Matabar-Chapter 72 - 71 - An old acquaintance

Ardan blinked, and in the nerve-racking dimness — lit only by a meager oil lamp, which was barely enough to chase away the prideful darkness — he suddenly made out features he recognized.

A revolver being held in an outstretched hand was aimed directly at the bridge of the young man's nose. The gun was held by none other than Peter Oglanov. He wore a warm fur coat, which somewhat hid his unhealthy paunch, and a fine, heavy hat pulled low over hair slicked to one side, thin and lifeless. His skin looked even more worn than before, pulled taut over his cheekbones. That sly smile of old was gone, replaced by lips pressed tightly together. But the steely gleam in his eyes had not diminished.

Admittedly, Ardi spent a second battling the urge to slam his staff against the floor. But those thoughts were interrupted by the eloquent, if useless, click of the revolver's hammer.

"No funny business," Peter demanded.

Ardi nodded and, setting his staff against the wall, raised both hands in the air. At the same time, he noisily sniffed at the air.

"Just a precaution," Peter said, fishing a cheap but sharply-scented men's cologne from his pocket. "I've heard the orcs have a keen sense of smell, and I figured that the Matabar might have one at least as good."

"Better."

"All the more reason then." Peter flicked the gun's muzzle, indicating the bed.

Ardi understood and, hands still held high, sat down on the edge of the bed. Never lowering the barrel, the old detective pulled up a chair, turned it around so the back faced forward, and settled into it, leaning an elbow on the headrest.

"May I ask-"

"What ties you to the Jackets?" Peter interrupted.

"I-"

"If I hear a single lie, boy, I'll put a bullet in your gut." Peter flicked the muzzle toward Ardi's navel. "You'll die long and painfully."

"I am half-Matabar."

"That just means you'll experience a very long and very painful death," Peter countered, sounding dead serious. "Answer me."

"Nothing."

Peter moved his trigger finger menacingly.

"Really, it's nothing," Ardi said hastily, feeling his sweat-soaked shirt beginning to cling to his body. The day had already been maddening enough without this. "It just so happens that I rent this apartment from them."

"'Apartment' might be a stretch."

"Well, your office isn't exactly the height of refinement either, Mr. Detective," Ardi snapped before he could catch himself.

He did, admittedly, have a fondness for this cramped and yet somehow cozy little apartment situated in the bay window of building number 23 along the Markov Canal. There was also the added benefit that its rooftop neighbors included a certain red-haired singer.

"Fair," Peter snorted. "Mind if I smoke?"

"I do mind."

The older man squinted at him.

"That's quite a bold stance for someone who could end up with an extra hole in his belly."

The truth was, Ardi was seconds away from bracing his feet against the floor and throwing himself backwards through the window behind him.

Only a few things stopped him. First, Peter Oglanov had seen Ardan alongside an investigator of the Second Chancery. Second, the detective's revolver wasn't loaded.

"You're out of bullets," Ardi exhaled, letting his hands drop.

After the incident with Elena, he'd picked up a habit of carefully examining an opponent's weapon at a glance.

"Fair enough," Peter repeated, then tucked the gun into a shoulder holster beneath his left arm. "My apologies. I had to make sure you aren't in league with the thugs."

"Do you often walk around town with an unloaded firearm?"

"Tonight's been… special."

Peter swayed in the chair and nearly toppled over. Only then did Ardi notice the spreading crimson stain under his coat — and the several dark red droplets that had pooled on the floor where he'd been waiting.

"What happened?" Ardan jumped up, caught the detective as he slipped off the chair, and hefted him into his arms, laying him carefully on the bed.

"What a rotten feeling," Peter muttered through clenched teeth, pressing a hand to the blood-soaked patch on his shirt. "Having another man carry you like that."

Ignoring the old hound's complaints, Ardi pulled open a desk drawer and fetched a few tin canisters of ointments, plus a couple of bandages pre-soaked in healing concoctions. He set them beside flasks of invigorating and restorative teas.

"Where did all that come from?" Peter rasped.

Ardi surveyed his collection with a rueful grimace. "I've had… special nights of my own lately," he said, moving to a cabinet and removing a small wooden stick wrapped in handkerchiefs.

Teeth marks from Ardi's canines still marred it — back from the times he'd had to dress his own wounds in silence lest Tess hear him. Back in those days, they hadn't even found themselves in their current uncertain situation, but still…

"Here," Ardi said, sliding the stick between Peter's teeth. Then he pulled the detective's shirt loose from his pants and, none too skillfully, cut through the bandages that clung to the wound.

Peter moaned and thrashed, his head banging against the pillow.

"Sleeping Spirits," Ardan breathed, finally seeing the cause of such blood loss.

