Matabar

The old man held out his hand, and cards rained down from the ceiling. They fluttered on ethereal wings, like graceful swallows, and settled into a neat stack upon his hand. Anvar blew on them and, with swift, precise motions reminiscent of a cat swiping at a moth, scattered the cards.

He dealt two to himself and two to Ardi.

Milar didn't so much as twitch — even if he'd wanted to, he couldn't. Inasha was holding him tightly against the chair and had clamped a hand over his mouth. Whenever he made even the slightest effort to free himself from her grasp, the vampire would raise her hand just a fraction above his lips, pinching his nose for good measure.

Ardi lifted the corners of both cards he'd received for just the tiniest peek, as the cowboys had once taught him. There was no need to pick them up fully since one glance at their very edge would suffice.

"Why such caution, young Egobar?" Anvar said pleasantly, like a friendly neighbor sharing a bit of gossip. "If you try so hard to be coy, you won't see anything at all."

As if leading by example, Anvar — twitching his mustache in that odd, humorous way of his in the process — lifted his own cards above the table.

The broken planks in the walls — once the simple paneling of a small office where a couple of clerks had handled the warehouse's paperwork — creaked softly. The floor beneath their feet threatened to collapse with every movement they made, letting trickles of sawdust fall into the gaping darkness below.

Which parts of all that were real, and which were mere illusion?

More importantly, how many people were actually in the room? As far as Ardi could remember, another vampire had whisked Inasha away from the rooftop that night. Could it be that he had simply left his companion here alone?

Just in case, Ardi kept his focus on the shadow shaped like a revolver.

Trusting the illusionist's claims that he planned to let them go — both Ardi and Milar, along with everyone else? That would've been as foolish and naive as trusting his own senses right now, his eyes included. Everything he was seeing could very well be nothing but a deception.

So…

"I've seen enough." Ardi slid his cards forward without revealing them.

"How intriguing," the old man drawled. "Let's make this even more interesting, then. If you're going to keep your cards face down, allow me to do the opposite and show mine."

Just as he had done before, Anvar flipped his cards over and placed them on the table. On one of them, a butterfly hovered over a flower, and on the other, a provocatively-dressed young woman from ages past — back when carriages and wagons had rumbled along the roads instead of automobiles — strolled across the pier among sailors.

The tiny illustrations shimmered and fluttered, never pausing for even a heartbeat.

Without a doubt, supporting such magic — and even conjuring it in the first place — would have been impossible without the Yellow Star generator. It would be akin to expecting even the strongest ogre or giant to shoulder the peaks of the Alkade.

"Amazing," Ardi murmured.

"You think so?" Anvar smiled, pride dripping from every word.

"Of course," Ardi nodded, then hurried to add, "I'm amazed by how you managed to stealthily acquire multiple generators fit for small-scale industrial use while keeping it all hidden from the Empire's bureaucracy and, apparently, even from the Second Chancery."

As Ardi spoke, Anvar's expression darkened. It seemed like he had been expecting a different sort of compliment.

"And do you know what truly impresses me?" Ardi drummed his fingers on his staff. He wasn't trying to appear formidable. He was simply hoping that the rhythmic tapping might steady the wild thundering of his heart.

He felt like a foolish field mouse that had voluntarily crept into a ravenous snake's maw, and was now frantically searching for any means to survive.

"And what would that be?" The old man asked, eyes narrowed.

"That you are, in fact, one of my great-grandfather's students. Which means half the world is hunting you, while the other half would prefer that nobody ever finds you." Ardi silently prayed to the Sleeping Spirits for his voice to not betray him with a tremor or a squeak. "And yet here you are, in the capital itself. Of all times, you chose to come here now, when even the city's record keepers are overturning every pebble in their search for leads on a terrorist group that-"

"We're not terrorists!"

The outcry, so raw with genuine hurt and desperation, came not from the old mage, but from… Inasha. The same Inasha who was supposedly bound to Anvar by some "contract."

