The magic surge struck an hour later, sharp and sudden. I wouldn’t have noticed it myself – I had already recharged the amulets and was sitting in the kitchen, ruining my journal with formulas while sipping vile rosehip tea. It was Cap who caught my attention when he rushed in for another bucket of water. He simply couldn’t hold it steady and spilled it all over the floor.

“Don’t carry more than you can handle,” I advised, lifting my feet to avoid soaking my boots.

“It’s not the weight – It’s the shock. Look, it’s happening again.”

“What do you mean?” I paused, looking up from my scribbles.

“Don’t you see? Blue, brown, blue, red, blue, brown, black…”

Frowning, I applied the ointment for the third eye. Meanwhile, Cap dashed into the pantry to grab a rag and started mopping up the water.

Slowly, the room began to fill with waves of color emanating from the surging energy: grey earth, nearly black metal, bright blue ether.

“Grey, black, blue,” I said, keeping pace with the pulsing energy.

“Brown, black, blue,” Cap corrected me.

“They’re the elements,” I explained. “People see them differently – especially blood. To me, it’s dark green. Come over here.”

I recalled the way Harry had been scrutinizing the boy’s forehead yesterday. At first glance, there was nothing unusual about his slight frame – no visible marks of developed energy nodes – but in the rippling waves of ether, his third eye flared like a bright spark.

“Did Harry talk to you about your ability to see the elements?”

“He gave me his magic drawing, some colored pencils, and told me to copy it into my notebook. But it’s tricky – colors overlap, and I can’t make out everything.”

“Show me. I’ll help you clean up in the meantime.”

While Cap ran off to fetch the drawing, I quickly mopped up the floor and wrung the rag out into the bucket. The drawing turned out to be a variation of a complex protective circle, constructed with ether, sand, metal, and ice. At least, those were the colors I could distinguish, though Cap saw several additional shades of blue and green. The boy had talent – or possibly a trauma to his third eye.

I brought this up with Harry after he finished his ritual, we’d had lunch, and were seated in his study.

“It’s a trauma,” the wizard confirmed. “Usually caused by ghosts when they’re desperate to convey something. But that doesn’t mean it’s useless – some wizards actually awaken their eyes this way. It’s… let’s say, an undesirable method and can come with side effects.” Harry twirled a finger next to his temple. “Still, the boy could be trained as a wizard.”

“Will you take him on as an apprentice?”

“Haven’t decided yet. What he’s showing so far is promising, but I need to figure out how much the street life has corrupted him and his brother. They’re too close. I can’t take one and abandon the other to the gutter. And there’s also the chance the younger one might refuse.”

“Refuse to become a wizard’s apprentice?!” I was surprised. “He’s not an idiot.”

“The decision will rest with Knuckles, clearly. Even if he doesn’t say anything outright, the kid will follow his lead. The older one isn’t stupid and has more experience – he’ll understand that this particular wizard has no shortage of enemies.”

“He hasn’t fallen too far yet,” I said. “If you can beat the shitty fantasy out of his head. He romanticizes criminal life a lot.”

“Not an easy task.”

“By the way, what’s the deal with my third eye?”

“What do you mean?” Harry asked.

“Well, look – under the ointment, Cap sees better than I do, but Knuckles sees less. Does that mean my eye is more developed?”

“It’s swollen from the seal,” Harry explained. “That’s also a type of trauma, but an internal one.”

“Shame,” I said with a wry smile. “I was starting to think about becoming your apprentice myself.”

“A wizard from a family of warlocks? Your kin wouldn’t approve.”

“I am part of my family. If I grow stronger, so will the Kinkaids – and Bremor too.”

“The recipe’s the same,” Harry said dryly. “You’d need to burn a hole through the seal. Can you look inward your third eye?”

I shook my head. I knew it was a long shot. But what if? Just what if?!

“Alright then, what do you make of this?” I handed Harry my journal, which contained the finalized design and runic formulas for a new amulet.

For a while, the wizard frowned as he studied it, then picked up a pencil and opened a work notebook. He copied the formula and began slashing out entire chains of runes, cutting and replacing as he worked. Fifteen minutes later, he stopped ruining his paper and passed me the notebook with the revised version.

“It’ll still devour a ridiculous amount of energy,” he said, “but at least it won’t blow up from overloading.”

“Blow up?! I secured that.”

Harry turned my journal toward me and pointed at two chains of runes. I felt my cheeks burn red.

“So, was it actually possible?”

“If you don’t bother disguising the runes or worrying about how it looks, sure. But the thing would end up massive.”

“I’ll keep it in a satchel. Do I have the right stones for this?”

“There are a few that might work.”

“And how much is this going to cost me?”

“About a hundred.”

“That’s cheap.”