He saw three long gashes along Peter's right side, running from his armpit to his hip bone. They were narrow and clean at the ends and wider and jagged in the middle.

They looked like wounds made by massive claws, ones that did not belong to any predator Ardan knew of.

Worst of all, black splotches were spreading out from his wounds as though someone had injected tar under the man's skin, creeping slowly through Peter's veins.

Necrotic venom.

Ardi glanced up at Peter's sweat-drenched face. Had Ardan come back even two hours later, he would have found a reeking corpse in his flat.

He drew up a pipette and dripped a measure of his homemade oils — calculated with Peter's build in mind — onto the cloth-wrapped stick. Watching the second hand of his wristwatch, Ardan counted off the time.

Soon, Peter's features smoothed out. His clenched jaw slackened, letting the stick fall onto his chest. His breathing evened out, and his hands unclenched from the blanket that covered the bed.

Ardan nodded, rolled up his sleeves, and flipped his watch face inward so he could track the time more easily. Then he took up a knife.

He was hardly as deft as Tess was with a scalpel, but half a year of healer training under Professor Lea had not been for nothing.

Slowly, taking care not to damage any healthy tissue, Ardi carved away the infected flesh, covering the cuts with a generous smear of one of his ointments. Each piece of rotting tissue was tossed into a metal pail, where it hissed like an angry serpent and spat black sludge.

Strangely, the young man wasn't worried about any of the droplets splashing onto his bare skin. He didn't notice how, every time a black fleck nearly touched his flesh, the bracelet Atta'nha had given him would flare up, evaporating the venom in midair.

Every section Ardan treated took on the hot flush of crimson before reverting to a pinkish hue. Any blood that spilled onto the bed and floor halted when it came into contact with the bark-scented salve.

He couldn't stitch the wound — he'd never learned that part — so he pressed the gashes shut, layering them with a different ointment, one that smelled like damp, moss-covered stone after a morning rain.

Half an hour later, drenched in sweat and having used up a good chunk of his supplies, Ardan finished binding Peter's side and leaned back in his chair.

Blood dripped from his hands. The floor was awash with it, and it was seeping into the wood. He only hoped it wasn't so much that Peter would never wake from the sedative, or so much that it would seep through to the ceiling of the apartment below. Not that anyone lived down there anyway.

"I really should make a blood-replenishing tonic," Ardan said, mostly to himself.

He'd decided against it earlier because, thanks to his Matabar physiology, he healed much faster — his body producing new blood in mere hours so long as he ate and drank enough. Plus, Kovertsky had only provided limited materials and ingredients for Ardan's personal alchemy research, and they were hardly enough for him to brew potions, salves, teas, and oils for every possible emergency.

"More expenses," Ardi sighed, eyeing the stock he'd burned through.

Outside the window, the sun sank toward dusk, bathing the sky in the same hues now reigning in his apartment. He would need fresh sheets and cleaning supplies to scrub the floor.

Another handful of kso…

Long shadows stretched across the streets, dancing hungrily around passersby hurrying home. They curled around the lightning rods perched on rooftops, reaching for Peter's face until Ardan mentally shooed them away.

The venom was still circulating in Peter's bloodstream, and he'd likely need to spend several days on an IV drip in a hospital so his liver wouldn't give out.

Ardan rose, carefully washed his hands with some soap, and…

A knock sounded at the door.

"Ardi?" Came a familiar, lilting voice.

"Yes, Tess?" Ardan answered, heart nearly hammering out of his chest.

The very last thing he needed was for her to see his apartment flooded with blood and a wounded Peter sprawled out on his bed.

"May I come in?" She asked.

Come in? She had never asked to visit his place before…

"Sorry, Tess, I'm in the middle of an alchemical experiment," Ardan said, telling a half-truth he didn't feel proud of. In fact, it made him feel a little ill. "Give me a couple of hours to air the place out."

He heard a short, pleasant laugh in response.

"You're not worried Arkar won't like it?" She teased.

"I'll clean up."

"All right… Then… Once you're done…" Tess hesitated, struggling to get the next words out. "Come by my place?"

Her place? She was actually inviting him over? Tess had never done that, not once in the past month.

"Y-yes," Ardan stammered. "B-but I'm not sure how long-"

From the sound of it, Tess was awkwardly shifting from foot to foot.

"No rush… I took tomorrow off, so I won't be going to bed. I'll wait. Just… come by."

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Her heels clicked down the steps until the whine of her door signaled she was gone. Once, Ardan had offered to fix those hinges, but she'd refused in no uncertain terms.

She'd taken the day off? Perhaps she felt sick and wanted help?

"Damn it," came a pained, slightly drunken hiss from the direction of the bed. "What did you… Why doesn't it hurt? I feel no pain at all."

