The night had been unpleasant, filled with nightmares. Not terrifying, just vile.

Swarming all around me were hordes of dead rats. They weren't as quick as the chimera that had tried to kill me on my birthday. I could crush them underfoot, gun them down… My bullets never seemed to run out. Neither did the tide of slow, slug-like, yet stubborn-as-a-ram zombie rats.

The only thing that linked these drunken fever-dream abominations to their real-world counterpart?

The stench.

I never knew a dream could reek like that.

The knock at the door was my salvation.

At first, I didn't even realise what it was. But then the pounding came again, this time accompanied by the doorbell. I pried my plague-ridden head off the pillow and stumbled into my study, which overlooked the yard.

Outside, the world was still grey. That meant something, I just couldn't quite grasp what. Instead of torturing my hungover brain, I threw open the window and breathed in the cold morning air.

A black Austin was parked on the road. At least two visitors stood beneath the porch awning.

"Gentlemen, are you aware of what time it is?" I croaked.

The last thing I wanted was a conversation. The only thing I did want was a bucket of water to drink. The men looked up, adjusting their hats against the drizzle.

I recognised Nicholas Boily immediately. He checked his watch and replied, "Half past five, Duncan. Get dressed, we're going."

When an order like that comes from the clan's chief of security, it's never good news. But resisting wasn't wise either.

Unless…

I studied him in the finer layers. His body was wrapped in the energy of protective amulets. Under his left arm, inside his right sleeve, and strapped to his right ankle — enchanted weapons. But his face? Nothing out of the ordinary.

He seemed real.

Still, I couldn't shake my doubts.

The second man was Donald McLal, an unremarkable warlock, but his aura in the finer layers shone with even more amulets and weaponry.

"Can I call my uncle?" I asked carefully. "Let him know you're taking me."

"It's his order," Boily replied.

"Then where's Bryan?"

"Elsewhere," Nicholas said sternly. "You've got two minutes. After that, we'll carry you out."

"Understood."

I threw on yesterday's clothes, which I'd lazily dumped onto the chair before bed. By my count, I had about a minute left. I dialled Uncle Gordon.

If this really was Bryce's order, he might not be home. And in certain situations, Aunt Ailie might not be either. But Gordon's house was always full of people. Someone would pick up.

"Duncan!" Nicholas shouted from outside, impatient.

"Tying my laces," I lied as the line connected.

"Bloody hell, why are you yelling?" Uncle Gordon grumbled.

"It's Duncan," I said quickly. "Nicholas Boily is here to take me somewhere. Says it's on Bryce's orders."

There was a brief pause. Then, Gordon repeated, clearly for the benefit of those around him:

"Boily's taking you somewhere. On Bryce's orders."

"That's right."

"I'll check."

He hung up.

I bolted downstairs, and nearly ran into a very groggy Simon.

"What's all the racket this early?" he muttered.

"Clan business. Go back to sleep."

"Mhm. Just need some water first," Simon yawned, shuffling towards the kitchen.

I had no time for water.

I paused just long enough to activate my rear-view spell, only to find my notebook pages blank. Cursing my carelessness, I promised myself I'd recharge them at the first opportunity and stepped outside.

I was fully equipped: a pistol in its holster, my spellbook tucked into my breast pocket, a satchel of potions slung over my shoulder, a pair of bulldogs resting in my coat pockets, and a dagger hidden in the inner lining. I wondered if they'd try to confiscate my weapons.

They didn't.

Nicholas merely glanced over me and motioned towards the car.

The Austin was cramped.

Wedged into the back seat, my knees pressed against the front bench the entire ride. I'd grown used to the space in my Cooper's coupe.

The clan might hold general meetings in the barn, but for daily affairs, official business, and formal receptions, it had a perfectly respectable four-storey Clanhall.

Nicholas led me inside without explanation. We bypassed the marble staircase leading to the second floor and headed down instead. Boily took the lead. McLal fell in behind me.

That creeping unease returned, but I kept it in check.

We descended two floors to a door I'd never been through before. A door that required a special key.

Nicholas had one.

Rumours said the clan kept its captured enemies down here. That they conducted experiments.