Or was she…?

"Forgive my assistant's outburst, Ard." Anvar's voice lost its cloying sweetness for just an instant — a brief, nearly imperceptible moment — but the whip-crack edge in his tone was unmistakable.

It was too late, though.

Far too late.

Ardi had gleaned what he needed, and, judging by Milar's sudden calm, so had the captain. He relaxed slightly, as though a piece of the puzzle had finally clicked into place.

"Shall we place the first round, then?" Anvar asked, wanting to shift their focus back to this dangerous game with a trickster. He tapped the table again.

Once more, three cards appeared out of thin air, landing on the cloth between Anvar and Ardi — the flop, so to speak, in this Sevens showdown. One depicted a king knighting a warrior amid raucous trumpets and courtly cheers, handkerchiefs flying into the air. Another card showed a mage high in a tower, poring over books, with rolling hills visible through the window. On the last, a wandering merchant, lost among a collection of rural huts, steered a wagon laden with heavy sacks.

No matter how intently Ardi looked at those images, the cards' meaning was impossible to decode without the key — just like the magic that had spawned them. He didn't think that even Aversky could break in here, or any guards or Second Chancery operatives, no matter how advanced their "special tools" might be. Hence the unbridled confidence of Anvar and Inasha.

They didn't seem cornered at all, as fugitives should be — quite the opposite. They were two predators savoring how the hunt was unfolding. Only Inasha's slip had given them pause. If her outburst had truly been that ill-timed, the old man would've tried to bury it under…

"You know," Anvar said, "it's not terribly exciting when you don't raise the stakes." He continued to fiddle with the chips in his hand. "Shall we sweeten the pot?"

Ardi's heart lurched, skipping a beat, and then another. A clammy sweat trickled down his spine, making his undershirt and the shirt above it cling uncomfortably to his skin. For a moment, he felt like his heart had stopped altogether, too weary to continue.

"What do you want?" Ardan asked warily.

"We've already wagered your Sidhe Flame Embers against my answer to your question," Anvar said, spinning a chip on his index finger, acting as though it might never fall. "You know, you are nothing like Aror in most respects… except for your eyes. Even if they're a different color, what lies behind them is the same. You're planning to win, aren't you?"

"Why would anyone sit at the table if not to win?"

The old man burst out laughing in that same shrill, weasel-like whine.

"Exactly," he hissed through his mustache. "And since you intend to come out on top, let's do this." Anvar moved his hand until it resembled that familiar mock-pistol once more, this time aiming it at Milar. "For this round, you'll wager your partner's life, and I… let me think… What might pique your interest… ah, yes. I'll wager a story. After all, aren't we all nothing more than living stories ourselves?"

Milar mumbled something. Judging by the fervor with which he'd forced the sounds past Inasha's hand, the words were likely a string of curses aimed at all the old man's ancestors reaching back to the dawn of time.

Ardi tried his best to remain outwardly calm. Anvar seemed unshakably convinced that Ardi not only understood exactly what the Sidhe Flame Embers were, but that he knew where they had been hidden as well.

Ardi had to keep that illusion alive — his illusion within the old man's greater illusion.

"A story, then," Ard said, forcing the words out calmly as Anvar continued to twirl his mustache and shuffle his chips. "It begins… long ago, I take it?"

"Very long ago," Anvar replied, relaxing in his chair as though melting into the recollection. "So long ago that most would shrug it off as scraps from some dusty history book."

While he spoke, ghostly puppets appeared on the tabletop, acting out a miniature play. The sight was captivating and… unsettling. Their little bows and jerky movements illustrated his words.

"223 years ago," Anvar began, "the outskirts of what was then the capital — nowadays you call it the Crookedwater Canal embankment — were home to a boy. He lived with a father who did odd jobs and a mother who truly loved all her children, sharing that love as best she could among eight of them. Sadly, only five made it to the age of ten. Medical care back then was nothing like it is now."

