Peter woke with a pounding headache. His mouth was dry as the Sahara. His body protested as he pushed himself up to a seated position, dull aches everywhere causing him to wince slightly. He opened his eyes and looked nervously around. He was in a dimly lit prison cell. He noted the cell’s cleanliness and relatively comfortable twin bed with white sheets and pillows.

Peter Mayhew had, unsurprisingly, never been to jail. He’d seen prison cells on TV and in movies though, and this room he found himself in looked nothing like them. Apart from the singular wall not painted a sterile white, which was formed of bars, a door, and a small area where things could be passed in or out of the cell.

Frowning thoughtfully at an assortment of fruits sitting on the short, white bedside table to his right, Peter attempted to puzzle out how he’d ended up here. He followed his GPS to the address on Andy’s note to save Greg and Roma. He remembered arriving at some old church, Roma’s GPS tracker phone appeared to be within. Then he remembered seeing a man holding a… harpoon? That couldn’t be right. But his recollection was clear. A man wearing black and holding an honest-to-omacatl harpoon. And then, unconsciously reaching up to put his hand on the back of his head, he recalled being struck from behind.

If nothing else, that explained his throbbing headache. He must have been knocked out, but if he had been attacked Peter was sure Omacatl would have jumped to his defense. He frantically started checking his pockets.

Panic flooded him when Peter realized that Omacatl was not in the cell with him. Panic was replaced with worry as his mind began providing him with a myriad of horrible things that could have happened to his cat. What if she got freaked out and took off and was lost, scared and alone somewhere? Or… Peter’s expression darkened. What if they’d hurt her?

The god cat was not the only thing missing from his pockets. In fact, all of his belongings had been taken. He was stuck in a tiny room with literally nothing to do. If this captivity lasted more than a few hours, he would certainly lose his mind from sheer boredom.

Groaning to himself, Peter got to his feet and approached the bars to peer out. Seated with her back to the wall in a cell identical to his own was none other than Old Lady Romanov. Her eyes were open, but lidded. She was just staring into the tiles on the floor with a blank expression.

“Roma,” Peter whispered.

Old Lady Romanov looked up slowly.

“Hey, Peter.”

Peter was about to speak, but Roma held up a hand.

“I swear to the darkness if you ask me, ‘how are things?’, I will kill you.” Roma paused, head tilting back and forth slowly as though she was imagining doing just that. “And then play around with your blood,” she finished.

She sounded odd. Her speech was slow and slightly slurred. The blank look in her eyes and general lethargy made Peter wonder if she’d been drugged. He considered the matter for a moment, comparing her apparent condition to his own. His mind felt sharp, his body able - albeit in a fair amount of pain. Peter reasoned that he must have been spared whatever happened to the vampire.

“Where are we?” he asked, trying to see down the hall in either direction but coming up blank. “Where’s Greg? What happened to you guys?”

“Don’t know,” she said. “Haven’t seen anyone but the guys that brought you down here.”

Down here… Peter thought to himself. A basement, he guessed.

“Did they have my cat?”

Roma finally looked up, a confused, almost disgusted look on her face. “That’s what you’re worried about right now?”

“Among other things,” he replied seriously.

Approaching footsteps cut their conversation short. The person who came into view a moment later made Peter’s brow furrow in confusion. She was a young woman, no older than 20 or 21, and she was wearing a large, fuzzy, white wolf hat/scarf combo with adorable pointed ears sticking out from its top. She smiled pleasantly at him.

“Boss man wants to see you,” she said brightly. “And he says you’re not really a prisoner, but you should still be nice to me.” She held up one white, furry gloved hand and made a little growling noise that held no trace of menace whatsoever. “Or else.”

She unlocked the cell with a key card and the door creaked slowly open. Just like that, Peter was out of his cage. It was so sudden and casual that he couldn’t help wondering when the other shoe would drop.

“My name is Kourtnay, but around here I go by K-pop. What’s your name?”

***

Greg Van Helsing had been shot in the face by Renea’s new antirupter (the small, pink water gun she purchased to spray him with whenever he interrupted her) no less than four times since they met up back at the Mayhew residence. She had used a label maker to print out her weapon’s name and adorned each side of her tiny pistol with identical labels, “The Antirupter V1”.

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He was reminded of Peter, who frequently tossed out new ideas to name his magical ability, usually featuring the word ‘Peternatural’. These two humans, even by Greg’s standards, were an odd pair.

“Any chance I can convince you to sit this one out?” he asked Renea. He knew there wasn’t.

Renea just looked at him. Arms folded. Eyes narrowed. One brow raised.

“Yeah, I figured,” he said as he swung his travel bag onto the kitchen table. He flung it open and reached in. “But you’ll only slow me down if you’re not willing to unlock some Witch abilities. I know you’re not interested, but…” he let it hang. But if you want a chance of saving Peter, you don’t have a choice.

“I…” Renea paused, looking almost sheepish. “When we were in Mexico, I punched a tree to death. There was fire involved. The tree was obliterated. I’ve been low-key working on harnessing that power ever since. It’s still touch and go, but I think I can do it again if I need to.”

Greg stared at her uncomprehendingly for a few seconds. “You… punched a tree to death?”

Renea nodded. She described the sequence of sensations leading up to her act of helpless frustration. Greg listened with interest.

It was a rare thing for a Witch, especially one with less than 50% Witch blood, to unlock any ability without either guidance or a ritual. Between worry and rage, Mrs. Mayhew here, this corporate executive with no knowledge or interest in the supernatural, somehow managed to manifest what sounded to Greg like a rare Witch power often referred to as Hellfire.