“That’s just the cost of the stones,” Harry waved me off. “The rest is free for you.”

“Harry, I don’t want…”

“But I do,” he interrupted. “Consider it a gift. For the bacon.”

“Have it your way,” I relented.

The completed amulet looked like a metallic brick encrusted with a scattering of amethysts and a couple of opals. Its core was a cluster of pyrite crystals, though to the untrained eye it would’ve been hard to tell where the stone ended and the metal frame began. The metal practically encased the stone entirely and was etched with precise chains of runic formulas. The entire thing not only resembled a brick but weighed just as much – If not more.

Of course, something sleeker and more elegant could’ve been crafted with time, but this wasn’t about beauty. It was about brute force.

Thanks to August, I’d already narrowly avoided getting crushed once. If that bastard decided to try again, I’d need something that would work for certain. That’s what the brick was for. Unfortunately, as Harry had pointed out, it consumed a staggering amount of energy because it operated constantly.

Before the meeting, I stopped by the nearest telephone booth and called the police station. I got through to Sunset and let him know I was meeting with Fairburn.

This time, I made a note of the name of the place: “Mo’s.” Who this Mo had been, history doesn’t say, but his blood sausages were incredible – spiced with just the right amount of pepper and garlic. Delicious. The staff was polite too, even though I’d opted for my old jacket over a new suit. The one thing I’d kept was my hat – It had grown on me.

As expected, August wasn’t at the establishment yet. I scanned the patrons, trying to guess which one of them was his watcher. The couple by the window? Unlikely. That left either the portly man by the wall or the guy with the sideburns sitting in the middle.

Suppressing the instincts screaming at me to sit with my back to the wall, I chose a seat with my back to the sideburns instead. Let them see I wasn’t afraid.

If August had intended to keep me waiting, I didn’t give him the satisfaction. I arrived five minutes before four, placed my order, and dug into the food as soon as it arrived.

I’d bet ten to one, if I hadn’t ordered right away or shown even a hint of patience, Fairburn wouldn’t have shown up so quickly.

The dandy strolled into the establishment, wrinkling his well-groomed face in a grimace of disdain. He approached my table, using his cane to push the chair out as though trying not to soil his expensive suit. I smirked and kept dismantling my blood sausages.

A waiter approached to take his order, but Fairburn dramatically declined. I smirked again, just to spite the bastard, and ordered a second helping for myself. I had no intention of speaking first.

“Lord Loxlin, do you actually enjoy this coarse fare?” August began, circling the point like a hawk.

“My late grandfather, the Earl of Bremor, adored black pudding,” I replied, my tone indifferent. “Must be a family thing.”

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I could’ve elaborated, maybe shared how Logan loved gnawing on soup bones and scooping out the marrow, or how Evan preferred haggis. But every extra word would’ve been a foothold for August to latch onto and steer the conversation, and I wasn’t about to help him.

“Lord Loxlin, I…” August grimaced, visibly forcing himself to adopt a mask of indifference once more. “I wanted to apologize for my behavior yesterday.”

“You tried to kill me,” I responded, just as flatly, not bothering to lower my voice. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed the portly man tense up, and the couple by the window shift uncomfortably.

“It wasn’t me – it was Connor Lindemann!”

“And yet, by some strange coincidence, he made his attempt right after speaking with you.”

“What did you expect after you killed his brother?!” August snapped, irritation breaking through his mask.

“My good sir, are you accusing me of murder?”

“No, I…”

“And what exactly ties you to these unhinged bloodsuckers?”

“I’m merely concerned about your future. Vampires don’t forgive…”

“Lucas has no quarrel with me,” I interrupted. “He considers the deaths of his sons a necessary purging of bad sheep. But your concern is something I do remember. Particularly that bomb laced with death magic you tried to pass to Sir Harry through me.”

August’s face flushed with red blotches of anger.

“I don’t know what you take me for, Sir August, but let me give you some advice: don’t take me for a fool. You tried playing politics and intrigue – and failed. Now forget about me and Smith, and I’ll forget about you. In this city, I have other priorities. Good day to you, Sir August.”

“You…”

I raised my voice.

“Good day! … Sir August.”

Fairburn jumped to his feet so suddenly that his chair toppled over.

“You’re a fool, a green whelp!” he barked. “You can’t trust vampires! I could’ve protected you! Don’t be surprised if, within a week, I’m reading about you getting your blood drained in some filthy alley!”

With that, August stormed toward the exit.

“If that happens,” I called after him, “the first questions my family will ask will be about the Fairburns. I suggest you reread the newspapers from eight years ago.”

That didn’t stop him. He shoved the door open with his cane so forcefully the glass rattled, miraculously not breaking, and stormed out into the street.