As he narrated, the puppets performed: they were miniature figures that bowed, scrambled, or waved in childlike gestures. An illusion both mesmerizing and unnerving.

"That boy knew from the start that he needed to fight to avoid the fate of his lost siblings," Anvar went on. "So, when he turned thirteen" — one puppet set down a heavy sack it had been hauling around a depressingly familiar-looking warehouse and, dressed in ragged clothes, kissed its exhausted mother and shook its hunched father's hand — "he headed into a dark tunnel beneath the earth. Because back then, Ard, there were no schools, no colleges, and certainly no universities. The only place where mages and the Empire's brightest minds truly studied was the Grand."

"How did one become a Star Mage, then?" Ardi asked, unable to curb his curiosity in spite of the tension. Across the table, Milar rolled his eyes at him.

"They found people to apprentice under, those already acknowledged by the Magisterium," Anvar said without much enthusiasm. "You're probably wondering how they were selected? The process was… let's call it peculiar. If you were one of the unlucky ones — roughly one in twenty — you ended up apprenticed to someone whose… personal proclivities… matched that of the gentleman who helped us keep the 'Heron' running."

So, it was actually called the "Heron…" But was there more to this underground casino run by the Spiders, that organization with murky goals linked to artifacts? Or was it truly nothing more than just a den of illusions and enchantments intended to rake in profits off the books?

The real question was why they'd needed so much money. And given that they'd dispensed with both Irigov and the "Heron," it seemed like they had already collected whatever sum they required…

"When that boy turned thirteen," Anvar resumed as the puppet's journey continued below. Now, on that make-believe stage, more adult puppets came forward, handing the boy documents, books, puzzles, all of them engaging in hushed conversation before retreating again. Suddenly, one figure stepped out from the crowd — plain, dressed all in black, without a cloak or regalia. It offered the boy something shaped like a small chest, but with no obvious way to open it. A minute later, the boy succeeded, and the dark figure nodded in approval, leading him away. "And that's how he ended up an apprentice under Aror Egobar, Ard. Those were long, grueling years… years filled with pain, humiliation, tests without end — a struggle not even for a place in the sun, but just to stay alive. You probably already know… Yes, I'm sure you do, especially with that Colonel as your patron… You might think I'm a charlatan or a liar, but just you wait, Ard. Wait until you get to know the Colonel and that wretched Chancery of yours a little better. Anyway…" Anvar cleared his throat.

The puppets vanished, replaced by a strange lecture hall. Instead of a lectern, there was a cage with a figure inside it that was wrapped in a dark cloak. This was Ardi's great-grandfather, by the look of it. The place was crowded, though, with far more than just eleven people there — Ardi counted at least…

"There weren't just eleven of them, Ard," Anvar confirmed. "There were thirty-four. Thirty-four poor souls — children of paupers chasing a dream, disgraced aristocrats fleeing their own kin, illegitimate mage offspring… Honestly, I haven't the faintest idea what they wanted for themselves. They barely spoke at all."

He waved a hand, shifting the scene again. Ardi caught just a glimpse of the lead puppet — the boy — leaning against another figure before they both flickered away. Then the lecture hall was left with precisely eleven individuals — young men and women who were about twenty years old. The others… gone.

"They had no clue about the fate of those who failed Aror's trials and exams." Anvar's face darkened, his eyes behind those crimson lenses momentarily haunted by sorrow. "Only later did they learn that the Chancery had used them… Well, let's just say they'd used them in a way that was meant to recoup expenses."

Ardi opened his mouth to speak, but Anvar answered his question before he could even ask it.

