stream of golden light drifting across the floor and into his nostrils. That son of a bitch could absorb Essence, just like me. The questions I had about him were quickly mounting, and not in a good way. I liked the priest and I didn’t think he was the monster I was hunting, but he had some explaining to do if he expected me to continue to trust him. As much as I wanted answers about him, however, there was a bigger mystery that had caught my attention.

Twenty feet ahead, on the left, was a cleft in the wall. Red light leaked from the fissure and spilled onto the floor like a bloodstain.

I slipped past a heavily panting Arturo just as Cal’s transformation lapsed and the Grass Hound vanished, replaced by the shade of my undead friend.

“Did you see that, dude?” he said, nearly bouncing on his toes. “That shit was awesome! Like turning into the Incredible Hulk or something. I was all over the place. Kicking ass and taking names. And just imagine the kinda loot we’re going to score off of all these things!”

I ignored him and stopped in front of the narrow fissure running up the tunnel wall. The crack wasn’t natural—angular points and a host of score marks told me that the miners were responsible. A few pieces were starting to click together. The earthquake had opened up a new passageway and the miners had come down, hoping to uncover another Selitrium vein. Except they’d stumbled onto something else. Something that had been long buried.

Something that should’ve stayed buried…

28

Mask-Shaped Clue

“I think I’m going to need a drink,” Arturo said as we squeezed our way through the crevice and into a chamber beyond. Unlike the rough limestone walls that comprised the rest of the cave system, the chamber was crafted of expertly cut gray stone blocks. Glowing red sigils and bloody runes covered the floors, ceiling, and walls. The odd jagged script swam in my vision and even with my Language of the Heavens ability, I couldn’t make out what it said.

Chained to the back wall with thick silver manacles was a lifeless, ape-like creature, and dangling down its front was a desiccated human husk. It looked identical to the creature that I’d fought back in Ironmoor, though this thing was withered and long dead.

“By all that is good and holy,” Arturo said, delicately tracing his fingers over the lines of the glowing sigils, mumbling under his breath. He faltered when he got to the section of wall we’d come through. The wards had been broken by the miners. “This is old magic. I haven’t ever seen anything quite like it, but I suspect this is a containment spell.”

Cal snorted. “Yeah, Captain Obvious. I don’t know magic and even I could’ve told you that.”

“The real question is, what was it containing?” I edged closer to the corpses, getting a good look at how they were connected for the first time. The monstrous creature with the gorilla arms and the goat hooves didn’t have a face or even a head; rather, it had a tubular mouth that connected to its human host at the base of the skull. As for the human host, it appeared normal enough, though it looked like someone had sucked out every ounce of fluid in his body as though he were a human Capri Sun.

Cal had joked about being a leech attached to my soul. This thing was the real deal. A giant walking leech that wore a human being like a Halloween costume. And emblazoned on the withered human’s forehead was the same symbol I’d seen etched on the wooden mask.

“This symbol,” I said, tapping on the corpse’s forehead. “Don’t suppose you recognize it, Padre?”

Arturo scooted closer, squinting as he studied the mark. “Unfortunately, I can’t say that I do. I might have something on it back in my chapel, but it doesn’t immediately jump out at me.”

“You seem both fat and stupid, human, so your failure isn’t at all surprising,” Renholm said, guiding his cat into the chamber. Sir Jacob-Francis flopped down at Cal’s ghostly feet, purring softly, unperturbed by the hideous corpse or the magic writing filling the air with ghoulish red light. The pixie took to wing, hovering just in front of the symbol. “I, on the other hand, am trim and smart and fabulously well versed in Fae magics—another reason to keep me around,” he said, offering me a pointed glance. “I know this symbol. It is the Fae mark for a type of creature.”

Arturo’s face visibly paled.

“Of course. This is Sidhe. This here”—the priest pointed toward a hooked mark jutting off from the symbol—“must denote high unseelie, correct?”

Renholm sniffed and nodded. “Still fat, but slightly less stupid than you appear. It means Githrokh in their tongue.”

“Not an Elder Changeling at all,” Arturo said, eyes bright with understanding. “A Hexblight.” He turned on me. “We’re dealing with something much older than all of Ironmoor. This thing has probably been buried here for a hundred thousand years, bound and sealed against release.”

“Is this good news or bad news?” I asked.

“Oh, bad news most definitely,” Arturo replied, nodding a tad too enthusiastically. “This isn’t technically a Mortka at all, which makes it much trickier to kill. Mortka are formed naturally as Essence leaks into the Material Realm, which then takes on the form of whatever Affinities are nearby. This though is more like a spell or a cursed item of sorts.” He lumbered over to the body on the wall, pointing at the vacant hole where his face should’ve been. “Mortka of true spirit are very dangerous and are usually formed when Essence bonds with a powerful nontangible affinity—grief, fear, pain, anger. Or greed.

“Such creatures are notoriously difficult to kill, which is why Sidhe Shaman often capture them in Spirit Masks. The masks act as a vessel, containing the Mortka’s Essence and requiring them to form a bond with a physical host in order to touch the world.” He patted the decrepit old man on the shoulder. “If I had to guess, I’d say this poor soul was the mask’s last host. They couldn’t remove the mask, which is necessary to part the host from the creature, so instead they captured both, trapped them down here, and then inscribed these containment wards to keep the spirit within asleep.”

He turned away from the body and scrambled over to another wall, fervently scanning the runes and sigils.

“What are you looking for?” Cal asked, arms folded across his chest.

The priest just stuck up a hand to silence us and continued his search. After another thirty seconds of awkward silence, he paused, finger tapping on a specific shape.

“Here. This is it. The name of the spirit. Keres.”

The symbol as written didn’t mean anything to me, but the insta translator in my head instantly spat out a word. “Vengeance,” I said without really thinking about it.

“It would seem so,” Arturo replied. “The creature within is the spiritual personification of vengeance.”

“Does that tell us how to stop it?” I asked.

“No,” he replied, shaking his head, “but it does tell us what motivates the beast. The mask cannot just bind with any host—it will seek someone out that is consumed with vengeance. With hatred and a thirst for violence. Whoever is behind that mask is out for blood, though why I still cannot say. And, worse, this also means dispatching it will be far more difficult. Hexblight have access to dark magics, and so long as the mask remains in place, hiding the identity of the host, it cannot be slain.”

“What do you mean it can’t be slain?” Cal asked.

“I mean it can’t be slain,” Arturo said, exasperated. “When its mask is in place, the Hexblight is invulnerable—we may be able to cripple or even incapacitate it for a short while, but we won’t be able to kill it. If we can find a way to remove the mask, however, we’ll be able to separate the host victim from the parasitic creature and then it can be properly dispatched. I have the ritual necessary to accomplish the task back at the chapel, but performing it will require us to name the host in the presence of the creature. Which is precisely why they take great pains to hide their identity.”

“So what?” Cal asked. “Do we just assemble everyone in the town square and start doing roll call until one of them barfs out a magical mask?”

“Idiot spirit,” Arturo mumbled, rubbing at the bridge of his nose. “What it means is that we can’t simply fight the beast. We need to unravel this mystery and discern the identity of the host. If we can do that, I’ll be able to destroy the mask, and if we can destroy the mask, we can kill the monster.” He paused and grimaced. “Though even maskless, Hexblight are still tougher than a platoon of Vilsholder Royale Mariners.”

<<<>>>

Bounty Update

Terror of Ironmoor: You have determined that the creature that haunts Ironmoor is not an Elder Changeling but rather a Githrokh, also known as a Hexblight. Dispatching such a beast will be no easy task, but if you can determine the identity of the host victim, Arbitrator Arturo seems confident he can banish the Spirit Mask that protects the Hexblight, rendering the creature vulnerable. Separate the host from the Hexblight, slay the beast before at least one witness, and restore justice and order to the city of Ironmoor.

Reward: +15,000 Essence, 1 x Seraphic Affinity Scale (Sage Class), 1 x Chaos Affinity Scale (Sage Class), 1 x True Form Transformation Token, 1 x Scalable Master-Rank Armor Item

<<<>>>

“Don’t suppose we have any guesses about who would be willing to bind with something like this?” Cal asked as I quickly scanned the update.

“I’m drawing a blank,” I replied, waving away the golden runes floating before me, “but I’m guessing whoever’s running this little mining operation might have some clue. They knew this chamber was down here—hell, their miners broke the wards—and they kept their traps shut about it. Seems like the kinda thing someone would mention if a Vigil showed up and was poking around about a bunch of monster attacks. Keeping silent makes them look real guilty.”

“And even if they aren’t the Hexblight,” the padre said, “it makes them complicit in the killings. A sin by omission is still a sin.”

“My momma would sure agree with you.” I keenly recalled every switching I’d ever taken on account of something stupid Cal did. “But before we do that,” I said, peering into the murky darkness ahead, “we’ve got some critters to kill.”

* * *

It took us another three hours to navigate the complex maze that made up the guts of the mines. The hallways themselves were a warren of old, unexplored rooms and twisting corridors, all interspersed with nests of the adolescent Stone Spiders. Honeycomb-like structures dotted several of the cavernous spaces while strings of gooey green webbing ran through many of the corridors. Cocoons filled with everything from deer to jackalopes dangled from the ceiling, the meat rotting and liquifying over time.

Ever walk through a forest and get a strand of spiderwebbing on your face? Fucking disgusting. Now imagine the spiders were the size of rottweilers. Oh, also, the webbing was goddamned acid.

I learned that painful lesson after my first attempt to tear it down. I lost all the skin on my right hand, though thankfully with all the Essence coursing through me, my body went into repair mode ASAP. I was never not going to thank my lucky stars for that ability. 

We took a pit stop in a small alcove with a bunch of stalactites hanging overhead like giant icicles, eating a few bites of cold rabbit meat and some stale bread, before pressing on. The Stone Spiders grew fewer the lower we descended, but they became bigger and significantly harder to kill. Arturo was kind enough to inform me about the monstrous hierarchy at play—the longer they survived, the bigger the nasty shitheads got and the more space they needed to carve out their respective lairs.

These mature Stone Spiders were nothing like the easily killed punk kid spiders from the upper levels of the mine, but on the plus side they offered a lot more Essence per kill and they also had a shit ton more items tucked away in their Soul Vaults.

Honestly, the ugly bastards were one bad day away from becoming compulsive hoarders.

They were basically mini versions of Smaug, only uber disgusting and covered in a thousand eyes. Also, instead of piles of gold and priceless jewels, a lot of their hoard consisted of literal garbage—acid-riddled old boots, pieces of torn fabric, a rusted-out iron cauldron—so nothing like Smaug at all, I guess. I did nab some more silver coins to add to my growing surplus, though, and a ton of amazing crafting ingredients. [12 x Raw Silver Ore, Fabrication Ingredient], [3 x Silver Ore, Fabrication Ingredient], [7 x Raw Selitrium Ore, Fabrication Ingredient], [2 x Mortka Horn (Disciple), Fabrication Ingredient], [3 x Mortka Horn (Disciple), Fabrication Ingredient], [12 x Mortka Steel Ore, Fabrication Ingredient] [18 x Stone Spider Chitin, Fabrication Ingredient].

A damn impressive haul, and that was only the tip of the loot iceberg. I scored enough Stoneform Affinity Scales to keep Renholm snorting Essence like lines of coke for the next three months and an even dozen Stone Spider Transformation Tokens, which would ensure Cal could polymorph to his heart’s content.

<<<>>>

Stoneform Affinity Scale

Type: Refined Stoneform Affinity

Class: Novice

Ability: Consume

Primary Effects:

When consumed directly, Refined Stoneform Affinity temporarily enhances the user’s resistance to damage by causing a thin layer of stony calcification to form along the surface of the skin.

When in Stoneform, the user gains additional resistance to piercing and slashing damage, but movement speed is significantly reduced.

Channel Refined Stoneform Affinity into a metaphysical focal point, imbuing the item with unique benefits for a limited duration.

Note: The strength and duration of the effect is directly proportional to the quality of the Scale consumed.

<<<>>

I had no idea what would happen if I fed the Stoneform Scales to my Colt, but consuming them directly had some nifty advantages. Yeah, I’d probably be slow as balls, but I was guessing that I’d also be able to hit like a sledgehammer and go ten rounds with Mike Tyson without batting an eye.

On top of everything else, I also pulled a single silver pauldron covered in gold foil and a badass double crescent battle-axe. Nothing enchanted or magical about either item, but they would make great fodder for future armor and weapon designs. And, because I still had Fae Tether active, I didn’t even have to haul any of my loot around—I sent it all off to the Soul Vault for later examination.

Keeping that particular ability equipped was one of the best choices I’d made all week. Though, admittedly, my past week had been filled with a lot of very shitty life choices. One of those life choices was so shitty it had actually killed me, so the bar was pretty low.

Eventually, the steadily downward sloping passageways leveled out and we found ourselves in a section of the cave system that appeared devoid of life. The air was musty, heavy, and reeked with the fetid scent of rancid blood, old meat, and loamy soil. The only light this deep into the system was the odd glow that emanated from the moss clinging to the walls and ceiling, but that was more than enough to illuminate the veritable graveyard of bones littering the floor. Mostly animal, though there were a few human remains as well, all yellowed from age.

We were close. I could feel it in my bones as we slowly navigated the twists, turns, and switchbacks. Renholm zipped back from a quick scouting run as we headed into an odd circular tunnel that looked like it had been worn smooth by the constant passage of some gargantuan body.

“It’s been a pleasure serving with all of you,” the pixie whispered, casting nervous glances back over one shoulder, “but I’ve decided to take my trusty steed and depart for the day. Very busy. Quite tired. Doesn’t look like there’s anything else for me to do here.”

“You found the Matriarch, didn’t you?” I asked, cocking an eyebrow.

The little butthole wanted to lie to me—I could see it carved into every line of his face, but our pact prevented him from knowingly deceiving me.

I watched in amusement as he wrestled internally, desperately trying to avoid the truth, compelled to tell me anyway.

“Gah. Yes. She’s just up ahead. A truly revolting creature, and that’s coming from someone who had to watch Jeff trim his toenails in our shared living space.”

“Wait, so was Jeff your boss or your live-in roommate?” Cal asked.

“I’m not sure that’s the question we should be asking right now,” I said, giving the ghost a dirty look. “Let’s stay focused on the giant spider monster thing that might kill us.”

“My relationship with Jeff was complicated,” Renholm replied with a sniff, ignoring me, “and I’m not obligated to tell you anything, odious spirit. All you need to know is that the creature is up ahead. The passageway veers left, then shortly opens into a large chamber.” He folded his arms across his narrow chest, deeply unamused. “The disgusting she-beast slumbers within,” he finished. “But I am not going any further.”

“What if I pay you extra?” I asked, pulling out one of my few remaining Hunger Affinity Scales. “Half a scale?”

He glowered, narrowed his eyes, then licked his lips. “How dare you sully my honor with such a lowball offer? I wouldn’t even consider it for less than a full scale. For a full scale, I’ll run naked into battle against a monster composed entirely of flaccid phalluses.”

“Respect,” Cal said, extending a fist to the pixie for a fist bump. “I’m all about that hustle, too.”

“What? No, no respect at all. That is disgusting, and literally no one is asking you to do that. You know what,” I said, “doesn’t matter. Just don’t mention fighting a dick monster while naked again, ever, and we have a deal—with a caveat. Half a scale now, half after we kill this nasty sumbitch. Can’t have you going into a food coma on me.”

“A true bargain it is,” Renholm cackled, greedily eyeing the scale in my hand.

I snapped it in half with my thumbs—a small sizzle of power accompanied by a trickle of smoke—and tossed one half to the wily pixie.

“Alright, everyone, game faces on,” I said, sliding the rest of the scale back into my coin pouch for later. “We’re about to meet the queen.”

29

Royalty

“Might be best if you hang back, padre,” I whispered while pressed up against the unnaturally smooth stone wall. I stole a peek around the corner. The gloom was hard to penetrate even with my enhanced vision, but I could see an enormous shape in the center of the cavern beyond. We’d found the queen bee alright. “I’m thinking things might get pretty ugly on the other side.”

Arturo shrugged, unconcerned. “I’m sure I’ve seen worse. Besides, this is all part and parcel of being an Arbitrator. This is my calling and my duty to Raguel. And though we Arbitrators may not have your powers or skill set, when things get bad and there’s no Vigil about, we do what we must.”

“Hey, if you want to hook and jab against that nightmare in there, I’m not gonna argue,” I replied, double-checking my Colt.

I had a full thirteen rounds, all filled up with newly harvested Stoneform Affinity. Pretty badass shit. Every round had an eight percent chance to inflict internal petrification, causing the target’s joints to temporarily calcify, until they were essentially paralyzed. Not sure if it would work against something like the Stone Spider—I figured she probably had a natural immunity since her disgusting children produced Stoneform Affinity—but there was no time like the present to find out.

“But if things do go sideways,” I said after a beat, “don’t hesitate to turn tail and haul ass. No shame in that. Cal is damn near indestructible as far as I can reckon, and my bones heal up pretty damned quick. You, not so much.”

“Your concern is touching,” Arturo replied, absently fiddling with the straps on his armor, readjusting everything one last time.

I snorted and rolled my eyes. “As if, padre. I just don’t want to get stuck lugging your giant ass out of the place, slung over my shoulder.”  

“Truly, truly touching,” he said again. 

I took a deep breath to steel myself, then pushed off the wall and stormed into the room, pistol in my right hand, a fiery blaze forming in my left.

My eyes adjusted to the dim lighting quickly—not even the bioluminescent fungi grew here. It was probably scared off by the stench hanging in the air, which hit me in the nose like a closed fist. The chamber itself was filled with webbing; bodies dangled from overhead like Christmas decorations.

Right smack-dab in the middle of the room was big mama.

She was easily ten times the size of anything I’d gone up against so far, with a chitinous gray hide thicker than a rhino’s. Instead of scuttling around on spindly spider legs like the rest of her brood, she rested on a huge worm-like tail covered with whipping tentacles. Claws, big enough to crush a car, clicked and clacked as an army of glowing red eyes snapped open and locked onto my position. She opened a maw big enough to swallow me whole and let out an ear-shattering roar that shook the cavern around us, dusty debris raining down from above.  

“Cal, keep her busy!” I thundered. “Art, go left, I’ll go right!”

I dashed into the room, unloading the rounds into the creature’s blubbery body. That accomplished a whole lot of nothing. Magical energy bullets pinged off the creature’s rocky exterior, failing to penetrate her hide. I reloaded—feeding more Stoneform Affinity into my Colt—and aimed at the eyes scattered across her upper torso and head. That was slightly more effective, but only when I managed to land a solid hit. Firing at range, while on the move, at targets no bigger than a silver dollar was no easy trick, and most of my shots thudded harmlessly into flabby tissue or chitinous exoskeleton.

My Maximum Penetration skill would’ve been perfect for a situation like this one, but I was a jackass and had opted for some extra flashy magic instead. Idiot.

Meanwhile, Cal had shifted into a Juvenile Stone Spider and was harassing the Matriarch, using his oversized pincers to slash and rip at her wormy belly. His claws were wildly effective, and even better, the queen didn’t quite seem to know what the hell to do with Cal. He looked like one of her offspring, after all, so she seemed hesitant to crush him on the spot. That reluctance bought Arturo and me some time to get into a better strategic position. The priest dove, rolling to avoid one of her pincers—it was a surprisingly nimble maneuver for a man his size and girth.

The padre came up swinging, his heavy war staff batting away an encroaching tentacle, then he laid into the creature’s side. The staff landed like a Mack truck, a small crack forming across the queen’s rocky exterior. Blunt weapons seemed to be effective, and I had one of those on demand.

I darted right, dismissing my pistol with a flick of my wrist, and summoned my mace in the same instant. A tentacle, thick as my wrist, whipped toward my face. I brought my left hand to bear and dipped into the well of energy nestled inside my chest. Power surged down my arm, draining half my Arcana bar, and exploded out from my palm. A glimmering dome of golden light, covered in a flurry of crimson runes, exploded into existence.

The tentacle slammed into the conjured defensive barrier, sparks of golden light spitting into the air on contact. I grunted, the force of the blow pushing me back along the dusty ground, but the shield held fast, my Arcana pool slowly draining.

The tentacle retreated and I dismissed the dome, panting from the exertion.

There was a howl off to my left.

I glanced back in time to see a tentacle wrap around Cal’s Stone Spider form, squeezing the ever-living shit out of my buddy. A sizzling bolt of pearlescent power, no larger than my pinky, erupted from the far side of the cavern. Renholm, slinging Fae magic while he cackled manically from the back of his tabby. I’d totally expected the pixie to bail the second he got his grubby hands on the first half of the Affinity Scale, but it turned out he was a team player when it suited him.

The neurotic little pixie still had some surprises in him, it seemed.

My Combat Sense pinged and I jumped back, narrowly avoiding a flailing tentacle that was hell-bent on turning me into a smear of meat paste, then rolled right, dodging another tentacle aimed at taking out my legs. I rolled to my feet near the mummified body of a former adventurer clad in the tattered remains of leather armor. There was a bastard sword lying near his corpse that still looked functional enough. I snagged it with my left hand. Time for some dual wielding.

I brought my mace screaming around and slammed it into an eye-cluster on the creature’s backside. The blow landed with a meaty thwack and gore erupted in a geyser, while cracks zigzagged out from the impact site. The creature howled, the sound a mixture of rage and pain, and renewed its attacks on me. A small forest of tendrils darted toward me, all ready to tear me limb from limb. I pivoted at the hips and swung the mace, knocking aside another purple-gray limb, then shot in with the pilfered bastard sword, slicing through the meat with a powerful overhand chop.

The severed appendage flopped to the ground and I kicked it away. But another questing tendril wrapped around my ankle, constricting like a boa as it hoisted me into the air.

The sword slipped from my hand, gone as quickly as it had come, and I found myself dangling upside down while barbed hooks punctured the leather of my boot and dug mercilessly into my flesh. A blinding lance of pain shot through my body like a lightning strike.

[Poisoned! You have been afflicted by Stone Spider Venom. Stone Spider Venom causes internal petrification—a debilitatingly painful disease that calcifies the joints. Moving becomes excruciating and if enough instances of Stone Spider Venom are applied, you will eventually be paralyzed. Duration, 1 hour or until healed of Affliction.]

Yay. I was getting to experience internal petrification firsthand, and boy did it suck a bagful of dicks. I couldn’t do anything about the Stone Spider Venom coursing through my veins, but maybe I could prevent any more instances from getting added. Awkwardly, I pulled out a Stoneform Affinity Scale and consumed it, absorbing its power in a sweet rush. The pain rampaging through my body begrudgingly relented as a thin layer of stone spread across my skin, preventing the venomous barbs from penetrating my flesh.

That was one problem down, but now I had a new issue to add to the mix.

Stoneform gave me added resistance, but I had all the flexibility of a Ken doll. Bunch of bullshit. Using all the added energy from the scale, I curled upward and bashed fruitlessly at the tentacle encircling my ankle. Instead of freeing myself, I only seemed to piss off big mama. With a twirl, she smashed me against the wall like a wet rag. The blow rang my bell and the world reeled around me, stars waltzing across my field of vision.

The fact that I was made out of stone was the only thing that kept me conscious.

Also, thanks to the internal petrification kicking the shit out of my joints, my hand stayed closed, so I didn’t drop my mace. Another win. Sort of. Not that I was any less fucked.

“Hold on, Vigil!” Arturo bellowed. The sound reverberated through the air as the priest charged like a maniac, his hair frazzled, his beard already splattered with Stone Spider gore. The guy looked like a demon. He slammed into the queen’s body with his pauldron and he actually managed to shift her enormous ass, even if it was only by a few inches. Arturo danced back, dropped his war staff, and interlaced his fingers, forming his hands into a cup. Cal bounded in and leapt onto the priest; Arturo heaved, eyes bulging, muscles straining as he straightened his legs and hurled Cal through the air.

The specter turned Stone Spider landed on top of the queen, and she lost her mind.