“I can’t say for certain without seeing it in action,” Greg told her when she was done speaking, “but it sounds like Hellfire. Unlike most Witch powers, Hellfire is a purely destructive ability and it doesn’t require an incantation to cast. It’s powerful, but the major limitation is that it drains the user more than just about anything short of casting a portal spell.”

“I can attest to that,” Renea said, slumping into a chair. Flapjack put his head on her lap and let out a pitiful whine. The old boy had been visibly anxious since they returned without Peter. Renea put her hand on his head and began to slowly stroke behind his ear. “I passed out in a Mexican jungle for a few hours after the first time.”

Greg took a seat opposite Renea and began pulling things out of his bag. He had a few energy replenishment elixirs that should work for a Witch, and lined them up in a row in front of Renea.

“These will replace some of the energy you use to manifest your abilities.” He paused, looking at the thick yellow substance within the vials on the table thoughtfully. “You’ll probably need two of these to get back to fighting shape if you overexert. These are all I have, so use them sparingly.”

Renea nodded and plucked one from the table, holding it close to her face for inspection. “Looks like snot.”

“Tastes like snot,” Greg informed her.

He pulled a dusty book from his bag and glanced at the title. Dark Ritual Magic, by Leta Stoneherder. He put it back in the bag and pulled out another. This one titled Witchcraft for Dummies, by Earl Clout.

“Here it is,” he said, laying the book on the table between them. She looked at the title and was clearly unimpressed. “This book was written in the early 1700s. Not related to the other ‘for Dummies’ series.”

Renea picked up the book and opened it, still looking doubtful.

“That first page should have a list of known abilities and the rituals or requirements to unlock them. It’s old, a bit out of date, but it’s got the ones we need. Find the entries for telekinesis, weak shroud, and mirror image then read off the ritual materials. I should have just about everything we’ll need but I may have to go see my guy Hal at the docks.”

For the next several minutes Renea listed materials and Greg pulled items from his bag, setting them on the kitchen table in little groups. He did end up having everything they’d need on hand, which was a relief. Greg would rather chew his own arm off than haggle over rare reagents with Hal.

“What about Arcane Bolt?” Renea asked, now curiously perusing the list of abilities.

Greg conscientiously did not make a quip about Renea now wanting all the Witch powers.

“It’s a versatile ability. Won’t hold a candle to the destructive force of Hellfire, but it wouldn’t take such a toll on your reserves. Not a bad idea to unlock that one, too, if you can. What are the required materials?”

“Arcane dust, Rank 3, one measure. Monster Core, Rank 1. Basic Enchantment Runestone, any rank or attunement, but there’s a note stating that the quality and attunement of the Runestone will impact the chance of ritual success as well as the level of control over the spell if unlocked. And the last one…”

“I’ve got some Enchantment Runestones, but…” Greg cut off sharply as he was shocked by a blast of cold water in the eye. He glared at Renea, wiping his face with his sleeve. “I apologize for interrupting. Please continue.”

“And the last material requirement is an eye. That’s all it says, ‘an eye’. Now, what were you saying about Runestones?”

“I’ve only got Enchantment Runestones attuned to Witch Hunter abilities. We’ll want to see if we can’t get one attuned to Arcana, and higher Rank than the ones I’ve got.” Greg sighed heavily. “I’ll go see what Hal’s got in stock. Think you can prep the four rituals? The book’s got instructions.”

Renea looked at him as though he’d just asked her if she was capable of using the toilet without assistance.

“Alright, fair enough. Don’t activate them without me. These are not an exact science and a million things could go wrong.” Greg stood and slung his bag over one shoulder. “You should know that you’re unlikely to unlock all of them. There are some factors that are hard to quantify. Like natural affinity. We can hope at least one of these rituals works out, maybe two, but don’t expect them all to pan out. We’ll unlock whatever abilities you can handle, then we find out where they took your sweet Mr. Mayhew.”

“And then we set fire to everything they hold dear,” she said, eyes blazing. “Hellfire.”

Greg nodded, turned, and marched to the door. He opened it, then turned back to look at Renea and Flapjack. She hid it better than the dog did, but they were both in bad shape. A pair of nervous wrecks. Greg couldn’t blame them. Even he was feeling sick to his stomach worrying about that poor, eccentric, beautiful man. If he or Roma were hurt, or worse, even hell itself couldn’t afford the invoice of pain that Greg Van Helsing would issue these cultists.

“Renea,” Greg said over his shoulder, using her first name for emphasis. “I’m really sorry… for everything. We’ll get him back.”

Renea looked at him silently for a long moment. He could see the accusation in her eyes. The resentment. He could argue that none of this was his fault and probably make a somewhat reasonable defense, but he knew that it was all his fault. And he knew in that moment that if anything bad happened to Peter as a result of his association with Greg, Renea would always hold Greg accountable.

Which was fair. If it wasn’t for Greg, Peter would probably be sitting on the couch building an intricate, overly elaborate mousetrap that he would never actually use. Or something equally ridiculous. Greg’s guilt was nearly overwhelming.

Renea nodded her acknowledgment to his apology. Greg nodded back solemnly, and then closed the door behind him. He strapped his bag in place then mounted his bike. It roared to life and Greg took off heading toward the docks.

The sun was rising as he reached the interstate. Neither he nor Renea had slept, and he was sure they wouldn’t. Not until they found Peter. Which was another worry weighing on Greg. How were they going to find him?

The odds that these cultists were holding Peter and Roma at the same location of the ambush were low. Really low. It had been hours since they went missing and he could quite literally be anywhere on the planet by now. He had some ideas for tracking Peter down, but first he’d get Renea powered up as much as possible. He wanted to be ready for anything when they went back to that church to look for clues. Having a powerful, rage-fueled and very motivated Witch at his side would go a long way toward that end.