"The Dead Lands, excavations of temples dedicated to gods from before the worship of the Face of Light, the catacombs of the Aean'Hane, the Fae realms, hunts for dragons that have been gone for these past hundred and fifty years, ever since the Dark Lord's Rebellion… The list goes on forever, Ard. Those that Aror dismissed from his lessons were sent off to every sort of place requiring…" Anvar removed his glasses and wiped them with a handkerchief as red as his shirt. "Requiring mages who knew more than the coddled graduates of the Grand. And who wouldn't be missed, not even by the Guild. They didn't realize it back then, Ard, but for all intents and purposes, they no longer existed. They lived only within the borders drawn by the Second Chancery. Then, imagine… poof!"

He made a theatrical flourish. Smoke drifted across the table. When it cleared, the puppets, the lecture hall — everything — had vanished, leaving only the cards and the blue felt cloth.

"When Aror managed to escape or… maybe they let him go. Who can say? Anyway… After that, the Eleven who remained were deemed untrustworthy. Those in charge shut down the program — if that's what you want to call all those years of torture — destroyed every document, and gave the eleven of them a choice: cooperate with the Crown and the Black House, which is what the likes of Emergold, Razenshles, and Borskov elected to do, or…"

He broke off. Evidently, he'd stopped himself just in time.

If you come across this story on Amazon, be aware that it has been stolen from Royal Road. Please report it.

"That's the story, my dear Ard," the old man said, adopting his earlier air of sarcastic geniality as he twirled the chips again. "So don't be too surprised if not a single one of Aror's disciples is glad to see you."

"I'm already aware of that," Ardi said quietly.

"You already know?" Anvar let out a small, thoughtful hum. "Ah, right… Velena Emergold." A hint of warmth threaded his voice. "Our prized bookworm, the one who knew everything and anything. Not the most charismatic sort, mind you… She annoyed everyone, including Aror. How do you say it these days? 'May his name be lost?'"

"Forgotten," Ardi corrected him automatically.

"Sure, forgotten," Anvar agreed, waving a chip as though the clarification hardly mattered. "You see, Ard, they were promised a shining future. They were students of Aror Egobar, one of the most remarkable Aean'Hane to ever live, and someone who possessed an astoundingly deep grasp of Star Magic. Those in charge had wanted the Eleven to become the heads of the Mage Guild, the Council of High Mages, they called it, forging a new era of magical prowess for the Empire, along with unassailable military might. Eleven students of Aror on the front lines — who could stand against that, eh?"

He slipped his withered hand inside his coat and produced a tobacco pipe.

"But then, the steam engine emerged. Workshops and small manufactories morphed into factories. The industrial revolution took hold. Multi-shot pistols, then rifled barrels, then revolvers and military rifles… and from there, artillery. And now…" Anvar spread his hands wide. "You've seen it yourself, Ard. In the old days, we could never have even dreamed of an enchantment like the one cloaking the 'Heron' right now. That sort of grand, intricate spell was the exclusive domain of the Aean'Hane. But now, with Ley generators and Ley cables, the world has changed so rapidly over the past two centuries. The Council of High Mages? More like the Gathering of Senile Clowns. And if you must be a clown" — Anvar balanced the pipe in his right hand while deftly rolling his hat along his left arm and back onto his head — "be the best clown you can be. Preferably an alive one. That's the tale, Ard. A fitting stake, I'd say, given the fact that Captain Pnev's life is on the table."

Naturally, he couldn't resist reminding Ardi of exactly what they were playing for. And therein lay the problem: Ardi had no idea how much of Anvar's account was true and how much was fabricated. Perhaps the old man had invented every word. Or perhaps not.

Maybe Ardi's next move — this entire thing felt sort of like the games he'd used to play with Skusty and Atta'nha — would be foolish and rash. But in a game woven from lies, you had to pay closer attention to what wasn't said than to what was.

"Next round?" Anvar proposed.

"Of course," Ardi agreed.

The old man tapped the table once more, and a fourth card — the penultimate in Sevens — fell between them. It showed a humble cabin in a forest. It was completely ordinary, an unremarkable little house amid equally unremarkable woods.

Anvar flashed a wolfish smile.

