Lord Loxlin Series [1930s Fantasy]

I didn't go home. Headed straight to Sally's instead, to check on Ellie.

I found the girls in the back garden, wrapped in warm blankets in wicker chairs, having tea. Chris was fussing over them. Ellie looked a bit pale, but very much alive.

They sat me down, handed me a steaming cup, and even managed to find a drop of milk, just the way I liked it.

Conversation didn't really flow.

Finella was clearly brooding over how useless she'd felt during the last fight. Ellie... I wasn't sure what was on her mind, but I worried about her more than I did about Spark. She was a strong girl, but sensitive, too. After her first vampire kill, it took her a while to recover. I had no idea how this injury might affect her.

Ellie didn't bring it up, and I decided not to poke at the wound either. We'd see how she coped. Maybe she'd wise up, stop jumping into every brawl that wasn't her business. Though, if I'm honest, if she hadn't jumped in, I'd be dead.

A simple thank you doesn't quite cut it. But it still had to be said.

"I owe you my life," I said.

Ellie gave me a wan smile.

"You're exaggerating. We were all in that fight. You were the one who landed the blow that let Simon finish him off."

"Still, it was that drunken layabout who finished him!" Finella snapped, sounding deeply offended by the fact. "Useless... ugh!"

Spark growled, properly growled, like Logan halfway into his beast form, but then caught herself and silenced it with a gulp of tea.

I couldn't resist teasing her.

"Yes, you were fairly useless this time..."

Finella choked on her tea, coughed violently, and went bright red. As always, when she got emotional, a glowing fireball appeared in her hand.

"I'll... I'll bloody roast you!"

"You won't. Or I'll have to send you home to your brother."

Finella puffed out her cheeks, growled again, and crushed the fireball in her palm, making everyone else hastily hide their smirks behind their cups.

"Oh, get over it," Ellie said. "We all have off days."

"Not that off!"

"Yes, that off," Sally and Chris chimed in together. "Trust us. We're not telling you our most embarrassing moments for a reason."

I left Sally's place in relatively high spirits. Things seemed to be settling down again. Maybe Logan would even manage his wedding this weekend, as planned.

I should drop in on my little brother, but not yet. First things first: home, bath, breakfast. The tea had barely taken the edge off. I'd kill for a proper fry-up: eggs, bacon, ham, the works.

Simon wasn't home, but given what Betty said about his boasting, he'd probably spent the night in someone else's bed. I didn't organise a search party. Not until I'd satisfied my stomach, cleaned my pistol, and recharged the spells in my notebook. Then I stopped by Logan's. Cousin and uncle weren't in, but I was ambushed by Aunt Mary and mercilessly fed again.

Still, got some news. My dodgy contacts had left word. I'd have to make use of that somehow.

Though I doubted they'd be much help when it came to werewolves or vampires, and frankly, I didn't want to think about that right now. I really didn't.

Right now, I just wanted a proper rest. Honestly, I wouldn't even say no to a couple of pints and a bit of barbecue, as long as Finella didn't drag us into another noisy crowd.

Maybe I'd take the rods and head up to Thunderloch on my own…

No. I wasn't that antisocial. Not quite. I should at least track down Simon. He did have some unfinished business with Uncle, after all.

I didn't go to Bryce's. He and Aunt Mary would be at work anyway.

First stop was the alchemy lab. I picked up a vial of elemental unity potion and got word about the vampire's bones, apparently, he'd been a master, around four hundred years old. Killed by a single dagger strike to the head. The blade pierced the skull and went straight into the brain, all the way to the hilt.

I tried Clanhall, but couldn't get in to see Uncle. The rank and file were resting after the hunt; the brass were still working, running their people ragged. I asked around about Simon, then slipped away before anyone could come up with a job for me.

Where the hell would that drunk have gone? The pub?

They'd seen Simon there last night, along with Robert Feron and his lot. No one got into a fight this time, it ended peacefully. Still, I wasn't about to go knocking on Robert's parents' door. Instead, I tried Hamish Boily's father.