Ardan tore himself away from his own swirling thoughts and returned to Peter, sitting down on the chair beside the bed.

"A numbing salve," he explained, pointing to one of the canisters. "I make it for myself. You'll feel nothing until morning, but your overall sensitivity will be lower, too."

Peter, who was, at the moment, pressing his fingernails into the web of flesh between his thumb and forefinger, murmured, "I've… noticed."

"You did the right thing pouring alcohol on the wound," Ardan added, nodding to the blood-soaked bandages he'd cut off. "It slowed the poison's spread…"

"I spilled it."

Ardi raised an eyebrow.

"It burned like fire," Peter said wryly, sagging back against the pillow. "The bastard got me good. I barely escaped. I'm not twenty anymore, you know, charging about with a saber…" He waved a hand dismissively. "I was out of painkillers, of course. Been ages since I restocked my kit… So, I used an old army trick. My hand was shaking, so I spilled it."

Ardan said nothing.

"The Witch's Gaze, yes?" Peter whispered, closing his eyes. "When you showed up with that investigator, I fended it off easily. But now…"

Ardan froze for a moment. Was his Witch's Gaze also active when he wasn't the one talking to someone? Had Milar known about that?

He most likely had.

"What happened to you, and why come to me?" Ardan asked.

He didn't bother asking how Peter knew where he lived. That was obvious.

"I've been investigating Lisa's murder."

"But we already-"

"You and your captain didn't do squat," Peter cut him off with a grimace. "Some old contacts told me about that demonologist you took down. Sure, that kinda explains — if only vaguely — some things about the missing children, but it sheds no light whatsoever on Lisa's murder."

Ardan hesitated.

Spirits…

Peter was right. The demonic sigil on Lisa's back didn't necessarily tie her death to the demonologist. Yes, she, like Peter, had been trying to uncover the truth behind the missing children and had also been involved in whatever had gone down on Fifth Street in Baliero…

But the injuries she'd sustained before her death suggested that someone had been trying to extract information from her. What information exactly? That was still the question.

As much of a question as the mystery of how the Homeless Fae factored into it.

"What have you found out so far?" Ardan asked.

"And why would I share that with you?" Peter retorted.

"Because you wouldn't have come here if you didn't plan to do so, Mr. Oglanov," Ardi said.

For a few seconds, the apartment was cloaked in heavy silence, broken only by the soft dripping of blood coming from the bed and landing on the floor.

"Fair enough," Peter said for the third time that night. "Lisa died the day after reporting she'd picked up the trail of one of those missing kids."

Ardan's heart skipped a beat.

"You said nothing of that when we met before!" He hissed, almost raising his voice but managing to hold it in check.

"Did I have any reason to trust you, boy?" Peter asked with a sad snort, turning his face to the window. "Something's happening in this city. I know it. I feel it. And I know you and your captain know it, too. But let me tell you this, boy: a thing like this can't be prepped in a month or two. No, we are witnessing an arrangement that someone's been laying out piece by piece, meticulously, for a long time. Which means…"

"Someone's helping to keep it hidden," Ardi mused, resting his chin on his folded hands.

"Now I see why the captain drags you around — there's more to you than just the Witch's Gaze," Peter said with a grunt. He grabbed the windowsill to sit up, then began buttoning his shirt. "Whoever is behind this mess must have people in high places sweeping things under the rug."

"You suspect Milar?" Ardan asked.

"I suspect everyone, boy. Everyone except my wife."

"Makes sense…"

"Because she's been dead for nearly six years," Peter said, pulling on his shoes. Then he walked over to the mirror. "All the rest, boy-"

"My name's Ard Egobar."

"I remember," the detective nodded. "Right, well, all the rest I suspect equally."

"And how can I know that you're not-"

"Because I'm old, boy, I'm poor, and I'm often drunk," Peter snorted, adjusting his jacket. He pulled out his revolver and a handful of bullets. "My only companions are a few neighbors I've known for over thirty years, the stray dogs and cats in my courtyard, and the cheating spouses who bring me half my monthly income."

Ardan shook his head and went to his wardrobe to grab a fresh shirt. He'd once again be forced to wash this bloody one in the Markov Canal — an act that always drew curious or disapproving stares. In winter, he had to cut a hole in the ice to get to the water.

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"Eternal Angels, boy, are you an Imperial Mage or a trench stormer?" Peter asked, raising an eyebrow at the sorry state of Ardan's clothes.

Ignoring him, Ardan slipped on his last intact shirt, then donned the suit gifted to him by Arkar. He didn't do so because he was trying to look dashing — his other clothes were simply too tattered to wear anywhere outside his own flat. Even some beggars looked better dressed.

Only his vest looked out of place. He was wearing a fashionista's old suit, which was now well out of style, and it was clashing with the knitted vest beneath which a few straps peeked out.