Well, the decor was suspiciously reminiscent of the Gratch den's basement. The same stone corridors. The same heavy, featureless doors. I couldn't help myself. I made a nervous joke.

"Which one's the torture chamber?"

Nicholas stopped, turned, and pointed to the door on his right.

I did not find that reassuring.

Thankfully, he opened the door opposite and, with a brief gesture, silently ordered me inside.

I didn't argue.

The room was a cell, furnished only with a crude wooden cot. Inside sat the man responsible for last night's pub brawl.

Robert.

He was backed into the corner, tense, ready to fight. And he looked awful. His nose was swollen, two massive black eyes had merged into one dark mess, and the left side of his face had taken the worst of it. His eye was swollen completely shut.

His lips were split, his neck and arms wrapped in bandages, some already soaked through with blood.

Why the hell hadn't they given him a healing potion? What the hell was going on here?

I turned to Boily.

He was watching me. Studying my reaction.

"And what did he do to deserve this?" I asked.

"You tell us," Nicholas shrugged.

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"I'm afraid I don't follow," I replied cautiously.

Did my uncle order this beating?

No, impossible.

Robert had already taken his punishment in the pub. By now, he should have been patched up with potions. Instead, he looked like he'd been denied treatment altogether.

Had they just thrown him in here to let him suffer?

Then why was he so on edge? Why bring him down here? The regular holding cells were on the upper floors.

"I don't understand much either," Boily admitted.

He stepped inside, took off his hat and coat, folded them neatly on the cot, and sat down.

"That's why you're here — to clear things up."

McLal, still standing in the doorway, shrugged off his coat and slung it over one shoulder. He tilted his hat back.

Something about this reeked of a setup.

"Care to give me a hint?" I asked.

I calculated my escape routes: Nicholas was seated, but McLal blocked the door. Even if I knocked him down and made it into the corridor, there was still the reinforced door at the stairwell.

And that key was in Boily's pocket.

Then Robert spoke.

His split lips smacked awkwardly as he spat, "You tried to stab me."

"I what?!" My shock was genuine.

"Someone used my face?" I turned to Nicholas.

Boily just tilted his head slightly.

"You sure it wasn't you?" he asked.

"Me? Stabbing?!" I scoffed. "Are you aware of my training? If I wanted someone dead, I'd take a clean shot from a distance."

"I'm also aware," Nicholas countered smoothly, "that in Farnell, you had multiple run-ins with bloodsuckers. At close range."

"Close combat was always a last resort," I said. "And even then, I relied on firearms and rods. I've got three pistols on me right now."

"Show me," Boily said, ever the meticulous one.

Annoyed, I pulled the bulldogs from my pockets. The cell was getting uncomfortably warm, and from the look on Nicholas's face, this interrogation wasn't going to be quick.

Sighing, I transferred my pistols and dagger into my jacket pockets, then tossed my coat and hat onto the cot. Only then did I show him the FN in my shoulder holster.

"And yet, you still carry a dagger," Boily noted.

"I carry a penknife. This one was a gift from my uncle last night."

"May I?" Nicholas held out a hand.

I passed him the dagger.

He inspected the gemstones in the hilt, gave a small snort, and asked, "Why are the stones empty?"

"Bryce drained them last night, didn't want me experimenting while drunk."

"Interesting piece. Shame you can't set it on a bind blade, Ferrish doesn't take well to any modifications but his own."

He returned the blade and turned to Feron.

"Do you remember how your Duncan was dressed?"

"Just like this," Robert said. His fists had lowered, but he still hadn't left the corner.

"This is yesterday's outfit," I pointed out. "Didn't have time to change. Can I ask a question? Where and when did this attack happen?"

"At my house," Robert muttered. "A couple of hours ago."

"And what, I just barged in? You still live with your parents? Are they okay?"

"They're fine. And you didn't barge in, you snuck in. Got into my room but knocked over a water jug…"

"Hold on!" I cut him off. "That's ridiculous! How could I be skilled enough to bypass your protective amulets, yet clumsy enough to knock over a jug?" I shook my head. "Whatever, go on."