"You're running out of chances, Ard."

"Were there ever any to begin with?"

"Certainly!" The old mage feigned outrage. "Just because you don't know the rules of the game doesn't mean they don't exist."

Ardi hesitated for a moment.

"Are we talking about the cards," he asked, "or… something else?"

Anvar's grin stretched wider.

"Perhaps both. But let's set that aside. Your partner's life is nearly in my grasp. As are the Embers. But let's not stop there. What else would you like to wager? I could offer you… say… the life of your precious singer? If you win, I'll forbid Inasha from carrying out her vengeance. So what will you stake in return?"

Ardi looked up at the old man. As he'd suspected, there would be no mercy shown here. When the fifth and final card was revealed, Anvar would demand something else. Perhaps Ardi's own life. Or something akin to it.

Which meant that the last round was just another illusion. The game had to end here and now.

All that remained was to hope that Milar had understood the signal.

"You've wagered your story, Anvar-the-Top Hat," Ardi said, still refusing to touch his face-down cards. After all, the actual game they were playing had little to do with the deck itself. "Allow me to match your stake."

"By all means," the older man said, twirling his mustache again.

"You know," Ardan went on, tapping his staff once more in a bid to steady his frayed nerves, "when I was a child, I loved solving puzzles. And in any puzzle, you have to watch for the piece they aren't showing you."

"A wise approach, Ard."

"Imagine this: Milar and I arrive at the scene, and right away, we find a slain guard — a point-blank execution. Shot on sight."

"Alas," the old man said, throwing up his hands. "I needed to send you a message somehow. She merely drew the short straw to become my courier."

"Perhaps… But here's what's strange about that. I've seen my fair share of corpses recently — unfortunately — and not even once did I see one like hers. Face untroubled, clothes unsullied, not even her hair was disheveled … The poor woman didn't even realize she was being shot. Just like…" Ardi turned to the body of the Second Chancery mage slumped over in his chair. "Neither of them knew what hit them."

"Well, we aren't total monsters, Ard," Anvar replied with mocking indignation. "Why would we resort to needless cruelty?"

"Really?" Ardi feigned surprise. "And yet, when it came to the Gatekeeper of the Conclave — and the guard who refused to ignore the missing boys — your organization didn't shy away from cruelty at all. On the contrary, you made a grand show of just how ruthless and decisive you can be."

"You're mistaking brutality for-"

"Allow me to continue," Ardi interrupted on purpose, drawing Anvar's undivided attention. Yes, it felt rather like engaging in a staring contest with a hungry bear roused from its winter sleep, but what other options did he have?

"It doesn't quite add up, does it? The puzzle breaks down right here. You're one of the Eleven — a powerful mage capable of maintaining a longevity seal. A mage of six Stars. And suddenly… you use a revolver. That's odd. Just as odd as what you've said about Aror. So, the whole Empire, and the rest of the world besides, supposedly had no idea that my great-grandfather was alive, but you knew. You knew and did nothing about it. Astonishing, wouldn't you say?"

Anvar clenched the chip in his fist.

"I'm starting to dislike your little wager, Ard."

"But you haven't heard me out, Mr. Riglanov," Ardi continued unabated. He had started this game, and if he failed to see it through to the end, neither he nor Milar — nor anyone else — would have even the slightest chance of seeing the next dawn. Especially once Anvar discovered that Ardi had no clue about where to find these Sidhe Flame Embers since he'd only learned of their existence a mere ten minutes ago. "You've been keeping an eye on me right here in the capital, after the articles came out in the papers, and after His Imperial Majesty stunned everyone with the truth about Aror Egobar by revealing that he was alive this entire time. You killed a guardswoman and took an entire group of Second Chancery operatives hostage just to lure me here. And yet, you never tried to kidnap me outright to discover whatever you wanted to know. In fact, why bother kidnapping me at all when you're so well-versed in shields and illusions? You could have simply deceived me. Ensnared me. Cloaked me in your magic. I would have told you everything on my own. Or…"

"Watch your tongue, boy," Anvar hissed like a serpent. "You really don't want me forgetting my manners."