"You look… amusing, boy," Peter remarked, tilting his head.

The detective seemed to have finally recovered, returning to the calm, measured tone he'd had before.

"I need your help, Ard."

"I've already gathered that," Ardan sighed, fastening his collar and buttoning the stiff cuffs.

Hooking his grimoire onto his belt, he threw on his coat, pulled on a hat, and grabbed his staff. Catching a glimpse of the staff's pristine wood, he realized that he might soon need to inscribe his first seal upon it.

Perhaps he'd make it a basic variant of Ice Flowers, so he'd have a foundation ready for further modifications.

"You're not going to hear what I need first?" Peter asked, raising an eyebrow.

"Mr. Oglanov, you showed up at the end of my workday wielding an empty gun and sporting claw marks the size of a bear's," Ardi said, indicating the detective's bandaged side with the tip of his staff. "And you're hunting Lisa's killers. I think that's explanation enough."

Peter's lips twitched into a barely-perceptible, melancholy smile. Pride was there, too, but not for himself. Rather — strangely enough — he seemed to be proud of Ardi. It was almost as if Peter approved of what he was seeing.

"You've changed since our first meeting, Mr. Student," the old detective said, pushing himself to his feet and using the chair's back for support. With a nimble flick of his fingers, he placed his hat onto his head. "You've learned how to drive by now, I suppose? Lisa once told me you were hopeless in that regard."

Ardan locked his door and glanced toward the staircase. Tess' scent wafted out from deep within her apartment, so there was no need to worry about her overhearing the sound of two sets of footsteps instead of one.

He sniffed. There was something else in the air. Something… pastry-like?

"Young man?" Peter prompted.

"To some extent," Ardi answered vaguely.

"Good," Peter said, retrieving a keyring from his pocket and tossing it to Ardan. "Then you'll drive. I'm in no state to get us anywhere in one piece."

Ardan studied the keychain that was shaped like a cackling metal skull. Seventy years ago, pirates on the Shallow Seas had borne that emblem on their sails and flags as they'd prowled the waters in wooden vessels. Nowadays, the seas and oceans were ruled by steel ships belching smoke and bristling with heavy cannons that could cleave through small cliffs.

What would the world look like in another seventy years? Even without considering the advancements in technology, Star Magic wasn't standing idle, either.

"Ard?" Peter nudged him.

"Sorry," Ardan said, snapping out of his musings.

Together, they descended the stairs — Peter clinging to the railing as if it were a slender reed saving him from drowning — into the darkened, deserted bar below. Dust was starting to gather in sad little clumps, and spiders were moving in to stake their claims.

"It'll be a shame if everything going on causes this place to vanish from memory," Peter said with a sigh.

He'd likely come here to attend Tess' concerts, though Ardan had never seen him. Until recently, Ardan himself had seldom made it to her performances — he simply hadn't had the time. And after he'd rearranged his schedule, Peter had not come to "Bruce's" again, devoting himself wholly to his investigation.

Parked at the curb was the only car in sight: a "Derks" so old it could've had a long, white beard, each door painted a different color, all of them clearly scavenged from a host of donor vehicles. It had been serviced numerous times, had partially surrendered to rust, and still sported thin, outdated tires. Modern cars used thicker tires these days — Arkar had explained the benefits to him, but Ardan hadn't quite remembered them.

All that concerned him was the notion of actually driving. He wasn't indifferent to technology — on the contrary, he found it intriguing — but he simply had no time to properly grasp it.

He opened the door and stowed his staff at an angle. Arkar had told him that the latest, more expensive models had a mount built into the corner where the seat met the seatback — an actual staff holder! Ardan's hands settled on the steering wheel. The worn wrapping felt clammy to the touch. Under the soles of his boots, the steel pedal covers slid slightly, and the gear stick's wooden knob caught a glimmer of the sunset, its lacquer long since worn away.

"What are we waiting for?" Peter groaned, clambering into the passenger seat.

"One second," Ardan said, recalling what he'd practiced on his own and what Arkar had taught him.

He checked that the gearshift was in neutral, turned the key in the ignition, pressed the clutch, and gradually gave it some gas before shifting to first gear.

The car lurched but started moving. Ardi kept a firm grip on the wheel, biting the tip of his tongue in concentration. He pressed the gas pedal, waiting for the tachometer needle to climb high enough, then shifted gears.

The "Derks" had only three gears, whereas modern cars — capable of zipping along at a whopping sixty kilometers an hour — boasted four or more.

So, lurching and bumping over potholes and manhole covers, they made their way toward the Crookedwater Canal. Peter gave him directions.

"At the intersection with Lovers' Street, go straight along the embankment until you reach Martyrs' Bridge, cross over, then head right along the embankment again."