Sure, I was still dangling in the air from my ankle, dazed from being slammed into the wall, but I was alive and big mama had pretty much forgotten about me. Understandable, since she had one of her spidery-legged children tap-dancing on her head, jabbing at her vulnerable eyes with oversized pincers. I would’ve focused on that issue too, had I been in her shoes. Plus, Renholm was busy unleashing what basically amounted to a fairy rave—lights and magic strobing and exploding in the air.

“Taste my wrath, vile she beast!” he screeched. The pixie really was good to have around in a pinch.

Internal petrification was at work inside me, and the stone on my skin made moving even more difficult, but I still had one skill in my arsenal that I hadn’t tried out yet. Peerless Warrior, which came from the Ward of Justice. I had nothing left to lose. I triggered the ability with a thought and felt a renewed surge of power filling my muscles and body as my green Stamina gauge strobed red and began to rapidly diminish. The world snapped into razor-sharp clarity and time seemed to take a deep breath.

Peerless Warrior let me move faster, hit harder, and fight longer, and it made me immune from Hold and Movement Reducing spells. It couldn’t do anything about the actual tentacle wrapped around my ankle, but the bone-grinding effects of internal petrification dimmed and vanished. I was speed. I was power. I was strength. And I was about to own this bitch. I crunched up, rocked forward, and slammed the flanged mace into the side of big mama’s skull. Her hardened exoskeleton cracked like an egg from the impact and viscous blue-green goo leaked out and spilled down its side.

That was the opening I needed.

While the creature was dazed and distracted, I swung my body forward once more, this time jamming my free hand inside the fissure I’d just made. Acid tried to chew through my skin but it was wrapped in a layer of stone. Fueled by the power of Peerless Warrior, I called up every ounce of Arcana energy I could muster from my core and unleashed it in a single Fire Lance…

What happened after that was hard to follow.

My Arcana bar failed at the exact same time my Stamina gauge bottomed out. Honestly, it felt like being rung out like a dish towel. Cold invaded my body while my muscles seized, cramped, and spasmed. That was part of the side effect of Peerless Warrior. It was a shot of adrenaline straight to the heart, but when you crashed, holy shit did you crash hard.

Thankfully, big mama Stone Spider fared even worse.

The slug-bodied queen blew apart at the seams, a terrible screech ripping at the air. Light and heat erupted outward in a wave of gore and chitinous body armor. The force of the blast propelled me forward and hurled me into the wall. Again. This time I hit face-first. They always say the best way to break a fall is with your face. Something crunched, probably my nose, and a wave of hot blood poured down my chin. Fire scorched my hair, the full weight of the fight—the burns and breaks and lacerations—landed like a bunker buster, and the world disappeared in a swirl of black.

I think I passed out, though I had brief flashes of the blubbery body smashing into the ground. Somewhere in there, a veritable fog bank of golden mist swept into my lungs and a heavenly orchestra filled my head.  

I’d leveled up, which was probably the only reason I survived the trauma at all. 

Afterward, Arturo told me he had to dismember the matriarch, piece by piece, to get me out from underneath the behemoth. I came to just as he lugged the final tentacle off me and chucked it into a heap of rancid Stone Spider guts. Not a pretty sight, believe you me. And worse still, the acidic blood had eaten some nasty holes in my Basic Brigandine armor, turning it into little more than scrap metal. I wasn’t sure even my Armor Evocation ability would be able to fix the mess. Hopefully I would be able to salvage my Arcana Token.

That was the bad news.

The good news was that we were all alive and I’d found an even better replacement set of armor stashed away in the creature’s impressive Spirit Vault. A shirt of gleaming silver scale mail padded with leather, along with a pair of matching greaves that would help protect my legs.

<<<>>>

Silver Partial Plate Mail

Type: Heavy, Plate Mail

Class: Adept

This partial plate mail is constructed from a mixture of tempered steel and magically reinforced silver and is designed to offer superior protection of the chest, back, and legs. It is less restrictive and cumbersome than full plate, but the use of ringed mail along the joints does make those areas more vulnerable against piercing blows from pikes, spears, or broadswords. Partial Plate Mail is favored by nobles who fight afoot, whereas full plate is better suited for a cavalry man, riding astride an armored warhorse.

<<<>>>

It was leaps and bounds better than my current armor and after I got done breaking it down shotgun style in the Soul Forge for a blueprint and augmenting it with Stone Spider hide, I was gonna have some armor that would keep me safe even from the deadly creature haunting the streets of Ironmoor. That wasn’t all the queen had to offer either. Fabrication ingredients by the bucketload, superior quality Stoneform Affinity Scales, and two other big-ticket items that had me feeling like I was on top of the world. The first was a shiny new Arcanum Token.

<<<>>>

Elemental Spark: Fire

Token Type: Weapon Inset, Infernal

Class: Adept

The heart of a young Fire Elemental—a divine spark, born of the earth, crushed by the weight of a mountain, and baptized by churning waves of magma. In time this Spark will grow and mature into a fearsome creature—an avatar of nature itself. Or its potent power may be harnessed, granting the wielder a taste of the World Forge.     

Effect 1: Equip to a Soul Forged Weapon Skin to add fire damage to all attacks.

Effect 2: When wielding a weapon equipped with Flame Elemental Spark, Fire Resistance increased by 13%.

<<<>>>

I cackled like Renholm while I read over the description. I couldn’t wait to imbue my mace with elemental flame. Next time I squared off against the monster that had kicked my ass up and down ye olde Ironmoor, I was going to return the favor by shoving a mace-shaped brand iron down its throat. The second item was a wild card, and I wasn’t sure quite what to make of it. A single True Form Transformation Token.

<<<>>>

Transformation Token

Type: True Form

Class: Disciple

Ability: Consume

Primary Effects:

Consume True Form Transformation Token to temporarily polymorph-self into the monstrous incarnation of your Spirit Totem; duration, 14 minutes.

Restrictions:

Must have the Totem Transformation Ability to activate this Transformation Token.

<<<>>

Unlike the other Transformation Tokens I’d picked up, this one wouldn’t allow me to become a monster I’d already killed, but the monster that lived inside of me. Problem was, I had no idea what my Spirit Totem was. I assumed that was the kind of thing that most Vigils probably knew before they ever got into the field, but me? I was operating blind. I could consume the token and turn into a dragon or I could wind up as a dumpy, oversized tortoise. I had no idea what to expect or how effective it would be, and since I only had the one, there was no way to test it and find out.

Like I said, a wild card, but one I was glad as hell to have tucked up my sleeve.

30

The Bannermen

I stowed all of my newly acquired items in my Soul Vault—thank the Good Lord Almighty for Fae Tether—then we dragged our tired asses out of the cave. We didn’t talk much as we navigated the warren of passageways back to the surface. Other than Renholm. The stupid murder parrot talked enough for the rest of us combined, rambling on and on and on about our new “seat of power” and how much more awesome the Greenbriar Court was than the Oblivion Court and how jealous Jeff was going to be. The other half of the Glamor Affinity Scale I’d fed him after the fight probably had something to do with it.

We exited the mines outside of the town limits—hoofing it out through the same decrepit entrance Marcus Pekkala had probably been heading for the other night. The sun had fallen below the horizon, only the barest hint of purple still staining the sky. Arturo was silent as he stared up at the stars.

He took a deep breath, savoring the evening air, fragrant with the scent of wildflowers. He chuckled and shook his shaggy head.

“I must confess, there was a moment down there where I wasn’t certain we would ever see the stars again or taste fresh air. I haven’t had a battle like that since, well…” The priest trailed off. “It doesn’t matter,” he finally finished weakly.

“Yeah, I’m gonna call bullshit on that one, Padre,” I said. “I’ve given you a lot of leeway and haven’t pushed you to share much about your past with me. I’m thinking it’s time we put the kibosh on that. If I’m gonna fight with you at my back—put my life into your hands—I deserve to know as much about you as you know about me, and you’re keeping stuff from me. You know spells.” I stuck a finger into the air. “You fight like the love child of a Kung-Fu monk and a bona fide grizzly bear.” Another finger joined the first.

“Your face and hands are covered in old wounds. You shrug off hits that would break a normal man. And I ain’t gonna pretend I didn’t see you siphoning up Essence from your kills, just like me.” By the time I was done all five fingers were standing at attention. “You say you’re not a Vigil—which might be true—but you ain’t a run-of-the-mill priest either.” I crossed my arms and fixed him with my hardest NCO glower. “It’s time you told me what you are and how you learned to fight like that.”

He sighed and dropped his gaze, studying the dirt.

“Aye,” he replied softly. “I suppose I owe you that much, honored Vigil. Let’s chat as we walk—it’s late and my belly could use a good meal and a strong ale.”

Even though I’d siphoned off a buttload of Essence from the Stone Spider Matriarch, I was still weary to the bone, and I could see that mirrored in Arturo. He moved slowly, his steps heavy. We moved at a leisurely pace, the priest clearly trying to figure out what to tell me.

“I wasn’t always a priest,” he said eventually, “but you already figured that much out. I started life in the courts, if you can believe it. The third son of a prominent noble family in the capital province of Kidri. Not that that means anything to you.”

“Sounds promising,” I replied, absently scanning the side of the road for signs of life. “So how did the third son of a prominent noble family end up as a drunk priest all the way out in Ironmoor, huh?”

“A single bad choice,” he replied quietly. “One that ruined my life and stained my family’s honor. Cost us everything. In truth, my father was more than just a noble, he was the Esteemed Margrave of Brezneik—he was one part general one part politician, and responsible for the city defense. He earned that post, in part, because he was a Scion of Raguel.”

Arturo had mentioned something briefly about Scions, but so much had happened over the past few days that it was all a little fuzzy in my head.

“Remind me about what exactly a Scion of Raguel is?” I prodded.

“Right. Of course. I continually forget how little of our world and our ways you know. If you recall, I mentioned that there are those who have the True Gift, aside from Vigils. The Scions of Raguel is a colloquial term for the offspring of Vigils—those who bear the gifts of Raguel, at any rate. Steelborn and Sorcerers. My father was a bear of a man, larger even than me, and was renowned for his physical abilities in battle. Of all my brothers, only I inherited his talents as a Steelborn. And not only that, but I could learn to use the True Gift as the Magi do.”

Cal whistled. “Damn, dude, you won the genetic lottery,” the specter said, walking beside us.

“Yeah, which is why I’m even more confused about why you ended up here,” I said, shooting the priest a weary look.

Arturo shrugged. “Your confusion is warranted. I’m not sure how things work on your world—it seems so different than ours—but despite winning the genetic lottery as you say, I was born third. My eldest brother was destined to take over the margraviate, a fact I do not begrudge him in the least. Though he was born without my physical abilities, I never had the disposition for politics, nor the desire to fight from afar. My second brother was trained from the time he could walk to lead our armies. As for me… Well, my father ran out of bloody steam by the time I popped out.

“I was physically gifted, blessed with the traits of the Steelborn, and double blessed with my abilities to learn magecraft through study. My mother was far more interested in court functions and lavish parties than in child-rearing, and since my father was busy with my two older, very capable brothers, my upbringing was entrusted to the Templars of the Queen’s Banner. They were a knightly order that only trained the Steelborn Scions of Raguel. I also took endless lessons with Golden Chalice—a group of scholarly magi.”

“So, you’re basically a Vigil,” I said, deadpan.

He offered me a sad grin and shook his head.

“I think our commander fancied us as such sometimes, but the differences between our powers are legion. Besides, the Citadel of Custodians is beholden to no man. No king or queen. No nation. And they are respected everywhere they set foot. The Templars of the Banner, on the other hand, are the sword arm of High Queen Palander. We are sworn to the Kelkadian crown and fought foreign mercenaries and smugglers more than we ever hunted Mortka. As the noble son of the Margrave and a Steelborn with a talent for magecraft, I was the golden child of the Bannermen. Quickly moved up the ranks until I was leading squads of regular knights.”

He sounded wistful, almost happy, while talking about it.

“I’ll admit, I fought more than my fair share of battles and skirmishes against Mortka. Earned my scars the honest way,” he said with a toothy grin. “Made enough progress that eventually I was put in charge of stomping out a group of smugglers called the Bloodletters. The finest crooks, thugs, and sell-swords in all the world. The Templar Bannerman I replaced was suspected of having a disquietingly close relationship with the Bloodletters.”

“Your bosses thought he was on the take?” I asked.

“Just so,” Arturo replied. “But not me. I was a zealot and the pride of the Bannermen. I came in and put the screws to the Bloodletters. Shut down their brothels. Closed the inns and taverns they controlled. Locked up low-level fences. Some suggested that there was a necessary degree of diplomacy needed to handle the smugglers, but I believed only in the diplomacy of the sword and rod. I should’ve listened to their counsel, but I was young and headstrong and certain I was right.”

I winced, knowing exactly where this story was going.

“The Bloodletters were far cleverer than I and used my zeal and overinflated sense of ego against me—turned it into the very instrument of my inevitable fall from grace.” He fell quiet for a moment. Pensive. His gaze distant and hazy. We called it the thousand-yard stare and only people who’d seen some real shit got that look.

“One of my informants got word about a shipment coming in through the Haligars, a mountain range east of Brezneik.” He flicked his wrist off in the distance. “Weapons. Drugs. Even arcane Rjuhella relics, left over from the Hundred Years’ War. A loss like that would’ve broken their back and made my career. A feather for my cap.”

“It was too good to be true,” I said, already feeling a knot form in the pit of my stomach. A group with Alpha company had the same thing happen to them during the initial push into Fallujah. Their CO had gotten a hot tip about an insurgent hideout and weapon cache, brimming to the gills with persons of interest. It was the kind of tip you couldn’t pass up. The kind that could make your career—earn you a bronze star if you were an ambitious captain.

“Indeed, it was,” Arturo said, hunching in on himself as we walked. “It was a fate-cursed mission. I guided a platoon of men into the Haligars. I only brought the best of the best with me. Mean bastards, and every one of them could drink me under the table. They were also my friends. But we didn’t find a wagon train of illicit goods. Instead we found a group of mercenaries waiting for us. Only seven of them. Five were Steelborn, the other two full-blooded Sorcerers.”

He shuddered and fell silent, but I already knew what had happened. The same thing that happened to the boys from Alpha. The same thing that happened to me back in that dusty alley in Fallujah.

“They set upon us in a narrow pass, raining arrows and spells down upon our heads. I was the only Steelborn, and though I had command of some of the finest Knight Templars I’ve ever had the privilege of knowing, we didn’t stand a chance. We rallied, of course, but not even the Templars can stand against the inhuman strength and speed of the Steelborn. Like Vigils, Steelborn can heal even from grievous wounds. And the Sorcerers wielded deadly magics that slew us at a distance. They killed my party to the man. All save for me.”

I looked a question at him. Why’d they let you live?

He sighed and reached beneath his armor, pulling out a golden chain with a signet medallion dangling from the end.

“The sign of my house. As I said, my father was the Esteemed Margrave of Brezneik. Killing me would’ve forced my father’s hand and started a war that they never could’ve won. They used me as an object lesson. They stripped me naked and nailed me to a tree outside of the city gates. A warning to let the Bloodletters be.” He looked up into the trees. The night sky was pricked with pinpoints of light. “It was also a ploy to humiliate both the Bannermen and my noble household.”

“Did it work?” I asked softly.

He grimaced and nodded.

“I honestly wasn’t sure who was more mortified by my failure. My father, the Bannermen, or myself. For many months I dreamed about dying,” he muttered. “Better men than me died in those hills—I should’ve died with them. The fact that I’d survived was worse in its way. My father called me a coward, and I believed his words. The guilt ate at me. I couldn’t live with myself, but neither could I take my own life.

“I tried, but every time I took the blade to my wrists, I would see the faces of my friends glimmering in the steel. I was done as a Templar. There was no place for me at my father’s side. No redemption to be had, so I took the easy way out. Left and joined the Church. The Arbitrators were only too happy to have someone with my pedigree in their ranks.”

He stopped talking, but I could hear the pain even in his silence. I put a hand on his shoulder and squeezed, reassuring him that I was there. Present. But I didn’t speak. There are moments, particularly when you talk with someone who has known great pain, when your only job is to bear witness. You don’t speak. You don’t attempt to console them or fix shit. Because sometimes there are no words that reach those places that have been stripped of sense. To watch your friends die around you in battle is a pain worse than death.

To survive them was its own form of torture. I looked at Cal, who walked silently beside us. He knew. We both did.

31

Re-Spec

The rest of the trek back into town was uneventful, and eventually we split ways. Cal retired to the Etheric Realm to recuperate. Arturo headed over to the chapel to get shitfaced—no surprise there. Renholm hauled ass into the night, probably looking to loot the town or score some alone time with his blue sprite friend. So long as he didn’t score in my room or on top of my stuff, I didn’t give two shits. As for me, I made my way to the Three Chimneys, ready for a hot meal, a hot bath, and a bit of shut-eye.

The inn was more sedated than usual. My favorite redheaded songstress was nowhere to be seen—she traveled with the caravan, which had departed, bound for the next town over. Most of the drunks looked sullen, playing cards or rolling dice, while everyone else nursed brews or brooded over steaming bowels of stew. After slogging around in the mines, killing Stone Spiders all day, I appreciated the quiet. Maggie was working the bar, a bright smile on her face and a twinkle in her eye.

“Must be dirty work, whatever you’ve been about,” she said, crinkling her nose as I plopped down on a barstool across from her. She leaned forward and cast a conspiratorial look in both directions. “Been playing down in the old mine shafts, have we?”

Suddenly I was as sharp as the edge of my K-Bar.

“How could you know that?” I growled, mentally preparing myself to unleash a gout of magically conjured fire on her if she got aggressive. Maggie hadn’t really been a suspect on my radar, but I hadn’t ruled her out either. The fact that she knew about the mining operations instantly moved her higher up on my suspect list—though still well below my ol’ pals Sigge and Gustav.

“Easy,” she whispered, reaching out with a finger and dragging it across my cheek. The tip of her digit was covered in a fine soot-like powder. “Selitrium dust. I’ve lived here long enough to remember the good old days.” She dropped her voice even lower. “I’ve also seen more than a few men coming back as of late covered in the stuff. Marcus Pekkala, Jenken Trenouth, and the Virtanen brothers to name a few. They stumble in here looking to spend their coin and fill their bellies, and I see it all. I’m not sure what’s going on down there, but I have a sneaking suspicion that there are those who might not take kindly to you poking around.”

“You threatening me?” I growled, squinting at her, trying to figure out her game.

She snorted and rolled her eyes. “I’m trying to help you, you great dolt,” she replied. “And I’m trying to do it without getting myself into trouble. These people, they see you sitting here covered in Selitrium dust, talking to me… well, they might start asking me what I said. And some of that lot likes to ask questions with their fists. I don’t need that sort of trouble. Neither do you. If I were in your shoes, Vigil, I’d head over to the baths, clean myself up right and proper, and then call it an early night. Could be a generous innkeeper would even have food and drink brought up to your room.”

My grimace softened. “Sorry,” I said, feeling like a jackass. “It’s just been a long day and I’m more on edge than ever.” I pulled out a full golden crown, looted from the Grass Hounds, and plopped it down on the counter. That was enough to keep me in good standing for a month. “A tip for your trouble and kindness.”

“Oh, you don’t need to do that,” she said, though I noticed she disappeared the crown with a quick swipe of the rag in her hand. “Now get. And keep your nose clean, hmm?”

* * *

On Maggie’s suggestion, I headed over to the baths, feeling a small pang of guilt as a new bath attendant helped me scrape and clean the gunk from my body before I slipped into the steam rooms. I couldn’t help but think of the girl that I’d failed to save. Minna. Cut damn near in half, skin flayed from her body. Poor kid. I was gonna find out who was behind that mask, and when I did, I would unleash some divine retribution on their evil, shapeshifting ass.

After I was squeaky clean, I returned to the inn and used the servants’ stair to slip into my room, unseen. There was a conspiracy unfolding in this sleepy little city and I didn’t want to get Maggie drawn into my mess, especially if there was any chance she could wind up dead. I liked her and I already had one dead girl weighing heavily on my conscience—I didn’t need another. True to her word, there was a platter of food waiting for me on my bed. Warm, crunchy bread, hearty brown stew that was still hot, and a flagon of beer strong enough to leave my eyes watering.

I ate slowly, mulling over everything I’d learned so far, trying to put the clues together. A rough picture was starting to form—one involving politics, corruption, and ritual magic—but there were still too many missing puzzle pieces for me to see anything clearly. But I was more sure than ever that Sigge and Gustav were somehow complicit in whatever was going on around here. Was it possible one of them was the Hexblight? Fuck yeah it was possible. Any time there’s a chance to make money, people do dubious shit.

If it’s enough money, someone might even be willing to sell their soul to the Devil.

And even if they weren’t the monster I was hunting, they would be able to tell me more than I knew now.

I pulled out the invitation that Renholm had found. Tomorrow night was Gustav’s fancy cocktail party—my two prime suspects would both be in attendance. If there was incriminating evidence lying around somewhere, what better place than in Gustav’s home? I wasn’t going to get a better chance to poke around and maybe grill those two shitbirds about what they knew. And if either of them was the Hexblight, it was possible they wouldn’t want to shift in front of all their guests, outing themselves as a monster in the process.

I could use that to my advantage.

Golden opportunities rarely showed up on silver platters, and I intended to seize this one.

After finishing my food, I brushed my teeth and racked out for the night, waking up a handful of hours later. It was still dark out, the sky cast in the steely gray of predawn. I donned my janky brigandine armor—not even duct tape would save it at this point—strapping it into place with disgust, then stole out of the inn through the back so I wouldn’t wake anyone. There were a few people up and about—bakers, tradesmen, fishermen—but the streets were largely empty and silent.

The main chapel doors were locked up nice and tight and I knew Arturo wouldn’t appreciate me waking his drunk ass up at this hour. Which is why he’d given me a fat brass key for the rectory entrance around the back. I let myself in, ghosting past Arturo’s room on silent feet. The priest was in, I could tell from the chainsaw snores echoing through the building. Guy needed to see a doctor about sleep apnea. I paused and glanced into his chambers—even in the dim light, I could see him sprawled out on the bed, one leg hanging over the edge of the mattress, an empty bottle of hooch cradled against his chest like a stuffed animal.

Couldn’t blame him. I’d seen my friends killed and it had messed me up, too. And Arturo had it even worse since it had been his operation and he was also the sole survivor. Talk about a mind fuck.

I left him to snooze and headed into the chapel proper, slapping my hand against the altar. There was a whirl of power and light as the room dissolved and I stepped into my now-familiar Soul Vault. This place was beginning to feel more and more like home, every time I came back.

But now wasn’t the time to lounge and relax. I had a dinner party to get ready for—a dinner party that required copious amounts of espionage and possibly shooting some asshole in the face. Sounded like a lot of fun, actually, but I had preparations to make. As Drill Instructor Screw Y’all used to scream at us, Prior Preparation Prevents Piss-Poor Performance!

My rotating avatar was the first stop.

I’d killed so many Juvenile Stone Spiders that I’d lost count, and big mama Stone Spider had generously left me a hearty 3,500 Essence in her will. That, combined with the flood of Essence from the other Stone Spiders and the 1,000 Essence Bounty Reward for purging the den, was enough to push me up not just one level, but two. I blazed straight from Novice Gold, past Disciple Bronze, and smack-dab into Disciple Silver. And, because I wasn’t just ascending between ranks, but had moved up a class, I unlocked an additional ten Ward Points to spend along with two bonus Attribute Points.

I intended to put them all to good use.