Time to show his hand…

"Then go on — forget them." Ardi struck the floor with his staff, conjuring Orlovsky's Shield before him. As he'd suspected, no matter how massive and elaborate this shield and illusion spell was, it couldn't block the use of Star Magic entirely. That would have required a fifth Star when constructing it, and the generators here only went up to the yellow — the fourth Star. "Shoot."

Silence. A silence in which the gears of someone's mind were whirring so loudly that you could almost hear them. This was the mind of the one for whom Ardi's story had really been intended. Her mind.

"The rings on your hand — they're accumulators," Ardi said. There was no going back now, so he might as well lay out his entire combination of cards. "Very unusual ones, unlike anything I've ever seen before, but accumulators nonetheless. The glasses on your face let you see through your own illusions. The goggles on your top hat — those control the shield. Put it all together, and it says one thing: you're sick, Mr. Riglanov. Most of your power is going to maintaining that longevity seal. You only have a few free rays left in your first four Stars. That's why you never took any real risks while trailing me. It's why you rely on a revolver. It's why you haven't intervened in any of the latest incidents. You… simply can't afford to."

Anvar said nothing.

"And while I don't know what your organization's goals are… I do know this much," Ardi went on, revealing his final "card." "You're not really one of them. They hired you — or perhaps you approached the Spiders yourself — but you don't share their objectives. All you want is to heal your dying Stars. Because that's what happened to you after you refused to cooperate with the Crown and the Black House, isn't it? They damaged your Stars, same as the others who walked away. You don't care about the Spiders or their aims. You just want to fix your own problem. And at the first chance you get, you'll stick a knife in the back of those so-called allies-"

"Enough!" Anvar leaped to his feet, all of his polished manners and courtly airs gone in an instant.

He lifted his fingers in front of him… and they cast the shadow of a revolver across the floor. No matter how elegant or intricate an illusion might seem, there would always be a tiny chink in it, the barest hole through which a glimpse of the true reality could be seen.

"Traitor!" The vampire snarled, confirming everything Ardi had just said.

"Inasha, you can't really believe-"

But Inasha was no longer listening to Anvar.

"Stop!" Came a shout from the corner of the room, a shout ringing with a deathly dryness.

Ardi hadn't been wrong to suspect Anvar of subterfuge. They were not alone in here.

Even so, the impulsive female vampire ignored her partner's command. Releasing Milar, she vaulted across the table at Anvar. He began firing while Ardi dropped to the floor, shutting his eyes and yanking the glasses off his head.

Amid the roaring of gunshots — the shells punching through Inasha's body without delivering a "fatal" blow — came a thunderous sound Ardi recognized at once. It was the distinct report of a Second Chancery revolver.

Milar had understood his signal perfectly.

The captain took careful aim at Anvar's head, pulling the trigger repeatedly and cocking the hammer with his thumb as he fired. Three bullets tore out one after another. The first two shattered against the passive shield that flared up around the mage, but as Inasha's claws and curved dagger sliced into that defense, the third punched straight into…

…Anvar's head.

It smashed through the odd goggles on his top hat, spinning him around before he collapsed to the floor.

And then…

Milar, who had also shed his glasses and was effectively shooting blind, seemed unhurt. The same could not be said for everyone else. Obviously, Anvar had had a contingency plan in case his betrayal — or, in typical Metropolis fashion, his attempts to settle his personal grudges — ended up being exposed.