Turns out the little baronet had packed up and headed for Bald Hill this morning, with friends. Slippery bastard. Managed to rope someone in after all.

Now I had to decide: chase after them or enjoy a brief, blessed break from that thorn in my side?

There were no elementals at the place of power right now, the wolves should be stalking deer by the Living Thicket, and the lads with him weren't novices, even if they weren't Gifted.

I wanted to rest. But I remembered the mobile bar Simon tended to bring with him every time. He wouldn't drink himself, he'd be focused on training, but the others… they might be tempted.

Damn it, Simon.

I took Uncle's pickup, swung by home for my rucksack, rifle, sawn-off, and headed into the forest.

An hour of bumpy roads did my head no favours. The headache was back in force, the nausea too. So by the time I got to the on-foot section of the trip, I was almost glad. The cold, damp forest air was refreshing. A few new scents had joined the mix since my last visit five days ago. The grasses were taller, more flowers had bloomed, but the trees still hadn't properly budded.

I didn't get long to enjoy the spring. The air soon turned, carrying the smell of old soot and fresh smoke. I was near the place of power.

Another ten minutes of walking brought me to the first scorched trunks. My ears picked up sharp, rhythmic crackles of electricity — Simon was training.

"Oi!" I called. "Friendly! Don't shoot."

The raid was only yesterday; the lads might overreact if I popped up out of nowhere. I even used a rearview spell, just in case.

"Who's there?" came Robert's voice.

"Duncan."

"Show yourself."

I stepped slowly out from the trees. Feron met me with the black barrel of a pump-action shotgun, aimed square at my face. His friends had their rods levelled at me too.

"You might want to lower that," I suggested.

"I've got a complicated history with Duncan Kinkaids. One even tried to kill me."

"Oi! That was a fraud!"

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"And how do I know you're not him?"

Damn. I hadn't thought of that. Robert had already been burned once by someone pretending to be me, no wonder he was jumpy.

I glanced up at the hill. Simon wasn't paying us any mind. He was wrapped in a net of lightning, stepped sharply forward, and with a loud crack, broke free of it. Looked like he was practising Uncle's lightning-walk technique. No success yet.

"Simon, for God's sake!" I barked. "You're nothing but bloody trouble!"

The baronet finally turned to look at us.

"Bold words from the man who has to stick his nose into every bloody thing. You do realise not everything needs your interference?"

"Plenty of things," I replied.

"Such as?"

"Such as your training."

"Nope. I'm Logan's guest. He invited me, I'm his responsibility."

"Invited?" I snapped, saying more than I meant to. "As if he had a choice!"

"Lower your weapons, lads," Simon said. "He's the real Duncan."

"You sure?" Robert still didn't want me to be real. That way, he'd have an excuse to pull the trigger and get a bit of payback.

"I'm sure," Simon replied. "We really didn't give Logan much of a choice in the matter."

"And what did you bribe him with?"

"If I tell you," said Simon, "he'll send me home, and I'm not done training yet."

He wrapped himself in lightning again and took a sharp, short step forward. Not quite what he was aiming for.

"Fine," Robert muttered sourly, lowering the barrel. "Sorry. Come join us."

"Join what?"

"We've lit some coals, gonna grill sausages while Simon trains."

"Now that," I grinned, "sounds like a productive day after all."

There was plenty of wood about. Some of the trunks were practically charcoal already, but with all the spring damp, they needed drying with amulets. Otherwise, they smoked too much and didn't burn hot enough.

The lads had done it right, cleared a patch of dry leaves (not that there were many), dug a shallow pit in the loose earth, piled up a mountain of dried charcoal, lit it, and set a grill across a tripod above the flames.

The sausages started to sizzle, dripping fat and giving off an utterly divine smell.

Feron rummaged in his pack and pulled out a few bottles of beer. He offered me one. A dream come true. I took a greedy gulp. Brilliant stuff — full-bodied aroma, just a hint of bitterness, barely noticeable.

My second sip was much smaller. I had no idea how much they'd brought, but I'd be behind the wheel later. Best not to give the trees an excuse to throw themselves under the truck.