<<<>>>

Boyd Knight

Race: Vigil Bound

Level: Disciple, Silver Rank

Current Essence: 2,130

Next Ascended Rank: 15,000

Attribute Points: 4

Ward Points: 30

Characteristics

Brawn: 18

Verve: 18

Finesse: 15

Arcana: 14

Insight: 15

Vigil Wards 

Ward of Justice: Soul Bound Weapons (Boon), Peerless Warrior

Ward of Valor: Diamond Body (Boon), Combat Sense

Ward of Wrath: Arcane Insight (Boon), Unbound Blaze, Warded Shield

Ward of Balance: Language of the Heavens (Boon), Sidhe Pact, Fae Tether

Ward of Truth: Threads of Fate (Boon)

Expand Ward List 

<<<>>>

Before divvying out all my points, I decided to active my Threads of Fate Boon, reclaiming all the Ward Points I’d spent so far—other than my Sidhe Pact with Renholm. The pixie was an annoying turdball with a god complex, but so far he’d been worth his weight in gold. Sure, he only weighed two ounces, but gold was gold. I braced myself for the inevitable wave of soul-searing agony and triggered the effect, reclaiming 30 Ward Points, for a total of 60/65, which was a fortune as far as I was concerned.

I consoled myself with the thought of how badass I was gonna be while I writhed around on the floor, praying for the sweet, sweet release of death. No big deal.

Once the pain finally relented, I gained my feet—swaying and lightheaded—nabbed my Grimoire of Virtues, and started picking out the skills that I would need for the soiree. I instantly found myself in a real shit pickle. I had a metric butt ton of crafting I needed to get done, but if I dropped thirty points into Sage Smith, Infusion Forger, and Affinity Retrofitter, I wouldn’t have enough time to respec again before the shindig kicked off in earnest. Either I could hold off on tearing through all the new armor and fabrication ingredients I’d earned down in the mines, or I would need to go into the party with thirty points tied up in abilities that wouldn’t keep me alive.

It was a terrible choice.

After mulling it over for a few minutes, I decided the answer was to hold off on tinkering around in the Soul Forge. I had my enchanted mace and my Colt, and although my brigandine armor was scrap at this point, I had the new silver partial plate mail and my Grass Hound leather armor—which was probably what I was going to need for the party anyhow. After all, tonight’s mission wasn’t about beating ass and serving up a steaming pile of gun-barrel justice, it was super-secret squirrel business.

This was recon. I needed answers and incriminating evidence. Crafting better gear wasn’t liable to help accomplish the mission.

Instead, I needed to focus on the abilities tucked away inside the Ward of Truth. But first, there was the matter of the four Attribute Points to dish out. I was roughly 13,000 Essence away from my next level—looked like the easy gains were over—so there was no telling exactly how long it would be before I got more Attribute Points to spend. I needed to make these count. My gut reaction was to dump a point apiece into Brawn and Verve, but I’d seen firsthand how powerful magic was. Fire Lance could deal three times as much damage as a swing from my mace—but only if I had an Arcana Pool large enough to make it practical.

Right now, my Arcana score was at a pathetic 14. No wonder casting spells took so much out of me. Time to change that in a big way. Because my Arcana was so low, I decided to Sacrifice 1,300 of my available Essence, elevating my base score up by two points to a slightly more respectable 16. That left me with 830 Essence—just enough to nudge my Insight Attribute up to 16 as well. That was a must, since most of the skills I’d be picking up for tonight came from the Truth Ward, and they all required a higher Insight level.

Another soul-flaying round of agony ensued as the Essence I’d absorbed down in the mines was siphoned out of my core, courtesy of Satan’s sippy straw. Pain was weakness leaving the body, I reminded myself as I rocked and shivered intermittently for the next five minutes.

A third round of hellish torture ensued after I placed all four of my Attribute Points into Arcana, increasing the stat once more, this time from 16 all the way up to 20. Why yes, it was like having my teeth pulled out with pliers. Didn’t matter, I told myself. I wasn’t even going to remember how bad this hurt when I was calling down lightning from the heavens to smite the people that pissed me off. Monsters. Crooks. Anyone who drove slow in the fast lane. Lightning, bitches!

With that messy bit of business out of the way, I started choosing the skills I’d need for my recon mission into ol’ Gustav’s crime mansion. The Ward of Truth was my new best buddy. There were abilities to make me stealthier, discern whether someone was lying, help me supernaturally pick locks, offer “suggestions” that would bend people to my will, or steal the dreams right out from their heads. Hell, I could turn myself completely invisible if I was willing to shell out the massive amount of Ward Points necessary to unlock Crystalline Shell.

Not a one of those skills would help me survive in a tussle, but they were perfect for what I had in mind at Gustav’s. There were a few skills that I couldn’t afford to go without, though. Combat Sense was just too damned useful and so was Fae Tether. With that, I’d be able to instantly disappear any evidence I found in Gustav’s manor back to my Soul Vault and no one would be any the wiser. I hadn’t actually used Totem Transformation yet, but it only cost two points to unlock, and it would give me a nice backup plan in case things got hairy.

Plus, turning into a Stone Spider in the middle of an upscale party for the city’s finest was an absolute power move.

That left me fifty total Ward Points to go hog wild with, and I knew how I wanted to spend ’em. I glanced through the expanded spell list, cross-referencing the various abilities with the grimoire in my hands.

Ward of Truth

Boon of Akora: Threads of Fate (Unlocked)

College of Rhetoric

— Master Mentalist; Cost: 4

— Calm Emotions; Cost: 8

— Honeyed Words; Cost: 10 

— Greater Suggestion; Cost: 16

— Grave Communion; Cost: 24

College of Deception

— Stealth Step; Cost: 5

— Deft Touch; Cost: 8

— Wyld Wisdom; Cost: 15

— Dream Thief; Cost: 15

— Crystalline Shell; Cost: 25

College of Reason

— Sage Smith; Cost: 10

— Infusion Forger; Cost: 10

— Affinity Retrofitter; Cost: 10

— Arcane Transmuter; Cost 10

— Alchemic Mastery; Cost: 10

College of Rhetoric focused mainly on understanding and manipulating people through the psyche to get to the truth, while College of Deception was a bit more esoteric—deceiving people through arcane means to uncover the things they wanted kept secret. The skills in Deception were undeniably powerful, but that meant they also came with a heftier price tag. Crystalline Shell wouldn’t make me invisible so much as it would turn my body into a diamond-like substance that allowed light particles to filter through my body.

Badass, but it also cost twenty-five points and had a recommended Insight level of 22.

Way out of my league.

Besides, I could accomplish more or less the same thing with Stealth Step and that bad boy only ran me five points. Sure, I couldn’t disappear in plain sight, but I would be able to blend in with the shadows, making me harder to spot by the undiscerning eye, especially in low light environments. Next on the list was Deft Touch. It would allow me to consume a combination of Stamina and Arcana to magically pick any mundane lock I could get my grubby paws on. That went onto my shopping list. The next was a must have and was probably one of those abilities, like Combat Sense, that I should’ve just been running around the clock.

Master Mentalist

A Vigil’s mind and senses are uncanny tools, as powerful off the battlefield as on it. Just as a combatant often telegraphs their moves, so too does the dishonest man, seeking to keep the truth from coming to light. A twitch of the eyes, a pause in speech, an elevated heartrate, a nervous tic. All are signs that a Vigil can read with ease, allowing them to instinctually know when someone is being dishonest—or when things aren’t quite what they seem. The effects of Master Mentalist are directly proportional to a Vigil’s Insight Levels. At higher Insight Levels, a Master Mentalist can even discern hidden insights, including a subject’s physical and magical capabilities.

Recommended Attribute Minimums: Insight, 16

I’d be lying through my teeth if I didn’t say that having some Sherlock skills tucked away for a rainy day wasn’t a dream come true. Not only would Master Mentalist help solve this epic clusterfuck, but it would make for a great bar trick once the heat was off and the monster was dead. I also decided to snag Wyld Wisdom from the College of Deception, since it seemed like the perfect one-two combo when paired with Master Mentalist.

Wyld Wisdom

A Vigil’s senses aren’t rooted merely in the Material Realm, but in the Etheric. Drawing on a connection that defies any explanation, Vigils blessed with Wyld Wisdom can glimpse Intention, Purpose, Need, and even Fate itself. People or objects may “glimmer” with Wyld Power, visible only to the Vigil’s enhanced senses. Such glimmers signify that the object or person is of importance, though how precisely they fit into the grand pattern of creation is not revealed. The ability to discern such “glimmers” is directly proportional to a Vigil’s Insight Levels.

Recommended Attribute Minimums: Insight, 18

That sounded almost exactly like what Renholm had described to me after he’d discovered the invitation from Gustav to Sigge. I figured between that and being able to Sherlock people, there wasn’t anything getting past me. Problem was, I was two points short of the recommended Insight minimum. Chances were, it wouldn’t work for me at all. Or, if it did, it would suck my soul out through my eyeballs. I didn’t want to find myself curled into the fetal position right in the middle of Gustav’s party.

Hard to intimidate someone who’s seen you crying like a toddler.

Thankfully, I had a fix for that—a skill that didn’t come from the Ward of Truth at all.

Mantle of Authority. The Valor Ward had a whole group of different “Mantles” buried under a category called Bastion of Presence. Every single one of them was an AoE buff designed to boost the abilities of teammates. I was essentially a team of one, but they would work just as well on me as they did on others. Mantle of Authority was an active aura that temporarily gave an Insight boost to all allies in a thirty-foot radius and made spells like Cunning Glamor, Honeyed Words, Greater Suggestion, Stealth Step, Wyld Wisdom, Dream Thief, and Crystalline Shell more effective.

And unlike Wyld Wisdom, Mantle of Authority required Verve and Arcana—since it burned both Stamina and Arcana—both of which I now had in spades. It was a thing of beauty.

That left me with ten points, enough for the final skill I wanted in my repertoire for the evening, Honeyed Words.

Honeyed Words

A silver tongue can be just as deadly as a sword when wielded by a warrior of words. After all, a sword may topple an opponent, but a well-placed word can topple empires. Consume Arcana to activate Honeyed Words, and imbue your suggestions with potent power, making them seem more agreeable and persuasive than they normally would. Telling an obvious lie or suggesting something that is unreasonable or detrimental to the target will make the spell fail. This skill can only be used to influence a single target and does not affect those with certain magical immunities or creatures that do not possess higher reasoning. The Vigil’s persuasiveness is directly tied to Insight Levels.

Recommended Attribute Minimums: Insight, 18

Satisfied with my choices, I added my new skills, then glanced at my updated character screen.

<<<>>>

Boyd Knight

Race: Vigil Bound

Level: Disciple, Silver Rank

Current Essence: 130

Next Ascended Rank: 15,000

Attribute Points: 0

Ward Points: 0

Characteristics

Brawn: 18

Verve: 18

Finesse: 15

Arcana: 20

Insight: 16

Vigil Wards 

Ward of Justice: Soul Bound Weapons (Boon)

Ward of Valor: Diamond Body (Boon), Combat Sense, Mantle of Authority

Ward of Wrath: Arcane Insight (Boon)

Ward of Balance: Language of the Heavens (Boon), Sidhe Pact, Fae Tether

Ward of Truth: Threads of Fate (Boon), Master Mentalist, Honeyed Words, Stealth Step, Deft Touch, Wyld Wisdom

Expand Ward List 

<<<>>>

I closed out from the screen with a flick of the wrist. Now all that was left to do was change into my Grass Hound Armor, wake Arturo’s ass up, and get ready to wine and dine with the biggest bunch of douchebags I’d met since waking up from the dead.

32

Party Crashers

Arturo and I milled around the chapel for most of the day, comparing notes and talking over theories. Even after a few hours of going over our suspect list, we didn’t know anything more than we had the night before. The monster on the loose wasn’t an Elder Changeling, but a Githrokh, which had been locked up deep within the earth before a bunch of greedy miners had accidentally busted the lock on its cell. We also knew that the Hexblight attacked approximately every two weeks—though nothing in any of Arturo’s books offered any insight about that.

According to a dusty leather-bound tome thicker than a dictionary, once bonded to a host, the Hexblight needed to feed once every few days. They were parasites and if they didn’t feed regularly, they started to drain the host victim, eventually killing them. Likely what happened to the poor schmuck chained to that wall down in the mines. The creature sucked him dry like a vampire and then fell into a state of hibernation. That didn’t square with the pattern of killings, but we had no explanation for the discrepancy.

On the plus side, Arturo did indeed have a Banishment Ritual specifically designed to temporarily remove the mask from the host. Once the bond was broken, the creature would grow progressively weaker, eventually allowing me to pull the host from the bloodthirsty demonic leech. Once that happened, the monster would be ripe for a good ol’ ass whoopin’. But we needed a few things for the ritual to work. The name of the host and a bodily piece of the host—a lock of hair, a vial of blood, a chopped-off finger.

Anything would do so long as it belonged, bodily, to the host.

Needless to say, this was a shit ton more complicated than simply shooting the sumbitch in the face with a magical machine gun.

As the sun began its eventual descent toward dusk, Arturo changed into his finest priestly garments. No plain black cassock for him this evening. Instead, he combed his hair, oiled his beard, and donned a set of white robes embroidered with enough gold to make Scrooge McDuck blush. Honestly, I thought it looked tacky as shit, but he seemed to preen like a peacock as he slipped on an ornamental breastplate that wouldn’t deflect a whiffle ball and strapped a thin rapier with an elaborate golden basket hilt to his waist. A nobleman’s weapon, he insisted.

He tried to get me to toss on fancier duds—a padded doublet, half cape, some woolen trousers and calf-high boots. Nothing nearly as gaudy as what he was wearing, but something that would make me stand out less in a crowd. He probably could’ve talked me into it with a little bit of arm-twisting, if not for the fact that I hadn’t selected the Armor Evocation ability. My leather Grass Hound Armor offered a +1 Insight Bonus and made Stealth Step and Wyld Wisdom eight percent more effective while the armor was equipped.

I needed those bonuses, and I also didn’t like the idea of potentially walking into a monster’s lair wearing a doublet that would restrict my movement while offering me no discernable protection. So the Grass Hound armor it was. If anyone asked, I’d just say it was a fashion statement. That or punch them in the teeth for poking their nose where it didn’t belong.

Cal and Renholm were waiting for us by the Three Chimneys. Cal was leaning against a wall, looking bored out of his skull, while Renholm lounged about on his cat, who was purring contentedly on top of a barrel in the alleyway.

“Looking good, Boyd,” Cal called as I strutted up. “Very subtle. I love the whole leather armor covered in spikes and bone fragments. Sure, it doesn’t scream the-Pope-giving-Sunday-Mass-at-Burning-Man vibes”—he shot a weighing look at Arturo—“but it’s elegant. Sophisticated without being over the top.”

“Eat my ass,” I growled. “It was this or I could’ve gone as a shopkeeper from the ren faire.”

“I approve wholeheartedly,” Renholm said, nodding. “Wearing the skins of fallen enemies is the perfect way to establish dominance.” He gestured to his own outfit, an odd gray doublet, a pair of tiny leather boots, and a glimmering cape that looked to be made of spiderwebbing and morning dew. He’d opted to forgo pants, which was deeply troubling, though he had added an oversized codpiece that looked like a... well, a rat head. “You’ll notice I fashioned my armor out a particularly troublesome rodent that was giving me the side eye. As I said, wearing the skins of the fallen shows you are not to be trifled with.”

“Great. Now I have to change,” I said. Any time I found myself agreeing with Renholm I knew I’d made a significant tactical error.

“Too late for that,” Arturo offered, rather smugly. “We have a party to attend. Best not to be late.”

The walk over to Gustav’s manor was a real eye-opener. I’d spent more time outside the city walls or climbing around in dusty mine shafts than I had exploring the city proper. Pretty much everything I’d seen so far consisted of the Three Chimneys, the bathhouse, and the church, with a very minor detour to Sigge’s alchemy shop. This was the first time I’d really gotten to see what Ironmoor had to offer. Turned out, most of what it had to offer was a shitload of poverty and secondhand hepatitis.

Beggars and dirty-faced orphans crowded most of the alleys, living in squalid impromptu shacks as often as houses. Many, missing fingers or hands or feet, held cups out in supplication. I’d seen worse during my time overseas. But not much worse. The streets were rough dirt and strewn with mud and hay. Puddles of questionable and nauseating liquids ran along the gutters—the wonders of a world without indoor plumbing. There were public restrooms, called the jakes, but nine times out of ten chamber pots were more convenient and it seemed ye olden time folk were lazy degenerates.

I was seriously regretting my extra-keen senses at the moments.

Then we crossed over a single boulevard and the world changed in a blink.

To the left was a twisted maze of ramshackle homes and despair; to the right was a paved road, lined with trees and hanging flower baskets and straight-backed, stone houses with tiled roofs.

There were no crippled beggars or hollowed-eyed orphans decorating the gleaming sidewalks. In fact, there were no people at all. The place hummed with wealth and luxury. The gap between where we’d been and where we were going was wider than the chasm between the officer’s quarters and enlisted men’s barracks. Hell, not even that was quite right. This section of the city was obviously the Airforce Base, like the one I’d briefly stayed at in Kuwait, compared to the condemned Iraqi squad bay we’d hunkered down in outside of Fallujah. The one that had been condemned and deemed unfit for human habitation. 

Arturo shook off his customary doom and gloom and grinned. “Pithom Row,” he proudly announced, sweeping a hand out. “This is where the well-heeled and up-and-coming rest their noble heads.” 

It could have been my imagination, but it seemed like Arturo was at ease in a way I hadn’t seen before. Then it struck me. These were his people. Not these actual people in these stately manors, but he came from people like the ones behind the shuttered windows and brass-studded doors. He came from money. Power. Privilege. He may have been a knight, but he’d grown up pampered and cared for by servants and staff and tutors. The padre stood straighter, his shoulders thrown back, his nose held a little higher.

I noticed a couple of uneasy glances from behind windows covered with thick, clouded glass. I was betting the fine folks on Pithom Row weren’t accustomed to seeing someone like me cruising their neighborhood. But no one said anything.

Probably because I was wearing the skin of my enemies.

Even though I’d never been here before, it was easy enough to spot Gustav’s house. It was at the end of the row—an honored guest seated at the head of the table—and it was easily twice as large as the rest of the houses. A sprawling behemoth of stone that looked closer to a modest castle than a house. Rectangular windows dotted the outer walls, all filled with immaculate stained-glass imagery that could easily rival the art on display at the temple dedicated to Raguel.

Gustav had a very elevated view of himself, it seemed.

Large hedges and trees boxed in the property, while neatly manicured flower beds and shrubbery lined the front of the manor. Green creeping vines and strands of fragrant purple wisteria hung from the eaves. The place was as subtle as Art’s robes. And if all that weren’t enough, there was a great circular roundabout in front of the manor lined with carriages, horses, immaculately dressed guests and livered servants, all bustling about. Looked like Arturo and I were the only people who’d decided to walk—even though half the people in attendance probably lived on Pithom Row.

“Alright,” I said as we wound our way up Gustav’s private drive, “here’s the plan. Arturo, your job is gonna be to corner Gustav and keep him busy—I don’t want him popping up while I’m snooping through his desk drawers. Cal and Ren, you’re both on patrol. You can get places I can’t, so spread out and find anything that looks suspicious, but keep your heads on a swivel. We know that Sigge, Gustav’s alchemist lapdog, is gonna be hanging around and he can see you. There’s also a chance that this guy is magically savvy—so keep an eye out for wards or other supernatural barriers. Everyone good with their part?” I asked.

A round of nods answered me.

“Good,” I said, clapping my hands together. “Let’s go find out what these snooty goat humpers are up to.”

Cal blinked out of existence, while Renholm took to the air after ruffling Sir Jacob-Francis’s head and whispering into the cat’s ear. The cat chirped, watching the pixie flutter away with a bored gaze, before turning and loping off into the bushes.

“Let me do all the talking,” Arturo said as we approached the main entryway. A stern-faced doorman, tall and slightly hunched, stood sentry, carefully checking for invitations, then cross-referencing the name on a sheet of parchment.

“Good evening, fair sir,” Arturo said, beaming through his beard as he stepped up and clasped his hands together. “We are here for Magistrate Gustav’s event.”

“And here I was wondering why all of these people were showing up,” the doorman replied, rolling his eyes. “Invitation?” He extended a gloved hand, a sneer on his lips.

Dick, I thought, though I kept my mouth firmly shut.

Arturo barely even missed a beat. “Yes, about that, I’m afraid we never did receive a proper invitation, though my friend and I were personally invited by Magistrate Gustav.”

“Perhaps the reason you didn’t receive an invitation,” the doorman said sharply, “is because the honored magistrate didn’t actually want you to attend.” He sniffed dismissively. “I’m afraid, no invitation, no entry.”

Arturo bristled, his face red, his hands balled into tight, scar-covered fists. He was a noble by birth, a knight by trade, and now a priest by profession. The padre wasn’t used to having people talk shit directly to his face and it showed. Guy looked like he was about to blow a gasket. Not that I could blame him—the doorman had a mouth on him sharper than a surgeon’s scalpel. We were going to have to find a burn clinic by the time we finally got through these doors. Me on the other hand? The Marine Corps was built on three things: war fighting, bitching about stuff, and shit talking.

My moment had come. Not to mention, I had some fancy new skills to take for a test drive.

I triggered Mantle of Authority. My Arcana gauge appeared in the corner of my eye, draining so slowly it was hardly noticeable. That’s what a twenty in Arcana earned me, apparently. I’m not sure what exactly I was expecting, but it wasn’t the velvety black cape that sprouted from thin air, draped over one shoulder, and flowed down my back. The doorman’s eyes flared wide in shock and he visibly recoiled as though I’d just kicked his puppy.

Everything seemed to snap into sharper clarity around me, and I felt more confident than I had a moment before. Almost like I’d downed a couple of brews, except there was no fuzziness clouding my thoughts. If anything, I was sharper than normal. I could see the sweat beading on his forehead, the slight tremor in his hands, the way his eyes subtly drifted toward my spiked armor. This guy knew exactly who I was, and I got the feeling he’d been told to keep me from getting inside—and he was nervous about it.

“Apologies for my friend.” I patted Arturo on the shoulder. “I’m sure you know Arbitrator Arturo. He’s a pious man, but he gets out so rarely these days—not great in social settings. I would introduce myself,” I said, leaning in close, “but I reckon you already know who I am.”

The doorman shifted uncomfortably, licked his lips, and bobbed his head. “Of course,” he whispered.

“Then you also know I was personally invited by Gustav,” I said. My Arcana gauge dipped again as I activated Honeyed Words and imbued the words with power, turning it into a statement of absolute fact. “The magistrate and I happened to be at the bathhouse at the time, so he neglected to give me a written invitation, but I can assure you, my friend and I are supposed to be in this party.”

The man squirmed and glanced over my shoulder at the small line of guests starting to form behind us. “But the rules…” he stammered.

“You’re doing a great job,” I said with a shark grin, “but you’re making a scene. Probably embarrassing the magistrate. Best just to let us in, don’t you think? Make us someone else’s problem.”

“Yes, yes of course,” he said, wilting under my Arcana-empowered suggestions. “I don’t know what I was thinking. Please, right this way, gentlemen. Right this way.” He stood aside and bowed, ushering us into the manor house. He was sweating bullets, his face pale and sickly.

“What the hell did you do to him?” the padre asked as we headed into the lavish foyer. The floor was gleaming tile, inset with a house crest I didn’t recognize. A curved double staircase rose to a second level while a massive chandelier, crafted of polished bone and studded with golden accents, dangled above us.

“Eh, what can I say?” I replied with a shrug. “I just have a way with words.”

There were more livery-clad servants posted by the staircases, directing the flow of traffic away from the stairs and toward a large ballroom to the left. If the servants wanted to keep guests corralled on the bottom level, then Gustav’s secrets were probably all stashed on the upper levels. That’s where I needed to be. But even with Stealth Step and Honeyed Words, I wasn’t going to gain access this way. There were too many people and too many sets of eyes. I’d get caught in a second. And talking my way past one doorman wasn’t the same as talking my way past a squad of servants hell-bent on keeping people contained on the first floor.