I, on the other hand, calmly finished my sausages, sipped a fine cup of tea with milk, left triple the usual tip for the inconvenience, and leisurely stepped outside.

For a moment, I considered stopping by Sunset’s office, but decided against it and headed for the nearest taxi stand instead.

Ten steps down the street, I heard a familiar voice behind me.

“Don’t move, Duncan.”

Something hard pressed against my back, just below my left kidney. Then, as if to leave no doubt, the distinct click of a hammer being cocked followed.

Damn. I’d been expecting a ranged attack. That’s what the “brick” was for.

“Hello, Simon,” I said, trying to turn around.

“Still an idiot, I see,” Simon said, jamming the point of a curved dagger under my chin. “I said don’t move!”

Simon shoved me against the wall of the nearest building, where the shadows were thickest. A stout woman waddled by with a chubby boy in tow, but she didn’t so much as glance in our direction. Simon used the same shadow trick he had in the chapel.

Damn it. I’d had to leave the invisibility amulet behind because the "brick" sent it haywire. Who knows how things might’ve played out otherwise. Even now, nothing was decided yet – I reached out with my will to the cufflinks, ready to forcibly activate the Stone Skin spell.

“Didn’t expect to run into me, Kinkaid?”

“Why not, Feron? You’re exactly the person I came to Farnell to find,” I replied, matching his tone.

“You’re saying you deliberately provoked Fairburn so he’d put a hit on you?” Simon’s voice shifted from smug to wary. I could feel him glancing around as he spoke, the tension radiating through his blade. “Ridiculous.”

“I’ll admit, that wasn’t part of the plan,” I said calmly. “I know you’re connected to one of the nests in the city.” The knife at my chin quivered, leaving a shallow, bleeding scratch. The blood magic in my cufflinks surged to heal it, but I cut the flow off just in time. “While I was trying to figure out which nest, I accidentally crossed paths with August. By the way, what’s your connection to the singer? What’s her name again… Gratch, isn’t it?” The blade twitched again.

“You ask such fascinating questions,” Simon said, his voice dripping with mockery. “You’ve clearly been busy.”

“I do my best within my modest abilities. But speaking of time – shouldn’t you have slit my throat by now?”

“In a hurry to see your grandfather, Kinkaid? No need. Anyone else, I’d have already finished, but you… Where’s the journal, Duncan?”

So that’s why he hadn’t just killed me outright – he wanted to clean up loose ends.

“Oh, I’ll tell you,” I said, my voice heavy with sarcasm.

“You will,” Simon hissed confidently. The blade withdrew from my chin, and two fingers pressed against my temple.

The pain hit instantly, like a thousand needles driving into my skull, twisting deeper with every moment. My vision darkened, and the will I had been holding to prime the amulets faltered. The healing magic from the cufflinks surged uncontrollably, draining the energy reserves in the stones in one violent rush. The scratch on my chin sealed instantly, but with no other injuries to heal, the excess magic poured into my body, converting into raw physical strength.

Reflexively, I shoved Simon away, slamming him into the wall behind us. His knife left a gash on my cheek, and his gun discharged, the shot cracking loudly as it shattered a cobblestone. The illusion of shadows broke, and startled passersby stared as we seemingly appeared out of nowhere.

The magic coursing through my body closed the wound on my cheek instantly, restoring my vision just in time for me to raise a shield before Simon could take proper aim.

The next shot struck the shield at nearly a perfect angle, ricocheting off with a sharp crack and punching a hole through a nearby window. A gaunt man standing nearby was the first to realize what was happening – he bolted, dropping a sack of fresh potatoes onto the street.

I angled the shield downward, causing the next bullet to ricochet upward harmlessly. Simon used the moment to push off the wall and leap onto the shield itself, taking two quick steps on its translucent surface. The energy strained under the weight, nearly overloading ring’s reservoir. As soon as the barrel of his revolver peeked over the edge of the shield projection, he fired.

The ‘brick’ saved my life.

The bullet flattened against the invisible barrier, stopping less than an inch from my face. Simon kicked off the edge of the shield, landing behind me in a fluid motion. His revolver gleamed with glowing white death runes.

I barely managed to swing my shield around and activate the Stone Skin spell.

In the silence of our fight, the next gunshot roared like artillery fire. The white flash shattered the ring projected shield into fragments, slammed into the invisible barrier of the ‘brick,’ and stripped away the physical integrity of the bullet, leaving behind only raw magic. That raw energy surged forward, reducing my jacket, the shirt beneath it, and the protective stone armor on my skin to charred fragments of ash.

I staggered under the sheer force of the blast but managed to hold my footing. The Stone Skin spell had absorbed the brunt of the attack, but I could feel my reserves dwindling. The heat of the magical backlash stung my skin, and I smelled the acrid tang of burned fabric mixed with the metallic scent of gunpowder.