Feron asked me about Farnell, I answered. Bailey wanted to know how I'd met Simon. I answered that too, and asked in turn about what had happened in the clan after Grandfather died. Logan had told me a lot, but that was just one perspective.

By the end of the first bottle, we'd moved on to the raid, who might be out to hurt the clan.

Feron and I drank at the same pace. He was driving today, probably not by accident. Maybe to avoid the kind of drunken antics they usually got up to.

The sausages were ready. Simon took a break, and the lads broke out heavier drink from his basket. Robert abstained completely. I gave in and took one more beer. My last, for sure this time.

The sausages were divine. Between the booze and the warm food, I let myself relax more than I should have, and almost missed the newcomer's approach.

If not for an active spell, I would have missed him. He moved far too quietly, no crunching twigs, no rustling leaves, yet made no attempt to hide.

Young man, twentyish at most. Rifle in hand, sawn-off in a holster, rucksack on his back. Dressed like a local, but something was off. His face wouldn't stay in focus: blurry, indistinct.

I slipped a hand under my jacket and drew my pistol. Gave a quiet order:

"Ready!"

"Hey," came a voice behind me. "Guys?"

You should've seen Robert's eyes, each the size of a sovereign.

Feron grabbed the shotgun and fired without hesitation. Quartz shot, meant for elementals, ricocheted off the man in a fountain of golden sparks.

An arc of flame from Boily's rod hit next, he swung it quickly toward the stranger. The target ducked aside, right into Bailey's thin grey beam. Simon hurled a lightning bolt, but it fizzled out halfway to the target.

I managed a single shot, hit him. His shield flashed gold; his shirt exploded in a burst of sparks, torn flesh, and shards of an overloaded amulet.

He bolted.

We gave chase. Not that we had much hope of catching him, even with everyone chugging haste potions.

Except Simon.

He wrapped himself in lightning again, crackled three steps forward, then jumped a full ten metres, barely missing a tree, and hurled another bolt.

It hit, threw the runner off stride. The rifle slipped from his hands, tangled in his legs. He stumbled sideways and slammed headfirst into a thick trunk. The tree groaned in protest.

But the bastard still tried to stand up.

Simon hit him with another bolt, bending his body into an unnatural arch. But the man still managed to draw his sawn-off, and fire both barrels straight into the baronet.

Simon let out a choked grunt, clutched his stomach, and dropped on his arse.

But by then we'd reached them.

Feron's shotgun barked twice, ripping more holes in the bastard's chest and tearing off his lower lip.

The man bared his teeth in reply, upper lip curled, long and dainty fangs flashing beneath red-rimmed eyes.

No doubt about it now.

Vampire.

I remembered the master's corpse under the lone tree and shifted my aim from the chest to the head. Didn't look like him, too slow, but better safe than sorry.

I pulled the trigger, and missed. The vampire wasn't about to wait around to have his skull blown open. A beam of fire and some kind of earth spell from the rods missed him too. The bastard rolled to the side, sprang to his feet, and responded by hurling a strange-looking amulet right at our feet.

The forest grew noticeably darker.

I threw up a shield on instinct, and immediately noticed something was wrong.

The vampire rolled away; the lads crouched lower to the ground.

"Guys?" Boily called out, tension in his voice as he pulled a potion from his bag. Judging by the colour — night vision.

"Here, Hamish," Bailey replied, doing the same.

"What the bloody hell?" Feron swore. He hadn't taken a potion, just started slowly backing away.

They couldn't see a thing.

But for me, nothing had changed. To my surprise, I found myself staring straight into the vampire's bloodshot eyes. The others couldn't see a damn thing, even with the potions. And the bloodsucker didn't seem concerned about their vials either. Which meant this wasn't aimed at them. It was aimed at me.

I looked away, deliberately let my gaze drift, unfocused, like I'd lost visual lock.

Then I switched to my Third Eye and examined the amulet lying three metres from me.

Mist and Blood.