Ardi had guessed as much about the purpose of all those spectacles in their little boxes…

Why force the patrons to wear them constantly if you could simply rewrite the runic linkage for those under the shield's dome? No, Anvar had deliberately complicated things. Over-complicated them, in fact. Mages didn't do that unless they had some ulterior motive. And so, the moment his goggles got shattered by a bullet, the entire world around them started quaking. Then, as it trembled, the glasses worn by everyone present swelled, cracked, and burst apart in tiny explosions — even those worn by Inasha and her partner, the second vampire, who until now had remained hidden under an illusion. Being undead and lacking a beating heart or the need to breathe, and by also giving off no scent, he'd evaded even the keen senses of a Matabar.

No one at the table so much as flinched as shards of glass stabbed into their faces and eyes.

Time seemed to slow.

Ardi, as if he were in a dream, watched Inasha tear savagely at Anvar's limp form with her claws. Blood pooled in his left eye socket until the eyeball nearly popped free. His top hat fell off and rolled away. For the briefest instant, the mage's gaze locked with Ardi's — he had an ugly gouge in his forehead where the bullet had grazed him quite deeply.

"Sh… i… p… ship…" The old man's lips moved soundlessly, forming his final words. "Sh… i… p…"

Whatever grudges had once existed between Anvar and Aror, they would have to settle them in the afterlife.

The other vampire, who was older than Inasha, was already prying her off Anvar's ravaged, motionless body.

"He was a traitor! A lying swine!" Inasha shouted, plainly unhinged. "Just like all of them! All of them! Don't you see? He was just like them. Just like the ones who left us to-"

"Be silent!" The older vampire roared, striking her so hard that his slap would have torn a mortal's head clean off. But even riddled with bullets as she was, it only brought the shrieking vampire back to her senses.

Silence fell. Or rather, a hush broken only by the shrieks and yells echoing from below on the first floor — real, raw, animalistic screams. The kind you could never mistake for anything but stark terror, the kind you only heard from those confronted by death's open door.

Ardi glanced at the bleeding, unconscious operatives — both the guards and the Second Chancery men he'd been unable to help — and then looked back at his grimoire. He'd prepared this page in advance, suspecting the purpose of those glasses. Striking his staff against the floor once more, he cast a simple two-Star healing spell on four of them since Anvar really had killed that one Cloak mage outright.

That healing array would only speed up their natural regeneration tenfold, boosting their bodies' self-repair mechanisms. Unfortunately, restoring their eyesight wasn't as simple as mending a broken bone.

If he and Milar didn't act fast, then Mshisty, Alexander, Din, and the mutant woman would be permanently blinded in the best-case scenario. And in the worst…

Considering the fact that Ardi had four wounded to work with, he ended up burning six red rays and six green ones (two of each to actualize the seal, then four more to expand the number of targets). Then he nearly drained two accumulators outright. Without the Black House's gear, that would've been the end of Ardi's magic right there.

But thanks to his bandolier of accumulators, he rose afterwards with all his rays replenished. His left-hand rings still held two red rays and one green ray. And the accumulators on his right hand glowed with nine full charges.

Ardi was ready for another fight. And after everything Anvar had let slip, he knew better than to let Inasha out of his sight.

Milar did not move, nor did the second vampire. Able to get a better look at him now, Ardi saw that he was older than the one he'd encountered during his time with Arkar and the Hammers. This vampire looked almost ordinary: he was wearing a simple suit any mid-level office clerk might've worn, polished shoes, he had a neat haircut, and, it seemed, a faint mark on his finger where a ring had previously been. It was a fresh mark, as if the ring had been removed just recently. Though, with a living corpse, who could say how that worked?

In some ways, his appearance reminded Ardi of the Star-born werewolf.

"We could fight," the vampire said mildly, "but…"

"But while we're fighting, all hell would be breaking loose down below," Milar finished for him.

The vampire nodded.

"Those damned illusions," the captain muttered, sweeping his eyes around warily without lowering his weapon. The large room looked the same as before, except the playing cloth had vanished from the table, which no longer suited a Sevens game and seemed to just be a plain old table again. "They're gone. The shield, I'm guessing, is still up."

"We can give you the code for the door leading to the generators," the vampire offered.