Ardan hunched low over the wheel (because of his height, he feared hitting his head on the rusty metal roof where the original upholstery had been ripped out and never replaced), keeping his eyes peeled. He tried not to crash into anything and avoid misreading the signals of the traffic officers — twice, he stalled the engine to Peter's annoyance, fumbling between shifting gears and pressing the clutch. Then there were the trams, which always had the right of way. Pedestrians scurried across the street in the wrong spots, bold as you please. Daredevils in shiny new cars wove through lanes as if they were fleas instead of drivers. And the old Derks rattled, coughed, hissed, and rattled some more, threatening to fall to pieces at every bump, all the while drifting off course.

He felt no joy at the experience, and couldn't imagine why Arkar delighted in "driving like a maniac" and, in the half-orc's own words, "gunning it for all it's worth."

Drenched in sweat — he was sweating more than during any of Aversky's lessons — Ardan didn't realize they'd left the city behind until he saw the proud architecture of the central districts receding into the distance. They'd also passed the long blocks of workers' neighborhoods overshadowed by looming skyscrapers that seemed to look down on them like arrogant princes.

Only after they crested another hill and began rolling along a smooth, empty road did Ardan find a second to think of anything besides the cycle of pedals, gear stick, and steering.

This road stretched between tall wrought-iron fences — a seemingly endless mesh of twisted rods topped with sharp points mingling with stone columns decorated by statues of every sort.

Beyond the wrought-iron fences, one could glimpse a row of estates. Each differed in size and the opulence of its décor, but they were only really matched by each other. In any other region, any one of these residences might've easily passed for the main attraction of a provincial capital.

"Mansion-hills," Ardan whispered.

He'd heard about this place. Here, some of the wealthy folk of the capital had made their homes. They were the ones who wished to avoid the bustle and "confinement" of Saint Vasily Island and the neighboring Stone Islands. And so, they'd built massive estates here, a mere half hour's drive from the city limits. Often, these mansions stood abandoned in winter because few relished the long, frosty commute. And in summertime, the tide turned. Saint Vasily and the Stone Islands all but emptied then, as the rich flocked here to their palaces.

"Take a left," Peter pointed to an exit, and they turned off the freshly-cleared lane, crossing a small bridge erected over a pond and rolling along a country road beside the shore of a modest lake.

They didn't get far before the detective commanded, "Cut the engine, Ard." His instruction came just in time, for up ahead, melted, glittering mounds of snow, each one crusted with ice, rose into view. It wouldn't take much to get stuck in drifts like those.

Peter opened the glove box and took out several loaded "moons," which he hastily stowed in his pocket. "We're going the rest of the way on foot," he said, jerking his head toward the door.

Ardan opened his own door, pulled his staff free, and drew in a deep breath of fresh, nighttime air. The frost crackled softly, biting at his cheeks in eager greeting. The wind howled among the creaking crowns of tall pines. Fresh, powdery snow crunched beneath his boots, and the splendid moon had already laid out a silvery path over the frozen surface of the lake.

A scattering of stars, piercing through the Metropolis' light pollution, shimmered overhead like spilled diamonds on the black velvet of an old jeweler's counter.

For a heartbeat, Ardan fought the urge to fling off his boots, wave farewell to Peter, and run wild among the winter trees. He felt at home here in this part of the city with its evergreen and sometimes mixed forest, rather than the deciduous groves that dominated most of the Empire.

"Hold off on the nostalgia, Ard," Peter said, swaying his revolver to beckon Ardan forward. "Let's go."

Ardan followed. But after less than two minutes of trudging, as Peter kept falling knee-deep into the snow drifts (cursing demons under his breath as he did so), Ardan moved past him.

"Just tell me where we're headed," he offered.

Peter looked ready to argue, but after a moment's consideration of their relative progress, he gave in.

"We need to walk for one hour and twenty minutes in that direction, then I will point the way," he huffed, cheeks red with exertion.

Were it not for the numbing salves, he would probably have been doubled over in agony by now. As it was, he appeared lively enough.

Ardan silently thanked Yonatan and Cassara for teaching him how to read a landscape by the hours of the clock. Casting a final glance at the snow-shrouded automobile (by the Sleeping Spirits, Ardan had always held more respect for horses than soulless steel), he started in the direction Peter had indicated.

Carving a path with his staff, he couldn't help wishing that he had the snow of the Alkade beneath his feet. The mountain snow drifts were usually so dense and firm that one might only sink into them a little, if at all. Here, the snow was damp and loose, likely to swallow him up even if he wore snowshoes.

"Perhaps you could share more details with me now?" Ardan suggested.