But the thing about giant manors was that they always had infrastructure built specifically for the help. In my limited experience, ultra-rich dickheads and upper-crust socialites hated seeing their servants perform all the mundane tasks they deemed beneath them. These places were littered with secret hallways, servants’ quarters, and alternative staircases. If I could get to the kitchen, I could find a way up. There was a small army of caterers loaded down with silver trays, piled high with food and beverages, circulating through the grand ballroom. They were streaming out from a pair of double doors on the far side of the hall.

Bingo. That was where I needed to be.

Getting there was going to be a tiny bit of a problem.

As we crossed through the archway and into the grand ballroom proper, a dufus wearing a puffy-sleeved doublet and a floppy hat with a bright gold feather poking up like a flagstick raised his voice and thundered into the hall, “Now presenting Arbitrator Arturo Edris Korhonen, Scion of Raguel, son of Hedrek Edris Korhonen the fourth—Margrave of Brezneik—and former Templar of the Queen’s Banner.” A smattering of polite clapping greeted the pronouncement. “And Boyd Knight the Vigilant,” he finished.

No claps for me, but I could feel every eye in the room shifted to me all at once, including the steely gaze of the man I’d come to gather dirt on. Gustav Hultgren, High Magistrate of Ironmoor.

Fuck my life.

33

Breaking and Entering

“You’re on interference,” I growled into Arturo’s ear. “I can’t afford to get pinned down by Gustav or Sigge.”

The magistrate was sweeping toward me, a false smile plastered on his face. Arturo was already on it. This was a different kind of battlefield than what I was used to, but thankfully the priest seemed as comfortable here as he did brandishing a war staff against Stone Spiders. He squared his shoulders and slipped past various ball-goers, patting arms here, shaking hands there, never getting bogged down as he traced his path across the floor. He intercepted Gustav, putting his whole enormous frame between me and the magistrate, then locking the man into a lingering handshake.

I broke right, tracing my way along the wall, slowly but steadily angling toward the door that workers were pouring out from like worker ants. Unlike Arturo, who had an uncanny knack for politely slipping past the snooty guests, I quickly found myself hemmed in on three sides by a pair of women in hooped ballgowns and a weaselly looking lord with a waxy complexion who was wearing pants so tight they left nothing at all to the imagination.

“Well this is quite the unexpected surprise,” one of the noblewomen said. “I knew there was a Vigil in the city, but I never expected to meet one in person.” Her gaze seemed to roam over my body, lingering on my red eyes and the golden mark branded against my forehead. Her lips curled in the ghost of a smile. “I’m Lady Angwin.” She extended a petite hand, clad in a silk glove. “Charmed, I’m sure.”

I knew she was expecting me to fall all over myself, bowing and scraping and kissing her hand. Instead, I grabbed the proffered limb in a firm grip and gave it a good couple of pumps. A handshake my dad would be proud off.

“Glad to meet you,” I said, watching a tinge of pink creep into her cheeks.

“I’m Lady Derowen Rosevear,” the second woman said, failing to offer me her hand. “And this is my dearest brother, Kenwyn.”

“Good to meet you too, Lord Mooseknuckle,” I said, refusing to look down.

He cocked his head and glanced at me askew, clearly confused. Seemed like mooseknuckle was one of those culturally specific phrases that didn’t translate well.

“Likewise,” the man smirked, forcing a smile. “Like Lady Angwin, I too am more than a little surprised to find a Vigil here, especially with all of these heinous attacks that have been plaguing our town.” The unspoken implication was clear—why was I here, dirtying their fancy party, instead of out on the town, running down leads?

“Funnily enough,” I replied, “the attacks are what brought me here.”

“Oh dear,” he said, clutching his chest in feigned shock. “Should we be worried? I suppose a party such as this would make for a perfect opportunity for the foul beast to strike at the heart of Ironmoor’s ruling class.”

“Naw,” I said, patting his shoulder. “I think you’re safe. The attacks happen every couple of weeks, and the last one was just a few days ago. I reckon the only thing you’re in danger of is testicular torsion. No, the reason I’m here is because I think some of the guests may be implicated in the killings.” I paused and narrowed my eyes. “I don’t suppose you would be interested in telling me where you were the night of the last murder?” Once more I imbued the words with added authority.

The question hung on the air like a threat and I could see all three of them flinch away in discomfort. None of these three were the Hexblight—I could read it in the lines of their bodies, in the flare of the eyes, in the sudden intake of breath. They were scared, both of the creature and of the idea that they might somehow have their reputations sullied.

In short, they were spineless turkeys.

“It couldn’t have been me,” Lord Mooseknuckle stammered, the words forcing their way through his teeth. “I was entertaining a young male escort.” His hand flew up with a life of its own, covering his mouth in shock. His sister’s eyes bulged almost as much, and Lady Angwin let out a strangled gasp.

“Hey, no judgement from me,” I said, raising my hands. “What you do on your own time is none of my business so long as it doesn’t involve transforming into a monster and slaughtering innocents. None of you transform into a monster and slaughter the innocent, right?” I asked, voice low but thrumming with power.

All three stammered out an enthusiastic round of “God no” and “I would never” almost in unison while simultaneously looking mortified at the very notion.

“That’s good,” I replied, nodding. “I bet you would do anything to help me stop such a monster, right? Especially since it might help improve your political standing?”

Their ears perked right up, fear and embarrassment forgotten, replaced by a combination of greed and raw ambition. Not spineless turkeys after all. More like vultures.

“Yeah, that’s what I thought. I need to get into the kitchen”—I jabbed a finger at the double doors—“and I need you three to help me. Deflect anyone who tries to stop me. Can you do that for me?”

Their eyes glazed over for a beat as the command settled around them like a weight, and then they turned and headed for the doors. Lady Angwin hooked her arm through mine and gently coxed me into motion with a little tug.

“Pretend to make small talk,” she said, smiling as though she were conferring some hilarious tale. “My family holds considerable standing in Ironmoor and none of the others will feel safe interrupting a private conversation.” Lord Mooseknuckle took up a position to my right, while his sister Lady Rosevear glided in front of us like a debutante vanguard. “Moreover,” she whispered, “the Rosevears are firmly in Gustav’s pocket—they were supposed to keep tabs on you, should you decide to attend this evening’s event.”

A few people made as if to approach us, but between my three escorts, none got within spitting distance before being turned away with a curt word or an icy glare. A path cleared for us like Moses parting the Red Sea, and a quick glance over one shoulder showed me that Gustav was still pinned down by an overly animated Arturo. We were attracting far more attention than I wanted, but there was nothing I could do about that. Lady Angwin dropped my arm and blocked the doors with her expansive hooped skirts. The two Rosevears posted up beside her, forming a wall of bodies and fabric, temporarily obscuring me from view.

The doors flapped open, a server coming out, and I ducked and darted in at the same instant.

“Best of luck,” Lady Angwin whispered as the doors swung shut, blocking the ballroom from view. “And please don’t forget how helpful we were!”

Heat hit me full in the face. The kitchen was sweltering—a combination of ovens and fireplaces and burbling soup pots all churning together. It was also a barely controlled madhouse. Chefs and scullions scuttled about, chopping vegetables and meats, stirring enormous pots, or pulling fresh bread from the bellies of wrought iron ovens. Young, fresh-faced kitchen hands plated dishes and loaded up trays, while others bussed dirty cookware over to huge sinks for cleaning. Everyone was paying so much attention to the work at hand that no one had time for some rando appearing in their workspace.

Not even one with glowing red eyes, dressed in spiked armor.

Still, I needed to be cautious. I pushed myself over near the wall, into a small pool of shadow, and activated Stealth Step. My Stamina bar appeared beneath my Arcana gauge, slowly draining as the shadows around me seemed to reach out and embrace me. Drawing me in like an old friend. I wasn’t invisible, but I felt less substantial somehow. I waited for a few seconds, searching the kitchen for an exit. There were several—a broad hallway that likely led to a private dining room somewhere on the first floor, and a short hallway that connected to a tight staircase that spiraled straight up.

That was my target.

Although the kitchen was well lit with a host of blazing fires, those same flames provided a bounty of shadowy nooks and crannies that could conceal me. Several staff members seemed to spot me as I moved, but their gazes lingered only a second before sliding off me like butter in a hot pan. Several of them shook their heads and a few rubbed at their eyes as though they thought they were seeing something. At one point, a particularly observant boy of maybe twelve in a grease-stained apron came over and cocked his head, staring straight at me.

“You shouldn’t be in here,” he said in a low voice.

“You’re right,” I replied. “I’m just heading out, don’t mind me.”

“Oh, okay,” he said, sounding sleepy. He turned and went back to work, stirring the contents of a large soup pot without sparing me another glance.

The servant’s staircase was clear—it was all hands on deck, and everyone was completely focused on the party—so it was a piece of cake to make it to the next floor. A false door let out into a wide hallway edged with gold-plated candelabras and classical oil paintings of various pretentious looking nobles. The last portrait on the wall was of none other than Gustav. There were several closed doorways up ahead, but I had no idea where to start. This place was enormous. I approached the first door and gave the handle a gentle jiggle.

It rattled but refused to open. Locked.

Not that a locked door was a problem for me.

The cool metal beneath my palm sang to me in a small voice. I activated Deft Touch and extended a hair-fine thread of Arcana into the keyhole above the knob. My Arcana Pool drained a sliver as invisible weaves of energy filled up the keyhole, searching out grooves and divots, naturally raising the trio of thin metal pins that secured the lock in place. I could feel those pins reverberate through the tether of Arcana and click ever so subtly into place. With the slightest application of pressure, the lock released and the knob turned freely in my hand.

The door squeaked softly as it swung inwards.

Inside was a guest room with a bed twice the size of the one I was sleeping on back at the inn and a spattering of ornate furniture. I quietly shut the door and moved on to the next, but as I touched the metal some intangible sixth sense told me I would only find more of the same: empty, meaningless rooms that wouldn’t offer me the answers I needed. A door at the end of the hallway, however, called out to me like a siren. I squinted and canted my head—maybe it was just a trick of the light, but the edges of the door appeared to glimmer like an illusionary heat wave dancing over hot asphalt on a scorching summer day.

I ghosted forward on preternaturally silent feet, casting a backward glance over one shoulder. The hallway was clear, but there was no telling how long it would stay that way. The lock was far more formidable than the one that had guarded the guest room, which meant I was probably on the right track. Still, it only took me a handful of seconds longer to breach. At eight points, Deft Touch wasn’t exactly a cheap ability, but holy shit was it useful in the right circumstances. Trying to force my way past all these locks would’ve been like blowing a foghorn.

Inside was a well-appointed office with heavy rugs, an enormous stone hearth, built-in dark wood bookcases loaded down with leather-bound tomes, and a sprawling desk framed by a den window overlooking a picturesque flower garden below. If the door had glimmered like a heat mirage, the desk sparkled like someone had set off a glitter bomb. That had to be my Wyld Wisdom ability at work. I wasn’t sure what I was looking for, but I was positive it was hidden somewhere inside the desk.

I dropped Stealth Step, allowing my Stamina bar to regenerate, crept around the far side of the desk, and dropped into a stately high-backed chair covered in crushed velvet upholstery. There was a central drawer beneath the desk, which was also locked, and several more drawers running down each side that weren’t. I pulled up the side drawers and quickly rifled through the contents looking for anything obviously incriminating—like say a cursed wooden mask or maybe a kill list with names crudely scratched off.

Unfortunately, I didn’t find anything that screamed, I’m a murdering, demon-possessed asshole.

I used Deft Touch and easily picked the lock securing the central drawer, but that was filled with nothing more than a variety of writing implements—blank parchment, ink bottles, quills, wax, and a letter seal—and what looked like a couple of top-shelf cigars. Those, I slipped into my pocket for later. I wasn’t a chain-smoker like a lot of my buddies, but a good celebratory cigar every now and again wouldn’t go amiss and I didn’t even feel remotely bad about stealing from Gustav’s private stash. Even if the guy wasn’t a murderer, I was certain he was guilty of something—not least of which was being a world-class dick.

But I was missing something.

The desk glowed like a goddamned disco ball. So either my Wyld Wisdom was defective or Gustav had been smart enough to conceal all of his dubious misdeeds behind something stronger than a simple drawer lock. I leaned back in the chair, critically eyeing the desk, searching for anything I might have missed on my first pass. I once again pulled out the drawers on the left and noticed that they were significantly shallower than the drawers on the right. Almost as if there were something tucked away behind the drawers.

There was also a series of dull scuff marks on the wooden floorboards. Something had been dragged across the surface more than once. Curious. I pulled the central desk drawer out again, pushed the chair away, and dropped onto one knee so I could get a better look inside. Against the very back of the drawer was a slightly discolored section of wood no larger than a dime—it would’ve been impossible to see without my enhanced vision. I jammed a thumb against the button and felt it give. I slowly but steadily pushed the drawer in, applying steady pressure to the button the whole while.

A second later there was an audible click and a small side panel popped open on the left-hand side of the desk. I pulled it open, the bottom of the secret compartment scraping softly across the floor in the familiar arc that had been scoured into the floorboards. Inside were a trio of books that all burned with otherworldly light. This was what I’d come here to find. The first was a private journal, and although I didn’t have time to read through every entry, it wasn’t hard to guess who the journal belonged to.

The second book was filled with what appeared to be shipping manifests: detailed reports of incoming and outgoing goods, payments, loads. The info was as dry as a mummy’s butthole and almost put me to sleep—hopefully Arturo would be able to help me decipher them. The last book was a log of mining operations, going back at least six months. Lists of employees, wage statements, metrics on ore deposits and excavation rates. There was also an entire section on the Stone Spiders—respawn rates, how much it cost to bring in mercenaries, profit sheets noting how much revenue the Stone Spider organs had generated. Sigge’s name was all over those records.

If there was any doubt that Gustav was running the operation down in the mines, there was none now. This guy was into some shady shit, and Sigge was neck deep in the muck as well.

34

Confessional

There was a flash of movement in my peripheral vision. I slammed the hidden compartment shut while simultaneously searching for a pool of shadows to blend into.

False alarm. It was only Cal.

The shade stepped through one of the bookcases, a wide grin on his face.

“You okay, dude?” he asked, sounding genuinely concerned. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost.” A slow smile spread across his lips at the stupid pun.

“That was bad, and you should feel bad for saying it,” I replied, running a hand through my hair. “You’re also damn lucky I didn’t plant a bullet in your face.” I shot a glance toward the door. “I’m feeling a mite bit trigger-happy these days.”

“You sound paranoid, Boyd. Not everyone is out to get you, you know. Only almost everyone is out to get you—which is why you definitely shouldn’t shoot me in the face. I’m about the only one you can trust, and you really can’t afford to lose any allies at this point. Now take a chill pill and come see what I found. It’s the mother lode, dude.” He hooked a thumb toward the bookcase he’d just floated through. “There’s a secret passageway behind that. Leads down to a secret laboratory with some serious mad-scientist vibes.”

I hoofed it over to the case and quickly went to work, searching for more hidden buttons or switches. Naturally, the key was a book entitled A Path to Esoteric Revelation. It was surprising because of how on the nose it was and because of how pathetically predictable Gustav was turning out to be. The only way he could’ve looked more guilty was if he stood in the corner while twisting a handlebar mustache, Snidely Whiplash style. When I tugged at the top edge of the book, the whole case swung outward on oiled hinges, revealing a narrow spiral staircase that bored straight down into the ground.

I drew my Colt, dropped into a combat firing stance, and slowly descended, counting the steps as I went. This stairwell was identical in dimensions and design to the servant’s staircase that had brought me upstairs from the kitchen, except it had twice as many steps—thirty-two in total. That meant we weren’t on the first level, but in a hidden subbasement. The room was rectangular, the floor composed of slate tiles, the ceiling claustrophobically low. Engraved into the floor was an elaborate ritual circle, crafted from gold, gemstones, and powdered Selitrium.

There were more bookcases down here as well as a ritual altar and what appeared to be an alchemy lab—complete with glass bottles filled with different ingredients. I was sorely regretting the fact that I hadn’t picked Alchemic Mastery since I couldn’t identify any of the materials. Belay that. I’d spent enough time slicing and dicing Grass Hound corpses to spot the heap of gallbladders shoved inside a fluid-filled jar. Another jar nearby held harvested Stone Spider eyeballs. I’d seen a setup like this before—back at Sigge Wikstrum’s Alchemy Shoppe.

There was a single tunnel leading from the room—a hidden exit that likely let out somewhere on Gustav’s property. An entrance that would allow Sigge to come and go as he pleased without drawing any unwanted attention from the nosy residents of Pithom Row.

“Oh yeah,” Cal said as he padded up behind me, “I also found Renholm.” He waved a ghostly hand toward the workstation by the alchemy ingredients. The pixie was sprawled out on his back in a pile of oddly glowing blue-white powder. He looked high out of his mind, his mouth partially open, his pupils wide, his eyes unblinking as he stared off into space. I headed over and shook the pixie. He blinked slowly and sat up, his slight body swaying like a dandelion in a strong breeze as he regarded me.

“Has anyone told you how ugly you are?” he said, slurring his speech. “All humans are inherently hideous, but you… you fell off this ugly tree, hit every branch on the way down, then climbed back to the top and jumped off again just for the fun of it.” He gave a little hiccup then tottered uncertainly as though his body were trying to decide whether it should fall over or not.

“What the hell is wrong with him?” I asked Cal.

The specter shrugged. “Any time he’s weird I just assume that’s normal pixie shit.”

“For your information, there’s nothing wrong with me.” The pixie hiccupped again. “I’ve never felt better in my entire life. I’m one with the universe. I’ve seen the mind of god, meat bag. All because of this.” He picked up a handful of the powder and let it trickle through his fingers. Then he buried his face in his palm and snorted like his life depended on it.

“Great. We let him off his leash for twenty minutes and he finds pixie catnip. Why would I expect anything else?”

“I don’t know what catnip is,” Renholm responded, speech slurred. “But this is better. Much better.” He held up his hand again, staring enraptured at his fingers. “Malefic Saserway is harvested from the glands of the Giant Barbwing. When mixed with Crimson Cassia, ground Cullweed, and Grass Hound gallbladder, it makes for a powerful Mortka repellent, which is what most humans use it for.” He grinned and waggled his eyebrows at me. “But in its raw form, Malefic Saserway is a hallucinogenic for those with Fae blood.” He gave one more hiccup then toppled back over into the pile of dust, eyes shut tight.

He was snoring contently within seconds. Because of course he was. With a sigh, I scooped up the slumbering pixie and shoved him into a leather coin pouch at my side. The one without the Affinity Scales. I didn’t want him waking up and choosing to help himself to a post hangover meal.

There was a clatter from the stairs followed by the echoing of angry voices. I moved against the far wall, summoned my Colt, and trained the barrel at the base of the staircase, ready for whatever stormed into the room.

A huffing, red-faced Gustav rounded the bend, followed in short order by the lanky greaseball Sigge Wikstrum and Arturo, who brought up the rear.

“Deepest apologies, Vigil,” the padre called out. “I stalled him for as long as I was able.”

“You did great,” I said, waving away his apology with my free hand.

“So it was all some unscrupulous ploy,” the magistrate snapped, hands quivering at his side. The balding, portly man was wearing an embroidered brocade doublet with golden buttons that struggled mightily to contain his straining gut and a pair of thin white pants that showed way more of his anatomy than anyone, anywhere wanted to see. Apparently mooseknuckle was all the rage around these parts. Rings adorned every finger, and the guy had enough gold slung around his neck to give him back problems.

“How dare you!” he continued, his face a thunderhead. “You take advantage of my hospitality, break into my private quarters, and defile my sanctuary. You have no right—”

“Stow it,” I said, cutting his tirade short. “I have every right. I’m a Vigil, not sure you got the memo, but I don’t hold an allegiance to anyone. Including a self-important windbag in some backwater city like Ironmoor. I’m an instrument of divine retribution and I’m bound through sacred vows to a higher order, tasked with rooting out evil in whatever form it takes. And right now, I’m thinking evil has taken the form of a dumpy turd dressed in too much gold. So how ’bout you cut the bullshit and start talking, huh?”

He was visibly shaking, jaw clenched tight as he resisted the impulse to spill his guts.

I sighed and rolled my eyes. “You’re not doing yourselves any favors,” I pressed. “Neither of you.” I turned my hellish red gaze on Sigge. “Look, I know about the mines. Me and Arturo have already been down there. We’ve seen the evidence firsthand.”

“That doesn’t mean anything,” Gustav said. “Assuming there is something down in the mines—which is pure speculation, of course—I’m quite sure you don’t have any evidence that might tie us directly to the undertaking. Not anything that would stand up under the scrutiny of a solicitor, at any rate.”

“Yep, nothing except the ledgers chronicling your operations, you human embodiment of a walnut,” I said. “You know the ones I’m talking about—the journals tucked away in the hidden compartment in your desk. It’s as good as a confession. Now tell me what I want to know.” The words came out like a whipcrack, informing both Sigge and Gustav that no mercy would be shown, nor quarter given. Unless they played ball.

Gustav’s jowls hardened in defiance—he was going to fight me every step of the way. Sigge? Not so much. The alchemist wilted, desperate to turn on his buddy.

“I swear,” Sigge pleaded, “I never intended to cheat the crown, I swear it.” He wrung his hands, strings of snot running from his nose as his lips trembled. “I told Gustav that we needed to report the vein, but he wouldn’t listen. He was consumed by greed. And what was I to do against someone as powerful as the Magistrate of Ironmoor? I am but a simple alchemist following orders.”

“Lies,” Gustav hissed, turning on the greaseball. “This whole thing was your idea, you weasel!”

“What was his idea?” I asked, softening my voice just a touch.

“To avoid the queen’s taxes, of course,” Gustav said. He grabbed a rag from his pocket and hastily mopped his face with it. “It was Marcus who brought it to our attention.”

“Marcus Pekkala, the line picker?” Arturo asked.

“One and the same,” Gustav replied with a curt nod. “He was always down in those mines, looking for remnants. Even a vial of Selitrium can go for enough to feed a family his size for a month or more. He had to sell it under the table, of course, but there is always a market for Selitrium.” His eyes darted to Sigge.

The alchemist licked his lips. “Yes. Fine,” he said, on the edge of tears. “I would buy it from him. Selitrium is next to impossible to get these days and I use it for so many of my tinctures and potions. Then, one day not long after the quake, he came to me and…” He faltered. “And, well, he told me that a new fissure had appeared. He pulled out a chunk of unprocessed Selitrium ore as big as my fist. Laid it right on my table. I didn’t have the connections or manpower to harvest the vein, so I came to Gustav.”

“And I did what I do best,” the magistrate said, fretfully straightening his doublet. “I put a crew together. Mining the Selitrium was only half the battle. We had to refine the raw ore and find a way to ship it. Sigge was able to help me with the first piece. My close connections with Captain Ervo, the Caravan Guard Commander, helped with the second piece. With him on board it was but a simple task to ship the powder out to the neighboring cities, and from there to whoever was willing to bid the highest for our goods.”

I held up a hand to stop him, my mind working through the problem.

“Okay, tracking so far. But why all the secrecy? Wasn’t this place renowned for its Selitrium mines once upon a time?”

“Indeed it was,” Arturo said, “but Selitrium is highly regulated by the crown because of its intrinsic magical properties. Anyone with an active mine is required to sell at least fifty percent of all its product to the crown at a steep discount, and a thirty percent royal tax is levied against the remaining supply. But even with those restrictions, mining and shipping Selitrium is still extremely lucrative. It is far more lucrative, however, to sell it in unregulated markets. Warlocks, Sorcerers, Steelborn, Alchemists—all would pay ten times what the crown does.”

“So you knuckleheads didn’t want to pay taxes,” I said. “All of this is about cheating Uncle Sam?”

“I don’t know who this Uncle Sam is,” Gustav said, licking his lips nervously, “but yes. It was about money. Just money. It’s business, you must understand. And why should we have to pay the crown, eh? Does High Queen Palander dirty her hands in these mines? No. It is our blood and sweat that produce the Selitrium—it is the labor of our hands, not hers, yet she takes and takes and takes. That is far more criminal than anything we’ve done.”