"In exchange for letting you walk out of here?" Milar arched an eyebrow.

"Exactly, Captain Pnev."

"How do I know" — the captain jerked his chin at the unconscious Second Chancery operatives — "that you won't pay a visit to my family, or my partner's family, or-"

"Or anything else?" The vampire cut him off. "Believe me or don't, but we aim to keep casualties to a minimum."

"Is that so?" The captain spat, raising his gun. "I recall one incident in Baliero's sewers, some girl nearly summoning hordes of demons into the city-"

"Nice try, Captain." The vampire's crimson eyes gleamed. "You're free to believe what you like, but you'll get no further information from me. Not beyond the door's code."

Inasha had remained silent this entire time, and Ardi watched as the bullet holes in her body stitched themselves up. It was horrific and fascinating all at once.

Another silence came, once again broken by the shrieks coming from below — and now from the hallway as well, where the guests had been… occupying themselves intimately. Nothing could disguise the raw horror in those voices.

"The generators…"

The vampire raised a hand.

"No sudden movements!" Milar warned him, revolver still leveled. Ardi, invisible discs swirling about him, lifted his staff a fraction off the floor.

"Stay calm, gentlemen Cloaks." The vampire placed his hand into a small, barely-noticeable indentation in the wall, pressing something.

A moment later, a section of the opposite wall shifted aside, revealing an old, once-rusted but now repaired spiral staircase made of steel.

"They're that way," the vampire said, nodding downwards.

"You'll come with us," Milar demanded.

"No," replied the undead.

"Then I'll shoot," the captain threatened, his tone oddly level.

"Then one of us will die," the vampire countered in that same calm tone.

"Die? You're both already dead, you wretched undead filth," the captain spat.

Inasha tensed as if she were going to leap forward again, but the older vampire kept a firm hand on her shoulder. Ardi, and especially Milar, did not miss the significance of that tiny gesture.

"You might put us to rest, Captain," the vampire went on, "but…" His gaze swept over the still-unconscious Cloaks and guards, some of whom Ardi had not been able to save in time. And with each second they delayed, the chances of them pulling through dwindled.

"…we'd have time to finish off your colleagues," the vampire continued. "They're not exactly improving while you waste precious seconds bickering with us. In the end, even if you and Mr. Egobar took us down, you'd still have dozens of grieving widows and orphans on your conscience. Think about it. Time is passing."

Milar clenched his jaw, snarled a curse, then stuffed his revolver back into its holster.

The vampire nodded and stepped away from the stairwell entrance.

"The code?"

"Forty-three, one to the left, nineteen, two to the left, eight, three to the right," he answered.

Together with Inasha, he moved slowly, acting ostentatiously calm, as if they no longer posed a threat, and sidestepped the pools of blood to head for the exit.

Neither Milar nor Ardi took their eyes off them.

At the doorway, Inasha turned and locked eyes with Ardan.

"Don't think we're finished just yet, mage," she hissed, and in the next instant, both vampires vanished in a veil of darkness.

Milar and Ardi exchanged a glance, then bolted toward the stairs.

The captain led the way, Ardi bringing up the rear. They practically flew down the steps into a tunnel that had likely once been used to cart materials into the warehouse.

It was wide and tall enough to fit multiple trolleys in a row. Now, however, instead of a ramp, the tunnel ended in welded sheets of steel. Shimmering lights danced across their surface beneath an active stationary shield.

In the middle of what looked like a metallic wall, they found a massive door with a rotary combination lock.

Milar sprang at it, spinning the mechanism. The vampires hadn't lied. When the captain entered the sequence correctly, the door swung open.

On the other side, enormous generators thrummed, supplying power through cables running along special conduits in the walls. And right at the center of that makeshift chamber was a crouching beast.

"Fucking vampire bastards," Milar hissed, drawing his revolver.

They found themselves staring into the baleful eyes of a roaring, acid-drooling Tazidahian Chimera.