He didn't really feel uneasy. Quite the opposite, in fact. The dark winter forest was full of mocking silhouettes, its secretive shapes lost in mystical, restless dances. Owls hooted, trees groaned under the wind, and the howls and cries of unseen creatures echoed through the darkness.

Ardan felt almost as though he were back on the slopes of his childhood home. Only the thought of Peter behind him — wounded, but still forging ahead along the half-broken trail — kept him from getting too giddy.

"It was all too suspicious," Peter rasped between heavy breaths. "Not a single division of the guard corps opened an investigation into the missing children. You'd think at least one division would have some hotheaded officer who'd butt heads with the system. They always have at least one. Sure, they burn out fast… but they exist."

Peter pressed on, panting, with the snow sometimes rising up to his waist. Ardan, who was far from strolling himself, could still cut through the drifts with relative ease.

"So, I started searching for which division might have recently discharged somebody," Peter said, pausing now and then to hack out a cough. "And I found it. The Sixth Division in Tend. They'd let go of a young officer, someone who'd just returned from the Fatian border. He was exactly the kind of man who wouldn't stand for injustice, or…"

Peter fell silent and halted. Ardan stopped too, letting him catch his breath. The old detective clutched his heart, bending down so much he nearly kissed the snow.

"Demons… I really ought to smoke and drink… less."

Ardan said nothing.

After a minute, Peter signaled with his revolver that they could keep moving. "I found him, my young friend," Peter said, determinedly trudging through the snowdrifts like a prisoner condemned to death. "In a small apartment on the outskirts of the Tend. His throat was cut. His eyes had been carved out."

"His eyes?"

"It looked like the work of the Narikhman. They-"

"I know who the Narikhman are," Ardan interrupted.

"Good. But there's a difference, Ard. The Narikhman carve out a victim's eyes with surgical precision — so neatly you can hardly tell how they even did it. This poor soul's face was just a mangled pulp."

Ardan frowned. "Someone tried to copy their style?"

"Exactly. Here's a little riddle for you, my young friend: not a single guard division pursues any investigation into the missing children. Anyone trying to look into it is silenced or forced out. Then someone principled shows up — and he's murdered. What does that tell you?"

No answer was needed.

"Sabotage," Ardan said anyway.

"Right." Peter jangled the revolver at him. "And by whom?"

Ardan stumbled slightly. "By someone higher up the chain of command."

"Excellent. Now add these details together. Lisa and I can't track down a single child. All of them vanish as though swallowed by the sea. And then they're found in an engineering node for the future underground line. Do you know how many there were, Ard?"

A scene from his recent past crept into Ardan's mind: mutilated children's bodies tumbling out of crude wooden crates, cast aside like useless clutter, tortured and then discarded.

His fingers curled into fists. A frosty cloud escaped his lips and instantly rimed the nearby tree bark with ice.

"Feels like it's getting colder," Peter muttered, shivering. "I'll tell you the number myself, Ard. They discovered thirty-seven bodies. Altogether, I collected files on forty-two incidents. The math doesn't add up."

"Five were never found," Ardan said softly.

"That's right, my young friend. Meanwhile, Lisa turned up a clue: one of the children was spotted a full week after their disappearance. Two people were shoving him into a car. The witnesses were street kids — they couldn't read the license plate or determine the make of the car. But they did remember which way it drove."

"Toward the Mansion-hills?"

"No," Peter replied with a humorless smile. "If that were the case, we'd be at another dead end. It was heading for Saint Vasily Island."

"What? Not Baliero or here?"

"Nope."

Ardan, who had been following Peter's line of reasoning until now, frowned and lost his train of thought.

"But… why?"

"Good question, Ard," Peter said, taking another break.

They had walked perhaps a kilometer from where they'd left the car over the course of half an hour. Ardan cast a glance at their surroundings, wanting to ask exactly where Peter was leading them. He suspected the answer would come by the story's end.

"Let's keep moving," the detective said. He straightened, continuing his story as Ardan once again took the lead. "So, stitching it all together, we get this picture: a high-ranking guard official is covering up these child disappearances in exchange for bribes — human cargo."

"Children?" Ardan lost the thread entirely. "But why would anyone need children?"

"Think about it, Ard. Think hard."

"Demonology experiments?" Ardan ventured after a moment's pause. "You've found a guard official who's also a mage?"

Peter went still for a second, then barked a laugh — equal parts delighted and despairing, as if he approved of Ardan's words but also felt some deeper, older disappointment at the world itself.

"You might have changed, Ard, but do try to keep a little of that innocent idealism for as long as you can," Peter said, spitting into the snow and wiping sweat from his brow, revealing the fur lining of his coat. "No, this official had no need of children for experiments… but for pleasure. Depraved, abominable pleasure."