I crossed the room in three strides, wrapped my hand around his throat, and lifted him into the air. This was the kind of thing only pro wrestlers did, but with all the points I’d added to Brawn, I managed it without even breaking a sweat.

“There are eight people dead,” I snarled. “Innocent people. So don’t you dare pretend you haven’t hurt anyone.”

He gasped, eyes bulging, pudgy fingers clawing uselessly at my iron grip.

“We have nothing to do with that!” Sigge squealed. “May Raguel strike me down if there is any deceit on my tongue.”

“I just might take you up on that,” I replied, setting Gustav back on his feet. “And don’t bullshit me, you greasy turdball—I saw the ritual chamber room down in the mines and I know you did too. So you better get to talking while you still have teeth in your mouth.”

“The beast is not of our doing,” Sigge sputtered, “just the opposite. You must believe us! It’s been targeting our operations, not aiding them. You said yourself that you have our logs—you can check our worker roster. Every victim is either an employee or the family member of an employee. Why would we be targeting our own operation? These attacks are no boon to our business. We’ve had to pay the workers double their normal rates just to get them to venture down into the mines.”

That stopped me cold. I’d watched enough crime dramas to know you always followed the money.

Assuming Sigge wasn’t lying—and he wasn’t, he was way too scared—then that removed the motive completely. They wouldn’t go to all the trouble of starting an illegal mining operation only to undercut their own efforts by attacking their workers. Especially since doing so would inevitably draw the attention of a Vigil, who would start poking around in their business, just like I’d done.

“Then what is all of this stuff?” I asked, waving a hand toward the alchemic vials and the sigil on the ground. “Because it looks like dark magic to me.”

“It’s for protection against the monster,” Sigge said. “Our miners, they uncovered something while excavating. Unleashed a thing that ought to have remained buried. Knowing what we did, I had to protect us. The creature was clearly targeting us—this is designed to keep it at bay. Out there, we our vulnerable, but in here our wards are better than steel doors. This sigil protects Gustav’s entire estate, though it is costly to keep it maintained.”

“I’m still convinced it’s all part of the curse,” Gustav said, rubbing at his throat with thick, sausage fingers. “Those damnable Rjuhella are finally getting their revenge.” He looked scared as he whispered the words.

Arturo had also mentioned something about a curse, back when we’d first stumbled into the mines. I’d dismissed it at the time because curses were a bunch of horseshit. At least, they were in my world. But here? Here curses were the real deal. Hell, I’d been on the receiving end of a few curses already. Maybe there was something to it after all.

“What curse?” I asked.

“The Iskrati family,” Sigge choked out. “They were a family of Rjuhella immigrants who moved to Ironmoor about twenty years back—a father and mother and daughter. This was right around the same time as the troubles started. With the mines. You have to understand, back in those days the ore was everything. It was the lifeblood of this city.”

“Selitrium exports accounted for a third of Ironmoor’s economy,” Gustav said, tucking his thumbs into the waistline of his pants. “When they went dry, it was a death sentence for our city.” He paused and licked his lips. “The people… well, you know how commoners can be. Fickle. Ignorant. Violent. They were angry and wanted someone to blame.”

“So they turned on the outsiders,” I mumbled.

“Indeed they did,” Gustav said. “Rumors circulated that the Iskrati woman was a sorceress. It didn’t take long for the rumor to stick. No surprise there. Nobody likes the Rjuhella anyway, on account of their ties to the Sapphire City and Isabella the Ghostblood. Most folks already assume their blood is unclean…” He trailed off. “They responded exactly as you might expect. They extracted vengeance. A mob tried the father, hung him by the neck until his feet stopped kicking. But hanging wasn’t enough for the mother. A Scion of the Ghostblood, they whispered. Legend holds the only way to truly kill one of their kind is by purifying flame, which is why they burned her alive.”

I felt sick to my stomach.

“What happened to the daughter?” I said, almost afraid to ask. I’d seen plenty of shit over in Iraq, and what happened to the kids always broke my heart.

“Dead, I think,” Gustav said with a shrug like he’d never given it a second thought. “Or not. I didn’t attend the executions. Such things are beneath my dignity.”

“Yeah, you’re a real saint,” I said, turning my back on the man. “Cal, Arturo, we have what we came for. We’ll see ourselves out,” I grunted, heading down the emergency tunnel. I couldn’t stomach the idea of mingling with Gustav and all his guests. I was tired, both physically and emotionally. We had answers, but not the answers I’d been hoping for. These two turds were dodging the law, but for the oldest reason in the book: plain, ol’ fashioned greed. I still had no idea who was behind the mask, and time was running out. The clock was counting down, and I only had a week before the Hexblight returned, ready for round two.

35

Waiting Game

The next five days passed in a hazy blur, tension and fear slowly building in the air of Ironmoor. The creature was coming. Everyone knew it, from the meanest street urchin to the folks hiding behind the locked doors of Pithom Row. We all knew it. And there was nothing any of us could do to stop it. Not even me. I jumped feetfirst into my Vigil training. I was still no closer to figuring out who was beneath the mask, but at least I wouldn’t be an easy target when we squared off next time. Arturo, Cal, and I would all wake up at the ass crack of dawn and set out for the hills, clearing out the handful of Mortka dens in the surrounding areas.

Slaying bodies, clearing bounties, making off like bandits.

Thornsouls, Abyssal Tomb Vermin, Undead Boneshrieks, and even another lair of Crave Ghouls—far easier this time around since I had magical powers and a pair of pants. Each of the various creatures offered their own unique brand of challenge. The Undead Boneshrieks dealt damage through their banshee-like wails, which literally made my eyes bleed. They were the easiest of the lot, especially since they were basically aged bones held together with chewing gum and Scotch Tape. A single swipe of my mace was enough to topple those critters.

Abyssal Tomb Vermin were giant rats with a fancy name—typical RPG beginner quest fodder. The Thornsouls were the worst, dealing out devastating poison damage that left me with intermittent bouts of projectile vomiting for an hour or two afterward. Cal thought that was funny as hell. Still, as tough as they were, none even came close to the Stone Spider Matriarch. None of them were even in the same league. Which was both good and bad. On the plus side, none of my bones were pulverized and all of my organs remained inside my body. On the bad side, that also meant I didn’t siphon up nearly as much Essence as I was hoping for.

Not enough to push me up a rank, anyway.

Turned out that advancing within the Disciple Ranks took a lot more elbow grease than the Novice Ranks. To move from Novice Silver to Novice Gold was a mere 1,500 Essence in difference. To move from Disciple Silver to Disciple Gold was15,000 Essence. Ten times the amount. And there were still five classes above Disciple—Adept, Master, Sage, Saint, and Fatemarked. I couldn’t even begin to fathom how much Essence I would need to harvest to get within spitting distance of the Fatemarked Class.

After a week of grinding my ass off, I’d only eked out a little over 11,000 Essence. Since there was no way I’d make it to Disciple Gold in time for my rematch, I opted for some short-term gains at the expense of long-term returns. It was a gamble that would probably screw me over down the road, but the way I figured it, unless I survived the Hexblight, I wouldn’t live long enough to regret the consequences of my hasty actions. So, instead of saving up for the future—like a responsible adult, socking money away in a magical IRA—I burned through my accumulated Essence like a Boot Marine fresh to the fleet.

Sacrificing all of it for extra Attribute Points.

For 2,000 Essence I raised both Brawn and Verve to nineteen—pushing myself past the point of what was physically possible for a normal human. Not even an Olympic athlete at the top of their game could compete with me now, at least not when it came to raw stamina or strength. I could outrun marathon gold medalists and outlift even the strongest powerlifters. Surpassing that threshold felt like having every bone in my body broken all at once. Better blood on the training mat than on the battlefield, as Drill Instructor Screw Y’all used to say.

I dropped another 2,400 Essence to elevate my Finesse from 15 to 18. Most of the powerful ranged spells required ridiculously high levels of Finesse—along with ungodly amounts of Arcana—and as a skilled marksman, being able to lay accurate shots on target was a matter of survival. I’d qualified as both an expert in the rifle and pistol before kicking the bucket, but with my Finesse cranked to 18, I’d be able to hit a target center mass at a thousand yards, and I’d make it look easy.

Then, most expensive of all, I spent 6,300 Essence to bump my Arcana up by two more points, going from 20 to 22. As much as I was a brawler by nature, I’d seen the power of offensive magic firsthand, and it was the kind of thing to make a man take up religion. I wanted that kind of firepower on my side. I also wanted to see what kind of utter devastation the higher-level spells could mete out. With sixty Ward Points to spend, I could now afford to unlock some of those spells, but without a high enough Arcana Score, I’d be just as likely to kill myself as my enemies.

I would’ve done more, but buying Attribute Points past level 20 became prohibitively expensive.

When I wasn’t fighting monsters, flirting shamelessly with Maggie, or getting drunk at the pub with Arturo, Cal, and Renholm—turned out the pixie had a mean appetite for wine and gambling—I was hunkered down in my Soul Vault, reading and crafting. Although the monsters I’d killed over the past week hadn’t been the endless founts of Essence I was hoping for, they had provided me with a heap of basic fabrication ingredients. Buckets of Iron Ore and Raw Silver. Mounds of Rawhide, Mortka Bone, and reinforced Mortka steel. Magically enhanced leather, razor-sharp claws, and a treasure trove of organs and alchemic ingredients.

I also picked up enough Affinity Scales to keep both Cal and Renholm fat and happy. Cal seemed to be growing more solid by the day, and was finally strong enough to withstand daylight, though in limited quantities. Renholm had also grown half an inch taller—a fact that he boasted about constantly when he wasn’t drinking, gambling, or swindling.

The Abyssal Tomb Vermin dropped all of dick—no surprise, given their basic-bitch status in the monster kingdom—but the Crave Ghouls provided more Hunger Affinity Scales and Transformation Tokens. I only earned a single Thornsoul Transformation Token, but I picked up half a dozen Plague Affinity Scales, and twice as many Fear Scales from the Boneshrieks. Both had serious combat potential.

<<<>>>

Plague Affinity Scale

Type: Refined Plague Affinity

Class: Disciple

Ability: Consume

Primary Effects:

When consumed directly, Refined Plague Affinity instantly cures any instances of disease or poison afflicting the user.

Channel Refined Plague Affinity into a metaphysical focal point, imbuing the item with unique benefits for a limited duration.

Note: The strength and duration of the effect is directly proportional to the quality of the Scale consumed.

<<<>>>

Fear Affinity Scale

Type: Refined Fear Affinity

Class: Novice

Ability: Consume

Primary Effects:

When consumed directly, Refined Fear Affinity imbues the user with the passive ability Moral Courage.

While under the effect of Moral Courage the user gains a 15% resistance against psionic and mental magics and additionally becomes immune to Fear.

Channel Refined Fear Affinity into a metaphysical focal point, imbuing the item with unique benefits for a limited duration.

Note: The strength and duration of the effect is directly proportional to the quality of the Scale consumed.

<<<>>

I’d already created a clip from each of the Scales for my Colt, and the external effects were just as impressive as the direct consumption effects. Fear Scales created rounds that had a chance to inflict the curse Horrific Vision, which would cause the target to trip balls, seeing me as their worst fear made manifest.

The Plague Scales had the exact opposite of their consumed effect—instead of curing the disease, they inflicted the target with an instance of Blackblood Itch. According to Arturo, it was a hellish infection, often contracted in swamps, that made it feel like there were bugs crawling through your veins. Not deadly, but about as much fun as a sack of angry cats with super gonorrhea.

With all my new fabrication components and more time than I knew what to do with, I spent hours building new gear. I broke down the Silver Partial Plate Mail I’d taken off the Brood Matriarch, harvesting it for a blueprint, and thanks to the Stone Spider plates I transformed the armor into something even better: Partial Plate, crafted with rocky chitin that made the armor more resilient than typical steel and significantly lighter. It came with an inbuilt resistance against disease and made me look like a literal demon.

I hated to agree with Renholm, but wearing the skins of fallen enemies was definitely growing on me.

The hefty double crescent battle-axe ended up as a new skin for my K-Bar and I also finally had enough material to craft a skin for my Colt—though I had to choose carefully since those were incredibly costly.

I spent hours poring over the stack of USMC manuals available to me and quickly realized most of the weapons were considerably outside my price range and would be for a good long while. Believe you me, I wanted nothing more than to rock up to that douche nozzle monster with a .50 cal in tow, ready to unleash a blanket of suppressive firepower, but the component list called for things I’d never even heard of before, and every component item was Adept-Ranked or above.

Hell, it even required one Fatemarked-Ranked Pure Affinity Scale.

And even if I’d had the parts, which I didn’t, it would’ve taken me a week solid to assemble them. There were so many intricate pieces—springs and triggers, adjustable iron sights and receiver components. The bolt housing group alone had a dozen individual components that would need to be handcrafted before assembling. Needless to say, it was going to be a hot minute before I got to trot that bad boy out.

The M240 Series medium machine gun was a step down from the almighty .50 cal, but still an ass kicker in its own right with a respectable 7.62 caliber, a max effective range of eight hundred meters, and the ability to lay down five hundred and fifty rounds per minute. Naturally, that was also well outside of my price range. The M249 light machine gun—called the SAW, or Squad Automatic Weapon—was closer to the mark, but still a mite too rich for my blood.

Working my way down, I saw that there were four options that I could unlock with the fabrication components on hand—the Mac 10 Submachine Gun, the formidable Russian-made AK-47, the ol’ reliable 5.56 M16M4, and the house clearing semiautomatic Benelli M4 Super 90 combat shottie.

Problem was, I could only make one of them.

The MAC 10 was a beast that could lay down lead and could lay it down fast. It could chamber both .45 ACP and 9mm rounds—though that didn’t matter much since I was using Arcana—and had a fire rate of over a thousand rounds per minute. It was reliable, durable as hell, and easy to conceal, but thanks to its stubby barrel it kicked like a mule and was incredibly inaccurate. Next up was the M16-M4. I’d trained on the M4 and loved it like a little brother—it had great range, amazing accuracy even with iron sights, and minimal recoil. But the 5.56 round didn’t have as much stopping power as the AK’s beefier 7.62 cartridge, even though the AK was far less precise.

Still, neither was going to put down the Hexblight.

Which led me to the Benelli combat shottie. It didn’t have the range of any of the other weapons and featured a more limited ammo capacity, but it was hell on wheels for up close and personal combat and had decisive one-shot stopping power. As a Marine, I’d always loved the axiom “one shot one kill.” I figured if anything could deliver on that promise, it was the Benelli. Crafting it was costly as hell—and wiped out the bulk of my high-quality crafting reserves—but it left me with a tactical shottie, and what better way was there to celebrate all of my kills than with a shiny new soul-bound shotgun?

<<<>>>

Mortka-Forged Benelli M1014 Shotgun Skin

Type: Steel, Ranged Weapon

Class: Master

The Benelli M1014 Shotgun is the gold standard for military excellence and is relied on by Marines around the world to execute tactical breaching in any clime and place. The Benelli is a 12-gauge capable of chambering 2-2/3” or 3” rounds, giving it unparalleled stopping power, and comes with a collapsible buttstock, making it perfect for close-quarters combat. Though it is not accurate past a hundred yards, only a fool would allow themselves to be on the business end of this powerful weapon.

Primary Effects:

Weapon Skin: Item can be applied to any base Soul Bound ranged weapon, transforming it into a Mortka-Forged Benelli M1014 Shotgun.

<<<>>>

I’d never been happier. The only thing to do now was select my abilities then visit Arturo and see if he or Cal had made any headway with Gustav’s logs. I was sure the answer to our mystery lay inside those journals—Wyld Wisdom had told me as much—but damned if I’d been able to discern what it was. On the surface the ledgers were just a bunch of mind-numbingly dull business records. Illegal business records, sure, but still just pages and pages of numbers and dates and pay rosters. We needed ourselves a forensic tax accountant and instead we had a drunk priest, an even drunker pixie, and a couple of trigger-pulling jarheads.

Not exactly the auditing dream team.

I shoved all that to the back of my mind as I regarded my spinning avatar and pulled up my character sheet.

<<<>>>

Boyd Knight

Race: Vigil Bound

Level: Disciple, Silver Rank

Current Essence: 527

Next Ascended Rank: 15,000

Attribute Points: 0

Ward Points: 60

Characteristics

Brawn: 19

Verve: 19

Finesse: 18

Arcana: 22

Insight: 16

Vigil Wards 

Ward of Justice: Soul Bound Weapons (Boon)

Ward of Valor: Diamond Body (Boon)

Ward of Wrath: Arcane Insight (Boon)

Ward of Balance: Language of the Heavens (Boon), Sidhe Pact

Ward of Truth: Threads of Fate (Boon)

Expand Ward List 

<<<>>>

I had a monster to curb stomp and sixty Ward Points to get the job done.

My choices were nearly endless, and that in itself was the problem. The right combo of skills and spells would hopefully see the Hexblight dead and buried, while the wrong combo would leave me mangled on the side of the road with my spine tied into a pretzel. Doing a quick scan of the Expanded Ward List, there were a few obvious choices that jumped out at me and grabbed me by the throat. Combat Sense was too useful not to have, and after employing Master Mentalist at Gustav’s party, I couldn’t stand to be without it.

The world was so much slower, my mind so much less focused. I felt… dumb without it.

That was eight points, and two more for Totem Transformation. I still hadn’t used the skill yet, but having it in my back pocket was comforting. A plan C in case plans A and B fell apart all around me.

With ten points gone and all the easy choices out of the way, it was time to roll up my sleeves and get to real work. My gut reaction going into this fight was to keep my distance—stick to the rooftops, pepper the Hexblight with conjured bullets and ranged magic. Never get inside of the Hulk Smash zone. I hadn’t kept my distance last time and I’d ended up with a broken spine for my trouble. A quick ranged buildout played through my head—Overcharge, Quick Hands, Maximum Penetration for weapons skills, augmented with AoE abilities like Rain of Fire and single target spells like Kinetic Blast or Arctic Spike. Hell, I could even add Stealth Step to help me attack unseen from the shadows.

An easy, straightforward build. A build that was all wrong.

Deep down, I knew fear was driving me to lean that way. After getting broken in two like a piece of cheap plywood I was a little gun-shy to step into the ring again.

But going toe to toe was exactly what I needed to do, even if it made me feel queasy. Chances were, the Hexblight and I were gonna tangle in the middle of the city where there was a ton of potential for collateral damage—I needed to control this fight, not run from it. And, if we could work out the identity of the host, then Arturo would be busy casting the ritual and wouldn’t be able to lend me a hand. In fact, I needed to make damn sure that the Hexblight wasn’t paying any mind to the priest, which meant I needed to keep its attention fixed entirely on me.

Powerful AoEs could work, but it would be a risky gamble to cast spells like that inside a narrow alley or on a crowded street packed with civilians. Close-quarters combat was my best option to contain the damage. Cal would be on deck for the battle, but even when transformed, the best he could do was minorly inconvenience the Hexblight.

Renholm probably couldn’t even do that.

But there were a few things I could do to give my teammates a leg up. I pulled up my Expanded Ward List and glanced over the options under Bastion of Presence.

Bastion of Presence

— Mantle of Strength; Cost: 5

— Mantle of Authority; Cost: 8

— Mantle of Sanctuary; Cost: 10

— Mantle of Scales; Cost: 14

— Mantle of Healing; Cost: 22

Mantle of Strength was an active aura that would significantly boost the combat prowess of me and my teammates—fortifying our attacks, increasing movement speed, and buffing combat skills such as Rend, Peerless Warrior, and Crippling Strike. At five points it was a steal, but the thing was, I could only have one Mantle active at any given time, and what I really wanted was located toward the bottom of the list.

Mantle of Scales

Affinity Scales are a powerful tool in any Vigil’s arsenal—they can be consumed directly to recoup Arcana or heal grievous injuries, can offer invaluable buffs and resistances, or can be wielded as an offensive weapon to inflict crippling wounds against adversaries. When Mantle of Scales is activated, it allows the Vigil to extend those effects, for good or ill, to those within the vicinity.

By activating Mantle of Scales – Charity Form, the effects of a consumed Affinity Scale radiate off the caster in a thirty-foot aura, adding those same benefits to all allies within the Area of Effect. The strength and duration of the effects are directly proportional to the quality of the Affinity Scale consumed.

By activating Mantle of Scales – Reckoning Form, the caster uses their aura as an active metaphysical focal point, transforming the Affinity Scale energy into an AoE weapon and afflicting all enemies in the Area of Effect. The strength and duration of the effects are directly proportional to the quality of the Affinity Scale consumed.

A caster can effortlessly switch between Charity Form and Reckoning Form simply by refocusing their combat intention while the Mantle is activated.

Recommended Attribute Minimums: Arcana, 22; Verve, 20

At fourteen Ward Points, Mantle of Scales was a goddamned kick in the gut, but the ability to burn scales and grant their benefits to my buddies was a powerful tool. The fact that I could also use it to bitch-slap the Hexblight with devastating debuffs like Horrific Vision, Blackblood Itch, and Internal Petrification made it a spell I couldn’t afford to pass up.

Next, I picked up Matchless Endurance from the Ward of Valor. It wasn’t flashy and it sure wasn’t going to turn any heads, but it would keep me alive and fighting longer, and I couldn’t ask for much more than that. Matchless Endurance would numb my body against physical pain, allowing me to fight longer and harder even after sustaining otherwise debilitating injuries. It was basically a shot of adrenaline I could trigger at will. It also temporarily increased my Verve score by 2 points and proportionally increased both my Health and Arcana Regeneration as I sustained more damage in combat.

In short, it was a quintessential tank skill if ever there was one. I augmented it even further by tacking on Spiked Shell for 14 points.

Spiked Shell (Passive)

An eye for an eye, a tooth for a tooth—so shall be the terrible reprisal visited against those who would raise a hand against the Vigilant. When the Vigil is struck by a melee attack, the foe’s sins are turned against them as retribution spikes of Arcane power erupt from the Vigil’s armor, reflecting one quarter of the damage back upon the dealer. Spiked Shell is a passive ability but does automatically consume Arcana when generating retribution spikes; if the Vigil has no Arcana to consume, the spell will fail.

Recommended Attribute Minimums: Arcana, 19; Verve, 18

Between Matchless Endurance and Spiked Shell, I’d be able to take one helluva licking and still keep right on ticking. Neither skill allowed me to deal any extra offensive damage, but that was where Peerless Warrior and Unbound Blaze came into play. Peerless Warrior had saved my ass during my tussle with the Stone Spider Matriarch, and I couldn’t go into battle without at least one offensive magic spell tucked up my sleeve. I had a number of options available—Kinetic Blast, say, or something like Arctic Spike—but the Hexblight had used plant-based magics to tear Cal to pieces, so I figured it was probably weak against fire-based attacks.

So Unbound Blaze it was.

After my costly spending spree, I only had four points left.

Since I was planning to play the role of punching bag, I desperately wanted to snag Warded Shield, but I was one point short and I wasn’t willing to give up any of my other abilities. I could afford Overcharge—it let me deal 10% extra damage with ranged projectiles—or Rend, which was another powerful melee option. Neither seemed like the perfect fit, though. Life Siphon, from the Path of Death, had potential, but I figured I could replicate its effect simply by activating Mantle of Scales and consuming some Hunger Affinity Scales.

After much deliberation, I finally settled on a crowd control spell that could help lock the Hexblight down in case it got a wild hair up its ass and tried to go after Arturo or make a break for it.

Spectral Roots

Even the land itself cries out against those fiends who would flee from the wrath of Raguel. Call upon the spirit of nature to summon powerful vines, covered in thorns and tearing brambles, to wrap around enemies and hold them fast in place. While summoned, Spectral Roots can slow enemies and limit their ability to fight back, while doing additional piercing damage. But be warned, this spell requires focus and a steady stream of Arcana, without which the summoned roots will quickly wither and die.