"I woke up, saw you with a dagger. You yelled 'die' and lunged at me."

I stared at him.

"So I even announced my intentions? How very considerate of me." I scoffed. "And then, naturally, a fight broke out, where I, a trained wizard, failed to properly stab a drunk, half-asleep man and fled without leaving a trace?"

"You did leave something," Nicholas said. "A dagger. With fingerprints."

"Mine?"

"Not tested yet."

"Well, they should be mine, otherwise this is the most pathetic setup I've ever seen."

Vampires, at least, knew how to frame someone properly.

"Agreed," Boily nodded. "About the prints being yours. As for the pathetic execution — that's Robert's fault."

"What the hell?!" Robert protested, stepping forward for the first time.

"Think about it," Boily said. "If this had been an attack on a shifter, the mere sound of an intruder would have been enough to wake them. And they'd react instantly to seeing a blade. But you, drunken whelp that you are, needed someone to actually explain to you that you were about to get killed. You're lucky you even survived, you idiot."

Robert clenched his fists, scowling.

I exhaled. "Still… it's too sloppy."

Then a thought struck me.

"Unless… Unless that's the point."

Boily's gaze sharpened. "Go on."

"If the trail too easily leads us to someone, then it sure as hell isn't them."

Boily tilted his head, considering. "Interesting theory."

Then he smirked.

"But I prefer Donovan's take, this is werewolves trying to play at intrigue. Not exactly their strong suit. But let's not forget your part in all this, you helped capture one of theirs."

Robert, ever the optimist, scoffed. "So we're just ignoring the possibility that it was actually him?" He jabbed a finger at me.

I rolled my eyes. "If I was going to kill someone, I'd be sober, pumped so full of potions I wouldn't even need a dagger. Reckon your drunk self could beat you sober?"

"Oh yeah?" Robert sneered. "And who's to say you were sober?"

I pulled my notebook from my pocket, flipped to the page with the sobering spell I'd used at the pub, and handed it to Nicholas. At least there was one benefit to not having recharged them yet.

"I was sober."

Boily glanced at the notebook and wrinkled his nose in mild disdain.

"This is your spellbook?" He scoffed. "Hmph… I expected something a bit more…"

"I'm still learning!" I snapped, snatching it back.

Bloody cheek.

"Used sobering spell," Nicholas explained to Feron.

Robert groaned in frustration.

"Fine, fine! I'm a drunk idiot who's easy to fool. Happy now?" He pushed our coats aside and dropped onto the cot.

"Careful," Boily warned as his hat nearly slid to the floor.

"It's my cot, my cell!" Robert snapped. He was a mess. Physically and mentally. "So what now?"

"Now you die," Nicholas said flatly.

"Ha-ha. Hilarious."

"I'm serious. The blade was poisoned. You think your wounds haven't healed by chance? We gave you potions immediately."

Robert paled.

"For fuck's sake! I need to talk to my parents now! Explain what happened — they won't believe you! And I don't want them wasting time on some pointless grudge while the bastard behind this walks free! And you lot, promise me you'll do everything you —"

"Stop." Boily cut him off.

"Kid, I wasn't being literal." He sighed. "We identified the poison in time. You've already taken the antidote. You'll have to live with the bruises for a bit, that's all. Oh, and for the sake of the investigation… it'd be best if you stayed 'dead' for a while."

Robert's colour returned instantly.

"You know, Nicholas, you're older than me, a council member, a respected man… But you're also a massive prick."

McLal snorted approvingly from the doorway.

Boily shot him a glare and shook his fist at him before turning back to Feron.

"There's a proper room at the end of the corridor. You'll stay there for now. If you need anything, ask Donald. Duncan and I are off to announce your tragic demise."

Once in the corridor, something suddenly clicked in my mind.

"The werewolf, is he still here?"

"Want to see him?"

"Of course."

The man was locked in one of the cells. Thick enchanted chains bound him to a metal cot. In human form, he looked like someone who'd been starved for weeks. His once-solid frame had withered. His skin sagged slightly, stretched over a skeletal frame. But I could now make out the tattoos more clearly, much more than what he'd used at the station.