Ardan felt the ground tilt beneath him. His stomach lurched, and he tasted bile in his throat. First came a flush of heat, then a crushing cold.

"That's… That's…"

"Revolting?" Peter offered. "It's not even the worst of what this world can offer, young man. Live as long as I have, and you'll learn. In short, the only thing left for me was to gather information. Our man lives on Saint Vasily Island. Holds a high rank in the guard corps. Has a foul reputation for corruption and perversion. I asked around among people who know people, and I got a short list of names."

"A list?!" Ardan exclaimed, unable to contain himself.

"Quiet," Peter hissed. "Yes, three names, Ard."

"Even one would be too many!"

"I agree wholeheartedly. But I couldn't give my friends too many details — it might've alerted the bastard. So, I quickly ruled out two people who didn't match the profile. That left one. But all I had were deductions and the nose of an old bloodhound, which is not quite enough…" Peter slowed down, then halted. "To be certain of the truth, I had to track down those who did the dirty work or acted as go-betweens. People like that, Ard, don't soil their own hands."

Ardan recalled Milar's words and nodded gravely.

"I got a line on a band of outcasts who are not part of the Six," Peter went on.

"How?"

Peter only winked at him, continuing his story. "Alas, when I caught one of them and started asking him about recent events, his partner tracked me down. A damned werewolf."

A werewolf… Ardan had read about them in Atta'nha's scrolls, just as he had about vampires. There were three types of werewolves in this world.

The first were natural-born — descendants of those whose ancestors had been changed by the Ley Lines. They inherited their shapeshifting through blood, turning fully into beasts at will, and maintaining a human mind. They lived in two worlds: among humans and among beasts, mostly in the Armondo, Skaldavin, and Urdavan territories. At heart, they were peaceful folk who dwelled in packs and rarely mingled with outsiders.

Next came the cursed — descendants of those the Aean'Hane had cursed long ago, granting them a savage animal core. They couldn't choose when to transform, bound instead to the lunar cycle, and they shifted only partway, caught between beast and humanoid. They possessed colossal strength, even greater aggression, and almost no conscience or morality. Over the centuries, they'd spread across the globe, passing their curse down through the generations.

Finally, there were the werewolves Ardan had first heard of at the Grand: products of Star Magic and so-called "chimerization." During the war against Ectassus, the human forces had tried to replicate the Aean'Hane's spells and create stronger, more resilient, and more magic-resistant werewolves. Rumors claimed that they'd come close to success, but a group of Aean'Hane had reduced the castle where the experimentation had been taking place to dust, destroying the secret of Star-born werewolves. Most of those chimeric beasts then perished in the war. Over the centuries, the few survivors and their families had faded away into myth, fable, and rumor.

"The lunar cycle's only halfway," Ardan said under his breath. "And those wounds on your side… They're not the usual claw marks."

Peter's gaze pinned him. Ardan hastily looked away, avoiding any accidental glimpse into the detective's mind.

"A Star-born werewolf," Peter confirmed. "If I'd had more time, I would have brought in your Captain Pnev. But time is scarce, and I don't trust Pnev any more than the rest."

"But you trust me?"

Peter's gray eyes weighed him. "Lisa spoke highly enough of you, young man, that I can rely on you — to a point."

Sleeping Spirits… If this was truly a Star-born werewolf, Ardan's meager knowledge of combat magic wouldn't help much. Yes, he'd grown in skill, but he wasn't a match for even an average third-year of the Military Faculty, never mind anything beyond.

His victory against Kerimov had been sixty percent luck and surprise.

All around them, snow-laden trees rocked in the wind. The night teased an icy flurry, and the hairs on Ardan's neck prickled anew. This time, no team of skilled Second Chancery operatives stood beside him — only an older detective who was overweight, wounded, and fond of heavy drinking.

"You wanted my help because of the Star-born werewolf?" Ardan asked softly, measuring each word.

Peter said nothing, but his silence spoke volumes.

"What else is there?" Ardi slumped slightly.

"I heard that since you dealt with that demonologist, our dear official hasn't left his estate. He took an indefinite leave, handing his duties to a deputy, claiming some heart condition — assuming he even has a heart," Peter said, stepping around Ardan and pausing at the edge of a clearing. Across this open field, on a low rise, stood a sprawling mansion. Four stories tall, with a timeless elegance, it boasted a hedge maze in the gardens and a stately front portico, the sort once approached by four-horse carriages.

A wrought-iron fence ran around the property, continuing all the way to a lane on the far side. On Peter's side, though, part of the fence had been torn out, iron rods twisted and bent — recently, too, by the look of the footprints.

From where they stood, they could see that some of the windows were lit within the mansion. They were like unnatural stars gleaming in the night's hush.

"He hired security, didn't he?" Ardan asked in a resigned tone.