Recommended Attributes: Arcana, 17

With my Attribute Points distributed and my Ward Points spent, I headed over to the statuary room to tweak my gear for the last time. I augmented my Colt with the Benelli skin—a wave of pride and satisfaction washed through me as it snapped into place. I honestly couldn’t wait to see how the Hexblight liked getting a mouthful of augmented shotgun slugs. I added Illiud’s Faith to my heavy Stone Spider Partial Plate Armor, granting me extra protection against disease.

As for the Elemental Flame Marble I’d earned from the Stone Spider Matriarch, that baby went into my new battle-axe skin, which I swapped with the mace. I’d grown comfortable using the blunt weapon, but for something like the Hexblight, I figured chopping power would serve me well—especially since we were gonna dance close up and personal.

Armor in place and weapons locked and loaded, I was as ready as I was ever going to be. Now all that was left to do was run down some more leads and wait for the monster to show up. Hopefully I’d done enough to survive the shitshow rolling my way…

36

Connecting the Dots

“It was all right here,” Arturo said, a manic grin stretching across his face as I walked into his private living quarters. The room was a mess—liquor bottles lying everywhere, crumpled balls of parchment piling up in the corners. The padre didn’t look any better than his room. There were deep bags under his eyes, his hair was a greasy tangle, his clothes rumpled, and his beard unkempt. He looked like a Marine who’d just spent a long weekend partying hard on liberty in Thailand. He tapped a thick finger against the pages of a ledger. “It was staring us in the face, and I couldn’t see it. But there it is. The answer. It’s like Raguel opened my eyes to the truth.”

“What are you talking about?” I asked, circling around behind him so I could peer at the record book splayed out on his lonely table.

“The shipping manifest,” he said. “Gustav was able to get Sigge to refine the powder and make it shelf stable for transport, but how do you get it out of the city, eh? Now that’s the question. Gustav couldn’t well hire a dedicated export outfit to deliver the goods without raising suspicion. Every merchant has to declare a bill of goods both bought and sold when entering and exiting a town so that appropriate provincial taxes can be levied. Which is why he struck a deal with Captain Ervo, the Caravan Guard Commander. C. Ervo.” He pointed at another book, this one tracking payments rendered to various workers.

“C. Ervo. Right there as plain as the nose on your face. They’ve been moving the Selitrium as an undeclared good with the regular provincial caravan, which has a special exporter license. Because they explicitly do not ship goods between provinces, they aren’t subject to normal searches or tariffs. Look at the dates. Each shipment leaves a day or two after an attack. As regular as Incanto clockwork, just like I said. And the route they take?” He fumbled for a crudely drawn map of the region. “The caravan departs from here for Lysahven, then onto Halgem, Belmonk, back around the mountain and to Ironmoor again. Two weeks,” he said with a triumphant grin. “That’s how long the route is. Two weeks.”

I stood and ran a hand through my hair, blowing out my cheeks.

“It fits,” I said in a soft voice. “Like a glove. Your book said that the Hexblight needs to feed once every few days, but what if it’s been covering its tracks by spreading out its kills? Maybe it picks off some beggar in Lysahven, then bides its time until it gets to Belmonk and strikes again. Hell, it could even be preying on travelers moving in the countryside. Commander Arendu mentioned something about there being bandits in the area when I first got here. What if it’s not bandits but the Hexblight, disguising its kills.”

“Of course,” Arturo said, nodding along in agreement, “but then the real question becomes, why strike here in such a bold fashion? I would’ve heard about similar attacks in neighboring cities, yet no such rumors have reached my ears. Which means the creature is taking great pains to hide its kills abroad. But not here. No. Here it strikes every time it returns, does so in the open, and it clearly has an agenda.” He motioned to the ledger with the workers listed out. “Every attack has been perpetrated against either a worker or one of their family members.” He paused, his lips turning down into a frown. “Except one. The girl from the bathhouse who was killed. I can’t seem to find any tangible connection.”

That was strange, but obviously there was some piece of the puzzle I was still missing. We now had means and opportunity, but I still couldn’t get a bead on the motive. Why was the Hexblight acting in the way it was? Why was it choosing victims largely connected to the mining operation? I didn’t have an answer to either question, but if anyone would be able to tell me it was Captain Ervo. He knew about the mines, was complicit in the Selitrium exports, and was part of the caravan. Right now, he was my number one suspect.

“What time is the caravan due in?” I asked.

“Later this afternoon,” Arturo replied.

This was it. I was close—circling the drain. “Then you need to get your battle rattle on, Padre. We’re going to pay Captain Ervo a visit.”

* * *

By the time Arturo had his ritual bag ready to go and his armor in place, it was close to dusk. The caravan had pulled in not long before, the dust from their wheels still floating on the air like a dirty cloud.

Captain Ervo wasn’t hard to find.

He was making camp with the rest of the caravan guards, a little ways from the merchants. They were just near enough to the town to have easy access to fresh bread and decent booze, but far enough away that their midnight revels wouldn’t bother the decent, law-abiding, sundown-means-sleep folk of Ironmoor. The caravan guards all eyed me and Arturo sideways as we tromped into their camp, but none of them said anything. They just stared daggers at us while they continued to lay out lean-tos and bedrolls with practiced ease while a smattering of children scampered about, laughing and playing.

Ervo stood out like a torch in the dark. He wore command and authority like a cloak.

He was grizzled and grim in the way that old warriors are—cross-hatched about the face and neck with a wicked red scar that ran from the edge of his greying temple and down across his cheek, ending beside his mouth. He turned icy, pale blue eyes on us and I knew this was a guy who meant business and wasn’t afraid of anything. He had a limp and a grimace, but that didn’t stop him from striding away from his covered wagon and shooing the children from the entrance to their camp.

“You’d be wanting to know the way back to the village, right-quick-smartish.” He had an accent I hadn’t heard before. No, not just an accent. His idioms were different. Good thing the old noggin translator was working full blast or I’d have taken him for a midday drunk.

You’re not needed here, the words meant.

“You can’t talk to the Vigil like that…” Arturo was puffed up and ready to throw down before the fight had even begun. If what I suspected was true, then Arturo’s anger was warranted, but this interview required finesse, not fists. At least not yet.

“Just wanted a moment of your time, nothing more.” I didn’t bother trying for a smile. A man like Ervo craved respect, not friendship. Questions was, how far was he willing to go in order to garner that respect? Would he kill? Would he willingly make himself host for a monster? “We have questions about the creature that’s been murdering folks around these parts.”

Ervo flushed red, his hand instinctually moving to the saber at his side. The ornate pommel said it was decorative or ceremonial, but those scars on his face and hands were real enough. My guess was the man knew how to use the blade at his hip. He slid his fingers down and wrapped them around the grip. “Is the beast abroad, then? In daylight? It’s grown bolder ’n bolder, if that be the case.”

“You tell me,” I said, very deliberately not summoning any of my weapons. I wanted to keep his guard down for a long as possible. “You travel these roads and byways. Where did you last hear tell of the creature? When? Who did it kill?”

Ervo’s hand relaxed, but his eyes narrowed.

“Word around these parts is that it’s an Elder Changeling. As for the killings, there’s been too many to track over these past four or five months,” he growled. “It’s feasted on many a man and woman. Is this not known? Does not the God of Five Faces bring the Vigil to vanquish it?” The smirk he wore said in no uncertain terms that he thought I was full of shit.

He was trying to bait me, and I wasn’t going to bite. Let this dickwad bump his gums all he wanted. I had a job to do, and he wasn’t going to rattle me that easily. “Look pal, just tell me what I want to know, and I’ll be on my way. Nice. Simple. Easy.”

“Could be, there are some as says you should’ve finished the task by now.” He hooked his thumbs into his jerkin, like it was his job to lecture me about my calling. “Not as I would join them…” Liar. “But the creature has already jousted with the Vigil and bested him. So they say. Not I, you understand, but them as trade in gossip when they’re about their cups.”

This guy was tap dancing on my last nerve and wasn’t offering me a straight answer to save his life, which made me even more suspicious. Even with Master Mentalist, this guy was a tough read. I was sorely regretting that I didn’t have Honeyed Words at my beck and call. I sure would’ve liked to drop a goddamned truth bomb on this asshole.

“Look, goat humper,” I said, dropping all pretense of civility. Fuck it, I didn’t need magic to get to the bottom of this situation. I’d beat an answer out of him if that’s what it took. “Let’s stop beating around the bush here.” I reached into my bag and pulled out Gustav’s ledger, the one with C. Ervo written on it in Gustav’s flowing script. I dropped my voice. “I know for a fact that you’re a dirty piece of shit and that you’re on Gustav’s payroll. I know you’re breaking a bunch of kingdom laws to illegally export Selitrium.”

His face drained of color with every word—the cockiness in his demeanor vanished, replaced by fear.

“I also have a hunch that you’re the monster I’m hunting.” I reached out and summoned my Soul Bound axe. It appeared in my hand with a flash, the wicked half-moon blades glimmering with otherworldly orange and yellow light—pent-up fire Essence from the Arcanum Token. “If you aren’t guilty,” I said after a beat, “then now would be a real good time to speak up for yourself, because if you don’t, I’m gonna pass judgement on your smarmy ass right here and now. Do we understand each other?”

He was trembling now, terrified to his core. Good. He should be.

“Please, please don’t,” he stammered, his eyes as wide as they would go. In that instant I knew two things: One, I’d just put the fear of Raguel into this guy and he was going to tell me everything I needed to know. And, two, he wasn’t the Hexblight. The confidence and defiance fled at the mere implication that he was the creature—he was guilty, we both knew it, but every fiber of his being wanted me to know he wasn’t guilty of that.

“I never wanted to partake,” he said, dropping his voice low as he cast a quick look around, searching for anyone who might be able to overhear our conversation. “You must believe me. I never wanted any part of Gustav’s operation, but…” He faltered, glancing down. “But I had no choice in the matter. I have a family in the next town over. My wife’s dead, fifteen years now, but my daughter is there, along with my grandson. He’s sick. An ailment of the blood. The Church won’t help and the tinctures to keep the disease from spreading is more than I could ever make on my own.”

“Let me guess,” Arturo said, hands planted on his hips as he stared at the Caravan Guard, “Sigge is making the brew in exchange for services rendered.”

“Aye,” Ervo replied. “I lost me eldest son only a few years after, died from the Bonesnap Epidemic. Me daughter and me grandson, they’re all I have left. I’d do anything to spare me girl from the pain of losing a child. It breaks a piece of you. So I agreed to smuggle their damned Selitrium, even though I knew it was trouble. Everything that comes out of those mines is tainted. Blood cursed. This creature that hunts Ironmoor, you mark my words, it’s justice come to find us for our misdeeds. For what we did to the Iskrati family.”

“The Iskrati family. They’re the Rjuhella immigrants that got blamed for the mines drying up the first time around, right?” I asked.

“Aye, that they were. And all that evil can be laid at the feet of one man—the very same man who now profits from the mines.”

“Gustav Hultgren,” I said.

“One and the same,” Ervo confirmed. “He was the magistrate back in those days, but he’d been appointed to the office less than a year when our luck turned sour. The people of Ironmoor, they would’ve laid the blame at his feet and he knew it. He conspired with Sigge Wikstrum, had the alchemist cast bones in a public display. Sigge, he was the one what pointed the finger at the Iskrati family. Named the mother as Scion of Isabella the Ghostblood—a dark sorceress sent to ruin our town. But it was Gustav who was pulling Sigge’s strings, just as it has always been.

“It was all lies, of course,” he continued. “The Iskrati family were lovely people. The father was a cobbler. Would have been perfect for a mining town. We wore clogs, you know? With steel toes. He’d have made a killing if he’d moved here at a different time.” Ervo offered a sad smile, his eyes watery with unshed tears. “They had no magic—just the bad fortune to be in the wrong place at the wrong time with hope in their hearts. The idea that she was a sorceress is laughable. I’ve seen the damage a Scion can do firsthand.” He reached up and ran a finger down the scar on his face. “I’ve witnessed the carnage they can unleash. As though a group of peasants with pitchforks could kill a sorcerer armed with dark magics. Worst of all, they did it in front of the daughter. She was so little. Not higher than my knee. A bloody, senseless tragedy.”

He leaned over and spit into the dirt, a disgusted look plastered across his face.

“What happened to the girl?” I asked. “Did they kill her too?”

“That’s the only silver lining,” he said, “if there is any silver lining in this story. I stole her away myself, while the mob was busy passing judgement on her folks. Took her to the orphanage in Lyshaven myself. Poor sweet child. And what did the murder of her parents accomplish? Not a bloody damned thing. The mines never did reopen. The curse was never lifted, if there was a curse at all. And the people responsible for the death of her parents are the very same people profiting from those mines. Shameful, and I’m no better than they are.”

“I knew those asswipes were at the center of this,” I growled, shooting a look at Arturo. My gut burned with a hateful need to find Gustav Hultgren and Sigge Wikstrum and make them pay for what they’d done. I’d always been a sucker for balancing the scales—and the scales in Ironmoor definitely needed balancing. This was why I was here, not just to stop the Hexblight, but to right a hellish wrong and make sure that those in power paid for their crimes. I was here because Ironmoor required a Vigil’s Justice, and I was ready to dispense it at the end of a shotgun barrel.

It was time to make things right, and although Ervo wasn’t the monster, I knew exactly who was behind the mask. Now all I needed to do was lure them out into the open. And I knew exactly what to use as bait. Or rather, who to use.

37

The Reveal

It was full dark by the time I was ready to rock and roll. A small army of town guards, led by Commander Arendu, were secreted away in every shop, home, and tavern inside a half mile radius of the Three Chimneys. Across the street from me a curtain fluttered and I caught the uneasy face of a guardsman clutching a spear to his chest. They were nervous. Frightened. I couldn’t blame them. They were waiting on my command to flood into the surrounding streets and alleyways.

They weren’t here to fight the Hexblight—only to help contain it long enough for Arturo to banish the Spirit Mask and for me to slay the beast—but that was cold comfort in the face of something terrible and mysterious.

I was crouched on top of the Three Chimneys, taking cover behind one of the stone edifices that the inn was named for. Waiting for our guest of honor to arrive. Arturo and Cal were both down below. The priest had laid out the banishment circle and prepared the necessary ingredients and rites which, when completed, would temporarily remove the wooden Spirit Mask, rendering the creature vulnerable. I couldn’t see Cal, but I knew he was hunkered down to the east of the town square, biding his time in the Etheric Realm. He had a pair of Stone Spider Transformation Tokens in hand and was ready to jump into action when our trap sprang shut.

Renholm was absent, but only because he had the most dangerous job of all. The pixie was tracking the Hexblight—or, at least, the person I suspected was the Hexblight.

A muffled grunt drew my eye to the square below.

I smiled in grim satisfaction.

Okay, maybe Renholm didn’t have the most dangerous job after all.

That honor went to the two shit-stains in the center of the square. Gustav and Sigge were bound together with heavy chains. They yelled and screamed into the night, but not a single citizen raised a hand in their defense. The word of a Vigil was law anywhere his foot landed, and it hadn’t taken much to convince Commander Arendu of their guilt—especially when I produced their logs and started naming names. The miners were only too happy to testify once they knew it meant both leniency and an end to the monster that had been terrorizing them and their families.

On top of being bound, I’d also doused the pair with copious amounts of Mortka offal. Gray strands of intestine were strung around their necks and slung over their shoulders like crepe paper, and their clothes were soaked in rancid gore. I had no idea whether drenching them in blood and guts was actually necessary to lure the Hexblight into the open, but it couldn’t hurt. It also made me feel happy. Torches surrounded the square, casting the two of them in flickering yellow light and dancing shadows—making them impossible to miss, even from a mile off.

No point going into this with any half-assed measures. This was one of those all-in, full-assed occasions.

I wanted the Hexblight to know exactly what I was offering up.

Now, all that was left to do was wait. Wait and hope that I was right. I was almost positive I knew who was behind the mask, but if I was wrong, a bunch of people were going to die. Me at the top of that list, though I’d done my best to prepare for every eventuality. Still… there were a thousand ways my plan could go sideways.

I caught the subtle buzz of pixie wings about half a second before my Vigil-enhanced hearing picked up the clatter of rhythmic footfalls at my nine o’clock.

“The Hexblight approaches,” Renholm said, flitting to a stop mere inches from my face.

“Is it her?” I asked, straining my ears.

“Impossible to say,” the pixie replied, “but it seems likely. I sensed potent magics around her trailer, but I couldn’t get close enough without risking my life. And since my life is vastly more important than any of the flesh bags in this city, I deemed it best to keep my distance.”

Shouldn’t have expected anything else.

“You gonna fight with me?” I asked. “I could use the extra help.”

He frowned for a long beat, then nodded in agreement. “True, my life is worth ten of yours, but of all the worthless oxygen thieves in the city, you are the least worthless.”

“Aw, that was almost a compliment. I’m glad we’re buddies too, Ren.”

“No, obviously that’s not why I’m helping you,” he said, rolling his eyes. “You’re a landholding Count of Greenbriar—your enemies are mine and mine are yours by compact. I will fight by your side for the honor of our noble court. Our enemies will see our victory this night and fear the might of our power.”

“Ah, now that’s the Renholm I know,” I said. “Self-serving right to the very end. Just don’t get too close. Our job is to keep the Hexblight busy long enough for Arturo to complete the banishment ritual. After that, it’s on me to kill this thing.”

I fell silent as the footfalls grew closer…

Clop…

Clop…

Clop…

Those weren’t normal footfalls—it was the sound of hooves striking cobblestone. The Hexblight was inbound.

I nodded to Arturo and he stood, moving into plain view, not far from our sacrificial offerings, his hands folded and empty. He was wearing his heavy armor, but he didn’t have his war staff. There wasn’t even a dagger on his hip. He’d come like a lamb ready for the slaughter. His willingness to face the creature weaponless and alone took brass balls and a truckload of gumption. I’d never been prouder to have him in my corner.

The mark on my forehead burned like a hot coal, and a heady scent assailed my senses.

Arturo tensed and I could tell from his posture—ramrod-straight back, balled hands, clenched jaw—that he also felt the unholy presence.

“I know you’re out there and I know you’ve come for these two,” the priest called out into the dappled darkness. “You want Gustav Hultgren and Sigge Wikstrum delivered to you on a stick, but before we get on with that grisly bit of business, I want to parley. I plead with you. The folk of Ironmoor, we want no more trouble. No more bloodshed.” For the hundredth time I was impressed by his stage presence. The guy could project like he was born for Broadway. No one within a five-block radius would miss what he had to say.

“Clearly, the Vigil was unable to kill you,” he continued. “We, all of us, saw him try and fail. And in a truly spectacular fashion, might I add. There can be only one conclusion. He was a fake. A pretender to the noble order. A weakling, not fit to bear the mark of the Vigilant and certainly not the savior we thought him to be.”

I grimaced. Arturo was off script here. No need to lay it on quite that thick. I’d fought a good fight. Didn’t he know it was possible to lose a battle and still win the war? We were going to need to have a little chat about that once the dust settled.

“The would-be Vigil fought you and failed,” Art said, “much to our dismay. But hear me and hear me true, we ran the pretender out of Ironmoor. There is no threat to you now. He’s gone. Done. Away. Finished. We just want everything to go back to the way it was before. No more killings. We will give you these men. We will shut down the mines if that is your desire. Only tell us what you want and we shall do our earnest best to give it to you, so long as the killings cease.”

The creature inched out of a pool of inky dark; the light from the torches illuminated its horrid, grizzled features and the desiccated body dangling in front of its chest. “You would willingly sacrifice these two?” The inhuman voice rattled from deep inside the wooden Spirit Mask. “You offer up Gustav and Sigge to appease my hunger?”

“That’s what you truly want, isn’t it?” the padre asked. “Aren’t they the real target of your wrath?” The priest didn’t mince words. He was doing well. Exactly as we’d rehearsed.

“You are not wrong,” it said, stalking closer, drool dripping from whatever passed for a mouth under the hideous wooden mask. Art somehow managed to maintain his composure. “I would wreak my vengeance against them, yet it is your willingness to offer them up as a blood tribute that sickens me most of all. You are no better than they.” The Hexblight waved a hairy, gorilla hand toward the bound men.

“Once again, the people of Ironmoor show their true colors in a moment of desperation. You are base. Weak. Vacillating. There is no honor in your offer, though I will accept it gladly. But know that their blood is on your hands, just as it will be on my lips. Gustav and Sigge will pay Ironmoor’s price, but you’re the one calling the tune, not I. Your lack of spine offends me, priest. Your willingness to see others suffer on your behalf shames me to the bone, but I should expect no better from the likes of you. Ironmoor is as it has ever been.”

It wasn’t a long, rambling villainous monologue, but with that admission—so human, so specific, so completely mired in the past—I knew the truth. I rose from behind the chimney and stepped up to the ledge of the roof. The butt of my new kick-ass shottie was pressed into my shoulder pocket, the barrel trained on the creature.

“Hexblight,” I yelled, my voice echoing off the cobblestones and up into the heaven-hung stars. Its masked face swiveled toward me, intensely focused. Arturo raised his hands and began to chant, the sound low and deep and melodic. Around the square ghostly golden power bled from the thin lines of powdered Selitrium, arrayed in an enormous containment circle. The padre reached into the sleeves of his robes and pulled free a crude wooden doll roughly fashioned to resemble the creature.

Tied about its head with a bit of colorful fabric was the tuft of hair I’d found at the first crime scene. Hair that I was betting belonged to the person hidden beneath the mask.

“I know you, and I name you for who you truly are,” I roared, “Annelli Iskrati!”

The creature shrieked and howled, its meaty gorilla fists flying up as fissures formed across the heavy wooden mask, bleeding out zigzags of angry green light. The doll in Arturo’s hand responded in kind, emerald light blazing from the wood. A second later, the mask exploded, wooden splinters flying outward in every direction, revealing the beautiful face of the traveling bard. It was a grotesque sight, her head sprouting from that gargantuan body, red hair cascading over her shoulders, the slender frame of a human husk dangling in front like a meat bib.

That body was so desiccated and frail—its gender obscured like a Barbie doll—but the face was unmistakable.

“No! How?” she hissed, shielding her eyes from the light. Not the flickering of the torches. Those she could abide. It was the light streaming from the doll in Arturo’s hand that pained her to look at. “I was so careful. So meticulous.” Her lips were hers, her voice likewise the voice of the bard—though she couldn’t shake the base note of the Hexblight that sounded beneath every word.

She had been meticulous, but no one could bury the truth forever.

“It took me a long while to put it together,” I replied slowly. “You killed smart—covered your tracks like a pro. After our first bout, I followed your trail down to the caves beneath Ironmoor, which is where I stumbled onto the illegal mining operation these two dipshits were running. Originally, I thought one of them had made a deal with the monster in order to keep the find all to themselves. After doing a little digging, however, I realized that didn’t add up. If they were behind this gruesome clusterfuck, why would they go after their own men? They’d need miners to work the line, so killing them would’ve been counterproductive.”

She listened, attention rapt, hungry to know more. To know how she’d failed.

I was only too happy to keep talking, because it gave Commander Arendu’s men a chance to get into position. We needed to make a stand here and I couldn’t afford to let her go to ground—if that happened, she would vanish, and I might never find her again. So, I talked while the noose tightened around her throat.

“There was something else that didn’t square with the info I had. The timeline. Me and Arturo figured out that we weren’t dealing with a Greater Changeling but with a Hexblight. But the timeline didn’t make a goddamned lick of sense. That’s what really gave you away. Hexblights need to feed and they need to feed a lot. Every few days, or the symbiote starts eating away at the host. But the attacks only came every two weeks. The only way that made sense was if you were hunting elsewhere.

“After we got a hold of Gustav’s logs,” I continued, “Arturo figured out that the caravan schedule coincided with the attacks and then it all came into focus.” I snapped my fingers. “Honestly, I still thought it was about the ore in the mine, which led me to Captain Ervo. He wasn’t the killer, but he gave me the last clue I needed. He told me about a Rjuhella immigrant family who’d been blamed and killed for the mine drying up. Everyone perished except one person. A daughter. A daughter who would be right around your age. Back at the baths, you told me you grew up here when you were younger, but moved away to Lyshaven after your parents died. Your last name isn’t Dalgaard—it’s Iskrati.”