Two elements flared like twin stars in the amulet's shell. The magic was rippling outward in waves. With that kind of intensity, it wouldn't last long, which meant the bloodsucker would have to act fast.

But he was still watching me.

I hadn't crouched. I hadn't dropped my shield. I was still a threat.

Fine. Let me turn my back to you — see if that helps your instincts take over.

The rear-view spell was still active. I saw Simon getting up onto his knees, one hand pressed to his stomach. No blood under his hands, he must've had a protection spell running. Good. That meant I could afford to take this one alive.

I began turning, crouching as I did, making myself smaller, trying to look like a soft target.

I didn't drop the shield, just kept it floating in front of me. Let him think I'd forgotten it.

The vampire took the bait, stepped forward, silent as death.

I spun faster, timing it just right so I'd be facing him again when he got within arm's reach.

He pulled an interesting-looking knuckle-duster from his pocket: lightning and earth magic, from the feel of it, and slid it onto his fingers. But my movement threw him off. He stepped sideways to try and get around the shield.

I dismissed it, and shot him in the knee.

The kneecap shattered into fragments. The leg twisted the wrong way, and the creature lost balance. He swung the knuckle-duster wildly and screamed high-pitched and shrill.

The others turned toward the sound in perfect unison, shotgun and rods raised.

Feron's shotgun roared. I barely managed to get the shield back up in time to stop the quartz shot from hitting me full in the face. Luckily, years of city fighting had taught me to angle my shields, the ricochet went up.

The fire beam from Boily's rod slammed into the vampire's shoulder and bored through to the bone in seconds. Bailey's earth beam struck the eye, and it exploded in a spray of gore.

The scream of pain was cut off.

The body collapsed.

"No!" I shouted, catching the second blast of shot on my shield. "Stop! Cease fire!"

Feron was the first to calm down, only because his gun was empty. He immediately started reloading.

The rods were still firing high, so I rolled toward the amulet, grabbed it, and deactivated it.

The barrel of Feron's shotgun twitched in my direction. I raised the shield again and swore loudly.

"Brilliant work, the lot of you! I said, don't shoot!"

"Duncan?" Feron asked, still not lowering the barrel.

"Not again. Robert, for God's sake!" I snapped. "I don't look anything like a bloodsucker!"

"You do," Simon chimed in. "The bloodsucker looked just like you."

"Seriously?" I muttered, frowning, and instinctively touched the barrel of my pistol to my forehead, right where the complex silver pattern lay under the skin.

Not just an illusion. It had compulsion woven into it.

That's why it didn't work on me. Thank you, Harry.

"When did Uncle show you that trick?" I asked Simon.

"What? Oh, right, he's real." He waved at Robert and the others to lower their weapons, stopped clutching his stomach, and walked over. "He showed me a couple of times this morning. Even gave me a ring."

Simon held up a ring of stone skin — its reservoir clearly drained.

"Lucky bastard," I said, realising that it was the ring that had saved him from that double-barrelled blast.

"Hey, I'm a man of means. I can afford more than one of these trinkets. So, this was a bloodsucker?"

Our conversation seemed to settle the others. They finally lowered their weapons, though none of them dared approach. Only Simon came forward, fearless, of course, and gave the one-eyed head a casual kick with the toe of his boot.

There was no doubt the bloodsucker had well and truly run out of road. The hole where his eye had been was far too deep.

"What was he doing here?" Simon asked.

"Well, ask him now, why don't you?" I snapped. "I was trying to take him alive!"

"Alright, sorry!" Feron muttered. "We didn't know."

"You didn't hit him, by the way," I added. "All your shots went straight into my shield. Nearly sent me to the bloody grave!"

Feron deflated a little and muttered another apology, less attitude this time.

Simon crouched beside the corpse, pulled out a knife, lifted the upper lip and extracted a fang, examining its thickness.

"Not a master. But not fledgling, either."

"If he had been a master, we wouldn't have taken him down that easy," I said.

Simon voiced another concern: "Still feel sick from that shot. I'm not carrying the body."

Oh, bollocks...

Of course, now we have to drag the damn thing all the way back to the trucks.