"Have you deciphered them?" I asked Nicholas.

"Not all of them."

"Make a copy and send it to Harry. I'll write him a note asking him to take a look."

Nicholas didn't look pleased.

"Are you sure that's wise?" He was clearly implying that my mentor was an outsider, and clan matters should stay within the clan.

"We don't have anyone on his level. And Harry wouldn't gossip. Trust me."

Boily exhaled. "Discuss it with your uncle."

I met Bryce a floor up. The room was better furnished, but still fairly austere. I had a feeling this was where they interrogated people they actually wanted to talk to, without dragging them down to the torture chamber.

At the very least, there was tea.

One cup each.

Bryce sighed as he handed mine over.

"Apologies for dragging you into this circus," he said.

"Don't worry," I said. "I think I understand your reasoning."

"Oh?" Bryce leaned forward. "Go on then, spell it out."

I cast a pointed look at Boily.

"You may," my uncle allowed.

"I think you did it for him." I nodded towards Nicholas. "So that he wouldn't doubt your impartiality. Considering where all this is heading…"

"And where is it heading?" my uncle asked, eyes glinting with amusement.

"By the end of today, the entire clan will know that Feron is dead. That, before his death, he accused a Kinkaid of attacking him. And you… you'll defend me, of course, but just enough to deepen suspicion. Just enough to create the illusion of losing control."

Bryce was enjoying this.

"And why would I want that?"

"To give the agitators an excuse to act." I folded my arms. "Like Nicholas said, Bryan is 'elsewhere.' Which got me thinking… where exactly is that invisible bastard sneaking around? Who's he watching? And how many others do you have doing the same?"

"Well, McLilly's one of a kind," Bryce admitted. "You know, he wasn't always like this, not before you humiliated him on that train. Ever since that disgrace, he's been bending over backwards to prove himself. And he's almost succeeding." He smirked. "As for the rest, you're right. And since you understand the game, you'll have to play your role to the end."

I nodded.

"What do you need from me?"

"Laugh when Robert's parents leave my office."

I froze.

"That's cruel," I said flatly. I did not like this plan.

"Agreed. Cruel, but effective. This way, I can guarantee a conflict."

I stared at him. "Aren't you afraid you'll take it too far? That you'll actually lose control instead of just pretending to?"

Bryce's smile faded.

"I am, Duncan. But I'm more afraid of another Feron crawling into bed with the bloodsuckers."

I shot a glance at Boily. Bryce caught it.

"As you said, I need people I can trust. People who understand how dangerous this situation really is."

"This isn't right," I argued. "What if your actions push the Ferons towards the vampires instead?"

Bryce sighed.

"You're a sharp lad, Duncan. But you're still too young to make the hard decisions."

For the first time, his enjoyment of the conversation had completely vanished.

"Maybe, Uncle," I admitted.

His expression hardened.

"We're not debating this anymore," he said firmly. The warmth of 'Uncle Bryce' was gone. Now, I was speaking to the Bryce Kinkaid, the Head of the Great Clan of Bremor. "You will do as I've ordered."

I exhaled slowly.

"I will."

For the next ten minutes, Boily had me practice laughing.

It was horrendous. Fake, forced, painfully unnatural. But we were out of time. With no choice but to make do, we headed upstairs to the clan leader's reception room.

A couple of minutes later, the doors opened.

Nicholas took position with his back to the entrance, standing just enough to the side so I wasn't hidden from view. Then, ever the actor, he pretended to tell a joke.

"… and the priest replies, 'I don't have arthritis, the bishop does!'"

I let out the most godawful fake laugh of my life. Not that the Ferons noticed. A few minutes ago, they'd been informed that their son was dead.

Robert's father was deathly pale. His mother wasn't as pale, but tears had already carved tracks down her cheeks. She barely seemed aware of her surroundings, held upright only by her husband's grip.

And he, he heard my laughter.

And he understood it exactly as he was meant to.

Hatred flared in his eyes, spilling into them like ink dropped into water. Bryce's plan had worked. And for the first time, I was certain —

We've made a poor choice.

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