“All true,” the creature agreed, her mouth stretching into a too-wide grin filled with razor-sharp teeth.

“You are Annelli Iskrati, and to put it as plain as I may, you blame Gustav Hultgren and Sigge Wikstrum for the death of your parents. The only thing I can’t figure out is why you killed Minna, the bath attendant.” I felt a lance of pain in my chest as I thought of the sweet girl, her body ripped apart, her blood splashed across the street. I hadn’t been able to save her, but maybe I could still avenge her. “She wasn’t on Gustav’s payroll and didn’t have any connections to the mines. Why kill her?”

Annelli froze. Something that might’ve been remorse flashed across her face.

“Minna was your fault, Vigil.” She spoke with utter scorn. “She was never supposed to die—just the opposite. She was smarter than all of you. She put together who was behind the killings long before you, and unlike the rest of the pathetic spineless people in this city, she knew my anger was justified. She’d been visited by Gustav’s unwanted affections more than once and was eager to see him pay. Eager to see him brought to justice for his myriad of crimes. But Gustav was a difficult man to get to, even with my powers. Warded and protected by his money and influence and the magic of his pet alchemist. He rarely leaves his home these days, and almost never at night—”

“Except to go to the bathhouse,” I said as the last piece of the puzzle clicked into place. I’d met Gustav in the steam room just minutes before bumping into Annelli in the hot springs. That hadn’t been a coincidence. She’d been stalking him. She’d probably planned to seduce him… at least until I showed up.

“Minna was supposed to help get him alone so I could strike, but your arrival spooked our dear magistrate. He fled for his manor house like a scared rabbit seeking out his burrow. Minna came to tell me, but by then it was too late. The creature was loose, and the hunger needed to be satiated.”

“Yeah, that sounds like justice to me alright,” I said. “Oh wait, no. Hypocrisy is the word I’m looking for.”

Annelli sneered. “Don’t speak to me of justice and hypocrisy. They say the Vigil is the mouthpiece of the gods. They say Raguel sees all, knows all, yet in his infinite wisdom he decided to keep the truth of my identity from you. The god of justice left you to rut about in the muck, piecing things together one block at a time while people died by my hand. Where was his justice then, hmm? Where was it when my parents were wrongly tried for dark magics and killed before my eyes?

“Are such impotent gods truly worth serving, I wonder?” Her smile slipped and I could see crazy burning in her eyes like hot coals. “No, no they are not is the answer. The gods are hypocrites and liars, thieves and frauds. They speak of justice and righteousness while refusing to use their power to see it done in the world. The Hexblight may be a demon, but at least it is honest. The gods, if they exist at all, are monsters just as surely as the men they crafted in their image.”

“What happened to you was cruel,” I said slowly. “It was wrong. What they did to you and your family… What they put you through… I can’t even imagine. But that doesn’t mean you have to—”

She sneered and jeered. “I know your mind, Vigil. ‘Poor little Annelli. She was made a slave. Sold to men of ill repute. Made to perform like a monkey. Boo hoo. My heart breaks for the child who was.’ This is the story in your heart, is it not?”

This was the human talking. This was Annelli’s true voice. Her parents had been murdered and she’d been taken to another town and endured who knows what indignities as a second-class immigrant child with no name and no family. This was my final opportunity to appeal to her humanity. To see if she’d give up her bloodlust, willingly part ways from the Hexblight, and let me take the beast alone to its grave.

“I’ll give you one chance.” I meant it. I’d spare the woman for the sake of the cruelty that had been done to her. “But you have to renounce this pact, walk away from—”

She cut me off, unwilling or unable to connect to her former self. “Never,” she hissed. “You will not make a hypocrite out of me. I knew the price of my vengeance. The mask, it sought me out after those witless miners freed it from its prison. It sensed my pain. Knew I would burn the world to the ground to get what was owed. It promised me the power to do what both the law and the gods could not. I gave myself to it happily. I feasted well and often and have no regrets. Not even Minna. If she had to die to set right this wrong, so be it.”

The memory of the bath attendant—sliced and diced and scattered throughout the alleyway—danced before my eyes. That sealed the deal. She’d had her chance at redemption and, like so many hell-bent on revenge, she’d thrown it to one side. Annelli was no simple country girl. No singer-songwriter with a sympathetic ax to grind. Her thirst for vengeance had made her a monster and I’d do well to keep that front and center in my mind.

She’d made her choice, which meant I’d made mine.

“I will happily kill you too, Vigil, if you stand in my way.” She smacked her lips, loud enough that it echoed around the square. “They say you are what you eat. I wonder, what will you taste of when I split you open from sternum to groin? Platitudes and sophomoric bleatings?”

“Chicken if I had to guess.” Another one for Cal, though there was going to be no chuckles until this battle was put to bed.

“I quite like you, Vigil. You seem different than the others. I would hate to end you, but I will do what I must to see my vengeance done. Which is why I will make you the same offer you made me. Walk away or perish.”

I raised my shotgun in reply.

“Then you will die.” The creature shrugged beefy shoulders, the spines lining its back bristling. “You failed to beat me the first time, and I was going easy on you. This time I will show no mercy.”

“Me either,” I growled. “Get ’em outta here!” I shouted down as the guards of Ironmoor finally fell into position, boxing us in. Gustav and Sigge had played their part; no need to keep them hog-tied a minute longer. “Alright, let’s you and me dance, fuck face.” I pulled the trigger and braced for the recoil. The shottie barked in my hand, spewing out a black slug powered by refined Fear Affinity. It was high time to give this creature something to be scared of.

38

Rematch

The Hexblight was fast—too damned fast, given its size—and thrust a meaty hand forward, summoning a shimmering dome of arcane light, which easily absorbed my enchanted round.

“You’ll have to do better than that,” Annelli snarled in defiance, a vicious smile spreading across her beautiful lips.

“No shit, Sherlock. Cal, now!” I bellowed.

My spectral partner in crime materialized from the mouth of a connecting alleyway and consumed the Transformation Token in his hand. His form shimmered and morphed, multi-segmented legs sprouting from a rocky, bulbous body covered in eyes.

A Stone Spider the size of a mountain lion blazed across the square. He brought one can of whupass, I brought the other. Together we were going to slay some bodies. Cal slammed into the Hexblight like a freight train, knocking her sideways as colossal barbed claws snapped at her exposed flesh. Renholm appeared a moment later, bobbing and weaving like a cobra attack helicopter. He launched a dizzying array of light-based magics, meant to blind and disorient.

I activated Mantle of Scales. A rippling iridescent cape appeared behind me and power ebbed out from me in a circle, spreading over the buildings behind me and bleeding down into the town square in front of me. I consumed a Stoneform Affinity Scale, siphoning its power into my body, then redirecting it outward into my aura. The cape transformed, becoming steely gray as the effect from the scale took hold. Instead of buffing my friends, I triggered Reckoning Form.

Annelli howled in pain as Internal Petrification took hold, calcifying her joints. Cal struck while the iron was hot, easily dodging her now clumsy blows as he stabbed her over and over again with his spindly, razor-sharp legs.

I chambered round after round in lightning-fast succession, firing off a three-shot volley.

With the increase to my Finesse, my aim was deadly accurate and the rounds slammed into Annelli’s exposed ribs. She was built like an M1A1 but the slugs ploughed through her tough hide and blood splattered through the air. A hit like that would’ve dropped most enemies flat. Hell, a hit like that would’ve leveled an angry rhino. She just grunted and kept right on brawling. Even without the mask, it was clear the Hexblight wasn’t going to be put down with a simple one-two combination of brute force and hot lead.

She raised her hands overhead, interlacing her fingers, then brought them down onto Cal’s chitinous head with a thunderous crack!

Cal stumbled away on his too many legs, reeling from the devastating blow. Renholm was still buzzing about, blasting her in the face with Fae magic, but his attacks were about as effective as bottle rockets. Annelli ignored him, her gaze darting about, searching for an easy way out. She fought hard and was willing to go to the mat, but she was also smart and wasn’t above retreating if it meant living to fight another day. I couldn’t let that happen.

This ended tonight with one of us dead.

I tucked the buttstock of my shottie tightly into my shoulder pocket and fired twice more, this time aiming for Annelli’s beautiful face. The creature blurred left with unnatural speed and grace. The first shot went wide but the second punched into her shoulder. Blood bloomed and the Hexblight faltered as curls of putrid gray smoke rose from its flesh. A wild and half-crazed look invaded Annelli’s eyes. Fear. No. More than fear. This was abject terror.

The effects of the Fear Affinity Scales were grabbing her by the throat. I had no idea what she saw when she looked at me, but hopefully it was enough to put the fear of God into her heart.

I expected her to make a break for it, then, driven away by Horrific Vision, but instead her lips pulled back in a rictus and she fixed me with a murderous gaze. If looks could kill, I’d have been dead ten times over. She threw her head back and howled, the sound simultaneously melodic and inhuman.

I fired again, but this time she was ready for my boom stick. Annelli thrust a hand up and conjured a bloody barrier of light. My round hit with flashes of golden light and ricocheted into the night. The dome vanished an eyeblink later as Annelli charged, not even slowing down despite the bullet holes littering her torso. With a great heave she bounded into the air, flying up to an impossible height. Time to put the kibosh on that bullshit. I dismissed my shottie and thrust both hands forward, letting a torrent of Arcana race out from my core.

The cobblestones below cracked, and thorn-studded vines erupted from the earth, reaching up like skeletal fingers and wrapping around one of her ankles. Annelli’s eyes flared in surprise as her jump ended abruptly and the vines yanked her back down to the ground. She landed on her side with a meaty thud and the vines quickly twined themselves around her arms and legs, pinning her in place while inch-long thorns stabbed and sliced, slicking the pavers below with blood. Annelli howled and snarled, ripping at the vines in a frenzy.

This was the same spell she’d used on me during our first bout, and it felt good to be playing that Uno reverse card.

Even though I’d jacked my Arcana up to 22, my gauge was dropping at an alarming rate. I knew I wouldn’t be able to keep this up for much longer and I wouldn’t get a better chance than now to bring out the big guns.

“Everyone back!” I thundered, cutting off the flows of magic powering the vines.

The conjured vines immediately began to wither and curl in on themselves, but that didn’t matter. I just needed a second for what I had in mind. I thrust one hand out, palm up. Power surged along my limbs as a lance of fire as thick as a telephone pole washed over her. I didn’t hold back. Every ounce of Arcana I had left went into the spell. This was my chance to end the fight without ever even getting my hands dirty. But damn was it a lot of power.

Sweat streamed down my face, my arms shook, and my knees trembled beneath me.

Still, I held on anyway as my Arcana gauge approached empty. Held on like a cowboy trying to saddle and ride a goddamned tornado.

The vines wrapped around Annelli’s body—now dying and dried—went up in an instant, engulfing the Hexblight in a choking blaze. Burning her alive just as the people of Ironmoor had burned her mother so many years ago. Pretty jacked up, in retrospect, but if you need something good and dead, there really is no better solution than a bathtub of homemade napalm and a match. Finally the javelin guttered and died.

Panting as though I’d just sprinted a marathon, I pulled another Stoneform Affinity Scale from a pouch at my hip. The pent-up Essence would replenish my diminished Arcana Pool. As fresh energy filled my body, I switched my aura from Reckoning Form to Charity Form, using it to buff myself and my friends. Every inch of my skin began to itch like crazy as a thin layer of calcified stone spread across my body like a rash. Stoneform acted as natural armor, granting additional resistances to piercing and slashing damage—at a hit to my movement rate.

I glanced down into the flames, brow furrowed. Something was moving in there…

No fucking way. Nothing could’ve survived that.

But before I could even piece together what in the holy hell was going on, a hulking shape erupted from the flames, cannonballing through the air straight at me.

“Duck!” Arturo hollered from below.

Yeah, no shit. Except it was too late for that. The Hexblight, completely engulfed in flames, hit me like a linebacker and bowled me onto the slate tiles. Before I could regain my bearings, a molten-hot hand wrapped around my ankle and pitched me unceremoniously off the roof and toward the town square below. I flipped ass over teakettle and landed on my back in a racket that sounded like a load of kitchen pans being tossed down a flight of stairs.

I couldn’t breathe—the air in my lungs had skipped town—but I was alive, and I could feel my legs, which was a helluva lot better than how things had ended the last time Annelli had tossed my sorry ass through the air.

I blinked away the hazy white spots swimming in my vision just in time to see the monstrous Hexblight leaping off the roof, her fists raised in a killing blow. Prepared to turn my skull into a piñata.

I summoned the shotgun and pulled the trigger. The recoil should’ve been enough to kick the weapon right out of my grip, but I wasn’t a normal man—not anymore. The barrel bucked and the round blazed into the Hexblight’s unprotected midsection, blowing her backward. She flipped and landed in a crouch. The flames had died down to smoldering embers, leaving charbroiled skin and fur behind. But already she was healing. Chunks of burnt black skin flaked away to reveal shiny new pink flesh beneath. Screw me, but she was tough.

I scrambled to my feet, swapping out the shottie for my flame-enhanced battle-axe.

“You’re stronger than the last time we faced off,” she purred, maneuvering slowly to my left.

“And you’re stalling,” I said, circling right. “Time for talking is done. We’re dancing now.” I darted in and brought the axe around in a wicked arc, looking to bury the blade in her neck. She sidestepped the blow and countered with a wild haymaker. It flew in the face of every natural instinct I had, but I didn’t even try to dodge. I’d planned for this. I had my heavy armor in place, Stoneform offering an additional layer of protection, and a tanky combo of Matchless Endurance and Spiked Shell. Honestly though, there was some part of me that secretly believed this was a real dumb idea.

Like that time Cal had swan dived from the barrack balcony and into a kiddie pool filled with Bud Lite.

Her fist slammed into my face…

There was a thunderclap of snapping bone.

My nose crumpled and a gush of blood washed over my chin, but I barely felt it. Right hand to god, it was like getting smacked with a stiff pillow.

Annelli, on the other hand, stumbled back, clutching a mangled wrist to her chest. Steely gray spikes of Arcana had erupted from my skin the moment she decked me, shredding her hand in the process. She struck again—a merciless hook to my ribs. The blow landed like a sledgehammer, but my Stone Spider armor absorbed the brunt of the damage while Spiked Shell retaliated once again, slicing through skin and chewing into bone. But she didn’t stop. White-hot fury drove her, and she rained down blow after blow, pummeling me with fists and slashing at me with claws.

I reeled and stumbled from the assault, but my body was wrapped in a blissful blanket of numbness, which was dangerous in its own way. Although Matchless Endurance allowed me to ignore the effects of pain, that didn’t mean my body wasn’t sustaining serious injury. It would just let me fight until I dropped dead from blood loss or devastating internal hemorrhaging.

Even though I knew I was playing with metaphorical fire, I still had to admit it was pretty badass. The more she whaled on me, the more damage she took.

“Stop hitting yourself,” I taunted with a shit-eating grin as she staggered, her body a tapestry of bloody wounds and battered limbs.

“I will crush you like a flea,” she hissed, though I could see genuine concern on her face for the first time. I’d changed the rules of the game and now she knew it. That didn’t stop her from taking another swipe at me, her claws flashing in the firelight.

So far, I’d pretty much stood there and taken my licks. Which is why I caught her completely off guard when I ducked below the clumsy strike and dove right, rolling up to a knee.

“Now!” I bellowed while using my momentum to bury my axe in her exposed thigh. Bone cracked and fissures of molten fire snaked across her skin.

There was an ear-splitting screech as Cal charged in on from her other side, pincers slicing at skin, razor-sharp legs jabbing into her like spears.

And Cal wasn’t alone.

Renholm had come to play, and he’d brought reinforcements.

A flood of feral cats leapt from alleys and rooftops, charging the creature from every side. At the head of the furry cavalry charge was the pixie, riding astride his tabby, Sir Jacob-Francis. The Hexblight was wounded and breathing hard and wasn’t even remotely quick enough to hit any of the cats. They struck like lightning, some sinking claws and teeth into ankles, while others scrambled along the creature’s back. Renholm took flight and touched down on Annelli’s neck. He withdrew a tiny makeshift rapier I’d crafted for him using Grasshound Quills. He drew blood with every poke—a constant irritant nipping at her heels.

I jerked the axe free and drove the blade all the way to the bone, cutting her leg damn near in two. Somehow, she was still up and moving around on the limb, which shouldn’t have been possible. I gave a hard yank at the weapon, but I’d lodged it in good and deep and wiggle it as I might, I couldn’t pull the thing free. Instead, I dismissed it, momentarily banishing it back to the Soul Vault in exchange for my shotgun. As the axe disappeared from her leg, the wound let out a great woosh of blood, spraying me right in the eyes like a Super Soaker.

Dammit.

Suddenly, the world was stained with crimson, partially blinding me. A hoofed foot lashed out, catching me in the jaw and dropping me to the deck. Annelli whirled, summoning a spear of rock and vine. She charged Cal—still in his Stone Spider form—and slashed the tip of the spear through the air, severing one of his legs then another, and another still. He shrieked and retreated, but with the missing legs, he couldn’t go far, and he couldn’t go fast. She whipped her left hand out and roots erupted from the earth, lifting Cal into the air—exposing his belly.

She lunged in and drove the conjured spear through his chest. He let out another squeal, legs curling in on themselves while his body spasmed and twitched. He exploded apart a second later, his corporeal form banished from the Material Plane.

An annoyed look flashed across Annelli’s face and she reached for Renholm, trying to snatch the pixie from her back. I’d finally managed to wipe most of the blood from my eyes, though it still felt as though someone had hit me full on in the face with bear mace.

I needed her focused on me. With a snarl, I unleashed a blinding lance of flame, which slammed into her like a battering ram. She let the pixie be and wheeled toward me. I darted toward her, closing the distance, reloading my shottie as I moved.

I’d run dry of Fear Rounds, but I still had a full complement of Plague Scale Shot. I blasted seven rounds into her belly at point-blank range, inflicting her with painful Blackblood Itch. I could see the disease working in real time—spidery black veins racing across her skin like jagged bolts of lightning.

Annelli retreated in the face of my onslaught, her sausage fingers grabbing at her bloodied gut, her eyes dazed from pain. This night had not gone as she’d expected. I had her on the ropes and now was the time to put her down for good. I thrust the gun up under her chin and pulled the trigger one final time, expending the shotgun’s last round. And holy shit did I make it count. The muzzle vomited flame and half of Annelli’s beautiful jaw vanished in an instant, her cheek blown away to reveal teeth and sinew.

She wasn’t quite so tough without her stupid mask.

I expected her to drop like a stone, but instead she smiled at me. I have a few tricks left to show you, that look said.

Her devastated jaw unhinged, stretching wide like a human-snake; a thick green fog billowed out in waves, rolling across the ground and swelling up into the air, obscuring the torches and devouring the town square. Casting the world into a perpetual green twilight.

Cats mewled and hissed as they fled from the toxic cloud. They were smarter than me.

Half-seen tendrils of cancerous jade wrapped around me. Thin wisps of poison bored into my nose and mouth and eyes.

[Poisoned! You have been afflicted by Corpse Gas. Corpse Gas infects the lungs, lowering your Stamina Regeneration. Corpse Gas can cause spontaneous and violent bouts of nausea, visual and auditory hallucinations, or render those with weak Verve unconscious. Suffer under the effects of Corpse Gas until the gas disperses or you leave the Area of Influence.]

I clawed at my face, trying to clear the strands away, but it was a fruitless task. I couldn’t breathe. Couldn’t see. Every noise was oddly distorted—either too close or too far. But I wasn’t dying. This cloud sucked ass, but it wasn’t immediately lethal. Just disorienting. That I could handle. I’d lived through the gas chamber more times than I could count, and I’d also aced the Marine Corps non-lethal weapons course. This was terrible, but no worse than that.

I steeled myself and let my mind settle.

My preternatural Combat Sense flashed and time seemed to momentarily lurch and slow as a silvery form took shape in the mist. A ghostly shape drifted through the fog. Annelli was coming for me, on the right. Reality sputtered back to real time and I sidestepped left, avoiding her first attack. But I wasn’t quick enough to avoid the gorilla arm that slammed into my neck and clotheslined me, sending me to the deck. Spiked Shell exacted vengeance on my behalf, but if a shotgun blast didn’t stop her, a couple more Arcana Spikes weren’t going to do it either.

“I’ll finish with you later,” a feminine voice whispered, “but first the priest. I finally see now. You aren’t the real threat. He is…”

Then the voice was gone. I heard the clop of hooves departing. Arturo bellowed a second later.

This was bad. Real bad. The ritual weakened the Hexblight, but unfortunately it required both continued concentration and close proximity. If she killed Arturo, the Spirit Mask would reform, and then we’d be back to square one. I still couldn’t see jack shit, however. I unleased Unbound Blaze, hoping to burn the mist away, but it simply swirled and ebbed, more of the green toxin rushing into the vacated space.

A meow pierced the mist, and a moment later Renholm and his cat trotted into view.

“Quickly!” the pixie yelled, wheeling the cat around in a circle. “The fat, slovenly priest requires immediate assistance.” He stuck a little hand out and a thin tether of light jumped from his fingers, snaking off to the left. With a groan, I gained my feet then took off after Renholm and Sir Jacob-Francis, following the wispy trail of light into the mist while reloading my shottie.

The green mist began to clear as we moved. It didn’t vanish entirely, but it dissipated enough to let me see a few feet at least. What I saw stopped me cold.

Arturo was down on the street, his eyes closed, his chest barely moving. There was a pool of blood growing out beneath him. Towering above him was Annelli. She held a twisted vine-like spear—the same weapon she’d used to take Cal out—and she’d driven it right through the padre’s stomach. Had him pinned to the floor like a frog on the dissecting board. He was alive but wouldn’t stay that way for long. Not unless we did something.

“Renholm,” I whispered. “I’m going to distract the Hexblight. You take care of Arturo. Your one job is to make sure he doesn’t die.”

“That sounds boring,” the pixie grumbled, fingering the hilt of his Grass Hound rapier. “I suppose, however, that some sacrifices must be made for the good of my kingdom. Consider it done, my Count.” He laid tiny heels into the cat’s sides and it took off, threading toward the downed priest.

I quickly ran through my list of available options. Unbound Blaze didn’t have enough giddyup to put the creature down for keeps and Matchless Endurance and Spiked Shell were both passive. Mantle of Scales was already active, and I didn’t have anything that would heal the priest. Spectral Roots could momentarily pin the Hexblight in place, but that was a terrible idea. I needed to get her away from Arturo, not glue her next to him. Peerless Warrior could give me a temporary edge, but if I didn’t kill her in the next three minutes, then I’d pass out from exhaustion, and then we’d all be royally boned.

There was one option that I hadn’t tried yet. It was a gamble, but honestly there seemed like no better time to roll the dice. What else did we have to lose?

39

Just Rewards

I pulled a small golden marble from the pouch at my belt. It thrummed with a soft but potent power. The True Form Transformation Token. I knew exactly what kind of monster Annelli was—it was time she found out what kind of monster I was.

“You fucked around,” I said, clasping the marble in my fist. “Now you’re gonna find out.” I squeezed down and consumed the token. A wild, chaotic blast of energy surged through me, racing along every inch of skin, every fiber of muscle.

My limbs lengthened and bulged, bones snapping and cracking as they morphed. My armor and weapons transformed with me, melting into my body, turning my skin into obsidian stone. Claws erupted from my fingers and talons burst from my toes while my mouth elongated into a muzzle filled with vicious cutting fangs.

I expected the process to hurt, and it did, but this pain was different somehow. It was exquisite. Pain that was pleasure. Pain that made me more. That refined me. Pain that released me from the shackles of humanity and changed me, in a flash, into something I had known without knowing. I stood on powerful legs and glanced into the fogged glass of the nearby inn, catching a glimpse of my reflection for the first time.