Simon’s face was a mask of concentration and fury. He advanced, flipping his dagger in one hand while keeping the revolver trained on me with the other.

“You’re tougher than I expected,” he sneered, “but you’re running out of tricks, Kinkaid. And now, you’re out of magic too.”

I didn’t respond. Talking would waste time, and time was something I desperately needed. My mind raced as I assessed the situation. The shield projection was down, my amulets were drained, and the "brick" was teetering on the edge of collapse.

Simon’s next move was obvious: press the advantage. He lunged, slashing with his dagger while firing the revolver point-blank.

But if there’s one thing I’ve learned from family tradition, it’s that a Kinkaid doesn’t need magic to fight back.

The remnants of "blood" magic still circulating through my body surged toward the blooming pain in my ribs. With one hand, I drew my pistol, activated an air amplification formula to enhance sound, and pulled the trigger.

Compared to this, Simon’s last shot was a whisper.

The explosion of sound was deafening, like a cannon firing right next to our ears. The windows behind Simon shattered into shards of glass, spraying out like glittering rain. Though the bullet itself went who-knows-where, the force of the sound staggered us both.

I fell to my left side, while Simon, his dazed expression betraying his shock, collapsed onto his backside. My ears rang like a cathedral bell tolling directly inside my skull.

Both of us scrambled to our feet, pistols raised in a race to fire again. We shot simultaneously, but whether it was a miss or the intervention of protective amulets, neither bullet found its mark. Undeterred, we fired again.

My shot rang out, but Simon’s revolver clicked dry – the hammer striking an empty cartridge.

Simon reacted quickly, rolling to the side and throwing a small sphere in my direction.

Instinctively, I tried to raise a shield, forgetting ring’s reservoir were completely drained.

The sphere hit the pavement half a meter away and erupted in a cloud of yellow dust. The dust came alive. It surged toward my face, wrapping around my head like a living thing. It forced its way into my nose, mouth, eyes, and ears, burning every mucous membrane it touched with a fiery sting worse than red pepper.

I choked. My lungs spasmed violently, squeezing every bit of air out of them. In my desperation to breathe, I opened my mouth wider, only to inhale even more of the accursed dust.

Panic clawed at the edges of my mind as I fumbled blindly for a solution. Through the haze of agony, one thought pierced through: the antidote.

My hand dove into my bag, frantically searching for the vial. Somehow, through sheer muscle memory, I found it. Clutching the small glass tube, I yanked the stopper out with my teeth, spit it aside, and poured the liquid down my throat.

But the relief I expected didn’t come.

The burning in my chest remained, and the invisible vice gripping my lungs didn’t loosen.

Of course. Simon knew the clan’s antidote recipe. He’d anticipated this. If he’d planned everything right, I was already a dead man.

I forced the thought away. No. Not yet.

My mind reeled as I grasped for alternatives. I’d left a trail clear enough for the Kinkaids to follow. Even if I fell, the police wouldn’t let this drop. Bryce wouldn’t let it drop – not after making me a baron.

But my thoughts were unraveling, my focus slipping. My hand moved on instinct, groping inside the satchel for the most valuable elixir I had – the dual-chambered vial I’d shown Sunset.

My fingers brushed against something. I pulled the vial free, but my grip faltered.

The vial slipped from my trembling fingers and clattered onto the asphalt.

No!

Completely blinded now, barely clinging to consciousness, I forced my trembling hand to search the ground. My fingers scraped across the rough pavement, scouring the area around me.

Where is it? Where’s the damn elixir?!

The trembling in my hands spread through my entire body. My muscles spasmed uncontrollably, slamming me against the ground with sharp, jerking movements. The convulsions added a new layer of agony to the burning in my chest. But I refused to stop searching. My curled fingers dragged across the ground until, at last, they found the smooth surface of the vial.

Gripping it was nearly impossible. My fingers closed around it awkwardly, and I somehow managed to bring it to my mouth. But my jaw had locked tight in the spasms, leaving me unable to open my mouth properly.

Desperation gnawed at me. I used my twisted left hand to pull down my lower lip, hoping to create enough of an opening.

I tried to rip the stopper off with my teeth, but my clenched jaw refused to cooperate. The stopper barely budged.

Next, I attempted to pull it free with my hands, but my left hand was now locked into a claw-like position, useless.

And then, just as hope was slipping through my grasp, someone yanked the vial from my fingers.

No!

I tried to fight back, but I was too weak. A weight bore down on me, pinning me to the ground.

Rough hands pried my jaw open, forcing something into my mouth. I felt liquid pour down my throat.

Please, let it be the elixir.