"He did, Ard," Peter confirmed. "And according to what I've uncovered, it's a military mage in a blue cloak."

"Sleeping Spirits… Then why are we even here?!" Ardan demanded. "Why not go to the Cloaks? No one else can handle this!"

"There's no time, Ard," Peter told him with a curt finality, his voice vibrating with the same iron that shone in his eyes. "The moment this swine gets wind that I'm onto his henchmen, he'll vanish. With his money and connections, it wouldn't take much. One ship to Seyros, then straight on to the Tazidahian Brotherhood."

"All the same-"

"Remember what I told you, Ard?" Peter interrupted him. "We can't trust anyone. A man of high rank in the guard corps has wealthy, influential friends. How do I know no one in the Second Chancery is in his pocket, just as corrupt as he is? And, unfortunately, among all the mages I might be able to trust even a little, there's only you."

"But that's a Blue Star military mage!" Ardan protested. "I'm only a Red Star Mage!"

"A Red Mage who killed a vampire?" Peter snorted, once more flaunting how well-informed he was. "You think I'm an idiot, Ard? Or that your Captain and Grand Magister Edward Aversky are fools? Everyone knows that a mage of the first Star, even if they got incredibly lucky, couldn't handle even a young vampire. Otherwise, Ectassus would never have created them in such numbers to fight our mages of old."

Ardan gaped. So all this time, had his attempts to hide his second Star from the Cloaks been for nothing? Had they simply played along? But… why?

"And that is precisely the fact we'll use," Peter said. With a gesture reminiscent of the Cloaks themselves, he drew a cigar from his coat. He didn't light it — too visible from the mansion — but rolled it pensively between his lips. "Just like the first time we met, Ard, when I bluffed my way into taking all your kso."

"But this isn't a game of Sevens. It's-"

"Calm yourself, young man," Peter cut him off again. "You'll soon learn that, in our line of work — perhaps in your line as well — sometimes you must walk straight into the steel jaws of a trap, armed with nothing but your wits." He tapped his temple. "But in this case, we'll try to remove the mage from our list of problems with one small detail."

"And what detail is that?"

"You're Grand Magister Aversky's apprentice. He's one of the most formidable military mages in the Empire, and no one in their right mind wants to get on his bad side."

"Aversky wouldn't lift a finger for me," Ardan grumbled, fully aware of how they regarded each other: Aversky saw him as a necessary burden, and Ardan in turn saw the Grand Magister as a useful inevitability.

"But they don't know that," Peter said with a wolfish grin. "Come on, Ard. We can't lose any more time. For all we know, the bastard may have already fled, leaving nothing but servants behind."

Ardan stayed rooted to the spot.

"Something you're unclear on?" Peter asked.

"No."

Ardan opened his grimoire. Peter twitched as if he might draw on Ardi, but he stopped himself and stepped aside.

Ardi cleared his head, recalling Skusty's instructions on peering into the hidden sides of reality. He spent only a flicker of time scanning, not enough to glimpse anything surreal, but enough to confirm whether the mansion was guarded by a magical shield or not.

As he'd suspected, the path lay open. This was likely not because the official had neglected his security, but because there were no Ley cables this far from the city, and maintaining a permanent shield with accumulators alone was a luxury few could afford.

Now that he was certain that there was no barrier or any hidden alarm spells, Ardan flipped through his grimoire's pages until he found a particular design he'd conjured after constant run-ins with demons.

Drawing on his knowledge of demonic traits and tidbits he'd gleaned from the seals of the Staff of Demons, Ardan had fashioned a fairly straightforward spell. It only needed one ray from a Red and Green Star each. It was simple magic, meant for a single purpose: scanning for demons in a chosen area.

He had given it a suitably bland name: Demon Search.

Judging the distance to the mansion along with possible cellars or hidden rooms, he started adjusting the structure of his spell. He'd found that modifying his own creations came more naturally to him. Even so, he spent nearly five minutes refining the seal. To Peter's credit, the detective waited the entire time in silence.

Finally, Ardi struck his staff against the ground, channeling the necessary amount of Ley into the formation. A black-and-crimson pattern flared at his feet, shot through with blue sparks — and at once, a reassuringly icy glyph started glimmering in the air, showing no demonic presence.

He could only hope that his magic had gone unnoticed by the military mage. And that the mansion had no hidden alarms beyond Ardan's ability to sense. And so many other, equally disheartening possibilities…

"Ready?" Peter asked.

"Not in the least," Ardan admitted.

"Splendid," the detective said, cocking his revolver and setting out for the break in the fence. "Come on."

Ardi nodded and hurried after him, slipping his hand into his pocket to press the indentation on a new signal medallion that had been given to him over lunch by Milar Pnev.