I was death incarnate. Eight feet of powerful muscle, covered in rocky black obsidian hide. Fissures of yellow and orange light zigzagged across my forearms and legs, bleeding terrible heat like rivers of magma. Running along my spine was a mane made from golden flames. My claws glowed like hot coals and a plume of smoke rose from my body. I looked like a werewolf, if a werewolf was dragged straight from the pits of hell. I grinned, lips pulling back from coal-red fangs.

I was an actual Devil Dog.

I was Boyd Knight in name only. In his place was hunger. Death. Destruction. I was the purifying fires of justice wrapped in the body of a Vigilant Wolf. My eyes blazed, hot embers of reckoning, and the flames radiating from my body crackled and hissed, willing the Hexblight to reach over and try me on for size.

Driven by instinct and pure rage, I launched myself across the courtyard, powerful legs tearing up the distance in the blink of an eye. I went for Annelli’s neck, teeth bared and blood in my mouth even before I’d taken a single bite. The Hexblight brought up an oversized forearm to protect its vitals and I latched on like a pit bull. The first taste was sweeter than I’d expected—more steak than hamburger. Easy on the tongue but it also left me wanting more. The creature’s other fist pounded on my flaming back, but I barely registered a single hit, so great was my need to sink my fangs into Annelli again and again and again.

I needed to have patience, I knew. The killing blow would come, but not yet. For all the damage the Hexblight had sustained, it was still too strong. Clinging to the forearm with my teeth, I raked my red-hot claws across the dangling corpse-like body, leaving smoldering rents across Annelli’s flesh.

Her feeble arms thrashed at me while she screamed and swore and cursed my blood, but the words made little sense. Language was a faint memory. What I heard was the rush of blood under her skin and the crashing cymbals when claws met flesh and gave way to bone.

Finally I relented, releasing my jaws from around the Hexblight’s forearm. But my mercy was short lived. I swatted the limb out of my way and drove inside the creature’s guard, clamping my jaws down over Annelli’s collarbone. The taste of oranges exploded in my mouth, quickly morphing into cloves and bay leaves, all of them layering themselves over my tongue in a glorious mash of justice and vengeance. Hers or mine, I couldn’t know.

With a final jerk on my head, I ripped Annelli away from the bulky frame of the monster. Her body toppled, leaving me face-to-face with the bloody maw of the Hexblight itself.

It was Grade-A nightmare fuel. The Hexblight had no eyes. No head at all, really. Instead, there was a fleshy tube-like mouth, lined with a circle of undulating, barbed teeth. It looked for all the world like a giant, bloated leech. Which, I suppose, is what it was once you stripped away the host. I glanced to the base of Annelli’s crumpled body, lying on the ground. There was a bloody ring marring the back of her neck—a connection point between her and the monster. Now that her body was no longer connected to the Hexblight, she no longer looked like a desiccated husk, but the beautiful woman I’d seen at the bathhouse that first night.

She also looked dead. Ragged wounds littered her belly. Her eyes were open—glassy and vacant. An end, but a bitter one.

The small part of me that remained human felt a brief pang of sadness, but then that feeling was carried away in a wash of raw hunger and need. This fight wasn’t finished yet.

With a howl, I advanced on the Hexblight—truly exposed and vulnerable for the first time. It moved fast, driving toward me and latching onto my forepaw with its fleshy tube mouth. Pitiful. I wrenched my arm free and slammed my obsidian fist into its open maw, obliterating the teeth that dared to touch my rocky flesh. The creature mewled in anguish—the sound of a wounded cat—and fell back a step. This son of a bitch knew it was done for and was searching for a way out.

Except there was no way out.

Commander Arendu’s men were on their feet, wooden shields and sharpened pikes at the ready, hemming the bastard in.

I could smell its fear, hear its blood calling to me.

I advanced, an avenging angel summoned from another world. The Hexblight attacked with a huge fist, but the blow was slow and sloppy. I easily sidestepped and clamped my fangs around what passed for a neck. I locked my jaw, tearing at its feeble muscles until I hit pay dirt. Rancid blood arced through the night.

The Hexblight shuddered and crumpled, its huge hands batting weakly at the paving stones one last time. I didn’t relent, and instead drove my ember claws into its vulnerable belly, tearing through flesh until I found its pulsing heart. I wrapped one hand around the frantically beating organ—thump-thump-thump—and squeezed, slow and steady. Just like the trigger of a rifle. Its heart ruptured like a water balloon, soaking my hand. Dirty work done, I withdrew my clawed appendage, tossed back my head, and howled at the moon as a cloud of golden light rushed into me like a roaring twister.

I stood and stared down at my vanquished foe, reveling in my strength and power and victory. I was Boyd Knight, Marine, Vigil, and Beast.

Words swam before my lupine eyes:

[You have killed a Bound Hexblight! The world has been cleansed! You have been blessed with 6,183 Essence!]

<<<>>>

Bounty Fulfilled

Terror of Ironmoor: You have discerned the identity of the deadly Mortka prowling the streets of Ironmoor and brought it to a bloody but necessary end. As a reward for a job well done, you have been granted +15,000 Essence, 1 x Seraphic Affinity Scale (Sage, Gold), 1 x Chaos Affinity Scale (Sage, Gold), 1 x True Form Transformation Token, and Annelli’s Visage (Helm, Master, Gold Ranked).

Optional Bounty: Although the Hexblight has been slain and Annelli brought to justice for her misdeeds, there are still other guilty parties who yet walk the streets of Ironmoor… Perhaps they shouldn’t.

Reward: Sometimes justice for justice’s sake is its own reward…

<<<>>>

The abrupt influx of energy was a potent rush, swirling around me and lifting me into the air as heavenly chimes rang out, announcing my advancement. My wounds faded and vanished, my core replenished with intoxicating vitality.

I’d never felt more alive… or hungrier.

Arturo lay sprawled out a few feet away, his Essence clearer to me now than it had ever been. A kill like that would set me apart. Level me up again. Make me a Vigil like no one had ever seen.

I padded over to his side and tasted the air. The blood of a Steelborn Mage. That would be richer, wilder, more pleasing than anything I’d ever tasted before. And who was he but a failed knight? I could kill him without missing a beat and then turn my eyes on the men surrounding me. They weren’t powerful—certainly not like the Hexblight or the padre—but as I often said, quantity had its own quality.

Beside me, a tiny creature, barely taller than my first joint, headbutted my leg. On his back was Renholm. The pixie had a small flute out, pressed against his lips. An enchanting melody whispered from its end, dancing through my ears and into my soul. Some dim, dusty part of my mind knew he was bewitching me with a modified version of the Calm Emotions spell. The rest of my primal mind didn’t care. It just liked the pretty music. My brain slowly shifted, my thoughts transforming from animal to man, flooding me with images of the people who loved me. People I loved.

In the carousel of happiness that flashed before my eyes, Cal gave way to my folks, who in turn pointed me in the direction of my Marines, then Arturo. Death coiled itself back into my chest and the bloodlust ebbed away from me like water circling the drain.

My claws became fingers.

Fangs turned back to teeth.

Bones shortened and clicked back into their old, more familiar formation.

This time, the pain brought no euphoria. Only hellish agony, a metallic taste at the back of my mouth, and the knowledge that I’d been a single hair away from killing the people who’d gone into battle with me. I felt sick. Woozy. The heady sensation of all that power was nowhere to be found and in its wake was a profound weariness, etched into my bones. I vaguely recalled the words I’d seen back in the Soul Vault when reading about the Totem Transformation.

The Vigil Bound must transform with care, for shifting takes a grueling toll on the body and leaves the Vigil weak and often powerless once the transformation wears off.

Several guardsmen rushed forward, carefully peeling Arturo from the street and ferrying him into the Three Chimneys, where the bathhouse attendants were already waiting with warm water, medicated tinctures, and fresh bandages for his wounds. None of the guards came for me, even though I was wobbling around, a heartbeat away from tumbling onto my ass. They’d witnessed firsthand the monster I’d become. They’d seen the violence in my eyes. None of them wanted to be near me and I couldn’t blame ’em.

There was a grunt and the awkward shuffle of bodies as the soldiers parted ranks and Maggie pushed toward me, not scared in the least by me or the carnage all around the town square.

She slipped an arm around my waist, supporting my weight.

“Thanks,” I whispered, trying my damnedest not to faceplant. Talk about embarrassing.

“Think nothing of it, oh mighty Vigil. Now let’s get you inside. I’ll take a look at your wounds myself.” She gave me a suggestive smile and cocked an eyebrow.

Even battered, broken, and half dead, that perked me up.

“No.” I shook my head. “Much as I would love to, there’s still one thing left to do.” I raised my head and called out into the night, “Gustav Hultgren and Sigge Wikstrum, get your asses out here, and I mean yesterday.”

There was a bit of a commotion as the two men were frog-marched into the square by weary-eyed guardsmen. Neither man came peacefully—they cried and pleaded and begged the whole way. But come they did, with every eye in the town glued to them with a mixture of scorn, contempt, and pity. These people were expecting to witness an execution, and they weren’t far wrong. I was certainly angry enough to kill them both on the spot and they deserved no less.

Annelli had been a monster, but she’d also been a victim. Their victim.

Her parents had been taken away, falsely accused, and killed by these two men—even if they hadn’t been the ones to set the rope or start the fire. They were responsible for those deaths and they were also at least partially responsible for the Hexblight and everything that had transpired in Ironmoor. Their mining operation had freed the creature and their greed had forced them to keep their mouths shut. Had they told someone—anyone—the truth from the get-go, maybe all the bloodshed over the past few months could’ve been prevented.

But they hadn’t.

They were as guilty as Annelli in their own way and justice wouldn’t be truly served until they got a piece of the action as well.

“I could kill you right now,” I said coldly, looking at each of them in turn. “I could strike you down and no one would bat an eye. Hell, I’ve half considered tying you up in the square and raining fire down on your heads—burning you alive just the same way you burned that girl’s mother alive.”

Both blanched and cowered, folding in on themselves.

“Please,” Gustav pleaded. “It doesn’t need to go that way. I… I can pay—”

“Not another goddamn word out of you.” I cut him off with a frosty glare. “I could kill you,” I said, “but I won’t.”

Visible relief washed through their bodies. They thought they were getting off the hook for their crimes. Just like always.

“Good man,” Gustav said, standing a little taller and straightening his jacket. “Whatever you want. Whatever you need—”

I strutted forward and socked him right in the face, his nose crunching from the impact. He let out a muffled groan and dropped to his knees, clutching his face as blood poured from between his fingers.

“I warned you,” I said. “The only reason I’m not going to end your miserable lives right here and now is because death is too easy for you two. It would be painful, but only for a few minutes. You need to suffer the way Annelli suffered. The way the people of Ironmoor have suffered.” I turned toward a clump of guards milling about nearby. “I want these men taken into custody and thrown into jail. They are traitors to humanity and to the crown. I also want royal tax collectors alerted about their illegal mining operation.”

“No, no,” Sigge said, fear undercutting every word, “you can’t. They’ll hang us… That or worse.”

“Yeah, no shit. That’s the idea,” I replied. “But hopefully you’ll live long enough to see everything taken from you. I want their estates seized and sold off. Use the funds to pay the families of the fallen. Every holding except for Gustav’s manor house.” I paused and rubbed my hands together, thinking about what Renholm had said down in the mines. I was a Fae noble, and by Fae law I could claim any territory conquered in battle or given through friendship. I figured this counted. “That I’m taking as my own personal reward. It’ll be part of my holdings in Ironmoor, along with the mines—captured and claimed by right of bloodshed.”

“You’re a dirty thug and nothing more,” Gustav spat, his voice nasal and high pitched as he tried to stem the flow of blood. “You’ll never get away with this. And even if you do, stealing a house will not earn you the respect of your betters. You’ll always be a brute. A monster.”

“Maybe you’re right.” I shrugged. “Maybe I always will be a brute and a monster, but I’m going to be a brute and a monster with one fancy-ass house. And, for what it’s worth, I don’t plan on living there. The mines belong to me, fair and square. Your manor, though? I’m going to turn it into an orphanage for Rjuhella children who have fallen on hard times.” I leaned in close. “I’m going to turn your ballroom into a school, you shriveled nutsack.”

Raguel was right. Sometimes justice for justice’s sake was its own reward. The cold fury on his face was better than all the gold in the world.

I turned to the guards. “Get them outta here. I’ve got better shit to do than consort with penniless criminals.”

I let Maggie help me to the inn as the guards escorted a hollering Gustav and Sigge away, bound for jail and eventually trial. Killing Annelli had been a necessary tragedy. Watching those two get what was coming was sweet justice.

40

After-party

We partied for two days straight. We used Gustav’s manor, his booze, his food, and his quarters. The whole town was invited. Everyone except the snooty turds that called Pithom Row home. They had to sit inside their sprawling estates and watch the rager of the century while the poor, needy, and hungry streamed into their pristine neighborhood. They stewed in silence, watching while working men and women drank the rarest of Gustav’s private wine collection from gold chalices and crystal flagons.

They were pissed and nothing made me happier. That was justice, too.

The shindig rivaled the craziest barracks parties I’d ever witnessed.

There was singing and dancing, gambling and feasting, debauchery without equal. At least three duels broke out, Gustav’s formal dining room was transformed into a mud wrestling pit, and Arturo even ended up conducting two separate marriage ceremonies. Incidentally, one of the marriage ceremonies took place in the mud wrestling pit. Gustav’s servants were happy enough to stay on and serve, since I promised to double their pay—all taken straight out of Gustav’s generous reserves—and allowed them to eat and drink the food they were preparing.

Gustav had never let the help partake in any of the lavish feasts they spent hours slaving over. He would rather see the leftovers thrown to the dogs than have someone poor eat it.

I spent most of the party mingling with the guests, learning their stories and consoling those who had lost loved ones at the hands of the Hexblight. But I didn’t just console them with words. Thoughts and prayers are nice, but these people needed more than kind sentiments. They needed help paying for funeral expenses, for food to eat, or for a roof over their heads. But it turned out Gustav had more than enough to go around. Every family affected by the attacks got a generous payout to help cover their living expenses for a year.

There would’ve been more, but a large portion of his fortune was seized by Commander Arendu, taken to pay the taxes Gustav owed to the crown. I wasn’t a greedy person by nature, but I could see why the magistrate had run his scam. Those taxes cut deep.

Not that I didn’t do alright for myself.

A small portion of his funds went into the Bank of Boyd along with all of the magical items and alchemical components secreted away around the house. Renholm helped me find everything Gustav had been hiding in exchange for a fifteen percent cut of the goods—funds for his court coffers, he said. I was happy enough to pay the pixie, especially since he was like a bloodhound when it came to loot. He found stuff stashed in places I never would’ve dreamed of looking. I ended up snagging a not-so-small fortune in rare fabrication components and alchemy ingredients, which all ended up in my Soul Vault.

Gustav also had an armory complete with spears, halberds, a variety of swords—rapiers, long swords, short swords, sabers, and even a two-handed zweihander—and some basic armor. None of it compared to what I’d taken off the Hexblight, though. A Sage-Gold Seraphic Affinity Scale, a Sage-Gold Chaos Affinity Scale, and another True Form Transformation Token. But the real prize took the form of a Master Gold-Ranked Helm called Annelli’s Visage. It was disturbing to look at since it was a replica of the Spirt Mask Annelli had worn, but its abilities made up for the discomfort.

<<<>>>

Annelli’s Visage

Type: Light, Enchanted Wood

Class: Master

A terrifying wooden mask with curling ram’s horn which bears the Unseelie Mark of Vengeance. Though the essence of the Hexblight no longer inhabits the Spirit Mask, remnants of its terrible power linger, imbuing the object with preternatural abilities that may be conferred on the wearer. Those wicked souls who see it shall tremble and fear, for Wrath shall surely be poured out upon their heads…

Primary Effects:

+10% Resistance Against Unseelie Magic

+10% Resistance Against Normal Weapons

Verve Bonus = + 1 Point / Ascended Class (Novice, Disciple, Adept, Master, Sage, Saint, Fatemarked)

+1% Chance to invoke Horrific Vision on contact.

Transformation Effects:

+10% Increased Transformation Time

+10% Life Gained from Ravenous Feeding Ability

<<<>>>

A portion of Gustav’s fortune also stayed with the house. That bit about turning this place into an orphanage wasn’t a joke. I didn’t need a giant house, especially since I would be on the road hunting down Mortka and executing bounties given to me by Raguel. No point in having a place like this stand empty when it could do some good in the world. The money would help pay for the staff, teachers, and operating expenses—food, clothes, supplies. All that jazz. But I couldn’t leave a fortune like that to just anyone.

I needed someone I could trust.

Which is why Maggie agreed to come on as the Chief Director of Boyd’s School for Future Badasses. That’s what I called it, anyway. Maggie insisted we go with something a little more “formal” and “prestigious” sounding and not “insane” or “juvenile.” So, the Knight Institute for Exceptional Children was born instead. Arturo would also help oversee the operation—teach the kids to read and write, as well as how to handle themselves on a battlefield and off of it. We could give those kids the chance at a better life that Annelli had never gotten.

I’ll admit, it had been tough to convince Maggie to leave behind the Three Chimneys, but we’d hashed out the details in between long bouts of… strenuous adult activity. With the Hexblight dead and the mission accomplished there was nothing to prevent me from burying my face in her cleavage. Which I did. For most of two days. The woman was a monster of a different kind and put even my supernatural Vigil stamina to the test. She was also sweet, smart, sexy, and funny in equal measures. Plus, she had a good heart, even if she tried to keep it hidden.

The generous salary and comprehensive benefits package—I promised a matching retirement savings account—also may have played a small role in her decision.

A polite knock on the heavy wooden doors brought me out of a hungover stupor. I swung my legs over the edge of the mattress and rubbed the sleep from my eyes. There was no sign of Maggie, which meant she’d probably slipped away to clean up or grab a bite to eat.

“Yeah, come on in,” I called.

The door creaked open and Arturo let himself in. I could see his disapproval as he surveyed the room, noting the discarded clothes strewn about and the ample amount of rope hanging from the oversized fourposter bed in the manor’s master suit. Gustav was a dick, but he had good stuff and better taste. His master bedroom was about a million times nicer than my quarters at the Three Chimneys. It wasn’t hard to guess why Maggie had picked this room as her own. Another perk of her benefits package.

“Don’t look at me like that,” I said, wrapping a blanket around my waist as I stood. “You weren’t always a priest.”

“Just because I’m a priest doesn’t mean I’m celibate,” he said. “I’ve warmed the bed of many a fine woman in my day, but by the gods I thought you two would never stop. And this?” He lifted up one end of the rope. He immediately thought better of it, let the rope fall, and wiped his hand on his cassock. “The noises you two were making… Unnatural. I thought perhaps the Hexblight had risen from the grave.”

“Nope, nothing like that,” I said with a grin. “Just good ol’ fashion fun between consenting adults. Now, what brings you out here, Padre?”

The smile on his face faltered and faded. The mood in the air palpably shifted.

“About that.” He frowned and reached into one of his voluminous sleeves, fishing out an expensive looking envelope stamped with a red seal. The mark pressed into the wax was the same mark branded against my forehead. “I’ve read it, of course,” he said, handing me the letter. “Thought about burning it but decided that wasn’t my place. Wouldn’t do any good anyway.”

“What is it?” I asked, accepting the letter. “Trouble?”

“Could be,” he replied. “It is a summons, issued by the High Exarch no less. The Citadel of Custodians has become aware of your presence, it seems. Your activities in Ironmoor have not gone unnoticed. They demand you ride to Wildespell—the seat of the Custodians.” He faltered, lips a thin slash in his beard. There was worry in his eyes. “You’re to turn yourself in for judgement. Leniency will be shown if you do so willingly. And if you don’t make it to the Citadel by first snowfall, they will dispatch a Fist to… to hunt you down.”

“Judgement? Hunt me down? Are you kidding me?” I asked. “For what? Doing their goddamned jobs for them?”

“It doesn’t say,” Arturo replied. “Such things are above the station of a lowly Arbitrator such as myself.”

“But if you had to guess?” I prodded.

“Impersonating one of the Vigilant is a grave crime, punishable by death. You and I both know you are what you say you are—but they’ve never heard of you. Which makes sense, considering that you are an Inkarnate. But reports of your endeavors here have already reached their ears and I assume they think you’re a fraud.”

“Great.” I sighed. “A bunch of bureaucratic bullshit. Should’ve figured it would be more of the same, even here.”

“You must go, honored Vigil,” he said solemnly. “And you must make haste. First snowfall is a mere three weeks off and the Custodians are nothing to be trifled with. The Vigilant may owe allegiance to no king, queen, or nation, but you bow knee to the High Exarch and the Custodians. If you do not heed their commands, they could excommunicate you. Or execute you.”

“They could try,” I muttered. There was always something else, I thought, folding up the envelope and sticking it into my bag. “Any chance you’ll reconsider coming with me?” I asked. “I could use someone like you in my corner.”

He offered me a sad smile then shook his head, beard waggling from the motion. “Would that I could, Vigil. But the church is even less lenient than the Custodians in many ways. My assigned place is here. Besides, these people, they need me, especially after everything they’ve suffered. And you don’t need me. Not anymore.” He clapped me on my shoulder. “You’re a good man, Boyd Knight, and an even better Vigil. You are one to make the world shake, I think. But know that if you ever need me, I am here for you. My chapel is always open to you and yours, and I will oversee your holdings here and make sure no evil comes to them.”

“You’re good people, Arturo.” I paused, knowing I might not ever get a chance to see him again. “There’s one other thing I need to say before I go…” I faltered. “It might not be my place, but what happened to you and your men? It wasn’t your fault. You did the best you could, Padre. We all make mistakes, and sometimes people get hurt as a result. A wise man named Captain Picard once said, ‘It is possible to commit no mistake and still lose. That is not a weakness. That is life.’ All you can do, buddy, is to live a life that honors their sacrifices. Thank you for everything.”

I paused and glanced back at the messy bed. I was going to miss this place—miss Art and Maggie—but I was also excited to see what else this world had to offer. So far, my second chance at life was shaping up to be even more ass-kickingly epic than my first.

* * *

THE END

Vigil’s Justice

Vigil Bound Book 1

The Adventure Continues…

… in Vigil’s Valor (Vigil Bound Book 2).

An impossible bounty. An eldritch horror out for blood. A murder that could kickstart a civil war…

After saving the people of Ironmoor, Boyd Knight thought he was finally getting a handle on this whole Vigil thing. Bounties were rolling up. Monsters were dying in droves. Plus, he convinced his chaotic pixie familiar, Renholm, to stop committing random acts of arson.

But defeating the fabled Hexblight of Ironmoor is child’s play compared to the tests Boyd will face in Wildespell, home to the Citadel of the Vigilant.

Something foul has infiltrated the city. Rampant fear is spreading like an infection and tensions are steadily mounting between the Vigils of the Citadel and the Royals who rule the Freehold province. Boyd’s been tasked by Raguel, the Five-Faced God of Justice, to put a stop to the killings before it ends in an all-out civil war, but there are powerful forces hellbent on seeing the downfall of the Vigilant. He’ll need to team up with a grizzled veteran and an unlikely crew of miscreants to find the answers before Wildespell goes up in flames.

Oh, and he’ll also need to figure out how to stop Renholm from stealing left shoes. Pixies are just the worst.

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About the Author

James A. Hunter is a full-time inkslinger and the bestselling author of Viridian Gate Online, Rogue Dungeon, Bibliomancer, Shadowcroft Academy, and Vigil Bound! In addition to writing, James is also the creative director and acquisitions editor for Shadow Alley Press, an industry leader in Fantasy, Science Fiction, and LitRPG books.

James is a former Marine Corps Sergeant, combat veteran, and pirate hunter (seriously). He’s also a member of The Royal Order of the Shellback—’cause that’s totally a real thing. And a spaceship captain, can’t forget that. Okay … the last one probably isn’t true. When not writing or spending time with family, James occasionally finds time to eat and sleep.